{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_31754/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_31754","id":"gutenberg_31754","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/31754","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Short Stories","Devil -- Fiction","Devil in literature","Short stories"],"text":"Produced by Irma Spehar and the Online Distributed\nProofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was\nproduced from images generously made available by The\nInternet Archive/American Libraries.)\n\n\n\n\n\nDEVIL STORIES\n\nAN ANTHOLOGY\n\nSELECTED AND EDITED WITH INTRODUCTION AND CRITICAL COMMENTS\n\nBY MAXIMILIAN J. RUDWIN\n\n    _\"Mortal, mock not at the Devil,\n      Life is short and soon will fail,\n    And the 'fire everlasting'\n      Is no idle fairy-tale.\"_\n                               --HEINE.\n\nNEW YORK\n\nALFRED \u00b7 A \u00b7 KNOPF\n\nMCMXXI\n\n\nCOPYRIGHT, 1921, BY ALFRED A. KNOPF, INC.\n\nPRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA\n\n\n\n\nDEVIL LORE\n\nANTHOLOGIES OF DIABOLICAL LITERATURE EDITED BY MAXIMILIAN J. RUDWIN\n\nI. DEVIL STORIES [First Series]\n\n_In Preparation:_\n\n  DEVIL PLAYS\n  DEVIL ESSAYS\n  DEVIL LEGENDS\n  THE BOOK OF LADY LILITH\n  ANTHOLOGY OF SATANIC VERSE\n  BIBLIOGRAPHIA DIABOLICA\n\n\n\n\n_BOOKS BY MAXIMILIAN J. RUDWIN_\n\n\nThe Prophet and Disputation\nScenes in the Religious Drama\nof the German Middle Ages.\n\nThe Devil Scenes in the Religious\nDrama of the German Middle\nAges.\n\nThe Devil in the German Religious\nPlays of the Middle\nAges and the Reformation.\n[Hesperia: Johns Hopkins\nStudies in Modern Philology,\nNo. 6.]\n\nThe Origin of the German Carnival\nComedy.\n\n\n_In Preparation:_\n\nThe Devil in Modern French\nLiterature.\n\n\n\n\nTO ALL STUDENTS OF THE SUPERNATURAL IN LITERATURE\n\n\n\n\nNOTE\n\n\nThe preparation of this book would have been out of the question\nwithout the co-operation of authors and publishers. Proper\nacknowledgment has been given on the first page of each selection to\nthe publishers who have granted us permission to reprint it. We take\nthis opportunity to express once more our deep appreciation of the\ncourtesies extended to us by all the parties concerned in the material\nbetween the covers of this book. Special thanks are offered to Mr.\nJohn Masefield for his permission to republish his story, and to\nMessrs. Arthur Symons and Leo Wiener and to Miss Isabel F. Hapgood for\ntheir permission to use their translations of the foreign stories\nwhich we have selected. To Professor Henry Alfred Todd and Dr. Dorothy\nScarborough, of Columbia University, who have kindly read portions of\nthe manuscript, the editor is indebted for a number of helpful\nsuggestions. He adds his thanks to Professor Raymond Weeks, also of\nColumbia University, who called his attention to the Daudet story, and\nto his former colleague, Professor Otto A. Greiner, of Purdue\nUniversity, who was good enough to read part of the proofs.\n\n                                             THE PUBLISHER.\n                                                THE EDITOR.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\nTHE DEVIL IN A NUNNERY 1\n  _A Mediaeval Tale By Francis Oscar Mann_\n\nBELPHAGOR, OR THE MARRIAGE OF THE DEVIL (1549) 14\n  _From the Italian of Niccol\u00f2 Machiavelli_\n\nTHE DEVIL AND TOM WALKER (1824) 28\n  _By Washington Irving_\n\nFROM THE MEMOIRS OF SATAN (1828) 46\n  _From the German of Wilhelm Hauff_\n\nST. JOHN'S EVE (1830) 56\n  _From the Russian of Nikol\u00e1i Vasil\u00e9vich G\u00f3gol_\n  _Translated by Isabel F. Hapgood_\n\nTHE DEVIL'S WAGER (1833) 79\n  _By William Makepeace Thackeray_\n\nTHE PAINTER'S BARGAIN (1834) 93\n  _By William Makepeace Thackeray_\n\nBON-BON (1835) 112\n  _By Edgar Allan Poe_\n\nTHE PRINTER'S DEVIL (1836) 136\n  _Anonymous_\n\nTHE DEVIL'S MOTHER-IN-LAW (1859) 149\n  _From the Spanish by Fern\u00e1n Caballero_\n  _Translated by J. H. Ingram_\n\nTHE GENEROUS GAMBLER (1864) 162\n  _From the French of Charles Pierre Baudelaire_\n  _Translated by Arthur Symons_\n\nTHE THREE LOW MASSES (1869) 167\n  _A Christmas Story From the French of Alphonse Daudet_\n  _Translated by Robert Routeledge_\n\nDEVIL-PUZZLERS (1871) 179\n  _By Frederick Beecher Perkins_\n\nTHE DEVIL'S ROUND (1874) 203\n  _A Tale of Flemish Golf From the French of Charles Deulin_\n  _Translated by Isabel Bruce_\n  _With an introductory note by Andrew Lang_\n\nTHE LEGEND OF MONT ST.-MICHEL (1888) 222\n  _From the French of Guy de Maupassant_\n\nTHE DEMON POPE (1888) 228\n  _By Richard Garnett_\n\nMADAM LUCIFER (1888) 242\n  _By Richard Garnett_\n\nLUCIFER (1895) 250\n  _From the French of Anatole France_\n  _Translated by Alfred Allinson_\n\nTHE DEVIL (1899) 257\n  _From the Russian of Max\u00edm Gorky_\n  _Translated by Leo Wiener_\n\nTHE DEVIL AND THE OLD MAN (1905) 268\n  _By John Masefield_\n\nNOTES 279\n\nINDEX 325\n\n\n\n\nINTRODUCTION\n\n\nOf all the myths which have come down to us from the East, and of all\nthe creations of Western fancy and belief, the Personality of Evil has\nhad the strongest attraction for the mind of man. The Devil is the\ngreatest enigma that has ever confronted the human intelligence. So\nlarge a place has Satan taken in our imagination, and we might also\nsay in our heart, that his expulsion therefrom, no matter what\nphilosophy may teach us, must for ever remain an impossibility. As a\ncharacter in imaginative literature Lucifer has not his equal in\nheaven above or on the earth beneath. In contrast to the idea of Good,\nwhich is the more exalted in proportion to its freedom from\nanthropomorphism, the idea of Evil owes to the presence of this\nelement its chief value as a poetic theme. The discrowned archangel\nmay have been inferior to St. Michael in military tactics, but he\ncertainly is his superior in matters literary. The fair angels--all\nfrankness and goodness--are beyond our comprehension, but the fallen\nangels, with all their faults and sufferings, are kin to us.\n\nThere is a legend that the Devil has always had literary aspirations.\nThe German theosophist Jacob B\u00f6hme relates that when Satan was asked\nto explain the cause of God's enmity to him and his consequent\ndownfall, he replied: \"I wanted to be an author.\" Whether or not the\nDevil has ever written anything over his own signature, he has\ncertainly helped others compose their greatest works. It is a\nsignificant fact that the greatest imaginations have discerned an\nattraction in Diabolus. What would the world's literature be if from\nit we eliminated Dante's _Divine Comedy_, Calder\u00f3n's _Marvellous\nMagician_, Milton's _Paradise Lost_, Goethe's _Faust_, Byron's _Cain_,\nVigny's _Eloa_, and Lermontov's _Demon_? Sorry indeed would have been\nthe plight of literature without a judicious admixture of the\nDiabolical. Without the Devil there would simply be no literature,\nbecause without his intervention there would be no plot, and without a\nplot the story of the world would lose its interest. Even now, when\nthe belief in the Devil has gone out of fashion, and when the very\nmention of his name, far from causing men to cross themselves, brings\na smile to their faces, Satan has continued to be a puissant personage\nin the realm of letters. As a matter of fact, Beelzebub has perhaps\nreceived his greatest elaboration at the hands of writers who believed\nin him just as little as Shakespeare did in the ghost of Hamlet's\nfather.\n\nCommenting on Anatole France's _The Revolt of the Angels_, an American\ncritic has recently written: \"It is difficult to rehabilitate\nBeelzebub, not because people are of one mind concerning Beelzebub,\nbut because they are of no mind at all.\" How this demon must have\nlaughed when he read these lines! Why, he needs no rehabilitation. The\nDevil has never been absent from the world of letters, just as he has\nnever been missing from the world of men. Since the days of Job, Satan\nhas taken a deep interest in the affairs of the human race; and while\nmost writers content themselves with recording his activities on this\nplanet, there never have been lacking men of sufficient courage to\ncall upon the prince of darkness in his proper dominions in order to\nbring back to us, for our instruction and edification, a report of his\nwork there. The most distinguished poet his infernal Highness has ever\nentertained at his court, it will be recalled, was Dante. The mark\nwhich the scorching fires of hell left on Dante's face, was to his\ncontemporaries sufficient proof of the truth of his story.\n\nThe subject-matter of literature may always have been in a state of\nflux, but the Devil has been present in all the stages of literary\nevolution. All schools of literature in all ages and in all languages\nset themselves, whether consciously or unconsciously, to represent and\ninterpret the Devil, and each school has treated him in its own\ncharacteristic manner.\n\nThe Devil is an old character in literature. Perhaps he is as old as\nliterature itself. He is encountered in the story of the paradisiacal\nsojourn of our first ancestors, and from that day on, Satan has\nappeared unfailingly, in various forms and with various functions, in\nall the literatures of the world. His person and his power continued\nto develop and to multiply with the advance of the centuries, so that\nin the Middle Ages the world fairly pullulated with demons. From his\nminor place in the biblical books, the Devil grew to a position of\nparamount importance in mediaeval literature. The Reformation, which\nwas a movement of progress in so many respects, left his position\nintact. Indeed, it rather increased his power by withdrawing from the\nsaints the right of intercession in behalf of the sinners. Neither the\nRenaissance of ancient learning nor the institution of modern science\ncould prevail against Satan. As a matter of fact, the growth of the\ninterest in the Devil has been on a level with the development of the\nspirit of philosophical inquiry. French classicism, to be sure,\noccasioned a setback for our hero. As a member of the Christian\nhierarchy of supernatural personages, the Devil could not help but be\naffected by the ban under which Boileau placed Christian\nsupernaturalism. But even the eighteenth century, a period so inimical\nto the Supernatural, produced two master-devils in fiction: Le Sage's\nAsmodeus and Cazotte's Beelzebub--worthy members of the august company\nof literary Devils.\n\nBut as if to make amends for its long lack of appreciation of the\nDevil's literary possibilities, France, in the beginning of the\nnineteenth century, brought about a distinct reaction in his favour.\nThe sympathy extended by that country of revolutionary progress to all\nvictims and to all rebels, whether individuals or classes or nations,\ncould not well be denied to the celestial outlaw. The fighters for\npolitical, social, intellectual, and emotional liberty on earth, could\nnot withhold their admiration from the angel who demanded freedom of\nthought and independence of action in heaven. The rebel of the\nEmpyrean was hailed as the first martyr in the cause of liberty, and\nhis rehabilitation in heaven was demanded by the rebels on earth.\nSatan became the symbol of the restless, hapless nineteenth century.\nThrough his mouth that age uttered its protest against the monarchs\nof heaven and earth. The Romantic generation of 1830 thought the world\nmore than ever out of joint, and who was better fitted than the Devil\nto express their dissatisfaction with the celestial government of\nterrestrial affairs? Satan is the eternal Malcontent. To Hamlet,\nDenmark seemed gloomy; to Satan, the whole world appears dark. The\nadmiration of the Romanticists for Satan was mixed with pity and\nsympathy--so much his melancholy endeared him to their sympathies, so\nkindred it seemed to their human weakness. The Romanticists felt a\ndeep admiration for solitary grandeur. This \"knight of the doleful\ncountenance,\" laden with a curse and drawing misfortune in his train,\nwas the ideal Romantic hero. Was he not indeed the original _beau\nt\u00e9n\u00e9breux_? Thus Satan became the typical figure of that period and\nits poetry. It has been well remarked that if Satan had not existed,\nthe Romanticists would have invented him. The Devil's influence on the\nRomantic School was so strong and so sustained that soon it was named\nafter him. The terms Romantic and Satanic came to be wellnigh\nsynonymous. The interest which the French Romanticists showed in the\nDevil, moreover, passed beyond the boundaries of France and the limits\nof the nineteenth century. The Symbolists, for whom the mysteries of\nErebus had a potent attraction, were simply obsessed by Satan. But\neven the Naturalists, who certainly were not haunted by phantoms,\noften succumbed to his charms. Foreign writers turning for inspiration\nto France, where the literature of the last century reached its\nhighest perfection, were also caught in the French enthusiasm for the\nDevil.\n\nNeedless to say that this Devil is not the evil spirit of mediaeval\ndogma. The Romantic Devil is an altogether new species of the _genus\ndiaboli_. There are fashions in Devils as in dresses, and what is a\nDevil in one country or one century may not pass muster in another. It\nis related that after the glory of Greece had departed, a mariner,\nvoyaging along her coast by night, heard from the woods the cry:\n\"Great Pan is dead!\" But Pan was not dead; he had fallen asleep to\nawake again as Satan. In like manner, when the eighteenth century\nbelieved Satan to be dead, he was, as a matter of fact, only\nrecuperating his energies for a fresh start in a new form. His new\navatar was Prometheus. Satan continued to be the enemy of God, but he\nwas no longer the enemy of man. Instead of a demon of darkness he\nbecame a god of grace. This champion of celestial combat was not\nactuated by hatred and envy of man, as Christianity was thought to\nteach us, but by love and pity for humankind. The strongest expression\nof this idea of the Devil in modern literature has been given by\nAugust Strindberg, whose Lucifer is a compound of Prometheus, Apollo\nand Christ. However, this interpretation of the Devil, whatever value\nit may have from the point of view of originality, is aesthetically as\nwell as theologically not acceptable. Such a revaluation of an old\nvalue offends our intellect while it touches our heart. All successful\ntreatment of the Devil in literature and art must be made to\ncorrespond with the norm of popular belief. In art we are all\northodox, whatever our views may be in religion. This new conception\nof Satan will be found chiefly in poetry, while the popular concept\nhas been continued in prose. But even here a gradual evolution of the\nidea of the Devil will be observed. The nineteenth century Demon is an\nimprovement on his _confr\u00e8re_ of the thirteenth. He differs from his\nolder brother as a cultivated flower from a wild blossom. The Devil as\na human projection is bound to partake in the progress of human\nthought. Says Mephistopheles:\n\n    \"Culture, which the whole world licks,\n    Also unto the Devil sticks.\"\n\nThe Devil advances with the progress of civilization, because he is\nwhat men make him. He has benefited by the modern levelling tendency\nin characterization. Nowadays supernatural personages, like their\nhuman creators, are no longer painted either as wholly white or as\nwholly black, but in various shades of grey. The Devil, as Renan has\naptly remarked, has chiefly benefited by this relativist point of\nview. The Spirit of Evil is better than he was, because evil is no\nlonger so bad as it was. Satan, even in the popular mind, is no longer\na villain of the deepest dye. At his worst he is the general\nmischief-maker of the universe, who loves to stir up the earth with\nhis pitch-fork. In modern literature the Devil's chief function is\nthat of a satirist. This fine critic directs the shafts of his sarcasm\nagainst all the faults and foibles of men. He spares no human\ninstitution. In religion, art, society, marriage--everywhere his\nsearching eye can detect the weak spots. The latest demonstration of\nthe Devil's ability as a satirist of men and morals is furnished by\nMark Twain in his posthumous romance _The Mysterious Stranger_.\n\nThe Devil Lore Series, which opens with this book of Devil Stories, is\nto serve as documentary evidence of man's abiding interest in the\nDevil. It will be a sort of portrait-gallery of the literary\ndelineations of Satan. The Anthologies of Diabolical Literature may be\nconsidered, I trust, without any risk of offence to any theological or\nphilosophical prepossession. To those alike who accept and who reject\nthe belief in the Devil's spiritual entity apart from man's, there\nmust be profit and pleasure in the contemplation of his literary\nincarnations. As regards the Devil's fitness as a literary character,\nall intelligent men and women, believers and unbelievers, may be\nassumed to have but one opinion.\n\nThis Series is wholly devoted to the Christian Devil with the total\ndisregard of his cousins in the other faiths. There will, however, be\nfound a strong Jewish element in Christian demonology. It must be\nborne in mind that our literature has become saturated through\nChristian channels with the traditions of the parent creed.\n\nThis collection has been limited to twenty tales. Within the bounds\nthus set, an effort has been made to have this book as representative\nof national and individual conceptions of the Devil as possible. The\ntales have been taken from many times and tongues. Selection has been\nmade not only among writers, but also among the stories of each\nwriter. In two instances, however, where the choice was not so easy,\nan author is represented by two specimens from his pen.\n\nThe stories have been arranged in chronological order to show the\nconstant and continuous appeal on the part of the Devil to our\nstory-writers. The mediaeval tale, although published last, was\nplaced first. For obvious reasons, this story has not been given in\nits original form, but in its modernized version. While this is not\nmeant to be a nursery-book, it has been made _virginibus puerisque_,\nand for this reason, selections from Boccaccio, Rabelais and Balzac\ncould not find their way into these pages. Moreover, as this volume\nwas limited to narratives in prose, devil's tales in verse by Chaucer,\nHans Sachs and La Fontaine could not be considered, either.\nNevertheless this collection is sufficiently comprehensive to please\nall tastes in Devils. The reader will find between the covers of this\nbook Devils fascinating and fearful, Devils powerful and picturesque,\nDevils serious and humorous, Devils pathetic and comic, Devils\nphantastic and satiric, Devils gruesome and grotesque. I have tried,\nthough, to keep them all in good humour throughout the book, and can\naccordingly assure the reader that he need fear no harm from an\nintimate acquaintance with the diabolical company to which he is\nherewith introduced.\n\n                                       MAXIMILIAN J. RUDWIN.\n\n\n\n\nTHE DEVIL IN A NUNNERY[1]\n\nBY FRANCIS OSCAR MANN\n\n\n    [1] Taken by permission from _The Devil in a Nunnery and\n    other Mediaeval Tales_, by Francis Oscar Mann, published by\n    P. Dutton & Company, New York, 1914.\n\nBuckingham is as pleasant a shire as a man shall see on a seven days'\njourney. Neither was it any less pleasant in the days of our Lord King\nEdward, the third of that name, he who fought and put the French to\nshameful discomfiture at Crecy and Poitiers and at many another\nhard-fought field. May God rest his soul, for he now sleeps in the\ngreat Church at Westminster.\n\nBuckinghamshire is full of smooth round hills and woodlands of\nhawthorn and beech, and it is a famous country for its brooks and\nshaded waterways running through the low hay meadows. Upon its hills\nfeed a thousand sheep, scattered like the remnants of the spring snow,\nand it was from these that the merchants made themselves fat purses,\nsending the wool into Flanders in exchange for silver crowns. There\nwere many strong castles there too, and rich abbeys, and the King's\nHighway ran through it from North to South, upon which the pilgrims\nwent in crowds to worship at the Shrine of the Blessed Saint Alban.\nThereon also rode noble knights and stout men-at-arms, and these you\ncould follow with the eye by their glistening armour, as they wound\nover hill and dale, mile after mile, with shining spears and shields\nand fluttering pennons, and anon a trumpet or two sounding the same\nkeen note as that which rang out dreadfully on those bloody fields of\nFrance. The girls used to come to the cottage doors or run to hide\nthemselves in the wayside woods to see them go trampling by; for\nBuckinghamshire girls love a soldier above all men. Nor, I warrant\nyou, were jolly friars lacking in the highways and the by-ways and\nunder the hedges, good men of religion, comfortable of penance and\neasy of life, who could tip a wink to a housewife, and drink and crack\na joke with the good man, going on their several ways with tight\npaunches, skins full of ale and a merry salutation for every one. A\nfat pleasant land was this Buckinghamshire; always plenty to eat and\ndrink therein, and pretty girls and lusty fellows; and God knows what\nmore a man can expect in a world where all is vanity, as the Preacher\ntruly says.\n\nThere was a nunnery at Maids Moreton, two miles out from Buckingham\nBorough, on the road to Stony Stratford, and the place was called\nMaids Moreton because of the nunnery. Very devout creatures were the\nnuns, being holy ladies out of families of gentle blood. They\npunctually fulfilled to the letter all the commands of the pious\nfounder, just as they were blazoned on the great parchment Regula,\nwhich the Lady Mother kept on her reading-desk in her little cell. If\never any of the nuns, by any chance or subtle machination of the Evil\nOne, was guilty of the smallest backsliding from the conduct that\nbeseemed them, they made full and devout confession thereof to the\nHoly Father who visited them for this purpose. This good man loved\nswan's meat and galingale, and the charitable nuns never failed to\nprovide of their best for him on his visiting days; and whatsoever\npenance he laid upon them they performed to the utmost, and with due\ncontrition of heart.\n\nFrom Matins to Compline they regularly and decently carried out the\nservices of Holy Mother Church. After dinner, one read aloud to them\nfrom the Rule, and again after supper there was reading from the life\nof some notable Saint or Virgin, that thereby they might find ensample\nfor themselves on their own earthly pilgrimage. For the rest, they\ntended their herb garden, reared their chickens, which were famous for\nmiles around, and kept strict watch over their haywards and\nswineherds. If time was when they had nothing more important on hand,\nthey set to and made the prettiest blood bandages imaginable for the\nBishop, the Bishop's Chaplain, the Archdeacon, the neighbouring Abbot\nand other godly men of religion round about, who were forced often to\nbleed themselves for their health's sake and their eternal salvation,\nso that these venerable men in process of time came to have by them\ngreat chests full of these useful articles. If little tongues wagged\nnow and then as the sisters sat at their sewing in the great hall, who\nshall blame them, _Eva peccatrice_? Not I; besides, some of them were\nsomething stricken in years, and old women are garrulous and hard to\nbe constrained from chattering and gossiping. But being devout women\nthey could have spoken no evil.\n\nOne evening after Vespers all these good nuns sat at supper, the\nAbbess on her high dais and the nuns ranged up and down the hall at\nthe long trestled tables. The Abbess had just said \"_Gratias_\" and\nthe sisters had sung \"_Qui vivit et regnat per omnia saecula\nsaeculorum, Amen_,\" when in came the Manciple mysteriously, and, with\nmany deprecating bows and outstretchings of the hands, sidled himself\nup upon the dais, and, permission having been given him, spoke to the\nLady Mother thus:\n\n\"Madam, there is a certain pilgrim at the gate who asks refreshment\nand a night's lodging.\" It is true he spoke softly, but little pink\nears are sharp of hearing, and nuns, from their secluded way of life,\nlove to hear news of the great world.\n\n\"Send him away,\" said the Abbess. \"It is not fit that a man should lie\nwithin this house.\"\n\n\"Madam, he asks food and a bed of straw lest he should starve of\nhunger and exhaustion on his way to do penance and worship at the Holy\nShrine of the Blessed Saint Alban.\"\n\n\"What kind of pilgrim is he?\"\n\n\"Madam, to speak truly, I know not; but he appears of a reverend and\ngracious aspect, a young man well spoken and well disposed. Madam\nknows it waxeth late, and the ways are dark and foul.\"\n\n\"I would not have a young man, who is given to pilgrimages and good\nworks, to faint and starve by the wayside. Let him sleep with the\nhaywards.\"\n\n\"But, Madam, he is a young man of goodly appearance and conversation;\nsaving your reverence, I would not wish to ask him to eat and sleep\nwith churls.\"\n\n\"He must sleep without. Let him, however, enter and eat of our poor\ntable.\"\n\n\"Madam, I will strictly enjoin him what you command. He hath with him,\nhowever, an instrument of music and would fain cheer you with\nspiritual songs.\"\n\nA little shiver of anticipation ran down the benches of the great\nhall, and the nuns fell to whispering.\n\n\"Take care, Sir Manciple, that he be not some light juggler, a singer\nof vain songs, a mocker. I would not have these quiet halls disturbed\nby wanton music and unholy words. God forbid.\" And she crossed\nherself.\n\n\"Madam, I will answer for it.\"\n\nThe Manciple bowed himself from the dais and went down the middle of\nthe hall, his keys rattling at his belt. A little buzz of conversation\nrose from the sisters and went up to the oak roof-trees, like the\nsinging of bees. The Abbess told her beads.\n\nThe hall door opened and in came the pilgrim. God knows what manner of\nman he was; I cannot tell you. He certainly was lean and lithe like a\ncat, his eyes danced in his head like the very devil, but his cheeks\nand jaws were as bare of flesh as any hermit's that lives on roots and\nditchwater. His yellow-hosed legs went like the tune of a May game,\nand he screwed and twisted his scarlet-jerkined body in time with\nthem. In his left hand he held a cithern, on which he twanged with his\nright, making a cunning noise that titillated the back-bones of those\nwho heard it, and teased every delicate nerve in the body. Such a tune\nwould have tickled the ribs of Death himself. A queer fellow to go\npilgrimaging certainly, but why, when they saw him, all the young nuns\ntittered and the old nuns grinned, until they showed their red gums,\nit is hard to tell. Even the Lady Mother on the dais smiled, though\nshe tried to frown a moment later.\n\nThe pilgrim stepped lightly up to the dais, the infernal devil in his\nlegs making the nuns think of the games the village folk play all\nnight in the churchyard on Saint John's Eve.\n\n\"Gracious Mother,\" he cried, bowing deeply and in comely wise, \"allow\na poor pilgrim on his way to confess and do penance at the shrine of\nSaint Alban to take food in your hall, and to rest with the haywards\nthis night, and let me thereof make some small recompense with a few\nsacred numbers, such as your pious founder would not have disdained to\nhear.\"\n\n\"Young man,\" returned the Abbess, \"right glad am I to hear that God\nhas moved thy heart to godly works and to go on pilgrimages, and\nverily I wish it may be to thy soul's health and to the respite of thy\npains hereafter. I am right willing that thou shouldst refresh thyself\nwith meat and rest at this holy place.\"\n\n\"Madam, I thank thee from my heart, but as some slight token of\ngratitude for so large a favour, let me, I pray thee, sing one or two\nof my divine songs, to the uplifting of these holy Sisters' hearts.\"\n\nAnother burst of chatter, louder than before, from the benches in the\nhall. One or two of the younger Sisters clapped their plump white\nhands and cried, \"Oh!\" The Lady Abbess held up her hand for silence.\n\n\"Verily, I should be glad to hear some sweet songs of religion, and I\nthink it would be to the uplifting of these Sisters' hearts. But,\nyoung man, take warning against singing any wanton lines of vain\nimagination, such as the ribalds use on the highways, and the idlers\nand haunters of taverns. I have heard them in my youth, although my\nears tingle to think of them now, and I should think it shame that any\nsuch light words should echo among these sacred rafters or disturb the\nslumber of our pious founder, who now sleeps in Christ. Let me remind\nyou of what saith Saint Jeremie, _Onager solitarius, in desiderio\nanimae suae, attraxit ventum amoris_; the wild ass of the wilderness,\nin the desire of his heart, snuffeth up the wind of love; whereby that\nholy man signifies that vain earthly love, which is but wind and air,\nand shall avail nothing at all, when this weak, impure flesh is\nsloughed away.\"\n\n\"Madam, such songs as I shall sing, I learnt at the mouth of our holy\nparish priest, Sir Thomas, a man of all good learning and purity of\nheart.\"\n\n\"In that case,\" said the Abbess, \"sing in God's name, but stand at the\nend of the hall, for it suits not the dignity of my office a man\nshould stand so near this dais.\"\n\nWhereon the pilgrim, making obeisance, went to the end of the hall,\nand the eyes of all the nuns danced after his dancing legs, and their\nears hung on the clear, sweet notes he struck out of his cithern as he\nwalked. He took his place with his back against the great hall door,\nin such attitude as men use when they play the cithern. A little\ntrembling ran through the nuns, and some rose from their seats and\nknelt on the benches, leaning over the table, the better to see and\nhear him. Their eyes sparkled like dew on meadowsweet on a fair\nmorning.\n\nCertainly his fingers were bewitched or else the devil was in his\ncithern, for such sweet sounds had never been heard in the hall since\nthe day when it was built and consecrated to the service of the\nservants of God. The shrill notes fell like a tinkling rain from the\nhigh roof in mad, fantastic trills and dying falls that brought all\none's soul to one's lips to suck them in. What he sang about, God only\nknows; not one of the nuns or even the holy Abbess herself could have\ntold you, although you had offered her a piece of the True Cross or a\nhair of the Blessed Virgin for a single word. But a divine yearning\nfilled all their hearts; they seemed to hear ten thousand thousand\nangels singing in choruses, Alleluia, Alleluia, Alleluia; they floated\nup on impalpable clouds of azure and silver, up through the blissful\nparadises of the uppermost heaven; their nostrils were filled with the\nodours of exquisite spices and herbs and smoke of incense; their eyes\ndazzled at splendours and lights and glories; their ears were full of\ngorgeous harmonies and all created concords of sweet sounds; the very\nfibres of being were loosened within them, as though their souls would\nleap forth from their bodies in exquisite dissolution. The eyes of the\nyounger nuns grew round and large and tender, and their breath almost\ndied upon their velvet lips. As for the old nuns, the great, salt\ntears coursed down their withered cheeks and fell like rain on their\ngnarled hands. The Abbess sat on her dais with her lips apart, looking\ninto space, ten thousand thousand miles away. But no one saw her and\nshe saw no one; every one had forgotten every one else in that\ndelicious intoxication.\n\nThen with a shrill cry, full of human yearnings and desire, the\nminstrel came to a sudden stop--\n\n    \"Western wind, when wilt thou blow,\n      And the small rain will down rain?\n    Christ, if my love were in my arms,\n      And I in my bed again.\"\n\nSilence!--not one of the holy Sisters spoke, but some sighed; some put\ntheir hands over their hearts, and one put her hand in her hood, but\nwhen she felt her hair shorn close to her scalp, drew it out again\nsharply, as though she had touched red-hot iron, and cried, \"O Jesu.\"\n\nSister Peronelle, a toothless old woman, began to speak in a cracked,\nhigh voice, quickly and monotonously, as though she spoke in a dream.\nHer eyes were wet and red, and her thin lips trembled. \"God knows,\"\nshe said, \"I loved him; God knows it. But I bid all those who be maids\nhere, to be mindful of the woods. For they are green, but they are\ndeep and dark, and it is merry in the springtime with the thick turf\nbelow and the good boughs above, all alone with your heart's\ndarling--all alone in the green wood. But God help me, he would not\nstay any more than snow at Easter. I thought just now that I was back\nwith him in the woods. God keep all those that be maids from the green\nwoods.\"\n\nThe pretty Sister Ursula, who had only just finished her novitiate,\nwas as white as a sheet. Her breath came thickly and quick as though\nshe bore a great burden up hill. A great sigh made her comely\nshoulders rise and fall. \"Blessed Virgin,\" she cried. \"Ah, ye ask too\nmuch; I did not know; God help me, I did not know,\" and her grey eyes\nfilled with sudden tears, and she dropped her head on her arms on the\ntable, and sobbed aloud.\n\nThen cried out Sister Katherine, who looked as old and dead as a twig\ndropped from a tree of last autumn, and at whom the younger Sisters\nprivily mocked, \"It is the wars, the wars, the cursed wars. I have\nheld his head in this lap, I tell you; I have kissed his soul into\nmine. But now he lies dead, and his pretty limbs all dropped away into\nearth. Holy Mother, have pity on me. I shall never kiss his sweet lips\nagain or look into his jolly eyes. My heart is broken long since. Holy\nMother! Holy Mother!\"\n\n\"He must come oftener,\" said a plump Sister of thirty, with a little\nnose turned up at the end, eyes black as sloes and lips round as a\nplum. \"I go to the orchard day after day, and gather my lap full of\napples. He is my darling. Why does he not come? I look for him every\ntime that I gather the ripe apples. He used to come; but that was in\nthe spring, and Our Lady knows that is long ago. Will it not be spring\nagain soon? I have gathered many ripe apples.\"\n\nSister Margarita rocked herself to and fro in her seat and crossed her\narms on her breast. She was singing quietly to herself.\n\n      \"Lulla, lullay, thou tiny little child,\n      Lulla, lullay, lullay;\n    Suck at my breast that am thereat beguiled,\n      Lulla, lullay, lullay.\"\n\nShe moaned to herself, \"I have seen the village women go to the well,\ncarrying their babies with them, and they laugh as they go by on the\nway. Their babies hold them tight round the neck, and their mothers\ncomfort them, saying, 'Hey, hey, my little son; hey, hey, my\nsweeting.' Christ and the blessed Saints know that I have never felt a\nbaby's little hand in my bosom--and now I shall die without it, for I\nam old and past the age of bearing children.\"\n\n      \"Lulla, lullay, thou tiny little boy,\n      Lulla, lullay, lullay;\n    To feel thee suck doth soothe my great annoy,\n      Lulla, lullay, lullay.\"\n\n\"I have heard them on a May morning, with their pipes and tabors and\njolly, jolly music,\" cried Sister Helen; \"I have seen them too, and my\nheart has gone with them to bring back the white hawthorn from the\nwoods. 'A man and a maid to a hawthorn bough,' as it says in the song.\nThey sing outside my window all Saint John's Eve so that I cannot say\nmy prayers for the wild thoughts they put into my brain, as they go\ndancing up and down in the churchyard; I cannot forget the pretty\nwords they say to each other, 'Sweet love, a kiss'; 'kiss me, my love,\nnor let me go'; 'As I went through the garden gate'; 'A bonny black\nknight, a bonny black knight, and what will you give to me? A kiss,\nand a kiss, and no more than a kiss, under the wild rose tree.' Oh,\nMary Mother, have pity on a poor girl's heart, I shall die, if no one\nlove me, I shall die.\"\n\n\"In faith, I am truly sorry, William,\" said Sister Agnes, who was\ngaunt and hollow-eyed with long vigils and overfasting, for which the\ngood father had rebuked her time after time, saying that she\novertasked the poor weak flesh. \"I am truly sorry that I could not\nwait. But the neighbours made such a clamour, and my father and mother\nbuffeted me too sorely. It is under the oak tree, no more than a foot\ndeep, and covered with the red and brown leaves. It was a pretty sight\nto see the red blood on its neck, as white as whalebone, and it\nneither cried nor wept, so I put it down among the leaves, the pretty\npoppet; and it was like thee, William, it was like thee. I am sorry I\ndid not wait, and now I'm worn and wan for thy sake, this many a long\nyear, and all in vain, for thou never comst. I am an old woman now,\nand I shall soon be quiet and not complain any more.\"\n\nSome of the Sisters were sobbing as if their hearts would break; some\nsat quiet and still, and let the tears fall from their eyes unchecked;\nsome smiled and cried together; some sighed a little and trembled like\naspen leaves in a southern wind. The great candles in the hall were\nburning down to their sockets. One by one they spluttered out. A\nghostly, flickering light fell upon the legend over the broad dais,\n\"_Connubium mundum sed virginitas paradisum complet_\"--\"Marriage\nreplenisheth the World, but virginity Paradise.\"\n\n\"Dong, dong, dong.\" Suddenly the great bell of the Nunnery began to\ntoll. With a cry the Abbess sprang to her feet; there were tear stains\non her white cheeks, and her hand shook as she pointed fiercely to the\ndoor.\n\n\"Away, false pilgrim,\" she cried. \"Silence, foul blasphemer! _Retro\nme, Satanas._\" She crossed herself again and again, saying _Pater\nNoster_.\n\nThe nuns screamed and trembled with terror. A little cloud of blue\nsmoke arose from where the minstrel had stood. There was a little\ntongue of flame, and he had disappeared. It was almost dark in the\nhall. A few sobs broke the silence. The dying light of a single candle\nfell on the form of the Lady Mother.\n\n\"Tomorrow,\" she said, \"we shall fast and sing _Placebo_ and _Dirige_\nand the _Seven Penitential Psalms_. May the Holy God have mercy upon\nus for all we have done and said and thought amiss this night. Amen.\"\n\n\n\n\nBELPHAGOR\n\nBY NICCOL\u00d2 MACHIAVELLI\n\n\nWe read in the ancient archives of Florence the following account, as\nit was received from the lips of a very holy man, greatly respected by\nevery one for the sanctity of his manners at the period in which he\nlived. Happening once to be deeply absorbed in his prayers, such was\ntheir efficacy, that he saw an infinite number of condemned souls,\nbelonging to those miserable mortals who had died in their sins,\nundergoing the punishment due to their offences in the regions below.\nHe remarked that the greater part of them lamented nothing so bitterly\nas their folly in having taken wives, attributing to them the whole of\ntheir misfortunes. Much surprised at this, Minos and Rhadamanthus,\nwith the rest of the infernal judges, unwilling to credit all the\nabuse heaped upon the female sex, and wearied from day to day with its\nrepetition, agreed to bring the matter before Pluto. It was then\nresolved that the conclave of infernal princes should form a committee\nof inquiry, and should adopt such measures as might be deemed most\nadvisable by the court in order to discover the truth or falsehood of\nthe calumnies which they heard. All being assembled in council, Pluto\naddressed them as follows: \"Dearly beloved demons! though by celestial\ndispensation and the irreversible decree of fate this kingdom fell to\nmy share, and I might strictly dispense with any kind of celestial or\nearthly responsibility, yet, as it is more prudent and respectful to\nconsult the laws and to hear the opinion of others, I have resolved to\nbe guided by your advice, particularly in a case that may chance to\ncast some imputation upon our government. For the souls of all men\ndaily arriving in our kingdom still continue to lay the whole blame\nupon their wives, and as this appears to us impossible, we must be\ncareful how we decide in such a business, lest we also should come in\nfor a share of their abuse, on account of our too great severity; and\nyet judgment must be pronounced, lest we be taxed with negligence and\nwith indifference to the interests of justice. Now, as the latter is\nthe fault of a careless, and the former of an unjust judge, we,\nwishing to avoid the trouble and the blame that might attach to both,\nyet hardly seeing how to get clear of it, naturally enough apply to\nyou for assistance, in order that you may look to it, and contrive in\nsome way that, as we have hitherto reigned without the slightest\nimputation upon our character, we may continue to do so for the\nfuture.\"\n\nThe affair appearing to be of the utmost importance to all the princes\npresent, they first resolved that it was necessary to ascertain the\ntruth, though they differed as to the best means of accomplishing this\nobject. Some were of opinion that they ought to choose one or more\nfrom among themselves, who should be commissioned to pay a visit to\nthe world, and in a human shape endeavour personally to ascertain how\nfar such reports were grounded in truth. To many others it appeared\nthat this might be done without so much trouble merely by compelling\nsome of the wretched souls to confess the truth by the application of\na variety of tortures. But the majority being in favour of a journey\nto the world, they abided by the former proposal. No one, however,\nbeing ambitious of undertaking such a task, it was resolved to leave\nthe affair to chance. The lot fell upon the arch-devil Belphagor, who,\nprevious to the Fall, had enjoyed the rank of archangel in a higher\nworld. Though he received his commission with a very ill grace, he\nnevertheless felt himself constrained by Pluto's imperial mandate, and\nprepared to execute whatever had been determined upon in council. At\nthe same time he took an oath to observe the tenor of his\ninstructions, as they had been drawn up with all due solemnity and\nceremony for the purpose of his mission. These were to the following\neffect:--_Imprimis_, that the better to promote the object in view, he\nshould be furnished with a hundred thousand gold ducats; secondly,\nthat he should make use of the utmost expedition in getting into the\nworld; thirdly, that after assuming the human form he should enter\ninto the marriage state; and lastly, that he should live with his wife\nfor the space of ten years. At the expiration of this period, he was\nto feign death and return home, in order to acquaint his employers, by\nthe fruits of experience, what really were the respective conveniences\nand inconveniences of matrimony. The conditions further ran, that\nduring the said ten years he should be subject to all kinds of\nmiseries and disasters, like the rest of mankind, such as poverty,\nprisons, and diseases into which men are apt to fall, unless, indeed,\nhe could contrive by his own skill and ingenuity to avoid them. Poor\nBelphagor having signed these conditions and received the money,\nforthwith came into the world, and having set up his equipage, with a\nnumerous train of servants, he made a very splendid entrance into\nFlorence. He selected this city in preference to all others, as being\nmost favourable for obtaining an usurious interest of his money; and\nhaving assumed the name of Roderigo, a native of Castile, he took a\nhouse in the suburbs of Ognissanti. And because he was unable to\nexplain the instructions under which he acted, he gave out that he was\na merchant, who having had poor prospects in Spain, had gone to Syria,\nand succeeded in acquiring his fortune at Aleppo, whence he had lastly\nset out for Italy, with the intention of marrying and settling there,\nas one of the most polished and agreeable countries he knew.\n\nRoderigo was certainly a very handsome man, apparently about thirty\nyears of age, and he lived in a style of life that showed he was in\npretty easy circumstances, if not possessed of immense wealth. Being,\nmoreover, extremely affable and liberal, he soon attracted the notice\nof many noble citizens blessed with large families of daughters and\nsmall incomes. The former of these were soon offered to him, from\namong whom Roderigo chose a very beautiful girl of the name of Onesta,\na daughter of Amerigo Donati, who had also three sons, all grown up,\nand three more daughters, also nearly marriageable. Though of a noble\nfamily and enjoying a good reputation in Florence, his father-in-law\nwas extremely poor, and maintained as poor an establishment.\nRoderigo, therefore, made very splendid nuptials, and omitted nothing\nthat might tend to confer honour upon such a festival, being liable,\nunder the law which he received on leaving his infernal abode, to feel\nall kinds of vain and earthly passions. He therefore soon began to\nenter into all the pomps and vanities of the world, and to aim at\nreputation and consideration among mankind, which put him to no little\nexpense. But more than this, he had not long enjoyed the society of\nhis beloved Onesta, before he became tenderly attached to her, and was\nunable to behold her suffer the slightest inquietude or vexation. Now,\nalong with her other gifts of beauty and nobility, the lady had\nbrought into the house of Roderigo such an insufferable portion of\npride, that in this respect Lucifer himself could not equal her; for\nher husband, who had experienced the effects of both, was at no loss\nto decide which was the most intolerable of the two. Yet it became\ninfinitely worse when she discovered the extent of Roderigo's\nattachment to her, of which she availed herself to obtain an\nascendancy over him and rule him with a rod of iron. Not content with\nthis, when she found he would bear it, she continued to annoy him with\nall kinds of insults and taunts, in such a way as to give him the most\nindescribable pain and uneasiness. For what with the influence of her\nfather, her brothers, her friends, and relatives, the duty of the\nmatrimonial yoke, and the love he bore her, he suffered all for some\ntime with the patience of a saint. It would be useless to recount the\nfollies and extravagancies into which he ran in order to gratify her\ntaste for dress, and every article of the newest fashion, in which\nour city, ever so variable in its nature, according to its usual\nhabits, so much abounds. Yet, to live upon easy terms with her, he was\nobliged to do more than this; he had to assist his father-in-law in\nportioning off his other daughters; and she next asked him to furnish\none of her brothers with goods to sail for the Levant, another with\nsilks for the West, while a third was to be set up in a goldbeater's\nestablishment at Florence. In such objects the greatest part of his\nfortune was soon consumed. At length the Carnival season was at hand;\nthe festival of St. John was to be celebrated, and the whole city, as\nusual, was in a ferment. Numbers of the noblest families were about to\nvie with each other in the splendour of their parties, and the Lady\nOnesta, being resolved not to be outshone by her acquaintance,\ninsisted that Roderigo should exceed them all in the richness of their\nfeasts. For the reasons above stated, he submitted to her will; nor,\nindeed, would he have scrupled at doing much more, however difficult\nit might have been, could he have flattered himself with a hope of\npreserving the peace and comfort of his household, and of awaiting\nquietly the consummation of his ruin. But this was not the case,\ninasmuch as the arrogant temper of his wife had grown to such a height\nof asperity by long indulgence, that he was at a loss in what way to\nact. His domestics, male and female, would no longer remain in the\nhouse, being unable to support for any length of time the intolerable\nlife they led. The inconvenience which he suffered in consequence of\nhaving no one to whom he could intrust his affairs it is impossible to\nexpress. Even his own familiar devils, whom he had brought along with\nhim, had already deserted him, choosing to return below rather than\nlonger submit to the tyranny of his wife. Left, then, to himself,\namidst this turbulent and unhappy life, and having dissipated all the\nready money he possessed, he was compelled to live upon the hopes of\nthe returns expected from his ventures in the East and the West. Being\nstill in good credit, in order to support his rank he resorted to\nbills of exchange; nor was it long before, accounts running against\nhim, he found himself in the same situation as many other unhappy\nspeculators in that market. Just as his case became extremely\ndelicate, there arrived sudden tidings both from East and West that\none of his wife's brothers had dissipated the whole of Roderigo's\nprofits in play, and that while the other was returning with a rich\ncargo uninsured, his ship had the misfortune to be wrecked, and he\nhimself was lost. No sooner did this affair transpire than his\ncreditors assembled, and supposing it must be all over with him,\nthough their bills had not yet become due, they resolved to keep a\nstrict watch over him in fear that he might abscond. Roderigo, on his\npart, thinking that there was no other remedy, and feeling how deeply\nhe was bound by the Stygian law, determined at all hazards to make his\nescape. So taking horse one morning early, as he luckily lived near\nthe Prato gate, in that direction he went off. His departure was soon\nknown; the creditors were all in a bustle; the magistrates were\napplied to, and the officers of justice, along with a great part of\nthe populace, were dispatched in pursuit. Roderigo had hardly\nproceeded a mile before he heard this hue and cry, and the pursuers\nwere soon so close at his heels that the only resource he had left was\nto abandon the highroad and take to the open country, with the hope of\nconcealing himself in the fields. But finding himself unable to make\nway over the hedges and ditches, he left his horse and took to his\nheels, traversing fields of vines and canes, until he reached\nPeretola, where he entered the house of Matteo del Bricca, a labourer\nof Giovanna del Bene. Finding him at home, for he was busily providing\nfodder for his cattle, our hero earnestly entreated him to save him\nfrom the hands of his adversaries close behind, who would infallibly\nstarve him to death in a dungeon, engaging that if Matteo would give\nhim refuge, he would make him one of the richest men alive, and afford\nhim such proofs of it before he took his leave as would convince him\nof the truth of what he said; and if he failed to do this, he was\nquite content that Matteo himself should deliver him into the hands of\nhis enemies.\n\nNow Matteo, although a rustic, was a man of courage, and concluding\nthat he could not lose anything by the speculation, he gave him his\nhand and agreed to save him. He then thrust our hero under a heap of\nrubbish, completely enveloping him in weeds; so that when his pursuers\narrived they found themselves quite at a loss, nor could they extract\nfrom Matteo the least information as to his appearance. In this\ndilemma there was nothing left for them but to proceed in the pursuit,\nwhich they continued for two days, and then returned, jaded and\ndisappointed, to Florence. In the meanwhile, Matteo drew our hero from\nhis hiding-place, and begged him to fulfil his engagement. To this\nhis friend Roderigo replied: \"I confess, brother, that I am under\ngreat obligations to you, and I mean to return them. To leave no doubt\nupon your mind, I will inform you who I am;\" and he proceeded to\nacquaint him with all the particulars of the affair: how he had come\ninto the world, and married, and run away. He next described to his\npreserver the way in which he might become rich, which was briefly as\nfollows: As soon as Matteo should hear of some lady in the\nneighbourhood being said to be possessed, he was to conclude that it\nwas Roderigo himself who had taken possession of her; and he gave him\nhis word, at the same time, that he would never leave her until Matteo\nshould come and conjure him to depart. In this way he might obtain\nwhat sum he pleased from the lady's friends for the price of\nexorcizing her; and having mutually agreed upon this plan, Roderigo\ndisappeared.\n\nNot many days elapsed before it was reported in Florence that the\ndaughter of Messer Ambrogio Amedei, a lady married to Buonajuto\nTebalducci, was possessed by the devil. Her relations did not fail to\napply every means usual on such occasions to expel him, such as making\nher wear upon her head St. Zanobi's cap, and the cloak of St. John of\nGualberto; but these had only the effect of making Roderigo laugh. And\nto convince them that it was really a spirit that possessed her, and\nthat it was no flight of the imagination, he made the young lady talk\nLatin, hold a philosophical dispute, and reveal the frailties of many\nof her acquaintance. He particularly accused a certain friar of having\nintroduced a lady into his monastery in male attire, to the no small\nscandal of all who heard it, and the astonishment of the brotherhood.\nMesser Ambrogio found it impossible to silence him, and began to\ndespair of his daughter's cure. But the news reaching Matteo, he lost\nno time in waiting upon Ambrogio, assuring him of his daughter's\nrecovery on condition of his paying him five hundred florins, with\nwhich to purchase a farm at Peretola. To this Messer Ambrogio\nconsented; and Matteo immediately ordered a number of masses to be\nsaid, after which he proceeded with some unmeaning ceremonies\ncalculated to give solemnity to his task. Then approaching the young\nlady, he whispered in her ear: \"Roderigo, it is Matteo that is come.\nSo do as we agreed upon, and get out.\" Roderigo replied: \"It is all\nwell; but you have not asked enough to make you a rich man. So when I\ndepart I will take possession of the daughter of Charles, king of\nNaples, and I will not leave her till you come. You may then demand\nwhatever you please for your reward; and mind that you never trouble\nme again.\" And when he had said this, he went out of the lady, to the\nno small delight and amazement of the whole city of Florence.\n\nIt was not long again before the accident that had happened to the\ndaughter of the king of Naples began to be buzzed about the country,\nand all the monkish remedies having been found to fail, the king,\nhearing of Matteo, sent for him from Florence. On arriving at Naples,\nMatteo, after a few ceremonies, performed the cure. Before leaving the\nprincess, however, Roderigo said: \"You see, Matteo, I have kept my\npromise and made a rich man of you, and I owe you nothing now. So,\nhenceforward you will take care to keep out of my way, lest as I have\nhitherto done you some good, just the contrary should happen to you in\nfuture.\" Upon this Matteo thought it best to return to Florence, after\nreceiving fifty thousand ducats from his majesty, in order to enjoy\nhis riches in peace, and never once imagined that Roderigo would come\nin his way again. But in this he was deceived; for he soon heard that\na daughter of Louis, king of France, was possessed by an evil spirit,\nwhich disturbed our friend Matteo not a little, thinking of his\nmajesty's great authority and of what Roderigo had said. Hearing of\nMatteo's great skill, and finding no other remedy, the king dispatched\na messenger for him, whom Matteo contrived to send back with a variety\nof excuses. But this did not long avail him; the king applied to the\nFlorentine council, and our hero was compelled to attend. Arriving\nwith no very pleasant sensations at Paris, he was introduced into the\nroyal presence, when he assured his majesty that though it was true he\nhad acquired some fame in the course of his demoniac practice, he\ncould by no means always boast of success, and that some devils were\nof such a desperate character as not to pay the least attention to\nthreats, enchantments, or even the exorcisms of religion itself. He\nwould, nevertheless, do his majesty's pleasure, entreating at the same\ntime to be held excused if it should happen to prove an obstinate\ncase. To this the king made answer, that be the case what it might, he\nwould certainly hang him if he did not succeed. It is impossible to\ndescribe poor Matteo's terror and perplexity on hearing these words;\nbut at length mustering courage, he ordered the possessed princess to\nbe brought into his presence. Approaching as usual close to her ear,\nhe conjured Roderigo in the most humble terms, by all he had ever done\nfor him, not to abandon him in such a dilemma, but to show some sense\nof gratitude for past services and to leave the princess. \"Ah! thou\ntraitorous villain!\" cried Roderigo, \"hast thou, indeed, ventured to\nmeddle in this business? Dost thou boast thyself a rich man at my\nexpense? I will now convince the world and thee of the extent of my\npower, both to give and to take away. I shall have the pleasure of\nseeing thee hanged before thou leavest this place.\" Poor Matteo\nfinding there was no remedy, said nothing more, but, like a wise man,\nset his head to work in order to discover some other means of\nexpelling the spirit; for which purpose he said to the king, \"Sire, it\nis as I feared: there are certain spirits of so malignant a character\nthat there is no keeping any terms with them, and this is one of them.\nHowever, I will make a last attempt, and I trust that it will succeed\naccording to our wishes. If not, I am in your majesty's power, and I\nhope you will take compassion on my innocence. In the first place, I\nhave to entreat that your majesty will order a large stage to be\nerected in the centre of the great square, such as will admit the\nnobility and clergy of the whole city. The stage ought to be adorned\nwith all kinds of silks and with cloth of gold, and with an altar\nraised in the middle. Tomorrow morning I would have your majesty, with\nyour full train of lords and ecclesiastics in attendance, seated in\norder and in magnificent array, as spectators of the scene at the said\nplace. There, after having celebrated solemn mass, the possessed\nprincess must appear; but I have in particular to entreat that on one\nside of the square may be stationed a band of men with drums,\ntrumpets, horns, tambours, bagpipes, cymbals, and kettle-drums, and\nall other kinds of instruments that make the most infernal noise. Now,\nwhen I take my hat off, let the whole band strike up, and approach\nwith the most horrid uproar towards the stage. This, along with a few\nother secret remedies which I shall apply, will surely compel the\nspirit to depart.\"\n\nThese preparations were accordingly made by the royal command; and\nwhen the day, being Sunday morning, arrived, the stage was seen\ncrowded with people of rank and the square with the people. Mass was\ncelebrated, and the possessed princess conducted between two bishops,\nwith a train of nobles, to the spot. Now, when Roderigo beheld so vast\na concourse of people, together with all this awful preparation, he\nwas almost struck dumb with astonishment, and said to himself, \"I\nwonder what that cowardly wretch is thinking of doing now? Does he\nimagine I have never seen finer things than these in the regions\nabove--ay! and more horrid things below? However, I will soon make him\nrepent it, at all events.\" Matteo then approaching him, besought him\nto come out; but Roderigo replied, \"Oh, you think you have done a fine\nthing now! What do you mean to do with all this trumpery? Can you\nescape my power, think you, in this way, or elude the vengeance of the\nking? Thou poltroon villain, I will have thee hanged for this!\" And\nas Matteo continued the more to entreat him, his adversary still\nvilified him in the same strain. So Matteo, believing there was no\ntime to be lost, made the sign with his hat, when all the musicians\nwho had been stationed there for the purpose suddenly struck up a\nhideous din, and ringing a thousand peals, approached the spot.\nRoderigo pricked up his ears at the sound, quite at a loss what to\nthink, and rather in a perturbed tone of voice he asked Matteo what it\nmeant. To this the latter returned, apparently much alarmed: \"Alas!\ndear Roderigo, it is your wife; she is coming for you!\" It is\nimpossible to give an idea of the anguish of Roderigo's mind and the\nstrange alteration which his feelings underwent at that name. The\nmoment the name of \"wife\" was pronounced, he had no longer presence of\nmind to consider whether it were probable, or even possible, that it\ncould be her. Without replying a single word, he leaped out and fled\nin the utmost terror, leaving the lady to herself, and preferring\nrather to return to his infernal abode and render an account of his\nadventures, than run the risk of any further sufferings and vexations\nunder the matrimonial yoke. And thus Belphagor again made his\nappearance in the infernal domains, bearing ample testimony to the\nevils introduced into a household by a wife; while Matteo, on his\npart, who knew more of the matter than the devil, returned\ntriumphantly home, not a little proud of the victory he had achieved.\n\n\n\n\nTHE DEVIL AND TOM WALKER[2]\n\nBY WASHINGTON IRVING\n\n\n    [2] Courtesy of G. P. Putnam's Sons, Publishers, New York &\n    London.\n\nA few miles from Boston in Massachusetts, there is a deep inlet,\nwinding several miles into the interior of the country from Charles\nBay, and terminating in a thickly-wooded swamp or morass. On one side\nof this inlet is a beautiful dark grove; on the opposite side the land\nrises abruptly from the water's edge into a high ridge, on which grow\na few scattered oaks of great age and immense size. Under one of these\ngigantic trees, according to old stories, there was a great amount of\ntreasure buried by Kidd the pirate. The inlet allowed a facility to\nbring the money in a boat secretly and at night to the very foot of\nthe hill; the elevation of the place permitted a good lookout to be\nkept that no one was at hand; while the remarkable trees formed good\nlandmarks by which the place might easily be found again. The old\nstories add, moreover, that the devil presided at the hiding of the\nmoney, and took it under his guardianship; but this, it is well known,\nhe always does with buried treasure, particularly when it has been\nill-gotten. Be that as it may, Kidd never returned to recover his\nwealth; being shortly after seized at Boston, sent out to England, and\nthere hanged for a pirate.\n\nAbout the year 1727, just at the time that earthquakes were prevalent\nin New England, and shook many tall sinners down upon their knees,\nthere lived near this place a meagre, miserly fellow, of the name of\nTom Walker. He had a wife as miserly as himself: they were so miserly\nthat they even conspired to cheat each other. Whatever the woman could\nlay hands on, she hid away; a hen could not cackle but she was on the\nalert to secure the new-laid egg. Her husband was continually prying\nabout to detect her secret hoards, and many and fierce were the\nconflicts that took place about what ought to have been common\nproperty. They lived in a forlorn-looking house that stood alone, and\nhad an air of starvation. A few straggling savin-trees, emblems of\nsterility, grew near it; no smoke ever curled from its chimney; no\ntraveller stopped at its door. A miserable horse, whose ribs were as\narticulate as the bars of a gridiron, stalked about a field, where a\nthin carpet of moss, scarcely covering the ragged beds of\npudding-stone, tantalized and balked his hunger; and sometimes he\nwould lean his head over the fence, look piteously at the passer-by,\nand seem to petition deliverance from this land of famine.\n\nThe house and its inmates had altogether a bad name. Tom's wife was a\ntall termagant, fierce of temper, loud of tongue, and strong of arm.\nHer voice was often heard in wordy warfare with her husband; and his\nface sometimes showed signs that their conflicts were not confined to\nwords. No one ventured, however, to interfere between them. The lonely\nwayfarer shrunk within himself at the horrid clamour and\nclapper-clawing; eyed the den of discord askance; and hurried on his\nway, rejoicing, if a bachelor, in his celibacy.\n\nOne day that Tom Walker had been to a distant part of the\nneighbourhood, he took what he considered a short cut homeward,\nthrough the swamp. Like most short cuts, it was an ill-chosen route.\nThe swamp was thickly grown with great gloomy pines and hemlocks, some\nof them ninety feet high, which made it dark at noonday, and a retreat\nfor all the owls of the neighbourhood. It was full of pits and\nquagmires, partly covered with weeds and mosses, where the green\nsurface often betrayed the traveller into a gulf of black, smothering\nmud: there were also dark and stagnant pools, the abodes of the\ntadpole, the bull-frog, and the water-snake; where the trunks of pines\nand hemlocks lay half-drowned, half-rotting, looking like alligators\nsleeping in the mire.\n\nTom had long been picking his way cautiously through this treacherous\nforest; stepping from tuft to tuft of rushes and roots, which afforded\nprecarious footholds among deep sloughs; or pacing carefully, like a\ncat, along the prostrate trunks of trees; startled now and then by the\nsudden screaming of the bittern, or the quacking of a wild duck rising\non the wing from some solitary pool. At length he arrived at a firm\npiece of ground, which ran out like a peninsula into the deep bosom of\nthe swamp. It had been one of the strongholds of the Indians during\ntheir wars with the first colonists. Here they had thrown up a kind of\nfort, which they had looked upon as almost impregnable, and had used\nas a place of refuge for their squaws and children. Nothing remained\nof the old Indian fort but a few embankments, gradually sinking to the\nlevel of the surrounding earth, and already overgrown in part by oaks\nand other forest trees, the foliage of which formed a contrast to the\ndark pines and hemlocks of the swamp.\n\nIt was late in the dusk of evening when Tom Walker reached the old\nfort, and he paused there awhile to rest himself. Any one but he would\nhave felt unwilling to linger in this lonely, melancholy place, for\nthe common people had a bad opinion of it, from the stories handed\ndown from the time of the Indian wars; when it was asserted that the\nsavages held incantations here, and made sacrifices to the evil\nspirit.\n\nTom Walker, however, was not a man to be troubled with any fears of\nthe kind. He reposed himself for some time on the trunk of a fallen\nhemlock, listening to the boding cry of the tree-toad, and delving\nwith his walking-staff into a mound of black mould at his feet. As he\nturned up the soil unconsciously, his staff struck against something\nhard. He raked it out of the vegetable mould, and lo! a cloven skull,\nwith an Indian tomahawk buried deep in it, lay before him. The rust on\nthe weapon showed the time that had elapsed since this death-blow had\nbeen given. It was a dreary memento of the fierce struggle that had\ntaken place in this last foothold of the Indian warriors.\n\n\"Humph!\" said Tom Walker, as he gave it a kick to shake the dirt from\nit.\n\n\"Let that skull alone!\" said a gruff voice. Tom lifted up his eyes,\nand beheld a great black man seated directly opposite him, on the\nstump of a tree. He was exceedingly surprised, having neither heard\nnor seen any one approach; and he was still more perplexed on\nobserving, as well as the gathering gloom would permit, that the\nstranger was neither negro nor Indian. It is true he was dressed in a\nrude half Indian garb, and had a red belt or sash swathed round his\nbody; but his face was neither black nor copper-colour, but swarthy\nand dingy, and begrimed with soot, as if he had been accustomed to\ntoil among fires and forges. He had a shock of coarse black hair, that\nstood out from his head in all directions, and bore an ax on his\nshoulder.\n\nHe scowled for a moment at Tom with a pair of great red eyes.\n\n\"What are you doing on my grounds?\" said the black man, with a hoarse\ngrowling voice.\n\n\"Your grounds!\" said Tom, with a sneer, \"no more your grounds than\nmine; they belong to Deacon Peabody.\"\n\n\"Deacon Peabody be d--d,\" said the stranger, \"as I flatter myself he\nwill be, if he does not look more to his own sins and less to those of\nhis neighbours. Look yonder, and see how Deacon Peabody is faring.\"\n\nTom looked in the direction that the stranger pointed, and beheld one\nof the great trees, fair and flourishing without, but rotten at the\ncore, and saw that it had been nearly hewn through, so that the first\nhigh wind was likely to blow it down. On the bark of the tree was\nscored the name of Deacon Peabody, an eminent man, who had waxed\nwealthy by driving shrewd bargains with the Indians. He now looked\naround, and found most of the tall trees marked with the name of some\ngreat man of the colony, and all more or less scored by the ax. The\none on which he had been seated, and which had evidently just been\nhewn down, bore the name of Crowninshield; and he recollected a mighty\nrich man of that name, who made a vulgar display of wealth, which it\nwas whispered he had acquired by buccaneering.\n\n\"He's just ready for burning!\" said the black man, with a growl of\ntriumph. \"You see I am likely to have a good stock of firewood for\nwinter.\"\n\n\"But what right have you,\" said Tom, \"to cut down Deacon Peabody's\ntimber?\"\n\n\"The right of a prior claim,\" said the other. \"This woodland belonged\nto me long before one of your whitefaced race put foot upon the soil.\"\n\n\"And pray, who are you, if I may be so bold?\" said Tom.\n\n\"Oh, I go by various names. I am the wild huntsman in some countries;\nthe black miner in others. In this neighbourhood I am known by the\nname of the black woodsman. I am he to whom the red men consecrated\nthis spot, and in honour of whom they now and then roasted a white\nman, by way of sweet-smelling sacrifice. Since the red men have been\nexterminated by you white savages, I amuse myself by presiding at the\npersecutions of Quakers and Anabaptists; I am the great patron and\nprompter of slave-dealers, and the grand-master of the Salem\nwitches.\"\n\n\"The upshot of all which is, that, if I mistake not,\" said Tom,\nsturdily, \"you are he commonly called Old Scratch.\"\n\n\"The same, at your service!\" replied the black man, with a half civil\nnod.\n\nSuch was the opening of this interview, according to the old story;\nthough it has almost too familiar an air to be credited. One would\nthink that to meet with such a singular personage, in this wild,\nlonely place, would have shaken any man's nerves; but Tom was a\nhard-minded fellow, not easily daunted, and he had lived so long with\na termagant wife, that he did not even fear the devil.\n\nIt is said that after this commencement they had a long and earnest\nconversation together, as Tom returned homeward. The black man told\nhim of great sums of money buried by Kidd the pirate, under the\noak-trees on the high ridge, not far from the morass. All these were\nunder his command, and protected by his power, so that none could find\nthem but such as propitiated his favour. These he offered to place\nwithin Tom Walker's reach, having conceived an especial kindness for\nhim; but they were to be had only on certain conditions. What these\nconditions were may be easily surmised, though Tom never disclosed\nthem publicly. They must have been very hard, for he required time to\nthink of them, and he was not a man to stick at trifles when money was\nin view. When they had reached the edge of the swamp, the stranger\npaused. \"What proof have I that all you have been telling me is true?\"\nsaid Tom. \"There's my signature,\" said the black man, pressing his\nfinger on Tom's forehead. So saying, he turned off among the thickets\nof the swamp, and seemed, as Tom said, to go down, down, down, into\nthe earth, until nothing but his head and shoulders could be seen, and\nso on, until he totally disappeared.\n\nWhen Tom reached home, he found the black print of a finger burnt, as\nit were, into his forehead, which nothing could obliterate.\n\nThe first news his wife had to tell him was the sudden death of\nAbsalom Crowninshield, the rich buccaneer. It was announced in the\npapers with the usual flourish, that \"A great man had fallen in\nIsrael.\"\n\nTom recollected the tree which his black friend had just hewn down,\nand which was ready for burning. \"Let the freebooter roast,\" said Tom,\n\"who cares!\" He now felt convinced that all he had heard and seen was\nno illusion.\n\nHe was not prone to let his wife into his confidence; but as this was\nan uneasy secret, he willingly shared it with her. All her avarice was\nawakened at the mention of hidden gold, and she urged her husband to\ncomply with the black man's terms, and secure what would make them\nwealthy for life. However Tom might have felt disposed to sell himself\nto the Devil, he was determined not to do so to oblige his wife; so he\nflatly refused, out of the mere spirit of contradiction. Many and\nbitter were the quarrels they had on the subject; but the more she\ntalked, the more resolute was Tom not to be damned to please her.\n\nAt length she determined to drive the bargain on her own account, and\nif she succeeded, to keep all the gain to herself. Being of the same\nfearless temper as her husband, she set off for the old Indian fort\ntowards the close of a summer's day. She was many hours absent. When\nshe came back, she was reserved and sullen in her replies. She spoke\nsomething of a black man, whom she had met about twilight hewing at\nthe root of a tall tree. He was sulky, however, and would not come to\nterms: she was to go again with a propitiatory offering, but what it\nwas she forbore to say.\n\nThe next evening she set off again for the swamp, with her apron\nheavily laden. Tom waited and waited for her, but in vain; midnight\ncame, but she did not make her appearance: morning, noon, night\nreturned, but still she did not come. Tom now grew uneasy for her\nsafety, especially as he found she had carried off in her apron the\nsilver tea-pot and spoons, and every portable article of value.\nAnother night elapsed, another morning came; but no wife. In a word,\nshe was never heard of more.\n\nWhat was her real fate nobody knows, in consequence of so many\npretending to know. It is one of those facts which have become\nconfounded by a variety of historians. Some asserted that she lost her\nway among the tangled mazes of the swamp, and sank into some pit or\nslough; others, more charitable, hinted that she had eloped with the\nhousehold booty, and made off to some other province; while others\nsurmised that the tempter had decoyed her into a dismal quagmire, on\nthe top of which her hat was found lying. In confirmation of this, it\nwas said a great black man, with an ax on his shoulder, was seen late\nthat very evening coming out of the swamp, carrying a bundle tied in\na check apron, with an air of surly triumph.\n\nThe most current and probable story, however, observes, that Tom\nWalker grew so anxious about the fate of his wife and his property,\nthat he set out at length to seek them both at the Indian fort. During\na long summer's afternoon he searched about the gloomy place, but no\nwife was to be seen. He called her name repeatedly, but she was\nnowhere to be heard. The bittern alone responded to his voice, as he\nflew screaming by; or the bull-frog croaked dolefully from a\nneighbouring pool. At length, it is said, just in the brown hour of\ntwilight, when the owls began to hoot, and the bats to flit about, his\nattention was attracted by the clamour of carrion crows hovering about\na cypress-tree. He looked up, and beheld a bundle tied in a check\napron, and hanging in the branches of the tree, with a great vulture\nperched hard by, as if keeping watch upon it. He leaped with joy; for\nhe recognized his wife's apron, and supposed it to contain the\nhousehold valuables.\n\n\"Let us get hold of the property,\" said he, consolingly to himself,\n\"and we will endeavour to do without the woman.\"\n\nAs he scrambled up the tree, the vulture spread its wide wings, and\nsailed off, screaming, into the deep shadows of the forest. Tom seized\nthe checked apron, but, woeful sight! found nothing but a heart and\nliver tied up in it!\n\nSuch, according to this most authentic old story, was all that was to\nbe found of Tom's wife. She had probably attempted to deal with the\nblack man as she had been accustomed to deal with her husband; but\nthough a female scold is generally considered a match for the devil,\nyet in this instance she appears to have had the worst of it. She must\nhave died game, however; for it is said Tom noticed many prints of\ncloven feet deeply stamped about the tree, and found handfuls of hair,\nthat looked as if they had been plucked from the coarse black shock of\nthe woodman. Tom knew his wife's prowess by experience. He shrugged\nhis shoulders, as he looked at the signs of a fierce clapper-clawing.\n\"Egad,\" said he to himself, \"Old Scratch must have had a tough time of\nit!\"\n\nTom consoled himself for the loss of his property, with the loss of\nhis wife, for he was a man of fortitude. He even felt something like\ngratitude towards the black woodman, who, he considered, had done him\na kindness. He sought, therefore, to cultivate a further acquaintance\nwith him, but for some time without success; the old black-legs played\nshy, for whatever people may think, he is not always to be had for\ncalling for: he knows how to play his cards when pretty sure of his\ngame.\n\nAt length, it is said, when delay had whetted Tom's eagerness to the\nquick, and prepared him to agree to anything rather than not gain the\npromised treasure, he met the black man one evening in his usual\nwoodman's dress, with his ax on his shoulder, sauntering along the\nswamp, and humming a tune. He affected to receive Tom's advances with\ngreat indifference, made brief replies, and went on humming his tune.\n\nBy degrees, however, Tom brought him to business, and they began to\nhaggle about the terms on which the former was to have the pirate's\ntreasure. There was one condition which need not be mentioned, being\ngenerally understood in all cases where the devil grants favours; but\nthere were others about which, though of less importance, he was\ninflexibly obstinate. He insisted that the money found through his\nmeans should be employed in his service. He proposed, therefore, that\nTom should employ it in the black traffic; that is to say, that he\nshould fit out a slave-ship. This, however, Tom resolutely refused: he\nwas bad enough in all conscience; but the devil himself could not\ntempt him to turn slave-trader.\n\nFinding Tom so squeamish on this point, he did not insist upon it, but\nproposed, instead, that he should turn usurer; the devil being\nextremely anxious for the increase of usurers, looking upon them as\nhis peculiar people.\n\nTo this no objections were made, for it was just to Tom's taste.\n\n\"You shall open a broker's shop in Boston next month,\" said the black\nman.\n\n\"I'll do it tomorrow, if you wish,\" said Tom Walker.\n\n\"You shall lend money at two per cent. a month.\"\n\n\"Egad, I'll charge four!\" replied Tom Walker.\n\n\"You shall extort bonds, foreclose mortgages, drive the merchants to\nbankruptcy\"--\n\n\"I'll drive them to the d--l,\" cried Tom Walker.\n\n\"You are the usurer for my money!\" said black-legs with delight. \"When\nwill you want the rhino?\"\n\n\"This very night.\"\n\n\"Done!\" said the devil.\n\n\"Done!\" said Tom Walker.--So they shook hands and struck a bargain.\n\nA few days' time saw Tom Walker seated behind his desk in a\ncounting-house in Boston.\n\nHis reputation for a ready-moneyed man, who would lend money out for a\ngood consideration, soon spread abroad. Everybody remembers the time\nof Governor Belcher, when money was particularly scarce. It was a time\nof paper credit. The country had been deluged with government bills,\nthe famous Land Bank had been established; there had been a rage for\nspeculating; the people had run mad with schemes for new settlements;\nfor building cities in the wilderness; land-jobbers went about with\nmaps of grants, and townships, and Eldorados, lying nobody knew where,\nbut which everybody was ready to purchase. In a word, the great\nspeculating fever which breaks out every now and then in the country,\nhad raged to an alarming degree, and everybody was dreaming of making\nsudden fortunes from nothing. As usual the fever had subsided; the\ndream had gone off, and the imaginary fortunes with it; the patients\nwere left in doleful plight, and the whole country resounded with the\nconsequent cry of \"hard times.\"\n\nAt this propitious time of public distress did Tom Walker set up as\nusurer in Boston. His door was soon thronged by customers. The needy\nand adventurous; the gambling speculator; the dreaming land-jobber;\nthe thriftless tradesman; the merchant with cracked credit; in short,\nevery one driven to raise money by desperate means and desperate\nsacrifices, hurried to Tom Walker.\n\nThus Tom was the universal friend of the needy, and acted like a\n\"friend in need\"; that is to say, he always exacted good pay and good\nsecurity. In proportion to the distress of the applicant was the\nhardness of his terms. He accumulated bonds and mortgages; gradually\nsqueezed his customers closer and closer: and sent them at length, dry\nas a sponge, from his door.\n\nIn this way he made money hand over hand; became a rich and mighty\nman, and exalted his cocked hat upon 'Change. He built himself, as\nusual, a vast house, out of ostentation; but left the greater part of\nit unfinished and unfurnished, out of parsimony. He even set up a\ncarriage in the fulness of his vainglory, though he nearly starved the\nhorses which drew it; and as the ungreased wheels groaned and\nscreeched on the axle-trees, you would have thought you heard the\nsouls of the poor debtors he was squeezing.\n\nAs Tom waxed old, however, he grew thoughtful. Having secured the good\nthings of this world, he began to feel anxious about those of the\nnext. He thought with regret on the bargain he had made with his black\nfriend, and set his wits to work to cheat him out of the conditions.\nHe became, therefore, all of a sudden, a violent church-goer. He\nprayed loudly and strenuously, as if heaven were to be taken by force\nof lungs. Indeed, one might always tell when he had sinned most during\nthe week, by the clamour of his Sunday devotion. The quiet Christians\nwho had been modestly and steadfastly travelling Zionward, were struck\nwith self-reproach at seeing themselves so suddenly outstripped in\ntheir career by this new-made convert. Tom was as rigid in religious\nas in money matters; he was a stern supervisor and censurer of his\nneighbours, and seemed to think every sin entered up to their account\nbecame a credit on his own side of the page. He even talked of the\nexpediency of reviving the persecution of Quakers and Anabaptists. In\na word, Tom's zeal became as notorious as his riches.\n\nStill, in spite of all this strenuous attention to forms, Tom had a\nlurking dread that the devil, after all, would have his due. That he\nmight not be taken unawares, therefore, it is said he always carried a\nsmall Bible in his coat-pocket. He had also a great folio Bible on his\ncounting-house desk, and would frequently be found reading it when\npeople called on business; on such occasions he would lay his green\nspectacles in the book, to mark the place, while he turned round to\ndrive some usurious bargain.\n\nSome say that Tom grew a little crack-brained in his old days, and\nthat, fancying his end approaching, he had his horse new shod, saddled\nand bridled, and buried with his feet uppermost; because he supposed\nthat at the last day the world would be turned upside down; in which\ncase he should find his horse standing ready for mounting, and he was\ndetermined at the worst to give his old friend a run for it. This,\nhowever, is probably a mere old wives' fable. If he really did take\nsuch a precaution, it was totally superfluous; at least so says the\nauthentic old legend; which closes his story in the following manner.\n\nOne hot summer afternoon in the dog-days, just as a terrible black\nthunder-gust was coming up, Tom sat in his counting-house, in his\nwhite linen cap and India silk morning-gown. He was on the point of\nforeclosing a mortgage, by which he would complete the ruin of an\nunlucky land-speculator for whom he had professed the greatest\nfriendship. The poor land-jobber begged him to grant a few months'\nindulgence. Tom had grown testy and irritated, and refused another\nday.\n\n\"My family will be ruined, and brought upon the parish,\" said the\nland-jobber. \"Charity begins at home,\" replied Tom; \"I must take care\nof myself in these hard times.\"\n\n\"You have made so much money out of me,\" said the speculator.\n\nTom lost his patience and his piety. \"The devil take me,\" said he, \"if\nI have made a farthing!\"\n\nJust then there were three loud knocks at the street-door. He stepped\nout to see who was there. A black man was holding a black horse, which\nneighed and stamped with impatience.\n\n\"Tom, you're come for,\" said the black fellow, gruffly. Tom shrank\nback, but too late. He had left his little Bible at the bottom of his\ncoat-pocket, and his big Bible on the desk buried under the mortgage\nhe was about to foreclose: never was sinner taken more unawares. The\nblack man whisked him like a child into the saddle, gave the horse the\nlash, and away he galloped, with Tom on his back, in the midst of the\nthunder-storm. The clerks stuck their pens behind their ears, and\nstared after him from the windows. Away went Tom Walker, dashing down\nthe street; his white cap bobbing up and down; his morning-gown\nfluttering in the wind, and his steed striking fire out of the\npavement at every bound. When the clerks turned to look for the black\nman, he had disappeared.\n\nTom Walker never returned to foreclose the mortgage. A countryman, who\nlived on the border of the swamp, reported that in the height of the\nthunder-gust he had heard a great clattering of hoofs and a howling\nalong the road, and running to the window caught sight of a figure,\nsuch as I have described, on a horse that galloped like mad across the\nfields, over the hills, and down into the black hemlock swamp towards\nthe old Indian fort; and that shortly after a thunder-bolt falling in\nthat direction seemed to set the whole forest in a blaze.\n\nThe good people of Boston shook their heads and shrugged their\nshoulders, but had been so much accustomed to witches and goblins, and\ntricks of the devil, in all kinds of shapes, from the first settlement\nof the colony, that they were not so much horror-struck as might have\nbeen expected. Trustees were appointed to take charge of Tom's\neffects. There was nothing, however, to administer upon. On searching\nhis coffers, all his bonds and mortgages were found reduced to\ncinders. In place of gold and silver, his iron chest was filled with\nchips and shavings; two skeletons lay in his stable instead of his\nhalf-starved horses, and the very next day his great house took fire\nand was burnt to the ground.\n\nSuch was the end of Tom Walker and his ill-gotten wealth. Let all\ngriping money-brokers lay this story to heart. The truth of it is not\nto be doubted. The very hole under the oak-trees, whence he dug Kidd's\nmoney, is to be seen to this day; and the neighbouring swamp and old\nIndian fort are often haunted in stormy nights by a figure on\nhorseback, in morning-gown and white cap, which is doubtless the\ntroubled spirit of the usurer. In fact, the story has resolved itself\ninto a proverb, and is the origin of that popular saying, so prevalent\nthroughout New England, of \"The Devil and Tom Walker.\"\n\n\n\n\nFROM THE MEMOIRS OF SATAN\n\nBY WILHELM HAUFF\n\n\nIn this way the jovial stranger had kept myself, and twelve or fifteen\nother gentlemen and ladies (our fellow guests), in a perpetual whirl\nof delight. Scarcely any had any special business to detain them at\nthe hotel, and yet none ventured to entertain the mere idea of\ndeparture, even at a distant day. On the other hand, after we had\nslept for some time late on mornings, sat long at dinner, sung and\nplayed long of evenings, and drank, chatted, and laughed long of\nnights, the magic tie which bound us to this hotel seemed to have\nwoven new chains around us.\n\nThis intoxication, however, was soon to be put an end to, perhaps for\nour good. On the seventh day of our rejoicings, a Sunday, our friend\nVon Natas was not to be found anywhere. The waiters gave as his\napology a short journey; he could not return before sunset, but would\ncertainly be in time for tea and supper.\n\nThe enjoyment of his society had already become such a necessity, that\nthis piece of information made us helpless and ill at ease.\n\nThe conversation turned naturally on our absent friend and his\nstriking, brilliant apparition among us. It was strange, but I could\nnot get it out of my head that I had already met with him in my walk\nthrough life, but in a different shape; and, absurd as the idea was,\nit still forced itself irresistibly on my mind once and again. I\ncalled to mind, from years long gone by, the recollection of a man who\nin his whole demeanour, but more especially in his glance, had the\ngreatest resemblance to him. The one of whom I now speak was a foreign\nphysician, who occasionally visited my native town, and there lived at\nfirst in great retirement, though he soon found a crowd of worshippers\ncollected around him. The thought of this man was always a melancholy\none, for it was asserted that some serious misfortune always followed\nhis visits; still I could not shake off the idea that Natas resembled\nhim strikingly, in fact that he was one and the same person.\n\nI mentioned to my next neighbour at table the idea that incessantly\nhaunted me, and how unpleasant it was to identify so horrible a being\nas the stranger who had so afflicted my native city, with our mutual\nfriend who had so fully gained my esteem and affection; but it will\nseem still more incredible when I assure my readers that all my\nneighbours were full of precisely the same idea, and that all fancied\nthey had seen our agreeable companion in some entirely different\nshape.\n\n\"You are enough to make one downright melancholy,\" said Baroness von\nThingen, who sat near me; \"you make our friend Natas out to be the\nWandering Jew, or God knows what more!\"\n\nA little old man, a professor in Tibsingen, who had joined our circle\nsome days before, and passed his time in quiet, silent enjoyment,\nenlivened by an occasional deep conference with the Rhine wine, had\nkept smiling to himself during what he called our \"comparative\nanatomy,\" and twirling his huge snuff-box between his fingers with\nsuch skilful rapidity, that it revolved like a coach-wheel.\n\n\"I cannot longer refrain from a remark I wished to make,\" exclaimed he\nat last. \"Under your favour, gracious lady, I do not look upon him as\nbeing precisely the Wandering Jew, but still as being a very strange\nmortal. As long as he was present, the thought would, it is true, now\nand then flash up in my mind, 'You have seen this man before, but pray\nwhere was it?' but these recollections were driven away as if by magic\nwhenever he fastened upon me those dark wandering eyes of his.\"\n\n\"So was it with me--and with me--and with me,\" exclaimed we all in\nastonishment.\n\n\"Hem! hem!\" smiled the Professor. \"Even now the scales seem to fall\nfrom my eyes, and I see that he is the very same person I saw in\nStuttgart twelve years ago.\"\n\n\"What, you have seen him then, and in what circumstances?\" asked Lady\nvon Thingen eagerly, and almost blushed at the eagerness she\ndisplayed.\n\nThe Professor took a pinch of snuff, shook the superfluous grains off\nhis waistcoat, and answered--\"It may be now about twelve years since I\nwas forced by a law-suit to spend some months in Stuttgart. I lived at\none of the best hotels, and generally dined with a large company at\nthe table d'h\u00f4te. Once upon a time I made my first appearance at table\nafter a lapse of several days, during which I had been forced to keep\nmy room. The company were talking very eagerly about a certain Signor\nBarighi, who for some time past had been delighting the other visitors\nwith his lively wit, and his fluency in all languages. All were\nunanimous in his praise, but they could not exactly agree as to his\noccupation; some making him out a diplomatist, others a teacher of\nlanguages, a third party a distinguished political exile, and a fourth\na spy of the police. The door opened, all seemed silent, even\nconfused, at having carried on the dispute in so loud a tone; I judged\nthat the person spoken of must be among us, and saw--\"\n\n\"Who, pray?\"\n\n\"Under favour, the same person who has amused us so agreeably for some\ndays past. There was nothing supernatural in this, to be sure, but\nlisten a moment; for two days Signor Barighi, as the stranger was\ncalled, had given a new relish to our meals by his brilliant\nconversation, when mine host interrupted us suddenly--'Gentlemen,'\nsaid he, 'prepare yourself for an unique entertainment which will be\nprovided for you tomorrow.'\n\n\"We asked what this meant, and a grey headed captain, who had presided\nat the hotel table many years, informed us of the joke as\nfollows--Exactly opposite this dining room, an old bachelor lives,\nsolitary and alone, in a large deserted house; he is a retired\nCounsellor of State--lives on a handsome premium, and has an enormous\nfortune besides. He is, however, a downright fool, and has some of the\nstrangest peculiarities; thus, for instance, he often gives himself\nentertainments on a scale of extravagant luxury. He orders covers for\ntwelve, from the hotel, he has excellent wines in his cellar, and one\nor the other of our waiters has the honour to attend table. You think,\nperhaps, that at these feasts he feeds the hungry, and gives drink to\nthe thirsty--no such thing; on the chairs lie old yellow leaves of\nparchment, from the family record, and the old hunks is as jovial as\nif he had the merriest set of fellows around him; he talks and laughs\nwith them, and the whole thing is said to be so fearful to look upon,\nthat the youngest waiters are always sent over, for whoever has been\nto one such supper will enter the deserted house no more.\n\n\"The day before yesterday he had a supper, and our new waiter, Frank,\nthere, calls heaven and earth to witness that nobody shall ever induce\nhim to go there a second time. The next day after the entertainment\ncomes the Counsellor's second freak. Early in the morning he leaves\nthe city, and comes back the morning after; not, however, to his own\nhouse, which during this time is fast locked and bolted, but into this\nhotel. Here he treats people he has been in the habit of seeing for a\nwhole year, as strangers; dines, and afterwards places himself at one\nof the windows, and examines his own house across the way from top to\nbottom.\n\n\"'Who does that house opposite belong to?' he then asks the host.\n\n\"The other regularly bows and answers, 'It belongs to the Counsellor\nof State, Hasentreffer, at your Excellency's service.'\"\n\n\"But, Professor,\" here observed I, \"what has this silly Hasentreffer\nof yours to do with our Natas?\"\n\n\"A moment's patience, Doctor,\" answered the Professor, \"the light will\nsoon break in upon you. Hasentreffer then examines the house, and learns\nthat it belongs to Hasentreffer. 'Oh, what!' he asks, 'the same that was\na student with me at Tibsingen'--then throws open the window, stretches\nhis powdered head out, and calls out--'Ha-asentreffer--Ha-asentreffer!'\n\n\"Of course no one answers, but he remarks: 'The old fellow would never\nforgive me if I was not to look in on him for a moment,' then takes up\nhis hat and cane, unlocks his own house, goes in, and all goes on\nafter as before.\n\n\"All of us,\" the Professor proceeded in his story, \"were greatly\nastonished at this singular story, and highly delighted at the idea of\nthe next day's merriment. Signor Barighi, however, obliged us to\npromise that we would not betray him, as he said he was preparing a\ncapital joke to play off on the Counsellor.\n\n\"We all met at the table d'h\u00f4te earlier than usual, and besieged the\nwindows. An old tumble down carriage, drawn by two blind steeds, came\ncrawling down the street; it stopped before the hotel. There's\nHasentreffer, there's Hasentreffer, was echoed by every mouth; and we\nwere filled with extravagant merriment when we saw the little man get\nout, neatly powdered, dressed in an iron grey surtout with a huge\nmeerschaum in hand. An escort of at least ten servants followed him\nin, and in this guise he entered the dining-room.\n\n\"We sat down at once. I have seldom laughed as much as I did then; for\nthe old chap insisted, with the greatest coolness, that he came direct\nfrom Carrel, and that he had six days before been extremely well\nentertained at the Swan Inn at Frankfort. Barighi must have\ndisappeared before the dessert, for when the Counsellor left the\ntable, and the other guests, full of curiosity, imitated his example,\nBarighi was nowhere to be seen.\n\n\"The Counsellor took his seat at the window; we all followed his\nexample and watched his movements. The house opposite seemed desolate\nand uninhabited. Grass grew on the threshold, the shutters were\nclosed, and on some of them birds seemed to have built their nests.\n\n\"'A fine house that, opposite,' said the old man to our host, who kept\nstanding behind him in the third position. 'Who does it belong to?'\n\n\"'To the Counsellor of State, Hasentreffer, at your Excellency's\nservice.'\n\n\"'Ah, indeed! that must be the same one that was a fellow-student with me,'\nexclaimed he; 'he would never forgive me if I was not to inform him that\nI was here.' He opened the window,--'Ha-asentreffer--Hasentreffer!' cried\nhe, in a hoarse voice. But who can paint our terror, when opposite, in\nthe empty house, which we knew was firmly locked and bolted, a\nwindow-shutter was slowly raised, a window opened, and out of it\npeered the Counsellor of State, Hasentreffer, in his chintz\nmorning-gown and white nightcap, under which a few thin grey locks\nwere visible; this, this exactly, was his usual morning costume. Down\nto the minutest wrinkle on the pallid visage, the figure across the\nstreet was precisely the same as the one that stood by our side. But\na panic seized us, when the figure in the morning-gown called out\nacross the street, in just the same hoarse voice, 'What do you want?\nwho are you calling to, hey?'\n\n\"'Are you the Counsellor of State, Hasentreffer?' said the one on our\nside of the way, pale as death, in a trembling voice, and quaking as\nhe leaned against the window for support.\n\n\"'I'm the man,' squeaked the other, and nodded his head in a friendly\nway; 'have you any commands for me?'\n\n\"'But I'm the man too,' said our friend mournfully, 'how can it be\npossible?'\n\n\"'You are mistaken, my dear friend,' answered he across the way, 'you\nare the thirteenth, be good enough just to step across the street to\nmy house, and let me twist your neck for you! it is by no means\npainful.'\n\n\"'Waiter! my hat and stick,' said the Counsellor, pale as death, and\nhis voice escaped in mournful tones from his hollow chest. 'The devil\nis in my house and seeks my soul; a pleasant evening to you,\ngentlemen,' added he, turning to us with a polite bow, and thereupon\nleft the room.\n\n\"'What does this mean?' we asked each other; 'are we all beside\nourselves?'\n\n\"The gentleman in the morning-gown kept looking quietly out of the\nwindow, while our good silly old friend crossed the street at his\nusual formal pace. At the front-door, he pulled a huge bunch of keys\nout of his pocket, unlocked the heavy creaking door--he of the\nmorning-gown looking carelessly on, and walked in.\n\n\"The latter now withdrew from the window, and we saw him go forward to\nmeet our acquaintance at the room-door.\n\n\"Our host and the ten waiters were all pale with fear, and trembled.\n'Gentlemen,' said the former, 'God pity poor Hasentreffer, for one of\nthose two must be the devil in human shape.' We laughed at our host,\nand tried to persuade ourselves that it was a joke of Barighi's; but\nour host assured us that no one could have obtained access to the\nhouse except he was in possession of the Counsellor's very\nartificially contrived keys; also, that Barighi was seated at table\nnot ten minutes before the prodigy happened; how then could he have\ndisguised himself so completely in so short a time, even supposing him\nto have known how to unlock a strange house? He added, that the two\nwere so fearfully like one another, that he who had lived in the\nneighbourhood for twenty years could not distinguish the true one from\nthe counterfeit. 'But, for God's sake, gentlemen, do you not hear the\nhorrid shrieks opposite?'\n\n\"We rushed to the window--terrible and fearful voices rang across from\nthe empty house; we fancied we saw the old Counsellor, pursued by his\nimage in the morning-gown, hurry past the window repeatedly. On a\nsudden all was quiet.\n\n\"We gazed on each other; the boldest among us proposed to cross over\nto the house--we all agreed to it. We crossed the street--the huge\nbell at the old man's door was rung thrice, but nothing could be heard\nin answer; we sent to the police and to a blacksmith's--the door was\nbroken open, the whole tide of anxious visitors poured up the wide\nsilent staircase--all the doors were fastened; at length one was\nopened. In a splendid apartment, the Counsellor, his iron-grey\nfrock-coat torn to pieces, his neatly dressed hair in horrible\ndisorder, lay dead, strangled, on the sofa.\n\n\"Since that time no traces of Barighi have been found, neither in\nStuttgart nor elsewhere.\"\n\n\n\n\nST. JOHN'S EVE[3]\n\nBY NIKOL\u00c1I VASIL\u00c9VICH G\u00d3GOL\n\n\n    [3] From _St. John's Eve and Other Stories_, translated by\n    Isabel F. Hapgood from the Russian of N. V. G\u00f3gol.\n    (Copyright, 1886, by Thomas Y. Crowell & Co. By permission of\n    the Publishers.)\n\nThoma Grigorovich had a very strange sort of eccentricity: to the day\nof his death, he never liked to tell the same thing twice. There were\ntimes, when, if you asked him to relate a thing afresh, behold, he\nwould interpolate new matter, or alter it so that it was impossible to\nrecognize it. Once on a time, one of those gentlemen (it is hard for\nus simple people to put a name to them, to say whether they are\nscribblers, or not scribblers: but it is just the same thing as the\nusurers at our yearly fairs; they clutch and beg and steal every sort\nof frippery, and issue mean little volumes, no thicker than an A B C\nbook, every month, or even every week),--one of these gentlemen wormed\nthis same story out of Thoma Grigorovich, and he completely forgot\nabout it. But that same young gentleman in the pea-green caftan, whom\nI have mentioned, and one of whose tales you have already read, I\nthink, came from Poltava, bringing with him a little book, and,\nopening it in the middle, shows it to us. Thoma Grigorovich was on the\npoint of setting his spectacles astride of his nose, but recollected\nthat he had forgotten to wind thread about them, and stick them\ntogether with wax, so he passed it over to me. As I understand\nsomething about reading and writing, and do not wear spectacles, I\nundertook to read it. I had not turned two leaves, when all at once he\ncaught me by the hand, and stopped me.\n\n\"Stop! tell me first what you are reading.\"\n\nI confess that I was a trifle stunned by such a question.\n\n\"What! what am I reading, Thoma Grigorovich? These were your very\nwords.\"\n\n\"Who told you that they were my words?\"\n\n\"Why, what more would you have? Here it is printed: _Related by such\nand such a sacristan_.\"\n\n\"Spit on the head of the man who printed that! he lies, the dog of a\nMoscow pedlar! Did I say that? _'Twas just the same as though one\nhadn't his wits about him!_ Listen, I'll tell it to you on the spot.\"\n\nWe moved up to the table, and he began.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nMy grandfather (the kingdom of heaven be his! may he eat only wheaten\nrolls and makovniki[4] with honey in the other world!) could tell a\nstory wonderfully well. When he used to begin on a tale, you wouldn't\nstir from the spot all day, but keep on listening. He was no match for\nthe story-teller of the present day, when he begins to lie, with a\ntongue as though he had had nothing to eat for three days, so that you\nsnatch your cap, and flee from the house. As I now recall it, my old\nmother was alive then, in the long winter evenings when the frost was\ncrackling out of doors, and had so sealed up hermetically the narrow\npanes of our cottage, she used to sit before the hackling-comb,\ndrawing out a long thread in her hand, rocking the cradle with her\nfoot, and humming a song, which I seem to hear even now.\n\n    [4] Poppy-seeds cooked in honey, and dried in square cakes.\n\nThe fat-lamp, quivering and flaring up as though in fear of something,\nlighted us within our cottage; the spindle hummed; and all of us\nchildren, collected in a cluster, listened to grandfather, who had not\ncrawled off the oven for more than five years, owing to his great age.\nBut the wondrous tales of the incursions of the Zaporozhian Cossacks,\nthe Poles, the bold deeds of Podkova, of Poltor-Kozhukh, and\nSagaidatchnii, did not interest us so much as the stories about some\ndeed of old which always sent a shiver through our frames, and made\nour hair rise upright on our heads. Sometimes such terror took\npossession of us in consequence of them, that, from that evening on,\nHeaven knows what a marvel everything seemed to us. If you chanced to\ngo out of the cottage after nightfall for anything, you imagine that a\nvisitor from the other world has lain down to sleep in your bed; and I\nshould not be able to tell this a second time were it not that I had\noften taken my own smock, at a distance, as it lay at the head of the\nbed, for the Evil One rolled up in a ball! But the chief thing about\ngrandfather's stories was, that he never had lied in his life; and\nwhatever he said was so, was so.\n\nI will now relate to you one of his marvellous tales. I know that\nthere are a great many wise people who copy in the courts, and can\neven read civil documents, who, if you were to put into their hand a\nsimple prayer-book, could not make out the first letter in it, and\nwould show all their teeth in derision--which is wisdom. These people\nlaugh at everything you tell them. Such incredulity has spread abroad\nin the world! What then? (Why, may God and the Holy Virgin cease to\nlove me if it is not possible that even you will not believe me!) Once\nhe said something about witches; ... What then? Along comes one of\nthese head-breakers,--and doesn't believe in witches! Yes, glory to\nGod that I have lived so long in the world! I have seen heretics, to\nwhom it would be easier to lie in confession than it would for our\nbrothers and equals to take snuff, and those people would deny the\nexistence of witches! But let them just dream about something, and\nthey won't even tell what it was! There's no use in talking about\nthem!\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nNo one could have recognized this village of ours a little over a\nhundred years ago: a hamlet it was, the poorest kind of a hamlet. Half\na score of miserable izb\u00e1s, unplastered, badly thatched, were\nscattered here and there about the fields. There was not an enclosure\nor a decent shed to shelter animals or wagons. That was the way the\nwealthy lived: and if you had looked for our brothers, the poor,--why,\na hole in the ground,--that was a cabin for you! Only by the smoke\ncould you tell that a God-created man lived there. You ask, why they\nlived so? It was not entirely through poverty: almost every one led a\nwandering, Cossack life, and gathered not a little plunder in foreign\nlands; it was rather because there was no reason for setting up a\nwell-ordered khata[5]. How many people were wandering all over the\ncountry,--Crimeans, Poles, Lithuanians! It was quite possible that\ntheir own countrymen might make a descent, and plunder everything.\nAnything was possible.\n\n    [5] Wooden house.\n\nIn this hamlet a man, or rather a devil in human form, often made his\nappearance. Why he came, and whence, no one knew. He prowled about,\ngot drunk, and suddenly disappeared as if into the air, and there was\nnot a hint of his existence. Then, again, behold, and he seemed to\nhave dropped from the sky, and went flying about the street of the\nvillage, of which no trace now remains, and which was not more than a\nhundred paces from Dikanka. He would collect together all the Cossacks\nhe met; then there were songs, laughter, money in abundance, and vodka\nflowed like water.... He would address the pretty girls, and give them\nribbons, earrings, strings of beads,--more than they knew what to do\nwith. It is true that the pretty girls rather hesitated about\naccepting his presents: God knows, perhaps they had passed through\nunclean hands. My grandfather's aunt, who kept a tavern at the time,\nin which Basavriuk (as they called that devil-man) often had his\ncarouses, said that no consideration on the face of the earth would\nhave induced her to accept a gift from him. And then, again, how avoid\naccepting? Fear seized on every one when he knit his bristly brows,\nand gave a sidelong glance which might send your feet, God knows\nwhither: but if you accept, then the next night some fiend from the\nswamp, with horns on his head, comes to call, and begins to squeeze\nyour neck, when there is a string of beads upon it; or bite your\nfinger, if there is a ring upon it; or drag you by the hair, if\nribbons are braided in it. God have mercy, then, on those who owned\nsuch gifts! But here was the difficulty: it was impossible to get rid\nof them; if you threw them into the water, the diabolical ring or\nnecklace would skim along the surface, and into your hand.\n\nThere was a church in the village,--St. Pantelei, if I remember\nrightly. There lived there a priest, Father Athanasii of blessed\nmemory. Observing that Basavriuk did not come to Church, even on\nEaster, he determined to reprove him, and impose penance upon him.\nWell, he hardly escaped with his life. \"Hark ye, pannotche!\"[6] he\nthundered in reply, \"learn to mind your own business instead of\nmeddling in other people's, if you don't want that goat's throat of\nyours stuck together with boiling kutya.\"[7] What was to be done with\nthis unrepentant man? Father Athanasii contented himself with\nannouncing that any one who should make the acquaintance of Basavriuk\nwould be counted a Catholic, an enemy of Christ's church, not a member\nof the human race.\n\n    [6] Sir.\n\n    [7] A dish of rice or wheat flour, with honey and raisins,\n    which is brought to the church on the celebration of memorial\n    masses.\n\nIn this village there was a Cossack named Korzh, who had a labourer\nwhom people called Peter the Orphan--perhaps because no one remembered\neither his father or mother. The church starost,[8] it is true, said\nthat they had died of the pest in his second year; but my\ngrandfather's aunt would not hear to that, and tried with all her\nmight to furnish him with parents, although poor Peter needed them\nabout as much as we need last year's snow. She said that his father\nhad been in Zaporozhe, taken prisoner by the Turks, underwent God only\nknows what tortures, and having, by some miracle, disguised himself as\na eunuch, had made his escape. Little cared the black-browed youths\nand maidens about his parents. They merely remarked, that if he only\nhad a new coat, a red sash, a black lambskin cap, with dandified blue\ncrown, on his head, a Turkish sabre hanging by his side, a whip in one\nhand and a pipe with handsome mountings in the other, he would surpass\nall the young men. But the pity was, that the only thing poor Peter\nhad was a grey svitka with more holes in it than there are gold pieces\nin a Jew's pocket. And that was not the worst of it, but this: that\nKorzh had a daughter, such a beauty as I think you can hardly have\nchanced to see. My deceased grandfather's aunt used to say--and you\nknow that it is easier for a woman to kiss the Evil One than to call\nanybody a beauty, without malice be it said--that this Cossack\nmaiden's cheeks were as plump and fresh as the pinkest poppy when just\nbathed in God's dew, and, glowing, it unfolds its petals, and coquets\nwith the rising sun; that her brows were like black cords, such as our\nmaidens buy nowadays, for their crosses and ducats, of the Moscow\npedlars who visit the villages with their baskets, and evenly arched\nas though peeping into her clear eyes; that her little mouth, at sight\nof which the youth smacked their lips, seemed made to emit the songs\nof nightingales; that her hair, black as the raven's wing, and soft as\nyoung flax (our maidens did not then plait their hair in clubs\ninterwoven with pretty, bright-hued ribbons), fell in curls over her\nkuntush.[9] Eh! may I never intone another alleluia in the choir, if I\nwould not have kissed her, in spite of the grey which is making its\nway all through the old wool which covers my pate, and my old woman\nbeside me, like a thorn in my side! Well, you know what happens when\nyoung men and maids live side by side. In the twilight the heels of\nred boots were always visible in the place where Pid\u00f3rka chatted with\nher Petrus. But Korzh would never have suspected anything out of the\nway, only one day--it is evident that none but the Evil One could have\ninspired him--Petrus took it into his head to kiss the Cossack\nmaiden's rosy lips with all his heart in the passage, without first\nlooking well about him; and that same Evil One--may the son of a dog\ndream of the holy cross!--caused the old greybeard, like a fool, to\nopen the cottage-door at that same moment. Korzh was petrified,\ndropped his jaw, and clutched at the door for support. Those unlucky\nkisses had completely stunned him. It surprised him more than the blow\nof a pestle on the wall, with which, in our days, the muzhik generally\ndrives out his intoxication for lack of fusees and powder.\n\n    [8] Elder.\n\n    [9] Upper garment in Little Russia.\n\nRecovering himself, he took his grandfather's hunting-whip from the\nwall, and was about to belabour Peter's back with it, when Pid\u00f3rka's\nlittle six-year-old brother Ivas rushed up from somewhere or other,\nand, grasping his father's legs with his little hands, screamed out,\n\"Daddy, daddy! don't beat Petrus!\" What was to be done? A father's\nheart is not made of stone. Hanging the whip again upon the wall, he\nled him quietly from the house. \"If you ever show yourself in my\ncottage again, or even under the windows, look out, Petr\u00f3! by Heaven,\nyour black moustache will disappear; and your black locks, though\nwound twice about your ears, will take leave of your pate, or my name\nis not Terentii Korzh.\" So saying, he gave him a little taste of his\nfist in the nape of his neck, so that all grew dark before Petrus, and\nhe flew headlong. So there was an end of their kissing. Sorrow seized\nupon our doves; and a rumour was rife in the village, that a certain\nPole, all embroidered with gold, with moustaches, sabre, spurs, and\npockets jingling like the bells of the bag with which our sacristan\nTaras goes through the church every day, had begun to frequent Korzh's\nhouse. Now, it is well known why the father is visited when there is a\nblack-browed daughter about. So, one day, Pid\u00f3rka burst into tears,\nand clutched the hand of her Ivas. \"Ivas, my dear! Ivas, my love! fly\nto Petrus, my child of gold, like an arrow from a bow. Tell him all: I\nwould have loved his brown eyes, I would have kissed his white face,\nbut my fate decrees not so. More than one towel have I wet with\nburning tears. I am sad, I am heavy at heart. And my own father is my\nenemy. I will not marry that Pole, whom I do not love. Tell him they\nare preparing a wedding, but there will be no music at our wedding:\necclesiastics will sing instead of pipes and kobzas.[10] I shall not\ndance with my bridegroom: they will carry me out. Dark, dark will be\nmy dwelling,--of maple wood; and, instead of chimneys, a cross will\nstand upon the roof.\"\n\n    [10] Eight-stringed musical instrument.\n\nPetr\u00f3 stood petrified, without moving from the spot, when the innocent\nchild lisped out Pid\u00f3rka's words to him. \"And I, unhappy man, thought\nto go to the Crimea and Turkey, win gold and return to thee, my\nbeauty! But it may not be. The evil eye has seen us. I will have a\nwedding, too, dear little fish, I, too; but no ecclesiastics will be\nat that wedding. The black crow will caw, instead of the pope, over\nme; the smooth field will be my dwelling; the dark blue clouds my\nroof-tree. The eagle will claw out my brown eyes: the rain will wash\nthe Cossack's bones, and the whirlwinds will dry them. But what am I?\nOf whom, to whom, am I complaining? 'Tis plain, God willed it so. If I\nam to be lost, then so be it!\" and he went straight to the tavern.\n\nMy late grandfather's aunt was somewhat surprised on seeing Petrus in\nthe tavern, and at an hour when good men go to morning mass; and she\nstared at him as though in a dream, when he demanded a jug of brandy,\nabout half a pailful. But the poor fellow tried in vain to drown his\nwoe. The vodka stung his tongue like nettles, and tasted more bitter\nthan wormwood. He flung the jug from him upon the ground. \"You have\nsorrowed enough, Cossack,\" growled a bass voice behind him. He looked\nround--Basavriuk! Ugh, what a face! His hair was like a brush, his\neyes like those of a bull. \"I know what you lack: here it is.\" Then\nhe jingled a leather purse which hung from his girdle, and smiled\ndiabolically. Petr\u00f3 shuddered. \"He, he, he! yes, how it shines!\" he\nroared, shaking out ducats into his hand: \"he, he, he! and how it\njingles! And I only ask one thing for a whole pile of such\nshiners.\"--\"It is the Evil One!\" exclaimed Petr\u00f3:--\"Give them here! I\nam ready for anything!\" They struck hands upon it. \"See here, Petr\u00f3,\nyou are ripe just in time: tomorrow is St. John the Baptist's day.\nOnly on this one night in the year does the fern blossom. Delay not. I\nwill await thee at midnight in the Bear's ravine.\"\n\nI do not believe that chickens await the hour when the woman brings\ntheir corn, with as much anxiety as Petrus awaited the evening. And,\nin fact, he looked to see whether the shadows of the trees were not\nlengthening, if the sun were not turning red towards setting; and, the\nlonger he watched, the more impatient he grew. How long it was!\nEvidently, God's day had lost its end somewhere. And now the sun is\ngone. The sky is red only on one side, and it is already growing dark.\nIt grows colder in the fields. It gets dusky, and more dusky, and at\nlast quite dark. At last! With heart almost bursting from his bosom,\nhe set out on his way, and cautiously descended through the dense\nwoods into the deep hollow called the Bear's ravine. Basavriuk was\nalready waiting there. It was so dark, that you could not see a yard\nbefore you. Hand in hand they penetrated the thin marsh, clinging to\nthe luxuriant thorn-bushes, and stumbling at almost every step. At\nlast they reached an open spot. Petr\u00f3 looked about him: he had never\nchanced to come there before. Here Basavriuk halted.\n\n\"Do you see, before you stand three hillocks? There are a great many\nsorts of flowers upon them. But may some power keep you from plucking\neven one of them. But as soon as the fern blossoms, seize it, and look\nnot round, no matter what may seem to be going on behind thee.\"\n\nPetr\u00f3 wanted to ask--and behold, he was no longer there. He approached\nthe three hillocks--where were the flowers? He saw nothing. The wild\nsteppe-grass darkled around, and stifled everything in its luxuriance.\nBut the lightning flashed; and before him stood a whole bed of\nflowers, all wonderful, all strange: and there were also the simple\nfronds of fern. Petr\u00f3 doubted his senses, and stood thoughtfully\nbefore them, with both hands upon his sides.\n\n\"What prodigy is this? one can see these weeds ten times in a day:\nwhat marvel is there about them? was not devil's-face laughing at me?\"\n\nBehold! the tiny flower-bud crimsons, and moves as though alive. It is\na marvel, in truth. It moves, and grows larger and larger, and flashes\nlike a burning coal. The tiny star flashes up, something bursts\nsoftly, and the flower opens before his eyes like a flame, lighting\nthe others about it. \"Now is the time,\" thought Petr\u00f3, and extended\nhis hand. He sees hundreds of shaggy hands reach from behind him, also\nfor the flower; and there is a running about from place to place, in\nthe rear. He half shut his eyes, plucked sharply at the stalk, and the\nflower remained in his hand. All became still. Upon a stump sat\nBasavriuk, all blue like a corpse. He moved not so much as a finger.\nHis eyes were immovably fixed on something visible to him alone: his\nmouth was half open and speechless. All about, nothing stirred. Ugh!\nit was horrible!--But then a whistle was heard, which made Petr\u00f3's\nheart grow cold within him; and it seemed to him that the grass\nwhispered, and the flowers began to talk among themselves in delicate\nvoices, like little silver bells; the trees rustled in waving\ncontention;--Basavriuk's face suddenly became full of life and his\neyes sparkled. \"The witch has just returned,\" he muttered between his\nteeth. \"See here, Petr\u00f3: a beauty will stand before you in a moment;\ndo whatever she commands; if not--you are lost for ever.\" Then he\nparted the thorn-bush with a knotty stick, and before him stood a tiny\nizb\u00e1, on chicken's legs, as they say. Basavriuk smote it with his\nfist, and the wall trembled. A large black dog ran out to meet them,\nand with a whine, transforming itself into a cat, flew straight at his\neyes. \"Don't be angry, don't be angry, you old Satan!\" said Basavriuk,\nemploying such words as would have made a good man stop his ears.\nBehold, instead of a cat, an old woman with a face wrinkled like a\nbaked apple, and all bent into a bow: her nose and chin were like a\npair of nut-crackers. \"A stunning beauty!\" thought Petr\u00f3; and cold\nchills ran down his back. The witch tore the flower from his hand,\nbent over, and muttered over it for a long time, sprinkling it with\nsome kind of water. Sparks flew from her mouth, froth appeared on her\nlips.\n\n\"Throw it away,\" she said, giving it back to Petr\u00f3.\n\nPetr\u00f3 threw it, and what wonder was this? the flower did not fall\nstraight to the earth, but for a long while twinkled like a fiery ball\nthrough the darkness, and swam through the air like a boat: at last it\nbegan to sink lower, and fell so far away, that the little star,\nhardly larger than a poppy-seed, was barely visible. \"Here!\" croaked\nthe old woman, in a dull voice: and Basavriuk, giving him a spade,\nsaid, \"Dig here, Petr\u00f3: here you will find more gold than you or Korzh\never dreamed of.\"\n\nPetr\u00f3 spat on his hands, seized the spade, applied his foot, and\nturned up the earth, a second, a third, a fourth time.... There was\nsomething hard: the spade clinked, and would go no farther. Then his\neyes began to distinguish a small, iron-bound coffer. He tried to\nseize it; but the chest began to sink into the earth, deeper, farther,\nand deeper still: and behind him he heard a laugh, more like a\nserpent's hiss. \"No, you shall not see the gold until you procure\nhuman blood,\" said the witch, and led up to him a child of six,\ncovered with a white sheet, indicating by a sign that he was to cut\noff his head. Petr\u00f3 was stunned. A trifle, indeed, to cut off a man's\nor even an innocent child's head for no reason whatever! In wrath he\ntore off the sheet enveloping his head, and behold! before him stood\nIvas. And the poor child crossed his little hands, and hung his\nhead.... Petr\u00f3 flew upon the witch with the knife like a madman, and\nwas on the point of laying hands on her....\n\n\"What did you promise for the girl?\" ... thundered Basavriuk; and like\na shot he was on his back. The witch stamped her foot: a blue flame\nflashed from the earth; it illumined it all inside, and it was as if\nmoulded of crystal; and all that was within the earth became visible,\nas if in the palm of the hand. Ducats, precious stones in chests and\nkettles, were piled in heaps beneath the very spot they stood on. His\neyes burned, ... his mind grew troubled.... He grasped the knife like\na madman, and the innocent blood spurted into his eyes. Diabolical\nlaughter resounded on all sides. Misshaped monsters flew past him in\nherds. The witch, fastening her hands in the headless trunk, like a\nwolf, drank its blood.... All went round in his head. Collecting all\nhis strength, he set out to run. Everything turned red before him. The\ntrees seemed steeped in blood, and burned and groaned. The sky glowed\nand glowered.... Burning point, like lightning, flickered before his\neyes. Utterly exhausted, he rushed into his miserable hovel, and fell\nto the ground like a log. A death-like sleep overpowered him.\n\nTwo days and two nights did Petr\u00f3 sleep, without once awakening. When\nhe came to himself, on the third day, he looked long at all the\ncorners of his hut; but in vain did he endeavour to recollect; his\nmemory was like a miser's pocket, from which you cannot entice a\nquarter of a kopek. Stretching himself, he heard something clash at\nhis feet. He looked--two bags of gold. Then only, as if in a dream, he\nrecollected that he had been seeking some treasure, that something had\nfrightened him in the woods.... But at what price he had obtained it,\nand how, he could by no means understand.\n\nKorzh saw the sacks,--and was mollified. \"Such a Petrus, quite unheard\nof! yes, and did I not love him? Was he not to me as my own son?\" And\nthe old fellow carried on his fiction until it reduced him to tears.\nPid\u00f3rka began to tell him some passing gipsies had stolen Ivas; but\nPetr\u00f3 could not even recall him--to such a degree had the Devil's\ninfluence darkened his mind! There was no reason for delay. The Pole\nwas dismissed, and the wedding-feast prepared; rolls were baked,\ntowels and handkerchiefs embroidered; the young people were seated at\ntable; the wedding-loaf was cut; banduras, cymbals, pipes, kobzi,\nsounded, and pleasure was rife....\n\nA wedding in the olden times was not like one of the present day. My\ngrandfather's aunt used to tell--what doings!--how the maidens--in\nfestive head-dresses of yellow, blue, and pink ribbons, above which\nthey bound gold braid; in thin chemisettes embroidered on all the\nseams with red silk, and strewn with tiny silver flowers; in morocco\nshoes, with high iron heels--danced the gorlitza as swimmingly as\npeacocks, and as wildly as the whirlwind; how the youths--with their\nship-shaped caps upon their heads, the crowns of gold brocade, with a\nlittle slit at the nape where the hair-net peeped through, and two\nhorns projecting, one in front and another behind, of the very finest\nblack lambskin; in kuntushas of the finest blue silk with red\nborders--stepped forward one by one, their arms akimbo in stately\nform, and executed the gopak; how the lads--in tall Cossack caps, and\nlight cloth svitkas, girt with silver embroidered belts, their short\npipes in their teeth--skipped before them, and talked nonsense. Even\nKorzh could not contain himself, as he gazed at the young people, from\ngetting gay in his old age. Bandura in hand, alternately puffing at\nhis pipe and singing, a brandy-glass upon his head, the greybeard\nbegan the national dance amid loud shouts from the merry-makers. What\nwill not people devise in merry mood! They even began to disguise\ntheir faces. They did not look like human beings. They are not to be\ncompared with the disguises which we have at our weddings nowadays.\nWhat do they do now? Why, imitate gipsies and Moscow pedlars. No! then\none used to dress himself as a Jew, another as the Devil: they would\nbegin by kissing each other, and end by seizing each other by the\nhair.... God be with them! you laughed till you held your sides. They\ndressed themselves in Turkish and Tartar garments. All upon them\nglowed like a conflagration ... and then they began to joke and play\npranks.... Well, then away with the saints!\n\nAn amusing thing happened to my grandfather's aunt, who was at this\nwedding. She was dressed in a voluminous Tartar robe, and, wineglass\nin hand, was entertaining the company. The Evil One instigated one man\nto pour vodka over her from behind. Another, at the same moment,\nevidently not by accident, struck a light, and touched it to her; ...\nthe flame flashed up; poor aunt, in terror, flung her robe from her,\nbefore them all.... Screams, laughter, jests, arose, as if at a fair.\nIn a word, the old folks could not recall so merry a wedding.\n\nPid\u00f3rka and Petrus began to live like a gentleman and lady. There was\nplenty of everything, and everything was handsome.... But honest\npeople shook their heads when they looked at their way of living.\n\"From the Devil no good can come,\" they unanimously agreed. \"Whence,\nexcept from the tempter of orthodox people, came this wealth? Where\nelse could he get such a lot of gold? Why, on the very day that he got\nrich, did Basavriuk vanish as if into thin air?\" Say, if you can, that\npeople imagine things! In fact, a month had not passed, and no one\nwould have recognized Petrus. Why, what had happened to him? God\nknows. He sits in one spot, and says no word to any one: he thinks\ncontinually, and seems to be trying to recall something. When Pid\u00f3rka\nsucceeds in getting him to speak, he seems to forget himself, carries\non a conversation, and even grows cheerful; but if he inadvertently\nglances at the sacks, \"Stop, stop! I have forgotten,\" he cries, and\nagain plunges into revery, and again strives to recall something.\nSometimes when he has sat long in a place, it seems to him as though\nit were coming, just coming back to mind, ... and again all fades\naway. It seems as if he is sitting in the tavern: they bring him\nvodka; vodka stings him; vodka is repulsive to him. Some one comes\nalong, and strikes him on the shoulder; ... but beyond that everything\nis veiled in darkness before him. The perspiration streams down his\nface, and he sits exhausted in the same place.\n\nWhat did not Pid\u00f3rka do? She consulted the sorceress; and they poured\nout fear, and brewed stomach-ache,[11]--but all to no avail. And so\nthe summer passed. Many a Cossack had mowed and reaped: many a\nCossack, more enterprising than the rest, had set off upon an\nexpedition. Flocks of ducks were already crowding our marshes, but\nthere was not even a hint of improvement.\n\n    [11] \"To pour out fear,\" is done with us in case of fear;\n    when it is desired to know what caused it, melted lead or wax\n    is poured into water and the object whose form it assumes is\n    the one which frightened the sick person; after this, the\n    fear departs. _S\u00f3nvashnitza_ is brewed for giddiness, and\n    pain in the bowels. To this end, a bit of stump is burned,\n    thrown into a jug, and turned upside down into a bowl filled\n    with water, which is placed on the patient's stomach: after\n    an incantation, he is given a spoonful of this water to\n    drink.\n\nIt was red upon the steppes. Ricks of grain, like Cossacks' caps,\ndotted the fields here and there. On the highway were to be\nencountered wagons loaded with brushwood and logs. The ground had\nbecome more solid, and in places was touched with frost. Already had\nthe snow begun to besprinkle the sky, and the branches of the trees\nwere covered with rime like rabbit-skin. Already on frosty days the\nred-breasted finch hopped about on the snow-heaps like a foppish\nPolish nobleman, and picked out grains of corn; and children, with\nhuge sticks, chased wooden tops upon the ice; while their fathers lay\nquietly on the stove, issuing forth at intervals with lighted pipes in\ntheir lips, to growl, in regular fashion, at the orthodox frost, or to\ntake the air, and thresh the grain spread out in the barn. At last the\nsnow began to melt, and the ice rind slipped away: but Petr\u00f3 remained\nthe same; and, the longer it went on, the more morose he grew. He sat\nin the middle of the cottage as though nailed to the spot, with the\nsacks of gold at his feet. He grew shy, his hair grew long, he became\nterrible; and still he thought of but one thing, still he tried to\nrecall something, and got angry and ill-tempered because he could not\nrecall it. Often, rising wildly from his seat, he gesticulates\nviolently, fixes his eyes on something as though desirous of catching\nit: his lips move as though desirous of uttering some long-forgotten\nword--and remain speechless. Fury takes possession of him: he gnaws\nand bites his hands like a man half crazy, and in his vexation tears\nout his hair by the handful, until, calming down, he falls into\nforgetfulness, as it were, and again begins to recall, and is again\nseized with fury and fresh tortures.... What visitation of God is\nthis?\n\nPid\u00f3rka was neither dead nor alive. At first it was horrible to her to\nremain alone in the cottage; but, in course of time, the poor woman\ngrew accustomed to her sorrow. But it was impossible to recognize the\nPid\u00f3rka of former days. No blush, no smile: she was thin and worn with\ngrief, and had wept her bright eyes away. Once, some one who evidently\ntook pity on her, advised her to go to the witch who dwelt in the\nBear's ravine, and enjoyed the reputation of being able to cure every\ndisease in the world. She determined to try this last remedy: word by\nword she persuaded the old woman to come to her. This was St. John's\nEve, as it chanced. Petr\u00f3 lay insensible on the bench, and did not\nobserve the new-comer. Little by little he rose, and looked about him.\nSuddenly he trembled in every limb, as though he were on the scaffold:\nhis hair rose upon his head, ... and he laughed such a laugh as\npierced Pid\u00f3rka's heart with fear. \"I have remembered, remembered!\"\nhe cried in terrible joy; and, swinging a hatchet round his head, he\nflung it at the old woman with all his might. The hatchet penetrated\nthe oaken door two vershok.[12] The old woman disappeared; and a child\nof seven in a white blouse, with covered head, stood in the middle of\nthe cottage.... The sheet flew off. \"Ivas!\" cried Pid\u00f3rka, and ran to\nhim; but the apparition became covered from head to foot with blood,\nand illumined the whole room with red light.... She ran into the\npassage in her terror, but, on recovering herself a little, wished to\nhelp him; in vain! the door had slammed to behind her so securely that\nshe could not open it. People ran up, and began to knock: they broke\nin the door, as though there were but one mind among them. The whole\ncottage was full of smoke; and just in the middle, where Petrus had\nstood, was a heap of ashes, from which smoke was still rising. They\nflung themselves upon the sacks: only broken potsherds lay there\ninstead of ducats. The Cossacks stood with staring eyes and open\nmouths, not daring to move a hair, as if rooted to the earth, such\nterror did this wonder inspire in them.\n\n    [12] Three inches and a half.\n\nI do not remember what happened next. Pid\u00f3rka took a vow to go upon a\npilgrimage, collected the property left her by her father, and in a\nfew days it was as if she had never been in the village. Whither she\nhad gone, no one could tell. Officious old women would have dispatched\nher to the same place whither Petr\u00f3 had gone; but a Cossack from Kiev\nreported that he had seen, in a cloister, a nun withered to a mere\nskeleton, who prayed unceasingly; and her fellow-villagers recognized\nher as Pid\u00f3rka, by all the signs,--that no one had ever heard her\nutter a word; that she had come on foot, and had brought a frame for\nthe ikon of God's mother, set with such brilliant stones that all were\ndazzled at the sight.\n\nBut this was not the end, if you please. On the same day that the Evil\nOne made way with Petrus, Basavriuk appeared again; but all fled from\nhim. They knew what sort of a bird he was,--none else than Satan, who\nhad assumed human form in order to unearth treasures; and, since\ntreasures do not yield to unclean hands, he seduced the young. That\nsame year, all deserted their earth huts, and collected in a village;\nbut, even there, there was no peace, on account of that accursed\nBasavriuk. My late grandfather's aunt said that he was particularly\nangry with her, because she had abandoned her former tavern, and tried\nwith all his might to revenge himself upon her. Once the village\nelders were assembled in the tavern, and, as the saying goes, were\narranging the precedence at the table, in the middle of which was\nplaced a small roasted lamb, shame to say. They chattered about this,\nthat, and the other,--among the rest about various marvels and strange\nthings. Well, they saw something; it would have been nothing if only\none had seen it, but all saw it; and it was this: the sheep raised his\nhead; his goggling eyes became alive and sparkled; and the black,\nbristling moustache, which appeared for one instant, made a\nsignificant gesture at those present. All, at once, recognized\nBasavriuk's countenance in the sheep's head: my grandfather's aunt\nthought it was on the point of asking for vodka.... The worthy elders\nseized their hats, and hastened home.\n\nAnother time, the church starost himself, who was fond of an\noccasional private interview with my grandfather's brandy-glass, had\nnot succeeded in getting to the bottom twice, when he beheld the glass\nbowing very low to him. \"Satan take you, let us make the sign of the\ncross over you!\" ... And the same marvel happened to his better half.\nShe had just begun to mix the dough in a huge kneading-trough, when\nsuddenly the trough sprang up. \"Stop, stop! where are you going?\"\nPutting its arms akimbo, with dignity, it went skipping all about the\ncottage.... You may laugh, but it was no laughing-matter to your\ngrandfathers. And in vain did Father Athanasii go through all the\nvillage with holy water, and chase the Devil through the streets with\nhis brush; and my late grandfather's aunt long complained, that, as\nsoon as it was dark, some one came knocking at her door, and\nscratching at the wall.\n\nWell! All appears to be quiet now, in the place where our village\nstands; but it was not so very long ago--my father was still\nalive--that I remember how a good man could not pass the ruined\ntavern, which a dishonest race had long managed for their own\ninterest. From the smoke-blackened chimneys, smoke poured out in a\npillar, and rising high in the air, as if to take an observation,\nrolled off like a cap, scattering burning coals over the steppe; and\nSatan (the son of a dog should not be mentioned) sobbed so pitifully\nin his lair, that the startled ravens rose in flocks from the\nneighbouring oak-wood, and flew through the air with wild cries.\n\n\n\n\nTHE DEVIL'S WAGER\n\nBY WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY\n\n\nIt was the hour of the night when there be none stirring save\nchurch-yard ghosts--when all doors are closed except the gates of\ngraves, and all eyes shut but the eyes of wicked men.\n\nWhen there is no sound on the earth except the ticking of the\ngrasshopper, or the croaking of obscene frogs in the pool.\n\nAnd no light except that of the blinking stars, and the wicked and\ndevilish wills-o'-the-wisp, as they gambol among the marshes, and lead\ngood men astray.\n\nWhen there is nothing moving in heaven except the owl, as he flappeth\nalong lazily; or the magician, as he rideth on his infernal\nbroomstick, whistling through the air like the arrows of a Yorkshire\narcher.\n\nIt was at this hour (namely, at twelve o'clock of the night,) that two\nbeings went winging through the black clouds, and holding converse\nwith each other.\n\nNow the first was Mercurius, the messenger, not of gods (as the\nheathens feigned), but of demons; and the second, with whom he held\ncompany, was the soul of Sir Roger de Rollo, the brave knight. Sir\nRoger was Count of Chauchigny, in Champagne; Seigneur of Santerre,\nVillacerf and autre lieux. But the great die as well as the humble;\nand nothing remained of brave Roger now, but his coffin and his\ndeathless soul.\n\nAnd Mercurius, in order to keep fast the soul, his companion, had\nbound him round the neck with his tail; which, when the soul was\nstubborn, he would draw so tight as to strangle him wellnigh, sticking\ninto him the barbed point thereof; whereat the poor soul, Sir Rollo,\nwould groan and roar lustily.\n\nNow they two had come together from the gates of purgatory, being\nbound to those regions of fire and flame where poor sinners fry and\nroast in saecula saeculorum.\n\n\"It is hard,\" said the poor Sir Rollo, as they went gliding through\nthe clouds, \"that I should thus be condemned for ever, and all for\nwant of a single ave.\"\n\n\"How, Sir Soul?\" said the demon. \"You were on earth so wicked, that\nnot one, or a million of aves, could suffice to keep from hell-flame a\ncreature like thee; but cheer up and be merry; thou wilt be but a\nsubject of our lord the Devil, as am I; and, perhaps, thou wilt be\nadvanced to posts of honour, as am I also:\" and to show his authority,\nhe lashed with his tail the ribs of the wretched Rollo.\n\n\"Nevertheless, sinner as I am, one more ave would have saved me; for\nmy sister, who was Abbess of St. Mary of Chauchigny, did so prevail,\nby her prayer and good works, for my lost and wretched soul, that\nevery day I felt the pains of purgatory decrease; the pitchforks\nwhich, on my first entry, had never ceased to vex and torment my poor\ncarcass, were now not applied above once a week; the roasting had\nceased, the boiling had discontinued; only a certain warmth was kept\nup, to remind me of my situation.\"\n\n\"A gentle stew,\" said the demon.\n\n\"Yea, truly, I was but in a stew, and all from the effects of the\nprayers of my blessed sister. But yesterday, he who watched me in\npurgatory told me, that yet another prayer from my sister, and my\nbonds should be unloosed, and I, who am now a devil, should have been\na blessed angel.\"\n\n\"And the other ave?\" said the demon.\n\n\"She died, sir--my sister died--death choked her in the middle of the\nprayer.\" And hereat the wretched spirit began to weep and whine\npiteously; his salt tears falling over his beard, and scalding the\ntail of Mercurius the devil.\n\n\"It is, in truth, a hard case,\" said the demon; \"but I know of no\nremedy save patience, and for that you will have an excellent\nopportunity in your lodgings below.\"\n\n\"But I have relations,\" said the Earl; \"my kinsman Randal, who has\ninherited my lands, will he not say a prayer for his uncle?\"\n\n\"Thou didst hate and oppress him when living.\"\n\n\"It is true; but an ave is not much; his sister, my niece, Matilda--\"\n\n\"You shut her in a convent, and hanged her lover.\"\n\n\"Had I not reason? besides, has she not others?\"\n\n\"A dozen, without a doubt.\"\n\n\"And my brother, the prior?\"\n\n\"A liege subject of my lord the Devil: he never opens his mouth,\nexcept to utter an oath, or to swallow a cup of wine.\"\n\n\"And yet, if but one of these would but say an ave for me, I should be\nsaved.\"\n\n\"Aves with them are _rarae_ aves,\" replied Mercurius, wagging his tail\nright waggishly; \"and, what is more, I will lay thee any wager that no\none of these will say a prayer to save thee.\"\n\n\"I would wager willingly,\" responded he of Chauchigny; \"but what has a\npoor soul like me to stake?\"\n\n\"Every evening, after the day's roasting, my lord Satan giveth a cup\nof cold water to his servants; I will bet thee thy water for a year,\nthat none of the three will pray for thee.\"\n\n\"Done!\" said Rollo.\n\n\"Done!\" said the demon; \"and here, if I mistake not, is thy castle of\nChauchigny.\"\n\nIndeed, it was true. The soul, on looking down, perceived the tall\ntowers, the courts, the stables, and the fair gardens of the castle.\nAlthough it was past midnight, there was a blaze of light in the\nbanqueting-hall, and a lamp burning in the open window of the Lady\nMatilda.\n\n\"With whom shall we begin?\" said the demon: \"with the baron or the\nlady?\"\n\n\"With the lady, if you will.\"\n\n\"Be it so; her window is open, let us enter.\"\n\nSo they descended, and entered silently into Matilda's chamber.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe young lady's eyes were fixed so intently on a little clock, that\nit was no wonder that she did not perceive the entrance of her two\nvisitors. Her fair cheek rested in her white arm, and her white arm\non the cushion of a great chair in which she sat, pleasantly supported\nby sweet thoughts and swan's down; a lute was at her side, and a book\nof prayers lay under the table (for piety is always modest). Like the\namorous Alexander, she sighed and looked (at the clock)--and sighed\nfor ten minutes or more, when she softly breathed the word \"Edward!\"\n\nAt this the soul of the Baron was wroth. \"The jade is at her old\npranks,\" said he to the devil; and then addressing Matilda: \"I pray\nthee, sweet niece, turn thy thoughts for a moment from that villainous\npage, Edward, and give them to thine affectionate uncle.\"\n\nWhen she heard the voice, and saw the awful apparition of her uncle\n(for a year's sojourn in purgatory had not increased the comeliness of\nhis appearance), she started, screamed, and of course fainted.\n\nBut the devil Mercurius soon restored her to herself. \"What's\no'clock?\" said she, as soon as she had recovered from her fit: \"is he\ncome?\"\n\n\"Not thy lover, Maude, but thine uncle--that is, his soul. For the\nlove of heaven, listen to me: I have been frying in purgatory for a\nyear past, and should have been in heaven but for the want of a single\nave.\"\n\n\"I will say it for thee tomorrow, uncle.\"\n\n\"Tonight, or never.\"\n\n\"Well, tonight be it:\" and she requested the devil Mercurius to give\nher the prayer-book, from under the table; but he had no sooner\ntouched the holy book than he dropped it with a shriek and a yell. \"It\nwas hotter,\" he said, \"than his master Sir Lucifer's own particular\npitchfork.\" And the lady was forced to begin her ave without the aid\nof her missal.\n\nAt the commencement of her devotions the demon retired, and carried\nwith him the anxious soul of poor Sir Roger de Rollo.\n\nThe lady knelt down--she sighed deeply; she looked again at the clock,\nand began--\n\n\"Ave Maria.\"\n\nWhen a lute was heard under the window, and a sweet voice singing--\n\n\"Hark!\" said Matilda.\n\n    \"Now the toils of day are over,\n      And the sun hath sunk to rest,\n    Seeking, like a fiery lover,\n      The bosom of the blushing west--\n\n    \"The faithful night keeps watch and ward,\n      Raising the moon, her silver shield,\n    And summoning the stars to guard\n      The slumbers of my fair Mathilde!\"\n\n\"For mercy's sake!\" said Sir Rollo, \"the ave first, and next the\nsong.\"\n\nSo Matilda again dutifully betook her to her devotions, and began--\n\n\"Ave Maria gratia plena!\" but the music began again, and the prayer\nceased of course.\n\n    \"The faithful night! Now all things lie\n      Hid by her mantle dark and dim,\n    In pious hope I hither hie,\n      And humbly chant mine ev'ning hymn.\n\n    \"Thou art my prayer, my saint, my shrine!\n      (For never holy pilgrim kneel'd,\n    Or wept at feet more pure than thine),\n      My virgin love, my sweet Mathilde!\"\n\n\"Virgin love!\" said the Baron. \"Upon my soul, this is too bad!\" and he\nthought of the lady's lover whom he had caused to be hanged.\n\nBut _she_ only thought of him who stood singing at her window.\n\n\"Niece Matilda!\" cried Sir Roger, agonizedly, \"wilt thou listen to the\nlies of an impudent page, whilst thine uncle is waiting but a dozen\nwords to make him happy?\"\n\nAt this Matilda grew angry: \"Edward is neither impudent nor a liar,\nSir Uncle, and I will listen to the end of the song.\"\n\n\"Come away,\" said Mercurius; \"he hath yet got wield, field, sealed,\ncongealed, and a dozen other rhymes beside; and after the song will\ncome the supper.\"\n\nSo the poor soul was obliged to go; while the lady listened, and the\npage sung away till morning.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\"My virtues have been my ruin,\" said poor Sir Rollo, as he and\nMercurius slunk silently out of the window. \"Had I hanged that knave\nEdward, as I did the page his predecessor, my niece would have sung\nmine ave, and I should have been by this time an angel in heaven.\"\n\n\"He is reserved for wiser purposes,\" responded the devil: \"he will\nassassinate your successor, the lady Mathilde's brother; and, in\nconsequence, will be hanged. In the love of the lady he will be\nsucceeded by a gardener, who will be replaced by a monk, who will\ngive way to an ostler, who will be deposed by a Jew pedlar, who shall,\nfinally, yield to a noble earl, the future husband of the fair\nMathilde. So that, you see, instead of having one poor soul a-frying,\nwe may now look forward to a goodly harvest for our lord the Devil.\"\n\nThe soul of the Baron began to think that his companion knew too much\nfor one who would make fair bets; but there was no help for it; he\nwould not, and he could not cry off: and he prayed inwardly that the\nbrother might be found more pious than the sister.\n\nBut there seemed little chance of this. As they crossed the court,\nlackeys, with smoking dishes and full jugs, passed and repassed\ncontinually, although it was long past midnight. On entering the hall,\nthey found Sir Randal at the head of a vast table, surrounded by a\nfiercer and more motley collection of individuals than had congregated\nthere even in the time of Sir Rollo. The lord of the castle had\nsignified that \"it was his royal pleasure to be drunk,\" and the\ngentlemen of his train had obsequiously followed their master.\nMercurius was delighted with the scene, and relaxed his usually rigid\ncountenance into a bland and benevolent smile, which became him\nwonderfully.\n\nThe entrance of Sir Roger, who had been dead about a year, and a\nperson with hoofs, horns, and a tail, rather disturbed the hilarity of\nthe company. Sir Randal dropped his cup of wine; and Father Peter, the\nconfessor, incontinently paused in the midst of a profane song, with\nwhich he was amusing the society.\n\n\"Holy Mother!\" cried he, \"it is Sir Roger.\"\n\n\"Alive!\" screamed Sir Randal.\n\n\"No, my lord,\" Mercurius said; \"Sir Roger is dead, but cometh on a\nmatter of business; and I have the honour to act as his counsellor and\nattendant.\"\n\n\"Nephew,\" said Sir Roger, \"the demon saith justly; I am come on a\ntrifling affair, in which thy service is essential.\"\n\n\"I will do anything, uncle, in my power.\"\n\n\"Thou canst give me life, if thou wilt?\" But Sir Randal looked very\nblank at this proposition. \"I mean life spiritual, Randal,\" said Sir\nRoger; and thereupon he explained to him the nature of the wager.\n\nWhilst he was telling his story, his companion Mercurius was playing\nall sorts of antics in the hall; and, by his wit and fun, became so\npopular with this godless crew, that they lost all the fear which his\nfirst appearance had given them. The friar was wonderfully taken with\nhim, and used his utmost eloquence and endeavours to convert the\ndevil; the knights stopped drinking to listen to the argument; the\nmen-at-arms forbore brawling; and the wicked little pages crowded\nround the two strange disputants, to hear their edifying discourse.\nThe ghostly man, however, had little chance in the controversy, and\ncertainly little learning to carry it on. Sir Randal interrupted him.\n\"Father Peter,\" said he, \"our kinsman is condemned for ever, for want\nof a single ave: wilt thou say it for him?\" \"Willingly, my lord,\" said\nthe monk, \"with my book;\" and accordingly he produced his missal to\nread, without which aid it appeared that the holy father could not\nmanage the desired prayer. But the crafty Mercurius had, by his\ndevilish art, inserted a song in the place of the ave, so that Father\nPeter, instead of chanting an hymn, sang the following irreverent\nditty:--\n\n    \"Some love the matin-chimes, which tell\n      The hour of prayer to sinner:\n    But better far's the mid-day bell,\n      Which speaks the hour of dinner;\n    For when I see a smoking fish,\n      Or capon drowned in gravy,\n    Or noble haunch on silver dish,\n      Full glad I sing mine ave.\n\n    \"My pulpit is an ale-house bench,\n      Whereon I sit so jolly;\n    A smiling rosy country wench\n      My saint and patron holy.\n    I kiss her cheek so red and sleek,\n      I press her ringlets wavy.\n    And in her willing ear I speak\n      A most religious ave.\n\n    \"And if I'm blind, yet heaven is kind,\n      And holy saints forgiving;\n    For sure he leads a right good life\n      Who thus admires good living.\n    Above, they say, our flesh is air,\n      Our blood celestial ichor:\n    Oh, grant! mid all the changes there,\n      They may not change our liquor!\"\n\nAnd with this pious wish the holy confessor tumbled under the table in\nan agony of devout drunkenness; whilst the knights, the men-at-arms,\nand the wicked little pages, rang out the last verse with a most\nmelodious and emphatic glee. \"I am sorry, fair uncle,\" hiccupped Sir\nRandal, \"that, in the matter of the ave, we could not oblige thee in a\nmore orthodox manner; but the holy father has failed, and there is not\nanother man in the hall who hath an idea of a prayer.\"\n\n\"It is my own fault,\" said Sir Rollo; \"for I hanged the last\nconfessor.\" And he wished his nephew a surly goodnight, as he prepared\nto quit the room.\n\n\"Au revoir, gentlemen,\" said the devil Mercurius; and once more fixed\nhis tail round the neck of his disappointed companion.\n\nThe spirit of poor Rollo was sadly cast down; the devil, on the\ncontrary, was in high good humour. He wagged his tail with the most\nsatisfied air in the world, and cut a hundred jokes at the expense of\nhis poor associate. On they sped, cleaving swiftly through the cold\nnight winds, frightening the birds that were roosting in the woods,\nand the owls that were watching in the towers.\n\nIn the twinkling of an eye, as it is known, devils can fly hundreds of\nmiles: so that almost the same beat of the clock which left these two\nin Champagne found them hovering over Paris. They dropped into the\ncourt of the Lazarist Convent, and winded their way, through passage\nand cloister, until they reached the door of the prior's cell.\n\nNow the prior, Rollo's brother, was a wicked and malignant sorcerer;\nhis time was spent in conjuring devils and doing wicked deeds, instead\nof fasting, scourging, and singing holy psalms: this Mercurius knew;\nand he, therefore, was fully at ease as to the final result of his\nwager with poor Sir Roger.\n\n\"You seem to be well acquainted with the road,\" said the knight.\n\n\"I have reason,\" answered Mercurius, \"having, for a long period, had\nthe acquaintance of his reverence, your brother; but you have little\nchance with him.\"\n\n\"And why?\" said Sir Rollo.\n\n\"He is under a bond to my master, never to say a prayer, or else his\nsoul and his body are forfeited at once.\"\n\n\"Why, thou false and traitorous devil!\" said the enraged knight; \"and\nthou knewest this when we made our wager?\"\n\n\"Undoubtedly: do you suppose I would have done so had there been any\nchance of losing?\"\n\nAnd with this they arrived at Father Ignatius's door.\n\n\"Thy cursed presence threw a spell on my niece, and stopped the tongue\nof my nephew's chaplain; I do believe that had I seen either of them\nalone, my wager had been won.\"\n\n\"Certainly; therefore, I took good care to go with thee; however, thou\nmayest see the prior alone, if thou wilt; and lo! his door is open. I\nwill stand without for five minutes when it will be time to commence\nour journey.\"\n\nIt was the poor Baron's last chance: and he entered his brother's room\nmore for the five minutes' respite than from any hope of success.\n\nFather Ignatius, the prior, was absorbed in magic calculations: he\nstood in the middle of a circle of skulls, with no garment except his\nlong white beard, which reached to his knees; he was waving a silver\nrod, and muttering imprecations in some horrible tongue.\n\nBut Sir Rollo came forward and interrupted his incantation. \"I am,\"\nsaid he, \"the shade of thy brother Roger de Rollo; and have come, from\npure brotherly love, to warn thee of thy fate.\"\n\n\"Whence camest thou?\"\n\n\"From the abode of the blessed in Paradise,\" replied Sir Roger, who\nwas inspired with a sudden thought; \"it was but five minutes ago that\nthe Patron Saint of thy church told me of thy danger, and of thy\nwicked compact with the fiend. 'Go,' said he, 'to thy miserable\nbrother, and tell him there is but one way by which he may escape from\npaying the awful forfeit of his bond.'\"\n\n\"And how may that be?\" said the prior; \"the false fiend hath deceived\nme; I have given him my soul, but have received no worldly benefit in\nreturn. Brother! dear brother! how may I escape?\"\n\n\"I will tell thee. As soon as I heard the voice of blessed St. Mary\nLazarus\" (the worthy Earl had, at a pinch, coined the name of a\nsaint), \"I left the clouds, where, with other angels, I was seated,\nand sped hither to save thee. 'Thy brother,' said the Saint, 'hath but\none day more to live, when he will become for all eternity the subject\nof Satan; if he would escape, he must boldly break his bond, by saying\nan ave.'\"\n\n\"It is the express condition of the agreement,\" said the unhappy monk,\n\"I must say no prayer, or that instant I become Satan's, body and\nsoul.\"\n\n\"It is the express condition of the Saint,\" answered Roger, fiercely;\n\"pray, brother, pray, or thou art lost for ever.\"\n\nSo the foolish monk knelt down, and devoutly sung out an ave. \"Amen!\"\nsaid Sir Roger, devoutly.\n\n\"Amen!\" said Mercurius, as, suddenly, coming behind, he seized\nIgnatius by his long beard, and flew up with him to the top of the\nchurch-steeple.\n\nThe monk roared, and screamed, and swore against his brother; but it\nwas of no avail: Sir Roger smiled kindly on him, and said, \"Do not\nfret, brother; it must have come to this in a year or two.\"\n\nAnd he flew alongside of Mercurius to the steeple-top: _but this time\nthe devil had not his tail round his neck_. \"I will let thee off thy\nbet,\" said he to the demon; for he could afford, now, to be generous.\n\n\"I believe, my lord,\" said the demon, politely, \"that our ways\nseparate here.\" Sir Roger sailed gaily upwards: while Mercurius having\nbound the miserable monk faster than ever, he sunk downwards to earth,\nand perhaps lower. Ignatius was heard roaring and screaming as the\ndevil dashed him against the iron spikes and buttresses of the\nchurch.\n\n\n\n\nTHE PAINTER'S BARGAIN\n\nBY WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY\n\n\nSimon Gambouge was the son of Solomon Gambouge; and as all the world\nknows, both father and son were astonishingly clever fellows at their\nprofession. Solomon painted landscapes, which nobody bought; and Simon\ntook a higher line, and painted portraits to admiration, only nobody\ncame to sit to him.\n\nAs he was not gaining five pounds a year by his profession, and had\narrived at the age of twenty, at least, Simon determined to better\nhimself by taking a wife,--a plan which a number of other wise men\nadopt, in similar years and circumstances. So Simon prevailed upon a\nbutcher's daughter (to whom he owed considerable for cutlets) to quit\nthe meat-shop and follow him. Griskinissa--such was the fair\ncreature's name--\"was as lovely a bit of mutton,\" her father said, \"as\never a man would wish to stick a knife into.\" She had sat to the\npainter for all sorts of characters; and the curious who possess any\nof Gambouge's pictures will see her as Venus, Minerva, Madonna, and in\nnumberless other characters: Portrait of a lady--Griskinissa; Sleeping\nNymph--Griskinissa, without a rag of clothes, lying in a forest;\nMaternal Solicitude--Griskinissa again, with young Master Gambouge,\nwho was by this time the offspring of their affections.\n\nThe lady brought the painter a handsome little fortune of a couple of\nhundred pounds; and as long as this sum lasted no woman could be more\nlovely or loving. But want began speedily to attack their little\nhousehold; baker's bills were unpaid; rent was due, and the reckless\nlandlord gave no quarter; and, to crown the whole, her father,\nunnatural butcher! suddenly stopped the supplies of mutton-chops; and\nswore that his daughter, and the dauber, her husband, should have no\nmore of his wares. At first they embraced tenderly, and, kissing and\ncrying over their little infant, vowed to heaven that they would do\nwithout: but in the course of the evening Griskinissa grew peckish,\nand poor Simon pawned his best coat.\n\nWhen this habit of pawning is discovered, it appears to the poor a\nkind of Eldorado. Gambouge and his wife were so delighted, that they,\nin course of a month, made away with her gold chain, her great\nwarming-pan, his best crimson plush inexpressibles, two wigs, a\nwashhand basin and ewer, fire-irons, window-curtains, crockery, and\narm-chairs. Griskinissa said, smiling, that she had found a second\nfather in _her uncle_,--a base pun, which showed that her mind was\ncorrupted, and that she was no longer the tender, simple Griskinissa\nof other days.\n\nI am sorry to say that she had taken to drinking; she swallowed the\nwarming-pan in the course of three days, and fuddled herself one whole\nevening with the crimson plush breeches.\n\nDrinking is the devil--the father, that is to say, of all vices.\nGriskinissa's face and her mind grew ugly together; her good humour\nchanged to bilious, bitter discontent; her pretty, fond epithets, to\nfoul abuse and swearing; her tender blue eyes grew watery and blear,\nand the peach-colour on her cheeks fled from its old habitation, and\ncrowded up into her nose, where, with a number of pimples, it stuck\nfast. Add to this a dirty, draggle-tailed chintz; long, matted hair,\nwandering into her eyes, and over her lean shoulders, which were once\nso snowy, and you have the picture of drunkenness and Mrs. Simon\nGambouge.\n\nPoor Simon, who had been a gay, lively fellow enough in the days of\nhis better fortune, was completely cast down by his present ill luck,\nand cowed by the ferocity of his wife. From morning till night the\nneighbours could hear this woman's tongue, and understand her doings;\nbellows went skimming across the room, chairs were flumped down on the\nfloor, and poor Gambouge's oil and varnish pots went clattering\nthrough the windows, or down the stairs. The baby roared all day; and\nSimon sat pale and idle in a corner, taking a small sup at the\nbrandy-bottle, when Mrs. Gambouge was out of the way.\n\nOne day, as he sat disconsolately at his easel, furbishing up a\npicture of his wife, in the character of Peace, which he had commenced\na year before, he was more than ordinarily desperate, and cursed and\nswore in the most pathetic manner. \"O miserable fate of genius!\" cried\nhe, \"was I, a man of such commanding talents, born for this? to be\nbullied by a fiend of a wife; to have my masterpieces neglected by the\nworld, or sold only for a few pieces? Cursed be the love which has\nmisled me; cursed be the art which is unworthy of me! Let me dig or\nsteal, let me sell myself as a soldier, or sell myself to the Devil,\nI should not be more wretched than I am now!\"\n\n\"Quite the contrary,\" cried a small, cheery voice.\n\n\"What!\" exclaimed Gambouge, trembling and surprised. \"Who's\nthere?--where are you?--who are you?\"\n\n\"You were just speaking of me,\" said the voice.\n\nGambouge held, in his left hand, his palette; in his right, a bladder\nof crimson lake, which he was about to squeeze out upon the mahogany.\n\"Where are you?\" cried he again.\n\n\"S-q-u-e-e-z-e!\" exclaimed the little voice.\n\nGambouge picked out the nail from the bladder, and gave a squeeze;\nwhen, as sure as I'm living, a little imp spurted out from the hole\nupon the palette, and began laughing in the most singular and oily\nmanner.\n\nWhen first born he was little bigger than a tadpole; then he grew to\nbe as big as a mouse; then he arrived at the size of a cat; and then\nhe jumped off the palette, and, turning head over heels, asked the\npoor painter what he wanted with him.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe strange little animal twisted head over heels, and fixed himself\nat last upon the top of Gambouge's easel,--smearing out, with his\nheels, all the white and vermilion which had just been laid on the\nallegoric portrait of Mrs. Gambouge.\n\n\"What!\" exclaimed Simon, \"is it the--\"\n\n\"Exactly so; talk of me, you know, and I am always at hand: besides, I\nam not half so black as I am painted, as you will see when you know me\na little better.\"\n\n\"Upon my word,\" said the painter, \"it is a very singular surprise\nwhich you have given me. To tell truth, I did not even believe in your\nexistence.\"\n\nThe little imp put on a theatrical air, and with one of Mr. Macready's\nbest looks, said,--\n\n    \"There are more things in heaven and earth, Gambogio,\n    Than are dreamed of in your philosophy.\"\n\nGambouge, being a Frenchman, did not understand the quotation, but\nfelt somehow strangely and singularly interested in the conversation\nof his new friend.\n\nDiabolus continued: \"You are a man of merit, and want money; you will\nstarve on your merit; you can only get money from me. Come, my friend,\nhow much is it? I ask the easiest interest in the world: old Mordecai,\nthe usurer, has made you pay twice as heavily before now: nothing but\nthe signature of a bond, which is a mere ceremony, and the transfer of\nan article which, in itself, is a supposition--a valueless, windy,\nuncertain property of yours, called by some poet of your own, I think,\nan _animula_, _vagula_, _blandula_--bah! there is no use beating about\nthe bush--I mean _a soul_. Come, let me have it; you know you will\nsell it some other way, and not get such good pay for your\nbargain!\"--and, having made this speech, the Devil pulled out from his\nfob a sheet as big as a double _Times_, only there was a different\n_stamp_ in the corner.\n\nIt is useless and tedious to describe law documents: lawyers only love\nto read them; and they have as good in Chitty as any that are to be\nfound in the Devil's own; so nobly have the apprentices emulated the\nskill of the master. Suffice it to say, that poor Gambouge read over\nthe paper, and signed it. He was to have all he wished for seven\nyears, and at the end of that time was to become the property of\nthe--; =provided= that during the course of the seven years, every\nsingle wish which he might form should be gratified by the other of\nthe contracting parties; otherwise the deed became null and nonavenue,\nand Gambouge should be left \"to go to the--his own way.\"\n\n\"You will never see me again,\" said Diabolus, in shaking hands with\npoor Simon, on whose fingers he left such a mark as is to be seen at\nthis day--\"never, at least, unless you want me; for everything you ask\nwill be performed in the most quiet and every-day manner: believe me,\nit is the best and most gentlemanlike, and avoids anything like\nscandal. But if you set me about anything which is extraordinary, and\nout of the course of nature, as it were, come I must, you know; and of\nthis you are the best judge.\" So saying, Diabolus disappeared; but\nwhether up the chimney, through the keyhole, or by any other aperture\nor contrivance, nobody knows. Simon Gambouge was left in a fever of\ndelight, as, heaven forgive me! I believe many a worthy man would be,\nif he were allowed an opportunity to make a similar bargain.\n\n\"Heigho!\" said Simon. \"I wonder whether this be a reality or a\ndream.--I am sober, I know; for who will give me credit for the means\nto be drunk? and as for sleeping, I'm too hungry for that. I wish I\ncould see a capon and a bottle of white wine.\"\n\n\"MONSIEUR SIMON!\" cried a voice on the landing-place.\n\n\"C'est ici,\" quoth Gambouge, hastening to open the door. He did so;\nand lo! there was a _restaurateur's_ boy at the door, supporting a\ntray, a tin-covered dish, and plates on the same; and, by its side, a\ntall amber-coloured flask of Sauterne.\n\n\"I am the new boy, sir,\" exclaimed this youth, on entering; \"but I\nbelieve this is the right door, and you asked for these things.\"\n\nSimon grinned, and said, \"Certainly, I did _ask for_ these things.\"\nBut such was the effect which his interview with the demon had had on\nhis innocent mind, that he took them, although he knew they were for\nold Simon, the Jew dandy, who was mad after an opera girl, and lived\non the floor beneath.\n\n\"Go, my boy,\" he said; \"it is good: call in a couple of hours, and\nremove the plates and glasses.\"\n\nThe little waiter trotted down stairs, and Simon sat greedily down to\ndiscuss the capon and the white wine. He bolted the legs, he devoured\nthe wings, he cut every morsel of flesh from the breast;--seasoning\nhis repast with pleasant draughts of wine, and caring nothing for the\ninevitable bill which was to follow all.\n\n\"Ye gods!\" said he, as he scraped away at the back-bone, \"what a\ndinner! what wine!--and how gaily served up too!\" There were silver\nforks and spoons, and the remnants of the fowl were upon a silver\ndish. \"Why the money for this dish and these spoons,\" cried Simon,\n\"would keep me and Mrs. G. for a month! I WISH\"--and here Simon\nwhistled, and turned round to see that no one was peeping--\"I wish\nthe plate were mine.\"\n\nOh, the horrid progress of the Devil! \"Here they are,\" thought Simon\nto himself; \"why should not I _take them_?\" and take them he did.\n\"Detection,\" said he, \"is not so bad as starvation; and I would as\nsoon live at the galleys as live with Madame Gambouge.\"\n\nSo Gambouge shovelled dish and spoons into the flap of his surtout,\nand ran down stairs as if the Devil were behind him--as, indeed, he\nwas.\n\nHe immediately made for the house of his old friend the\npawnbroker--that establishment which is called in France the Mont de\nPi\u00e9t\u00e9. \"I am obliged to come to you again, my old friend,\" said Simon,\n\"with some family plate, of which I beseech you to take care.\"\n\nThe pawnbroker smiled as he examined the goods. \"I can give you\nnothing upon them,\" said he.\n\n\"What!\" cried Simon; \"not even the worth of the silver?\"\n\n\"No; I could buy them at that price at the 'Caf\u00e9 Morisot,' Rue de la\nVerrerie, where, I suppose, you got them a little cheaper.\" And, so\nsaying, he showed to the guilt-stricken Gambouge how the name of that\ncoffee-house was inscribed upon every one of the articles which he\nwished to pawn.\n\nThe effects of conscience are dreadful indeed. Oh! how fearful is\nretribution, how deep is despair, how bitter is remorse for\ncrime--_when crime is found out!_--otherwise, conscience takes matters\nmuch more easily. Gambouge cursed his fate, and swore henceforth to be\nvirtuous.\n\n\"But, hark ye, my friend,\" continued the honest broker, \"there is no\nreason why, because I cannot lend upon these things, I should not buy\nthem: they will do to melt, if for no other purpose. Will you have\nhalf the money?--speak, or I peach.\"\n\nSimon's resolves about virtue were dissipated instantaneously. \"Give\nme half,\" he said, \"and let me go.--What scoundrels are these\npawnbrokers!\" ejaculated he, as he passed out of the accursed shop,\n\"seeking every wicked pretext to rob the poor man of his hard-won\ngain.\"\n\nWhen he had marched forwards for a street or two, Gambouge counted the\nmoney which he had received, and found that he was in possession of no\nless than a hundred francs. It was night, as he reckoned out his\nequivocal gains, and he counted them at the light of a lamp. He looked\nup at the lamp, in doubt as to the course he should next pursue: upon\nit was inscribed the simple number, 152. \"A gambling-house,\" thought\nGambouge. \"I WISH I had half the money that is now on the table, up\nstairs.\"\n\nHe mounted, as many a rogue has done before him, and found half a\nhundred persons busy at a table of _rouge et noir_. Gambouge's five\nnapoleons looked insignificant by the side of the heaps which were\naround him; but the effects of the wine, of the theft, and of the\ndetection by the pawnbroker, were upon him, and he threw down his\ncapital stoutly upon the 0 0.\n\nIt is a dangerous spot that 0 0, or double zero; but to Simon it was\nmore lucky than to the rest of the world. The ball went spinning\nround--in \"its predestined circle rolled,\" as Shelley has it, after\nGoethe--and plumped down at last in the double zero. One hundred and\nthirty-five gold napoleons (louis they were then) were counted out to\nthe delighted painter. \"Oh, Diabolus!\" cried he, \"now it is that I\nbegin to believe in thee! Don't talk about merit,\" he cried; \"talk\nabout fortune. Tell me not about heroes for the future--tell me of\n_zeroes_.\" And down went twenty napoleons more upon the 0.\n\nThe Devil was certainly in the ball: round it twirled, and dropped\ninto zero as naturally as a duck pops its head into a pond. Our friend\nreceived five hundred pounds for his stake; and the croupiers and\nlookers-on began to stare at him.\n\nThere were twelve thousand pounds upon the table. Suffice it to say,\nthat Simon won half, and retired from the Palais Royal with a thick\nbundle of bank-notes crammed into his dirty three-cornered hat. He had\nbeen but half an hour in the place, and he had won the revenues of a\nprince for half a year!\n\nGambouge, as soon as he felt that he was a capitalist, and that he had\na stake in the country, discovered that he was an altered man. He\nrepented of his foul deed, and his base purloining of the\n_restaurateur's_ plate. \"O honesty!\" he cried, \"how unworthy is an\naction like this of a man who has a property like mine!\" So he went\nback to the pawnbroker with the gloomiest face imaginable. \"My\nfriend,\" said he, \"I have sinned against all that I hold most sacred:\nI have forgotten my family and my religion. Here is thy money. In the\nname of heaven, restore me the plate which I have wrongfully sold\nthee!\"\n\nBut the pawnbroker grinned, and said, \"Nay, Mr. Gambouge, I will sell\nthat plate for a thousand francs to you, or I will never sell it at\nall.\"\n\n\"Well,\" cried Gambouge, \"thou art an inexorable ruffian, Troisboules;\nbut I will give thee all I am worth.\" And here he produced a billet of\nfive hundred francs. \"Look,\" said he, \"this money is all I own; it is\nthe payment of two years' lodging. To raise it, I have toiled for many\nmonths; and, failing, I have been a criminal. O heaven! I _stole_ that\nplate that I might pay my debt, and keep my dear wife from wandering\nhouseless. But I cannot bear this load of ignominy--I cannot suffer\nthe thought of this crime. I will go to the person to whom I did\nwrong. I will starve, I will confess; but I will, I _will_ do right!\"\n\nThe broker was alarmed. \"Give me thy note,\" he cried; \"here is the\nplate.\"\n\n\"Give me an acquittal first,\" cried Simon, almost broken-hearted;\n\"sign me a paper, and the money is yours.\" So Troisboules wrote\naccording to Gambouge's dictation: \"Received, for thirteen ounces of\nplate, twenty pounds.\"\n\n\"Monster of iniquity!\" cried the painter, \"fiend of wickedness! thou\nart caught in thine own snares. Hast thou not sold me five pounds'\nworth of plate for twenty? Have I it not in my pocket? Art thou not a\nconvicted dealer in stolen goods? Yield, scoundrel, yield thy money,\nor I will bring thee to justice!\"\n\nThe frightened pawnbroker bullied and battled for a while; but he gave\nup his money at last, and the dispute ended. Thus it will be seen that\nDiabolus had rather a hard bargain in the wily Gambouge. He had taken\na victim prisoner, but he had assuredly caught a Tartar. Simon now\nreturned home, and, to do him justice, paid the bill for his dinner,\nand restored the plate.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAnd now I may add (and the reader should ponder upon this, as a\nprofound picture of human life), that Gambouge, since he had grown\nrich, grew likewise abundantly moral. He was a most exemplary father.\nHe fed the poor, and was loved by them. He scorned a base action. And\nI have no doubt that Mr. Thurtell, or the late lamented Mr. Greenacre,\nin similar circumstances, would have acted like the worthy Simon\nGambouge.\n\nThere was but one blot upon his character--he hated Mrs. Gam. worse\nthan ever. As he grew more benevolent, she grew more virulent: when he\nwent to plays, she went to Bible societies, and _vice vers\u00e2_: in fact,\nshe led him such a life as Xantippe led Socrates, or as a dog leads a\ncat in the same kitchen. With all his fortune--for, as may be\nsupposed, Simon prospered in all worldly things--he was the most\nmiserable dog in the whole city of Paris. Only in the point of\ndrinking did he and Mrs. Simon agree; and for many years, and during a\nconsiderable number of hours in each day, he thus dissipated,\npartially, his domestic chagrin. O philosophy! we may talk of thee:\nbut, except at the bottom of the wine-cup, where thou liest like\ntruth in a well, where shall we find thee?\n\nHe lived so long, and in his worldly matters prospered so much, there\nwas so little sign of devilment in the accomplishment of his wishes,\nand the increase of his prosperity, that Simon, at the end of six\nyears, began to doubt whether he had made any such bargain at all, as\nthat which we have described at the commencement of this history. He\nhad grown, as we said, very pious and moral. He went regularly to\nmass, and had a confessor into the bargain. He resolved, therefore, to\nconsult that reverend gentleman, and to lay before him the whole\nmatter.\n\n\"I am inclined to think, holy sir,\" said Gambouge, after he had\nconcluded his history, and shown how, in some miraculous way, all his\ndesires were accomplished, \"that, after all, this demon was no other\nthan the creation of my own brain, heated by the effects of that\nbottle of wine, the cause of my crime and my prosperity.\"\n\nThe confessor agreed with him, and they walked out of church\ncomfortably together, and entered afterwards a _caf\u00e9_, where they sat\ndown to refresh themselves after the fatigues of their devotion.\n\nA respectable old gentleman, with a number of orders at his\nbutton-hole, presently entered the room, and sauntered up to the\nmarble table, before which reposed Simon and his clerical friend.\n\"Excuse me, gentlemen,\" he said, as he took a place opposite them, and\nbegan reading the papers of the day.\n\n\"Bah!\" said he, at last,--\"sont-ils grands ces journaux anglais?\nLook, sir,\" he said, handing over an immense sheet of _The Times_ to\nMr. Gambouge, \"was ever anything so monstrous?\"\n\nGambouge smiled, politely, and examined the proffered page. \"It is\nenormous,\" he said; \"but I do not read English.\"\n\n\"Nay,\" said the man with the orders, \"look closer at it, Signor\nGambouge; it is astonishing how easy the language is.\"\n\nWondering, Simon took the sheet of paper. He turned pale as he looked\nat it, and began to curse the ices and the waiter. \"Come, M. l'Abb\u00e9,\"\nhe said; \"the heat and glare of this place are intolerable.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe stranger rose with them. \"Au plaisir de vous revoir, mon cher\nmonsieur,\" said he; \"I do not mind speaking before the Abb\u00e9 here, who\nwill be my very good friend one of these days; but I thought it\nnecessary to refresh your memory, concerning our little business\ntransaction six years since; and could not exactly talk of it _at\nchurch_, as you may fancy.\"\n\nSimon Gambouge had seen, in the double-sheeted _Times_, the paper\nsigned by himself, which the little Devil had pulled out of his fob.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThere was no doubt on the subject; and Simon, who had but a year to\nlive, grew more pious, and more careful than ever. He had\nconsultations with all the doctors of the Sorbonne and all the lawyers\nof the Palais. But his magnificence grew as wearisome to him as his\npoverty had been before; and not one of the doctors whom he consulted\ncould give him a pennyworth of consolation.\n\nThen he grew outrageous in his demands upon the Devil, and put him to\nall sorts of absurd and ridiculous tasks; but they were all punctually\nperformed, until Simon could invent no new ones, and the Devil sat all\nday with his hands in his pockets doing nothing.\n\nOne day, Simon's confessor came bounding into the room, with the\ngreatest glee. \"My friend,\" said he, \"I have it! Eureka!--I have found\nit. Send the Pope a hundred thousand crowns, build a new Jesuit\ncollege at Rome, give a hundred gold candlesticks to St. Peter's; and\ntell his Holiness you will double all if he will give you absolution!\"\n\nGambouge caught at the notion, and hurried off a courier to Rome\n_ventre \u00e0 terre_. His Holiness agreed to the request of the petition,\nand sent him an absolution, written out with his own fist, and all in\ndue form.\n\n\"Now,\" said he, \"foul fiend, I defy you! arise. Diabolus! your\ncontract is not worth a jot: the Pope has absolved me, and I am safe\non the road to salvation.\" In a fervour of gratitude he clasped the\nhand of his confessor, and embraced him: tears of joy ran down the\ncheeks of these good men.\n\nThey heard an inordinate roar of laughter, and there was Diabolus\nsitting opposite to them holding his sides, and lashing his tail\nabout, as if he would have gone mad with glee.\n\n\"Why,\" said he, \"what nonsense is this! do you suppose I care about\n_that_?\" and he tossed the Pope's missive into a corner. \"M. l'Abb\u00e9\nknows,\" he said, bowing and grinning, \"that though the Pope's paper\nmay pass current _here_, it is not worth twopence in our country. What\ndo I care about the Pope's absolution? You might just as well be\nabsolved by your under butler.\"\n\n\"Egad,\" said the Abb\u00e9, \"the rogue is right--I quite forgot the fact,\nwhich he points out clearly enough.\"\n\n\"No, no, Gambouge,\" continued Diabolus, with horrid familiarity, \"go\nthy ways, old fellow, that _cock won't fight_.\" And he retired up the\nchimney, chuckling at his wit and his triumph. Gambouge heard his tail\nscuttling all the way up, as if he had been a sweeper by profession.\n\nSimon was left in that condition of grief in which, according to the\nnewspapers, cities and nations are found when a murder is committed,\nor a lord ill of the gout--a situation, we say, more easy to imagine\nthan to describe.\n\nTo add to his woes, Mrs. Gambouge, who was now first made acquainted\nwith his compact, and its probable consequences, raised such a storm\nabout his ears, as made him wish almost that his seven years were\nexpired. She screamed, she scolded, she swore, she wept, she went into\nsuch fits of hysterics, that poor Gambouge, who had completely knocked\nunder to her, was worn out of his life. He was allowed no rest, night\nor day: he moped about his fine house, solitary and wretched, and\ncursed his stars that he ever had married the butcher's daughter.\n\nIt wanted six months of the time.\n\nA sudden and desperate resolution seemed all at once to have taken\npossession of Simon Gambouge. He called his family and his friends\ntogether--he gave one of the greatest feasts that ever was known in\nthe city of Paris--he gaily presided at one end of his table, while\nMrs. Gam., splendidly arrayed, gave herself airs at the other\nextremity.\n\nAfter dinner, using the customary formula, he called upon Diabolus to\nappear. The old ladies screamed and hoped he would not appear naked;\nthe young ones tittered, and longed to see the monster: everybody was\npale with expectation and affright.\n\nA very quiet, gentlemanly man, neatly dressed in black, made his\nappearance, to the surprise of all present, and bowed all round to the\ncompany. \"I will not show my _credentials_,\" he said, blushing, and\npointing to his hoofs, which were cleverly hidden by his pumps and\nshoe-buckles, \"unless the ladies absolutely wish it; but I am the\nperson you want, Mr. Gambouge; pray tell me what is your will.\"\n\n\"You know,\" said that gentleman, in a stately and determined voice,\n\"that you are bound to me, according to our agreement, for six months\nto come.\"\n\n\"I am,\" replied the new comer.\n\n\"You are to do all that I ask, whatsoever it may be, or you forfeit\nthe bond which I gave you?\"\n\n\"It is true.\"\n\n\"You declare this before the present company?\"\n\n\"Upon my honour, as a gentleman,\" said Diabolus, bowing, and laying\nhis hand upon his waistcoat.\n\nA whisper of applause ran round the room: all were charmed with the\nbland manners of the fascinating stranger.\n\n\"My love,\" continued Gambouge, mildly addressing his lady, \"will you\nbe so polite as to step this way? You know I must go soon, and I am\nanxious, before this noble company, to make a provision for one who,\nin sickness as in health, in poverty as in riches, has been my truest\nand fondest companion.\"\n\nGambouge mopped his eyes with his handkerchief--all the company did\nlikewise. Diabolus sobbed audibly, and Mrs. Gambouge sidled up to her\nhusband's side, and took him tenderly by the hand. \"Simon!\" said she,\n\"is it true? and do you really love your Griskinissa?\"\n\nSimon continued solemnly: \"Come hither, Diabolus; you are bound to\nobey me in all things for the six months during which our contract has\nto run; take, then, Griskinissa Gambouge, live alone with her for half\na year, never leave her from morning till night, obey all her\ncaprices, follow all her whims, and listen to all the abuse which\nfalls from her infernal tongue. Do this, and I ask no more of you; I\nwill deliver myself up at the appointed time.\"\n\nNot Lord G----, when flogged by Lord B----, in the House,--not Mr.\nCartlitch, of Astley's Amphitheatre, in his most pathetic passages,\ncould look more crestfallen, and howl more hideously, than Diabolus\ndid now. \"Take another year, Gambouge,\" screamed he; \"two more--ten\nmore--a century; roast me on Lawrence's gridiron, boil me in holy\nwater, but don't ask that: don't, don't bid me live with Mrs.\nGambouge!\"\n\nSimon smiled sternly. \"I have said it,\" he cried; \"do this, or our\ncontract is at an end.\"\n\nThe Devil, at this, grinned so horribly that every drop of beer in the\nhouse turned sour: he gnashed his teeth so frightfully that every\nperson in the company wellnigh fainted with the cholic. He slapped\ndown the great parchment upon the floor, trampled upon it madly, and\nlashed it with his hoofs and his tail: at last, spreading out a mighty\npair of wings as wide as from here to Regent Street, he slapped\nGambouge with his tail over one eye, and vanished, abruptly, through\nthe keyhole.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nGambouge screamed with pain and started up. \"You drunken, lazy\nscoundrel!\" cried a shrill and well-known voice, \"you have been asleep\nthese two hours:\" and here he received another terrific box on the\near.\n\nIt was too true, he had fallen asleep at his work; and the beautiful\nvision had been dispelled by the thumps of the tipsy Griskinissa.\nNothing remained to corroborate his story, except the bladder of lake,\nand this was spirted all over his waistcoat and breeches.\n\n\"I wish,\" said the poor fellow, rubbing his tingling cheeks, \"that\ndreams were true;\" and he went to work again at his portrait.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nMy last accounts of Gambouge are, that he has left the arts, and is\nfootman in a small family. Mrs. Gam. takes in washing; and it is said\nthat her continual dealings with soap-suds and hot water have been the\nonly things in life which have kept her from spontaneous combustion.\n\n\n\n\nBON-BON\n\nBY EDGAR ALLAN POE\n\n\n    Quand un bon vin meuble mon estomac,\n    Je suis plus savant que Balzac--\n    Plus sage que Pibrac;\n    Mon bras seul faisant l'attaque\n    De la nation cossaque,\n    La mettroit au sac;\n    De Charon je passerois le lac\n    En dormant dans son bac;\n    J'irois au fier Eac,\n    Sans que mon coeur fit tic ni tac,\n    Presenter du tabac.\n                       --_French Vaudeville._\n\nThat Pierre Bon-Bon was a _restaurateur_ of uncommon qualifications,\nno man who, during the reign of ----, frequented the little _caf\u00e9_ in\nthe _cul-de-sac_ Le Febvre at Rouen, will, I imagine, feel himself at\nliberty to dispute. That Pierre Bon-Bon was, in an equal degree,\nskilled in the philosophy of that period is, I presume, still more\nespecially undeniable. His _p\u00e2t\u00e9s \u00e0 la fois_ were beyond doubt\nimmaculate; but what pen can do justice to his essays _sur la\nNature_--his thoughts _sur l'Ame_--his observations _sur l'Esprit_? If\nhis _omelettes_--if his _fricandeaux_ were inestimable, what\n_litt\u00e9rateur_ of that day would not have given twice as much for an\n\"_Id\u00e9e de Bon-Bon_\" as for all the trash of all the \"_Id\u00e9es_\" of all\nthe rest of the _savants_? Bon-Bon had ransacked libraries which no\nother man had ransacked--had read more than any other would have\nentertained a notion of reading--had understood more than any other\nwould have conceived the possibility of understanding; and although,\nwhile he flourished, there were not wanting some authors at Rouen to\nassert \"that his _dicta_ evinced neither the purity of the Academy,\nnor the depth of the Lyceum\"--although, mark me, his doctrines were by\nno means very generally comprehended, still it did not follow that\nthey were difficult of comprehension. It was, I think, on account of\ntheir self-evidency that many persons were led to consider them\nabstruse. It is to Bon-Bon--but let this go no further--it is to\nBon-Bon that Kant himself is mainly indebted for his metaphysics. The\nformer was indeed not a Platonist, nor strictly speaking an\nAristotelian--nor did he, like the modern Leibnitz, waste those\nprecious hours which might be employed in the invention of a\n_fricass\u00e9e_ or, _facili gradu_, the analysis of a sensation, in\nfrivolous attempts at reconciling the obstinate oils and waters of\nethical discussion. Not at all. Bon-Bon was Ionic--Bon-Bon was equally\nItalic. He reasoned _a priori_--He reasoned _a posteriori_. His ideas\nwere innate--or otherwise. He believed in George of Trebizond--he\nbelieved in Bossarion. Bon-Bon was emphatically a--Bon-Bonist.\n\nI have spoken of the philosopher in his capacity of _restaurateur_. I\nwould not, however, have any friend of mine imagine that, in\nfulfilling his hereditary duties in that line, our hero wanted a\nproper estimation of their dignity and importance. Far from it. It\nwas impossible to say in which branch of his profession he took the\ngreater pride. In his opinion the powers of the intellect held\nintimate connection with the capabilities of the stomach. I am not\nsure, indeed, that he greatly disagreed with the Chinese, who hold\nthat the soul lies in the abdomen. The Greeks at all events were\nright, he thought, who employed the same word for the mind and the\ndiaphragm.[13] By this I do not mean to insinuate a charge of\ngluttony, or indeed any other serious charge to the prejudice of the\nmetaphysician. If Pierre Bon-Bon had his failings--and what great man\nhas not a thousand?--if Pierre Bon-Bon, I say, had his failings, they\nwere failings of very little importance--faults indeed which, in other\ntempers, have often been looked upon rather in the light of virtues.\nAs regards one of these foibles, I should not even have mentioned it\nin this history but for the remarkable prominency--the extreme _alto\nrelievo_--in which it jutted out from the plane of his general\ndisposition. He could never let slip an opportunity of making a\nbargain.\n\n    [13] [Greek: Phrenes].\n\nNot that he was avaricious--no. It was by no means necessary to the\nsatisfaction of the philosopher, that the bargain should be to his own\nproper advantage. Provided a trade could be effected--a trade of any\nkind, upon any terms, or under any circumstances--a triumphant smile\nwas seen for many days thereafter to enlighten his countenance, and a\nknowing wink of the eye to give evidence of his sagacity.\n\nAt any epoch it would not be very wonderful if a humour so peculiar\nas the one I have just mentioned, should elicit attention and remark.\nAt the epoch of our narrative, had this peculiarity _not_ attracted\nobservation, there would have been room for wonder indeed. It was soon\nreported that, upon all occasions of the kind, the smile of Bon-Bon\nwas found to differ widely from the downright grin with which he would\nlaugh at his own jokes, or welcome an acquaintance. Hints were thrown\nout of an exciting nature; stories were told of perilous bargains made\nin a hurry and repented of at leisure; and instances were adduced of\nunaccountable capacities, vague longings, and unnatural inclinations\nimplanted by the author of all evil for wise purposes of his own.\n\nThe philosopher had other weaknesses--but they are scarcely worthy our\nserious examination. For example, there are few men of extraordinary\nprofundity who are found wanting in an inclination for the bottle.\nWhether this inclination be an exciting cause, or rather a valid\nproof, of such profundity, it is a nice thing to say. Bon-Bon, as far\nas I can learn, did not think the subject adapted to minute\ninvestigation;--nor do I. Yet in the indulgence of a propensity so\ntruly classical, it is not to be supposed that the _restaurateur_\nwould lose sight of that intuitive discrimination which was wont to\ncharacterize, at one and the same time, his _essais_ and his\n_omelettes_. In his seclusions the Vin de Bourgogne had its allotted\nhour, and there were appropriate moments for the C\u00f4tes du Rh\u00f4ne. With\nhim Sauternes was to M\u00e9doc what Catullus was to Homer. He would sport\nwith a syllogism in sipping St. P\u00e9ray, but unravel an argument over\nClos-Vougeot, and upset a theory in a torrent of Chambertin. Well had\nit been if the same quick sense of propriety had attended him in the\npeddling propensity to which I have formerly alluded--but this was by\nno means the case. Indeed to say the truth, _that_ trait of mind in\nthe philosophic Bon-Bon _did_ begin at length to assume a character of\nstrange intensity and mysticism, and appeared deeply tinctured with\nthe _diablerie_ of his favourite German studies.\n\nTo enter the little _caf\u00e9_ in the _cul-de-sac_ Le Febvre was, at the\nperiod of our tale, to enter the _sanctum_ of a man of genius. Bon-Bon\nwas a man of genius. There was not a _sous-cuisinier_ in Rouen who\ncould not have told you that Bon-Bon was a man of genius. His very cat\nknew it, and forbore to whisk her tail in the presence of the man of\ngenius. His large water-dog was acquainted with the fact, and upon the\napproach of his master, betrayed his sense of inferiority by a\nsanctity of deportment, a debasement of the ears, and a dropping of\nthe lower jaw not altogether unworthy of a dog. It is, however, true\nthat much of this habitual respect might have been attributed to the\npersonal appearance of the metaphysician. A distinguished exterior\nwill, I am constrained to say, have its way even with a beast; and I\nam willing to allow much in the outward man of the _restaurateur_\ncalculated to impress the imagination of the quadruped. There is a\npeculiar majesty about the atmosphere of the little great--if I may be\npermitted so equivocal an expression--which mere physical bulk alone\nwill be found at all times inefficient in creating. If, however,\nBon-Bon was barely three feet in height, and if his head was\ndiminutively small, still it was impossible to behold the rotundity\nof his stomach without a sense of magnificence nearly bordering upon\nthe sublime. In its size both dogs and men must have seen a type of\nhis acquirements--in its immensity a fitting habitation for his\nimmortal soul.\n\nI might here--if it so pleased me--dilate upon the matter of\nhabiliment, and other mere circumstances of the external\nmetaphysician. I might hint that the hair of our hero was worn short,\ncombed smoothly over his forehead, and surmounted by a conical-shaped\nwhite flannel cap and tassels--that his pea-green jerkin was not after\nthe fashion of those worn by the common class of _restaurateurs_ at\nthat day--that the sleeves were something fuller than the reigning\ncostume permitted--that the cuffs were turned up, not as usual in that\nbarbarous period, with cloth of the same quality and colour as the\ngarment, but faced in a more fanciful manner with the particoloured\nvelvet of Genoa--that his slippers were of bright purple, curiously\nfiligreed, and might have been manufactured in Japan, but for the\nexquisite pointing of the toes, and the brilliant tints of the binding\nand embroidery--that his breeches were of the yellow satin-like\nmaterial called _aimable_--that his sky-blue cloak, resembling in form\na dressing-wrapper, and richly bestudded all over with crimson\ndevices, floated cavaliery upon his shoulders like a mist of the\nmorning--and that his _tout ensemble_ gave rise to the remarkable\nwords of Benevenuta, the Improvisatrice of Florence, \"that it was\ndifficult to say whether Pierre Bon-Bon was indeed a bird of Paradise,\nor the rather a very Paradise of perfection.\" I might, I say,\nexpatiate upon all these points if I pleased,--but I forbear; merely\npersonal details may be left to historical novelists,--they are\nbeneath the moral dignity of matter-of-fact.\n\nI have said that \"to enter the _caf\u00e9_ in the _cul-de-sac_ Le Febvre\nwas to enter the _sanctum_ of a man of genius\"--but then it was only\nthe man of genius who could duly estimate the merits of the _sanctum_.\nA sign, consisting of a vast folio, swung before the entrance. On one\nside of the volume was painted a bottle; on the reverse a _p\u00e2t\u00e9_. On\nthe back were visible in large letters _Oeuvres de Bon-Bon_. Thus was\ndelicately shadowed forth the twofold occupation of the proprietor.\n\nUpon stepping over the threshold, the whole interior of the building\npresented itself to view. A long, low-pitched room, of antique\nconstruction, was indeed all the accommodation afforded by the _caf\u00e9_.\nIn a corner of the apartment stood the bed of the metaphysician. An\narray of curtains, together with a canopy _\u00e0 la grecque_, gave it an\nair at once classic and comfortable. In the corner diagonally\nopposite, appeared, in direct family communion, the properties of the\nkitchen and the _biblioth\u00e8que_. A dish of polemics stood peacefully\nupon the dresser. Here lay an ovenful of the latest ethics--there a\nkettle of duodecimo _m\u00e9langes_. Volumes of German morality were hand\nand glove with the gridiron--a toasting-fork might be discovered by\nthe side of Eusebius--Plato reclined at his ease in the\nfrying-pan--and contemporary manuscripts were filed away upon the\nspit.\n\nIn other respects the _Caf\u00e9 de Bon-Bon_ might be said to differ little\nfrom the usual _restaurants_ of the period. A large fireplace yawned\nopposite the door. On the right of the fireplace an open cupboard\ndisplayed a formidable array of labelled bottles.\n\nIt was here, about twelve o'clock one night, during the severe winter\nof ----, that Pierre Bon-Bon, after having listened for some time to\nthe comments of his neighbours upon his singular propensity--that\nPierre Bon-Bon, I say, having turned them all out of his house, locked\nthe door upon them with an oath, and betook himself in no very pacific\nmood to the comforts of a leather-bottomed arm-chair, and a fire of\nblazing fagots.\n\nIt was one of those terrific nights which are only met with once or\ntwice during a century. It snowed fiercely, and the house tottered to\nits centre with the floods of wind that, rushing through the crannies\nof the wall, and pouring impetuously down the chimney, shook awfully\nthe curtains of the philosopher's bed, and disorganized the economy of\nhis _p\u00e2t\u00e9_-pans and papers. The huge folio sign that swung without,\nexposed to the fury of the tempest, creaked ominously, and gave out a\nmoaning sound from its stanchions of solid oak.\n\nIt was in no placid temper, I say, that the metaphysician drew up his\nchair to its customary station by the hearth. Many circumstances of a\nperplexing nature had occurred during the day, to disturb the serenity\nof his meditations. In attempting _des oeufs \u00e0 la Princesse_, he had\nunfortunately perpetrated an _omelette \u00e0 la Reine_; the discovery of a\nprinciple in ethics had been frustrated by the overturning of a stew;\nand last, not least, he had been thwarted in one of those admirable\nbargains which he at all times took such especial delight in bringing\nto a successful termination. But in the chafing of his mind at these\nunaccountable vicissitudes, there did not fail to be mingled some\ndegree of that nervous anxiety which the fury of a boisterous night is\nso well calculated to produce. Whistling to his more immediate\nvicinity the large black water-dog we have spoken of before, and\nsettling himself uneasily in his chair, he could not help casting a\nwary and unquiet eye toward those distant recesses of the apartment\nwhose inexorable shadows not even the red fire-light itself could more\nthan partially succeed in overcoming. Having completed a scrutiny\nwhose exact purpose was perhaps unintelligible to himself, he drew\nclose to his seat a small table covered with books and papers, and\nsoon became absorbed in the task of retouching a voluminous\nmanuscript, intended for publication on the morrow.\n\nHe had been thus occupied for some minutes, when \"I am in no hurry,\nMonsieur Bon-Bon,\" suddenly whispered a whining voice in the\napartment.\n\n\"The devil!\" ejaculated our hero, starting to his feet, overturning\nthe table at his side, and staring around him in astonishment.\n\n\"Very true,\" calmly replied the voice.\n\n\"Very true!--what is very true?--how came you here?\" vociferated the\nmetaphysician, as his eye fell upon something which lay stretched at\nfull length upon the bed.\n\n\"I was saying,\" said the intruder, without attending to the\ninterrogatories,--\"I was saying that I am not at all pushed for\ntime--that the business, upon which I took the liberty of calling, is\nof no pressing importance--in short, that I can very well wait until\nyou have finished your Exposition.\"\n\n\"My Exposition!--there now!--how do _you_ know?--how came _you_ to\nunderstand that I was writing an Exposition--good God!\"\n\n\"Hush!\" replied the figure, in a shrill undertone; and, arising\nquickly from the bed, he made a single step toward our hero, while an\niron lamp that depended overhead swung convulsively back from his\napproach.\n\nThe philosopher's amazement did not prevent a narrow scrutiny of the\nstranger's dress and appearance. The outlines of his figure,\nexceedingly lean, but much above the common height, were rendered\nminutely distinct by means of a faded suit of black cloth which fitted\ntight to the skin, but was otherwise cut very much in the style of a\ncentury ago. These garments had evidently been intended for a much\nshorter person than their present owner. His ankles and wrists were\nleft naked for several inches. In his shoes, however, a pair of very\nbrilliant buckles gave the lie to the extreme poverty implied by the\nother portions of his dress. His head was bare, and entirely bald,\nwith the exception of the hinder-part, from which depended a _queue_\nof considerable length. A pair of green spectacles, with side glasses,\nprotected his eyes from the influence of the light, and at the same\ntime prevented our hero from ascertaining either their colour or their\nconformation. About the entire person there was no evidence of a\nshirt; but a white cravat, of filthy appearance, was tied with extreme\nprecision around the throat, and the ends, hanging down formally side\nby side gave (although I dare say unintentionally) the idea of an\necclesiastic. Indeed, many other points both in his appearance and\ndemeanour might have very well sustained a conception of that nature.\nOver his left ear, he carried, after the fashion of a modern clerk, an\ninstrument resembling the _stylus_ of the ancients. In a breast-pocket\nof his coat appeared conspicuously a small black volume fastened with\nclasps of steel. This book, whether accidentally or not, was so turned\noutwardly from the person as to discover the words \"_Rituel\nCatholique_\" in white letters upon the back. His entire physiognomy\nwas interestingly saturnine--even cadaverously pale. The forehead was\nlofty, and deeply furrowed with the ridges of contemplation. The\ncorners of the mouth were drawn down into an expression of the most\nsubmissive humility. There was also a clasping of the hands, as he\nstepped towards our hero--a deep sigh--and altogether a look of such\nutter sanctity as could not have failed to be unequivocally\nprepossessing. Every shadow of anger faded from the countenance of the\nmetaphysician, as, having completed a satisfactory survey of his\nvisitor's person, he shook him cordially by the hand, and conducted\nhim to a seat.\n\nThere would however be a radical error in attributing this\ninstantaneous transition of feeling in the philosopher to any one of\nthose causes which might naturally be supposed to have had an\ninfluence. Indeed, Pierre Bon-Bon, from what I have been able to\nunderstand of his disposition, was of all men the least likely to be\nimposed upon by any speciousness of exterior deportment. It was\nimpossible that so accurate an observer of men and things should have\nfailed to discover, upon the moment, the real character of the\npersonage who had thus intruded upon his hospitality. To say no more,\nthe conformation of his visitor's feet was sufficiently remarkable--he\nmaintained lightly upon his head an inordinately tall hat--there was a\ntremulous swelling about the hinder-part of his breeches--and the\nvibration of his coat tail was a palpable fact. Judge, then, with what\nfeelings of satisfaction our hero found himself thrown thus at once\ninto the society of a person for whom he had at all times entertained\nthe most unqualified respect. He was, however, too much of the\ndiplomatist to let escape him any intimation of his suspicions in\nregard to the true state of affairs. It was not his cue to appear at\nall conscious of the high honour he thus unexpectedly enjoyed; but, by\nleading his guest into conversation, to elicit some important ethical\nideas, which might, in obtaining a place in his contemplated\npublication, enlighten the human race, and at the same time\nimmortalize himself--ideas which, I should have added, his visitor's\ngreat age, and well-known proficiency in the science of morals, might\nvery well have enabled him to afford.\n\nActuated by these enlightened views, our hero bade the gentleman sit\ndown, while he himself took occasion to throw some fagots upon the\nfire, and place upon the now re-established table some bottles of\nMousseaux. Having quickly completed these operations, he drew his\nchair _vis-\u00e0-vis_ to his companion's, and waited until the latter\nshould open the conversation. But plans even the most skilfully\nmatured are often thwarted in the outset of their application--and\nthe _restaurateur_ found himself _nonplussed_ by the very first words\nof his visitor's speech.\n\n\"I see you know me, Bon-Bon,\" said he; \"ha! ha! ha!--he! he! he!--hi!\nhi! hi--ho! ho! ho!--hu! hu! hu!\"--and the Devil, dropping at once the\nsanctity of his demeanour, opened to its fullest extent a mouth from\near to ear, so as to display a set of jagged and fang-like teeth, and,\nthrowing back his head, laughed long, loudly, wickedly, and\nuproariously, while the black dog, crouching down upon his haunches,\njoined lustily in the chorus, and the tabby cat, flying off a tangent,\nstood up on end, and shrieked in the farthest corner of the apartment.\n\nNot so the philosopher: he was too much a man of the world either to\nlaugh like the dog, or by shrieks to betray the indecorous trepidation\nof the cat. It must be confessed, he felt a little astonishment to see\nthe white letters which formed the words \"_Rituel Catholique_\" on the\nbook in his guest's pocket, momently changing both their colour and\ntheir import, and in a few seconds, in place of the original title,\nthe words \"_Registre des Condamn\u00e9s_\" blaze forth in characters of red.\nThis startling circumstance, when Bon-Bon replied to his visitor's\nremark, imparted to his manner an air of embarrassment which probably\nmight not otherwise have been observed.\n\n\"Why, sir,\" said the philosopher, \"why, sir, to speak sincerely--I\nbelieve you are--upon my word--the d--dest--that is to say, I think--I\nimagine--I _have_ some faint--some _very_ faint idea--of the\nremarkable honour--\"\n\n\"Oh!--ah!--yes!--very well!\" interrupted his Majesty; \"say no more--I\nsee how it is.\" And hereupon, taking off his green spectacles, he\nwiped the glasses carefully with the sleeve of his coat, and deposited\nthem in his pocket.\n\nIf Bon-Bon had been astonished at the incident of the book, his\namazement was now much increased by the spectacle which here presented\nitself to view. In raising his eyes, with a strong feeling of\ncuriosity to ascertain the colour of his guest's, he found them by no\nmeans black, as he had anticipated--nor grey, as might have been\nimagined--nor yet hazel nor blue--nor indeed yellow nor red--nor\npurple--nor white--nor green--nor any other colour in the heavens\nabove, or in the earth beneath, or in the waters under the earth. In\nshort, Pierre Bon-Bon not only saw plainly that his Majesty had no\neyes whatsoever, but could discover no indications of their having\nexisted at any previous period--for the space where eyes should\nnaturally have been was, I am constrained to say, simply a dead level\nof flesh.\n\nIt was not in the nature of the metaphysician to forbear making some\ninquiry into the sources of so strange a phenomenon; and the reply of\nhis Majesty was at once prompt, dignified, and satisfactory.\n\n\"Eyes! my dear Bon-Bon--eyes! did you say?--oh!--ah!--I perceive! The\nridiculous prints, eh, which are in circulation, have given you a\nfalse idea of my personal appearance. Eyes!--true. Eyes, Pierre\nBon-Bon, are very well in their proper place--_that_, you would say,\nis the head?--right--the head of a worm. To _you_, likewise, these\noptics are indispensable--yet I will convince you that my vision is\nmore penetrating than your own. There is a cat I see in the corner--a\npretty cat--look at her--observe her well. Now, Bon-Bon, do you behold\nthe thoughts--the thoughts, I say--the ideas--the reflections--which\nare being engendered in her pericranium? There it is now--you do not!\nShe is thinking we admire the length of her tail and the profundity of\nher mind. She has just concluded that I am the most distinguished of\necclesiastics, and that you are the most superficial of\nmetaphysicians. Thus you see I am not altogether blind; but to one of\nmy profession, the eyes you speak of would be merely an incumbrance,\nliable at any time to be put out by a toasting-iron or a pitchfork. To\nyou, I allow, these optical affairs are indispensable. Endeavour,\nBon-Bon, to use them well; _my_ vision is the soul.\"\n\nHereupon the guest helped himself to the wine upon the table, and\npouring out a bumper for Bon-Bon, requested him to drink it without\nscruple, and make himself perfectly at home.\n\n\"A clever book that of yours, Pierre,\" resumed his Majesty, tapping\nour friend knowingly upon the shoulder, as the latter put down his\nglass after a thorough compliance with his visitor's injunction. \"A\nclever book that of yours, upon my honour. It's a work after my own\nheart. Your arrangement of the matter, I think, however, might be\nimproved, and many of your notions remind me of Aristotle. That\nphilosopher was one of my most intimate acquaintances. I liked him as\nmuch for his terrible ill temper, as for his happy knack at making a\nblunder. There is only one solid truth in all that he has written, and\nfor that I gave him the hint out of pure compassion for his absurdity.\nI suppose, Pierre Bon-Bon, you very well know to what divine moral\ntruth I am alluding?\"\n\n\"Cannot say that I--\"\n\n\"Indeed!--why it was I who told Aristotle that, by sneezing, men\nexpelled superfluous ideas through the proboscis.\"\n\n\"Which is--hiccup!--undoubtedly the case,\" said the metaphysician,\nwhile he poured out for himself another bumper of Mousseaux, and\noffering his snuff-box to the fingers of his visitor.\n\n\"There was Plato, too,\" continued his Majesty, modestly declining the\nsnuff-box and the compliment it implied--\"there was Plato, too, for\nwhom I, at one time, felt all the affection of a friend. You knew\nPlato, Bon-Bon?--ah, no, I beg a thousand pardons. He met me at\nAthens, one day, in the Parthenon, and told me he was distressed for\nan idea. I bade him write down that '[Greek: ho nous estin aulos].' He\nsaid that he would do so, and went home, while I stepped over to the\npyramids. But my conscience smote me for having uttered a truth, even\nto aid a friend, and hastening back to Athens, I arrived behind the\nphilosopher's chair as he was inditing the '[Greek: aulos].'\n\n\"Giving the lambda a fillip with my finger, I turned it upside down.\nSo the sentence now reads '[Greek: ho nous estin augos],' and is, you\nperceive, the fundamental doctrine in his metaphysics.\"\n\n\"Were you ever at Rome?\" asked the _restaurateur_, as he finished his\nsecond bottle of Mousseaux, and drew from the closet a larger supply\nof Chambertin.\n\n\"But once, Monsieur Bon-Bon, but once. There was a time,\" said the\nDevil, as if reciting some passage from a book--\"there was a time when\noccurred an anarchy of five years, during which the republic, bereft\nof all its officers, had no magistracy besides the tribunes of the\npeople, and these were not legally vested with any degree of executive\npower--at that time, Monsieur Bon-Bon--at that time _only_ I was in\nRome, and I have no earthly acquaintance, consequently, with any of\nits philosophy.\"[14]\n\n    [14] Ils \u00e9crivaient sur la philosophie (_Cicero_,\n    _Lucretius_, _Seneca_), mais c'\u00e9tait la philosophie\n    grecque.--_Condorcet._\n\n\"What do you think of--what do you think of--hiccup!--Epicurus?\"\n\n\"What do I think of _whom_?\" said the Devil, in astonishment; \"you\nsurely do not mean to find any fault with Epicurus! What do I think of\nEpicurus! Do you mean me, sir?--I am Epicurus! I am the same\nphilosopher who wrote each of the three hundred treatises commemorated\nby Diogenes Laertes.\"\n\n\"That's a lie!\" said the metaphysician, for the wine had gotten a\nlittle into his head.\n\n\"Very well!--very well, sir!--very well, indeed, sir!\" said his\nMajesty, apparently much flattered.\n\n\"That's a lie!\" repeated the _restaurateur_, dogmatically; \"that's\na--hiccup!--a lie!\"\n\n\"Well, well, have it your own way!\" said the Devil, pacifically, and\nBon-Bon, having beaten his Majesty at an argument, thought it his duty\nto conclude a second bottle of Chambertin.\n\n\"As I was saying,\" resumed the visitor--\"as I was observing a little\nwhile ago, there are some very _outr\u00e9_ notions in that book of yours,\nMonsieur Bon-Bon. What, for instance, do you mean by all that humbug\nabout the soul? Pray, sir, what _is_ the soul?\"\n\n\"The--hiccup!--soul,\" replied the metaphysician, referring to his MS.,\n\"is undoubtedly--\"\n\n\"No, sir!\"\n\n\"Indubitably--\"\n\n\"No, sir!\"\n\n\"Indisputably--\"\n\n\"No, sir!\"\n\n\"Evidently--\"\n\n\"No, sir!\"\n\n\"Incontrovertibly--\"\n\n\"No, sir!\"\n\n\"Hiccup!--\"\n\n\"No, sir!\"\n\n\"And beyond all question, a--\"\n\n\"No, sir, the soul is no such thing!\" (Here the philosopher, looking\ndaggers, took occasion to make an end, upon the spot, of his third\nbottle of Chambertin.)\n\n\"Then--hiccup!--pray, sir--what--what is it?\"\n\n\"That is neither here nor there, Monsieur Bon-Bon,\" replied his\nMajesty, musingly. \"I have tasted--that is to say, I have known some\nvery bad souls, and some too--pretty good ones.\" Here he smacked his\nlips, and, having unconsciously let fall his hand upon the volume in\nhis pocket, was seized with a violent fit of sneezing.\n\nHe continued:\n\n\"There was the soul of Cratinus--passable: Aristophanes--racy:\nPlato--exquisite--not _your_ Plato, but Plato the comic poet; your\nPlato would have turned the stomach of Cerberus--faugh! Then let me\nsee! there were Naevius, and Andronicus, and Plautus, and Terentius.\nThen there were Lucilius, and Catullus, and Naso, and Quintus\nFlaccus,--dear Quinty! as I called him when he sang a _saeculare_ for\nmy amusement, while I toasted him, in pure good humour, on a fork. But\nthey want _flavour_, these Romans. One fat Greek is worth a dozen of\nthem, and besides will _keep_, which cannot be said of a Quirite. Let\nus taste your Sauterne.\"\n\nBon-Bon had by this time made up his mind to the _nil admirari_, and\nendeavoured to hand down the bottles in question. He was, however,\nconscious of a strange sound in the room like the wagging of a tail.\nOf this, although extremely indecent in his Majesty, the philosopher\ntook no notice:--simply kicking the dog, and requesting him to be\nquiet. The visitor continued:\n\n\"I found that Horace tasted very much like Aristotle;--you know I am\nfond of variety. Terentius I could not have told from Menander. Naso,\nto my astonishment, was Nicander in disguise. Virgilius had a strong\ntwang of Theocritus. Martial put me much in mind of Archilochus--and\nTitus Livius was positively Polybius and none other.\"\n\n\"Hiccup!\" here replied Bon-Bon, and his Majesty proceeded:\n\n\"But if I _have_ a _penchant_, Monsieur Bon-Bon--if I _have_ a\n_penchant_, it is for a philosopher. Yet, let me tell you, sir, it is\nnot every dev--I mean it is not every gentleman who knows how to\n_choose_ a philosopher. Long ones are _not_ good; and the best, if not\ncarefully shelled, are apt to be a little rancid on account of the\ngall.\"\n\n\"Shelled!!\"\n\n\"I mean taken out of the carcass.\"\n\n\"What do you think of a--hiccup!--physician?\"\n\n\"_Don't_ mention them!--ugh! ugh!\" (Here his Majesty retched\nviolently.) \"I never tasted but one--that rascal Hippocrates!--smelt\nof asafoetida--ugh! ugh! ugh!--caught a wretched cold washing him in\nthe Styx--and after all he gave me the cholera-morbus.\"\n\n\"The--hiccup!--wretch!\" ejaculated Bon-Bon, \"the--hiccup!--abortion of\na pill-box!\"--and the philosopher dropped a tear.\n\n\"After all,\" continued the visitor, \"after all, if a dev--if a\ngentleman wishes to _live_, he must have more talents than one or two;\nand with us a fat face is an evidence of diplomacy.\"\n\n\"How so?\"\n\n\"Why we are sometimes exceedingly pushed for provisions. You must know\nthat, in a climate so sultry as mine, it is frequently impossible to\nkeep a spirit alive for more than two or three hours; and after death,\nunless pickled immediately (and a pickled spirit is _not_ good), they\nwill--smell--you understand, eh? Putrefaction is always to be\napprehended when the souls are consigned to us in the usual way.\"\n\n\"Hiccup!--hiccup!--good God! how _do_ you manage?\"\n\nHere the iron lamp commenced swinging with redoubled violence, and the\nDevil half started from his seat;--however, with a slight sigh, he\nrecovered his composure, merely saying to our hero in a low tone: \"I\ntell you what, Pierre Bon-Bon, we _must_ have no more swearing.\"\n\nThe host swallowed another bumper, by way of denoting thorough\ncomprehension and acquiescence, and the visitor continued:\n\n\"Why, there are _several_ ways of managing. The most of us starve:\nsome put up with the pickle: for my part I purchase my spirits\n_vivente corpore_, in which case I find they keep very well.\"\n\n\"But the body!--hiccup!--the body!!\"\n\n\"The body, the body--well, what of the body?--oh! ah! I perceive. Why,\nsir, the body is not _at all_ affected by the transaction. I have made\ninnumerable purchases of the kind in my day, and the parties never\nexperienced any inconvenience. There were Cain and Nimrod, and Nero,\nand Caligula, and Dionysius, and Pisistratus, and--and a thousand\nothers, who never knew what it was to have a soul during the latter\npart of their lives; yet, sir, these men adorned society. Why isn't\nthere A--, now, whom you know as well as I? Is _he_ not in possession\nof all his faculties, mental and corporeal? Who writes a keener\nepigram? Who reasons more wittily? Who--but, stay! I have his\nagreement in my pocket-book.\"\n\nThus saying, he produced a red leather wallet, and took from it a\nnumber of papers. Upon some of these Bon-Bon caught a glimpse of the\nletters _Machi_--_Maza_--_Robesp_--with the words _Caligula_,\n_George_, _Elizabeth_. His Majesty selected a narrow slip of\nparchment, and from it read aloud the following words:\n\n\"In consideration of certain mental endowments which it is unnecessary\nto specify, and in further consideration of one thousand louis d'or,\nI, being aged one year and one month, do hereby make over to the\nbearer of this agreement all my right, title, and appurtenance in the\nshadow called my soul. (Signed) A....\"[15] (Here His Majesty repeated\na name which I do not feel myself justified in indicating more\nunequivocally.)\n\n    [15] Query.--_Arouet?_\n\n\"A clever fellow that,\" resumed he; \"but, like you, Monsieur Bon-Bon,\nhe was mistaken about the soul. The soul a shadow, truly! The soul a\nshadow! Ha! ha! ha!--he! he! he!--hu! hu! hu! Only think of a\n_fricass\u00e9ed_ shadow!\"\n\n\"_Only_ think--hiccup!--of a _fricass\u00e9ed_ shadow!\" exclaimed our hero,\nwhose faculties were becoming much illuminated by the profundity of\nHis Majesty's discourse. \"Only think of a--hiccup!--_fricass\u00e9ed_\nshadow!! Now, damme!--hiccup!--humph! If _I_ would have been such\na--hiccup!--nincompoop! _My_ soul, Mr.--humph!\"\n\n\"_Your_ soul, Monsieur Bon-Bon?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir--hiccup!--_my_ soul is--\"\n\n\"What, sir?\"\n\n\"_No_ shadow, damme!\"\n\n\"Did you mean to say--\"\n\n\"Yes, sir, _my_ soul is--hiccup!--humph!--yes, sir.\"\n\n\"Did you not intend to assert--\"\n\n\"_My_ soul is--hiccup!--peculiarly qualified for--hiccup!--a--\"\n\n\"What, sir?\"\n\n\"Stew.\"\n\n\"Ha!\"\n\n\"_Souffl\u00e9e._\"\n\n\"Eh!\"\n\n\"_Fricass\u00e9e._\"\n\n\"Indeed!\"\n\n\"_Rago\u00fbt_ and _fricandeau_--and see here, my good fellow! I'll let you\nhave it--hiccup!--a bargain.\" Here the philosopher slapped His Majesty\nupon the back.\n\n\"Couldn't think of such a thing,\" said the latter calmly, at the same\ntime rising from his seat. The metaphysician stared.\n\n\"Am supplied at present,\" said His Majesty.\n\n\"Hic-cup!--e-h?\" said the philosopher.\n\n\"Have no funds on hand.\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"Besides, very unhandsome in me--\"\n\n\"Sir!\"\n\n\"To take advantage of--\"\n\n\"Hic-cup!\"\n\n\"Your present disgusting and ungentlemanly situation.\"\n\nHere the visitor bowed and withdrew--in what manner could not\nprecisely be ascertained--but in a well-concerted effort to discharge\na bottle at \"the villain,\" the slender chain was severed that depended\nfrom the ceiling, and the metaphysician prostrated by the downfall of\nthe lamp.\n\n\n\n\nTHE PRINTER'S DEVIL\n\n\nAs I was sitting in my armchair and preparing an essay on the Devil in\nliterature, sleep overpowered me; the pen fell from my hands, and my\nhead reclined upon the desk. I had been thinking so much about the\nDevil in my waking hours, that the same idea pursued me after I had\nfallen asleep. I heard a gentle rap at the door, and having bawled out\nas usual, \"Come in,\" a little gentleman entered, wrapped in a large\nblue cloth cloak, with a slouched hat, and goggles over his eyes.\nAfter bowing and scraping with considerable ceremony, he took off his\nhat, and threw his cloak over the back of a chair, when I immediately\nperceived that my visitor was no mortal. His face was hideously ugly;\nthe skin appearing very much like wet paper, and the forehead covered\nwith those cabalistic signs whose wondrous significance is best known\nto those who correct the press. On the end of his long hooked nose\nthere seemed to me to be growing, like a carbuncle, the first letter\nof the alphabet, glittering with ink and ready to print. I observed,\nalso, that each of his fingers and toes, or rather claws, was in the\nsame manner terminated by one of the letters of the alphabet; and as\nhe slashed round his tail to brush a fly off his nose, I noticed that\nthe letter Z formed the extremity of that useful member. While I was\nlooking with no small astonishment and some trepidation at my\nextraordinary visitor, he took occasion to inform me that he had\ntaken liberty to call, as he was afraid I might forget him in the\ntreatise which I was writing--an omission which he assured me would\ncause him no little mortification. \"In me,\" says he, \"you behold the\nprince and patron of printers' devils. My province is to preside over\nthe hell of books; and if you will only take the trouble to accompany\nme a little way, I will show you some of the wonders of that world.\"\nAs my imagination had lately been much excited by perusing Dante's\n_Inferno_, I was delighted with an adventure which promised to turn\nout something like his wonderful journey, and I readily consented to\nvisit my new friend's dominions, and we sallied forth together. As we\npursued our way, my conductor endeavoured to give me some information\nrespecting the world I was about to enter, in order to prepare me for\nthe wonders I should encounter there. \"You must know,\" remarked he,\n\"that books have souls as well as men; and the moment any work is\npublished, whether successful or not, its soul appears in precisely\nthe same form in another world; either in this domain, which is\nsubject to me, or in a better region, over which I have no control. I\nhave power only to exhibit the place of punishment for bad books,\nperiodicals, pamphlets, and, in short, publications of every kind.\"\n\nWe now arrived at the mouth of a cavern, which I did not remember to\nhave ever noticed before, though I had repeatedly passed the spot in\nmy walks. It looked to me more like the entrance to a coalmine than\nanything else, as the sides were entirely black. Upon examining them\nmore closely, I found that they were covered with a black fluid which\ngreatly resembled printer's ink, and which seemed to corrode and wear\naway the rocks of the cavern wherever it touched them. \"We have lately\nreceived a large supply of political publications,\" said my companion;\n\"and hell is perfectly saturated with their maliciousness. We carry on\na profitable trade upon the earth, by retailing this ink to the\nprincipal political editors. Unfortunately, it is not found to answer\nvery well for literary publications, though they have tried it with\nconsiderable success in printing the London _Quarterly_ and several of\nthe other important reviews.\"\n\nThe cavern widened as we advanced, and we came presently into a vast\nopen plain, which was bounded on one side by a wall so high that it\nseemed to reach the very heavens. As we approached the wall I observed\na vast gateway before us, closed up by folding doors. The gates opened\nat our approach, and we entered. I found myself in a warm sandy\nvalley, bounded on one side by a steep range of mountains. A feeble\nlight shone upon it, much like that of a sick chamber, and the air\nseemed confined and stifling like that of the abode of illness. My\nears were assailed by a confused whining noise, as if all the litters\nof new-born puppies, kittens with their eyes unopened, and babes just\ncome to light, in the whole world, were brought into one spot, and\nwere whelping, mewing, and squalling at once. I turned in mute wonder\nto my guide for explanation; and he informed me that I now beheld the\ndestined abode of all still-born and abortive publications; and the\ninfantine noises which I heard were only their feeble wailing for the\nmiseries they had endured in being brought into the world. I now saw\nwhat the feebleness of the light had prevented my observing before,\nthat the soil was absolutely covered with books of every size and\nshape, from the little diamond almanac up to the respectable quarto. I\nsaw folios there. These books were crawling about and tumbling over\neach other like blind whelps, uttering, at the same time, the most\nmournful cries. I observed one, however, which remained quite still,\noccasionally groaning a little, and appeared like an overgrown toad\noppressed with its own heaviness. I drew near, and read upon the back,\n\"_Resignation_, a Novel.\" The cover flew open, and the title-page\nimmediately began to address me. I walked off, however, as fast as\npossible, only distinguishing a few words about \"the injustice and\nseverity of critics;\" \"bad taste of the public;\" \"very well\nconsidering;\" \"first effort;\" \"feminine mind,\" &c. &c. I presently\ndiscovered a very important-looking little book, stalking about among\nthe rest in a great passion, kicking the others out of the way, and\nswearing like a trooper; till at length, apparently exhausted with its\nefforts, it sunk down to rise no more. \"Ah ha!\" exclaimed my little\ndiabolical friend, \"here is a new comer; let's see who he is;\" and\ncoming up, he turned it over with his foot so that we could see the\nback of it, upon which was printed \"_The Monikins_, by the Author of,\n&c. &c.\" I noticed that the book had several marks across it, as if\nsome one had been flogging the unfortunate work. \"It is only the marks\nof the scourge,\" said my companion, \"which the critics have used\nrather more severely, I think, than was necessary.\" I expected, after\nall the passion I had seen, and the great importance of feeling,\narrogance, and vanity the little work had manifested, that it would\nhave some pert remarks to make to us; but it was so much exhausted\nthat it could not say a word. At the bottom of the valley was a small\npond of a milky hue, from which there issued a perfume very much like\nthe smell of bread and butter. An immense number of thin, prettily\nbound manuscript books were soaking in this pond of milk, all of\nwhich, I was informed, were _Young Ladies' Albums_, which it was\nnecessary to souse in the slough, to prevent them from stealing\npassages from the various works about them. As soon as I heard what\nthey were, I ran away with all my speed, having a mortal dread of\nthese books.\n\nWe had now traversed the valley, and, approaching the barrier of\nmountains, we found a passage cut through, which greatly resembled the\nPausilipo, near Naples; it was closed on the side towards the valley,\nonly with a curtain of white paper, upon which were printed the names\nof the principal reviews, which my conductor assured me were enough to\nprevent any of the unhappy works we had seen from coming near the\npassage.\n\nAs we advanced through the mountains, occasional gleams of light\nappeared before us, and immediately vanished, leaving us in darkness.\nMy guide, however, seemed to be well acquainted with the way, and we\nwent on fearlessly till we emerged into an open field, lighted up by\nconstant flashes of lightning, which glared from every side; the air\nwas hot, and strongly impregnated with sulphur. \"Each department of my\ndominions,\" said the Devil, \"receives its light from the works which\nare sent there. You are now surrounded by the glittering but\nevanescent coruscations of the more recent novels. This department of\nhell was never very well supplied till quite lately, though Fielding,\nSmollett, Maturin, and Godwin, did what they could for us. Our\ngreatest benefactors have been Disraeli, Bulwer, and Victor Hugo; and\nthis glare of light, so painful to our eyes, proceeds chiefly from\ntheir books.\" There was a tremendous noise like the rioting of an army\nof drunken men, with horrible cries and imprecations, and fiend-like\nlaughing, which made my blood curdle; and such a scrambling and\nfighting among the books, as I never saw before. I could not imagine\nat first what could be the cause of this, till I discovered at last a\ngolden hill rising up like a cone in the midst of the plane, with just\nroom enough for one book on the summit; and I found that the novels\nwere fighting like so many devils for the occupation of this place.\nOne work, however, had gained possession of it, and seemed to maintain\nits hold with a strength and resolution which bade defiance to the\nrest. I could not at first make out the name of this book, which\nseemed to stand upon its golden throne like the Prince of Hell; but\npresently the whole arch of the heavens glared with new brilliancy,\nand the magic name of _Vivian Grey_ flashed from the book in letters\nof scorching light. I was much afraid, however, that _Vivian_ would\nnot long retain his post; for I saw _Pelham_ and _Peregrine Pickle_,\nand the terrible _Melmoth_ with his glaring eyes, coming together to\nthe assault, when a whirlwind seized them all four and carried them\naway to a vast distance, leaving the elevation vacant for some other\ncompetitor. \"There is no peace to the wicked, you see,\" said my\nAsmodeus. \"These books are longing for repose, and they can get none\non account of the insatiable vanity of their authors, whose desire for\ndistinction made them careless of the sentiments they expressed and\nthe principles they advocated. The great characteristic of works of\nthis stamp is action, intense, painful action. They have none of that\nbeautiful serenity which shines in Scott and Edgeworth; and they are\ncondemned to illustrate, by an eternity of contest here, the restless\nspirit with which they are inspired.\"\n\nWhile I was looking on with fearful interest in the mad combat before\nme, the horizon seemed to be darkened, and a vast cloud rose up in the\nimage of a gigantic eagle, whose wings stretched from the east to the\nwest till he covered the firmament. In his talons he carried an open\nbook, at the sight of which the battle around me was calmed; the\nlightnings ceased to flash, and there was an awful stillness. Then\nsuddenly there glared from the book a sheet of fire, which rose in\ncolumns a thousand feet high, and filled the empyrean with intense\nlight; the pillars of flame curling and wreathing themselves into\nmonstrous letters, till they were fixed in one terrific glare, and I\nread--\"BYRON.\" Even my companion quailed before the awful light, and I\ncovered my face with my hands. When I withdrew them, the cloud and the\nbook had vanished, and the contest was begun again--\"You have seen the\nPrince of this division of hell,\" said my guide.\n\nWe now began rapidly to descend into the bowels of the earth; and,\nafter sinking some thousand feet, I found myself on terra firma again,\nand walking a little way, we came to a gate of massive ice, over which\nwas written in vast letters--\"My heritage is despair.\" We passed\nthrough, and immediately found ourselves in a vast basin of lead,\nwhich seemed to meet the horizon on every side. A bright light shone\nover the whole region; but it was not like the genial light of the\nsun. It chilled me through; and every ray that fell upon me seemed\nlike the touch of ice. The deepest silence prevailed; and though the\nvalley was covered with books, not one moved or uttered a sound. I\ndrew near to one, and I shivered with intense cold as I read upon\nit--\"Voltaire.\" \"Behold,\" said the demon, \"the hell of infidel books;\nthe light which emanates from them is the light of reason, and they\nare doomed to everlasting torpor.\" I found it too cold to pursue my\ninvestigations any farther in this region, and I gladly passed on from\nthe leaden gulf of Infidelity.\n\nI had no sooner passed the barrier which separated this department\nfrom the next, than I heard a confused sound like the quacking of\nmyriads of ducks and geese, and a great flapping of wings; of which I\nsoon saw the cause. \"You are in the hell of newspapers,\" said my\nguide. And sure enough, when I looked up I saw thousands of newspapers\nflying about with their great wooden back-bones, and the padlock\ndangling like a bobtail at the end, flapping their wings and hawking\nat each other like mad. After circling about in the air for a little\nwhile, and biting and tearing each other as much as they could, they\nplumped down, head first, into a deep black-looking pool, and were\nseen no more. \"We place these newspapers deeper in hell than the\nInfidel publications,\" said the Devil; \"because they are so much more\nextensively read, and thereby do much greater mischief. It is a kind\nof pest of which there is no end; and we are obliged to allot the\nlargest portion of our dominions to containing them.\"\n\nWe now came to an immense pile of a leaden hue, which I found at last\nto consist of old worn-out type, which was heaped up to form the wall\nof the next division. A monstrous u, turned bottom upwards (in this\nway [Symbol: inverted U]) formed the arch of a gateway through which\nwe passed; and then traversed a draw-bridge, which was thrown across a\nriver of ink, upon whose banks millions of horrible little demons were\nsporting. I presently saw that they were employed in throwing into the\nblack stream a quantity of books which were heaped up on the shore. As\nI looked down into the stream, I saw that they were immediately\ndevoured by the most hideous and disgusting monsters which were\nfloundering about there. I looked at one book, which had crawled out\nafter being thrown into the river; it was dripping with filth, but I\ndistinguished on the back the words--_Don Juan_. It had hardly climbed\nup the bank, however, when one of the demons gave it a kick, and sent\nit back into the stream, where it was immediately swallowed. On the\nback of some of the books which the little imps were tossing in, I saw\nthe name of--_Rochester_, which showed me the character of those which\nwere sent into this division of the infernal regions.\n\nBeyond this region rose up a vast chain of mountains, which we were\nobliged to clamber over. After toiling for a long time, we reached the\nsummit, and I looked down upon an immense labyrinth built upon the\nplain below, in which I saw a great number of large folios, stalking\nabout in solemn pomp, each followed by a number of small volumes and\npamphlets, like so many pages or footmen watching the beck of their\nmaster. \"You behold here,\" said the demon, \"all the false works upon\ntheology which have been written since the beginning of the Christian\nera. They are condemned to wander about to all eternity in the\nhopeless maze of this labyrinth, each folio drawing after it all the\nminor works to which it gave origin.\" A faint light shone from these\nponderous tomes; but it was like the shining of a lamp in a thick\nmist, shorn of its rays, and illuminating nothing around it. And if my\ncompanion had not held a torch before me, I should not have discerned\nthe outlines of this department of the Infernal world. As my eye\nbecame somewhat accustomed to the feeble light, I discovered beyond\nthe labyrinth a thick mist, which appeared to rise from some river or\nlake. \"That,\" said my companion, \"is the distinct abode of German\nMetaphysical works, and other treatises of a similar unintelligible\ncharacter. They are all obliged to pass through a press; and if there\nis any sense in them, it is thus separated from the mass of nonsense\nin which it is imbedded, and is allowed to escape to a better world.\nVery few of the works, however, are found to be materially diminished\nby passing through the press.\" We had now crossed the plain, and stood\nnear the impenetrable fog, which rose up like a wall before us. In\nfront of it was the press managed by several ugly little demons, and\nsurrounded by an immense number of volumes of every size and shape,\nwaiting for the process which all were obliged to undergo. As I was\nwatching their operations, I saw two very respectable German folios,\nwith enormous clasps, extended like arms, carrying between them a\nlittle volume, which they were fondling like a pet child with marks of\ndoting affection. These folios proved to be two of the most abstruse,\nlearned, and incomprehensible of the metaphysical productions of\nGermany; and the bantling which they seemed to embrace with so much\naffection, was registered on the back--\"_Records of a School_.\" I did\nnot find that a single ray of intelligence had been extracted from\neither of the two after being subjected to the press. As soon as the\nvolumes had passed through the operation of yielding up all the little\nsense they contained, they plunged into the intense fog, and\ndisappeared for ever.\n\nWe next approached the verge of a gulf, which appeared to be\nbottomless; and there was dreadful noise, like the war of the\nelements, and forked flames shooting up from the abyss, which reminded\nme of the crater of Vesuvius. \"You have now reached the ancient limits\nof hell,\" said the demon, \"and you behold beneath your feet the\noriginal chaos on which my domains are founded. But within a few years\nwe have been obliged to build a yet deeper division beyond the gulf,\nto contain a class of books that were unknown in former times.\" \"Pray,\nwhat class can be found,\" I asked, \"worse than those which I have\nalready seen, and for which it appears hell was not bad enough?\" \"They\nare American re-prints of English publications,\" replied he, \"and they\nare generally works of such a despicable character, that they would\nhave found their way here without being republished; but even where\nthe original work was good, it is so degenerated by the form under\nwhich it re-appears in America, that its merit is entirely lost, and\nit is only fit for the seventh and lowest division of hell.\"\n\nI now perceived a bridge spanning over the gulf, with an arch that\nseemed as lofty as the firmament. We hastily passed over, and found\nthat the farthest extremity of the bridge was closed by a gate, over\nwhich was written three words. \"They are the names of the three furies\nwho reign over this division,\" said my guide. I of course did not\ncontradict him; but the words looked very much like some I had seen\nbefore; and the more I examined them, the more difficult was it to\nconvince myself that the inscription was not the same thing as the\nsign over a certain publishing house in Philadelphia.\n\n\"These,\" said the Devil, \"are called the three furies of the hell of\nbooks; not from the mischief they do there to the works about them,\nbut for the unspeakable wrong they did to the same works upon the\nearth, by re-printing them in their hideous brown paper editions.\" As\nsoon as they beheld me, they rushed towards me with such piteous\naccents and heart-moving entreaties, that I would intercede to save\nthem from their torment, that I was moved with the deepest compassion,\nand began to ask my conductor if there were no relief for them. But he\nhurried me away, assuring me that they only wanted to sell me some of\ntheir infernal editions, and the idea of owning any such property was\nso dreadful that it woke me up directly.\n\n\n\n\nTHE DEVIL'S MOTHER-IN-LAW[16]\n\nBY FERN\u00c1N CABALLERO\n\n\n    [16] From _Spanish Fairy Tales_. By Fern\u00e1n Caballero.\n    Translated by J. H. Ingram. (Philadelphia, J. B. Lippincott\n    Co., 1881. By permission of the Publishers.)\n\nIn a town, named Villaga\u00f1anes, there was once an old widow uglier than\nthe sergeant of Utrera, who was considered as ugly as ugly could be;\ndrier than hay; older than foot-walking, and more yellow than the\njaundice. Moreover, she had so crossgrained a disposition that Job\nhimself could not have tolerated her. She had been nicknamed \"Mother\nHolofernes,\" and she had only to put her head out of doors to put all\nthe lads to flight. Mother Holofernes was as clean as a new pin, and\nas industrious as an ant, and in these respects suffered no little\nvexation on account of her daughter Panfila, who was, on the contrary,\nso lazy, and such an admirer of the Quietists, that an earthquake\nwould not move her. So it came to pass that Mother Holofernes began\nquarrelling with her daughter almost from the day that the girl was\nborn.\n\n\"You are,\" she said, \"as flaccid as Dutch tobacco, and it would take a\ncouple of oxen to draw you out of your room. You fly work as you would\nthe pest, and nothing pleases you but the window, you shameless girl.\nYou are more amorous than Cupid himself, but, if I have any power, you\nshall live as close as a nun.\"\n\nOn hearing all this, Panfila got up, yawned, stretched herself, and\nturning her back on her mother, went to the street door. Mother\nHolofernes, without paying attention to this, began to sweep with most\ntremendous energy, accompanying the noise of the broom with a\nmonologue of this tenor:--\n\n\"In my time girls had to work like men.\"\n\nThe broom gave the accompaniment of _shis_, _shis_, _shis_.\n\n\"And lived as secluded as nuns.\"\n\nAnd the broom went _shis_, _shis_, _shis_.\n\n\"Now they are a pack of fools.\"--_Shis_, _shis_.\n\n\"Of idlers.\"--_Shis_, _shis_.\n\n\"And think of nothing but husbands.--_Shis_, _shis_.\n\n\"And are a lot of good-for-nothings.\"\n\nThe broom following with its chorus.\n\nBy this time she had nearly reached the street door, when she saw her\ndaughter making signs to a youth; and the handle of the broom, as the\nhandiest implement, descended upon the shoulders of Panfila, and\neffected the miracle of making her run. Next, Mother Holofernes,\ngrasping the broom, made for the door; but scarcely had the shadow of\nher head appeared, than it produced the customary effect, and the\naspirant disappeared so swiftly that it seemed as if he must have had\nwings on his feet.\n\n\"Drat that fellow!\" shouted the mother; \"I should like to break all\nthe bones in his body.\"\n\n\"What for? Why should I not think of getting married?\"\n\n\"What are you saying? You get married, you fool! not while I live!\"\n\n\"Why were you married, madam? and my grandmother? and my great\ngrandmother?\"\n\n\"Nicely I have been repaid for it, by you, you sauce-box! And\nunderstand me, that if I chose to get married, and your grandmother\nalso, and your great grandmother also, I do not intend that you shall\nmarry; nor my granddaughter, nor my great granddaughter! Do you hear\nme?\"\n\nIn these gentle disputes the mother and daughter passed their lives,\nwithout any other result than that the mother grumbled more and more\nevery day, and the daughter became daily more and more desirous of\ngetting a husband.\n\nUpon one occasion, when Mother Holofernes was doing the washing, and\nas the lye was on the point of boiling, she had to call her daughter\nto help her lift the caldron, in order to pour its contents on to the\ntub of clothes. The girl heard her with one ear, but with the other\nwas listening to a well-known voice which sang in the street:--\n\n    \"I would like to love thee,\n      Did thy mother let me woo!\n    May the demon meddle\n      In all she tries to do!\"\n\nThe sound outside being more attractive for Panfila than the caldron\nwithin, she did not hasten to her mother, but went to the window.\nMother Holofernes, meanwhile, seeing that her daughter did not come,\nand that time was passing, attempted to lift the caldron by herself,\nin order to pour the water upon the linen; and as the good woman was\nsmall, and not very strong, it turned over, and burnt her foot. On\nhearing the horrible groans Mother Holofernes made, her daughter went\nto her.\n\n\"Wretch, wretch!\" cried the enraged Mother Holofernes to her daughter,\n\"may you love Barabbas! And as for marrying--may Heaven grant you may\nmarry the Evil One himself!\"\n\nSometime after this accident an aspirant presented himself: he was a\nlittle man, young, fair, red-haired, well-mannered, and had\nwell-furnished pockets. He had not a single fault, and Mother\nHolofernes was not able to find any in all her arsenal of negatives.\nAs for Panfila, it wanted little to send her out of her senses with\ndelight. So the preparations for the wedding were made, with the usual\ngrumbling accompaniment on the part of the bridegroom's future\nmother-in-law. Everything went on smoothly straightforward, and\nwithout a break--like a railroad--when, without knowing why, the\npopular voice--a voice which is as the personification of\nconscience,--began to rise in a murmur against the stranger, despite\nthe fact that he was affable, humane, and liberal; that he spoke well\nand sang better; and freely took the black and horny hands of the\nlabourers between his own white and beringed fingers. They began to\nfeel neither honoured nor overpowered by so much courtesy; his\nreasoning was always so coarse, although forcible and logical.\n\n\"By my faith!\" said Uncle Blas; \"why does this ill-faced gentleman\ncall me Mr. Blas, as if that would make me any better? What does it\nlook like to you?\"\n\n\"Well, as for me,\" said Uncle Gil, \"did he not come to shake hands\nwith me as if we had some plot between us? Did he not call me citizen?\nI, who have never been out of the village, and never want to go.\"\n\nAs for Mother Holofernes, the more she saw of her future son-in-law,\nthe less regard she had for him. It seemed to her that between that\ninnocent red hair and the cranium were located certain protuberances\nof a very curious kind; and she remembered with emotion that\nmalediction she had uttered against her daughter on that ever\nmemorable day on which her foot was injured and her washing spoilt.\n\nAt last, the wedding day arrived. Mother Holofernes had made pastry\nand reflections--the former sweet, the latter bitter; a great _olla\npodrida_ for the food, and a dangerous project for supper; she had\nprepared a barrel of wine that was generous, and a line of conduct\nthat was not. When the bridal pair were about to retire to the nuptial\nchamber, Mother Holofernes called her daughter aside, and said: \"When\nyou are in your room, be careful to close the door and windows; shut\nall the shutters, and do not leave a single crevice open but the\nkeyhole of the door. Take with you this branch of consecrated olive,\nand beat your husband with it as I advise you; this ceremony is\ncustomary at all marriages, and signifies that the woman is going to\nbe master, and is followed in order to sanction and establish the\nrule.\"\n\nPanfila, for the first time obedient to her mother, did everything\nthat she had prescribed.\n\nNo sooner did the bridegroom espy the branch of consecrated olive in\nthe hands of his wife, than he attempted to make a precipitous\nretreat. But when he found the doors and windows closed, and every\ncrevice stopped up, seeing no other means of escape than by passing\nthrough the keyhole, he crept into that; this spruce, red-and-white,\nand well-spoken bachelor being, as Mother Holofernes had suspected,\nneither more nor less than the Evil One himself, who, availing himself\nof the right given him by the anathema launched against Panfila by her\nmother, thought to amuse himself with the pleasures of a marriage, and\nencumber himself with a wife of his own, whilst so many husbands were\nsupplicating him to take theirs off their hands.\n\nBut this gentleman, despite his reputation for wisdom, had met with a\nmother-in-law who knew more than he did; and Mother Holofernes was not\nthe only specimen of that genus. Therefore, scarcely had his lordship\nentered into the keyhole, congratulating himself upon having, as\nusual, discovered a method of escape, than he found himself in a\nphial, which his foreseeing mother-in-law had ready on the other side\nof the door; and no sooner had he got into it than the provident old\ndame sealed the vessel hermetically. In a most tender voice, and with\nmost humble supplications, and most pathetic gestures, her son-in-law\naddressed her, and desired that she would grant him his liberty. But\nMother Holofernes was not to be deceived by the demon, nor\ndisconcerted by orations, nor imposed upon by honeyed words; she took\ncharge of the bottle and its contents, and went off to a mountain. The\nold lady vigorously climbed to the summit of this mountain, and there,\non its most elevated crest, in a rocky and secluded spot, deposited\nthe phial, taking leave of her son-in-law with a shake of her closed\nfist as a farewell greeting.\n\nAnd there his lordship remained for ten years. What years those ten\nwere! The world was as quiet as a pool of oil. Everybody attended to\nhis own affairs, without meddling in those of other people. Nobody\ncoveted the position, nor the wife, nor the property of other persons;\ntheft became a word without signification; arms rusted; powder was\nonly consumed in fireworks; prisons stood empty; finally, in this\ndecade of the golden age, only one single deplorable event occurred\n... the lawyers died from hunger and quietude.\n\nAlas! that so happy a time should have an end! But everything has an\nend in this world, even the discourses of the most eloquent fathers of\nthe country. At last the much-to-be-envied decade came to a\ntermination in the following way.\n\nA soldier named Bri\u00f3nes had obtained permission for a few days' leave\nto enable him to visit his native place, which was Villaga\u00f1anes. He\ntook the road which led to the lofty mountain upon whose summit the\nson-in-law of Mother Holofernes was cursing all mothers-in-law, past,\npresent, and future, promising as soon as ever he regained his power\nto put an end to that class of vipers, and by a very simple\nmethod--the abolition of matrimony. Much of his time was spent in\ncomposing and reciting satires against the invention of washing linen,\nthe primal cause of his present trouble.\n\nArrived at the foot of the mountain, Bri\u00f3nes did not care to go round\nthe mountain like the road, but wished to go straight ahead, assuring\nthe carriers who were with him, that if the mountain would not go to\nthe right-about for him he would pass over its summit, although it\nwere so high that he should knock his head against the sky.\n\nWhen he reached the summit, Bri\u00f3nes was struck with amazement on\nseeing the phial borne like a pimple on the nose of the mountain. He\ntook it up, looked through it, and on perceiving the demon, who with\nyears of confinement and fasting, the sun's rays, and sadness, had\ndwindled and become as dried as a prune, exclaimed in surprise:--\n\n\"Whatever vermin is this? What a phenomenon!\"\n\n\"I am an honourable and meritorious demon,\" said the captive, humbly\nand courteously. \"The perversity of a treacherous mother-in-law, into\nwhose clutches I fell, has held me confined here during the last ten\nyears; liberate me, valiant warrior, and I will grant any favour you\nchoose to solicit.\"\n\n\"I should like my demission from the army,\" said Bri\u00f3nes.\n\n\"You shall have it; but uncork, uncork quickly, for it is a most\nmonstrous anomaly to have thrust into a corner, in these revolutionary\ntimes, the first revolutionist in the world.\"\n\nBri\u00f3nes drew the cork out slightly, and a noxious vapour issued from\nthe bottle and ascended to his brain. He sneezed, and immediately\nreplaced the stopper with such a violent blow from his hand that the\ncork was suddenly depressed, and the prisoner, squeezed down, gave a\nshout of rage and pain.\n\n\"What are you doing, vile earthworm, more malicious and perfidious\nthan my mother-in-law?\" he exclaimed.\n\n\"There is another condition,\" responded Bri\u00f3nes, \"that I must add to\nour treaty; it appears to me that the service I am going to do you is\nworth it.\"\n\n\"And what is this condition, tardy liberator?\" inquired the demon.\n\n\"I should like for thy ransom four dollars daily during the rest of my\nlife. Think of it, for upon that depends whether you stay in or come\nout.\"\n\n\"Miserable avaricious one!\" exclaimed the demon, \"I have no money.\"\n\n\"Oh!\" replied Bri\u00f3nes, \"what an answer from a great lord like you!\nWhy, friend, that is the Minister of War's answer! If you can't pay me\nI cannot help you.\"\n\n\"Then you do not believe me,\" said the demon, \"only let me out, and I\nwill aid you to obtain what you want as I have done for many others.\nLet me out, I say, let me out.\"\n\n\"Gently,\" responded the soldier, \"there is nothing to hurry about.\nUnderstand me that I shall have to hold you by the tail until you have\nperformed your promise to me; and if not, I have nothing more to say\nto you.\"\n\n\"Insolent, do you not trust me then!\" shouted the demon.\n\n\"No,\" responded Bri\u00f3nes.\n\n\"What you desire is contrary to my dignity,\" said the captive, with\nall the arrogance that a being of his size could express.\n\n\"Now I must go,\" said Bri\u00f3nes.\n\n\"Good-bye,\" said the demon, in order not to say _adieu_.\n\nBut seeing that Bri\u00f3nes went off, the captive made desperate jumps in\nthe phial, shouting loudly to the soldier.\n\n\"Return, return, dear friend,\" he said; and muttered to himself, \"I\nshould like a four-year-old bull to overtake you, you soulless fool!\"\nand then he shouted, \"Come, come, beneficent fellow, liberate me, and\nhold me by the tail, or by the nose, valiant warrior;\" and then\nmuttered to himself, \"Some one will avenge me, obstinate soldier; and\nif the son-in-law of Mother Holofernes is not able to do it, there are\nthose who will burn you both, face to face, in the same bonfire, or I\nhave little influence.\"\n\nOn hearing the demon's supplications Bri\u00f3nes returned and uncorked the\nbottle. Mother Holofernes's son-in-law came forth like a chick from\nits shell, drawing out his head first and then his body, and lastly\nhis tail, which Bri\u00f3nes seized; and the more the demon tried to\ncontract it the firmer he held it.\n\nAfter the ex-captive, who was somewhat cramped, had occasionally\nstopped to stretch his arms and legs, they took the road to court, the\ndemon grumbling and following the soldier, who carried the tail well\nsecured in his hands.\n\nOn their arrival they went to court, and the demon said to his\nliberator:--\n\n\"I am going to put myself into the body of the princess, who is\nextremely beloved by her father, and I shall give her pains that no\ndoctor will be able to cure; then you present yourself and offer to\ncure her, demanding for your recompense four dollars daily, and your\ndischarge. I will then leave her to you, and our accounts will be\nsettled.\"\n\nEverything happened as arranged and foreseen by the demon, but Bri\u00f3nes\ndid not wish to let go his hold of the tail, and he said:--\n\n\"Well devised, sir, but four dollars are a ransom unworthy of you, of\nme, and of the service that we have undertaken. Find some method of\nshowing yourself more generous. To do this will give you honour in the\nworld, where, pardon my frankness, you do not enjoy the best of\ncharacters.\"\n\n\"Would that I could get rid of you!\" said the demon to himself, \"but I\nam so weak and so numbed that I am not able to go alone. I must have\npatience! that which men call a virtue. Oh, now I understand why so\nmany fall into my power for not having practised it. Forward then for\nNaples, for it is necessary to submit in order to liberate my tail. I\nmust go and submit to the arbitration of fate for the satisfaction of\nthis new demand.\"\n\nEverything succeeded according to his wish. The princess of Naples\nfell a victim to convulsive pains and took to her bed. The king was\ngreatly afflicted. Bri\u00f3nes presented himself with all the arrogance\nhis knowledge that he would receive the demon's aid could give him.\nThe king was willing to make use of his services, but stipulated that\nif within three days he had not cured the princess, as he confidently\npromised to, he should be hanged. Bri\u00f3nes, certain of a favourable\nresult, did not raise the slightest objection.\n\nUnfortunately, the demon heard this arrangement made, and gave a leap\nof delight at seeing within his hands the means of avenging himself.\n\nThe demon's leap caused the princess such pain that she begged them to\ntake the doctor away.\n\nThe following day this scene was repeated. Bri\u00f3nes then knew that the\ndemon was at the bottom of it, and intended to let him be hanged. But\nBri\u00f3nes was not a man to lose his head.\n\nOn the third day, when the pretended doctor arrived, they were\nerecting the gallows in front of the very palace door. As he entered\nthe princess's apartment, the invalid's pains were redoubled and she\nbegan to cry out that they should put an end to that impostor.\n\n\"I have not exhausted all my resources yet,\" said Bri\u00f3nes gravely,\n\"deign, your Royal Highness, to wait a little while.\" He then went out\nof the room and gave orders in the princess's name that all the bells\nof the city should be rung.\n\nWhen he returned to the royal apartment, the demon, who has a mortal\nhatred of the sound of bells, and is, moreover, inquisitive, asked\nBri\u00f3nes what the bells were ringing for.\n\n\"They are ringing,\" responded the soldier, \"because of the arrival of\nyour mother-in-law, whom I have ordered to be summoned.\"\n\nScarcely had the demon heard that his mother-in-law had arrived, than\nhe flew away with such rapidity that not even a sun's ray could have\ncaught him. Proud as a peacock, Bri\u00f3nes was left in victorious\npossession of the field.\n\n\n\n\nTHE GENEROUS GAMBLER[17]\n\nBY CHARLES PIERRE BAUDELAIRE\n\n\n    [17] From _The English Review_, November 1918. By permission\n    of the Editor and Mr. Arthur Symons.\n\nYesterday, across the crowd of the boulevard, I found myself touched\nby a mysterious Being I had always desired to know, and who I\nrecognized immediately, in spite of the fact that I had never seen\nhim. He had, I imagined, in himself, relatively as to me, a similar\ndesire, for he gave me, in passing, so significant a sign in his eyes\nthat I hastened to obey him. I followed him attentively, and soon I\ndescended behind him into a subterranean dwelling, astonishing to me\nas a vision, where shone a luxury of which none of the actual houses\nin Paris could give me an approximate example. It seemed to me\nsingular that I had passed so often that prodigious retreat without\nhaving discovered the entrance. There reigned an exquisite, an almost\nstifling atmosphere, which made one forget almost instantaneously all\nthe fastidious horrors of life; there I breathed a sombre sensuality,\nlike that of opium-smokers when, set on the shore of an enchanted\nisland, over which shone an eternal afternoon, they felt born in them,\nto the soothing sounds of melodious cascades, the desire of never\nagain seeing their households, their women, their children, and of\nnever again being tossed on the decks of ships by storms.\n\nThere were there strange faces of men and women, gifted with so fatal\na beauty that I seemed to have seen them years ago and in countries\nwhich I failed to remember, and which inspired in me that curious\nsympathy and that equally curious sense of fear that I usually\ndiscover in unknown aspects. If I wanted to define in some fashion or\nother the singular expression of their eyes, I would say that never\nhad I seen such magic radiance more energetically expressing the\nhorror of _ennui_ and of desire--of the immortal desire of feeling\nthemselves alive.\n\nAs for mine host and myself, we were already, as we sat down, as\nperfect friends as if we had always known each other. We drank\nimmeasurably of all sorts of extraordinary wines, and--a thing not\nless bizarre--it seemed to me, after several hours, that I was no more\nintoxicated than he was.\n\nHowever, gambling, this superhuman pleasure, had cut, at various\nintervals, our copious libations, and I ought to say that I had gained\nand lost my soul, as we were playing, with an heroical carelessness\nand light-heartedness. The soul is so invisible a thing, often useless\nand sometimes so troublesome, that I did not experience, as to this\nloss, more than that kind of emotion I might have, had I lost my\nvisiting card in the street.\n\nWe spent hours in smoking cigars, whose incomparable savour and\nperfume give to the soul the nostalgia of unknown delights and sights,\nand, intoxicated by all these spiced sauces, I dared, in an access of\nfamiliarity which did not seem to displease him, to cry, as I lifted\na glass filled to the brim with wine: \"To your immortal health, Old\nHe-Goat!\"\n\nWe talked of the universe, of its creation and of its future\ndestruction; of the leading ideas of the century--that is to say, of\nProgress and Perfectibility--and, in general, of all kinds of human\ninfatuations. On this subject his Highness was inexhaustible in his\nirrefutable jests, and he expressed himself with a splendour of\ndiction and with a magnificence in drollery such as I have never found\nin any of the most famous conversationalists of our age. He explained\nto me the absurdity of different philosophies that had so far taken\npossession of men's brains, and deigned even to take me in confidence\nin regard to certain fundamental principles, which I am not inclined\nto share with any one.\n\nHe complained in no way of the evil reputation under which he lived,\nindeed, all over the world, and he assured me that he himself was of\nall living beings the most interested in the destruction of\n_Superstition_, and he avowed to me that he had been afraid,\nrelatively as to his proper power, once only, and that was on the day\nwhen he had heard a preacher, more subtle than the rest of the human\nherd, cry in his pulpit: \"My dear brethren, do not ever forget, when\nyou hear the progress of lights praised, that the loveliest trick of\nthe Devil is to persuade you that he does not exist!\"\n\nThe memory of this famous orator brought us naturally on the subject\nof Academies, and my strange host declared to me that he didn't\ndisdain, in many cases, to inspire the pens, the words, and the\nconsciences of pedagogues, and that he almost always assisted in\nperson, in spite of being invisible, at all the scientific meetings.\n\nEncouraged by so much kindness I asked him if he had any news of\nGod--who has not his hours of impiety?--especially as the old friend\nof the Devil. He said to me, with a shade of unconcern united with a\ndeeper shade of sadness: \"We salute each other when we meet.\" But, for\nthe rest, he spoke in Hebrew.\n\nIt is uncertain if his Highness has ever given so long an audience to\na simple mortal, and I feared to abuse it.\n\nFinally, as the dark approached shivering, this famous personage, sung\nby so many poets, and served by so many philosophers who work for his\nglory's sake without being aware of it, said to me: \"I want you to\nremember me always, and to prove to you that I--of whom one says so\nmuch evil--am often enough _bon diable_, to make use of one of your\nvulgar locutions. So as to make up for the irremediable loss that you\nhave made of your soul, I shall give you back the stake you ought to\nhave gained, if your fate had been fortunate--that is to say, the\npossibility of solacing and of conquering, during your whole life,\nthis bizarre affection of _ennui_, which is the source of all your\nmaladies and of all your miseries. Never a desire shall be formed by\nyou that I will not aid you to realize; you will reign over your\nvulgar equals; money and gold and diamonds, fairy palaces, shall come\nto seek you and shall ask you to accept them without your having made\nthe least effort to obtain them; you can change your abode as often as\nyou like; you shall have in your power all sensualities without\nlassitude, in lands where the climate is always hot, and where the\nwomen are as scented as the flowers.\" With this he rose up and said\ngood-bye to me with a charming smile.\n\nIf it had not been for the shame of humiliating myself before so\nimmense an assembly, I might have voluntarily fallen at the feet of\nthis generous Gambler, to thank him for his unheard-of munificence.\nBut, little by little, after I had left him, an incurable defiance\nentered into me; I dared no longer believe in so prodigious a\nhappiness; and as I went to bed, making over again my nightly prayer\nby means of all that remained in me in the matter of faith, I repeated\nin my slumber: \"My God, my Lord, my God! Do let the Devil keep his\nword with me!\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE THREE LOW MASSES[18]\n\nA CHRISTMAS STORY\n\nBY ALPHONSE DAUDET\n\n\n    [18] From _The Fig and the Idler, an Algerian Legend, and\n    Other Stories_, by Alphonse Daudet. London, T. Fisher Unwin,\n    1892. (By permission of the Publisher.)\n\nI\n\n\"Two truffled turkeys, Garrigou?\"\n\n\"Yes, your reverence, two magnificent turkeys, stuffed with truffles.\nI should know something about it, for I myself helped to fill them.\nOne would have said their skin would crack as they were roasting, it\nis that stretched....\"\n\n\"Jesu-Maria! I who like truffles so much!... Quick, give me my\nsurplice, Garrigou.... And have you seen anything else in the kitchen\nbesides the turkeys?\"\n\n\"Yes, all kinds of good things.... Since noon, we have done nothing\nbut pluck pheasants, hoopoes, barn-fowls, and woodcocks. Feathers were\nflying about all over.... Then they have brought eels, gold carp, and\ntrout out of the pond, besides....\"\n\n\"What size were the trout, Garrigou?\"\n\n\"As big as that, your reverence.... Enormous!\"\n\n\"Oh heavens! I think I see them.... Have you put the wine in the\nvessels?\"\n\n\"Yes, your reverence, I have put the wine in the vessels.... But la!\nit is not to be compared to what you will drink presently, when the\nmidnight mass is over. If you only saw that in the dining hall of the\nch\u00e2teau! The decanters are all full of wines glowing with every\ncolour!... And the silver plate, the chased _epergnes_, the flowers,\nthe lustres!... Never will such another midnight repast be seen. The\nnoble marquis has invited all the lords of the neighbourhood. At least\nforty of you will sit down to table, without reckoning the farm\nbailiff and the notary.... Oh, how lucky is your reverence to be one\nof them!... After a mere sniff of those fine turkeys, the scent of\ntruffles follows me everywhere.... Yum!\"\n\n\"Come now, come now, my child. Let us keep from the sin of gluttony,\non the night of the Nativity especially.... Be quick and light the\nwax-tapers and ring the first bell for the mass; for it's nearly\nmidnight and we must not be behind time.\"\n\nThis conversation took place on a Christmas night in the year of grace\none thousand six hundred and something, between the Reverend Dom\nBalagu\u00e8re (formerly Prior of the Barnabites, now paid chaplain of the\nLords of Trinquelague), and his little clerk Garrigou, or at least him\nwhom he took for his little clerk Garrigou, for you must know that the\ndevil had on that night assumed the round face and soft features of\nthe young sacristan, in order the more effectually to lead the\nreverend father into temptation, and make him commit the dreadful sin\nof gluttony. Well then, while the supposed Garrigou (hum!) was with\nall his might making the bells of the baronial chapel chime out, his\nreverence was putting on his chasuble in the little sacristy of the\nch\u00e2teau; and with his mind already agitated by all these gastronomic\ndescriptions, he kept saying to himself as he was robing:\n\n\"Roasted turkeys, ... golden carp, ... trout as big as that!...\"\n\nOut of doors, the soughing night wind was carrying abroad the music of\nthe bells, and with this, lights began to make their appearance on the\ndark sides of Mount Ventoux, on the summit of which rose the ancient\ntowers of Trinquelague. The lights were borne by the families of the\ntenant farmers, who were coming to hear the midnight mass at the\nch\u00e2teau. They were scaling the hill in groups of five or six together,\nand singing; the father in front carrying a lantern, and the women\nwrapped up in large brown cloaks, beneath which their little children\nsnuggled and sheltered. In spite of the cold and the lateness of the\nhour these good folks were marching blithely along, cheered by the\nthought that after the mass was over there would be, as always in\nformer years, tables set for them down in the kitchens. Occasionally\nthe glass windows in some lord's carriage, preceded by torch-bearers,\nwould glisten in the moon-light on the rough ascent; or perhaps a mule\nwould jog by with tinkling bells, and by the light of the misty\nlanterns the tenants would recognize their bailiff and would salute\nhim as he passed with:\n\n\"Good evening, Master Arnoton.\"\n\n\"Good evening. Good evening, my friend.\"\n\nThe night was clear, and the stars were twinkling with frost; the\nnorth wind was nipping, and at times a fine small hail, that slipped\noff one's garments without wetting them, faithfully maintained the\ntradition of Christmas being white with snow. On the summit of the\nhill, as the goal towards which all were wending, gleamed the ch\u00e2teau,\nwith its enormous mass of towers and gables, and its chapel steeple\nrising into the blue-black sky. A multitude of little lights were\ntwinkling, coming, going, and moving about at all the windows; they\nlooked like the sparks one sees running about in the ashes of burnt\npaper.\n\nAfter you had passed the drawbridge and the postern gate, it was\nnecessary, in order to reach the chapel, to cross the first court,\nwhich was full of carriages, footmen and sedan chairs, and was quite\nilluminated by the blaze of torches and the glare of the kitchen\nfires. Here were heard the click of turnspits, the rattle of\nsauce-pans, the clash of glasses and silver plate in the commotion\nattending the preparation of the feast; while over all rose a warm\nvapour smelling pleasantly of roast meat, piquant herbs, and complex\nsauces, and which seemed to say to the farmers, as well as to the\nchaplain and to the bailiff, and to everybody:\n\n\"What a good midnight repast we are going to have after the mass!\"\n\n\nII\n\nTing-a-ring!--a--ring!\n\nThe midnight mass is beginning in the chapel of the ch\u00e2teau, which is\na cathedral in miniature, with groined and vaulted roofs, oak\nwood-work as high as the walls, expanded draperies, and tapers all\naglow. And what a lot of people! What grand dresses! First of all,\nseated in the carved stalls that line the choir, is the Lord of\nTrinquelague in a coat of salmon-coloured silk, and about him are\nranged all the noble lords who have been invited.\n\nOn the opposite side, on velvet-covered praying-stools, the old\ndowager marchioness in flame-coloured brocade, and the youthful Lady\nof Trinquelague wearing a lofty head-dress of plaited lace in the\nnewest fashion of the French court, have taken their places. Lower\ndown, dressed in black, with punctilious wigs, and shaven faces, like\ntwo grave notes among the gay silks and the figured damasks, are seen\nthe bailiff, Thomas Arnoton, and the notary Master Ambroy. Then come\nthe stout major-domos, the pages, the horsemen, the stewards, Dame\nBarbara, with all her keys hanging at her side on a real silver ring.\nAt the end, on the forms, are the lower class, the female servants,\nthe cotter farmers and their families; and lastly, down there, near\nthe door, which they open and shut very carefully, are messieurs the\nscullions, who enter in the interval between two sauces, to take a\nlittle whiff of mass; and these bring the smell of the repast with\nthem into the church, which now is in high festival and warm from the\nnumber of lighted tapers.\n\nIs it the sight of their little white caps that so distracts the\ncelebrant? Is it not rather Garrigou's bell? that mad little bell\nwhich is shaken at the altar foot with an infernal impetuosity that\nseems all the time to be saying: \"Come, let us make haste, make\nhaste.... The sooner we shall have finished, the sooner shall we be at\ntable.\" The fact is that every time this devil's bell tinkles the\nchaplain forgets his mass, and thinks of nothing but the midnight\nrepast. He fancies he sees the cooks bustling about, the stoves\nglowing with forge-like fires, the two magnificent turkeys, filled,\ncrammed, marbled with truffles....\n\nThen again he sees, passing along, files of little pages carrying\ndishes enveloped in tempting vapours, and with them he enters the\ngreat hall now prepared for the feast. Oh delight! there is the\nimmense table all laden and luminous, peacocks adorned with their\nfeathers, pheasants spreading out their reddish-brown wings,\nruby-coloured decanters, pyramids of fruit glowing amid green boughs,\nand those wonderful fish Garrigou (ah well, yes, Garrigou!) had\nmentioned, laid on a couch of fennel, with their pearly scales\ngleaming as if they had just come out of the water, and bunches of\nsweet-smelling herbs in their monstrous snouts. So clear is the vision\nof these marvels that it seems to Dom Balagu\u00e8re that all these\nwondrous dishes are served before him on the embroidered altar-cloth,\nand two or three times instead of the _Dominus vobiscum_, he finds\nhimself saying the _Benedicite_. Except these slight mistakes, the\nworthy man pronounces the service very conscientiously, without\nskipping a line, without omitting a genuflexion; and all goes\ntolerably well until the end of the first mass; for you know that on\nChristmas Day the same officiating priest must celebrate three\nconsecutive masses.\n\n\"That's one done!\" says the chaplain to himself with a sigh of\nrelief; then, without losing a moment, he motioned to his clerk, or to\nhim whom he supposed to be his clerk, and...\n\n\"Ting-a-ring ... Ting-a-ring, a-ring!\"\n\nNow the second mass is beginning, and with it begins also Dom\nBalagu\u00e8re's sin. \"Quick, quick, let us make haste,\" Garrigou's bell\ncries out to him in its shrill little voice, and this time the unhappy\ncelebrant, completely given over to the demon of gluttony, fastens\nupon the missal and devours its pages with the eagerness of his\nover-excited appetite. Frantically he bows down, rises up, merely\nindicates the sign of the cross and the genuflexions, and curtails all\nhis gestures in order to get sooner finished. Scarcely has he\nstretched out his arms at the gospel, before he is striking his breast\nat the _Confiteor_. It is a contest between himself and the clerk as\nto who shall mumble the faster. Versicles and responses are hurried\nover and run one into another. The words, half pronounced, without\nopening the mouth, which would take up too much time, terminate in\nunmeaning murmurs.\n\n\"_Oremus ps ... ps ... ps...._\"\n\n\"_Mea culpa ... pa ... pa...._\"\n\nLike vintagers in a hurry pressing grapes in the vat, these two paddle\nin the mass Latin, sending splashes in every direction.\n\n\"_Dom ... scum!..._\" says Balagu\u00e8re.\n\n\"_... Stutuo!..._\" replies Garrigou; and all the time the cursed\nlittle bell is tinkling there in their ears, like the jingles they put\non post-horses to make them gallop fast. You may imagine at that speed\na low mass is quickly disposed of.\n\n\"That makes two,\" says the chaplain quite panting; then without taking\ntime to breathe, red and perspiring, he descends the altar steps\nand...\n\n\"Ting-a-ring!... Ting-a-ring!...\"\n\nNow the third mass is beginning. There are but a few more steps to be\ntaken to reach the dining-hall; but, alas! the nearer the midnight\nrepast approaches the more does the unfortunate Balagu\u00e8re feel himself\npossessed by mad impatience and gluttony. The vision becomes more\ndistinct; the golden carps, the roasted turkeys are there, there!...\nHe touches them, ... he ... oh heavens! The dishes are smoking, the\nwines perfume the air; and with furiously agitated clapper, the little\nbell is crying out to him:\n\n\"Quick, quick, quicker yet!\"\n\nBut how could he go quicker? His lips scarcely move. He no longer\npronounces the words; ... unless he were to impose upon Heaven\noutright and trick it out of its mass.... And that is precisely what\nhe does, the unfortunate man!... From temptation to temptation; he\nbegins by skipping a verse, then two. Then the epistle is too long--he\ndoes not finish it, skims over the gospel, passes before the _Credo_\nwithout going into it, skips the _Pater_, salutes the _Preface_ from a\ndistance, and by leaps and bounds thus hurls himself into eternal\ndamnation, constantly followed by the vile Garrigou (_vade retro,\nSatanas!_), who seconds him with wonderful skill, sustains his\nchasuble, turns over the leaves two at a time, elbows the\nreading-desks, upsets the vessels, and is continually sounding the\nlittle bell louder and louder, quicker and quicker.\n\nYou should have seen the scared faces of all who were present, as they\nwere obliged to follow this mass by mere mimicry of the priest,\nwithout hearing a word; some rise when others kneel, and sit down when\nthe others are standing up, and all the phases of this singular\nservice are mixed up together in the multitude of different attitudes\npresented by the worshippers on the benches....\n\n\"The _abb\u00e9_ goes too fast.... One can't follow him,\" murmured the old\ndowager, shaking her head-dress in confusion. Master Arnoton with\ngreat steel spectacles on his nose is searching in his prayer-book to\nfind where the dickens they are. But at heart all these good folks,\nwho themselves are thinking about feasting, are not sorry that the\nmass is going on at this post haste; and when Dom Balagu\u00e8re with\nradiant face turns towards those present and cries with all his might:\n\"_Ite, missa est_,\" they all respond to him a \"_Deo gratias_\" in but\none voice, and that as joyous and enthusiastic, as if they thought\nthemselves already seated at the midnight repast and drinking the\nfirst toast.\n\n\nIII\n\nFive minutes afterwards the crowd of nobles were sitting down in the\ngreat hall, with the chaplain in the midst of them. The ch\u00e2teau,\nilluminated from top to bottom, was resounding with songs, with\nshouts, with laughter, with uproar; and the venerable Dom Balagu\u00e8re\nwas thrusting his fork into the wing of a fowl, and drowning all\nremorse for his sin in streams of regal wine and the luscious juices\nof the viands. He ate and drank so much, the dear, holy man, that he\ndied during the night of a terrible attack, without even having had\ntime to repent; and then in the morning when he got to heaven, I leave\nyou to imagine how he was received.\n\nHe was told to withdraw on account of his wickedness. His fault was so\ngrievous that it effaced a whole lifetime of virtue.... He had robbed\nthem of a midnight mass.... He should have to pay for it with three\nhundred, and he should not enter into Paradise until he had celebrated\nin his own chapel these three hundred Christmas masses in the presence\nof all those who had sinned with him and by his fault....\n\n... And now this is the true legend of Dom Balagu\u00e8re as it is related\nin the olive country. At the present time the ch\u00e2teau of Trinquelague\nno longer exists, but the chapel still stands on the top of Mount\nVentoux, amid a cluster of green oaks. Its decayed door rattles in the\nwind, and its threshold is choked up with vegetation; there are birds'\nnests at the corners of the altar, and in the recesses of the lofty\nwindows, from which the stained glass has long ago disappeared. It\nseems, however, that every year at Christmas, a supernatural light\nwanders amid these ruins, and the peasants, in going to the masses and\nto the midnight repasts, see this phantom of a chapel illuminated by\ninvisible tapers that burn in the open air, even in snow and wind. You\nmay laugh at it if you like, but a vine-dresser of the place, named\nGarrigue, doubtless a descendant of Garrigou, declared to me that one\nChristmas night, when he was a little tipsy, he lost his way on the\nhill of Trinquelague; and this is what he saw.... Till eleven\no'clock, nothing. All was silent, motionless, inanimate. Suddenly,\nabout midnight, a chime sounded from the top of the steeple, an old,\nold chime, which seemed as if it were ten leagues off. Very soon\nGarrigue saw lights flitting about, and uncertain shadows moving in\nthe road that climbs the hill. They passed on beneath the chapel\nporch, and murmured:\n\n\"Good evening, Master Arnoton!\"\n\n\"Good evening, good evening, my friends!\" ...\n\nWhen all had entered, my vine-dresser, who was very courageous,\nsilently approached, and when he looked through the broken door, a\nsingular spectacle met his gaze. All those he had seen pass were\nseated round the choir, and in the ruined nave, just as if the old\nseats still existed. Fine ladies in brocade, with lace head-dresses;\nlords adorned from head to foot; peasants in flowered jackets such as\nour grandfathers had; all with an old, faded, dusty, tired look. From\ntime to time the night birds, the usual inhabitants of the chapel, who\nwere aroused by all these lights, would come and flit round the\ntapers, the flames of which rose straight and ill-defined, as if they\nwere burning behind a veil; and what amused Garrigue very much was a\ncertain personage with large steel spectacles, who was ever shaking\nhis tall black wig, in which one of these birds was quite entangled,\nand kept itself upright by noiselessly flapping its wings....\n\nAt the farther end, a little old man of childish figure was on his\nknees in the middle of the choir, desperately shaking a clapperless\nand soundless bell, whilst a priest, clad in ancient gold, was coming\nand going before the altar, reciting prayers of which not a word was\nheard.... Most certainly this was Dom Balagu\u00e8re in the act of saying\nhis third low mass.\n\n\n\n\nDEVIL-PUZZLERS[19]\n\nBY FREDERICK BEECHER PERKINS\n\n\n    [19] By permission of G. P. Putnam's Sons, Publishers. New\n    York and London.\n\nIt will not do at all to disbelieve in the existence of a personal\ndevil. It is not so many years ago that one of our profoundest divines\nremarked with indignation upon such disbelief. \"No such person?\" cried\nthe doctor with energy. \"Don't tell me! I can hear his tail snap and\ncrack about amongst the churches any day!\"\n\nAnd if the enemy is, in truth, still as vigorously active among the\nsons of God as he was in the days of Job (that is to say, in the time\nof Solomon, when, as the critics have found out, the Book of Job was\nwritten), then surely still more is he vigilant and sly in his tricks\nfor foreclosing his mortgages upon the souls of the wicked.\n\nAnd once more: still more than ever is his personal appearance\nprobable in these latter days. The everlasting tooting of the wordy\nCumming has proclaimed the end of all things for a quarter of a\ncentury; and he will surely see his prophecy fulfilled if he can only\nkeep it up long enough. But, though we discredit the sapient\nSecond-Adventist as to the precise occasion of the diabolic avatar,\nhas there not been a strange coincidence between his noisy\ndeclarations, and other evidences of an approximation of the spiritual\nto the bodily sphere of life? Is not this same quarter of a century\nthat of the Spiritists? Has it not witnessed the development of Od?\nAnd of clairvoyance? And have not the doctrines of ghosts, and\nre-appearances of the dead, and of messages from them, risen into a\nprominence entirely new, and into a coherence and semblance at least\nof fact and fixed law such as was never known before? Yea, verily. Of\nall times in the world's history, to reject out of one's beliefs\neither good spirits or bad, angelology or diabology, chief good being,\nor chief bad being, this is the most improper.\n\nDr. Hicok was trebly liable to the awful temptation, under which he\nhad assuredly fallen, over and above the fact that he was a prig,\nwhich makes one feel the more glad that he was so handsomely come up\nwith in the end; such a prig that everybody who knew him, invariably\ncalled him (when he wasn't by) Hicok-alorum. This charming surname had\nbeen conferred on him by a crazy old fellow with whom he once got into\na dispute. Lunatics have the most awfully tricky ways of dodging out\nof pinches in reasoning; but Hicok knew too much to know _that_; and\nso he acquired his fine title to teach him one thing more.\n\nTrebly liable, we said. The three reasons are,--\n\n  1. He was foreign-born.\n  2. He was a Scotchman.\n  3. He was a physician and surgeon.\n\nThe way in which these causes operated was as follows (I wish it were\nallowable to use Artemas Ward's curiously satisfactory vocable\n\"thusly:\" like Mrs. Wiggle's soothing syrup, it \"supplies a real\nwant\"):--\n\nBeing foreign-born, Dr. Hicok had not the unfailing moral stamina of a\nnative American, and therefore was comparatively easily beset by sin.\nBeing, secondly, a Scotchman, he was not only thoroughly conceited,\nwith a conceit as immovable as the Bass Rock, just as other folks\nsometimes are, but, in particular, he was perfectly sure of his utter\nmastery of metaphysics, logic and dialectics, or, as he used to call\nit, with a snobbish Teutonicalization, _dialektik_. Now, in the latter\ntwo, the Scotch can do something, but in metaphysics they are simply\nimbecile; which quality, in the inscrutable providence of God, has\nbeen joined with an equally complete conviction of the exact opposite.\nLet not man, therefore, put those traits asunder--not so much by\nreason of any divine ordinance, as because no man in his senses would\ntry to convince a Scotchman--or anybody else, for that matter.\n\nThirdly, he was a physician and surgeon; and gentlemen of this\nprofession are prone to become either thoroughgoing materialists, or\nelse implicit and extreme Calvinistic Presbyterians, \"of the large\nblue kind.\" And they are, moreover, positive, hard-headed, bold, and\nself-confident. So they have good need to be. Did not Majendie say to\nhis students, \"Gentlemen, disease is a subject which physicians know\nnothing about\"?\n\nSo the doctor both believed in the existence of a personal devil, and\nbelieved in his own ability to get the upper hand of that individual\nin a tournament of the wits. Ah, he learned better by terrible\nexperience! The doctor was a dry-looking little chap, with sandy hair,\na freckled face, small grey eyes, and absurd white eyebrows and\neyelashes, which made him look as if he had finished off his toilet\nwith just a light flourish from the dredging-box. He was erect of\ncarriage, and of a prompt, ridiculous alertness of step and motion,\nvery much like that of Major Wellington De Boots. And his face\ncommonly wore a kind of complacent serenity such as the Hindoos\nascribe to Buddha. I know a little snappish dentist's-goods dealer up\ntown, who might be mistaken for Hicok-alorum any day.\n\nWell, well--what had the doctor done? Why--it will sound absurd,\nprobably, to some unbelieving people--but really Dr. Hicok confessed\nthe whole story to me himself: he had made a bargain with the Evil\nOne! And indeed he was such an uncommonly disagreeable-looking fellow,\nthat, unless on some such hypothesis, it is impossible to imagine how\nhe could have prospered as he did. He gained patients, and cured them\ntoo; made money; invested successfully; bought a brown-stone front--a\nhouse, not a wiglet--then bought other real estate; began to put his\nname on charity subscription lists, and to be made vice-president of\nvarious things.\n\nChiefest of all,--it must have been by some superhuman aid that Dr.\nHicok married his wife, the then and present Mrs. Hicok. Dear me! I\nhave described the doctor easily enough. But how infinitely more\ndifficult it is to delineate Beauty than the Beast: did you ever think\nof it? All I can say is, that she is a very lovely woman now; and she\nmust have been, when the doctor married her, one of the loveliest\ncreatures that ever lived--a lively, graceful, bright-eyed brunette,\nwith thick fine long black hair, pencilled delicate eyebrows, little\npink ears, thin high nose, great astonished brown eyes, perfect\nteeth, a little rosebud of a mouth, and a figure so extremely\nbeautiful that nobody believed she did not pad--hardly even the\nartists who--those of them at least who work faithfully in the\nlife-school--are the very best judges extant of truth in costume and\npersonal beauty. But, furthermore, she was good, with the innocent\nunconscious goodness of a sweet little child; and of all feminine\ncharms--even beyond her supreme grace of motion--she possessed the\nsweetest, the most resistless--a lovely voice; whose tones, whether in\nspeech or song, were perfect in sweetness, and with a strange\npenetrating sympathetic quality and at the same time with the most\nwonderful half-delaying completeness of articulation and modulation,\nas if she enjoyed the sound of her own music. No doubt she did; but it\nwas unconsciously, like a bird. The voice was so sweet, the great\nloveliness and kindness of soul it expressed were so deep, that, like\nevery exquisite beauty, it rayed forth a certain sadness within the\npleasure it gave. It awakened infinite, indistinct emotions of beauty\nand perfection--infinite longings.\n\nIt's of no use to tell me that such a spirit--she really ought not to\nbe noted so low down as amongst human beings--that such a spirit could\nhave been made glad by becoming the yoke-fellow of Hicok-alorum, by\ninfluences exclusively human. No!--I don't believe it--I won't believe\nit--it can't be believed. I can't convince you, of course, for you\ndon't know her; but if you did, along with the rest of the evidence,\nand if your knowledge was like mine, that from the testimony of my\nown eyes and ears and judgment--you would know, just as I do, that\nthe doctor's possession of his wife was the key-stone of the arch of\ncompleted proof on which I found my absolute assertion that he had\nmade that bargain.\n\nHe certainly had! A most characteristic transaction too; for while,\nafter the usual fashion, it was agreed by the \"party of the first\npart,\"--viz., Old Scratch--that Dr. Hicok should succeed in whatever\nhe undertook during twenty years, and by the party of the second part,\nthat at the end of that time the D---- should fetch him in manner and\nform as is ordinarily provided, yet there was added a peculiar clause.\nThis was, that, when the time came for the doctor to depart, he should\nbe left entirely whole and unharmed, in mind, body, and estate,\nprovided he could put to the Devil three consecutive questions, of\nwhich either one should be such that that cunning spirit could not\nsolve it on the spot.\n\nSo for twenty years Dr. Hicok lived and prospered, and waxed very\ngreat. He did not gain one single pound avoirdupois however, which may\nperchance seem strange, but is the most natural thing in the world.\nWho ever saw a little, dry, wiry, sandy, freckled man, with white\neyebrows, that did grow fat? And besides, the doctor spent all his\nleisure time in hunting up his saving trinity of questions; and hard\nstudy, above all for such a purpose, is as sure an anti-fattener as\nBanting.\n\nHe knew the Scotch metaphysicians by heart already, _ex-officio_ as it\nwere; but he very early gave up the idea of trying to fool the Devil\nwith such mud-pie as that. Yet be it understood, that he found cause\nto except Sir William Hamilton from the muddle-headed crew. He chewed\na good while, and pretty hopefully, upon the Quantification of the\nPredicate; but he had to give that up too, when he found out how small\nand how dry a meat rattled within the big, noisy nut-shell. He read\nSaint Thomas Aquinas, and Peter Dens, and a cartload more of old\ncasuists, Romanist and Protestant.\n\nHe exhausted the learning of the Development Theory. He studied and\nexperimented up to the existing limits of knowledge on the question of\nthe Origin of Life, and then poked out alone, as much farther as he\ncould, into the ineffable black darkness that is close at the end of\nour noses on that, as well as most other questions. He hammered his\nway through the whole controversy on the Freedom of the Will. He\nmastered the whole works of Mrs. Henry C. Carey on one side, and of\ntwo hundred and fifty English capitalists and American college\nprofessors on the other, on the question of Protection or Free Trade.\nHe made, with vast pains, an extensive collection of the questions\nproposed at debating societies and college-students' societies with\nlong Greek names. The last effort was a failure. Dr. Hicok had got the\nidea, that, from the spontaneous activity of so many free young\ngeniuses, many wondrous and suggestive thoughts would be born. Having,\nhowever, tabulated his collection, he found, that, among all these\ninnumerable gymnasia of intellect, there were only seventeen questions\ndebated! The doctor read me a curious little memorandum of his\nconclusions on this unexpected fact, which will perhaps be printed\nsome day.\n\nHe investigated many other things too; for a sharp-witted little\nPresbyterian Scotch doctor, working to cheat the Devil out of his\nsoul, can accomplish an amazing deal in twenty years. He even went so\nfar as to take into consideration mere humbugs; for, if he could cheat\nthe enemy with a humbug, why not? The only pain in that case, would be\nthe mortification of having stooped to an inadequate adversary--a\nfoeman unworthy of his steel. So he weighed such queries as the old\nscholastic _brocard, An chimoera bombinans in vacuo devorat secundas\nintentiones?_ and that beautiful moot point wherewith Sir Thomas More\nsilenced the challenging schoolmen of Bruges, _An averia carrucae\ncapta in vetito nomio sint irreplegibilia?_\n\nHe glanced a little at the subject of conundrums; and among the chips\nfrom his workshop is a really clever theory of conundrums. He has a\nclassification and discussion of them, all his own, and quite\ningenious and satisfactory, which divides them into answerable and\nunanswerable, and, under each of these, into resemblant and\ndifferential.\n\nFor instance: let the four classes be distinguished with the initials\nof those four terms, A. R., A. D., U. R., and U. D.; you will find\nthat the Infinite Possible Conundrum (so to speak) can always be\nreduced under one of those four heads. Using symbols, as they do in\ndiscussing syllogism--indeed, by the way, a conundrum is only a\njocular variation in the syllogism, an intentional fallacy for fun\n(read Whately's _Logic_, Book III., and see if it isn't so)--using\nsymbols, I say, you have these four \"figures:\"--\n\nI. (A. R.) Why is A like B? (answerable): as, Why is a gentleman who\ngives a young lady a young dog, like a person who rides rapidly up\nhill? A. Because he gives a gallop up (gal-a-pup).\n\n_Sub-variety_; depending upon a violation of something like the\n\"principle of excluded middle,\" a very fallacy of a fallacy; such as\nthe ancient \"nigger-minstrel!\" case, Why is an elephant like a brick?\nA. Because neither of them can climb a tree.\n\nII. (A. D.) Why is A _unlike_ B? (answerable) usually put thus: What\nis the difference between A and B? (Figure I., if worded in the same\nstyle, would become: What is the similarity between A and B?): as,\nWhat is the difference between the old United-States Bank and the\nFulton Ferry-boat signals in thick weather? A. One is a fog whistle,\nand the other is a Whig fossil.\n\nIII. (U. R.) Why is A like B? (unanswerable): as Charles Lamb's\nwell-known question, Is that your own hare, or a wig?\n\nIV. (U. D.) Why is A _unlike_ B? (unanswerable): i. e., What is the\ndifference, &c, as, What is the difference between a fac simile and a\nsick family; or between hydraulics and raw-hide licks?\n\nBut let me not diverge too far into frivolity. All the hopefully\ndifficult questions Dr. Hicok set down and classified. He compiled a\nset of rules on the subject, and indeed developed a whole philosophy\nof it, by which he struck off, as soluble, questions or classes of\nthem. Some he thought out himself; others were now and then answered\nin some learned book, that led the way through the very heart of one\nor another of his biggest mill-stones.\n\nSo it was really none too much time that he had; and, in truth, he did\nnot actually decide upon his three questions, until just a week before\nthe fearful day when he was to put them.\n\nIt came at last, as every day of reckoning surely comes; and Dr.\nHicok, memorandum in hand, sat in his comfortable library about three\no'clock on one beautiful warm summer afternoon, as pale as a sheet,\nhis heart thumping away like Mr. Krupp's biggest steam-hammer at\nEssen, his mouth and tongue parched and feverish, a pitcher of cold\nwater at hand from which he sipped and sipped, though it seemed as if\nhis throat repelled it into \"the globular state,\" or dispersed it into\nsteam, as red-hot iron does. Around him were the records of the vast\narmy of doubters and quibblers in whose works he had been hunting, as\na traveller labours through a jungle, for the deepest doubts, the most\nremote inquiries.\n\nSometimes, with that sort of hardihood, rather than reason, which\nmakes a desperate man try to believe by his will what he longs to know\nto be true, Dr. Hicok would say to himself, \"I know I've got him!\" And\nthen his heart would seem to fall out of him, it sank so suddenly, and\nwith so deadly a faintness, as the other side of his awful case loomed\nbefore him, and he thought, \"But if--?\" He would not finish _that_\nquestion; he could not. The furthest point to which he could bring\nhimself was that of a sort of icy outer stiffening of acquiescence in\nthe inevitable.\n\nThere was a ring at the street-door. The servant brought in a card, on\na silver salver.\n\n  +-----------------+\n  | MR. APOLLO LYON |\n  +-----------------+\n\n\"Show the gentleman in,\" said the doctor. He spoke with difficulty;\nfor the effort to control his own nervous excitement was so immense an\nexertion, that he hardly had the self-command and muscular energy even\nto articulate.\n\nThe servant returned, and ushered into the library a handsome,\nyoungish, middle-aged and middle-sized gentleman, pale, with large\nmelancholy black eyes, and dressed in the most perfect and quiet\nstyle.\n\nThe doctor arose, and greeted his visitor with a degree of steadiness\nand politeness that did him the greatest credit.\n\n\"How do you do, sir?\" he said: \"I am happy\"--but it struck him that he\nwasn't, and he stopped short.\n\n\"Very right, my dear sir,\" replied the guest, in a voice that was\nmusical but perceptibly sad, or rather patient in tone. \"Very right;\nhow hollow those formulas are! I hate all forms and ceremonies! But I\nam glad to see _you_, doctor. Now, that is really the fact.\"\n\nNo doubt! \"Divil doubt him!\" as an Irishman would say. So is a cat\nglad to see a mouse in its paw. Something like these thoughts arose in\nthe doctor's mind; he smiled as affably as he could, and requested the\nvisitor to be seated.\n\n\"Thanks!\" replied he, and took the chair which the doctor moved up to\nthe table for him. He placed his hat and gloves on the table. There\nwas a brief pause, as might happen if any two friends sat down at\ntheir ease for a chat on matters and things in general. The visitor\nturned over a volume or two that lay on the table.\n\n\"The Devil,\" he read from one of them; \"His Origin, Greatness, and\nDecadence. By the Rev. A. R\u00e9ville, D.D.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" he commented quietly. \"A Frenchman, I observe. If it had been an\nEnglishman, I should fancy he wrote the book for the sake of the rhyme\nin the title. Do you know, doctor, I fancy that incredulity of his\nwill substitute one dash for the two periods in the reverend\ngentleman's degree! I know no one greater condition of success in some\nlines of operation, than to have one's existence thoroughly\ndisbelieved in.\"\n\nThe doctor forced himself to reply: \"I hardly know how I came to have\nthe book here. Yet he does make out a pretty strong case. I confess I\nwould like to be certified that he is right. Suppose you allow\nyourself to be convinced?\" And the poor fellow grinned: it couldn't be\ncalled a smile.\n\n\"Why, really, I'll look into it. I've considered the point though, not\nthat I'm sure I could choose. And you know, as the late J. Milton very\nneatly observed, one would hardly like to lose one's intellectual\nbeing, 'though full of pain;'\" and he smiled, not unkindly but sadly,\nand then resumed: \"A Bible too. Very good edition. I remember seeing\nit stated that a professional person made it his business to find\nerrors of the press in one of the Bible Society's editions--this very\none, I think; and the only one he could discover was a single 'wrong\nfont.' Very accurate work--very!\"\n\nHe had been turning over the leaves indifferently as he spoke, and\nlaid the volume easily back. \"Curious old superstition that,\" he\nremarked, \"that certain personages were made uncomfortable by this\nwork!\" And he gave the doctor a glance, as much as to ask, in the most\ndelicate manner in the world, \"Did you put that there to scare me\nwith?\"\n\nI think the doctor blushed a little. He had not really expected, you\nknow,--still, in case there should be any prophylactic influence--? No\nharm done, in any event; and that was precisely the observation made\nby the guest.\n\n\"No harm done, my dear fellow!\" he said, in his calm, quiet, musical\nvoice. No good, either, I imagine they both of them added to\nthemselves.\n\nThere is an often repeated observation, that people under the pressure\nof an immeasurable misery or agony seem to take on a preternaturally\nsharp vision for minute details, such as spots in the carpet, and\nsprigs in the wall-paper, threads on a sleeve, and the like. Probably\nthe doctor felt this influence. He had dallied a little, too, with the\ncrisis; and so did his visitor--from different motives, no doubt; and,\nas he sat there, his eye fell on the card that had just been brought\nto him.\n\n\"I beg your pardon,\" he said; \"but might I ask a question about your\ncard?\"\n\n\"Most certainly, doctor: what is it?\"\n\n\"Why--it's always a liberty to ask questions about a gentleman's name,\nand we Scotchmen are particularly sensitive on the point; but I have\nalways been interested in the general subject of patronomatology.\"\n\nThe other, by a friendly smile and a deprecating wave of the hand,\nrenewed his welcome to the doctor's question.\n\n\"Well, it's this: How did you come to decide upon that form of\nname--Mr. Apollo Lyon?\"\n\n\"Oh! just a little fancy of mine. It's a newly-invented variable card,\nI believe they call it. There's a temporary ink arrangement. It struck\nme it was liable to abuse in case of an assumption of _aliases_; but\nperhaps that's none of my business. You can easily take off the upper\nname, and another one comes out underneath. I'm always interested in\ninventions. See.\"\n\nAnd as the text, \"But they have sought out many inventions,\" passed\nthrough Dr. Hicok's mind, the other drew forth a white handkerchief,\nand, rubbing the card in a careless sort of way, laid it down before\nthe doctor. Perhaps the strain on the poor doctor's nerves was\nunsteadying him by this time: he may not have seen right; but he\nseemed to see only one name, as if compounded from the former two.\n\n  +------------+\n  |  APOLLYON  |\n  +------------+\n\nAnd it seemed to be in red ink instead of black; and the lines seemed\nto creep and throb and glow, as if the red were the red of fire,\ninstead of vermilion. But red is an extremely trying colour to the\neyes. However, the doctor, startled as he was, thought best not to\nraise any further queries, and only said, perhaps with some\ndifficulty, \"Very curious, I'm sure!\"\n\n\"Well, doctor,\" said Mr. Lyon, or whatever his name was, \"I don't want\nto hurry you, but I suppose we might as well have our little business\nover?\"\n\n\"Why, yes. I suppose you wouldn't care to consider any question of\ncompromises or substitutes?\"\n\n\"I fear it's out of the question, really,\" was the reply, most kindly\nin tone, but with perfect distinctness.\n\nThere was a moment's silence. It seemed to Dr. Hicok as if the beating\nof his heart must fill the room, it struck so heavily, and the blood\nseemed to surge with so loud a rush through the carotids up past his\nears. \"Shall I be found to have gone off with a rush of blood to the\nhead?\" he thought to himself. But--it can very often be done by a\nresolute effort--he gathered himself together as it were, and with one\npowerful exertion mastered his disordered nerves. Then he lifted his\nmemorandum, gave one glance at the sad, calm face opposite him, and\nspoke.\n\n\"You know they're every once in a while explaining a vote, as they\ncall it, in Congress. It don't make any difference, I know; but it\nseems to me as if I should put you more fully in possession of my\nmeaning, if I should just say a word or two, about the reasons for my\nselection.\"\n\nThe visitor bowed with his usual air of pleasant acquiescence.\n\n\"I am aware,\" said Dr. Hicok, \"that my selection would seem thoroughly\ncommonplace to most people. Yet nobody knows better than you do, my\ndear sir, that the oldest questions are the newest. The same vitality\nwhich is so strong in them, as to raise them as soon as thought\nbegins, is infinite, and maintains them as long as thought endures.\nIndeed, I may say to you frankly, that it is by no means on novelty,\nbut rather on antiquity, that I rely.\"\n\nThe doctor's hearer bowed with an air of approving interest. \"Very\njustly reasoned,\" he observed. The doctor went on--\n\n\"I have, I may say--and under the circumstances I shall not be\nsuspected of conceit--made pretty much the complete circuit of\nunsolved problems. They class exactly as those questions do which we\nhabitually reckon as solved: under the three subjects to which they\nrelate--God, the intelligent creation, the unintelligent creation.\nNow, I have selected my questions accordingly--one for each of those\ndivisions. Whether I have succeeded in satisfying the conditions\nnecessary will appear quickly. But you see that I have not stooped to\nany quibbling, or begging either. I have sought to protect myself by\nthe honourable use of a masculine reason.\"\n\n\"Your observations interest me greatly,\" remarked the audience. \"Not\nthe less so, that they are so accurately coincident with my own\nhabitual lines of thought--at least, so far as I can judge from what\nyou have said. Indeed, suppose you had called upon me to help you\nprepare insoluble problems. I was bound, I suppose, to comply to the\nbest of my ability; and, if I had done so, those statements of yours\nare thus far the very preface I supplied--I beg your pardon--should\nhave supplied--you with. I fancy I could almost state the questions.\nWell?\"--\n\nAll this was most kind and complimentary; but somehow it did not\nencourage the doctor in the least. He even fancied that he detected a\nsneer, as if his interlocutor had been saying, \"Flutter away, old\nbird! That was _my bait_ that you have been feeding on: you're safe\nenough; it is my net that holds you.\"\n\n\"_First Question_,\" said Dr. Hicok, with steadiness: \"Reconcile the\nforeknowledge and the fore-ordination of God with the free will of\nman?\"\n\n\"I thought so, of course,\" remarked the other. Then he looked straight\ninto the doctor's keen little grey eyes with his deep melancholy black\nones, and raised his slender fore-finger. \"Most readily. The\nreconciliation is _your own conscience_, doctor! Do what you know to\nbe right, and you will find that there is nothing to reconcile--that\nyou and your Maker have no debates to settle!\"\n\nThe words were spoken with a weighty solemnity and conviction that\nwere even awful. The doctor had a conscience, though he had found\nhimself practically forced, for the sake of success, to use a good\ndeal of constraint with it--in fact, to lock it up, as it were, in a\nprivate mad-house, on an unfounded charge of lunacy. But the obstinate\nthing would not die, and would not lose its wits; and now all of a\nsudden, and from the very last quarter where it was to be expected,\ncame a summons before whose intensity of just requirement no bolts\ncould stand. The doctor's conscience walked out of her prison, and\ncame straight up to the field of battle, and said--\n\n\"Give up the first question.\"\n\nAnd he obeyed.\n\n\"I confess it,\" he said. \"But how could I have expected a great basic\ntruth both religiously and psychologically so, from--from _you_?\"\n\n\"Ah! my dear sir,\" was the reply, \"you have erred in _that_ line of\nthought, exactly as many others have. The truth is one and the same,\nto God, man, and devil.\"\n\n\"_Second Question_,\" said Dr. Hicok. \"Reconcile the development\ntheory, connection of natural selection and sexual relation, with the\nresponsible immortality of the soul.\"\n\n\"Unquestionably,\" assented the other, as if to say, \"Just as I\nexpected.\"\n\n\"No theory of creation has any logical connection with any doctrine of\nimmortality. What was the motive of creation?--_that_ would be a\nquestion! If you had asked me _that_! But the question, 'Where did men\ncome from?' has no bearing on the question, 'Have they any duties now\nthat they are here?' The two are reconciled, because they do not\ndiffer. You can't state any inconsistency between a yard measure and a\nfifty-six pound weight.\"\n\nThe doctor nodded; he sat down; he took a glass of water, and pressed\nhis hand to his heart. \"Now, then,\" he said to himself, \"once more! If\nI have to stand this fifteen minutes I shall be in _some_ other\nworld!\"\n\nThe door from the inner room opened; and Mrs. Hicok came singing in,\ncarrying balanced upon her pretty pink fore-finger something or other\nof an airy bouquet-like fabric. Upon this she was looking with much\ndelight.\n\n\"See, dear!\" she said: \"how perfectly lovely!\"\n\nBoth gentlemen started, and the lady started too. She had not known of\nthe visit; and she had not, until this instant, seen that her husband\nwas not alone.\n\nDr. Hicok, of course, had never given her the key to his\nskeleton-closet; for he was a shrewd man. He loved her too; and he\nthought he had provided for her absence during the ordeal. She had\nexecuted her shopping with unprecedented speed.\n\nWhy the visitor started, would be difficult to say. Perhaps her voice\nstartled him. The happy music in it was enough like a beautified\nduplicate of his own thrilling sweet tones, to have made him\nacknowledge her for a sister--from heaven. He started, at any rate.\n\n\"Mr. Lyon, my wife,\" said the doctor, somewhat at a loss. Mr. Lyon\nbowed, and so did the lady.\n\n\"I beg your pardon, gentlemen, I am sure,\" she said. \"I did not know\nyou were busy, dear. There is a thunder-shower coming up. I drove home\njust in season.\"\n\n\"Oh!--only a little wager, about some conundrums,\" said the doctor.\nPerhaps he may be excused for his fib. He did not want to annoy her\nunnecessarily.\n\n\"Oh, do let me know!\" she said, with much eagerness. \"You know how I\nenjoy them!\"\n\n\"Well,\" said the doctor, \"not exactly the ordinary kind. I was to\npuzzle my friend here with one out of three questions; and he has\nbeaten me in two of them already. I've but one more chance.\"\n\n\"Only one?\" she asked, with a smile. \"What a bright man your friend\nmust be! I thought nobody could puzzle you, dear. Stay; let _me_ ask\nthe other question.\"\n\nBoth the gentlemen started again: it was quite a surprise.\n\n\"But are you a married man, Mr. Lyon?\" she asked, with a blush.\n\n\"No, madam,\" was the reply, with a very graceful bow--\"I have a\nmother, but no wife. Permit me to say, that, if I could believe there\nwas a duplicate of yourself in existence, I would be as soon as\npossible.\"\n\n\"Oh, what a gallant speech!\" said the lady. \"Thank you, sir, very\nmuch;\" and she made him a pretty little curtsy. \"Then I am quite sure\nof my question, sir. Shall I, dear?\"\n\nThe doctor quickly decided. \"I am done for, anyhow,\" he reflected. \"I\nbegin to see that the old villain put those questions into my head\nhimself. He hinted as much. I don't know but I'd rather she would ask\nit. It's better to have her kill me, I guess, than to hold out the\ncarving-knife to him myself.\"\n\n\"With all my heart, my dear,\" said the doctor, \"if Mr. Lyon consents.\"\n\nMr. Lyon looked a little disturbed; but his manner was perfect, as he\nreplied that he regretted to seem to disoblige, but that he feared the\nconditions of their little bet would not allow it.\n\n\"Beg your pardon, I'm sure, for being so uncivil,\" said the lively\nlittle beauty, as she whispered a few words in her husband's ear.\n\nThis is what she said--\n\n\"What's mine's yours, dear. Take it. Ask him--buz, buzz, buzz.\"\n\nThe doctor nodded. Mrs. Hicok stood by him and smiled, still holding\nin her pretty pink fore-finger the frail shimmering thing just\nmentioned; and she gave it a twirl, so that it swung quite round.\n\"Isn't it a love of a bonnet?\" she said.\n\n\"Yes,\" the doctor said aloud. \"I adopt the question.\"\n\n\"_Third Question. Which is the front side of this?_\"\n\nAnd he pointed to the bonnet. It must have been a bonnet, because Mrs.\nHicok called it so. I shouldn't have known it from the collection of\nthings in a kaleidoscope, bunched up together.\n\nThe lady stood before him, and twirled the wondrous fabric round and\nround, with the prettiest possible unconscious roguish look of\ndefiance. The doctor's very heart stood still.\n\n\"Put it on, please,\" said Mr. Lyon, in the most innocent way in the\nworld.\n\n\"Oh, no!\" laughed she. \"I know I'm only a woman, but I'm not _quite_\nso silly! But I'll tell you what: you men put it on, if you think that\nwill help you!\" And she held out the mystery to him.\n\nConfident in his powers of discrimination, Mr. Lyon took hold of the\nfairy-like combination of sparkles and threads and feathers and\nflowers, touching it with that sort of timid apprehension that\nbachelors use with a baby. He stood before the glass over the\nmantelpiece. First he put it across his head with one side in front,\nand then with the other. Then he put it lengthways of his head, and\ntried the effect of tying one of the two couples of strings under each\nof his ears. Then he put it on, the other side up; so that it swam on\nhis head like a boat, with a high mounted bow and stern. More than\nonce he did all this, with obvious care and thoughtfulness.\n\nThen he came slowly back, and resumed his seat. It was growing very\ndark, though they had not noticed it; for the thunder-shower had been\nhurrying on, and already its advanced guard of wind, heavy laden with\nthe smell of the rain, could be heard, and a few large drops splashed\non the window.\n\nThe beautiful wife of the doctor laughed merrily to watch the growing\ndiscomposure of the visitor, who returned the bonnet, with\nundiminished courtesy, but with obvious constraint of manner.\n\nHe looked down; he drummed on the table; he looked up; and both the\ndoctor and the doctor's wife were startled at the intense sudden anger\nin the dark, handsome face. Then he sprang up, and went to the window.\nHe looked out a moment, and then said--\n\n\"Upon my word, that is going to be a very sharp squall! The clouds are\n_very_ heavy. If I'm any judge, something will be struck. I can feel\nthe electricity in the air.\"\n\nWhile he still spoke, the first thunder-bolt crashed overhead. It was\none of those close, sudden, overpoweringly awful explosions from\nclouds very heavy and very near, where the lightning and the thunder\nleap together out of the very air close about you, even as if you were\nin them. It was an unendurable burst of sound, and of the intense\nwhite sheety light of very near lightning. Dreadfully frightened, the\npoor little lady clung close to her husband. He, poor man, if possible\nyet more frightened, exhausted as he was by what he had been enduring,\nfainted dead away. Don't blame him: a cast-iron bull-dog might have\nfainted.\n\nMrs. Hicok, thinking that her husband was struck dead by the\nlightning, screamed terribly. Then she touched him; and, seeing what\nwas really the matter, administered cold water from the pitcher on the\ntable. Shortly he revived.\n\n\"Where is he?\" he said.\n\n\"I don't know, love. I thought you were dead. He must have gone away.\nDid it strike the house?\"\n\n\"Gone away? Thank God! Thank _you_, dear!\" cried out the doctor.\n\nNot knowing any adequate cause for so much emotion, she answered him--\n\n\"Now, love, don't you ever say women are not practical again. That was\na practical question, you see. But didn't it strike the house? What a\nqueer smell. Ozone: isn't that what you were telling me about? How\nfunny, that lightning should have a smell!\"\n\n\"I believe there's no doubt of it,\" observed Dr. Hicok.\n\nMr. Apollo Lyon had really gone, though just how or when, nobody could\nsay.\n\n\"My dear,\" said Dr. Hicok, \"I do so like that bonnet of yours! I don't\nwonder it puzzled him. It would puzzle the Devil himself. I firmly\nbelieve I shall call it your Devil-puzzler.\"\n\nBut he never told her what the puzzle had been.\n\n\n\n\nTHE DEVIL'S ROUND[20]\n\nA TALE OF FLEMISH GOLF\n\nBY CHARLES DEULIN\n\n\n    [20] From _Longman's Magazine_, vol. xiv. [Copyright 1889 by\n    Longmans, Green & Co., London & New York. By permission of\n    the Publishers.]\n\n     [The following story, translated by Miss Isabel Bruce from\n     _Le Grand Choleur_ of M. Charles Deulin (_Contes du Roi\n     Gambrinus_), gives a great deal of information about French\n     and Flemish golf. As any reader will see, this ancient game\n     represents a stage of evolution between golf and hockey. The\n     object is to strike a ball, in as few strokes as possible,\n     to a given point; but, after every three strokes, the\n     opponent is allowed to _d\u00e9choler_, or make one stroke back,\n     or into a hazard. Here the element of hockey comes in. Get\n     rid of this element, let each man hit his own ball, and, in\n     place of striking to a point--say, the cemetery gate--let\n     men \"putt\" into holes, and the Flemish game becomes golf. It\n     is of great antiquity. Ducange, in his Lexicon of Low Latin,\n     gives _Choulla_, French _choule_ = \"Globulus ligneus qui\n     clava propellitur\"--a wooden ball struck with a club. The\n     head of the club was of iron (cf. _crossare_). This is borne\n     out by a miniature in a missal of 1504, which represents\n     peasants playing _choule_ with clubs very like niblicks.\n     Ducange quotes various MS. references of 1353, 1357, and\n     other dates older by a century than our earliest Scotch\n     references to golf. At present the game is played in Belgium\n     with a strangely-shaped lofting-iron and a ball of\n     beechwood. M. Zola (_Germinal_, p. 310) represents his\n     miners playing _chole_, or _choulle_, and says that they hit\n     drives of more than 500 yards. Experiments made at Wimbledon\n     with a Belgian club sent over by M. Charles Michel suggest\n     that M. Zola has over-estimated the distance. But M. Zola\n     and M. Deulin agree in making the players _run_ after the\n     ball. M. Henri Gaidoz adds that a similar game, called\n     _soule_, is played in various departments of France. He\n     refers to Laisnel de la Salle. The name _chole_ may be\n     connected with German _Kolbe_, and _golf_ may be the form\n     which this word would assume in a Celtic language. All this\n     makes golf very old; but the question arises, Are the\n     \"holes\" to which golfers play of Scotch or of Dutch origin?\n     There are several old Flemish pictures of golf; do any of\n     them show players in the act of \"holing out\"? There is said\n     to be such a picture at Neuch\u00e2tel.\n\n                                                     A. LANG.]\n\n\nI\n\nOnce upon a time there lived at the hamlet of Coq, near\nCond\u00e9-sur-l'Escaut, a wheelwright called Roger. He was a good fellow,\nuntiring both at his sport and at his toil, and as skilful in lofting\na ball with a stroke of his club as in putting together a cartwheel.\nEvery one knows that the game of golf consists in driving towards a\ngiven point a ball of cherrywood with a club which has for head a sort\nof little iron shoe without a heel.\n\nFor my part, I do not know a more amusing game; and when the country\nis almost cleared of the harvest, men, women, children, everybody,\ndrives his ball as you please, and there is nothing cheerier than to\nsee them filing on a Sunday like a flight of starlings across potato\nfields and ploughed lands.\n\n\nII\n\nWell, one Tuesday, it was a Shrove Tuesday, the wheelwright of Coq\nlaid aside his plane, and was slipping on his blouse to go and drink\nhis can of beer at Cond\u00e9, when two strangers came in, club in hand.\n\n\"Would you put a new shaft to my club, master?\" said one of them.\n\n\"What are you asking me, friends? A day like this! I wouldn't give the\nsmallest stroke of the chisel for a brick of gold. Besides, does any\none play golf on Shrove Tuesday? You had much better go and see the\nmummers tumbling in the high street of Cond\u00e9.\"\n\n\"We take no interest in the tumbling of mummers,\" replied the\nstranger. \"We have challenged each other at golf and we want to play\nit out. Come, you won't refuse to help us, you who are said to be one\nof the finest players of the country?\"\n\n\"If it is a match, that is different,\" said Roger.\n\nHe turned up his sleeves, hooked on his apron, and in the twinkling of\nan eye had adjusted the shaft.\n\n\"How much do I owe you?\" asked the unknown, drawing out his purse.\n\n\"Nothing at all, faith; it is not worth while.\"\n\nThe stranger insisted, but in vain.\n\n\nIII\n\n\"You are too honest, i'faith,\" said he to the wheelwright, \"for me to\nbe in your debt. I will grant you the fulfilment of three wishes.\"\n\n\"Don't forget to wish what is _best_,\" added his companion.\n\nAt these words the wheelwright smiled incredulously.\n\n\"Are you not a couple of the loafers of Capelette?\" he asked, with a\nwink.\n\nThe idlers of the crossways of Capelette were considered the wildest\nwags in Cond\u00e9.\n\n\"Whom do you take us for?\" replied the unknown in a tone of severity,\nand with his club he touched an axle, made of iron, which instantly\nchanged into one of pure silver.\n\n\"Who are you, then,\" cried Roger, \"that your word is as good as ready\nmoney?\"\n\n\"I am St. Peter, and my companion is St. Antony, the patron of\ngolfers.\"\n\n\"Take the trouble to walk in, gentlemen,\" said the wheelwright of Coq;\nand he ushered the two saints into the back parlour. He offered them\nchairs, and went to draw a jug of beer in the cellar. They clinked\ntheir glasses together, and after each had lit his pipe:\n\n\"Since you are so good, sir saints,\" said Roger, \"as to grant me the\naccomplishment of three wishes, know that for a long while I have\ndesired three things. I wish, first of all, that whoever seats himself\nupon the elm-trunk at my door may not be able to rise without my\npermission. I like company and it bores me to be always alone.\"\n\nSt. Peter shook his head and St. Antony nudged his client.\n\n\nIV\n\n\"When I play a game of cards, on Sunday evening, at the 'Fighting\nCock,'\" continued the wheelwright, \"it is no sooner nine o'clock than\nthe garde-champ\u00eatre comes to chuck us out. I desire that whoever shall\nhave his feet on my leathern apron cannot be driven from the place\nwhere I shall have spread it.\"\n\nSt. Peter shook his head, and St. Antony, with a solemn air, repeated:\n\n\"Don't forget what is _best_.\"\n\n\"What is best,\" replied the wheelwright of Coq, nobly, \"is to be the\nfirst golfer in the world. Every time I find my master at golf it\nturns my blood as black as the inside of the chimney. So I want a club\nthat will carry the ball as high as the belfry of Cond\u00e9, and will\ninfallibly win me my match.\"\n\n\"So be it,\" said St. Peter.\n\n\"You would have done better,\" said St. Antony, \"to have asked for your\neternal salvation.\"\n\n\"Bah!\" replied the other. \"I have plenty of time to think of that; I\nam not yet greasing my boots for the long journey.\"\n\nThe two saints went out and Roger followed them, curious to be present\nat such a rare game; but suddenly, near the Chapel of St. Antony, they\ndisappeared.\n\nThe wheelwright then went to see the mummers tumbling in the high\nstreet of Cond\u00e9.\n\nWhen he returned, towards midnight, he found at the corner of his door\nthe desired club. To his great surprise it was only a bad little iron\nhead attached to a wretched worn-out shaft. Nevertheless he took the\ngift of St. Peter and put it carefully away.\n\n\nV\n\nNext morning the Cond\u00e9ens scattered in crowds over the country, to\nplay golf, eat red herrings, and drink beer, so as to scatter the\nfumes of wine from their heads and to revive after the fatigues of the\nCarnival. The wheelwright of Coq came too, with his miserable club,\nand made such fine strokes that all the players left their games to\nsee him play. The following Sunday he proved still more expert; little\nby little his fame spread through the land. From ten leagues round the\nmost skilful players hastened to come and be beaten, and it was then\nthat he was named the Great Golfer.\n\nHe passed the whole Sunday in golfing, and in the evening he rested\nhimself by playing a game of matrimony at the \"Fighting Cock.\" He\nspread his apron under the feet of the players, and the devil himself\ncould not have put them out of the tavern, much less the rural\npoliceman. On Monday morning he stopped the pilgrims who were going to\nworship at Notre Dame de Bon Secours; he induced them to rest\nthemselves upon his _causeuse_, and did not let them go before he had\nconfessed them well.\n\nIn short, he led the most agreeable life that a good Fleming can\nimagine, and only regretted one thing--namely, that he had not wished\nit might last for ever.\n\n\nVI\n\nWell, it happened one day that the strongest player of Mons, who was\ncalled Paternostre, was found dead on the edge of a bunker. His head\nwas broken, and near him was his niblick, red with blood.\n\nThey could not tell who had done this business, and as Paternostre\noften said that at golf he feared neither man nor devil, it occurred\nto them that he had challenged Mynheer van Belz\u00e9buth, and that as a\npunishment for this he had knocked him on the head. Mynheer van\nBelz\u00e9buth is, as every one knows, the greatest gamester that there is\nupon or under the earth, but the game he particularly affects is golf.\nWhen he goes his round in Flanders one always meets him, club in hand,\nlike a true Fleming.\n\nThe wheelwright of Coq was very fond of Paternostre, who, next to\nhimself, was the best golfer in the country. He went to his funeral\nwith some golfers from the hamlets of Coq, La Cigogne, and La Queue de\nl'Ayache.\n\nOn returning from the cemetery they went to the tavern to drink, as\nthey say, to the memory of the dead,[21] and there they lost\nthemselves in talk about the noble game of golf. When they separated,\nin the dusk of evening:\n\n    [21] _Boire la cervelle du mort._\n\n\"A good journey to you,\" said the Belgian players, \"and may St.\nAntony, the patron of golfers, preserve you from meeting the devil on\nthe way!\"\n\n\"What do I care for the devil?\" replied Roger. \"If he challenged me I\nshould soon beat him!\"\n\nThe companions trotted from tavern to tavern without misadventure; but\nthe wolf-bell had long tolled for retiring in the belfry of Cond\u00e9 when\nthey returned each one to his own den.\n\n\nVII\n\nAs he was putting the key into the lock the wheelwright thought he\nheard a shout of mocking laughter. He turned, and saw in the darkness\na man six feet high, who again burst out laughing.\n\n\"What are you laughing at?\" said he, crossly.\n\n\"At what? Why, at the _aplomb_ with which you boasted a little while\nago that you would dare measure yourself against the devil.\"\n\n\"Why not, if he challenged me?\"\n\n\"Very well, my master, bring your clubs. I challenge you!\" said\nMynheer van Belz\u00e9buth, for it was himself. Roger recognized him by a\ncertain odour of sulphur that always hangs about his majesty.\n\n\"What shall the stake be?\" he asked resolutely.\n\n\"Your soul?\"\n\n\"Against what?\"\n\n\"Whatever you please.\"\n\nThe wheelwright reflected.\n\n\"What have you there in your sack?\"\n\n\"My spoils of the week.\"\n\n\"Is the soul of Paternostre among them?\"\n\n\"To be sure! and those of five other golfers; dead, like him, without\nconfession.\"\n\n\"I play you my soul against that of Paternostre.\"\n\n\"Done!\"\n\n\nVIII\n\nThe two adversaries repaired to the adjoining field and chose for\ntheir goal the door of the cemetery of Cond\u00e9.[22] Belz\u00e9buth teed a\nball on a frozen heap, after which he said, according to custom:\n\n    [22] They play to points, not holes.\n\n\"From here, as you lie, in how many turns of three strokes will you\nrun in?\"\n\n\"In two,\" replied the great golfer.\n\nAnd his adversary was not a little surprised, for from there to the\ncemetery was nearly a quarter of a league.\n\n\"But how shall we see the ball?\" continued the wheelwright.\n\n\"True!\" said Belz\u00e9buth.\n\nHe touched the ball with his club, and it shone suddenly in the dark\nlike an immense glowworm.\n\n\"Fore!\" cried Roger.\n\nHe hit the ball with the head of his club, and it rose to the sky like\na star going to rejoin its sisters. In three strokes it crossed\nthree-quarters of the distance.\n\n\"That is good!\" said Belz\u00e9buth, whose astonishment redoubled. \"My turn\nto play now!\"[23]\n\n    [23] After each three strokes the opponent has one hit back,\n    or into a hazard.\n\nWith one stroke of the club he drove the ball over the roofs of Coq\nnearly to Maison Blanche, half a league away. The blow was so violent\nthat the iron struck fire against a pebble.\n\n\"Good St. Antony! I am lost, unless you come to my aid,\" murmured the\nwheelwright of Coq.\n\nHe struck tremblingly; but, though his arm was uncertain, the club\nseemed to have acquired a new vigour. At the second stroke the ball\nwent as if of itself and hit the door of the cemetery.\n\n\"By the horns of my grandfather!\" cried Belz\u00e9buth, \"it shall not be\nsaid that I have been beaten by a son of that fool Adam. Give me my\nrevenge.\"\n\n\"What shall we play for?\"\n\n\"Your soul and that of Paternostre against the souls of two golfers.\"\n\n\nIX\n\nThe devil played up, \"pressing\" furiously; his club blazed at each\nstroke with showers of sparks. The ball flew from Cond\u00e9 to\nBon-Secours, to Pernwelz, to Leuze. Once it spun away to Tournai, six\nleagues from there.\n\nIt left behind a luminous tail like a comet, and the two golfers\nfollowed, so to speak, on its track. Roger was never able to\nunderstand how he ran, or rather flew so fast, and without fatigue.\n\nIn short, he did not lose a single game, and won the souls of the six\ndefunct golfers. Belz\u00e9buth rolled his eyes like an angry tom-cat.\n\n\"Shall we go on?\" said the wheelwright of Coq.\n\n\"No,\" replied the other; \"they expect me at the Witches' Sabbath on\nthe hill of Copi\u00e9mont.\n\n\"That brigand,\" said he aside, \"is capable of filching all my game.\"\n\nAnd he vanished.\n\nReturned home, the great golfer shut up his souls in a sack and went\nto bed, enchanted to have beaten Mynheer van Belz\u00e9buth.\n\n\nX\n\nTwo years after the wheelwright of Coq received a visit which he\nlittle expected. An old man, tall, thin and yellow, came into the\nworkshop carrying a scythe on his shoulder.\n\n\"Are you bringing me your scythe to haft anew, master?\"\n\n\"No, faith, _my_ scythe is never unhafted.\"\n\n\"Then how can I serve you?\"\n\n\"By following me: your hour is come.\"\n\n\"The devil,\" said the great golfer, \"could you not wait a little till\nI have finished this wheel?\"\n\n\"Be it so! I have done hard work today and I have well earned a\nsmoke.\"\n\n\"In that case, master, sit down there on the _causeuse_. I have at\nyour service some famous tobacco at seven petards the pound.\"\n\n\"That's good, faith; make haste.\"\n\nAnd Death lit his pipe and seated himself at the door on the elm\ntrunk.\n\nLaughing in his sleeve, the wheelwright of Coq returned to his work.\nAt the end of a quarter of an hour Death called to him:\n\n\"Ho! faith, will you soon have finished?\"\n\nThe wheelwright turned a deaf ear and went on planing, singing:\n\n    \"Attendez-moi sur l'orme;\n     Vous m'attendrez longtemps.\"\n\n\"I don't think he hears me,\" said Death. \"Ho! friend, are you ready?\"\n\n    \"Va-t-en voir s'ils viennent, Jean,\n     Va-t-en voir s'ils viennent,\"\n\nreplied the singer.\n\n\"Would the brute laugh at me?\" said Death to himself.\n\nAnd he tried to rise.\n\nTo his great surprise he could not detach himself from the _causeuse_.\nHe then understood that he was the sport of a superior power.\n\n\"Let us see,\" he said to Roger. \"What will you take to let me go? Do\nyou wish me to prolong your life ten years?\"\n\n    \"J'ai de bon tabac dans ma tabati\u00e8re,\"\n\nsang the great golfer.\n\n\"Will you take twenty years?\"\n\n    \"Il pleut, il pleut, berg\u00e8re;\n     Rentre tes blancs moutons.\"\n\n\"Will you take a fifty, wheelwright?--may the devil admire you!\"\n\nThe wheelwright of Coq intoned:\n\n    \"Bon voyage, cher Dumollet,\n     A Saint-Malo d\u00e9barquez sans naufrage.\"\n\nIn the meanwhile the clock of Cond\u00e9 had just struck four, and the\nboys were coming out of school. The sight of this great dry heron of a\ncreature who struggled on the _causeuse_, like a devil in a holy-water\npot, surprised and soon delighted them.\n\nNever suspecting that when seated at the door of the old, Death\nwatches the young, they thought it funny to put out their tongues at\nhim, singing in chorus:\n\n    \"Bon voyage, cher Dumollet,\n     A Saint-Malo d\u00e9barquez sans naufrage.\"\n\n\"Will you take a hundred years?\" yelled Death.\n\n\"Hein? How? What? Were you not speaking of an extension of a hundred\nyears? I accept with all my heart, master; but let us understand: I am\nnot such a fool as to ask for the lengthening of my old age.\"\n\n\"Then what do you want?\"\n\n\"From old age I only ask the experience which it gives by degrees. 'Si\njeunesse savait, si vieillesse pouvait!' says the proverb. I wish to\npreserve for a hundred years the strength of a young man, and to\nacquire the knowledge of an old one.\"\n\n\"So be it,\" said Death; \"I shall return this day a hundred years.\"\n\n    \"Bon voyage, cher Dumollet,\n     A Saint-Malo d\u00e9barquez sans naufrage.\"\n\n\nXI\n\nThe great golfer began a new life. At first he enjoyed perfect\nhappiness, which was increased by the certainty of its not ending for\na hundred years. Thanks to his experience, he so well understood the\nmanagement of his affairs that he could leave his mallet and shut up\nshop.[24]\n\n    [24] _Vivre \u00e0 porte close._\n\nHe experienced, nevertheless, an annoyance he had not foreseen. His\nwonderful skill at golf ended by frightening the players whom he had\nat first delighted, and was the cause of his never finding any one who\nwould play against him.\n\nHe therefore quitted the canton and set out on his travels over French\nFlanders, Belgium, and all the greens where the noble game of golf is\nheld in honour. At the end of twenty years he returned to Coq to be\nadmired by a new generation of golfers, after which he departed to\nreturn twenty years later.\n\nAlas! in spite of its apparent charm, this existence before long\nbecame a burden to him. Besides that, it bored him to win on every\noccasion; he was tired of passing like the Wandering Jew through\ngenerations, and of seeing the sons, grandsons, and great-grandsons of\nhis friends grow old, and die out. He was constantly reduced to making\nnew friendships which were undone by the age or death of his fellows;\nall changed around him, he only did not change.\n\nHe grew impatient of this eternal youthfulness which condemned him to\ntaste the same pleasures for ever, and he sometimes longed to know the\ncalmer joys of old age. One day he caught himself at his\nlooking-glass, examining whether his hair had not begun to grow\nwhite; nothing seemed so beautiful to him now as the snow on the\nforehead of the old.\n\n\nXII\n\nIn addition to this, experience soon made him so wise that he was no\nlonger amused at anything. If sometimes in the tavern he had a fancy\nfor making use of his apron to pass the night at cards: \"What is the\ngood of this excess?\" whispered experience; \"it is not sufficient to\nbe unable to shorten one's days, one must also avoid making oneself\nill.\"\n\nHe reached the point of refusing himself the pleasure of drinking his\npint and smoking his pipe. Why, indeed, plunge into dissipations which\nenervate the body and dull the brain?\n\n_The wretch went further and gave up golf!_ Experience convinced him\nthat the game is a dangerous one, which overheats one, and is\neminently adapted to produce colds, catarrhs, rheumatism, and\ninflammation of the lungs.\n\nBesides, what is the use, and what great glory is it to be reputed the\nfirst golfer in the world?\n\nOf what use is glory itself? A vain hope, vain as the smoke of a pipe.\n\nWhen experience had thus bereft him one by one of his delusions, the\nunhappy golfer became mortally weary. He saw that he had deceived\nhimself, that delusion has its price, and that the greatest charm of\nyouth is perhaps its inexperience.\n\nHe thus arrived at the term agreed on in the contract, and as he had\nnot had a paradise here below, he sought through his hardly-acquired\nwisdom a clever way of conquering one above.\n\n\nXIII\n\nDeath found him at Coq at work in his shop. Experience had at least\ntaught him that work is the most lasting of pleasures.\n\n\"Are you ready?\" said Death.\n\n\"I am.\"\n\nHe took his club, put a score of balls in his pocket, threw his sack\nover his shoulder, and buckled his gaiters without taking off his\napron.\n\n\"What do you want your club for?\"\n\n\"Why, to golf in paradise with my patron St. Antony.\"\n\n\"Do you fancy, then, that I am going to conduct you to paradise?\"\n\n\"You must, as I have half-a-dozen souls to carry there, that I once\nsaved from the clutches of Belz\u00e9buth.\"\n\n\"Better have saved your own. _En route, cher Dumollet!_\"\n\nThe great golfer saw that the old reaper bore him a grudge, and that\nhe was going to conduct him to the paradise of the lost.[25]\n\n    [25] _Noires glaives._\n\nIndeed a quarter of an hour later the two travellers knocked at the\ngate of hell.\n\n\"Toc, toc!\"\n\n\"Who is there?\"\n\n\"The wheelwright of Coq,\" said the great golfer.\n\n\"Don't open the door,\" cried Belz\u00e9buth; \"that rascal wins at every\nturn; he is capable of depopulating my empire.\"\n\nRoger laughed in his sleeve.\n\n\"Oh! you are not saved,\" said Death. \"I am going to take you where you\nwon't be cold either.\"\n\nQuicker than a beggar would have emptied a poor's box they were in\npurgatory.\n\n\"Toc--toc!\"\n\n\"Who is there?\"\n\n\"The wheelwright of Coq,\" said the great golfer.\n\n\"But he is in a state of mortal sin,\" cried the angel on duty. \"Take\nhim away from here--he can't come in.\"\n\n\"I cannot, all the same, let him linger between heaven and earth,\"\nsaid Death; \"I shall shunt him back to Coq.\"\n\n\"Where they will take me for a ghost. Thank you! is there not still\nparadise?\"\n\n\nXIV\n\nThey were there at the end of a short hour.\n\n\"Toc, toc!\"\n\n\"Who is there?\"\n\n\"The wheelwright of Coq,\" said the great golfer.\n\n\"Ah! my lad,\" said St. Peter, half opening the door, \"I am really\ngrieved. St. Antony told you long ago you had better ask for the\nsalvation of your soul.\"\n\n\"That is true, St. Peter,\" replied Roger with a sheepish air. \"And\nhow is he, that blessed St. Antony? Could I not come in for one moment\nto return the visit he once paid me?\"\n\n\"Why, here he comes,\" said St. Peter, throwing the door wide open.\n\nIn the twinkling of an eye the sly golfer had flung himself into\nparadise, unhooked his apron, let it fall to the ground, and seated\nhimself down on it.\n\n\"Good morning, St. Antony,\" said he with a fine salute. \"You see I had\nplenty of time to think of paradise, for here we are!\"\n\n\"What! _You_ here!\" cried St. Antony.\n\n\"Yes, I and my company,\" replied Roger, opening his sack and\nscattering on the carpet the souls of the six golfers.\n\n\"Will you have the goodness to pack right off, all of you?\"\n\n\"Impossible,\" said the great golfer, showing his apron.\n\n\"The rogue has made game of us,\" said St. Antony. \"Come, St. Peter, in\nmemory of our game of golf, let him in with his souls. Besides, he has\nhad his purgatory on earth.\"\n\n\"It is not a very good precedent,\" murmured St. Peter.\n\n\"Bah!\" replied Roger, \"if we have a few good golfers in paradise,\nwhere is the harm?\"\n\n\nXV\n\nThus, after having lived long, golfed much and drunk many cans of\nbeer, the wheelwright of Coq called the Great Golfer was admitted to\nparadise; but I advise no one to copy him, for it is not quite the\nright way to go, and St. Peter might not always be so compliant,\nthough great allowances must be made for golfers.\n\n\n\n\nTHE LEGEND OF MONT ST.-MICHEL\n\nBY GUY DE MAUPASSANT\n\n\nI had first seen it from Cancale, this fairy castle in the sea. I got\nan indistinct impression of it as of a grey shadow outlined against\nthe misty sky. I saw it again from Avranches at sunset. The immense\nstretch of sand was red, the horizon was red, the whole boundless bay\nwas red. The rocky castle rising out there in the distance like a\nweird, seignorial residence, like a dream palace, strange and\nbeautiful--this alone remained black in the crimson light of the dying\nday.\n\nThe following morning at dawn I went toward it across the sands, my\neyes fastened on this gigantic jewel, as big as a mountain, cut like a\ncameo, and as dainty as lace. The nearer I approached the greater my\nadmiration grew, for nothing in the world could be more wonderful or\nmore perfect.\n\nAs surprised as if I had discovered the habitation of a god, I\nwandered through those halls supported by frail or massive columns,\nraising my eyes in wonder to those spires which looked like rockets\nstarting for the sky, and to that marvellous assemblage of towers, of\ngargoyles, of slender and charming ornaments, a regular fireworks of\nstone, granite lace, a masterpiece of colossal and delicate\narchitecture.\n\nAs I was looking up in ecstasy a Lower Normandy peasant came up to me\nand told me the story of the great quarrel between Saint Michael and\nthe devil.\n\nA sceptical genius has said: \"God made man in his image and man has\nreturned the compliment.\"\n\nThis saying is an eternal truth, and it would be very curious to write\nthe history of the local divinity of every continent, as well as the\nhistory of the patron saints in each one of our provinces. The negro\nhas his ferocious man-eating idols; the polygamous Mahometan fills his\nparadise with women; the Greeks, like a practical people, deified all\nthe passions.\n\nEvery village in France is under the influence of some protecting\nsaint, modelled according to the characteristics of the inhabitants.\n\nSaint Michael watches over Lower Normandy, Saint Michael, the radiant\nand victorious angel, the sword-carrier, the hero of Heaven, the\nvictorious, the conqueror of Satan.\n\nBut this is how the Lower Normandy peasant, cunning, deceitful and\ntricky, understands and tells of the struggle between the great saint\nand the devil.\n\nTo escape from the malice of his neighbour, the devil, Saint Michael\nbuilt himself, in the open ocean, this habitation worthy of an\narchangel; and only such a saint could build a residence of such\nmagnificence.\n\nBut, as he still feared the approaches of the wicked one, he\nsurrounded his domains by quicksands, more treacherous even than the\nsea.\n\nThe devil lived in a humble cottage on the hill, but he owned all the\nsalt marshes, the rich lands where grow the finest crops, the wooded\nvalleys and all the fertile hills of the country, while the saint\nruled only over the sands. Therefore Satan was rich, whereas Saint\nMichael was as poor as a church mouse.\n\nAfter a few years of fasting the saint grew tired of this state of\naffairs and began to think of some compromise with the devil, but the\nmatter was by no means easy, as Satan kept a good hold on his crops.\n\nHe thought the thing over for about six months; then one morning he\nwalked across to the shore. The demon was eating his soup in front of\nhis door when he saw the saint. He immediately rushed toward him,\nkissed the hem of his sleeve, invited him in and offered him\nrefreshments.\n\nSaint Michael drank a bowl of milk and then began: \"I have come here\nto propose to you a good bargain.\"\n\nThe devil, candid and trustful, answered: \"That will suit me.\"\n\n\"Here it is. Give me all your lands.\"\n\nSatan, growing alarmed, wished to speak: \"But--\"\n\nThe saint continued: \"Listen first. Give me all your lands. I will\ntake care of all the work, the ploughing, the sowing, the fertilizing,\neverything, and we will share the crops equally. How does that suit\nyou?\"\n\nThe devil, who was naturally lazy, accepted. He only demanded in\naddition a few of those delicious grey mullet which are caught around\nthe solitary mount. Saint Michael promised the fish.\n\nThey grasped hands and spat on the ground to show that it was a\nbargain, and the saint continued: \"See here, so that you will have\nnothing to complain of, choose that part of the crops which you\nprefer: the part that grows above ground or the part that stays in\nthe ground.\" Satan cried out: \"I will take all that will be above\nground.\"\n\n\"It's a bargain!\" said the saint. And he went away.\n\nSix months later, all over the immense domain of the devil, one could\nsee nothing but carrots, turnips, onions, salsify, all the plants\nwhose juicy roots are good and savoury and whose useless leaves are\ngood for nothing but for feeding animals.\n\nSatan wished to break the contract, calling Saint Michael a swindler.\n\nBut the saint, who had developed quite a taste for agriculture, went\nback to see the devil and said: \"Really, I hadn't thought of that at\nall; it was just an accident, no fault of mine. And to make things\nfair with you, this year I'll let you take everything that is under\nthe ground.\"\n\n\"Very well,\" answered Satan.\n\nThe following spring all the evil spirit's lands were covered with\ngolden wheat, oats as big as beans, flax, magnificent colza, red\nclover, peas, cabbage, artichokes, everything that develops into\ngrains or fruit in the sunlight.\n\nOnce more Satan received nothing, and this time he completely lost his\ntemper. He took back his fields and remained deaf to all the fresh\npropositions of his neighbour.\n\nA whole year rolled by. From the top of his lonely manor Saint Michael\nlooked at the distant and fertile lands and watched the devil direct\nthe work, take in his crops and thresh the wheat. And he grew angry,\nexasperated at his powerlessness. As he was no longer able to deceive\nSatan, he decided to wreak vengeance on him, and he went out to invite\nhim to dinner for the following Monday.\n\n\"You have been very unfortunate in your dealings with me,\" he said; \"I\nknow it, but I don't want any ill feeling between us, and I expect you\nto dine with me. I'll give you some good things to eat.\"\n\nSatan, who was as greedy as he was lazy, accepted eagerly. On the day\nappointed he donned his finest clothes and set out for the castle.\n\nSaint Michael sat him down to a magnificent meal. First there was a\n_vol-au-vent_, full of cocks' crests and kidneys, with meat-balls,\nthen two big grey mullet with cream sauce, a turkey stuffed with\nchestnuts soaked in wine, some salt-marsh lamb as tender as cake,\nvegetables which melted in the mouth and nice hot pancake which was\nbrought on smoking and spreading a delicious odour of butter.\n\nThey drank new, sweet, sparkling cider and heady red wine, and after\neach course they whetted their appetites with some old apple brandy.\n\nThe devil drank and ate to his heart's content; in fact he took so\nmuch that he was very uncomfortable, and began to retch.\n\nThen Saint Michael arose in anger and cried in a voice like thunder:\n\"What! before me, rascal! You dare--before me--\"\n\nSatan, terrified, ran away, and the saint, seizing a stick, pursued\nhim. They ran through the halls, turning round the pillars, running up\nthe staircases, galloping along the cornices, jumping from gargoyle\nto gargoyle. The poor devil, who was woefully ill, was running about\nmadly and trying hard to escape. At last he found himself at the top\nof the last terrace, right at the top, from which could be seen the\nimmense bay, with its distant towns, sands and pastures. He could no\nlonger escape, and the saint came up behind him and gave him a furious\nkick, which shot him through space like a cannon-ball.\n\nHe shot through the air like a javelin and fell heavily before the\ntown of Mortain. His horns and claws stuck deep into the rock, which\nkeeps through eternity the traces of this fall of Satan.\n\nHe stood up again, limping, crippled until the end of time, and as he\nlooked at this fatal castle in the distance, standing out against the\nsetting sun, he understood well that he would always be vanquished in\nthis unequal struggle, and he went away limping, heading for distant\ncountries, leaving to his enemy his fields, his hills, his valleys and\nhis marshes.\n\nAnd this is how Saint Michael, the patron saint of Normandy,\nvanquished the devil.\n\nAnother people would have dreamed of this battle in an entirely\ndifferent manner.\n\n\n\n\nTHE DEMON POPE[26]\n\nBY RICHARD GARNETT\n\n\n    [26] Taken by permission from _The Twilight of the Gods_, by\n    Richard Garnett. Published by John Lane Co., New York.\n\n\"So you won't sell me your soul?\" said the devil.\n\n\"Thank you,\" replied the student, \"I had rather keep it myself, if\nit's all the same to you.\"\n\n\"But it's not all the same to me. I want it very particularly. Come,\nI'll be liberal. I said twenty years. You can have thirty.\"\n\nThe student shook his head.\n\n\"Forty!\"\n\nAnother shake.\n\n\"Fifty!\"\n\nAs before.\n\n\"Now,\" said the devil. \"I know I'm going to do a foolish thing, but I\ncannot bear to see a clever, spirited young man throw himself away.\nI'll make you another kind of offer. We don't have any bargain at\npresent, but I will push you on in the world for the next forty years.\nThis day forty years I come back and ask you for a boon; not your\nsoul, mind, or anything not perfectly in your power to grant. If you\ngive it, we are quits; if not, I fly away with you. What say you to\nthis?\"\n\nThe student reflected for some minutes. \"Agreed,\" he said at last.\n\nScarcely had the devil disappeared, which he did instantaneously, ere\na messenger reined in his smoking steed at the gate of the University\nof Cordova (the judicious reader will already have remarked that\nLucifer could never have been allowed inside a Christian seat of\nlearning), and, inquiring for the student Gerbert, presented him with\nthe Emperor Otho's nomination to the Abbacy of Bobbio, in\nconsideration, said the document, of his virtue and learning, wellnigh\nmiraculous in one so young. Such messengers were frequent visitors\nduring Gerbert's prosperous career. Abbot, bishop, archbishop,\ncardinal, he was ultimately enthroned Pope on April 2, 999, and\nassumed the appellation of Silvester the Second. It was then a general\nbelief that the world would come to an end in the following year, a\ncatastrophe which to many seemed the more imminent from the election\nof a chief pastor whose celebrity as a theologian, though not\ninconsiderable, by no means equalled his reputation as a necromancer.\n\nThe world, notwithstanding, revolved scatheless through the dreaded\ntwelvemonth, and early in the first year of the eleventh century\nGerbert was sitting peacefully in his study, perusing a book of magic.\nVolumes of algebra, astrology, alchemy, Aristotelian philosophy, and\nother such light reading filled his bookcase; and on a table stood an\nimproved clock of his invention, next to his introduction of the\nArabic numerals his chief legacy to posterity. Suddenly a sound of\nwings was heard, and Lucifer stood by his side.\n\n\"It is a long time,\" said the fiend, \"since I have had the pleasure of\nseeing you. I have now called to remind you of our little contract,\nconcluded this day forty years.\"\n\n\"You remember,\" said Silvester, \"that you are not to ask anything\nexceeding my power to perform.\"\n\n\"I have no such intention,\" said Lucifer. \"On the contrary, I am about\nto solicit a favour which can be bestowed by you alone. You are Pope,\nI desire that you would make me a Cardinal.\"\n\n\"In the expectation, I presume,\" returned Gerbert, \"of becoming Pope\non the next vacancy.\"\n\n\"An expectation,\" replied Lucifer, \"which I may most reasonably\nentertain, considering my enormous wealth, my proficiency in intrigue,\nand the present condition of the Sacred College.\"\n\n\"You would doubtless,\" said Gerbert, \"endeavour to subvert the\nfoundations of the Faith, and, by a course of profligacy and\nlicentiousness, render the Holy See odious and contemptible.\"\n\n\"On the contrary,\" said the fiend, \"I would extirpate heresy, and all\nlearning and knowledge as inevitably tending thereunto. I would suffer\nno man to read but the priest, and confine his reading to his\nbreviary. I would burn your books together with your bones on the\nfirst convenient opportunity. I would observe an austere propriety of\nconduct, and be especially careful not to loosen one rivet in the\ntremendous yoke I was forging for the minds and consciences of\nmankind.\"\n\n\"If it be so,\" said Gerbert, \"let's be off!\"\n\n\"What!\" exclaimed Lucifer, \"you are willing to accompany me to the\ninfernal regions!\"\n\n\"Assuredly, rather than be accessory to the burning of Plato and\nAristotle, and give place to the darkness against which I have been\ncontending all my life.\"\n\n\"Gerbert,\" replied the demon, \"this is arrant trifling. Know you not\nthat no good man can enter my dominions? that, were such a thing\npossible, my empire would become intolerable to me, and I should be\ncompelled to abdicate?\"\n\n\"I do know it,\" said Gerbert, \"and hence I have been able to receive\nyour visit with composure.\"\n\n\"Gerbert,\" said the devil, with tears in his eyes, \"I put it to\nyou--is this fair, is this honest? I undertake to promote your\ninterests in the world; I fulfil my promise abundantly. You obtain\nthrough my instrumentality a position to which you could never\notherwise have aspired. Often have I had a hand in the election of a\nPope, but never before have I contributed to confer the tiara on one\neminent for virtue and learning. You profit by my assistance to the\nfull, and now take advantage of an adventitious circumstance to\ndeprive me of my reasonable guerdon. It is my constant experience that\nthe good people are much more slippery than the sinners, and drive\nmuch harder bargains.\"\n\n\"Lucifer,\" answered Gerbert, \"I have always sought to treat you as a\ngentleman, hoping that you would approve yourself such in return. I\nwill not inquire whether it was entirely in harmony with this\ncharacter to seek to intimidate me into compliance with your demand by\nthreatening me with a penalty which you well knew could not be\nenforced. I will overlook this little irregularity, and concede even\nmore than you have requested. You have asked to be a Cardinal. I will\nmake you Pope--\"\n\n\"Ha!\" exclaimed Lucifer, and an internal glow suffused his sooty hide,\nas the light of a fading ember is revived by breathing upon it.\n\n\"For twelve hours,\" continued Gerbert. \"At the expiration of that time\nwe will consider the matter further; and if, as I anticipate, you are\nmore anxious to divest yourself of the Papal dignity than you were to\nassume it, I promise to bestow upon you any boon you may ask within my\npower to grant, and not plainly inconsistent with religion or morals.\"\n\n\"Done!\" cried the demon. Gerbert uttered some cabalistic words, and in\na moment the apartment held two Pope Silvesters, entirely\nindistinguishable save by their attire, and the fact that one limped\nslightly with the left foot.\n\n\"You will find the Pontifical apparel in this cupboard,\" said Gerbert,\nand, taking his book of magic with him, he retreated through a masked\ndoor to a secret chamber. As the door closed behind him he chuckled,\nand muttered to himself, \"Poor old Lucifer! Sold again!\"\n\nIf Lucifer was sold he did not seem to know it. He approached a large\nslab of silver which did duty as a mirror, and contemplated his\npersonal appearance with some dissatisfaction.\n\n\"I certainly don't look half so well without my horns,\" he\nsoliloquized, \"and I am sure I shall miss my tail most grievously.\"\n\nA tiara and a train, however, made fair amends for the deficient\nappendages, and Lucifer now looked every inch a Pope. He was about to\ncall the master of the ceremonies, and summon a consistory, when the\ndoor was burst open, and seven cardinals, brandishing poniards, rushed\ninto the room.\n\n\"Down with the sorcerer!\" they cried, as they seized and gagged him.\n\n\"Death to the Saracen!\"\n\n\"Practises algebra, and other devilish arts!\"\n\n\"Knows Greek!\"\n\n\"Talks Arabic!\"\n\n\"Reads Hebrew!\"\n\n\"Burn him!\"\n\n\"Smother him!\"\n\n\"Let him be deposed by a general council,\" said a young and\ninexperienced Cardinal.\n\n\"Heaven forbid!\" said an old and wary one, _sotto voce_.\n\nLucifer struggled frantically, but the feeble frame he was doomed to\ninhabit for the next eleven hours was speedily exhausted. Bound and\nhelpless, he swooned away.\n\n\"Brethren,\" said one of the senior cardinals, \"it hath been delivered\nby the exorcists that a sorcerer or other individual in league with\nthe demon doth usually bear upon his person some visible token of his\ninfernal compact. I propose that we forthwith institute a search for\nthis stigma, the discovery of which may contribute to justify our\nproceedings in the eyes of the world.\"\n\n\"I heartily approve of our brother Anno's proposition,\" said another,\n\"the rather as we cannot possibly fail to discover such a mark, if,\nindeed, we desire to find it.\"\n\nThe search was accordingly instituted, and had not proceeded far ere a\nsimultaneous yell from all the seven cardinals indicated that their\ninvestigation had brought more light than they had ventured to expect.\n\nThe Holy Father had a cloven foot!\n\nFor the next five minutes the Cardinals remained utterly stunned,\nsilent, and stupefied with amazement. As they gradually recovered\ntheir faculties it would have become manifest to a nice observer that\nthe Pope had risen very considerably in their good opinion.\n\n\"This is an affair requiring very mature deliberation,\" said one.\n\n\"I always feared that we might be proceeding too precipitately,\" said\nanother.\n\n\"It is written, 'the devils believe,'\" said a third: \"the Holy Father,\ntherefore, is not a heretic at any rate.\"\n\n\"Brethren,\" said Anno, \"this affair, as our brother Benno well\nremarks, doth indeed call for mature deliberation. I therefore propose\nthat, instead of smothering his Holiness with cushions, as originally\ncontemplated, we immure him for the present in the dungeon adjoining\nhereunto, and, after spending the night in meditation and prayer,\nresume the consideration of the business tomorrow morning.\"\n\n\"Informing the officials of the palace,\" said Benno, \"that his\nHoliness has retired for his devotions, and desires on no account to\nbe disturbed.\"\n\n\"A pious fraud,\" said Anno, \"which not one of the Fathers would for a\nmoment have scrupled to commit.\"\n\nThe Cardinals accordingly lifted the still insensible Lucifer, and\nbore him carefully, almost tenderly, to the apartment appointed for\nhis detention. Each would fain have lingered in hopes of his recovery,\nbut each felt that the eyes of his six brethren were upon him: and\nall, therefore, retired simultaneously, each taking a key of the cell.\n\nLucifer regained consciousness almost immediately afterwards. He had\nthe most confused idea of the circumstances which had involved him in\nhis present scrape, and could only say to himself that if they were\nthe usual concomitants of the Papal dignity, these were by no means to\nhis taste, and he wished he had been made acquainted with them sooner.\nThe dungeon was not only perfectly dark, but horribly cold, and the\npoor devil in his present form had no latent store of infernal heat to\ndraw upon. His teeth chattered, he shivered in every limb, and felt\ndevoured with hunger and thirst. There is much probability in the\nassertion of some of his biographers that it was on this occasion that\nhe invented ardent spirits; but, even if he did, the mere conception\nof a glass of brandy could only increase his sufferings. So the long\nJanuary night wore wearily on, and Lucifer seemed likely to expire\nfrom inanition, when a key turned in the lock, and Cardinal Anno\ncautiously glided in, bearing a lamp, a loaf, half a cold roast kid,\nand a bottle of wine.\n\n\"I trust,\" he said, bowing courteously, \"that I may be excused any\nslight breach of etiquette of which I may render myself culpable from\nthe difficulty under which I labour of determining whether, under\npresent circumstances, 'Your Holiness,' or 'Your infernal Majesty' be\nthe form of address most befitting me to employ.\"\n\n\"Bub-ub-bub-boo,\" went Lucifer, who still had the gag in his mouth.\n\n\"Heavens!\" exclaimed the Cardinal, \"I crave your Infernal Holiness's\nforgiveness. What a lamentable oversight!\"\n\nAnd, relieving Lucifer from his gag and bonds, he set out the\nrefection, upon which the demon fell voraciously.\n\n\"Why the devil, if I may so express myself,\" pursued Anno, \"did not\nyour Holiness inform us that you _were_ the devil? Not a hand would\nthen have been raised against you. I have myself been seeking all my\nlife for the audience now happily vouchsafed me. Whence this mistrust\nof your faithful Anno, who has served you so loyally and zealously\nthese many years?\"\n\nLucifer pointed significantly to the gag and fetters.\n\n\"I shall never forgive myself,\" protested the Cardinal, \"for the part\nI have borne in this unfortunate transaction. Next to ministering to\nyour Majesty's bodily necessities, there is nothing I have so much at\nheart as to express my penitence. But I entreat your Majesty to\nremember that I believed myself to be acting in your Majesty's\ninterest by overthrowing a magician who was accustomed to send your\nMajesty upon errands, and who might at any time enclose you in a box,\nand cast you into the sea. It is deplorable that your Majesty's most\ndevoted servants should have been thus misled.\"\n\n\"Reasons of State,\" suggested Lucifer.\n\n\"I trust that they no longer operate,\" said the Cardinal. \"However,\nthe Sacred College is now fully possessed of the whole matter: it is\ntherefore unnecessary to pursue this department of the subject\nfurther. I would now humbly crave leave to confer with your Majesty,\nor rather, perhaps, your Holiness, since I am about to speak of\nspiritual things, on the important and delicate point of your\nHoliness's successor. I am ignorant how long your Holiness proposes to\noccupy the Apostolic chair; but of course you are aware that public\nopinion will not suffer you to hold it for a term exceeding that of\nthe pontificate of Peter. A vacancy, therefore, must one day occur;\nand I am humbly to represent that the office could not be filled by\none more congenial than myself to the present incumbent, or on whom he\ncould more fully rely to carry out in every respect his views and\nintentions.\"\n\nAnd the Cardinal proceeded to detail various circumstances of his past\nlife, which certainly seemed to corroborate his assertion. He had not,\nhowever, proceeded far ere he was disturbed by the grating of another\nkey in the lock, and had just time to whisper impressively, \"Beware of\nBenno,\" ere he dived under a table.\n\nBenno was also provided with a lamp, wine, and cold viands. Warned by\nthe other lamp and the remains of Lucifer's repast that some colleague\nhad been beforehand with him, and not knowing how many more might be\nin the field, he came briefly to the point as regarded the Papacy, and\npreferred his claim in much the same manner as Anno. While he was\nearnestly cautioning Lucifer against this Cardinal as one who could\nand would cheat the very Devil himself, another key turned in the\nlock, and Benno escaped under the table, where Anno immediately\ninserted his fingers into his right eye. The little squeal consequent\nupon this occurrence Lucifer successfully smothered by a fit of\ncoughing.\n\nCardinal No. 3, a Frenchman, bore a Bayonne ham, and exhibited the\nsame disgust as Benno on seeing himself forestalled. So far as his\nrequests transpired they were moderate, but no one knows where he\nwould have stopped if he had not been scared by the advent of Cardinal\nNo. 4. Up to this time he had only asked for an inexhaustible purse,\npower to call up the Devil _ad libitum_, and a ring of invisibility to\nallow him free access to his mistress, who was unfortunately a married\nwoman.\n\nCardinal No. 4 chiefly wanted to be put into the way of poisoning\nCardinal No. 5; and Cardinal No. 5 preferred the same petition as\nrespected Cardinal No. 4.\n\nCardinal No. 6, an Englishman, demanded the reversion of the\nArchbishoprics of Canterbury and York, with the faculty of holding\nthem together, and of unlimited non-residence. In the course of his\nharangue he made use of the phrase _non obstantibus_, of which Lucifer\nimmediately took a note.\n\nWhat the seventh Cardinal would have solicited is not known, for he\nhad hardly opened his mouth when the twelfth hour expired, and\nLucifer, regaining his vigour with his shape, sent the Prince of the\nChurch spinning to the other end of the room, and split the marble\ntable with a single stroke of his tail. The six crouched and huddling\nCardinals cowered revealed to one another, and at the same time\nenjoyed the spectacle of his Holiness darting through the stone\nceiling, which yielded like a film to his passage, and closed up\nafterwards as if nothing had happened. After the first shock of dismay\nthey unanimously rushed to the door, but found it bolted on the\noutside. There was no other exit, and no means of giving an alarm. In\nthis emergency the demeanour of the Italian Cardinals set a bright\nexample to their ultramontane colleagues. \"_Bisogna pazienzia_,\" they\nsaid, as they shrugged their shoulders. Nothing could exceed the\nmutual politeness of Cardinals Anno and Benno, unless that of the two\nwho had sought to poison each other. The Frenchman was held to have\ngravely derogated from good manners by alluding to this circumstance,\nwhich had reached his ears while he was under the table: and the\nEnglishman swore so outrageously at the plight in which he found\nhimself that the Italians then and there silently registered a vow\nthat none of his nation should ever be Pope, a maxim which, with one\nexception, has been observed to this day.\n\nLucifer, meanwhile, had repaired to Silvester, whom he found arrayed\nin all the insignia of his dignity; of which, as he remarked, he\nthought his visitor had probably had enough.\n\n\"I should think so indeed,\" replied Lucifer. \"But at the same time I\nfeel myself fully repaid for all I have undergone by the assurance of\nthe loyalty of my friends and admirers, and the conviction that it is\nneedless for me to devote any considerable amount of personal\nattention to ecclesiastical affairs. I now claim the promised boon,\nwhich it will be in no way inconsistent with thy functions to grant,\nseeing that it is a work of mercy. I demand that the Cardinals be\nreleased, and that their conspiracy against thee, by which I alone\nsuffered, be buried in oblivion.\"\n\n\"I hoped you would carry them all off,\" said Gerbert, with an\nexpression of disappointment.\n\n\"Thank you,\" said the Devil. \"It is more to my interest to leave them\nwhere they are.\"\n\nSo the dungeon-door was unbolted, and the Cardinals came forth,\nsheepish and crestfallen. If, after all, they did less mischief than\nLucifer had expected from them, the cause was their entire\nbewilderment by what had passed, and their utter inability to\npenetrate the policy of Gerbert, who henceforth devoted himself even\nwith ostentation to good works. They could never quite satisfy\nthemselves whether they were speaking to the Pope or to the Devil, and\nwhen under the latter impression habitually emitted propositions which\nGerbert justly stigmatized as rash, temerarious, and scandalous. They\nplagued him with allusions to certain matters mentioned in their\ninterviews with Lucifer, with which they naturally but erroneously\nsupposed him to be conversant, and worried him by continual nods and\ntitterings as they glanced at his nether extremities. To abolish this\nnuisance, and at the same time silence sundry unpleasant rumours which\nhad somehow got abroad, Gerbert devised the ceremony of kissing the\nPope's feet, which, in a grievously mutilated form, endures to this\nday. The stupefaction of the Cardinals on discovering that the Holy\nFather had lost his hoof surpasses all description, and they went to\ntheir graves without having obtained the least insight into the\nmystery.\n\n\n\n\nMADAM LUCIFER[27]\n\nBY RICHARD GARNETT\n\n\n    [27] Taken by permission from _The Twilight of the Gods_, by\n    Richard Garnett. Published by John Lane Co., New York.\n\nLucifer sat playing chess with Man for his soul.\n\nThe game was evidently going ill for Man. He had but pawns left, few\nand struggling. Lucifer had rooks, knights, and, of course, bishops.\n\nIt was but natural under such circumstances that Man should be in no\ngreat hurry to move. Lucifer grew impatient.\n\n\"It is a pity,\" said he at last, \"that we did not fix some period\nwithin which the player must move, or resign.\"\n\n\"Oh, Lucifer,\" returned the young man, in heart-rending accents, \"it\nis not the impending loss of my soul that thus unmans me, but the loss\nof my betrothed. When I think of the grief of the Lady Adeliza, the\nparagon of terrestrial loveliness!\" Tears choked his utterance;\nLucifer was touched.\n\n\"Is the Lady Adeliza's loveliness in sooth so transcendent?\" he\ninquired.\n\n\"She is a rose, a lily, a diamond, a morning star!\"\n\n\"If that is the case,\" rejoined Lucifer, \"thou mayest reassure\nthyself. The Lady Adeliza shall not want for consolation. I will\nassume thy shape and woo her in thy stead.\"\n\nThe young man hardly seemed to receive all the comfort from this\npromise which Lucifer no doubt designed. He made a desperate move. In\nan instant the Devil checkmated him, and he disappeared.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\"Upon my word, if I had known what a business this was going to be, I\ndon't think I should have gone in for it,\" soliloquized the Devil as,\nwearing his captive's semblance and installed in his apartments, he\nsurveyed the effects to which he now had to administer. They included\ncoats, shirts, collars, neckties, foils, cigars, and the like _ad\nlibitum_; and very little else except three challenges, ten writs, and\nseventy-four unpaid bills, elegantly disposed around the\nlooking-glass. To the poor youth's praise be it said, there were no\n_billets-doux_, except from the Lady Adeliza herself.\n\nNoting the address of these carefully, the Devil sallied forth, and\nnothing but his ignorance of the topography of the hotel, which made\nhim take the back stairs, saved him from the clutches of two bailiffs\nlurking on the principal staircase. Leaping into a cab, he thus\nescaped a perfumer and a bootmaker, and shortly found himself at the\nLady Adeliza's feet.\n\nThe truth had not been half told him. Such beauty, such wit, such\ncorrectness of principle! Lucifer went forth from her presence a\nlove-sick fiend. Not Merlin's mother had produced half the impression\nupon him; and Adeliza on her part had never found her lover\none-hundredth part so interesting as he seemed that morning.\n\nLucifer proceeded at once to the City, where, assuming his proper\nshape for the occasion, he negotiated a loan without the smallest\ndifficulty. All debts were promptly discharged, and Adeliza was\nastonished at the splendour and variety of the presents she was\nconstantly receiving.\n\nLucifer had all but brought her to name the day, when he was informed\nthat a gentleman of clerical appearance desired to wait upon him.\n\n\"Wants money for a new church or mission, I suppose,\" said he. \"Show\nhim up.\"\n\nBut when the visitor was ushered in, Lucifer found with discomposure\nthat he was no earthly clergyman, but a celestial saint; a saint, too,\nwith whom Lucifer had never been able to get on. He had served in the\narmy while on earth, and his address was curt, precise, and\nperemptory.\n\n\"I have called,\" he said, \"to notify to you my appointment as\nInspector of Devils.\"\n\n\"What!\" exclaimed Lucifer, in consternation. \"To the post of my old\nfriend Michael!\"\n\n\"Too old,\" said the Saint laconically. \"Millions of years older than\nthe world. About your age, I think.\"\n\nLucifer winced, remembering the particular business he was then about.\nThe Saint continued:\n\n\"I am a new broom, and am expected to sweep clean. I warn you that I\nmean to be strict, and there is one little matter which I must set\nright immediately. You are going to marry that poor young fellow's\nbetrothed, are you? Now you know you can not take his wife, unless you\ngive him yours.\"\n\n\"Oh, my dear friend,\" exclaimed Lucifer, \"what an inexpressibly\nblissful prospect you do open unto me!\"\n\n\"I don't know that,\" said the Saint. \"I must remind you that the\ndominion of the infernal regions is unalterably attached to the person\nof the present Queen thereof. If you part with her you immediately\nlose all your authority and possessions. I don't care a brass button\nwhich you do, but you must understand that you cannot eat your cake\nand have it too. Good morning!\"\n\nWho shall describe the conflict in Lucifer's bosom? If any stronger\npassion existed therein at that moment than attachment to Adeliza, it\nwas aversion to his consort, and the two combined were wellnigh\nirresistible. But to disenthrone himself, to descend to the condition\nof a poor devil!\n\nFeeling himself incapable of coming to a decision, he sent for Belial,\nunfolded the matter, and requested his advice.\n\n\"What a shame that our new inspector will not let you marry Adeliza!\"\nlamented his counsellor. \"If you did, my private opinion is that\nforty-eight hours afterwards you would care just as much for her as\nyou do now for Madam Lucifer, neither more nor less. Are your\nintentions really honourable?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" replied Lucifer, \"it is to be a Lucifer match.\"\n\n\"The more fool you,\" rejoined Belial. \"If you tempted her to commit a\nsin, she would be yours without any conditions at all.\"\n\n\"Oh, Belial,\" said Lucifer, \"I cannot bring myself to be a tempter of\nso much innocence and loveliness.\"\n\nAnd he meant what he said.\n\n\"Well then, let me try,\" proposed Belial.\n\n\"You?\" replied Lucifer contemptuously; \"do you imagine that Adeliza\nwould look at you?\"\n\n\"Why not?\" asked Belial, surveying himself complacently in the glass.\n\nHe was humpbacked, squinting, and lame, and his horns stood up under\nhis wig.\n\nThe discussion ended in a wager: after which there was no retreat for\nLucifer.\n\nThe infernal Iachimo was introduced to Adeliza as a distinguished\nforeigner, and was soon prosecuting his suit with all the success\nwhich Lucifer had predicted. One thing protected while it baffled\nhim--the entire inability of Adeliza to understand what he meant. At\nlength he was constrained to make the matter clear by producing an\nenormous treasure, which he offered Adeliza in exchange for the\nabandonment of her lover.\n\nThe tempest of indignation which ensued would have swept away any\nordinary demon, but Belial listened unmoved. When Adeliza had\nexhausted herself he smilingly rallied her upon her affection for an\nunworthy lover, of whose infidelity he undertook to give her proof.\nFrantic with jealousy, Adeliza consented, and in a trice found herself\nin the infernal regions.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAdeliza's arrival in Pandemonium, as Belial had planned, occurred\nimmediately after the receipt of a message from Lucifer, in whose\nbosom love had finally gained the victory, and who had telegraphed his\nabdication and resignation of Madam Lucifer to Adeliza's betrothed.\nThe poor young man had just been hauled up from the lower depths, and\nwas beset by legions of demons obsequiously pressing all manner of\ntreasures upon his acceptance. He stared, helpless and bewildered,\nunable to realize his position in the smallest degree. In the\nbackground grave and serious demons, the princes of the infernal\nrealm, discussed the new departure, and consulted especially how to\nbreak it to Madam Lucifer--a commission of which no one seemed\nambitious.\n\n\"Stay where you are,\" whispered Belial to Adeliza; \"stir not: you\nshall put his constancy to the proof within five minutes.\"\n\nNot all the hustling, mowing, and gibbering of the fiends would under\nordinary circumstances have kept Adeliza from her lover's side: but\nwhat is all hell to jealousy?\n\nIn even less time than he had promised, Belial returned, accompanied\nby Madam Lucifer. This lady's black robe, dripping with blood,\ncontrasted agreeably with her complexion of sulphurous yellow; the\nabsence of hair was compensated by the exceptional length of her\nnails; she was a thousand million years old, and, but for her\nremarkable muscular vigour, looked every one of them. The rage into\nwhich Belial's communication had thrown her was something\nindescribable; but, as her eye fell on the handsome youth, a different\norder of thoughts seemed to take possession of her mind.\n\n\"Let the monster go!\" she exclaimed; \"who cares? Come, my love, ascend\nthe throne with me, and share the empire and the treasures of thy fond\nLuciferetta.\"\n\n\"If you don't, back you go,\" interjected Belial.\n\nWhat might have been the young man's decision if Madam Lucifer had\nborne more resemblance to Madam Vulcan, it would be wholly impertinent\nto inquire, for the question never arose.\n\n\"Take me away!\" he screamed, \"take me away, anywhere! anywhere out of\nher reach! Oh, Adeliza!\"\n\nWith a bound Adeliza stood by his side. She was darting a triumphant\nglance at the discomfited Queen of Hell, when suddenly her expression\nchanged, and she screamed loudly. Two adorers stood before her, alike\nin every lineament and every detail of costume, utterly\nindistinguishable, even by the eye of Love.\n\nLucifer, in fact, hastening to throw himself at Adeliza's feet and\npray her to defer his bliss no longer, had been thunderstruck by the\ntidings of her elopement with Belial. Fearing to lose his wife and his\ndominions along with his sweetheart, he had sped to the nether regions\nwith such expedition that he had had no time to change his costume.\nHence the equivocation which confounded Adeliza, but at the same time\npreserved her from being torn to pieces by the no less mystified Madam\nLucifer.\n\nPerceiving the state of the case, Lucifer with true gentlemanly\nfeeling resumed his proper semblance, and Madam Lucifer's talons were\nimmediately inserted into his whiskers.\n\n\"My dear! my love!\" he gasped, as audibly as she would let him, \"is\nthis the way it welcomes its own Lucy-pucy?\"\n\n\"Who is that person?\" demanded Madam Lucifer.\n\n\"I don't know her,\" screamed the wretched Lucifer. \"I never saw her\nbefore. Take her away; shut her up in the deepest dungeon!\"\n\n\"Not if I know it,\" sharply replied Madam Lucifer. \"You can't bear to\npart with her, can't you? You would intrigue with her under my nose,\nwould you? Take that! and that! Turn them both out, I say! turn them\nboth out!\"\n\n\"Certainly, my dearest love, most certainly,\" responded Lucifer.\n\n\"Oh, Sire,\" cried Moloch and Beelzebub together, \"for Heaven's sake\nlet your Majesty consider what he is doing. The Inspector--\"\n\n\"Bother the Inspector!\" screeched Lucifer. \"D'ye think I'm not a\nthousand times more afraid of your mistress than of all the saints in\nthe calendar? There,\" addressing Adeliza and her betrothed, \"be off!\nYou'll find all debts paid, and a nice balance at the bank. Out! Run!\"\n\nThey did not wait to be told twice. Earth yawned. The gates of\nTartarus stood wide. They found themselves on the side of a steep\nmountain, down which they scoured madly, hand linked in hand. But fast\nas they ran, it was long ere they ceased to hear the tongue of Madam\nLucifer.\n\n\n\n\nLUCIFER[28]\n\nBY ANATOLE FRANCE\n\n\n    [28] Taken by permission from _The Well of St. Claire_, by\n    Anatole France, translated by Alfred Allinson. Published,\n    1909, by John Lane Co., New York.\n\n     _E si compiacque tanto Spinello di farlo orribile e\n     contrafatto, che si dice (tanto pu\u00f2 alcuna fiata\n     l'immaginazione) che la detta figura da lui dipinta gli\n     apparve in sogno, domandandolo dove egli l' avesse veduta si\n     brutta._[29]\n                            (_Vite de' pi\u00f9 eccellenti pittori, da Messer\n                            Giorgio Vasari.--\"Vita di Spinello.\"_)\n\n    [29] \"And so successful was Spinello with his horrible and\n    portentous Production that it was commonly reported--so great\n    is always the force of fancy--that the said figure (of\n    Lucifer trodden underfoot by St. Michael in the Altar-Piece\n    of the Church of St. Agnolo at Arezzo) painted by him had\n    appeared to the artist in a dream, and asked him in what\n    place he had beheld him under so brutish a form.\"\n\n                      _Lives of the most Excellent Painters_, by Giorgio\n                      Vasari.--\"Life of Spinello.\"\n\nAndrea Tafi, painter and worker-in-mosaic of Florence, had a wholesome\nterror of the Devils of Hell, particularly in the watches of the\nnight, when it is given to the powers of Darkness to prevail. And the\nworthy man's fears were not unreasonable, for in those days the Demons\nhad good cause to hate the Painters, who robbed them of more souls\nwith a single picture than a good little Preaching Friar could do in\nthirty sermons. No doubt the Monk, to instil a soul-saving horror in\nthe hearts of the faithful, would describe to the utmost of his\npowers \"that day of wrath, that day of mourning,\" which is to reduce\nthe universe to ashes, _teste David et Sibylla_, borrowing his deepest\nvoice and bellowing through his hands to imitate the Archangel's last\ntrump. But there! it was \"all sound and fury, signifying nothing,\"\nwhereas a painting displayed on a Chapel wall or in the Cloister,\nshowing Jesus Christ sitting on the Great White Throne to judge the\nliving and the dead, spoke unceasingly to the eyes of sinners, and\nthrough the eyes chastened such as had sinned by the eyes or\notherwise.\n\nIt was in the days when cunning masters were depicting at Santa-Croce\nin Florence and the Campo Santo of Pisa the mysteries of Divine\nJustice. These works were drawn according to the account in verse\nwhich Dante Alighieri, a man very learned in Theology and in Canon\nLaw, wrote in days gone by of his journey to Hell, and Purgatory and\nParadise, whither by the singular great merits of his lady, he was\nable to make his way alive. So everything in these paintings was\ninstructive and true, and we may say surely less profit is to be had\nof reading the most full and ample Chronicle than from contemplating\nsuch representative works of art. Moreover, the Florentine masters\ntook heed to paint, under the shade of orange groves, on the\nflower-starred turf, fair ladies and gallant knights, with Death lying\nin wait for them with his scythe, while they were discoursing of love\nto the sound of lutes and viols. Nothing was better fitted to convert\ncarnal-minded sinners who quaff forgetfulness of God on the lips of\nwomen. To rebuke the covetous, the painter would show to the life the\nDevils pouring molten gold down the throat of Bishop or Abbess, who\nhad commissioned some work from him and then scamped his pay.\n\nThis is why the Demons in those days were bitter enemies of the\npainters, and above all of the Florentine painters, who surpassed all\nthe rest in subtlety of wit. Chiefly they reproached them with\nrepresenting them under a hideous guise, with the heads of bird and\nfish, serpents' bodies and bats' wings. This sore resentment which\nthey felt will come out plainly in the history of Spinello of Arezzo.\n\nSpinello Spinelli was sprung of a noble family of Florentine exiles,\nand his graciousness of mind matched his gentle birth; for he was the\nmost skilful painter of his time. He wrought many and great works at\nFlorence; and the Pisans begged him to complete Giotto's\nwall-paintings in their Campo Santo, where the dead rest beneath roses\nin holy earth shipped from Jerusalem. At last, after working long\nyears in divers cities and getting much gold, he longed to see once\nmore the good city of Arezzo, his mother. The men of Arezzo had not\nforgotten how Spinello, in his younger days, being enrolled in the\nConfraternity of Santa Maria della Misericordia, had visited the sick\nand buried the dead in the plague of 1383. They were grateful to him\nbesides for having by his works spread the fame of their city over all\nTuscany. For all these reasons they welcomed him with high honours on\nhis return.\n\nStill full of vigour in his old age, he undertook important tasks in\nhis native town. His wife would tell him:\n\n\"You are rich, Spinello. Do you rest, and leave younger men to paint\ninstead of you. It is meet a man should end his days in a gentle,\nreligious quiet. It is tempting God to be for ever raising new and\nworldly monuments, mere heathen towers of Babel. Quit your colours and\nyour varnishes, Spinello, or they will destroy your peace of mind.\"\n\nSo the good dame would preach, but he refused to listen, for his one\nthought was to increase his fortune and renown. Far from resting on\nhis laurels, he arranged a price with the Wardens of Sant' Agnolo for\na history of St. Michael, that was to cover all the Choir of the\nChurch and contain an infinity of figures. Into this enterprise he\nthrew himself with extraordinary ardour. Re-reading the parts of\nScripture that were to be his inspiration, he set himself to study\ndeeply every line and every word of these passages. Not content with\ndrawing all day long in his workshop, he persisted in working both at\nbed and board; while at dusk, walking below the hill on whose brow\nArezzo proudly lifts her walls and towers, he was still lost in\nthought. And we may say the story of the Archangel was already limned\nin his brain when he started to sketch out the incidents in red chalk\non the plaster of the wall. He was soon done tracing these outlines;\nthen he fell to painting above the high altar the scene that was to\noutshine all the others in brilliancy. For it was his intent therein\nto glorify the leader of the hosts of Heaven for the victory he won\nbefore the beginning of time. Accordingly Spinello represented St.\nMichael fighting in the air against the serpent with seven heads and\nten horns, and he figured with delight, in the bottom part of the\npicture, the Prince of the Devils, Lucifer, under the semblance of an\nappalling monster. The figures seemed to grow to life of themselves\nunder his hand. His success was beyond his fondest hopes; so hideous\nwas the countenance of Lucifer, none could escape the nightmare of its\nfoulness. The face haunted the painter in the streets and even went\nhome with him to his lodging.\n\nPresently when night was come, Spinello lay down in his bed beside his\nwife and fell asleep. In his slumbers he saw an Angel as comely as St.\nMichael, but black; and the Angel said to him:\n\n\"Spinello, I am Lucifer. Tell me, where had you seen me, that you\nshould paint me as you have, under so ignominious a likeness?\"\n\nThe old painter answered, trembling, that he had never seen him with\nhis eyes, never having gone down alive into Hell, like Messer Dante\nAlighieri; but that, in depicting him as he had done, he was for\nexpressing in visible lines and colours the hideousness of sin.\n\nLucifer shrugged his shoulders, and the hill of San Gemignano seemed\nof a sudden to heave and stagger.\n\n\"Spinello,\" he went on, \"will you do me the pleasure to reason awhile\nwith me? I am no mean Logician; He you pray to knows that.\"\n\nReceiving no reply, Lucifer proceeded in these terms:\n\n\"Spinello, you have read the books that tell of me. You know of my\nenterprise, and how I forsook Heaven to become the Prince of this\nWorld. A tremendous adventure,--and a unique one, had not the Giants\nin like fashion assailed the god Jupiter, as yourself have seen,\nSpinello, recorded on an ancient tomb where this Titanic war is carved\nin marble.\"\n\n\"It is true,\" said Spinello, \"I have seen the tomb, shaped like a\ngreat tun, in the Church of Santa Reparata at Florence. 'Tis a fine\nwork of the Romans.\"\n\n\"Still,\" returned Lucifer, smiling, \"the Giants are not pictured on it\nin the shape of frogs or chameleons or the like hideous and horrid\ncreatures.\"\n\n\"True,\" replied the painter, \"but then they had not attacked the true\nGod, but only a false idol of the Pagans. 'Tis a mighty difference.\nThe fact is clear, Lucifer, you raised the standard of revolt against\nthe true and veritable King of Earth and Heaven.\"\n\n\"I will not deny it,\" said Lucifer. \"And how many sorts of sins do you\ncharge me with for that?\"\n\n\"Seven, it is like enough,\" the painter answered, \"and deadly sins one\nand all.\"\n\n\"Seven!\" exclaimed the Angel of Darkness; \"well! the number is\ncanonical. Everything goes by sevens in my history, which is close\nbound up with God's. Spinello, you deem me proud, angry and envious. I\nenter no protest, provided you allow that glory was my only aim. Do\nyou deem me covetous? Granted again; Covetousness is a virtue for\nPrinces. For Gluttony and Lust, if you hold me guilty, I will not\ncomplain. Remains _Indolence_.\"\n\nAs he pronounced the word, Lucifer crossed his arms across his breast,\nand shaking his gloomy head, tossed his flaming locks:\n\n\"Tell me, Spinello, do you really think I am indolent? Do you take me\nfor a coward? Do you hold that in my revolt I showed a lack of\ncourage? Nay! you cannot. Then it was but just to paint me in the\nguise of a hero, with a proud countenance. You should wrong no one,\nnot even the Devil. Cannot you see that you insult Him you make prayer\nto, when you give Him for adversary a vile, monstrous toad? Spinello,\nyou are very ignorant for a man of your age. I have a great mind to\npull your ears, as they do to an ill-conditioned schoolboy.\"\n\nAt this threat, and seeing the arm of Lucifer already stretched out\ntowards him, Spinello clapped his hand to his head and began to howl\nwith terror.\n\nHis good wife, waking up with a start, asked him what ailed him. He\ntold her with chattering teeth, how he had just seen Lucifer and had\nbeen in terror for his ears.\n\n\"I told you so,\" retorted the worthy dame; \"I knew all those figures\nyou will go on painting on the walls would end by driving you mad.\"\n\n\"I am not mad,\" protested the painter. \"I saw him with my own eyes;\nand he is beautiful to look on, albeit proud and sad. First thing\ntomorrow I will blot out the horrid figure I have drawn and set in its\nplace the shape I beheld in my dream. For we must not wrong even the\nDevil himself.\"\n\n\"You had best go to sleep again,\" scolded his wife. \"You are talking\nstark nonsense, and unchristian to boot.\"\n\nSpinello tried to rise, but his strength failed him and he fell back\nunconscious on his pillow. He lingered on a few days in a high fever,\nand then died.\n\n\n\n\nTHE DEVIL[30]\n\nBY MAXIM GORKY\n\n\n    [30] From the _National Magazine_, vol. XV. By permission of\n    the Editor and Translator.\n\nLife is a burden in the Fall,--the sad season of decay and death!\n\nThe grey days, the weeping, sunless sky, the dark nights, the\ngrowling, whining wind, the heavy, black autumn shadows--all that\ndrives clouds of gloomy thoughts over the human soul, and fills it\nwith a mysterious fear of life where nothing is permanent, all is in\nan eternal flux; things are born, decay, die ... why? ... for what\npurpose?...\n\nSometimes the strength fails us to battle against the tenebrous\nthoughts that enfold the soul late in the autumn, therefore those who\nwant to assuage their bitterness ought to meet them half way. This is\nthe only way by which they will escape from the chaos of despair and\ndoubt, and will enter on the terra firma of self-confidence.\n\nBut it is a laborious path, it leads through thorny brambles that\nlacerate the living heart, and on that path the devil always lies in\nambush. It is that best of all the devils, with whom the great Goethe\nhas made us acquainted....\n\nMy story is about that devil.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe devil suffered from ennui.\n\nHe is too wise to ridicule everything.\n\nHe knows that there are phenomena of life which the devil himself is\nnot able to rail at; for example, he has never applied the sharp\nscalpel of his irony to the majestic fact of his existence. To tell\nthe truth, our favourite devil is more bold than clever, and if we\nwere to look more closely at him, we might discover that, like\nourselves, he wastes most of his time on trifles. But we had better\nleave that alone; we are not children that break their best toys in\norder to discover what is in them.\n\nThe devil once wandered over the cemetery in the darkness of an autumn\nnight: he felt lonely and whistled softly as he looked around himself\nin search of a distraction. He whistled an old song--my father's\nfavourite song,--\n\n    \"When, in autumnal days,\n    A leaf from its branch is torn\n    And on high by the wind is borne.\"\n\nAnd the wind sang with him, soughing over the graves and among the\nblack crosses, and heavy autumnal clouds slowly crawled over the\nheaven and with their cold tears watered the narrow dwellings of the\ndead. The mournful trees in the cemetery timidly creaked under the\nstrokes of the wind and stretched their bare branches to the\nspeechless clouds. The branches were now and then caught by the\ncrosses, and then a dull, shuffling, awful sound passed over the\nchurchyard....\n\nThe devil was whistling, and he thought:\n\n\"I wonder how the dead feel in such weather! No doubt, the dampness\ngoes down to them, and although they are secure against rheumatism\never since the day of their death, yet, I suppose, they do not feel\ncomfortable. How, if I called one of them up and had a talk with him?\nIt would be a little distraction for me, and, very likely, for him\nalso. I will call him! Somewhere around here they have buried an old\nfriend of mine, an author.... I used to visit him when he was alive\n... why not renew our acquaintance? People of his kind are dreadfully\nexacting. I shall find out whether the grave satisfies him completely.\nBut where is his grave?\"\n\nAnd the devil who, as is well known, knows everything, wandered for a\nlong time about the cemetery, before he found the author's grave....\n\n\"Oh there!\" he called out as he knocked with his claws at the heavy\nstone under which his acquaintance was put away.\n\n\"Get up!\"\n\n\"What for?\" came the dull answer from below.\n\n\"I need you.\"\n\n\"I won't get up.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"Who are you, anyway?\"\n\n\"You know me.\"\n\n\"The censor?\"\n\n\"Ha, ha, ha! No!\"\n\n\"Maybe a secret policeman?\"\n\n\"No, no!\"\n\n\"Not a critic, either?\"\n\n\"I am the devil.\"\n\n\"Well, I'll be out in a minute.\"\n\nThe stone lifted itself from the grave, the earth burst open, and a\nskeleton came out of it. It was a very common skeleton, just the kind\nthat students study anatomy by: only it was dirty, had no wire\nconnections, and in the empty sockets there shone a blue phosphoric\nlight instead of eyes. It crawled out of the ground, shook its bones\nin order to throw off the earth that stuck to them, making a dry,\nrattling noise with them, and raising up its skull, looked with its\ncold, blue eyes at the murky, cloud-covered sky. \"I hope you are\nwell!\" said the devil.\n\n\"How can I be?\" curtly answered the author. He spoke in a strange, low\nvoice, as if two bones were grating against each other.\n\n\"Oh, excuse my greeting!\" the devil said pleasantly.\n\n\"Never mind!... But why have you raised me?\"\n\n\"I just wanted to take a walk with you, though the weather is very\nbad.\n\n\"I suppose you are not afraid of catching a cold?\" asked the devil.\n\n\"Not at all, I got used to catching colds during my lifetime.\"\n\n\"Yes, I remember, you died pretty cold.\"\n\n\"I should say I did! They had poured enough cold water over me all my\nlife.\"\n\nThey walked beside each other over the narrow path, between graves and\ncrosses. Two blue beams fell from the author's eyes upon the ground\nand lit the way for the devil. A drizzling rain sprinkled over them,\nand the wind freely passed between the author's bare ribs and through\nhis breast where there was no longer a heart.\n\n\"We are going to town?\" he asked the devil.\n\n\"What interests you there?\"\n\n\"Life, my dear sir,\" the author said impassionately.\n\n\"What! It still has a meaning for you?\"\n\n\"Indeed it has!\"\n\n\"But why?\"\n\n\"How am I to say it? A man measures all by the quantity of his effort,\nand if he carries a common stone down from the summit of Ararat, that\nstone becomes a gem to him.\"\n\n\"Poor fellow!\" smiled the devil.\n\n\"But also happy man!\" the author retorted coldly.\n\nThe devil shrugged his shoulders.\n\nThey left the churchyard, and before them lay a street,--two rows of\nhouses, and between them was darkness in which the miserable lamps\nclearly proved the want of light upon earth.\n\n\"Tell me,\" the devil spoke after a pause, \"how do you like your\ngrave?\"\n\n\"Now I am used to it, and it is all right: it is very quiet there.\"\n\n\"Is it not damp down there in the Fall?\" asked the devil.\n\n\"A little. But you get used to that. The greatest annoyance comes from\nthose various idiots who ramble over the cemetery and accidentally\nstumble on my grave. I don't know how long I have been lying in my\ngrave, for I and everything around me is unchangeable, and the concept\nof time does not exist for me.\"\n\n\"You have been in the ground four years,--it will soon be five,\" said\nthe devil.\n\n\"Indeed? Well then, there have been three people at my grave during\nthat time. Those accursed people make me nervous. One, you see,\nstraight away denied the fact of my existence: he read my name on the\ntombstone and said confidently: 'There never was such a man! I have\nnever read him, though I remember such a name: when I was a boy, there\nlived a man of that name who had a broker's shop in our street.' How\ndo you like that? And my articles appeared for sixteen years in the\nmost popular periodicals, and three times during my lifetime my books\ncame out in separate editions.\"\n\n\"There were two more editions since your death,\" the devil informed\nhim.\n\n\"Well, you see? Then came two, and one of them said: 'Oh, that's that\nfellow!' 'Yes, that is he!' answered the other. 'Yes, they used to\nread him in the auld lang syne.' 'They read a lot of them.' 'What was\nit he preached?' 'Oh, generally, ideas of beauty, goodness, and so\nforth.' 'Oh, yes, I remember.' 'He had a heavy tongue.' 'There is a\nlot of them in the ground:--yes, Russia is rich in talents' ... And\nthose asses went away. It is true, warm words do not raise the\ntemperature of the grave, and I do not care for that, yet it hurts me.\nAnd oh, how I wanted to give them a piece of my mind!\"\n\n\"You ought to have given them a fine tongue-lashing!\" smiled the\ndevil.\n\n\"No, that would not have done. On the verge of the twentieth century\nit would be absurd for dead people to scold, and, besides, it would be\nhard on the materialists.\"\n\nThe devil again felt the ennui coming over him.\n\nThis author had always wished in his lifetime to be a bridegroom at\nall weddings and a corpse at all burials, and now that all is dead in\nhim, his egotism is still alive. Is man of any importance to life? Of\nimportance is only the human spirit, and only the spirit deserves\napplause and recognition.... How annoying people are! The devil was on\nthe point of proposing to the author to return to his grave, when an\nidea flashed through his evil head. They had just reached a square,\nand heavy masses of buildings surrounded them on all sides. The dark,\nwet sky hung low over the square; it seemed as though it rested on the\nroofs and murkily looked at the dirty earth.\n\n\"Say,\" said the devil as he inclined pleasantly towards the author,\n\"don't you want to know how your wife is getting on?\"\n\n\"I don't know whether I want to,\" the author spoke slowly.\n\n\"I see, you are a thorough corpse!\" called out the devil to annoy him.\n\n\"Oh, I don't know?\" said the author and jauntily shook his bones. \"I\ndon't mind seeing her; besides, she will not see me, or if she will,\nshe cannot recognize me!\"\n\n\"Of course!\" the devil assured him.\n\n\"You know, I only said so because she did not like for me to go away\nlong from home,\" explained the author.\n\nAnd suddenly the wall of a house disappeared or became as transparent\nas glass. The author saw the inside of large apartments, and it was so\nlight and cosy in them.\n\n\"Elegant appointments!\" he grated his bones approvingly: \"Very fine\nappointments! If I had lived in such rooms, I would be alive now.\"\n\n\"I like it, too,\" said the devil and smiled. \"And it is not\nexpensive--it only costs some three thousands.\"\n\n\"Hem, that not expensive? I remember my largest work brought me 815\nroubles, and I worked over it a whole year. But who lives here?\"\n\n\"Your wife,\" said the devil.\n\n\"I declare! That is good ... for her.\"\n\n\"Yes, and here comes her husband.\"\n\n\"She is so pretty now, and how well she is dressed! Her husband, you\nsay? What a fine looking fellow! Rather a bourgeois phiz,--kind, but\nsomewhat stupid! He looks as if he might be cunning,--well, just the\nface to please a woman.\"\n\n\"Do you want me to heave a sigh for you?\" the devil proposed and\nlooked maliciously at the author. But he was taken up with the scene\nbefore him.\n\n\"What happy, jolly faces both have! They are evidently satisfied with\nlife. Tell me, does she love him?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, very much!\"\n\n\"And who is he?\"\n\n\"A clerk in a millinery shop.\"\n\n\"A clerk in a millinery shop,\" the author repeated slowly and did not\nutter a word for some time. The devil looked at him and smiled a merry\nsmile.\n\n\"Do you like that?\" he asked.\n\nThe author spoke with an effort:\n\n\"I had some children.... I know they are alive.... I had some children\n... a son and a daughter.... I used to think then that my son would\nturn out in time a good man....\"\n\n\"There are plenty of good men, but what the world needs is perfect\nmen,\" said the devil coolly and whistled a jolly march.\n\n\"I think the clerk is probably a poor pedagogue ... and my son....\"\n\nThe author's empty skull shook sadly.\n\n\"Just look how he is embracing her! They are living an easy life!\"\nexclaimed the devil.\n\n\"Yes. Is that clerk a rich man?\"\n\n\"No, he was poorer than I, but your wife is rich.\"\n\n\"My wife? Where did she get the money from?\"\n\n\"From the sale of your books!\"\n\n\"Oh!\" said the author and shook his bare and empty skull. \"Oh! Then it\nsimply means that I have worked for a certain clerk?\"\n\n\"I confess it looks that way,\" the devil chimed in merrily.\n\nThe author looked at the ground and said to the devil: \"Take me back\nto my grave!\"\n\n... It was late. A rain fell, heavy clouds hung in the sky, and the\nauthor rattled his bones as he marched rapidly to his grave.... The\ndevil walked behind him and whistled merrily.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nMy reader is, of course, dissatisfied. My reader is surfeited with\nliterature, and even the people that write only to please him, are\nrarely to his taste. In the present case my reader is also\ndissatisfied because I have said nothing about hell. As my reader is\njustly convinced that after death he will find his way there, he would\nlike to know something about hell during his lifetime. Really, I can't\ntell anything pleasant to my reader on that score, because there is no\nhell, no fiery hell which it is so easy to imagine. Yet, there is\nsomething else and infinitely more terrible.\n\nThe moment the doctor will have said about you to your friends: \"He is\ndead!\" you will enter an immeasurable, illuminated space, and that is\nthe space of the consciousness of your mistakes.\n\nYou lie in the grave, in a narrow coffin, and your miserable life\nrotates about you like a wheel.\n\nIt moves painfully slow, and passes before you from your first\nconscious step to the last moment of your life.\n\nYou will see all that you have hidden from yourself during your\nlifetime, all the lies and meanness of your existence: you will think\nover anew all your past thoughts, and you will see every wrong step of\nyours,--all your life will be gone over, to its minutest details!\n\nAnd to increase your torments, you will know that on that narrow and\nstupid road which you have traversed, others are marching, and pushing\neach other, and hurrying, and lying.... And you understand that they\nare doing it all only to find out in time how shameful it is to live\nsuch a wretched, soulless life.\n\nAnd though you see them hastening on towards their destruction, you\nare in no way able to warn them: you will not move nor cry, and your\nhelpless desire to aid them will tear your soul to pieces.\n\nYour life passes before you, and you see it from the start, and there\nis no end to the work of your conscience, and there will be no end ...\nand to the horror of your torments there will never be an end ...\nnever!\n\n\n\n\nTHE DEVIL AND THE OLD MAN[31]\n\nBY JOHN MASEFIELD\n\n\n    [31] From _A Mainsail Haul_, by John Masefield [Copyright\n    1913 by The Macmillan Company. Reprinted by permission of the\n    Author and the Publishers.]\n\nUp away north, in the old days, in Chester, there was a man who never\nthrove. Nothing he put his hand to ever prospered, and as his state\nworsened, his friends fell away, and he grew desperate. So one night\nwhen he was alone in his room, thinking of the rent due in two or\nthree days and the money he couldn't scrape together, he cried out, \"I\nwish I could sell my soul to the devil like that man the old books\ntell about.\"\n\nNow just as he spoke the clock struck twelve, and, while it chimed, a\nsparkle began to burn about the room, and the air, all at once, began\nto smell of brimstone, and a voice said:\n\n\"Will these terms suit you?\"\n\nHe then saw that some one had just placed a parchment there. He picked\nit up and read it through; and being in despair, and not knowing what\nhe was doing, he answered, \"Yes,\" and looked round for a pen.\n\n\"Take and sign,\" said the voice again, \"but first consider what it is\nyou do; do nothing rashly. Consider.\"\n\nSo he thought awhile; then \"Yes,\" he said, \"I'll sign,\" and with that\nhe groped for the pen.\n\n\"Blood from your left thumb and sign,\" said the voice.\n\nSo he pricked his left thumb and signed.\n\n\"Here is your earnest money,\" said the voice, \"nine and twenty silver\npennies. This day twenty years hence I shall see you again.\"\n\nNow early next morning our friend came to himself and felt like one of\nthe drowned. \"What a dream I've had,\" he said. Then he woke up and saw\nthe nine and twenty silver pennies and smelt a faint smell of\nbrimstone.\n\nSo he sat in his chair there, and remembered that he had sold his soul\nto the devil for twenty years of heart's-desire; and whatever fears he\nmay have had as to what might come at the end of those twenty years,\nhe found comfort in the thought that, after all, twenty years is a\ngood stretch of time, and that throughout them he could eat, drink,\nmerrymake, roll in gold, dress in silk, and be care-free, heart at\nease and jib-sheet to windward.\n\nSo for nineteen years and nine months he lived in great state, having\nhis heart's desire in all things; but, when his twenty years were\nnearly run through, there was no wretcheder man in all the world than\nthat poor fellow. So he threw up his house, his position, riches,\neverything, and away he went to the port of Liverpool, where he signed\non as A. B., aboard a Black Ball packet, a tea clipper, bound to the\nChina seas.\n\nThey made a fine passage out, and when our friend had only three days\nmore, they were in the Indian Ocean lying lazy, becalmed.\n\nNow it was his wheel that forenoon, and it being dead calm, all he\nhad to do was just to think of things; the ship of course having no\nway on her.\n\nSo he stood there, hanging on to the spokes, groaning and weeping\ntill, just twenty minutes or so before eight bells were made, up came\nthe Captain for a turn on deck.\n\nHe went aft, of course, took a squint aloft, and saw our friend crying\nat the wheel. \"Hello, my man,\" he says, \"why, what's all this? Ain't\nyou well? You'd best lay aft for a dose o'salts at four bells\ntonight.\"\n\n\"No, Cap'n,\" said the man, \"there's no salts'll ever cure my\nsickness.\"\n\n\"Why, what's all this?\" says the old man. \"You must be sick if it's as\nbad as all that. But come now; your cheek is all sunk, and you look as\nif you ain't slept well. What is it ails you, anyway? Have you\nanything on your mind?\"\n\n\"Captain,\" he answers very solemn, \"I have sold my soul to the devil.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" said the old man, \"why, that's bad. That's powerful bad. I never\nthought them sort of things ever happened outside a book.\"\n\n\"But,\" said our friend, \"that's not the worst of it, Captain. At this\ntime three days hence the devil will fetch me home.\"\n\n\"Good Lord!\" groaned the old man. \"Here's a nice hurrah's nest to\nhappen aboard my ship. But come now,\" he went on, \"did the devil give\nyou no chance--no saving-clause like? Just think quietly for a\nmoment.\"\n\n\"Yes, Captain,\" said our friend, \"just when I made the deal, there\ncame a whisper in my ear. And,\" he said, speaking very quietly, so as\nnot to let the mate hear, \"if I can give the devil three jobs to do\nwhich he cannot do, why, then, Captain,\" he says, \"I'm saved, and that\ndeed of mine is cancelled.\"\n\nWell, at this the old man grinned and said, \"You just leave things to\nme, my son. _I'll_ fix the devil for you. Aft there, one o' you, and\nrelieve the wheel. Now you run forrard, and have a good watch below,\nand be quite easy in your mind, for I'll deal with the devil for you.\nYou rest and be easy.\"\n\nAnd so that day goes by, and the next, and the one after that, and the\none after that was the day the Devil was due.\n\nSoon as eight bells was made in the morning watch, the old man called\nall hands aft.\n\n\"Men,\" he said, \"I've got an all-hands job for you this forenoon.\"\n\n\"Mr. Mate,\" he cried, \"get all hands on to the main-tops'l halliards\nand bowse the sail stiff up and down.\"\n\nSo they passed along the halliards, and took the turns off, and old\nJohn Chantyman piped up--\n\n    There's a Black Ball clipper\n    Comin' down the river.\n\nAnd away the yard went to the mast-head till the bunt-robands jammed\nin the sheave.\n\n\"Very well that,\" said the old man. \"Now get my dinghy off o' the\nhalf-deck and let her drag alongside.\"\n\nSo they did that, too.\n\n\"Very well that,\" said the old man. \"Now forrard with you, to the\nchain-locker, and rouse out every inch of chain you find there.\"\n\nSo forrard they went, and the chain was lighted up and flaked along\nthe deck all clear for running.\n\n\"Now, Chips,\" says the old man to the carpenter, \"just bend the spare\nanchor to the end of that chain, and clear away the fo'c's'le rails\nready for when we let go.\"\n\nSo they did this, too.\n\n\"Now,\" said the old man, \"get them tubs of slush from the galley. Pass\nthat slush along there, doctor. Very well that. Now turn to, all\nhands, and slush away every link in that chain a good inch thick in\ngrease.\"\n\nSo they did that, too, and wondered what the old man meant.\n\n\"Very well that,\" cries the old man. \"Now get below all hands! Chips,\non to the fo'c's'le head with you and stand by! I'll keep the deck,\nMr. Mate! Very well that.\"\n\nSo all hands tumbled down below; Chips took a fill o' baccy to leeward\nof the capstan, and the old man walked the weather-poop looking for a\nsign of hell-fire.\n\nIt was still dead calm--but presently, towards six bells, he raised a\nblack cloud away to leeward, and saw the glimmer of the lightning in\nit; only the flashes were too red, and came too quick.\n\n\"Now,\" says he to himself, \"stand by.\"\n\nVery soon that black cloud worked up to windward, right alongside, and\nthere came a red flash, and a strong sulphurous smell, and then a loud\npeal of thunder as the devil steps aboard.\n\n\"Mornin', Cap'n,\" says he.\n\n\"Mornin', Mr. Devil,\" says the old man, \"and what in blazes do you\nwant aboard _my_ ship?\"\n\n\"Why, Captain,\" said the devil, \"I've come for the soul of one of your\nhands as per signed agreement: and, as my time's pretty full up in\nthese wicked days, I hope you won't keep me waiting for him longer\nthan need be.\"\n\n\"Well, Mr. Devil,\" says the old man, \"the man you come for is down\nbelow, sleeping, just at this moment. It's a fair pity to call him up\ntill it's right time. So supposin' I set you them three tasks. How\nwould that be? Have you any objections?\"\n\n\"Why, no,\" said the devil, \"fire away as soon as you like.\"\n\n\"Mr. Devil,\" said the old man, \"you see that main-tops'l yard? Suppose\nyou lay out on that main-tops'l yard and take in three reefs\nsinglehanded.\"\n\n\"Ay, ay, sir,\" the devil said, and he ran up the rat-lines, into the\ntop, up the topmast rigging and along the yard.\n\nWell, when he found the sail stiff up and down, he hailed the deck:\n\n\"Below there! On deck there! Lower away ya halliards!\"\n\n\"I will not,\" said the old man, \"nary a lower.\"\n\n\"Come up your sheets, then,\" cries the devil. \"This main-topsail's\nstiff up-and-down. How'm I to take in three reefs when the sail's\nstiff up-and-down?\"\n\n\"Why,\" said the old man, \"_you can't do it_. Come out o' that! Down\nfrom aloft, you hoof-footed son. That's one to me.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" says the devil, when he got on deck again, \"I don't deny it,\nCap'n. That's one to you.\"\n\n\"Now, Mr. Devil,\" said the old man, going towards the rail, \"suppose\nyou was to step into that little boat alongside there. Will you\nplease?\"\n\n\"Ay, ay, sir,\" he said, and he slid down the forrard fall, got into\nthe stern sheets, and sat down.\n\n\"Now, Mr. Devil,\" said the skipper, taking a little salt spoon from\nhis vest pocket, \"supposin' you bail all the water on that side the\nboat on to this side the boat, using this spoon as your dipper.\"\n\nWell!--the devil just looked at him.\n\n\"Say!\" he said at length, \"which of the New England States d'ye hail\nfrom anyway?\"\n\n\"Not Jersey, anyway,\" said the old man. \"That's two up, alright; ain't\nit, sonny?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" growls the devil, as he climbs aboard. \"That's two up. Two to\nyou and one to play. Now, what's your next contraption?\"\n\n\"Mr. Devil,\" said the old man, looking very innocent, \"you see, I've\nranged my chain ready for letting go anchor. Now Chips is forrard\nthere, and when I sing out, he'll let the anchor go. Supposin' you\nstopper the chain with them big hands o' yourn and keep it from\nrunning out clear. Will you, please?\"\n\nSo the devil takes off his coat and rubs his hands together, and gets\naway forrard by the bitts, and stands by.\n\n\"All ready, Cap'n,\" he says.\n\n\"All ready, Chips?\" asked the old man.\n\n\"All ready, sir,\" replies Chips.\n\n\"Then, stand by--Let _go_ the anchor,\" and clink, clink, old Chips\nknocks out the pin, and away goes the spare anchor and greased chain\ninto a five mile deep of God's sea. As I said, they were in the Indian\nOcean.\n\nWell--there was the devil, making a grab here and a grab there, and\nthe slushy chain just slipping through his claws, and at whiles a\nbight of chain would spring clear and rap him in the eye.\n\nSo at last the cable was nearly clean gone, and the devil ran to the\nlast big link (which was seized to the heel of the foremast), and he\nput both his arms through it, and hung on to it like grim death.\n\nBut the chain gave such a _Yank_ when it came-to, that the big link\ncarried away, and oh, roll and go, out it went through the hawsehole,\nin a shower of bright sparks, carrying the devil with it. There is no\ndevil now. The devil's dead.\n\nAs for the old man, he looked over the bows watching the bubbles\nburst, but the devil never rose. Then he went to the fo'c's'le scuttle\nand banged thereon with a hand-spike.\n\n\"Rouse out, there, the port watch!\" he called, \"an' get my dinghy\ninboard.\"\n\n\n\n\nNOTES\n\n\n\n\nTHE DEVIL IN A NUNNERY\n\nBY FRANCIS OSCAR MANN\n\n\nAccording to a German legend, the devil is master of all arts, and\ncertainly he has given sufficient proof of his musical talent. Certain\nChurch Fathers ascribed, not without good reason, the origin of music\nto Satan. \"The Devil,\" says Mr. Huneker in his diabolical story \"The\nSupreme Sin\" (1920), \"is the greatest of all musicians,\" and Rowland\nHill long ago admitted the fact that the devil has all the good tunes.\nPerhaps his greatest composition is the _Sonata del Diavolo_, which\nTartini wrote down in 1713. This diabolical master-piece is the\nsubject of G\u00e9rard de Nerval's story _La Sonate du Diable_ (1830).\nWhile the devil plays all instruments equally well, he seems to prefer\nthe violin. Satan appears as fiddler in the poem \"Der Teufel mit der\nGeige,\" which has been ascribed to the Swiss anti-Papist Pamphilus\nGengenbach of the sixteenth century. In Leanu's _Faust_ (1836)\nMephistopheles takes the violin out of the hands of one of the\nmusicians at a peasant-wedding and plays a diabolical _czardas_, which\nfills the hearts of all who hear it with voluptuousness. An opera _Un\nViolon du Diable_ was played in Paris in 1849. _The Devil's Violin_,\nan extravaganza in verse by Benjamin Webster, was performed the same\nyear in London. In his story \"Les Tentations ou Eros, Plutus et la\nGloire\" Baudelaire presents the Demon of Love as holding in his left\nhand a violin \"which without doubt served to sing his pleasures and\npains.\" The devil also appears as limping fiddler in a California\nlegend, which appeared under the title \"The Devil's Fiddle\" in a\nCalifornian magazine in 1855. Death, the devil's first cousin, if not\nhis _alter ego_, has the souls, in the Dance of Death, march off to\nhell to a merry tune on his violin. Death appears as a musician also\nin the Piper of Hamlin. In this legend, well known to the English\nworld through Browning's poem \"Pied Piper of Hamelin\" (1843) and Miss\nPeabody's play _The Piper_ (1909), the rats are the human souls, which\nDeath charms with his music into following him. In the Middle Ages the\nsoul was often represented as leaving the body in the form of a mouse.\nThe soul of a good man comes out of his mouth as a white mouse, while\nat the death of a sinner the soul escapes as a black mouse, which the\ndevil catches and brings to hell. Mephistopheles, it will be recalled,\ncalls himself \"the lord of rats and mice\" (_Faust_, 1, 1516).\nDevil-Death has inherited this wind instrument from the goat-footed\nPan.\n\n\"The Devil is more busy in the convents,\" we are told by J. K.\nHuysmans in his novel _En route_ (1895), \"than in the cities, as he\nhas a harder job on hand.\"\n\n\n\n\nBELPHAGOR\n\nBY NICCOL\u00d2 MACHIAVELLI\n\n\nThis story of the devil Belphagor, who was sent by his infernal chief\nPluto up to earth, where he married an earthly wife, but finally left\nher in disgust to go back to hell, is also of mediaeval origin. It was\nfirst printed by Giovanni Brevio in 1545, and appeared for the second\ntime with the name of Machiavelli in 1549, twenty-two years after the\ndeath of the diabolical statesman. The two authors did not borrow from\neach other, but had a common source in a mediaeval Latin manuscript,\nwhich seems to have first fallen into the hands of Italians, but was\nlater brought to France where it has been lost. The tale of the\nmarriage of the devil appeared in several other Italian versions\nduring the sixteenth century. Among the Italian novelists, who retold\nit for the benefit of their married friends, may be mentioned\nGiovan-Francesco Straparola, Francesco Sansovino, and Gabriel\nChappuys. In England this story was no less popular. Barnabe Riche\ninserted it in his collection of narratives in 1581, and we meet it\nagain later in the following plays: _Grim, the Collier of Croydon_,\nascribed to Ulpian Fulwell (1599); _The Devil and his Dame_ by P. M.\nHoughton (1600); _Machiavel and the Devil_ by Daborne and Henslowe\n(1613); _The Devil is an Ass_ by Ben Jonson (1616); and _Belphagor, or\nthe Marriage of the Devil_ (1690). In France the story was treated in\nverse by La Fontaine (1694), and in Germany it served the Nuremberg\npoet Hans Sachs as the subject for a farce (1557).\n\nThe _Encyclopaedia Britannica_ is authority for the statement that\nMachiavelli's own married life had nothing to do with the plot of his\nstory.\n\n\"The notion of this story is ingenious, and might have been made\nproductive of entertaining incident, had Belphagor been led by his\nconnubial connections from one crime to another. But Belphagor is only\nunfortunate, and in no respect guilty; nor did anything occur during\nhis abode on earth that testified to the power of woman in leading us\nto final condemnation. The story of the peasant and the possession of\nthe princesses bears no reference to the original idea with which the\ntale commences, and has no connection with the object of the infernal\ndeputy's terrestrial sojourn\" (J. C. Dunlop, _History of Fiction_). To\nthis criticism Mr. Thomas Roscoe replies that \"part of the humour of\nthe story seems to consist in Belphagor's earthly career being cut\nshort before he had served the full term of his apprenticeship. But\nfrom the follies and extravagances into which he had already plunged,\nwe are now authorized to believe that, even if he had been able longer\nto support the asperities of the lady's temper, he must, from the\ncourse he was pursuing, have been led from crime to crime, or at least\nfrom folly to folly, to such a degree that he would infallibly have\nbeen condemned\" (T. Roscoe, _Italian Novelists_).\n\nThe demon of Machiavelli offers no features of a deep psychology, but\nhe distinguishes himself from the other demons of his period by his\nelegant manners. Like creator, like creature.\n\nBelphagor, the god of the Moabites, like all other pagan gods, joined\nthe infernal forces of Satan when driven off the earth by the Church\nTriumphant.\n\nThe parliament of devils, which we find in this story, was taken from\nthe mystery-plays where the ruler of hell is represented as holding\noccasional receptions when he listens to the reports of their recent\nachievements on his behalf, and consults their opinion on matters of\nstate. Satan, who has always wished to rival God, has instituted the\ninfernal council in imitation of the celestial council described in\nthe Book of Job. The source for the parliament of devils is the\napocryphal book _Evangelium Nicodemi_. An early metrical tract under\nthe title of the _Parlement of Devils_ was printed two or three times\nin London about 1520. A \"Pandemonium\" is also found in Tasso, Milton,\nand Chateaubriand. The _Parlement of Foules_ (14th century) is but a\nmodification of the _Parlement of Devils_, for the devil and the fool\nwere originally identical in person and may be traced back to the\ndemonic clown of the ancient heathen cult (cf. the present writer's\nbook, _The Origin of the German Carnival Comedy_, p. 37). A far echo\nis Thomas Chatterton's poem _The Parliament of Sprites_.\n\nThis story recalls to us the saying that the heart of a beautiful\nwoman is the most beloved hiding-place of at least seven devils.\n\n\n\n\nTHE DEVIL AND TOM WALKER\n\nBY WASHINGTON IRVING\n\n\nBy his interest in popular legends the first of the great American\nwriters shows his sympathy with the Romantic movement, which prevailed\nin his time in all the countries of Europe. His devil, however, has\nnot been imported from the lands across the Atlantic, but is a part of\nthe superstitions of the New World. The author himself did not believe\nin \"Old Scratch.\" The real devils for him were the slave-traders and\nthe witch-hunters of Salem fame. It is interesting now to read a\ncontemporary critic of Washington Irving's devil-story: \"If Mr. Irving\nbelieves in the existence of Tom Walker's master, we can scarcely\nconceive how he can so earnestly jest about him; at all events, we\nwould counsel him to beware lest his own spells should prove fatal to\nhim\" (_Eclectic Review_, 1825). Few people in those days had the\ncourage to take Old Nick good-naturedly. \"Even the clever Madame de\nSta\u00ebl,\" said Goethe, \"was greatly scandalized that I kept the devil in\nsuch good-humour.\"\n\nThe devil appears in many colours, principally, however, in black and\nred. It is a common belief in Scotland that the devil is a black man,\nas may also be seen in Robert Louis Stevenson's story \"Thrawn Janet.\"\nThere is no warrant in the biblical tradition for a black devil.\nSatan, however, appeared as an Ethiopian as far back as the days of\nthe Church Fathers. The black colour presumably is intended to suggest\nhis place of abode, whereas red denotes the scorching fires of hell.\nThe devil was considered as a sort of eternal Salamander. In the New\nTestament he is described as a fiery fiend. Red was considered by\nOriental nations as a diabolical colour. In Egypt red hair and red\nanimals of all kinds were considered infernal. The Apis was also\nred-coloured. Satan's red beard recalls the Scandinavian god Donar or\nThor, who is of Phoenician origin. Judas was always represented in\nmediaeval mystery-plays with a red beard; and down to the present day\nred hair is the mark of a suspicious character. The devil also appears\nas yellow, and even blue, but never as white or green. The yellow\ndevil is but a shade less bright than his fiery brother. The blue\ndevil is a sulphur-constitutioned individual. He is the demon of\nmelancholy, and fills us with \"the blues.\" As the spirit of darkness\nand death, the devil cannot assume the colours of white or green,\nwhich are the symbols of light and life. The devil's dragon-tail is,\naccording to Sir Walter Scott, of biblical tradition, coming from a\nliteral interpretation of a figurative expression.\n\nA few interesting remarks on the expression \"The Devil and Tom Walker\"\ncurrent in certain parts of this country as a caution to usurers will\nbe found in Dr. Blondheim's article \"The Devil and Doctor Foster\" in\n_Modern Language Notes_ for 1918.\n\n\n\n\nFROM THE MEMOIRS OF SATAN\n\nBY WILHELM HAUFF\n\n\nWilhelm Hauff, the author of this book, ranks honourably among the\nmembers of the Romantic School in Germany. As the work of a man of\nonly twenty-two years, just out of the university, the book is a\ncredit to its author. It must be admitted, however, that it was not\naltogether original with him. The idea was taken from E. Th. A.\nHoffmann,--Devil-Hoffmann, as he was called by his contemporaries,--who\nin his short-story \"Der Teufel in Berlin\" also has the devil travel\nincognito in Germany; and the title was borrowed from Jean Paul\nRichter, who also claimed to edit _Selections from the Devil's Papers_\n(_Auswahl aus des Teufels Papieren, 1789_). There were others, too,\nwho claimed to have been honoured by his Satanic Majesty to edit his\n\"journal.\" J. R. Beard, a Unitarian minister, published in 1872 an\n_Autobiography of Satan_. Another autobiography of Satan is said to\nhave been found among the posthumous works of Leonid Andr\u00e9ev, author\nof that original diabolical work _Anathema, a tragedy_ (Engl. tr.\n1910). This book has just appeared in English under the title _Satan's\nDiary_. Fr\u00e9d\u00e9ric Souli\u00e9's _Les M\u00e9moires du Diable_ (1837/8) consist of\nmemoirs not of the devil himself, but of other people, which the Count\nde Luizzi, the human partner to the diabolical pact, is very anxious\nto know. Hauff's book consists of a series of papers, which are but\nloosely connected. In certain passages we hear nothing of the\nautobiographer. The Suavian writer apparently could digest the\nDiabolical only in homeopathic doses. His Satan, moreover, is a very\nyouthful and quite harmless devil. He is nothing but a personified\necho of the author's student-days. The book by Hauff is perhaps the\nmost popular personification of the devil in German literature.\n\nThe passage presented here shows the phantastic element of the book at\nits best. The short introductory synopsis will give an idea of its\nsatirical aspect. The humorous aspect has pretty nearly been lost in\ntranslation. Professor Brander Matthews has aptly said: \"The German\nhumour is like the simple Italian wines--it will not stand export.\"\n\nOf all the peoples, the Germans seem to have had the most kindly\nfeelings towards the devil. This is because they knew him better. To\njudge from the many bridges and cathedrals, which the demon, according\nto legends, has built in Germany, he must have been a frequent visitor\nto that country. In Frankfort, where with his own hands our author\nreceived the memoirs from the autobiographer, there is a gilded cock\nabove the bridge in memory of the bargain the bridge-builder once made\nwith Satan to give him the first living thing that should cross the\nriver. The day the bridge was finished, a cock fluttered from a\nwoman's market-basket and ran over the bridge. A claw-like hand\nreached down and claimed the prize.\n\nThe distinguished personage, whose adventures form the subject of this\nbook, does not figure in it under his own name, nor does he appear\nhere in the gala attire of tail, horns and cloven foot with which he\ngraces the revels on the Blocksberg. He borrows for the nonce a tall,\ngentlemanly figure, surmounted by delicate features, dresses well, is\nfastidious about his ring and linen, travels post and stops at the\nbest hotels. He begins his earthly career by studying at the renowned\nuniversity of ----. As he can boast of abundant means, a handsome\nwardrobe and the name of Herr von Barbe, it is no wonder that on the\nfirst evening he should be politely received, the next morning have a\nconfidential friend, and the second evening embrace \"brothers till\ndeath.\" He becomes much puzzled at the extraordinary manners of the\nstudents, and at their language, so different from that of every\nrational German. He remarks: \"Over a glass of beer they often fell\ninto singularly transcendental investigations, of which I understood\nlittle or nothing. However, I observed the principal words, and when\ndrawn into a conversation, replied with a grave air--'Freedom,\nFatherland, Nationality.'\" He attends the lectures of a celebrated\nprofessor, whose profundity of thought and terseness of style are so\nastounding, that the German world set him down as possessed; the\ncritical student, however, differs somewhat from that conclusion,\nobserving--\n\n\"I have borne a great deal in the world. I have even entered into\nswine,\" (\"The devil,\" said Luther, \"knows Scripture well and he uses\nit in argument\") \"but into such a philosopher? No, indeed! I had\nrather be excused.\"\n\nThe episode here reprinted occurred in a hotel in Frankfort, where our\nincognito is known as Herr von Natas (which, it will be noticed, is\nhis more familiar name read backwards). His brilliant powers of\nconversation, his adroit flattery, courteous gallantry, and elegant,\nthough wayward flights of imagination, soon rendered him the delight\nof the whole _table d'h\u00f4te_. All guests, including our author, were\nfascinated by the mysterious stranger. But we will let the author\nhimself tell his story.\n\n\n\n\nST. JOHN'S EVE\n\nBY NIKOL\u00c1I VASIL\u00c9VICH G\u00d3GOL\n\n\nThis story, taken from _Evenings on a Farm near Dikanka_, a series of\nsketches of the life of the Ukrainian peasants, offers a good\nillustration of the author's art, which was a combination of the\nromantic and realistic elements. In these pages G\u00f3gol wished to record\nthe myths and legends still current among the plain folk of his\nbeloved Ukrainia. The devil naturally enough peeps out here and there\nthrough the pages of this book. G\u00f3gol's devil is a product of the\nRussian soil, \"the spirit of mischief and cunning, whom Russian\nliterature is always trying to outplay and overcome\" (Mme. Jarintzow,\n_Russian Poets and Poems_).\n\nAccording to European superstition St. John's Eve is the only evening\nin the year when his Satanic Majesty reveals himself in his proper\nshape to the eyes of men. If you wish to behold his Highness face to\nface, stand on St. John's Eve at midnight near a mustard-plant. It is\nsuggested by Sir James Frazer in his _Golden Bough_ that, in the\nchilly air of the upper world, this prince from a warmer clime may be\nattracted by the warmth of the mustard.\n\nIt is believed in many parts of Europe that treasures can be found on\nSt. John's Eve by means of the fern-seed. Even without the use of this\nplant treasures are sometimes said to bloom or burn in the earth, or\nto reveal their presence by a bluish flame on Midsummer Eve. As\nguardian of treasures the devil is the successor of the gnome.\n\n\n\n\nTHE DEVIL'S WAGER\n\nBY WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY\n\n\n_The Devil's Wager_ is Thackeray's earliest attempt at story-writing,\nwas contributed to a weekly literary paper with the imposing title\n_The National Standard, and Journal of Literature, Science, Music,\nTheatricals, and the Fine Arts_, of which he was proprietor and\neditor, and was reprinted in the _Paris Sketch Book_ (1840). The story\nfirst ended with the very Thackerayesque touch: \"The moral of this\nstory will be given in several successive numbers.\" In the _Paris\nSketch Book_ the last three words are changed into \"the second\nedition.\" This comical tale was illustrated by an excellent wood-cut,\nrepresenting the devil as sailing through the air, dragging after him\nthe fat Sir Roger de Rollo by means of his tail, which is wound round\nSir Roger's neck.\n\nIn the \"Advertisement to the First Edition\" of his _Paris Sketch\nBook_, Thackeray admits the French origin of this as well as of his\nother devil-story, _The Painter's Bargain_, to be found in the same\nvolume. It was Thackeray's good fortune to live in Paris during the\nwildest and most brilliant years of Romanticism; and while his\nattitude towards this movement and its leaders, as presented in the\n_Paris Sketch Book_, is not wholly sympathetic, he is indebted to it\nfor his interest in supernatural subjects. The Romanticism of\nThackeray has been denied with great obstinacy and almost passion, for\nlike Heinrich Heine, the chief of German Romantic ironists, he poked\nfun at this movement. But \"to laugh at what you love,\" as Mr. George\nSaintsbury has pointed out in his _History of the French Novel_, \"is\nnot only permissible, but a sign of the love itself.\"\n\nMercurius makes a pun on the familiar quotation \"rara avis\" from\nHorace (_Sat._ 2, 2. 26), where it means a rare bird. This expression\nis commonly applied to a singular person. It is also found in the\n_Satires_ of Juvenal (VI, 165).\n\n\n\n\nTHE PAINTER'S BARGAIN\n\nBY WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY\n\n\nThe belief in compacts with the devil is of great antiquity. Satan,\ncontending with God for the possession of the human race, was supposed\nto have developed a passion for catching souls. At the death of every\nman a real fight takes place over his soul between an angel, who\nwishes to lead it to heaven, and a devil, who attempts to drag it to\nhell (Jude 9). In order to assure the soul for himself in advance,\nSatan attempts to purchase it from the owner while he is still\nliving--_vivente corpore_, as he tells the _restaurateur_ in Poe's\nstory. As prince of this world he can easily grant even the most\nextravagant wishes of man in exchange for his soul. Office, wealth and\npleasure are mainly the objects for which a man enters into a pact\nwith the Evil One. Count de Luizzi in Fr\u00e9d\u00e9ric Souli\u00e9's _Les M\u00e9moires\ndu Diable_ sells his soul to the devil for an uncommon consideration.\nIt is not wealth or pleasure that tempts him. What he wants in\nexchange for his soul is to know the past lives of his fellowmen and\nwomen, \"a thing,\" as Mr. Saintsbury well remarks, \"which a person of\nsense and taste would do anything, short of selling himself to the\ndevil, _not_ to know.\" The devil fulfils every wish of his contractor\nfor a stipulated period of time, at the expiration of which the soul\nbecomes his. Pope Innocent VIII, in his fatal bull \"Summis\ndesiderantes\" of the year 1484, officially recognized the possibility\nof a compact with the devil. Increase Mather, the New England\npreacher, also affirms that many men have made \"cursed covenants with\nthe prince of darkness.\"\n\nSt. Theophilus, of Cilicia, in the sixth century, was the first to\nmake the notable discovery that a man could enter into a pact of this\nnature. The price he set for his soul was a bishopric. This story has\nbeen superseded during the Renaissance period by a similar legend\nconcerning the German Dr. Faustus. Other famous personages reputed to\nhave sold their souls to the devil for one consideration or another\nare Don Juan in Spain, Twardowski in Poland, Merlin in England, and\nRobert le Diable in France. Socrates, Apuleius, Scaliger and\nCagliostro are also said to have entered into compacts with him.\n\nIn devil-contracts the Evil One insists that his human negotiator sign\nthe deed with his own blood, while the man never requires the devil to\nsign it even in ink. The human party to the transaction has always had\nfull confidence in the word of the fiend. There is a universal belief\nthat the devil invariably fulfils his engagement. In no single\ninstance of folk-lore has Satan tried to evade the fulfilment of his\nshare in the agreement. But the man, in violation of the written pact,\nhas often cheated the devil out of his legal due by technical\nquibbles. \"It is peculiar to the German tradition,\" says Gustav\nFreytag, \"that the devil endeavours to fulfil zealously and honestly\nhis part of the contract; the deceiver is man.\" In regard to fidelity\nto his word, the father of lies has always set an example to his\nvictims. \"You men,\" said Satan, \"are cheats; you make all sorts of\npromises so long as you need me, and leave me in the lurch as soon as\nyou have got what you wanted.\" Mediaeval man had no scruples about his\nbreach of contract with the devil. He always considered the legal\ndocument signed with his own blood as \"a scrap of paper.\" \"But still\nthe pact is with the enemy; the man is not bound beyond the letter,\nand may escape by any trick. It is still the ethics of war. We are\nvery close to the principle that a man by stratagem or narrow\nobservance of the letter may escape the eternal retribution which God\ndecrees conditionally and the devil delights in\" (H. D. Taylor,\n_Mediaeval Mind_). We now can understand why in Eugene Field's story\n\"Daniel and the Devil\" it seems to Satan so strange that he should be\nasked for a written guarantee that he too would fulfil his part of the\ncontract. Apparently this was the first time that the devil had any\ntransactions with an American business man, who has not even faith in\nOld Nick.\n\nReference is made in this story by the devil himself to the popular\nsaying that the devil is not so black as he is painted. Even the\ndevout George Herbert wrote--\n\n    \"We paint the devil black, yet he\n    Hath some good in him all agree.\"\n\nThis story recalls to us the proverb: \"Talk of the devil, and he will\neither come or send.\"\n\nWashington Irving, as we have seen, thinks that he is not always very\nobliging.\n\nSatan, the father of lies, is said to be the patron of lawyers. The\nmen of the London bar formed a \"Temple\" corps, which was dubbed \"The\nDevil's Own.\" The tavern of the lawyers on Fleet Street in London was\ncalled \"The Devil.\"\n\n\n\n\nBON-BON\n\nBY EDGAR ALLAN POE\n\n\nThis writer, to whom the inner world was more of a reality than the\nexternal world, had many visions, especially of the devil. The two\nseem to have been on a familiar footing. The devil, we must admit,\nfilled Poe's imagination even if we will not go so far as to agree\nwith his critics that he had Satan substituted for soul. His\ncontemporaries, as is well known, would say of him: \"He hath a demon,\nyea, seven devils are entered into him.\" His detractors actually\nregarded this unhappy poet as an incarnation of the ruler of Hades\n(cf. _North American Review_, 1856; _Edinburgh Review_, 1858; _Dublin\nUniversity Magazine_, 1875). It was but recently that a writer in the\n_New York Times_ declared Poe to have been \"grub-staked by demons.\"\n\nThe story \"Bon-Bon\" offers a specimen of Poe's grimly grotesque\nhumour. It first appeared in the _Broadway Journal_ of August, 1835.\n\nThe devil of this most un-American of all American authors is not the\nchild of New World fancy, but part of European imagination. The\nscenery of the story is aptly laid in the land of Robert le Diable.\n\nPoe's description of the devil is, on the whole, fully in accord with\nthe universally accredited conception of his ordinary appearance. His\nbrutal hoofs and savage horns and beastly tail are all there, only\ndiscreetly hid under a dress which any gentleman might wear. The devil\nis very proud of this epithet given him by William Shakespeare; and\nfrom that time on, it has been his greatest ambition to be a\ngentleman, in outer appearance at least; and to his credit it must be\nsaid that he has so well succeeded in his efforts to resemble a\ngentleman that it is now very hard to tell the two apart. The devil is\naccredited in popular imagination with long ears, a long (sometimes\nupturned) nose, a wide mouth, and teeth of a lion. It is on account of\nhis fangs that Satan has been called a lion by the biblical writers.\nBut although the prince of darkness can assume any form in the heavens\nabove, in the earth beneath, and in the waters under the earth, he has\nnever appeared as a lion. This, I believe, is out of deference to\nJudah, whom his father also called a lion. Hairiness is a pretty\ngeneral characteristic of the devil. His hairy skin he probably\ninherited from the ancient fauns and satyrs. Esau is believed to have\nbeen a hairy demon. \"Old Harry\" is a corruption of \"Old Hairy.\" As a\nrule, Old Nick is not pictured as bald, but has a head covered with\nlocks like serpents. These snaky tresses, which already \"Monk\" Lewis\nwound around the devil's head, are borrowed, according to Sir Walter\nScott, from the shield of Minerva. His face, however, is usually\nhairless. A beard has rarely been accorded to Satan. His red beard on\nthe mediaeval stage probably came from Donar, whom, as Jacob Grimm\nsays, the modern notions of the devil so often have in the background.\nLong bearded devils are nowhere normal except in the representations\nof the Eastern Church of the monarch of hell as counterpart of the\nmonarch of heaven. The eyeless devil is original with our writer. His\ndisciple Baudelaire in his story _Les Tentations ou Eros, Plutus et la\nGloire_ presents the second of these three Tempters as an eyeless\nmonster. The mediaeval devil had saucer eyes. According to a Russian\nlegend, the all-seeing spirit of evil is all covered with eyes. The\ncadaverous aspect of the devil is traditional. With but one remarkable\nexception (the Egyptian Typhon), demons are always represented lean.\n\"A devil,\" said Caesarius of Heisterbach of the thirteenth century,\n\"is usually so thin as to cast no shadow\" (_Dialogus Miraculorum_,\niii). This characteristic is a heritage of the ancient hunger-demon,\nwho, himself a shadow, casts no shadow. In the course of the\ncenturies, however, the devil has gained flesh. His faded suit of\nblack cloth recalls the mediaeval devil who appeared \"in his fethers\nall ragged and rent.\"\n\nIt is not altogether improbable that the ecclesiastical appearance of\nthe devil in this story was not wholly unintentional, as the author\nbelieves. While Satan cannot be said to be \"one of those who take to\nthe ministry mostly,\" he often likes to slip into priestly robes. In\nthe \"Temptation of Jesus\" by Lucas van Leyden the devil is habited as\na monk with a pointed cowl.\n\nIn the comparison of a soul with a shadow there is a reminiscence of\nAdalbert von Chamisso, whose _Peter Schlemihl_ (1814) sells his shadow\nto the devil. In his story _The Fisherman and His Soul_ Oscar Wilde\nconsiders the shadow of the body as the body of the soul.\n\nThat the devils in hell eat the damned consigned there for punishment\nis also in accord with mediaeval tradition. This idea probably is of\nOriental origin. The seven Assyrian evil spirits have a predilection\nfor human flesh and blood. Ghouls and vampires belong to this class of\ndemons.\n\nThe devil's pitchfork is not the forked sceptre of Pluto supplemented\nby another tine, as is commonly assumed. It is the ancient sign of\nfertility, which is still used as a fertility charm by the Hindus in\nIndia and the Zu\u00f1i and Aztec Indians of North America and Mexico. A\nrelated symbol is the trident of Poseidon or Neptune. This symbol was\nrecently carried in a children's May Day parade through Central Park\nin New York.\n\n\n\n\nTHE PRINTER'S DEVIL\n\n\nThe term \"Printer's Devil\" is usually accounted for by the fact that\nAldus Manutius, the great Venetian printer, employed in his printing\nshop (about 1485) a black slave, who was popularly thought to be an\nimp of Satan. This expression may have a deeper significance. It may\nowe its origin to the fact that Fust, the inventor of the printing\npress, was believed to have connections with the Evil One. It will be\nremembered that during the Middle Ages and, in Catholic countries,\neven for a long time afterwards every discovery of science, every\ninvention of material benefit to man, was believed to have been\nsecured by a compact with the devil. Our ancestors deemed the human\nmind incapable, without the aid of the Evil One, of producing anything\nbeyond their own comprehension. The red letters which Fust used at the\nclose of his earliest printed volumes to give his name, with the place\nand date of publication, were interpreted in Paris as indications of\nthe diabolical origin of the works so easily produced by him. (M. D.\nConway, _Demonology and Devil-Lore_.) Sacred days, as is well known,\nare printed in the Catholic calendar with red letters, and the devil\nhas also employed them in books of magic. This is but another instance\nof the mimicry by \"God's Ape\" of the sanctities of the Church.\n\nIn the infernal economy, where a strict division of labour prevails,\nthe printer's devil is the librarian of hell. The books over which he\nhas charge must be as numerous as the sands on the sea-shore. For\nnearly every book written without priestly command was associated in\nthe good old days with the devil. The assertion that Satan hates\nnothing so much as writing or printer's ink apparently is a very great\ncalumny. He has often even been accused of stealing manuscripts in\norder to prevent their publication. The prince of darkness naturally\nrather shuns than courts inquiry. On one occasion Joseph G\u00f6rres, the\ndefender of Catholicism, complained that the devil, provoked by his\ninterference in Satanic affairs (he is the author of _Die christliche\nMystik_, which is a rich source for diabolism, diabolical possession\nand exorcism), had stolen one of his manuscripts; it was, however,\nfound some time afterwards in his bookcase, and the devil was\ncompletely exonerated.\n\nThe concluding paragraph of this story is especially interesting in\nthe light of the present agitation for unbound books and a eulogy of\nthe old Franklin Square Library.\n\n\n\n\nTHE DEVIL'S MOTHER-IN-LAW\n\nBY FERN\u00c1N CABALLERO\n\n\nFern\u00e1n Caballero is the pseudonym of Mrs. Cecilia B\u00f6hl von Faber,\nMarchioness de Arco-Hermoso, who was a Swiss by birth, daughter of the\nliterary historian Johann B\u00f6hl von Faber, the Johannes of Campe's\n_Robinson_ (1779). Her father initiated her early into Spanish\nliterature, which he interpreted for her in the spirit of the Romantic\nmovement of those early days. The interest in mediaeval traditions,\nwhich she owes to this early training, increased when, later, she went\nto Catholic Spain. The charm of her popular Andalusian tales consists\nin the fact that she fully shares with the Catholic peasants of that\nprovince an implicit faith in the truth of these mediaeval legends. In\nher stories we find perhaps the purest expression of mediaevalism in\nmodern times. Fern\u00e1n Caballero gradually drifted to the extreme Right\nin all questions of religion, art and life. She hated every liberal\nexpression in matters of faith or art with the fanaticism of a\nTorquemada. This author not only shared the somewhat general Catholic\nview that all Protestants were eternally damned, but she na\u00efvely\nbelieved that every son of Israel had a tail (Julian Schmidt).\n\nThe story of woman's triumph over the Devil is well characteristic of\nthe Land of the Blessed Lady, as Andalusia is commonly called.\n\nThe legend of a devil imprisoned in a phial is also found in the work\nof the Spaniard Luis Velez de Guevara called _El Diablo cojuelo_\n(1641), from whom Alain Le Sage borrowed both title and plot for his\nnovel _Le Diable boiteux_ (1707). Asmodeus, liberated from a bottle,\ninto which he had been confined by a magician, entertains his\ndeliverer with the secret sights of a big city at midnight, by\nunroofing the houses of the Spanish capital and showing him the life\nthat was going on in them. The legend was introduced into Spain from\nthe East by the Moors and finally acclimated to find a place in local\ntraditions. From that country it spread over the whole of Europe. The\nAsiatics believed that by abstinence and special prayers evil spirits\ncould be reduced into obedience and confined in black bottles. The\ntradition forms a part of the Solomonic lore, and is frequently told\nin esoteric works. In the cabalistic book _Vinculum Spirituum_, which\nis of Eastern origin, it is said that Solomon discovered, by means of\na certain learned book, the valuable secret of inclosing in a bottle\nof black glass three millions of infernal spirits, with seventy-two of\ntheir kings, of whom Beleh was the chief, Beliar (_alias_ Belial) the\nsecond, and Asmodeus the third. Solomon afterwards cast this bottle\ninto a deep well near Babylon. Fortunately for the contents, the\nBabylonians, hoping to find a treasure in the well, descended into it,\nbroke the bottle, and freed the demons (cf. also _The Little Key of\nRabbi Solomon, containing the Names, Seals and Characters of the 72\nSpirits with whom he held converse, also the Art Almadel of Rabbi\nSolomon, carefully copied by \"Raphael,\"_ London, 1879). This legend is\nalso found in the tale of the Fisherman and the Djinn in the _Arabian\nNights_, which was also treated by the German poet Klopstock in his\npoem \"Winterm\u00e4rchen\" (1776).\n\nThe devil, as it is said in this story, has a mortal hatred of the\nsound of bells. The origin of ringing the church bells was, according\nto Sir James Frazer, to drive away devils and witches. The devil in\nPoe's story \"The Devil in the Belfry\" (1839) was, indeed, very\ncourageous in invading the belfry.\n\nThe concluding part of the story is identical with the Machiavellian\ntale of Belphagor.\n\nThis tale of the Devil's mother-in-law first appeared in the volume\n_Cuentos y poesias populares Andaluces_ (Seville, 1859), which was\ntranslated the same year into French by Germond de Lavigne under the\ntitle _Nouvelles andalouses_. An English translation under the title\n_Spanish Fairy Tales_ appeared in 1881. This particular story was\nrendered again into English two years later and included in _Tales\nfrom Twelve Tongues_, translated by a British Museum Librarian\n[Richard Garnett?], London, 1883.\n\n\n\n\nTHE GENEROUS GAMBLER\n\nBY CHARLES PIERRE BAUDELAIRE\n\n\nThis worshipper and singer of Satan shared his American _confr\u00e8re's_\npredilection for the devil. He found his models in the diabolical\nscenes of Edgar Allan Poe, whom he interpreted to the Latin world.\n\"Baudelaire,\" said Th\u00e9ophile Gautier, his master and friend, \"had a\nsingular prepossession for the devil as a tempter, in whom he saw a\ndragon who hurried him into sin, infamy, crime, and perversity.\" To\nBaudelaire, the trier of men's souls, the Tempter, was as real a\nperson as he was to Job. He believed that the devil had a great deal\nto do with the direction of human destinies. \"C'est le Diable qui\ntient les fils qui nous remuent!\" Men are mere puppets in the hands of\nthe devil. \"Baudelaire's motto,\" as Mr. James Huneker has well\nremarked, \"might be the reverse of Browning's lines: The Devil is in\nhis heaven. All's wrong with the world.\"\n\nBaudelaire's devil is a dandy and a boulevardier with wings. Each\nauthor, it has been said, creates the devil in his own image.\n\nThe greatest boon which Satan could offer Baudelaire was to free him\nfrom that great modern monster, _Ennui_, which selects as its prey the\nmost highly gifted natures. The boredom of life--this was, indeed, as\nthis unhappy poet admits, the source of all his maladies and of all\nhis miseries. He called it the \"foulest of vices\" and hoped to escape\nfrom it \"by dreaming of the superlative emotional adventure, by\nindulging in infinite, indeterminate desire\" (Irving Babbit). His\npreface to the _Flowers of Evil_, in which he addresses the reader,\nends with the following statement in regard to the nature of this\nmodern beast of prey: \"Among the jackals, the panthers, the hounds,\nthe apes, the scorpions, the vultures, the serpents--the yelling,\nhowling, growling, grovelling monsters which form the foul menagerie\nof our vices--there is one which is the most foul, the most wicked,\nthe most unclean of all. This vice, although it uses neither\nextravagant gestures nor makes a great outcry, would willingly make a\nruin of the earth, and swallow up all the world in a yawn. This is\n_Ennui!_ who, with his eye moistened by an involuntary tear, dreams of\nscaffolds while smoking his hookah. Thou knowest him, this delicate\nmonster, hypocritical reader, my like, my brother!\"\n\nIn Gorky's story \"The Devil\" the devil himself suffers from _ennui_.\n\nBut Baudelaire believed he had good reason to doubt Satan's word, and,\ntherefore, prayed to the Lord to make the devil keep his promise to\nhim. He had little faith in the father of lies. In his book called\n_Artificial Paradises_ (1860) Baudelaire expressed the thought that\nthe devil would say to the eaters of hashish, the smokers of opium, as\nhe did in the olden days to our first parents, \"If you taste of the\nfruit, you will be as the gods,\" and that the devil no more kept his\nword with them than he did with Adam and Eve, for the next day, the\ngod, tempted, weakened, enervated, descended even lower than the\nbeast.\n\nThe representation of the devil in the shape of a he-goat goes back to\nfar antiquity. Goat-formed deities and spirits of the woods existed in\nthe religions of India, Assyria, Greece and Egypt. The Assyrian god\nwas often associated with the goat, which was supposed to possess the\nqualities for which he was worshipped. The he-goat was also the sacred\nbeast of Donar or Thor, who was brought to Scandinavia by the\nPhoenicians. (On the relation of satyrs to goats see also James G.\nFrazer, _The Golden Bough_, vol. VIII, pp. 1 _sqq._) At the revels on\nthe Blocksberg Satan always appeared as a black buck.\n\n_Le bon diable_, which is a favourite phrase in France, points to his\nsimplicity of mind rather than generosity of spirit. It generally\nexpresses the half-contemptuous pity with which the giants, these huge\nbeings with weak minds, were regarded.\n\nThe idea that Satan would gamble for a human soul is of mediaeval\norigin and may have been taken by Baudelaire from G\u00e9rard de Nerval,\nwho in his mystery play _Le Prince des Sots_ (1830) has the devil play\nat dice with an angel, with human souls as stakes. As a dice-player\nSatan resembles Wuotan. Mr. H. G. Wells in _The Undying Fire_ (1919)\nhas Diabolus play chess with the Deity in Heaven.\n\nThe devil in this story falls back into speaking Hebrew when the days\nof his ancient celestial glory are brought back to his mind. In Louis\nM\u00e9nard's _Le Diable au caf\u00e9_ the devil calls Hebrew a dead language,\nand as a modern prefers to be called by the French equivalent of his\noriginal Hebrew name. In the Middle Ages the devil's favourite\nlanguage was Latin. Marlowe's Mephistopheles also speaks this\nlanguage. Satan is known to be a linguist. \"It is the Devil by his\nseveral languages,\" said Ben Jonson.\n\nAccording to popular belief the devil is a learned scholar and a\nprofound thinker. He has all science, philosophy, and theology at his\ntongue's end.\n\nThe Shavian devil in contradistinction to the Baudelairian fiend does\nbitterly complain that he is so little appreciated on earth. Walter\nScott's devil (in \"Wandering Willie's Tale,\" 1824) also complains that\nhe has been \"sair miscaa'd in the world.\"\n\nThe preacher to whom our author refers is the Jesuit Ravignan, who\ndeclared that the disbelief in the devil was one of the most cunning\ndevices of the great enemy himself. (La plus grande force du diable,\nc'est d'\u00eatre parvenu \u00e0 se faire nier.) Baudelaire's disciple J. K.\nHuysmans similarly expresses in his novel _L\u00e0-Bas_ (1891) the view\nthat \"the greatest power of Satan lies in the fact that he gets men to\ndeny him.\" (Cf. the present writer's essay \"The Satanism of Huysmans\"\nin _The Open Court_ for April, 1920.) The devil mocks at this\ntheological dictum in Pierre Veber's story \"L'Homme qui vendit son \u00e2me\nau Diable\" (1918). In Perkins's story \"The Devil-Puzzlers\" the devil\nexpresses his satisfaction over his success in this regard.\n\nThe story \"The Generous Gambler\" first appeared in the _Figaro_ of\nFebruary, 1864, was reprinted under the title of \"Le Diable\" in the\n_Revue du Dix-Neuvi\u00e8me Si\u00e8cle_ of June, 1866, and was finally included\nin _Po\u00e8mes en Prose_. This story has also been translated into English\nby Joseph T. Shipley.\n\n\n\n\nTHE THREE LOW MASSES\n\nA CHRISTMAS STORY\n\nBY ALPHONSE DAUDET\n\n\nDaudet and Maupassant furnish the best proof of the assertion made in\nthe Introduction to this book that even the Naturalists who, as a\nrule, disdained the phantastic plots of the Romanticists, whose\nimagination was rigorously earth-bound, felt themselves nevertheless\nattracted by devil-lore. Although most of Daudet's subjects are chosen\nfrom contemporary French life, this short-story treats a devil-legend\nof the seventeenth century. This story as \"The Pope's Mule\" and \"The\nElixir of the Reverend P\u00e8re Gaucher\" obviously has no other object but\nto poke fun at the Catholic Church. It belongs to the literary type\nknown as the Satirical Supernatural.\n\nThis story is characteristic of Daudet's art, containing as it does\nall of his delicacy and daintiness of pathos, of raillery, of humour.\nIt originally appeared in that delightful group of stories _Lettres de\nMon Moulin_ (1869).\n\nThe horns and tail of his Satanic majesty peep out as vividly in this\nbook as the disguised devils in Ingoldsby's _Legend of the North\nCountrie_.\n\nAlthough hating all men, the devil has a special hatred for the\npriests, and he delights in bringing them to fall. Satan loathes the\npriests, because, as Anatole France says, they teach that \"God takes\ndelight in seeing His creatures languish in penitence and abstain from\nHis most precious gifts\" (_Les Dieux ont soif_, p. 278).\n\nIt is evident from this story that the popular belief that the devil\navoids holy edifices is not based on facts. Here the devil not only\nenters the church, but even performs the duties of a sacristan at the\nfoot of the altar. According to mediaeval tradition the devil has his\nagents even in the churches. In the administration of hell where the\ntasks are carefully parcelled out among the thousands of imps, the\nchurch has been assigned to the fiend with the poetic name of\nTutevillus. It is his duty to attend all services in order to listen\nto the gossips and to write down every word they say. After death\nthese women are entertained in hell with their own speeches, which\nthis diabolical church clerk has carefully noted down. Tradition has\nit that one fine Sunday this demon was sitting in a church on a beam,\non which he held himself fast by his feet and his tail, right over two\nvillage gossips, who chattered so much during the Blessed Mass that he\nsoon filled every corner of the parchment on both sides. Poor\nTutevillus worked so hard that the sweat ran in great drops down his\nbrow, and he was ready to sink with exhaustion. But the gossips ceased\nnot to sin with their tongues, and he had no fair parchment left\nwhereon to record their foul words. So having considered for a little\nwhile, he grasped one end of the roll with his teeth and seized the\nother end with his claws and pulled so hard as to stretch the\nparchment. He tugged and tugged with all his strength, jerking back\nhis head mightily at each tug, and at last giving such a fierce jerk\nthat he suddenly lost his balance and fell head over heels from the\nbeam to the floor of the church. (From \"The Vision of Saint Simon of\nBlewberry\" in F. O. Mann's collection of mediaeval tales.)\n\n\n\n\nDEVIL-PUZZLERS\n\nBY FREDERICK BEECHER PERKINS\n\n\nThrough Asmodeus the devil became associated with humour and\ngallantry. Asmodeus sharpened his wits in his conversations with the\nwisest of kings. It will be recalled that this demon was the familiar\nspirit of Solomon, whose throne, according to Jewish legend, he\noccupied for three years. Perhaps it was not Solomon after all but\nthis diabolical usurper who gathered around himself a thousand wives.\nIt is said that Asmodeus is as dangerous to women as Lilith is to men.\nHe loves to decoy young girls in the shape of a handsome young man.\nHis love for the beautiful Sarah is too well known to need any\ncomment. He is a fastidious devil, and will not have the object of his\npassion subject to the embrace of any other mortal or immortal.\n\nReference is made by the author to Albert R\u00e9ville's epitome of Georg\nRoskoff's _Geschichte des Teufels_ (Leipzig, 1869), a standard work on\nthe history of the devil. The review by this French Protestant first\nappeared in the _Revue des Deux Mondes_ for 1870, and was translated\ninto English the following year. A second edition appeared six years\nlater. Roskoff's book, on the other hand, has never appeared in\ntranslation.\n\nIt is not easy to grasp the scholastic subtleties of mediaeval\nschoolmen. Dr. Ethel Brewster suggests the following interpretations:\n_An chimoera bombinans in vacuo devorat secundas intentiones_. Whether\na demon buzzing in the air devours our good intentions. This will\ncorrespond to our saying that hell is paved with good intentions. _An\naveria carrucae capta in vetito nomio sint irreplegibilia._ Whether\nthe carriers of a [bishop's] carriage caught in a forbidden district\nshould be punished. We can well understand how even the devil might be\npuzzled by such questions.\n\nProfessor Brander Matthews aptly calls this story \"diabolically\nphilosophical.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE DEVIL'S ROUND\n\nA TALE OF FLEMISH GOLF\n\nBY CHARLES DEULIN\n\n\nThe modern devil is an accomplished gentleman. He is the most\nall-round being in creation. Mynheer van Belz\u00e9buth, as he is called in\nthis story, is indeed the greatest gambler that there is upon or under\nthe earth. On the golf-field as at the roulette-table he is hard to\nbeat. It was the devil who invented cards, and they are, therefore,\ncalled the Devil's Bible, and it was also he who taught the Roman\nsoldiers how to cast lots for the raiment of Christ (John xix, 24).\nDice are also called the devil's bones.\n\nThe devil carries the souls in a sack on his back also in the legend\nof St. Medard. It is told that this saint, while promenading one day\non the shore of the Red Sea in Egypt, saw Satan carrying a bag full of\ndamned souls on his back. The heart of this saint was filled with\ncompassion for the poor souls and he quickly slit the devil's bag\nopen, whereupon the souls scrambled for liberty:\n\n    \"Away went the Quaker--away went the Baker,\n    Away went the Friar--that fine fat Ghost,\n      Whose marrow Old Nick Had intended to pick\n    Dressed like a Woodcock, and served on toast!\n\n    \"Away went the nice little Cardinal's Niece\n    And the pretty Grisettes, and the Dons from Spain,\n      And the Corsair's crew, And the coin-cliping Jew,\n    And they scamper'd, like lamplighters, over the plain!\"\n\nThe Witches' Sabbath is the annual reunion of Satan and his\nworshippers on earth. The witches, mounted on goats and broomsticks,\nflock to desolate heaths and hills to hold high revel with their\ndevil.\n\nBeelzebub swears in this story by the horns of his grandfather. While\nthe devil is known to have a grandmother, there has never been found a\ntrace of his grandfather. Satan has probably been adopted by the\ngrandmother of Grendel, the Anglo-Saxon evil demon. The horns have\nbeen inherited by Satan from Dionysos. This Greek god had bull-feet\nand bull's horns.\n\nThe reader, who is interested in the origin of the European Carnival\n(Shrove Tuesday) customs, is referred to the editor's monograph _The\nOrigin of the German Carnival Comedy_ (New York: G. E. Stechert & Co.,\n1920).\n\n\n\n\nTHE LEGEND OF MONT ST.-MICHEL\n\nBY GUY DE MAUPASSANT\n\n\nNo greater proof of the permanence and persistence of the devil as a\ncharacter in literature can be adduced than the fact that this writer,\nin whom we find the purest expression of Naturalism, for whom the\nvisible world was absolutely all that there is, was attracted by a\ndevil-legend. But on this point he had a good example in his\ngod-father and master Gustave Flaubert, who, though a realist of\nrealists, showed deep interest in the Tempter of St. Anthony.\n\nThis legend of the fraudulent bargain between a sprite and a farmer as\nto alternate upper- and under-ground crops, with which \"the great\nvision of the guarded mount\" is here connected, is of Northern origin,\nbut has travelled South as far as Arabia. It will be found in Grimm's\n_Fairy Tales_ (No. 189); Thiele's _Danish Legends_ (No. 122), and T.\nSternberg's _The Dialect and Folk-Lore of Northampshire_ (p. 140).\nRabelais used it as a French legend, and in its Oriental form it\nserved as a subject for a poem by the German Friedrich R\u00fcckert (\"Der\nbetrogene Teufel\"). In all these versions the agreement is entered\ninto between the devil (in the Northampshire form it is a bogie or\nsome other field spirit) and a peasant. It was reserved for Maupassant\nto make St. Michael get the better of Satan on earth as in heaven.\n\nAccording to this legend the devil broke his leg when, in his flight\nfrom St. Michael, he jumped off the roof of the castle into which he\nhad been lured by the saint. The traditional explanation for the\ndevil's broken leg is his fall from heaven. \"I beheld Satan as\nlightning fall from heaven\" (Luke x, 18). All rebellious deities, who\nwere universally supposed to have fallen from heaven, have crooked or\ncrippled legs. Hephaestos, Vulcan, Loki and Wieland, each has a broken\nleg. This idea has probably been derived from the crooked lightning\nflashes. The devil's mother in the mediaeval German mystery-plays\nwalks on crutches. Asmodeus, the Persian demon Aeshma daeva, also had\na lame foot. In Le Sage's book _Le Diable boiteux_ Asmodeus appears as\na limping gentleman, who uses two sticks as crutches. According to\nrabbinical tradition this demon broke his leg when he hurried to meet\nKing Solomon. In addition to his broken leg the devil inherited the\ngoat-foot from Pan, the bull-foot from Dionysius and the horse-foot\nfrom Loki. The Ethiopic devil's right foot is a claw, and his left a\nhoof.\n\nThe devil is erroneously represented in this story as very lazy.\nIndustry, it has been said, is the great Satanic virtue. \"If we were\nall as diligent and as conscientious as the devil,\" observed an old\nScotch woman to her minister, \"it wad be muckle better for us.\"\n\nThe highest peak of a mountain is always consecrated to St. Michael.\nThe Mont St.-Michel on the Norman Coast played a conspicuous part in\nthe wars of the sons of William the Conqueror. Maupassant uses it as\nthe background for several of the chapters of his novel _Notre Coeur_\n(1890). The mountain also figures in his story \"Le Horla\" (1886).\n\n\n\n\nTHE DEMON POPE\n\nBY RICHARD GARNETT\n\n\nThe following two stories by Richard Garnett have been taken from his\nbook _The Twilight of the Gods_, which was first published anonymously\nin 1888, and in a \"new and augmented edition,\" with the author's name,\nin 1902. The title recalls Richard Wagner's opera _G\u00f6tterd\u00e4mmerung_,\nbut may have been directly suggested by El\u00e9mir Bourges, whose novel\n_Le Cr\u00e9puscule des dieux_ appeared four years earlier than Garnett's\ncollection of stories. In his book Richard Garnett plays havoc with\nall religions. The demons, naturally enough, fare worse at his hands\nthan the gods. _The Twilight of the Gods_ is a panorama of human folly\nand farce. Franz Cumont has said that human folly is a more\ninteresting study than ancient wisdom. The author finds a great joy in\npointing out all the mysterious cobwebs which have collected on the\nceiling of man's brain in the course of the ages. Mr. Arthur Symons\nrightly calls this book \"a Punch and Judy show of the comedy of\ncivilization.\"\n\nThe story of \"The Demon Pope\" is based upon a legend of a compact\nbetween a Pope and the devil. It is believed that Gerbert, who later\nbecame Pope Silvester II, sold his soul to Satan in order to acquire a\nknowledge of physics, arithmetic and music. The fullest account of\nthis legend will be found in J. J. Dollinger's _Fables Respecting the\nPopes of the Middle Ages_ (Engl. Translation, 1871). _The History of\nthe Devil and the Idea of Evil_ by Paul Carus (1900) contains the\nfollowing passages on this legend:\n\n     \"An English Benedictine monk, William of Malmesbury, says of\n     Pope Sylvester II., who was born in France, his secular name\n     being Gerbert, that he entered the cloister when still a\n     boy. Full of ambition, he flew to Spain where he studied\n     astrology and magic among the Saracens. There he stole a\n     magic-book from a Saracen philosopher, and returned flying\n     through the air to France. Now he opened a school and\n     acquired great fame, so that the king himself became one of\n     his disciples. Then he became Bishop of Rheims, where he had\n     a magnificent clock and an organ constructed. Having raised\n     the treasure of Emperor Octavian which lay hidden in a\n     subterrenean vault at Rome, he became Pope. As Pope he\n     manufactured a magic head which replied to all his\n     questions. This head told him that he would not die until he\n     had read Mass in Jerusalem. So the Pope decided never to\n     visit the Holy Land. But once he fell sick, and, asking his\n     magic head, was informed that the church's name in which he\n     had read Mass the other day was 'The Holy Cross of\n     Jerusalem.' The Pope knew at once that he had to die. He\n     gathered all the cardinals around his bed, confessed his\n     crime, and, as a penance, ordered his body to be cut up\n     alive, and the pieces to be thrown out of the church as\n     unclean.\n\n     \"Sigabert tells the story of the Pope's death in a different\n     way. There is no penance on the part of the Pope, and the\n     Devil takes his soul to hell. Others tell us that the Devil\n     constantly accompanied the Pope in the shape of a black dog,\n     and this dog gave him the equivocal prophecy.\n\n     \"The historical truth of the story is that Gerbert was\n     unusually gifted and well educated. He was familiar with the\n     wisdom of the Saracens, for Borell, Duke of Hither Spain,\n     carried him as a youth to his country where he studied\n     mathematics and astronomy. He came early in contact with the\n     most influential men of his time, and became Pope in 999. He\n     was liberal enough to denounce some of his unworthy\n     predecessors as 'monsters of more than human iniquity,' and\n     as 'Antichrist, sitting in the temple of God and playing the\n     part of the Devil' (the text inadvertently reads: and\n     playing the part of God); but at the same time he pursued an\n     independent and vigorous papal policy, foreshadowing in his\n     aims both the pretensions of Gregory the Great and the\n     Crusades.\"\n\n\n\n\nMADAM LUCIFER\n\nBY RICHARD GARNETT\n\n\nPerhaps the most fascinating--and the most dangerous--character in the\ninfernal world is this _Mater tenebrarum_--Our Lady of Darkness. \"A\nlady devil,\" says Daniel Defoe, \"is about as dangerous a creature as\none could meet.\" When Lucifer fails to bring a man to his fall, he\nhands the case over to his better half, and it is said that no man has\never escaped the siren seductions of this Diabo-Lady. A poem, _The\nDiabo-Lady, or a Match in Hell_, appeared in London in 1777.\n\nAccording to Teutonic mythology, this diabolical Madonna is the mother\nor the grandmother of Satan. The mother or grandmother of Grendel, the\nAnglo-Saxon evil demon, became Satan's mother or grandmother by\nadoption. A mother was a necessary part of the devil's equipment.\nHaving set his mind to equal Christ in every detail of his life, Satan\nhad to get a mother somehow. In his story \"The Vision Malefic\" (1920)\nMr. Huneker tells of the appearance of this counterfeit Madonna on a\nChristmas Eve to the organist of a Roman Catholic church in New York.\nPartly out of devotion to her and partly also because he could not\nobtain the sacramental blessing of the Church, Satan was forced to\nremain single. In the story \"Devil-Puzzlers\" by Fred B. Perkins the\ndemon Apollyon appears as an old bachelor. \"I have a mother, but no\nwife,\" he tells the charming Mrs. Hicok. The synagogue was more\nlenient towards the devil. The rabbis did not hesitate to perform the\nmarriage ceremony for the diabolical pair. According to Jewish\ntradition the chief of the fallen angels married Lilith, Adam's first\nwife. She is said to have been in her younger days a woman of great\nbeauty, but with a heart of ice. Now, of course, she is a regular\nhell-hag. If we can trust Rossetti, who painted her Majesty's\nportrait, she still is a type of beauty whose fascination is fatal.\nThis woman was created by the Lord to be the help-meet of Adam, but\nmere man had no attraction for this superwoman. She is said to have\nstarted the fight for woman's emancipation from man, and contested\nAdam's right to be the head of the family. Their married life was very\nbrief. Their incompatibility of character was too great. One fine\nmorning Adam found that his erstwhile angelical wife had deserted him\nand run away with Lucifer, whom she had formerly known in heaven.\n\nThe King-Devil apparently always succeeded somehow or other in\nbreaking the chains with which, according to legend, he had repeatedly\nbeen bound and sealed in the lowest depths of hell. From antediluvian\ntimes the demons appear to have been attracted by the daughters of men\nand to have come frequently up to earth to pay court to them. The only\ndevil who must always remain in hell is the stoker, Brendli by name.\nThe fires of hell must not be allowed to go out.\n\nThe anatomically melancholic Burton also tells of a devil who was in\nlove with a mortal maiden. Jacques Cazotte tells the story of\nBeelzebub as a woman in love with an earth-born man.\n\n\n\n\nLUCIFER\n\nBY ANATOLE FRANCE\n\n\nThis writer has a great sympathy for devil-lore, and many of his\ncharacters show the cloven hoof. An analyst of illusions, he has a\nprofound interest in the greatest of illusions. An assailant of every\nform of superstition, he has a tender affection for the greatest of\nsuperstitions. An exponent of the radical and ironical spirit in\nFrench literature, he feels irresistibly drawn to the eternal Denier\nand Mocker.\n\nThe story of the Florentine painter Spinello Spinelli, to whom Lucifer\nappeared in a dream to ask him in what place he had beheld him under\nso brutish a form as he had painted him, is told in Giorgio Vasari's\n_Vite de' pi\u00f9 eccellenti Pittori, Scultori, ed Architteti_ (1550),\nwhich is the basis of the history of Italian art. It was treated by\nBarrili in his novel _The Devil's Portrait_ (1882; Engl. tr. 1885),\nfrom whom Anatole France may have got the idea for his story. But\nthere is also a mediaeval French legend about a monk (_Du moine qui\ncontrefyt l'ymage du Diable, qui s'en corou\u00e7a_), who was forced by the\nindignant devil to paint him in a less ugly manner.\n\nThe devil is very sensitive in regard to his appearance. On a number\nof occasions he expressed his bitter resentment at the efforts of a\ncertain class of artists to represent him in a hideous form (cf. M. D.\nConway, _Demonology and Devil-Lore_). Daniel Defoe has well remarked\nthat the devil does not think that the people would be terrified half\nso much if they were to converse face to face with him. \"Really,\" this\nbiographer of Satan goes on to say, \"it were enough to fright the\ndevil himself to meet himself in the dark, dressed up in the several\nfigures which imagination has formed for him in the minds of men.\" It\nmakes us, indeed, wonder why the devil was always represented in a\nhideous and horrid form. Rationally conceived, the devil should by\nright be the most fascinating object in creation. One of his essential\nfunctions, temptation, is destroyed by his hideousness. To do the work\nof temptation a demon might be expected to approach his intended\nvictim in the most fascinating form he could command. This fact is an\nadditional proof that the devil was for the early Christians but the\ndiscarded pagan god, whom they wished to represent as ugly and as\nrepulsive as they could.\n\nThe earliest known representation of the devil in human form is found\non an ivory diptych of the time of Charles the Bald (9th century).\nMany artists have since then painted his Majesty's portrait.\nSchongauer, D\u00fcrer, Michelangelo, Titian, Raphael, Rubens, Poussin, Van\nDyck, Breughel and other masters on canvas vied with each other to\npresent us with a real likeness of Satan. None has, however, equalled\nthe power of Gustave Dor\u00e9 in the portrayal of the Diabolical. This\nFrenchman was at his best as an artist of the infernal (Dante's \"Great\nDis\" and Milton's \"Satan at the gates of Hell\").\n\nModern artists frequently represent the devil as a woman. F\u00e9licien\nRops, Max Klinger, and Franz Stuck may be cited as illustrations.\nApparently the devil has in modern times changed sex as well as custom\nand costume. Victor Hugo has said:\n\n    \"Dieu s'est fait homme; soit.\n        Le diable s'est fait femme.\"\n\n\"Lucifer,\" as well as the other stories which form the volume _The\nWell of St. Claire_, is told by the abb\u00e9 J\u00e9r\u00f4me Coignard on the edge\nof Santa Clara's well at Siena. The book was first published serially\nin the _Echo de Paris_ (1895). It has just been rendered into Spanish\n(_El Pozo de Santa Clara_).\n\n\n\n\nTHE DEVIL\n\nBY MAXIM GORKY\n\n\nThis story shows reminiscences of Le Sage's _Le Diable boiteux_. It\nwill be recalled that Asmodeus also lifts the roofs of the houses of\nMadrid and exhibits their interior to his benefactor.\n\nThe fate of a Russian author was, indeed, a very sad affair. \"In all\nlands have the writers drunk of life's cup of bitterness, have they\nbeen bruised by life's sharp corners and torn by life's pointed\nthorns. Chill penury, public neglect, and ill health have been the lot\nof many an author in countries other than Russia. But in the land of\nthe Czars men of letters had to face problems and perils which were\npeculiarly their own, and which have not been duplicated in any other\ncountry on the globe.... Every man of letters was under suspicion. The\ngovernment of Russia treated every author as its natural enemy, and\nmade him feel frequently the weight of its heavy hand. The wreath of\nlaurels on the brow of almost every poet was turned by the tyrants of\nhis country into a crown of thorns.\" (From the present writer's essay\n\"The Gloom and Glory of Russian Literature\" in _The Open Court_ for\nJuly, 1918.)\n\n\n\n\nTHE DEVIL AND THE OLD MAN\n\nBY JOHN MASEFIELD\n\n_POSTCRIPT_\n\n\nFor the benefit of the gentle reader, who is about to shed a tear or\ntwo over the demise of the devil, the following episode from Anatole\nFrance's _My Friend's Book_ is retold here:\n\nPierre Nozi\u00e8re (Anatole France) takes his baby-girl to a Punch and\nJudy show, the culmination point of which always consists of the duel\nto the death between Punch and the Devil. The terrible battle ends, of\ncourse, with the death of the Devil. The spectators applaud the heroic\nact of Punch, but Pierre Nozi\u00e8re is not happy over the result of the\nfight. He thinks that it is rather a pity that the Devil has been\nslain. Paying no heed to Suzanne sitting by his side, he goes on\nmusing:\n\n     \"The Devil being dead, good-bye to sin! Perhaps Beauty, the\n     Devil's ally, would have to go, too. Perhaps we should never\n     more behold the flowers that enchant us, and the eyes for\n     love of which we would lay down our lives. What, if that is\n     so, what in the world would become of us? Should we still be\n     able to practise virtue? I doubt it. Punch did not\n     sufficiently bear in mind that Evil is the necessary\n     counterpart of Good, as darkness is of light, that virtue\n     wholly consists of effort, and that if there is no more any\n     Devil to fight against, the Saints will remain as much out\n     of work as the Sinners. Life will be mortally dull. I tell\n     you that when he killed the Devil, Punch committed an act of\n     grave imprudence.\n\n     \"Well, Pulchinello came on and made his bow, the curtain\n     fell, and all the little boys and girls went home; but still\n     I sat on deep in meditation. Mam'zelle Suzanne, perceiving\n     my thoughtful mien, concluded that I was in trouble.... Very\n     gently and tenderly she takes hold of my hand and asks me\n     why I am unhappy. I confess that I am sorry that Punch has\n     slain the Devil. Then she puts her little arms round my\n     neck, and putting her lips to my ears, she whispers:\n\n     \"'I tell you somefin: Punch, he killed the nigger, but he\n     has not killed him for good.'\"\n\n\n\n\nINDEX\n\n\n[List of authors and titles contained in the Notes. Names are\nalphabeted after omission of _de_ or _von_, and titles are entered\nwithout their initial article. Each title is followed by the author's\nname in parentheses.]\n\n_Ambrosio, or the Monk_ (Lewis), 296\n\n_Anathema_ (Andr\u00e9ev), 286\n\n_Anatomy of Melancholy_ (Burton), 318\n\nAndr\u00e9ev, Leonid, 286\n\n_Artificial Paradises_ (Baudelaire), 304\n\n_Auswahl aus des Teufels Papieren_ (Richter), 286\n\n_Autobiography of Satan_ (Beard), 286\n\n\nBarham, Richard Harris (307)\n\nBarrili, Anton Giulio, 319\n\nBaudelaire, Charles Pierre, 279, 296, 303-06\n\nBeard, J. R., 286\n\n_Belphagor, or the Marriage of the Devil_ (Machiavelli), 281-83, 301\n\n_Belphagor_ (an English play), 281\n\n_Betrogener Teufel_ (R\u00fcckert), 313\n\n_Bon-Bon_ (Poe), 295-97\n\nBourges, El\u00e9mir, 315\n\nBrevio, Giovanni, 282\n\nBrowning, Robert, 280, 303\n\nBurton, Richard, 318\n\n\nCaballero, Fern\u00e1n, 300-02\n\nCaesarius of Heisterbach, 296-97\n\nCampe, Joachim Heinrich, 300\n\nCarus, Paul, 315\n\nCazotte, Jacques, 318\n\nChamisso, Adalbert, 297\n\nChappuys, Gabriel, 281\n\nChateaubriand, Fran\u00e7ois Auguste Ren\u00e9, 283\n\nChatterton, Thomas, 283\n\n_Christliche Mystik_ (G\u00f6rres), 299\n\nConway, Moncure Daniel, 298, 318\n\n_Cr\u00e9puscule des Dieux_ (Bourges), 315\n\nCumont, Franz, 315\n\n\nDaborne, Robert, 281\n\n_Daniel and the Devil_ (Field), 294\n\n_Danish Legends_ (Thiele), 313\n\nDante Alighieri, 320\n\nDaudet, Alphonse, 307-08\n\nDefoe, Daniel, 317, 319\n\n_Demon Pope_ (Garnett), 315-16\n\n_Demonology and Devil-Lore_ (Conway), 298, 319\n\n_Demonology and Witchcraft_ (W. Scott), 285, 296\n\nDeulin, Charles, 311-12\n\n_Devil_ (Gorky), 304, 321\n\n_Devil; his Origin, Greatness and Decadence_ (R\u00e9ville), 309\n\n_Devil and his Dame_ (Houghton), 281\n\n_Devil and the Old Man_ (Masefield), 322-23\n\n_Devil and Tom Walker_ (Irving), 284-85\n\n_Devil in a Nunnery_ (Mann), 279-80\n\n_Devil in Germany_ (Freytag), 293\n\n_Devil in the Belfry_ (Poe), 301\n\n_Devil is an Ass_ (Jonson), 281\n\n_Devil-Puzzlers_ (Perkins), 306, 309-10, 317\n\n_Devil's Fiddle_, 279\n\n_Devil's Mother-in-Law_ (Caballero), 300-02\n\n_Devil's Portrait_ (Barrili), 319\n\n_Devil's Round_ (Deulin), 311-12\n\n_Devil's Violin_ (Webster), 279\n\n_Devil's Wager_ (Thackeray), 290-91\n\n_Diable_ (Baudelaire), 306\n\n_Diable au caf\u00e9_ (M\u00e9nard), 305\n\n_Diable boiteux_ (Le Sage), 300, 314, 321\n\n_Diablo cojuelo_ (Guevara), 300\n\n_Diabo-Lady, or a Match in Hell_, 317\n\n_Dialect and Folk-Lore of Northampshire_ (Sternberg), 313\n\n_Dialogus Miraculorum_ (Caesarius), 297\n\n_Dieux ont soif_ (France), 307\n\nDollinger, J. J., 315\n\n_Du moine qui countrefyt l'ymage du Diable_, 319\n\nDunlop, J. C., 282\n\n\n_Elixir of the Reverend P\u00e8re Gaucher_ (Daudet), 307\n\n_En Route_ (Huysmans), 280\n\n_Evangelium Nicodemi_, 283\n\n_Evenings on a Farm near Dikanka_ (G\u00f3gol), 289\n\n\n_Fables Respecting the Popes of the Middle Ages_ (Dollinger), 315\n\n_Fairy Tales_ (Grimm), 313\n\n_Faust_ (Goethe), 280\n\n_Faust_ (Lenau), 279\n\n_Faustus_ (Marlowe), 305\n\nField, Eugene, 294\n\n_Fisherman and his Soul_ (Wilde), 297\n\nFlaubert, Gustave, 313\n\n_Flowers of Evil_ (Baudelaire), 303\n\nFrance, Anatole, 307, 319-20, 322-23\n\nFrazer, James George, 289, 301, 304\n\nFreytag, Gustav, 293\n\n_From the Memoirs of Satan_ (Hauff), 286-88\n\nFulwell, Ulpian, 281\n\n\nGoethe, Wolfgang, 280, 284\n\nG\u00f3gol, Nikol\u00e1i Vasil\u00e9vich, 289\n\n_Golden Bough_ (Frazer), 289, 304\n\nGorky, Max\u00edm, 304, 321\n\nG\u00f6rres, Joseph, 299\n\n_G\u00f6tterd\u00e4mmerung_ (Wagner), 315\n\n_Grim, the Collier of Croydon_ (Fulwell), 281\n\nGrimm, Jacob, 296, 313\n\nGuevara, Luis Velez, 300\n\n\nHauff, Wilhelm, 286-88\n\nHeine, Heinrich, 290\n\nHenslowe, Philip, 281\n\nHerbert, George, 294\n\nHill, Rowland, 279\n\n_History of Fiction_ (Dunlop), 282\n\n_History of the Devil and the Idea of Evil_ (Carus), 315-16\n\n_History of the French Novel_ (Saintsbury), 290-91, 292\n\nHoffmann, E. Th. A., 286\n\n_Homme qui vendit son \u00e2me au Diable_ (Veber), 306\n\nHorace (Quintus Horatius Flaccus), 291\n\n_Horla_ (Maupassant), 314\n\nHoughton, P. M., 281\n\nHugo, Victor, 320\n\nHuneker, James, 279, 303, 317\n\nHuysmans, Joris Karl, 280, 306\n\n\n_Ingoldsby Legends or Mirth and Marvels_ (Barham), 307\n\nIrving, Washington, 284-85, 294\n\n_Italian Novelists_ (Roscoe), 282\n\n\nJarintzow, Mme., 289\n\nJonson, Ben, 281, 305\n\n\nKlopstock, Friedrich Gottlieb, 301\n\n\n_L\u00e0-Bas_ (Huysmans), 306\n\nLa Fontaine, Jean, 281\n\nLavigne, Germond, 302\n\n_Legend of Mont St.-Michel_ (Maupassant), 313-14\n\nLenau, Nikolaus, 279\n\nLe Sage, Alain, 300, 314, 321\n\nLewis, (\"Monk\") Matthew, 296\n\n_Lettres de mon Moulin_ (Daudet), 307\n\n_Little Key of Rabbi Solomon_, 301\n\n_Lucifer_ (France), 319-20\n\n\n_Machiavel and the Devil_ (Daborne and Henslowe), 281\n\nMachiavelli, Niccol\u00f2, 281-83, 301\n\n_Madam Lucifer_ (Garnett), 317-18\n\n_Man and Superman_ (Shaw), 305\n\nMann, Francis Oscar, 279-80, 308\n\nMarlowe, Christopher, 305\n\nMasefield, John, 322-23\n\nMaupassant, Guy, 307, 313-14\n\n_Mediaeval Mind_ (Taylor), 293\n\n_M\u00e9moires du Diable_ (Souli\u00e9), 286, 292\n\n_Memoirs of Satan_ (Hauff), 286-88\n\nM\u00e9nard, Louis, 305\n\nMilton, John, 283, 320\n\n_My Friend's Book_ (France), 322-23\n\n\nNerval [Labrunie], G\u00e9rard, 279, 305\n\n_Notre Coeur_ (Maupassant), 314\n\n_Nouvelles andalouses_ (Caballero), 301\n\n\n_Origin of German Carnival Comedy_ (Rudwin), 283, 312\n\n\n_Painter's Bargain_ (Thackeray), 290\n\n_Paris Sketch Book_ (Thackeray), 290\n\n_Parlement of Devils_, 283\n\n_Parlement of Foules_, 283\n\nParliament of Sprites (Chatterton), 283\n\nPeabody, Josephine Preston, 280\n\nPerkins, Frederick Beecher, 306, 309-10, 317\n\n_Peter Schlemihl_ (Chamisso), 297\n\n_Pied Piper of Hamelin_ (Browning), 280\n\n_Piper_ (Peabody), 280\n\nPoe, Edgar Allan, 292, 295-97, 301, 303\n\n_Po\u00e8mes en Prose_ (Baudelaire), 306\n\n_Pope's Mule_ (Daudet), 307\n\n_Pozo de Santa Clara_ (France), 320\n\n_Prince des Sots_ (Nerval), 305\n\n_Printer's Devil_, 289-99\n\n\nRabelais, Fran\u00e7ois, 313\n\nR\u00e9ville, Albert, 309\n\nRiche, Barnabe, 281\n\nRichter, Jean Paul, 286\n\n_Robinson der J\u00fcngers_ (Campe), 300\n\nRoscoe, Thomas, 282\n\nRoskoff, Georg, 309\n\nR\u00fcckert, Friedrich, 313\n\nRudwin, Maximilian J., 283, 306, 312, 321\n\n_Russian Poets and Poems_ (Jarintzow), 289\n\n\nSachs, Hans, 281\n\n_St. John's Eve_ (G\u00f3gol), 289\n\nSaintsbury, George, 290, 292\n\nSansovino, Francesco, 281\n\n_Satan's Diary_ (Andr\u00e9ev), 286\n\n_Satanism of Huysmans_ (Rudwin), 306\n\n_Satires_ (Horace), 291\n\nSchmidt, Julian, 300\n\nScott, Walter, 285, 296, 305\n\n_Selections from the Devil's Papers_ (Richter), 286\n\nShakespeare, William, 295\n\nShaw, George Bernard, 305\n\nShipley, Joseph T., 306\n\n_Sonata del Diavolo_ (Tartini), 279\n\n_Sonate du Diable_ (Nerval), 279\n\nSouli\u00e9, Fr\u00e9d\u00e9ric, 286, 292\n\n_Spanish Fairy Tales_ (Caballero), 302\n\nSta\u00ebl, Madame, 284\n\nSternberg, T., 313\n\nStevenson, Robert Louis, 284\n\nStraparola, Giovan-Francesco, 281\n\n_Supreme Sin_ (Huneker), 279\n\nSymons, Arthur, 315\n\n\n_Tales from Twelve Tongues_ (Garnett?), 302\n\nTartini, Giuseppe, 279\n\nTasso, Torquato, 283\n\nTaylor, H. D., 293\n\n_Temptation of St. Anthony_ (Flaubert), 313\n\n_Tentations ou Eros, Plutus et la Gloire_ (Baudelaire), 279, 296\n\n_Teufel in Berlin_ (Hoffmann), 286\n\n_Teufel mit der Geige_ (Gengenbach), 279\n\n_Teutonic Mythology_ (Grimm), 296\n\nThackeray, William Makepeace, 290-94\n\nThiele, Just Mathias, 313\n\n_Thrawn Janet_ (Stevenson), 284\n\n_Three Low Masses_ (Daudet), 307-08\n\n_Twilight of the Gods_ (Garnett), 315\n\n\n_Undying Fire_ (Wells), 305\n\n\nVasari, Giorgio, 310\n\nVeber, Pierre, 306\n\n_Vinculum Spirituum_, 301\n\n_Violon du Diable_, 279\n\n_Vision Malefic_ (Huneker), 317\n\n_Vision of Saint Simon of Blewberry_ (Mann), 308\n\n_Vite de' pi\u00f9 eccellenti Pittori, Scultori, ed Architteti_ (Vasari), 319\n\n\nWagner, Richard, 315\n\n_Wandering Willie's Tale_ (Scott), 305\n\nWebster, Benjamin, 279\n\n_Well of St. Claire_ (France), 320\n\nWells, H. G., 305\n\nWilde, Oscar, 297\n\n_Winterm\u00e4rchen_ (Klopstock), 301\n\n\nTHE END","title":"Devil Stories: An Anthology","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":85304}