{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_75466/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_75466","id":"gutenberg_75466","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/75466","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Short Stories","Fiction","Short stories"],"text":"FAMOUS STORIES\n                         FROM FOREIGN COUNTRIES\n\n\n\n\n               _Other Books by Edna Worthley Underwood_\n\n\n                        _SONGS FROM THE PLAINS_\n                            _SONGS OF HAFIZ_\n                     _Translated from the Persian_\n\n\n\n\n                          FAMOUS STORIES FROM\n                           FOREIGN COUNTRIES\n\n                             TRANSLATED BY\n\n                        EDNA WORTHLEY UNDERWOOD\n\n                             [Illustration]\n\n                                 BOSTON\n                         THE FOUR SEAS COMPANY\n                                  1921\n\n\n\n\n                         _Copyright, 1921, by_\n                         THE FOUR SEAS COMPANY\n\n                          THE FOUR SEAS PRESS\n                        BOSTON, MASS., U. S. A.\n\n\n\n\n                               CONTENTS\n\n\n                                                                    Page\n\nTHE LITTLE BLANCHEFLEURE                                               9\n\nBy Rudolf Hans Bartsch\n\nTHE EXCHANGE                                                          31\n\nBy Svatopluk \u010cech\n\nCHAI                                                                  41\n\nBy Awetis Aharonean\n\nIN PRISON                                                             53\n\nBy Awetis Aharonean\n\nTHE ELOPEMENT                                                         65\n\nBy Alexander Pet\u0151fi\n\nSAIDJAH                                                               73\n\nBy Multatuli\n\nABISAG                                                                83\n\nBy Jaroslav Vrchlick\u00fd\n\nTHE KING\u2019S CLOTHES                                                    99\n\nBy Koloman Miksz\u00e1th\n\nWHEN THE BRIGHT NIGHTS WERE                                          113\n\nBy Petri Rosegger\n\nTHE POINT OF VIEW                                                    121\n\nBy Alexander L. Kielland\n\nMY TRAVELING COMPANION                                               135\n\nBy Pietari P\u00e4iv\u00e4rinta\n\n\n\n\n                               DEDICATED\n                      WITH ESTEEM AND GRATITUDE TO\n                        PROFESSOR CALVIN THOMAS\n                          SCHOLAR AND LINGUIST\n\n\n\n\n                       THE LITTLE BLANCHEFLEURE\n\n                        By RUDOLF HANS BARTSCH\n\n\n\n\n                                BARTSCH\n\n\nRudolf Hans Bartsch is the Austrian writer who won the attention of\nworld critics so quickly by the three books--_Vom sterbenden Rokoko_,\n_Elizabeth K\u00f6tt_, and _Zw\u00f6lf aus der Steiermark_.\n\nIn Vellhagen and Klasing\u2019s Monthly, Dr. Carl Busse says of him:\n\u201cBecause he is such a creator--by the grace of God--while all that\nhe writes is so genuine that it seems to have come from some divine\nsource, we love this Austrian writer. No story teller of to-day\nsurpasses him in depth of contents, and charm and grace of surface. Few\npossess such natural gifts.\u201d\n\nThe story we give is from _Vom sterbenden Rokoko_, a book in which he\npaints powerful and delightful pictures of the 18th Century.\n\n\n\n\n                       THE LITTLE BLANCHEFLEURE\n\n\nMy friend Fra\u030bneli Thaller from Solathurn, was telling me about an old\npicture.\n\nFrom the second hand dealer, Hirschli, by the Hafnersteg, I bought a\npicture of the little Marquise Blanchefleure, who, with a great part of\nthe French nobility--in that year of bad taste, 1792--lost her charming\nhead. Here in the picture she has her head; and that head has a high\ncoiffure, and astonishingly arched eyebrows--just as if they had been\ndrawn by the brush of Watteau--and a merry looking little face. She is\ncharming, and she fills my heart with longing.\n\nYou do not know anything about the little Marquise Blanchefleure, do\nyou, who was always right? You do not know anything, of course, do you,\nof the ridiculous passion of my great grandfather, the Swiss, Thaller,\nwhose portrait in enamel hangs just below hers, nor of the foolish\nactions of the Jacobins, those people devoid of all taste and charm?\n\nNo?\n\nWell, the little Marquise Blanchefleure was always right. She was right\nto come into this world as a duchess. Remote blood of Savoy--although\nsomewhat far down in the list of rank of Versailles--but still she\nwas a little duchess, who one day would blossom out into the merriest\nMarquise in the Court of the King. She was right that she was better\nthan all other creatures in her father\u2019s castles, villages and estates;\nbetter than the music and dance teacher, the overseer, peasant, maid,\nass, ox, serf, and all else that was there. She lived laughing and\nmerry, and the world bent before her beauty and splendor. Just as the\nwind sweeps over grain fields, making them bow and bend, so crowds\nof people bent before her; _compliments en mille_. She was right to\nmarry Marquis Massimel de la R\u00e9ole de Courtroy, over whose stupidity\nthe court laughed so that he became indispensable to the king, and was\nalways present at his _lever_ to ensure good humor for the day. She\nhad lovers in plenty, men rich enough to gratify all the caprices of a\nBlanchefleure.\n\nHer laughing habit of command is illustrated by the following incident.\nEvery one knows that in the French army it was forbidden--under penalty\nof death--to sing the _kuhreihen_. The reason was because the awkward\nGerman children of the Alps--when they heard it sung or played--would\neither run away like a herd of cattle, or die of homesickness.\n\n    _Zu Strasburg auf der Schanz,\n    Da ging mein Trau\u2019ren an....\n    Das Alphorn h\u00f6rt ich dr\u00fcben wohl austimmen,\n    Ins Vaterland muszt ich hin\u00fcber schwimmen,--\n    Das ging nicht an._\n\nAnd my great, great, grandfather, Primus Thaller, sang the _kuhreihen_\nin the midst of the streets of Paris! He stood in the courtyard of the\nSwiss barracks, where the sand is yellow and glowed in the light of the\nsetting sun, and where the soldiers were getting ready to go into the\ncity. This was the way it happened. He had just received a letter from\nAmerica, from his brother Quintus, who was six years younger, and had\nbeen a drummer boy in the regiment of the Prince of Orleans. It was the\ntypical letter of an eighteen year old boy who wrote enthusiastically\nof Lafayette, Washington, Freedom, and the rights of the individual.\nYoung Quintus said that the Regiment of the Lilies would return to\nFrance; over their heads were invisible, prophetic tongues of fire,\nwhich, in France, would burst out into a great conflagration, great\nwords; Freedom! Equality! Fraternity!\n\nGreat words? Freedom, equality? Then my poor, lonesome great\ngrandfather thought how all this had existed in his own home country\nfor hundreds of years--in Appenzell, from which village he had come\nwith the hope of winning fame and gold. And he thought how they were\nbringing these ideas from America, across the sea, to proclaim them\nnew and world astonishing, while in his own little home village, they\nflourished quietly. The great laws of the human race are cause neither\nfor a great intoxication nor a great jubilation. They represent merely\na careful estimating; for the great mass of humanity they are meat,\nbread, shelter, hearth, a little sunshine, and green grass, or hard\nlabor, that the beast of destruction may sleep in safety.\n\nIn his home in Appenzell, they already had that which they whispered so\ncarefully in Paris. He thought of his circumspect uncles, their cows\nand calves, their fields and Alps. It is surely the Paradise of the\nhuman race, my dear Switzerland, thought the sergeant--and--thus deep\nin thought, without knowing what he was doing, he sang the _kuhreihen_.\n\nThere it was and done for.\n\nThe news from America had put more rage into people\u2019s hearts than my\nhonest great, great grandfather Primus could estimate.\n\nFor a long time discipline in the army had been neglected. There were\nmen of his own country in the regiment, and a dozen joined softly the\nrefrain of my great grandfather\u2019s song, so that the _kuhreihen_ rang\nfar and loud. No one had sung it before for decades, and therefore no\none had been punished. But now it sounded quite differently than in\nthe olden days. Not a song of exile and homesickness! No; now it was a\nsong of defiance. They reveled, and shouted the song. But although my\ngrandfather stole away when he saw they were destroying the spirit of\nhis song, and although only a couple of Appenzell cow-herds ran away\nand deserted, he was the one who had started it. They arrested him.\nAccording to law, he must be punished with death. The death penalty was\nabout the only thing that bound the subjects to their king in those\ndays. I do not know of course whether it is the same way in other\ncountries to-day.\n\nIt was the King\u2019s duty to revive the punishment of the old law. At his\n_lever_ he thought earnestly over the fate of my great grandfather,\nPrimus. When the Marquis Massimel de la R\u00e9ole de Courtroy approached\nhim laughing merrily he said: \u201cWhat shall we do with this fellow,\nPrimus? He has brought into fashion an old piece of stupidity.\u201d\nThe Marquis did not really know about the subject of conversation,\nso he said impulsively: \u201cSire, if it is a question of fashion, why\nnot turn it over to my wife to decide?\u201d The entire court laughed,\nand His Majesty, who was an agreeable person, laughed too. He had\nprocured delay--which was pleasing to him--so the fate of my great,\ngreat grandfather rested in the charming hands of the little Marquise\nBlanchefleure, who at that moment was tying the ribbons of the morning\ncap of Marie Antoinette. The _lever_ of this enchanting, frivolous\nQueen began an hour later, but the Marquis, as husband of his wife,\nand messenger of the king, was already there. In the meantime he had\ninformed himself about the case of Primus Thaller, and explained it to\nthe Queen and the Marquise. Madame Blanchefleure clapped delightedly\nher little hands. A Swiss! How charming! I beg the handsome King of\nFrance to give him to me, to build a Swiss dairy for me in La R\u00e9ole,\nand an Alp, and get me some dappled cows.\n\nThe Queen laughed and agreed.\n\n\u201cHe must get some real cow-bells, a grey coat with a red waistcoat,\na shepherd\u2019s hat, and blue ribbons the color of the sky. In June our\nImperial Majesty will visit La R\u00e9ole, and then, on top of the charming\nAlp which he has built, we will make him sing the _kuhreihen_, so all\ncan hear it. Is not that true, beautiful Queen?\u201d\n\nThe merry, frivolous Queen laughed and agreed, and the King pardoned\nmy great, great grandfather, who had been the cause of such a joyful\noccurrence. Then Herr Primus had an audience with Madame Blanchefleure,\nin order to thank her for his life.\n\nHe had proved that he was useless as a soldier. He appeared before\nher in the little round hat, and the peasant clothes of Appenzell.\nBecause of her curiosity and excitement over the situation, Madame\nBlanchefleure had cold hands and flaming cheeks. When the pitiful,\nawkward, grey figure of the poor cow-herd was ushered in, her breath\nstopped. She had pictured to herself a powerful revolutionist and\npopular agitator, whose words were flame, and here came a little\ncommonplace law-book of citizens\u2019 rights; good, honest, quiet, a\nregular--\u201cYou give me that and I\u2019ll give you this.\u201d\n\nCan you make a guess as to what Madame Blanchefleure did? When he\nentered and said to her with great sincerity: \u201cIt was good of Your\nGrace to turn your attention to a poor fellow like me,\u201d she looked\nat his face, because his clothes and his personal appearance were so\nunimportant. He had our grey, keen eyes, an honest, narrow face; high\ntemples, thin nose; only youth gave a sort of gentleness to this\nunpleasant Cato-face. He was so unshakable and self-centered, that ten\nmeasures of wine could not change him, nor falling in love, nor the\npolitical upheavals of a period of revolution. He stood in front of her\nas the very symbol of reliability, with his two little legs spread wide\napart--an old habit of the Swiss--inherited through generations. But\nshe observed this commonplace little face and thought:\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll bring him to the point where he shall say of me: _elle me fait\ntroubler_.\u201d This was the standpoint from which she regarded men.\n\n\u201cBut listen to me,\u201d she began amazed, \u201cyou! You have sung? But you do\nnot look in the least like it.\u201d\n\n\u201cI can not sing. I just came to thank you.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen how could you sing your _ranz de vaches_?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh--it just came--from the inside of me.\u201d\n\n\u201cWere you homesick?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo; I only just thought that Appenzell was better than Paris.\u201d\n\n\u201cGood heavens! And you want to go away from here? What have we done to\nyou? You are slighting us. We, we love you Swiss. You are the honest\nlittle mirror in which we see ourselves just as we are. O please say\nsomething rude to me!\u201d\n\n\u201cI can\u2019t! I don\u2019t know you well enough.\u201d\n\n\u201cO--then you don\u2019t know Paris very well. How is it possible that no one\nhas fallen in love with you here? In Paris--everyone is loved by some\none. Even soldiers have sweethearts... How can it be that our pretty\nchildren and women have not said a good word to you about Paris? You\nhave a sweetheart, of course? Or you have several? Perhaps you have too\nmany?\u201d\n\nBut my good great grandfather had no sweetheart in Paris, although he\nwas a sergeant. He always wanted one with a blond, sunny face, and that\nkind he could not find here. The eyes of Parisian women are twinkling\nstars shining over secret street corners; they always lure one around a\ncorner. My great, great grandfather always walked straight ahead.\n\nThat he said to her, but of course in the better language which my\nhonorable great grandfather spoke.\n\n\u201cGood Heaven!\u201d declared Blanchefleure, \u201chow could one make up to you?\nPerhaps I should try if I were not married.\u201d\n\nPoor Primus lifted his astonished grey eyes and looked at her, in\norder the better to penetrate the meaning behind the silk and ostrich\nfeathers, glittering clothes, and gilded furniture. He looked deep\nand earnestly into the charming, tender little face, so expressive of\nunmixed joy, in the gay, opera setting from which it looked out.\n\nHe began to feel sad because she was married. She really resembled a\nsunbeam.\n\n\u201cCan\u2019t you say anything at all?\u201d begged Blanchefleure.\n\n\u201c_Kr\u00fczigts Herrg\u00f6ttli!_\u201d stammered poor Primus.\n\n\u201cYou say you might have tried it with me?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat?\u201d she questioned delighted.\n\nThen he spoke French again. \u201cYou ought not to play any jokes on a poor\nfellow like me.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, of course not,\u201d she laughed. \u201cI was only going to say that it\u2019s a\nmisfortune for us both. Just think! I haven\u2019t any real sweetheart now,\nand I\u2019m just as deserted as you are.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut haven\u2019t you the merry Marquis?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy I\u2019m married to him!\u201d she almost sobbed, so convinced was she\nof her own misfortune. \u201cCan you understand at all--you who are from\nSwitzerland where every one chooses as he wishes, what it means to be\nborn a Princess and to be sold according to appraisement?\u201d\n\n\u201c_Ei, ja_,\u201d nodded Primus. \u201cWith us in Appenzell, no peasant who owned\nfifty cows would give his girl to a peasant who didn\u2019t own so many.\nThat is good for the family.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow is it?\u201d\n\n\u201cKeeps them from becoming poor.\u201d\n\n\u201cAre you very poor?\u201d\n\n\u201cIf I hadn\u2019t been I wouldn\u2019t have become a soldier.\u201d\n\nAt this moment the little Marquise asked Herr Primus, if he would\nlike to set up a dairy for her in La R\u00e9ole--like those in his home,\nin Appenzell. My great grandfather twirled his round hat in his hand\nand fought the sternest battle of his life. His honest Swiss mind was\ninterested in just one thing, how much gold he could get. Twice he\nbegan, looked up in the gay, sunshine face, and for the life of him,\ncould not get the question out of his mouth. So he said yes without any\nconditions. He had even forgotten his Swiss reckoning in this charming\ninterview. It would have been all over with him in Paris the first of\nMay in the year 1789.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt was lucky for him that he never saw La R\u00e9ole. Then a quiet tragedy\nwould have passed over him and no one been the wiser except Madame\nBlanchefleure, who would have found it all very amusing. The terrible,\nprodigious Revolution prevented Madame from putting her charming plan\ninto execution.\n\nThat great Lord, Marquis Massimel de la R\u00e9ole de Courtroy, enjoyed the\ndistinguished honor of having his head cut off, immediately after the\namiable King, which occurrence--no matter what scorners may say--cost\nhim his life. This act was one of the proofs of the equality of all\nmen, because the Revolution said so. Madame Blanchefleure in spite of\nthe sweetest of tears, together with hundreds of the friends who had\nidled with her in those golden gardens of Versailles, was imprisoned\nin the dungeon of the Temple, along with the flower of the nobility\nof witty, elegant France. Professors, academicians, fashionable\npainters, enchanting poets. In fact the choicest spirits of France\nwere here. A company composed entirely of men of noble birth, of\nmen of distinguished career, whose important heredity made them\ndangerous--(The Revolution had a sharp eye for just such people). An\nassembly such as only could be found in France--grace, wit, charm,\nsuperior habits of living.\n\nIt was a glorious thing, the way they amused themselves here, and the\nway they went to death. Madame Blanchefleure was as much at home\nwith these distinguished spirits, as a butterfly which one shelters\nin a hot house from the cold of winter. The death sentence transforms\ncommonplace people into sad figures of tragedy. But these people--the\nmost finely constructed the world has ever seen--played it through\nlike a comedy. They met death defiant and brave, with head erect--_en\nrococo_--just as they had lived.\n\nAnd now about my great grandfather, Primus Thaller! Since that first\nof May he had not been able to forget little Blanchefleure, with the\nflower face. He thought at first that it was just gratitude on his\npart, and carried her picture about as a monk would the likeness of\nthe Virgin. The great Revolution swept away, along with impertinent,\nmerry Versailles, and the old nobility, every vestige of the plan for\nthe dairy at La R\u00e9ole. But the little Marquise remembered about honest\nPrimus Thaller who nearly lost his life because of the ancient decree.\nHe became an officer, a captain upon the spot. He was assigned to a\nregiment, all whose distinguished leaders had been killed, and in their\nplaces saloon keepers, errand boys, and street urchins had been put;\nin fact all the distinguished do-nothings who had been elevated by the\nRevolution. He did not feel very comfortable, but he took the money and\nthat pleased him. But he kept thinking all the time: \u201cI wonder what has\nbecome of little Blanchefleure?\u201d\n\nThen he heard that the Marquis had been beheaded, and that the little\nwidow was in the dungeon of the Temple awaiting, perhaps, a similar\nend. Ah!--at that thought the winds of freedom began to riot in his\nheart! Now he knew that he was in love with her. Now she was a widow!\nNow she was poorer than a cow-girl of Appenzell; now he could marry her.\n\nThis logic surprised him as much as a mole hill in a meadow where the\nbees hum. His brother, who had once belonged to the regiment of the\nPrince of Orleans, did duty as watchman in the Temple.\n\n\u201c_Du Quinteli!_ is there with you imprisoned a young woman who wears a\nflowered silk, and three ostrich feathers in her hair?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d replied Lieutenant Quintus, who had once been drummer boy. \u201cI\nhaven\u2019t seen any one like that! But perhaps she has taken off the\nflowered silk. What\u2019s her name?\u201d\n\nPrimus told her name and Quintus began to ponder.\n\n\u201cI know her very well--a tidy little woman who said to me one day: \u201cThe\nAmericans do not understand anything of our fine life,\u201d and as I was\nabout to tickle her under the chin, thinking I knew something about it,\nshe said: \u201cA man has eyes and a dog has a nose, and that I was not as\ngood as a dog. From America nothing good can come.\u201d\u201d\n\nJust then a noble gentleman, Vicque d\u2019Azur was brought into the Temple.\nHe had let the soldiers drag him along just any way, but now he heard\nthe two brothers talking and declared:\n\n\u201cThat is true--and it goes still deeper. One can despise this French\nRevolution, but one can not help but be afraid of that cold, American,\nlittle-shop-keeper way of thinking. A mind capable of forecasting\nfacts might indeed make this prophecy: The cultivation of Europe will\nperish one day because of this shop-keeper thinking of the United\nStates. Because of this unfortunate apeing, we shall become just one\nof America\u2019s intellectual colonies; not much better than Greece since\nMummius destroyed inelegant Rome. Our artists will become like those\nold ones--able only to wave broken wings of longing. The Americans will\nthen visit with a holy abhorrence the ruins of our life, which was much\ntoo fine for them. Europe was original for the last time in May 1789.\u201d\nWhen he had finished speaking the soldiers shoved him forward.\n\n\u201cFriends,\u201d he said gently,--\u201cI do not need any suggestions from\nhostlers,\u201d and disappeared within the dungeon of the Temple.\n\n\u201cWhat does the fool mean?\u201d queried Quintus.\n\nPrimus thought about it, but he couldn\u2019t make it clear. Then he asked\npermission to speak to the little citizeness widow, Massimel.\n\n\u201cGo down into the cellar and find her,\u201d laughed Quintus. \u201cI don\u2019t dare\nlet her come out.\u201d\n\nWhen he reached the cellar he was amazed, because what he saw surpassed\nthe power of the imagination. Soft, secretive sounds of violin, flute,\nand bass-viol flattered the ear, and slipped along the wet walls, like\na little kitten on a silk dress. They were playing upon instruments\nthat had been smuggled in. M. Miradoux, first violinist of the Royal\nOpera, had the violin; the flute, Vicomte Chantigny, whose breath could\nperform just such wonders as the breath of the west wind. With the\ntenor-viol the Strasburg canon, Avenarius, had grown humpbacked, and\nthe contra bass was played by the celebrated Abb\u00e9 Mervioli of Florence.\nA silver bribe--even under the Revolution--could bring golden music\ninto the dungeons of the Temple.\n\nThe delicate serenade of Mozart!\n\nIt worked wonders here in the twilight dark--Palaces towered in\ntheir former royal splendor, and graciously listened to the amiable\ninspirations of the Salzburg Music-Lord. The old days came back,\ncharmed into life, in defiance of the _Marseillaise_ and _Carmagnole_.\nAround the dungeon walls sat noble lords in silk hose, and ladies in\nthread lace, elegant and aristocratic, in the midst of misery--these\ncaptives sacrificed to the fury of the mob. Knee crossed over knee, the\ngreat lords sat, and the ladies, graceful heads resting upon slender\nhands--nothing here but illustrious nobles. And over them floated the\nfragile melodies of Wolfgang Amad\u00e9s, graceful and enchanting, like\nclouds of incense.\n\nNear the end of the Alegro there comes a passage lovelier than\nall the rest of that lovely melody, as if suddenly the player had\nremembered a soft, little hand that stroked his cheek. When this\npassage came, Herr Primus heard behind him a whispered \u201c_Ah!_\u201d He\nwhirled about--Blanchefleure. She held up one little hand as a signal\nthat he should make no noise. Soon the music was over, and while the\nlords and ladies stopped to congratulate the players, Captain Thaller\nmade his honorable proposal for the hand of the poor, pale, charming,\nlittle Blanchefleure. She listened to him with astonishingly arched and\nsurprised brows, as he began, \u201cNow you are a widow and just as poor as\nany cow-girl of Appenzell--thank God.\u201d\n\n\u201c_Oh!_\u201d she exclaimed doubtfully--\u201c_Ah?_\u201d\n\n\u201cNow we soldiers are the whole thing. The Revolution thought it\nannihilated the officer--and it made him the Lord God. I\u2019ll take you\nout of this hole--Quintus will find a way to do it.\u201d\n\n\u201cWait,\u201d said Blanchefleure--\u201cthere comes the minuet again.\u201d\n\nIn fact the musicians began to play again that enchanting melody of the\nold days, dancing to which one said more with eyes and finger tips than\nthe plebian waltz knows. And the frivolous crowd took their places for\nthe dance.\n\n\u201cPerhaps it is the last minuet,\u201d said apologetically Blanchefleure,\nwith her graceful laugh. \u201cI should never cease regretting not having\ndanced it--with you, M. Captain.\u201d\n\nThe poor young man looked down at her confused, as she took him by the\nhand.\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t be afraid. We have now equality and fraternity. What--don\u2019t you\nbelieve in them?\u201d\n\nThe sweet, melancholy, coquettish dance of Frivolity which was about\nto die, began. It was the minuet from _Don Giovanni_, and they played\nit just before the stroke of fate--impertinent, frivolous and graceful\nas the music. As they approached. Primus Thaller continued with his\nhonorable wooing. \u201cI love you as no other and you must be my wife.\u201d\n\nThe teasing, backward movement of this dance of coquetry carried\nBlanchefleure away from him. Her eyes laughed, but she said: \u201cWhat\nfoolish things you think of. You haven\u2019t any taste, my Friend.\u201d\n\nAgain the gentle rhythm of the dance brought them together; their hands\nmet. \u201cYou might have been my lover, down there, in the country--in La\nR\u00e9ole, where the cow-bells preach of nature. I always had my season of\nreturn to nature.\u201d\n\nAnd she bent back and stepped away from him with coquettish grace,\nwhile the heart of poor Primus raged with flames, as if the great,\ndestructive Revolution were confined within his own body. Again she\ndanced back. \u201cBut to become Madame Thaller--my dear, good, honest\nFriend from Appenzell! What _are_ you thinking of? One could, of\ncourse, kiss you--just for fun! Ah!--it is too bad we could not have\nplayed our comedy in La R\u00e9ole. A stupid shame! Now we must renounce the\nkiss! unless you are willing to put up with kissing my hand?\u201d\n\nThey had reached the place in the minuet, where--upon the\nstage--Zerlina destroys the sweet frivolity. And, although the gallant\ngentlemen, Miradoux, Vicomte Chantigny, Avenarius and Abb\u00e9 Merivoli\nchanged the music for a brief uninterrupted return to a merry _da\ncapo_, Fate ordered the original setting. The door was thrown open and\na harsh saloon keeper\u2019s voice tore in shreds the flowery chains that\nbound their dream.\n\n\u201cYou--there--citizens and citizenesses! Peace--in the name of the\nRepublic!\u201d\n\nThe dancers knew what this interruption meant. It was the daily reading\nof the names of those summoned to court--to hear their sentence read.\nOut of the Temple the road lay along a dark street, with only one\nlittle window of exit--into eternity--_the guillotine_. This time the\nname of the little citizeness Massimel was read.\n\n\u201cHere!\u201d she called; but her face grew white.\n\n\u201cAre you thinking of my offer of marriage?\u201d asked Primus Thaller\nstepping up behind her. The poor, pale Blanchefleure looked at him with\nterrified eyes, above which arched her amazing eyebrows.\n\n\u201cAh!--God, my Friend!\u201d she replied pensively. \u201cYou republicans can not\neven let us enjoy the dance. Over there in the corner sits my little\nmaid, who insisted upon being imprisoned with me. Z\u00e9nobe! Dance on\nwith this young fellow! Please excuse me on account of this ridiculous\ninterruption--and take her in my stead. She is a charming child. Adieu,\nmy Friend!\u201d\n\nAnd M. Miradoux, the incorrigible of the _ancien regime_, began that\nenchanting melody of Mozart, softly, softly--laughing gently, the\ncouples took their places as before. But little Z\u00e9nobe did not dare to\njoin them. She wept for terror, and my great grandfather did not care\nto dance with the little maid. He turned his back coldly on them all.\n\nThat was the memorable minuet which Captain Primus Thaller danced\nwith the distinguished nobility of France. It was the last minuet of\nthe rococo period, and its grace and sweetness was interrupted by\nthe summons of the tribunal of the Jacobins. Captain Primus, with a\nheavy heart, climbed the stairs back to the daylight, and little\nBlanchefleure left the dungeon to appear before the tribunal.\n\nThe trial room was like a wine shop. Four or five rough men crouched\nabout, dirty and evil of mind like savage peasant dogs.\n\n\u201cCitizeness Blanchefleure Massimel? Widow?\u201d snarled one of them.\n\n\u201cIf that is the way you wish--\u201d\n\n\u201cFormerly of the court of citizeness Antoinette Capet?\u201d\n\n\u201cOf whom are you speaking? _The Queen, you should say!_\u201d\n\n\u201cAh!--should we? Write that down, Citizen Pouprac. She said Queen.\u201d\n\n\u201cI think that is sufficient,\u201d growled Pouprac. Then he looked up\nwickedly.\n\n\u201cWhy do you laugh, Citizeness? You are insulting the court! Why do you\nlaugh?\u201d\n\n\u201cGood Heavens--how you look!\u201d chattered poor, little Blanchefleure, her\nface turning deep red.\n\n\u201cWhen one wears such trousers--as you!\u201d she covered her little face\nwith her hands and laughed and laughed and laughed.\n\nPouprac glanced at his trousers which were made of red, white and blue\ncotton. They testified to his republican leanings.\n\nHe jumped up in a rage, and stood on his short, wide-spread tiger legs.\n\n\u201cYou are condemned to death, Citizeness Massimel,\u201d he roared. \u201cYou are\ncondemned because you have insulted the flag of France!\u201d\n\nThe little Marquise took her hands down from her face and looked at\nhim. She sniffed with her little nose, and arched her brows.\n\n\u201c_You_--_you_ would judge me! Go wash yourself--and put on hose--before\nyou can be of any service whatever to me!\u201d\n\nAnd she went away. They say she laughed upon the scaffold.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nMy great grandfather heard that she was not willing to have her hair\ncut off.\n\n\u201cIs that really necessary?\u201d she asked. \u201cThe heads-man can use my hair\nas a handle to hold my head up to show it to the crowd--as is the\ncustom.\u201d\n\nWhen the _Sans-culotte_, in his huge apron, stood before her, she\nshrugged the sweetest little shoulders and declared: \u201cI don\u2019t care!\nI knew, of course, when you came to cut my head off, that you had no\naesthetic sense. And I have always been right.\u201d\n\nAfter these last inspired words, she died, the poor, little, trembling\nwoman. She died, and all they who would have wept for her were dead,\ntoo, or preparing to die.\n\nSo no one knew what became of beautiful Blanchefleure, who had always\nbeen right. And my poor, great grandfather he had never understood her.\nOnly I--only I! I understand her, I who bought her picture from the\nsecond-hand dealer--as a sort of revenge upon them of a later day who\ndid not care to be a great, great grandmother.\n\nLucky for her that she was not! She remained, instead, young--always\nyoung--and an object of love.\n\nAnd I can love her as the honorable Primus Thaller loved her--only\nbetter; with more intelligence, with more aesthetic joy.\n\nShe was always right, and I long for her to-day.\n\n\n\n\n                             THE EXCHANGE\n\n                           By SVATOPLUK \u010cECH\n\n\n\n\n                                 \u010cECH\n\nSvatopluk \u010cech was born in 1846 and ranks as one of the most important\nfigures of the literature of Bohemia, both in prose and verse.\n\nAmong his popular ballads and story telling poems are--_The Lark_, _The\nSmith of Le\u0161etin_, _In Shadow of the Linden_, _The Goblet of Youth_.\n\nIn prose he has written many stories and sketches distinguished by that\ngay and fantastic humor which strikes us as peculiarly the property of\ncertain south-central races of Europe, such as the Poles, Bohemians,\nand Hungarians. These stories by \u010cech frequently show the light touch\nand splendid surface that is characteristic of French prose, with the\naddition of a brilliant irony that drives home successfully the point\nhe wishes to make. Several volumes of stories of merit stand to the\ncredit of \u010cech.\n\n\n\n\n                             THE EXCHANGE\n\n\n\n\n                              CHAPTER I.\n\n\nHere is the pocket book of the hero of this story, Mr. Alfred N--. I\nask you to take it and look into it. You see several compartments, and\nin them,--_nothing_. We turn the pocket book upside down and shake it.\nWhat falls out? Nothing.\n\nTwilight clings to the corners of the room. The clothes closet yawns\ntoward us--empty. The bed dreams in vain of luxurious pillows. The\nbook cases are empty. Poverty grins from every corner. The cold pipe\nfalls from the hands of the occupant of the room. The bitter smile\ndisappears; the eyelids close,--the golden dreams have vanished.\n\nSome one knocked softly. Alfred jumped up. Should he open the door?\nIt was probably a mistake. None of his acquaintances would come to\nsee him now because they knew he had nothing which they could borrow.\nCautiously he opened the door, being mindful of his worn trousers, and\nthe pitiful fragment of a coat that hung from his shoulders.\n\nA diminutive man stepped into the room. His neglected appearance fitted\nexactly the words he said:\n\n\u201cOld clothes--dear Sir! Aron pays--pays _fine_!\u201d\n\nThe bitter smile reappeared on the face of Alfred.\n\n\u201cI have nothing!\u201d he replied to the Jew.\n\nBut the Jew did not permit himself to be dismissed so easily.\n\nHe pushed his way into the room, and peered inquisitively about.\n\n\u201cPerhaps you\u2019ll find something. Old shoes--books. Aron buys everything,\neverything, everything!\u201d\n\n\u201cLook for yourself,\u201d commanded Alfred, bitterly. \u201cHere is the clothes\ncloset; here are the book cases, here--\u201d\n\n\u201cAs God is good, not a thing!\u201d declared the Jew, amazed. \u201cIt\u2019s as if it\nhas just been swept out! Too bad--Young Man! Too bad! Aron pays--pays\n_fine_!\u201d At these words he drew from his dirty caftan a leathern\npurse and began to shake it. The bright sound of gold rang out; the\nalluring voice of the metal, more alluring than the voice of a siren.\nAlfred trembled at the sound. His eyes looked greedily upon the dirty\npurse. Over the face of the Jew flashed lightning swift a look of\nsatisfaction. Patting lovingly the fat purse he continued:\n\n\u201cAron pays--pays _fine_! Aron buys everything, everything, everything!\u201d\n\n\u201cBut can\u2019t you see that I haven\u2019t a thing to sell?\u201d demanded Alfred\nangrily.\n\n\u201cCertainly the gentleman has _something_--for which Aron will pay many,\nmany pieces of gold--\u201d\n\n\u201cStop this humbug, Jew! If you don\u2019t, I\u2019ll throw you down stairs and\nstraight into Abraham\u2019s bosom!\u201d\n\n\u201cAron knows what he says,\u201d replied the Jew, in a wheedling, submissive\nvoice. \u201cThe gentleman has a precious jewel for which Aron will pay\nwhatever the gentleman may ask.\u201d\n\nHe plunged his bent fingers into the deep purse. Alfred followed the\ngesture with sparkling eyes and replied:\n\n\u201cSpeak out! What is it that I can sell to you? What is it that I have\nthat I know nothing about?\u201d\n\nThe Jew came nearer and whispered: \u201c_Character._\u201d\n\nAlfred surveyed him with surprised eyes. \u201cCharacter? Are you a fool?\u201d\n\nThe Jew stepped back, straightened up and spoke boastingly.\n\n\u201cThe gentleman is surprised? Well--Aron buys everything; worn out\nclothes, the virtue of women, old umbrellas, honor, trash, and the\ndivine fire of genius, rabbits\u2019 skins--Aron buys the entire world. Why\nshould he not buy character? Character is a rare thing nowadays--and\nvaluable. There are plenty of people without character--\u201d\n\nAlfred regarded the speaker with terror. Through the window the last\nlight of the setting sun penetrated and gave the Jew a sort of ghostly,\ninhuman appearance. The purse in his hand became red hot like a coal.\nThe unkempt hair and beard were changed into threads of gold. Gold\ngleamed from every fold of his caftan. It gleamed from his features,\nand it was as if two golden ducats shone from his eyes. The Demon of\nGold stood before him, bent of neck, with greedy claw-like fingers,\nthat were ready to fall upon any prey and crush the life-blood out.\n\nHe covered his face with his two hands. When he looked up again the sun\nhad set, and the Jew had resumed his ordinary appearance. The nimbus of\ngold had vanished. \u201cWell, my dear Sir, will you sell your character?\nAron pays--pays _fine_. There is a great sale for character just\nnow--and not much to meet the demand. Will you sell? Aron will pay you\na prodigious sum.\u201d\n\nThe Jew took a ducat from the purse and held it up between his fingers.\nAlfred looked longingly toward the shining circle, then he turned his\nhead away and replied firmly: \u201cNo,--I will not sell!\u201d\n\nThe Jew shook his head.\n\n\u201cNo? By heaven,--a fine character! I\u2019ll give twice as much for it.\nThree times--a noble character! No? I\u2019ll make you a millionaire! You\nshall dwell in palaces, drink wine of the choicest vintage, kiss the\nsweetest lips--\u201d\n\nAlfred looked about as if some beautiful vision floated before him in\nspace. Then he repeated with a sigh: \u201cI will not sell.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell--just as the gentleman pleases. Keep your character together with\nyour misery. Aron will keep his gold. I bid you good day.\u201d He threw the\nducats back into the purse, placed it in his caftan, and turned to go\naway. In the door he paused and looked back.\n\n\u201cAron has a good heart. He does not like to leave a man like you in\nsuch misery. Do you know something? I\u2019ll lend you the gold, and you\npledge me your character. How does this offer please the gentleman?\u201d\n\nAlfred meditated. He looked about the room; the closet was empty. The\nbed had no pillows. The book cases were empty--everywhere poverty.\nHe made a despondent gesture. \u201cWell, take it!--I pledge it.\u201d Then he\npaused. How could a person pawn his character? That was the dream of a\nfoolish brain.\n\n\u201cI know what worries the gentleman. And Aron knows help for it, too.\u201d\nHe took from his pocket some little pill boxes, opened and closed them.\n\u201cLook--here is your character,\u201d he replied scornfully, tapping upon the\ncover of a box. Alfred looked at the little box. In the dim light he\nread the superscription: \u201cNoble characters!\u201d\n\n\u201cLook---see how I classify character--all according to merit.\u201d\n\n\u201cHere you have old fashioned Bohemian characters. They belong to old\npeople--with long beards. Here are light characters--comparatively\ncheap--but not durable. I have to guard them constantly against\nchanging winds. Sometimes politicians buy these characters for\npresents. In this box are found stern, upright characters. They are\noften found at army headquarters. But what do you care about them?\nYou\u2019d rather see the money counted out.\u201d He took out another purse and\npiled shining ducats one upon another. Suddenly he paused. \u201cIn five\nyears, at this same hour, Aron will come again, no matter where you may\nbe. Then if you do not pay me back the sum with interest, the character\nbelongs to me.\u201d\n\nAlfred nodded. The ghostly Jew grabbed deeper and deeper within the\npurse. With fabulous swiftness gold coins were piled up to the ceiling\nlike great columns of marble. The purse evidently was inexhaustible.\nThe more gold he took out, the more gold there was in it. God give all\nmen a purse like this!\n\n\n\n\n                              CHAPTER II.\n\n\nFive years passed.\n\nAlfred stood in the center of a merry crowd where champagne flowed\nlike a river. Diamonds flashed; silks and velvets rustled. Sparkling\nfountains, bright shadows on water, penetrating perfumes, splendid\ngardens,--all this the Demon of Gold had brought together in one\nplace. Alfred, too, has changed. He is heavier and more round bodied.\nHis cheeks glow with health; his eyes shine with contentment. It is\nevident that he had been drinking from the cup of pleasure, with the\ncareful discernment of the epicure. Over there sits his wife. Is she\nthat beautiful motionless maiden, whose vision had so moved him five\nyears ago? Not at all! The ice of her heart had melted under the glow\nof Alfred\u2019s blazing ducats. The vision charmed him no more, that had\nonce enticed him. He did not love her and she did not love him. They\ntreated each other courteously before the world, but in private--what a\ndifference.\n\nThe lack of character of Alfred was an open secret. Every one remarked\nabout it, yet he carried his head high, and everyone bowed before\nhim. His breast was covered with orders. The highest honors were his.\nFathers held him up to their sons as model. \u201cSee,\u201d--they say--\u201chow he\nhas advanced.\u201d\n\nIn that same garret where he used to sit, there is a pale youth in\nshabby slippers and ragged coat, dedicating to him a long poem about\nthe exalted goal of human endeavor.\n\nAnd I--I would rather write an Ode to Gold! Such an one were worthy of\nthe age. Dershawin\u2019s \u201cOde to God\u201d is old fashioned. It has no merit for\nour age except the form in which the Emperor of China has preserved\nit--in letters of gold upon a banner of silk.\n\nGold is the god of the age! Heaven announces its glory; above the moon\n(on the dollar), and the stars (on small silver pieces) shines the\ngiant ducat--the sun. Upon earth we pray to it--in the monstrance and\nthe cross. Under different names we serve it; some as faith, love,\nright, truth,--others in sinful Mammon. For the sake of gold we preach\nmorality, we shed blood on the fields of battle. For the sake of\ngold--with a dull pen--I write this satire. O! shining, mighty, divine\nmetal--I praise you, prostrated in the dust before you. Surely, Dear\nBrothers in Gold, you will pardon me this diversion.\n\nA servant resplendent in gold braid, announced to Alfred, that a dirty\nJew was waiting who insisted upon coming in.\n\n\u201cTake him to my study,\u201d he ordered.\n\nIt is a softly sensuous, luxurious room. From base-board to ceiling,\nthe walls are covered with pictures of beautiful women, gorgeously\ndressed.\n\nAgain Alfred and the ghostly Jew are face to face.\n\n\u201cYou are late,\u201d said Alfred, glancing at the clock.\n\n\u201cYes--on account of bribes,\u201d was the reply. \u201cAnd I lost a noble\ncharacter, too, which I bought abroad. On the boundary they confiscated\nit. One would think character contraband of war.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou bring my pawned pledge back, do you?\u201d interrupted Alfred.\n\n\u201cOf course, Your Grace!\u201d replied the Jew, and drew from his pocket the\nlittle dirty box.\n\n\u201cKeep it! Keep it! I don\u2019t care anything about it. I am convinced that\none lives better without character. But there is something I\u2019d like to\nsell you.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell?\u201d\n\n\u201cA little feeling of shame that has remained with me--and sometimes\nmakes me uncomfortable.\u201d\n\nAron shrugged his shoulders, shook his head and laughed disagreeably.\n\n\u201cNothing doing! The article is out of fashion--something nobody buys.\nAs a proof--Your Grace--I beg you to consider these portraits which\nhang upon your walls--\u201d\n\n\n\n\n                                 CHAI\n\n                          By AWETIS AHARONEAN\n\n\n\n\n                               AHARONEAN\n\nIn the village of Igdir--not far from the boundaries where Russia,\nPersia and Turkey are close together--this writer was born in 1866. He\nwent to school in the village, and later attended the famous Armenian\ncloister school, Etschmiadsin. After finishing the prescribed course\nof study there, he taught for ten years, until, in fact, the Armenian\nschools were closed. Then in order to earn a livelihood, he became a\nnews-paper man, and his activities took him to Switzerland and to the\nCaucasus. Later he obtained an editorial position in Tiflis.\n\nHe has published a good many short stories and he is particularly\npopular among his people. He belongs to the new school of Armenian\nwriters. The scene of a good many of his stories, is the little village\nwhere he was born.\n\n\n\n\n                                 CHAI\n\n\nIt was night; winter and snow. The night was so dark, so full of\nterror that people in the little mountain village of O-- could not\nremember when they last saw day and the sun; bright light and blue\nsky. The wind blew, too! And what a wind it was. It was as if it came\nfrom some world of the dead, because in its voice there was something\nthat made the nerves tremble and painted horror before the brain. It\nplayed with the snow, and the play was the play of a demon. Not only\npeople shivered, but the entire mountain village, its poor little\nhouses, its hay stacks, and the dry mounds of manure piled up for\nburning. And one could not tell whether the shivering was because of\nthe cold, or because of the accursed storm that was raging. For these\nmountain village dwellers, thunder and lightning, storm and cold, were\nnot merely harmless caprices of nature. The peasants knew how sad the\nresult might be. Why should they not be afraid and tremble! But it was\nlucky that the sign of the cross was sure protection against lightning;\nand for the snow storm there was the stable and the _sakhi_.[1]\n\n_Woi_--_woi_--howled the storm. Every time its terrifying voice rang\nout, the men in the _sakhi_ of Melikh-Shalim, who were lined up along\nthe wall facing each other, ceased speaking, took the pipes out of\ntheir mouths and drew nearer together.\n\n_Lord God!_--snow and cold must come in their time, but this\nstorm--this fearful storm--for what can it be good? No one dared\ninterpret the voice of the great storm. For each one of them it was the\nmighty song of destiny, which the storm-wind--the eternal wanderer--had\nconstructed out of the sorrows of the world, out of the sighs of the\nhelpless, and the tears of suffering. Thus thought the frightened\npeasants in the _sakhi_.\n\n_Woi_--_Woi_--the wind grew stronger. The _sakhi_ creaked and trembled.\nSometimes it sounded as if someone were walking heavily across the roof.\n\n\u201cHell has broken loose!\u201d declared one, in order to have something to\nsay. \u201cI would not wish my worst enemy to be upon the mountain tonight!\u201d\n\n\u201cUpon the mountain!\u201d answered another scornfully. \u201cAs if you had\ncourage enough to walk to the wine garden. And you talk of the\nmountain! Heaven and earth are fighting each other tonight.\u201d\n\nAgain silence reigned in the _sakhi_. They were busy thinking.\n\nThe door creaked ominously. All looked in that direction. In the dim\nlight, the form of a man, wrapped in a herdsman\u2019s cape was visible. He\nlooked like a heap of snow.\n\n\u201cGood evening,\u201d said the newcomer, shaking the snow from his shoulders.\n\n\u201cGod is good to you, Chai. Come up--you must be frozen.\u201d\n\n\u201cMake room! Give him a place to sit.\u201d\n\n\u201cBy heaven, I\u2019m frozen\u201d, he replied. \u201cI couldn\u2019t stay out another\nminute. I thought the sky was cracking over my head. They are\nfrightened in the village, too. I said to myself, I\u2019ll go to the\n_sakhi_. I\u2019ll warm myself, and then I\u2019ll go out again.\u201d\n\nHe seated himself beside the wall.\n\nAbove the _buchar_[2] in a blackened space, hung the oil lamp. The sad\nflame trembled and wavered, as if it, too, were terrified by the voice\nof the wind. But it gave sufficient light to show some of the faces\nunder the lamb\u2019s fur caps. An occasional pale line of light fell upon\nthe new comer. It was a peasant\u2019s face which hard work and suffering\nhad made harsh. He was a young man but he had the appearance of having\nlived much. Under his short mustache were two thick lips so tightly\npressed together that they gave the impression of stubbornness. The\neyes were small, but full of fire. He was the village watchman. And he\nwas an Armenian. Many of his race had attempted to live in the mountain\nvillage, but they had been driven away. Only this one had remained like\na deserted crane. He did not want to beg, so he became watchman. The\nvillagers did not know his name. Instead of Nacho they called him Mcho,\nsome even Mko, but at last they agreed upon the name of Chai. It was\nan easy word to say. And he was really Chai[3] from the village Osm.\n\nThe _sakhi_ was warm. The snow storm continued. The wind roared like a\nwounded bull.\n\n\u201c\u2019Twas a night like this when that poor fellow was surprised--_yes_,\u201d\ndeclared Gewo, the magistrate. \u201cHow could he help it?\u201d\n\nHe spoke of a peasant who had perished in a snow storm on the mountain\na few days before.\n\n\u201cHow often have we said it--it is not wise to run about in the snow,\u201d\nobserved another.\n\n\u201cWhat nonsense you talk! He _had_ to go!\u201d thundered Melikh. \u201cWho can\nescape fate?\u201d\n\n\u201cTrue, true, Melikh,\u201d some agreed. \u201cWhat is written by fate is written.\u201d\n\nThey agree that man is the toy of fate. Against this nothing prevailed.\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t believe in fate!\u201d called a voice from the corner by the\n_sakhi_. All eyes turned toward him. The surprise was universal.\n\n\u201cWho is this brave man?\u201d inquired Melikh scornfully.\n\n\u201cI am your servant, Melikh. But I do not believe in fate,\u201d repeated the\nsame voice doggedly.\n\nThe men did not know whether to laugh or to be angry. The one who did\nnot believe in all powerful fate was the miserable Chai.\n\n\u201cThe meanest goat can lose his temper,\u201d murmured Melikh, half in\nscorn and half in wrath. The declaration of Chai had aroused them.\nMelikh, the rich, powerful Melikh, believed in fate--and feared it.\nThe magistrate, Gewo, before whose decisions they trembled, like aspen\nleaves, was afraid of it. And the head of the church--no matter what he\nsermonized about--in the end reverted to the subject of fate. They were\nall subject to this powerful influence.\n\n\u201c_No--I don\u2019t believe in your fate_,\u201d repeated Chai, as he took notice\nof the scornful looks directed toward him. \u201cI could prove to you all\nin a moment that I am right, if I did not have to go out and make the\nround of the village again.\u201d\n\n\u201cStay! Stay!\u201d they called.\n\n\u201cMagistrate tell him to stay.\u201d\n\nAt command of the magistrate Chai sat down again.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIn that year there were ten of us--ten mad men. The Turks and Kurds\ncalled us conspirators. The Armenians called us defenders and saviors.\nWe and the eagles became the lonely lords of the mountains. We were\nalike, too, in the way we swept down upon our prey. How many dogs of\nTurks and Kurds did we not kill! Sometimes they hunted us. Then we\ndisappeared and they could not find us. It was not easy to find us, and\nwhen they did find us, it was not easy to meet us.\n\nOne day we were on the summit of Mount Sim, when supplies gave out.\nIt fell to my lot to forage food. I knew where there were villages,\nbut whether the inhabitants were destroyed or alive I did not know.\nIn broad daylight I climbed down from our mountain nest, without a\nweapon, without even a stick. For a time all went well and I met no\none. Before me rose another mountain. I must go over it and down into\nthe valley on the other side. I climbed and climbed. Just before I\nreached the top, a Kurd jumped up, a _hornidie_,[4] well armed.\n\n\u201cGood day,\u201d I said carelessly.\n\n\u201cGood day, Armenian,\u201d the Kurd replied. He did not pass me, but stepped\nin front of me. I continued my way, but I felt that the Kurd was still\nstanding there, and following me with his eyes. I did not hasten. I was\nafraid of arousing suspicion.\n\n\u201cArmenian--_wait!_ Wait!\u201d suddenly called the voice of the Kurd. I\nlooked back, then stopped. It is fate, I thought. Fate might well take\nthe form of a Kurd. A gun rested upon his shoulder; there was a moon\nshaped blade by his side, a dagger with an ivory handle stuck in his\ngirdle. I saw that his eyes were those of an angry wolf. He came nearer.\n\n\u201cAt this time, in this place, there should be no Armenians. Who are\nyou? Where are you going?\u201d\n\n\u201cKurd,\u201d I replied, \u201cthe time is bad, I know, but do not forget that\nwe are neighbors. I say to you as a neighbor that I am from Chnt. We\nare starving there--that you know. I am on the way to Derdschan to get\nbread for my children. Let me go in peace.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou can\u2019t deceive me, Armenian! You are a bad lot.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou have a God, too, Kurd. You see I have no weapon. There is not even\na knife in my pocket. If I were a bad lot what could I accomplish with\njust two hands? I beg you, let me go in peace!\u201d\n\n\u201cWalk in front of me. I\u2019ll give you over to the law.\u201d\n\n\u201cTo the law! You could not do anything worse when you know the police\nare seeking us. Do not do that, Kurd! Even if I were set free, it\nwould delay me. My children are suffering. They are dying of hunger.\nFor God\u2019s sake, Kurd,--brother, neighbor, let me go!\u201d The Kurd was\nunshakable. It is my fate, I thought and walked on. What could I do? He\nwas armed. I was not.\n\nAround us the world was beautiful. The sky was clear and blue, the\nmountains green. Birds flew about; everywhere was life and happiness.\nAbove, high in the air, a crane flew, free and bold. Forgetting the\ndanger of my position, I looked up at the bird and envied it.\n\nThe Kurd walked on in silence. He looked at me. Our eyes met, and for\nsome seconds we were both unable to look away. Each tried to find\nout what was hidden in the thought of the other. Is not the eye the\ninvoluntary betrayor of the mind? I understood that the Kurd had made\nup his mind to kill me. That I read plainly. I began to meditate. I\nsought for help. But what help was there for me? At this moment my eyes\nrested upon the handsome dagger which the Kurd carried in his girdle.\nIf I only had that in my hand!\n\n\u201cGo on,\u201d commanded the Kurd. \u201cWhy are you stopping?\u201d\n\nI walked on. We were going through a lonely, uninhabited valley. The\nKurd became restless, and began to look about. He kept taking the gun\nfrom his shoulder and then putting it back again. I felt that my end\nwas near. I began to walk slower. I did not dare step in front of the\nKurd. That would make him angry.\n\n\u201cQuick--_quick!_ Go on!\u201d he urged. He was constantly trying to make me\nwalk in front of him. I made an effort to walk evenly with him. We both\nseemed to understand that we were fighting a silent battle for life.\nSuddenly I stopped. My sandal strings were untied. The Kurd came up\nbeside me and paused. Without lifting my head I observed his position.\nHe stood on my right, and the ivory handle of the dagger gleamed from\nhis girdle close beside me.\n\n\u201cMake haste, Armenian!\u201d he called angrily.\n\nI lifted my head quickly, snatched the dagger from his girdle, and\nbefore he knew what had happened, I buried the entire blade in his\nbreast. He roared like an animal, then fell to the ground. I was saved.\nAnd this is the dagger that saved me.\n\nChai drew from his girdle a dagger with a handle of ivory, and held it\nup for his listeners to see. They fell upon their knees and examined\nthe weapon carefully. The poor, shabby Chai had become a hero. He was a\nbrave man who ruled his own fate. He snapped his fingers at it.\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t believe in fate,\u201d he declared again doggedly. This time his\nwords brought forth neither laughter nor scorn. Chai took his dagger,\nstuck it in his girdle and went out. The others were silent. Outside\nthe wind howled, but it no longer terrified them with the implacability\nof fate. Under the manifold wild voices of the night, they seemed to\nhear human voices crying--\u201cRevenge! Revenge!\u201d\n\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[1] Sakhi, a windowless room, containing a fire place.\n\n[2] Buchar, an open fire place.\n\n[3] Chai, colloquial for Haj, meaning Armenian.\n\n[4] Hornidie--name of a Turkish regiment.\n\n\n\n\n                               IN PRISON\n\n                          By AWETIS AHARONEAN\n\n\n\n\n                               IN PRISON\n\n\n\n\n                              Chapter I.\n\n\nIt was midnight. Oppressive silence reigned in the prison. Occasionally\none caught the sound of the heavy, even tread of the watchman. The\nlittle round holes in the tower of cells looked very black against the\nspace about them. They looked like great eyes of the dead.\n\nIn the room of the prison superintendent there was a light. There two\nmen sat opposite each other at a table upon which a piece of paper was\noutspread. They were the superintendent and his helper. They pointed\nwith pencils to names of prisoners who in the morning would be brought\nout to be sentenced.\n\n_Kli-r-r! Kli-rr-rr--_\n\n\u201cThere it is again!\u201d said the superintendent, throwing down his pencil.\n\n\u201cWhat\u2019s the trouble?\u201d inquired his companion.\n\n\u201cA new prisoner. With those confounded chains he disturbs me day and\nnight.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy does he make such a noise?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy? How should I know? All the time that dog of a giaour walks about\nand gives me no rest. The devil take a business like mine! In all the\nyears I have been here I have never got used to it--that accursed\nsound.\u201d\n\n_Kli-r-r! Kli-rr-rr--_\n\nThis time the noise was louder.\n\n\u201cI can\u2019t stand that!\u201d roared the superintendent. \u201cI can\u2019t stand that\nsound any longer. Last night I never closed an eye because of it.\u201d\n\nThe helper began to laugh.\n\n\u201cWhy do you laugh?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy do I laugh? A boiled hen would laugh if you should say to it that\nthe wolf is afraid of the sheep. What\u2019s the use of your anger and\ndiscomfort? Silence him.\u201d\n\n\u201cSilence him! Easy enough to say.\u201d\n\n\u201cTell him to go to sleep.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut what if he doesn\u2019t sleep?\u201d\n\n\u201cMake him sleep! There\u2019s a way, isn\u2019t there?\u201d pointing to the rows of\nknouts along the wall. The light of cruel impulses shone in his little\neyes.\n\n_Kli-r-r! Kli-rr-rr--_ Again the shuddering rattle of rusty iron. The\nsuperintendent began to meditate. He bit his lips angrily and left the\nroom. He turned toward the cell from which the sound came, opened the\ncircular window and roared.\n\n\u201cYou dog of a giaour, stop rattling those chains! _Keep still!_\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019m not doing anything,\u201d came a voice from within.\n\n\u201cWhy do you make such a noise all the time?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy? The chains--they knock against each other.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen why do you move?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat shall I do?\u201d\n\n\u201cSleep! Sleep! If you don\u2019t, I\u2019ll--\u201d The superintendent did not finish\nthe sentence.\n\n\u201cSleep--that\u2019s easy to say,\u201d thought the prisoner. \u201cHow can the\ndefender of man\u2019s freedom sleep--if he is buried alive and has no hope?\u201d\n\nThe mind of the _haiduk_ was a volcano; the cell was narrow, the chains\nheavy. The rattle of chains was the hideous song of autocracy, which\nsince the beginning of time has echoed from prison walls.\n\nThe superintendent went away. The prisoner stood still for a moment,\npondered the words, then began to move about again. He tried to walk\nsoftly along the wall, carefully, little step by little step. And the\nchains rang and rang disturbing the night.\n\n\u201cHow long has the good-for-nothing been here?\u201d inquired the helper.\n\n\u201cThree days ago they caught him in Toprag-Gale. He must be a bad lot\nwho can not sleep. No one knows who he is nor whence he came.\u201d\n\n\u201cWill he ascend--it?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat? You mean the gallows? Of course--if they sentence him!\u201d\n\nThey were silent. It was not a suitable subject for conversation.\nTherefore they thought about it a good deal and said nothing. The\nsilence was broken by a sudden crash of the chains.\n\n\u201cJust wait till daylight, you dog of a giaour!\u201d murmured the\nsuperintendent. \u201cWait!\u201d\n\nThe helper got up, said good night and went out.\n\nDaylight came and the hour when the prisoners are given their\nbreakfast.\n\n\u201cNow you\u2019ll keep still forever, Giaour,\u201d murmured the superintendent,\nwho, with a dish full of food approached the cell of his noisy\nprisoner. He opened the door and placed the food upon the floor. The\nprisoner was sleeping. He went out stealthily. He closed the door\nbut did not go away. Something held him to the spot. He put his eye\nto the keyhole and looked in. The prisoner was handsome. He had an\nair of nobility. His broad brow was unclouded as if noble thoughts\nmoved behind it. The face indicated strength of character. There was\nsomething about the sleeping figure that affected the superintendent\npeculiarly. Fear awoke in his heart. He tried to suppress this feeling\nwhich was new to him. Why did he stand there and watch him? Why did he\nnot go away? He did not know and he did not like to think about it. He\ntried to reason with himself.\n\nHe saw the prisoner get up and approach the food. He followed every\nmovement. His knees began to tremble. He leaned heavily against the\ndoor. He wanted to turn away but he could not. His throat began to feel\ndry. Why should he destroy that noble looking figure with the broad\nbrow and inspired eyes? He opened the door and called:\n\n\u201c_Wait! Wait!_\u201d\n\nThe prisoner looked up at him in surprise.\n\n\u201cWait! I can\u2019t do it. Rattle your chains all you want to.\u201d\n\nHe picked up the plate, ran from the room and closed the door. The\nprisoner understood. A smile passed across his lips like the last,\nfaint glimmer of sunset. He rejoiced. Under the low roof of prison,\nbehind locked doors, he had conquered.\n\n\n\n\n                              CHAPTER II.\n\n\nWeeks passed.\n\n_Kli-r-r! Kli-rr-rr--_ This time the chains were clanging through the\nvillage of A----. Between rows of glittering bayonets appeared from\ntime to time, a white face. The prisoners were being led to the place\nof execution. Even in daylight this clanging of chains was terrifying.\nDoors were quickly shut, windows closed. This sound was the terror\nof the land. It filled the streets, and made the hearts of the brave\ntremble. A crowd had accumulated about the square. There were judges,\nlawyers, court accountants. The superintendent was there too, and his\nhelper.\n\n\u201cI did not do it. I am not to be blamed,\u201d the superintendent kept\nwhispering to himself. The judge turned to the prisoner.\n\n\u201cYou are A---- from the village of A----?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo; I am not from A----.\u201d\n\n\u201cK---- is your friend?\u201d\n\n\u201cI do not know him.\u201d\n\n\u201cDid you kill G----?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes; he was my enemy.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou procured weapons and took them to S----?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo; I did not procure the weapons.\u201d\n\nThe helper of the superintendent, who until then had listened\nindifferently, went up to the judge and whispered to him. Then, upon a\nsignal from the judge he walked up to the prisoner and stood directly\nin front of him, and quite near.\n\nThe place of execution became silent. Every one expected something\nunusual and all eyes were turned toward the two men who stood face to\nface. It was not two faces that confronted each other, but four eyes\n... four flames. The spectators shivered as if from fear. Something was\ngoing to happen, something out of the ordinary. Still they stared at\neach other, eye against eye. Their eyes did not wink. Their lips did\nnot move. Their eyebrows did not twitch. No sound escaped their lips.\nNo word was spoken. They only looked and looked, and one was in chains,\nbut inspirited with righteous wrath. The other wore the uniform of a\nTurkish official, and yet he trembled and seemed afraid.\n\nThe prisoner stepped back. The chains rattled. He turned away with a\ngesture of scorn that made the other feel shivers pass down his spine,\nand he stuttered.\n\n\u201cI--I--_know you_. You are A----\u201d\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d replied the other. \u201c_You were my friend._\u201d\n\nFriend! What a word to use here! The word took on form and towered like\na giant in front of the helper. He saw himself in all his baseness.\nHe was in terror at his own likeness. Ah!--how much blood he had shed\nfor these shining buttons on his uniform. Involuntarily he touched one\nof the buttons. It was cold like ice. He drew his hand back quickly.\nHow many years had he feigned to be a friend to this hero who fought\nfor freedom, and how many just like him he had tricked and brought to\nruin. He touched his sword, then drew his hand back, and glanced at the\nheavy chains of his old friend and former companion in the strife for\nliberty. Which was better, the sword of the Turkish official or those\nrusty chains of the martyr for freedom? This question which he thought\nhe had decided long ago, came up again.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt is night--a gloomy night. A restless wind roamed under the black\nsky. The helper started for the prison. The superintendent had called\nhim. His walk did not have its usual animation. The darkness was not\npleasant, nor the wind either. He kept thinking of things he did not\nwish to think of. How hard he had tried to hide himself that morning\nwhen A---- climbed to the gallows. He did not succeed. The prisoner\nseemed to search for him. He found him. He looked at him again just\nas he had looked at him on the place of execution. Before he died\nhe wished to burn that look of scorn and contempt into his brain.\nThere--before him in the dark--were two burning points--_eyes_. He\ncould not go on. He stopped. They were the eyes of his friend. They\nwere just like them--just so large. Should he go on? He meditated a\nmoment and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the two eyes\nwere still looking at him again--only they were larger and there\nwas a different expression within them. He started to run. The eyes\ndisappeared. It was a cat which leaped ahead of him. He laughed at his\nfear, but he walked faster than usual.\n\nAt length he reached the prison yard. He looked timidly toward the\nplace of execution of the morning. He thought the man was buried and\nall was over. But he saw the body gleaming through the darkness. And\nwhen the wind touched it, the gallows moaned and moaned. And the wind\ncarried the sound on and on. The helper ran without looking up, but\nas he neared the gallows his steps were heavier and heavier. The old\nshuddering swept over his body. At last, trembling, he entered the room\nof the overseer. It was light there. At least there was a human being\nthere. The superintendent did not look up; he was thoughtful and both\nwere silent.\n\n\u201cNow you can sleep,\u201d remarked the helper in order to break the\noppressive silence. \u201cNow the chains do not rattle.\u201d\n\n\u201cHark! Don\u2019t you hear that?\u201d Outside, above the sound of the wind, came\nplainly the creaking of the gallows. It was a sad, monotonous sound, a\ngigantic slumber song over the body of the heroic dead.\n\n\u201cWhy is he not buried?\u201d\n\n\u201cThat is what I have called you for. To-morrow morning you are to take\nhim down and bury him--because you were his friend.\u201d\n\nThe helper was silent. What an ironic play of wit was this. Anyway he\nwill not make any noise, thought the helper.\n\nThe superintendent dropped his head; his eyes were in the shadow.\nSlowly the helper got upon his feet, took up the lamp and held it in\nfront of the trembling face of the overseer. The overseer threw back\nhis head in anger, grabbed the lamp from the hand of the helper, threw\nit upon the floor and smashed it into pieces.\n\n\u201c_You cowardly betrayer--he was your friend!_\u201d\n\nThe room was in darkness. In every corner shone a dozen gleaming eyes\nthat kept growing larger and larger. It was frightful; he wished to\nget away. But he could not find the door. He circled vainly around and\naround. At last he stumbled upon it. Carefully he opened it and stuck\nhis head out. It was no less terrifying outside; blackness and wind,\nand the creaking gallows. Ah!--what a sound was that! It penetrated\nthe marrow of his bones and made him suffer. Up there the dead man was\nshaking in the wind. Where should he go? He made up his mind to run\nas fast as he could, but he had only taken a few steps when something\nforced him to look up. There in front of him, in the darkness, were\ntwo gleaming, swollen eyes, streaked with blood. His knees gave way.\nTrembling he turned back toward the door of the overseer.\n\n\u201cCowardly betrayer!\u201d murmured the overseer again. The helper turned and\nran again. But this time the wind blocked his way and he found himself\nbeneath the gallows. This time the dead man did not seem to be angry.\nThe eyes looked down at him sympathetically and the lips said: \u201cFriend,\nFriend.\u201d\n\nHe twisted and crawled along like a snake. Then with feverish haste he\nput up the ladder, climbed it, and untied the rope. The corpse fell.\nQuickly he twisted the same noose about his own neck and swung himself\nup into the air. With the angry voice of the wind there mingled the\npeculiar choking sound of a human voice--and then the sound came no\nmore. The two dead men looked at each other, one upon the ground, and\nthe other swinging high in the darkness and the wind.\n\n\n\n\n                             THE ELOPEMENT\n\n                          By ALEXANDER PET\u00d6FI\n\n\n\n\n                                PET\u00d6FI\n\n\nAlexander Pet\u00f6fi, the great lyric poet of the Magyar race, was born\nthe first day of January, 1823. His was a true poet\u2019s life--brief\nand stormy. Only twenty-six years were his in which to live and\npurchase fame. Despite the fact that he took an active part in the\nwars which were numerous during his brief day, and was active as an\neditor and politician, he found time to write some of the finest lyric\nverse of his race, and tales in prose, and to leave a considerable\ncorrespondance with the distinguished men of the period.\n\nHis best prose work is the novelette, _The Hangman\u2019s Knot_.\n\n\n\n\n                             THE ELOPEMENT\n\n\n\u201cBut where shall we go?\u201d\n\n\u201cTo Buda Pesth.\u201d\n\n\u201cTo Pesth?\u201d\n\n\u201cOf course!\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy there?\u201d\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s the safest place.\u201d\n\n\u201cVery well.\u201d\n\n\u201cEarly--\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll be ready--early.\u201d\n\n\u201cUse every precaution.\u201d\n\n\u201cDo not worry.\u201d\n\n\u201cOn no account be late.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo; of course not!\u201d\n\n\u201cGood by, Anna dear--!\u201d\n\nPoor Andrew von Csornay! And at this moment in the club he is saying\n\u201cCheckmate,\u201d with an air of triumph to his opponent, just as if he\nhimself had not just been checkmated in life, for Anna is his wife, and\nCarl his nephew.\n\nA few days later they talked of nothing in the little village where\nthis happened, but the elopement of Madame Andrew with her nephew, Carl\nvon Csornay.\n\n\u201cIt served the old fool right! Why did he marry such a young and\nbeautiful girl?\u201d\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s too much for me! I can\u2019t solve the problem. Probably because\nthey were so much in love with each other.\u201d\n\n\u201cTrue--I suppose.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut I\u2019m sorry for the old man. I shouldn\u2019t be a bit surprised if the\ngrief killed him.\u201d\n\n\u201cPoor fellow!\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd the unfortunate scandal--\u201d\n\nDuring the time conversation like this was common in the little\nvillage, Carl and his beautiful young aunt, had met in Pesth. While\ntheir carriage was on the way to the hotel, another carriage started\nfrom there.\n\n\u201cOh!\u201d screamed Madame Anna, in terror.\n\n\u201cI hope he\u2019ll lose his eyesight,\u201d thought Carl von Csornay to himself,\nthrowing a hasty glance in the direction of the other carriage. They\nboth wrapped themselves up in their cloaks as well as they could. The\nman who saw them was a merchant from their home town.\n\n\u201cHe did not recognize us,\u201d declared Carl reassuringly, when they\nentered their room in the hotel. \u201cIf he had, he would have spoken to\nus.\u201d\n\n\u201cThank heaven for that!\u201d\n\n\u201cNow you belong to me, Anna,--wholly--wholly! To me belong the\nbeautiful brown hair, the red, sweet lips, the glowing, black eyes, the\nproud, swan-like neck--\u201d\n\n\u201cYes--yes--I belong to you Carl!\u201d\n\nAnd they were happy--for a little while. But the love of the senses is\nan intoxication from which one awakens and when they awoke and came to\ntheir senses, they both exclaimed:\n\n\u201cIn the name of goodness what are we going to live upon? We have no\nmoney! We have nothing to eat.\u201d\n\nThey had not finished speaking, when some one knocked at the door and a\nstranger entered.\n\n\u201cHave I the honor to address M. Carl von Csornay?\u201d\n\nCarl listened confused and frightened, because he felt that they had\nbeen discovered.\n\n\u201cYou do not answer,\u201d continued the stranger, \u201cbut your surprise proves\nthat you are the one I seek. I beg you to sign this little piece of\npaper. Exactly one year from to-day I will come to see you again. Do\nnot forget--in just one year. Good by.\u201d\n\nThe mysterious stranger went away. It was difficult to say which was\ngreater, the surprise or the joy of the lovers. The paper which the\nstranger gave him, was draft for a sum of money sufficiently large to\nenable them to live in luxury for a year. According to the written\ndemand of the stranger, the money was paid to them promptly.\n\n\u201cIt is incomprehensible,\u201d declared Madame Anna, looking at the money.\n\n\u201cI should say it is incomprehensible,\u201d agreed Carl. \u201cGold falls upon us\njust like manna from Heaven.\u201d\n\nNow they could live happily. They had no material cares to worry about.\nAnd they thought now of course that the merchant did not recognize\nthem. If he had, would he not have told M. Andrew von Csornay?\n\n\u201cAnd at the end of the year,\u201d explained Carl, \u201cthe stranger will come\nagain, and we shall have more money. Is not that what he said?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, indeed.\u201d\n\nSix months after the departure of Madame Anna with her nephew, a young\nman appeared suddenly in the home of old M. Andrew von Csornay. His\nface expressed suffering and a decision reached in a mood of despair.\n\nOld M. Andrew had just returned from his club, in a rather melancholy\nframe of mind. He was either sad over the disappearance of his young\nwife, or because the priest had beaten him again at chess.\n\nWhen the young man entered, the old man, white and trembling, sank back\nin his chair. The young man seized his hand and implored:\n\n\u201cUncle--Dear Uncle--what shall I do to be forgiven? I am ready to do\nanything!\u201d\n\n\u201cWhere is she--the woman?\u201d\n\n\u201cShe--_she_----is not here.\u201d\n\nThe old man drew a deep breath of relief.\n\n\u201cI am going to tell you the whole story,\u201d declared Carl. \u201cYou will see\nthen that you ought to pity me, and not take revenge upon me. I can\u2019t\ntell you how I have suffered. My happiness did not last long. I lived\nin a veritable hell. Your wife has the face of an angel--but all the\ndevils there are, dwell in her heart. She is the worst tempered woman I\nhave ever known in my life. I could not stand it a day longer--I had to\nrun away and leave her--\u201d\n\n\u201cMy poor nephew--I do pity you from the bottom of my heart. But you\nought to pity me; she only remained with you six months, while she\nremained an entire year with me.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou, too, Dear Uncle?\u201d\n\n\u201cYou are surprised, I suppose, are you not? Every one thought we were\nhappy. But you should have seen us when we were alone! Then--you would\nhave learned a thing or two. When I think of her it makes me shudder.\nWhen I found you had eloped with her, I blessed you. No one could have\ndone me a greater kindness. In order to reward you--as soon as the\nmerchant told me where you were--I sent you a yearly allowance,--so you\nwould have no inclination to come back, and no hinderance where money\nwas concerned--\u201d\n\n\n\n\n                                SAIDJAH\n\n                             By MULTATULI\n\n\n\n\n                               MULTATULI\n\n\nMultatuli, whose real name was Edward D. Dekker, was born in Amsterdam\nin 1820. His father was a merchant. When he was eighteen years old his\nfather sent him to the Dutch East Indies to enter the service of the\ncolonial government. He was rapidly advanced to the highest government\nposition in the colonies. And in this position he was tireless in his\nendeavor to improve the condition of the native population.\n\nBecause of this desire he gave up at length his position, with all\nits advantages of money and honor, and went back to Holland to tell\nthe people the true condition of the native population over whom\nthey ruled. He was dismissed from service without a pension, and for\nyears after this he lived in poverty. It was during this period of\ndeprivation that he wrote the novel, _Havelaar_. He tells us that he\nwas obliged to borrow money to buy the ink with which to write it.\n\nOther books followed this in quick succession, among them the drama, _A\nSchool for Princes_, which is still popular in Holland.\n\nIn 1870 he went to live in Wiesbaden; from Wiesbaden he moved to a\nvillage on the Rhine where he died in February, 1887.\n\n\n\n\n                                SAIDJAH\n\n\nSaidjah was about fifteen years old when his father ran away to\nBuitenzorg. He did not accompany him because he had plans of his own\nto carry out. He had heard that in Batavia there were rich gentlemen\nwho would employ slender youths like him, if they were nimble footed,\nto sit on the rear seat of the two wheeled carriages. He had been told\nthat he could earn money in this way. In two years he could earn enough\nmoney to buy two water buffaloes. This prospect pleased him. He walked\nalong proudly like a person who carries something important in his\nhead. He was on his way to see Adinda to tell her his plan.\n\n\u201cWhen I come back,\u201d he explained, \u201cwe shall be old enough to marry--and\nthen we shall have two buffaloes to do the plowing.\u201d\n\n\u201cGood, Saidjah, I will be your wife when you come back. I will spin. I\nwill weave and embroider _sarongs_.\u201d\n\n\u201cI believe you, Adinda. And when I come back, I will call you a long\nway off--\u201d\n\n\u201cWho could hear if we happened to be pounding rice in the village?\u201d\n\n\u201cThat is true. Then wait for me by the Djati Forest, under the\n_ketapan_ tree, where you gave me the _melatti_ flower.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut, Saidjah, when can I know when you are coming? When shall I go to\nthe tree?\u201d\n\nSaidjah thought a moment and replied.\n\n\u201cCount the moons. During three times twelve moons I will remain away.\nBut this moon now does not count. See, Adinda,--cut a notch in the\nrice-block for each moon. When you have cut three times twelve notches,\nI will return. On that day wait for me under the _ketapan_ tree.\u201d\n\n\u201cI will be there by the Djati Forest, waiting for you under the\n_ketapan_ tree.\u201d\n\nSaidjah tore a piece of cloth from his blue head-dress, and gave it\nto Adinda. Then he said good by to her and to Badur. He went through\nRangas-Betung, which was not yet a place of importance, and on to\nWarong-Gunang, where the assistant governor lived. The next day he saw\nPandeglang, the village that looks as if it lay in a garden. A day\nlater he reached Serang, and stood astonished at the splendor and the\nnumber of the houses. He remained here one day because he was tired,\nbut when the sun set, he went on again and at length reached Tangerang.\nHere he took a bath in the river and rested in the house of a friend of\nhis father.\n\nAs soon as it was dark he took out the _melatti_ flower which Adinda\ngave him and looked at it. Then he was sad because he had not seen her\nfor so long. The farther he traveled from Badur, the more he began to\nthink that the thirty six moons represented a very long time. It was\nnot so easy for him to go ahead. He felt weary and without ambition.\n\nSaidjah arrived in Batavia. He sought a rich gentleman who hired him at\nonce, when he found he could not understand what he said. In Batavia\nthey prefer servants who do not understand Malay, and are not spoiled\nby contact with Europeans. Saidjah soon learned Malay, but he kept it\nto himself, because he thought only of Adinda and the two buffaloes. He\ngrew tall and strong because he had something to eat every day, which\ndid not happen in Badur. His master promoted him to the position of a\nhouse servant and increased his pay. But at the end of three years they\nsaid he was ungrateful, because he gave up his position. But he did not\ncare what they said, his heart was glad because he was getting ready\nto go back. He counted over and over the treasures which he was going\nto carry home. In a hollow, bamboo stick he had his passport and the\ntestimonial of his master. In a case swung over his shoulder by a piece\nof leather, was something heavy that beat against his back. Within this\ncase were thirty Spanish dollars, with which he intended to buy three\nbuffaloes. What would Adinda say to that! And that was not all. In his\ngirdle shone a Malay _kris_ with a sheathe of silver. The handle was of\ncarved wood which he had wrapped carefully in silk. In the folds of his\nouter garment was a leathern girdle with silver links, and a clasp of\ngold. This was for Adinda. Around his neck in a little silk purse, he\ncarried the dried _melatti_ flower.\n\nHe did not pause to visit any of the cities along his route. It seemed\nto him that he could hear the voice of Adinda calling him. This music\nmade him deaf to everything else.\n\nAt length, in the distance, he saw a great black spot. That must be the\nDjati Forest, which was near the tree where Adinda was going to wait\nfor him. He groped in the darkness and felt the trunks of many trees.\nSoon he stumbled upon a piece of level ground that seemed familiar--the\nsouth side of a tree. He put his fingers in a gash in the side of the\ntree which he remembered had been cut to drive away an evil spirit that\nhad hidden there and given some people of the village toothache.\n\nThis was the _ketapan_ tree which he was seeking. He sat down in front\nof the tree and looked up at the stars. And when he saw a falling star\nhe understood it as a greeting to him on his return to Badur. Then he\nwondered if Adinda were sleeping now, and if she had counted the moons\ncorrectly on the old rice-block. Would it not be a pity if she had cut\none too many, or one too few? Thirty-six moons there should be! He\nwondered if she had woven beautiful _sarongs_. And he wondered too who\nwas living in the old home of his father. Then he recalled his youth,\nand his mother, and the buffalo that had saved him from being torn to\npieces by the tiger.\n\nVery carefully he watched the setting of the stars in the west, as they\ndisappeared along the horizon line, and estimated the time before light\nwould begin to come from the East, and how much time would elapse\nbefore he met Adinda. She, of course, would come with the very first\nray of light. Why in the world could she not have come the day before?\nHe was sad that she had not got ahead of this beautiful hour, which had\nfed his soul with delight for three long years.\n\nHis complaints were foolish. The sun had not yet risen. Not yet had the\nsun sent its long rays across the levels. To be sure, over his head,\nthe stars were now growing paler, one by one, as if ashamed that their\ndomination must end so soon. Strange, wild colors fluttered over the\nlonely mountain tops, which seemed blacker afterward. Something that\nshone, floated now and then, across the clouds banked in the east;\narrows of gold--flame--but they fell back again into the darkness that\nhid the day from the eyes of Saidjah.\n\nGradually it became lighter. He could see the landscape. He could hear\nsound of the leaves from the Klappa forest behind Badur.\n\nAnd yet how could she sleep? Did she not know that Saidjah was waiting\nfor her? Probably the village watchman had just knocked at her door,\nand asked her why the night lamp was burning. Or perhaps she sat all\nnight in the darkness on her rice-block, counting with her fingers the\nthirty six marks for the moons. Perhaps like him she was waiting for\nthe rising of the sun.\n\nHe did not wish to go to Badur. He seated himself at the foot of the\n_ketapan_ tree, and looked out over the levels. Nature smiled back at\nhim and welcomed him. But his eyes kept turning toward the narrow path\nthat led from Badur to the _ketapan_ tree, along which Adinda would\ncome. But there was no one to be seen upon the path. He waited a long\ntime, and looked and looked, and still there was no one upon the path.\nShe probably watched all night and then fell asleep at dawn, he thought\nto console himself. Should he get up and go to Badur? She might be\nill--or dead.\n\nHe got up and ran along the path to the village. He heard nothing. He\nsaw nothing. Yet voices called and called--\u201cSaidjah! Saidjah!\u201d The\nwomen of Badur came out of their houses and looked at him. Their faces\nwere sad. They recognized Saidjah and knew he had come to see Adinda,\nand that she was not there. The head of the district of Parang-Kudjang\nhad taken away the buffaloes of Adinda\u2019s father. Her mother died of\ngrief. Adinda\u2019s father feared punishment because he could not pay\nthe land-rent, and he had fled. He took Adinda with him. But because\nSaidjah\u2019s father had been whipped in Buitenzorg for running away, he\ndid not dare go there, but to the district of Lebak, which borders the\nsea. There they had taken ship. But Saidjah was so grieved he did not\nunderstand what they said to him.\n\nHe left Badur and went to Tjilang Kahan where he bought a boat. After\na few days sail he reached the Campong coast, where there was an\nuprising against the rule of the Dutch. He joined a troop of soldiers\nless to fight than to search for Adinda. One day when there was a\ngeneral massacre of natives who had been subdued by the army of the\nNetherlands, he wandered through a little village that had been set\non fire. As he was walking around some houses that had not been yet\ncompletely burned, he came upon the dead body of Adinda\u2019s father. There\nwas a bayonet wound in his breast. A short distance away lay Adinda,\nnaked and dead. A little rag of blue cloth was pressed in the bayonet\nwound in her breast. Saidjah met a soldier who was using his bayonet to\ndrive the few surviving insurgents into the burning houses. With all\nhis strength he rushed forward, and drove the soldier back, while the\npoint of the bayonet pierced his lungs.\n\nIn Batavia there was rejoicing over the victory that had brought\nfresh laurels to Dutch arms in the East Indies. The Governor wrote to\nthe home country that there was peace again in Campong. The soldiers\nwere rewarded with crosses of heroes. In the churches prayers of\nthanksgiving were said because the Lord of Hosts had again fought upon\nthe side of the Dutch.\n\n\n\n\n                                ABISAG\n\n                         By JAROSLAV VRCHLICK\u00dd\n\n\n                               VRCHLICK\u00dd\n\nJaroslav Vrchlick\u00fd, whose real name is Emil Frida, is a significant\npersonality in modern Bohemian literature.\n\nHe was born in 1853. He studied at various secondary schools and\nlater attended the University of Prague. Here he devoted himself\nalmost exclusively to theology and philosophy, and then--thanks to the\ngenerosity of Count Montecuccoli-Laderchi--traveled for a time in Italy.\n\nIn 1893 he was made Professor of Modern Literature in the University of\nPrague, of which he became one of the most distinguished figures.\n\nHis fertility as a writer is so unusual that it can not be passed over\nin silence. He has published many books of lyric verse, dramatic verse,\nstories in prose, and translations from many languages, including the\nwork of English and American writers. He has given his countrymen\nversions of Schiller, Dante, Ariosto, Victor Hugo, Leopardi, and\nProven\u00e7al and Spanish poets.\n\nThe story _Abisag_, which we give, is from the collection of prose\ntales entitled _Bits of Colored Glass_. Vrchlick\u00fd died in 1912.\n\n\n\n\n                                ABISAG\n\n\nKing David lay upon a royal couch of cypress wood. From the ceiling\nswung huge receptacles carved of bronze, from which the smoke of\nburning perfumes rose, and whose dim, wavering light, showed carven\ncedarn walls and a ceiling starred with plaques of gold.\n\nThe night was warm and windless. From the city from time to time one\ncould hear the measured tread of watchmen, and the clang of swords;\nfrom the vineyards that swept about Jerusalem like a girdle of green,\ncame the voices of men who guarded the wine. The moon, resembling a\nwarrior\u2019s shield of gold, reflected itself in the mirror of the flat\nroofs and flung fleeting, ghostly shadows about the twelve great gates\nof the city. The light fell upon the city wall, the purification pool,\ngardens filled with bee hives, long alleys of sycamore trees, of palm\nand fig trees. It fell upon tethered camels becoming restless at\napproach of day. It saw its golden surface in deep cisterns. It shone\nupon graves in which the bones of ancestors rested under the curse or\nthe blessing of the sons of Israel. Night swept across the world of\nspace like a prodigious face across the mind of the dreaming prophet.\n\nThe king lay like one dead upon his bed. Motionless, four men sat\nopposite him, their misshapen knotty hands rested upon the carven\nlions\u2019 heads that formed the arms of their chairs. Their faces were\nso still it was as if they were made of stone and only the trembling\nflames in the bronze receptacles swept over them the unreal motion of\nshadows.\n\nThe first wore the dress of a priest of Israel. His beard was parted\nand combed and reached to his waist. His name was Sadok. The second\nwore the insignia of the head of the army. His name was Banahash.\nThe other two were courtiers, Semej and Rej. Their richly oiled\nhair smelled of sandal wood and hyacinth. They had torn the costly\ngarments that covered their breasts. Grief dwelled in their hearts and\nlessened the quick pulsing of blood in their veins. Their attitude\nwas expectant. It was evident that they were waiting for something\nimportant. Their eyes rested upon the bed where David lay wrapped in\nthe lion\u2019s skin. His face was like a mask. It was the face of the dead.\nThe body of the king was beginning to grow cold.\n\n\u201cNathan does not come,\u201d remarked Sadok.\n\nNo one answered.\n\nBanahash drew his brows together ominously. Semej and Rej sighed.\n\nAgain there was silence, heavy and prophetic.\n\n\u201cDoes Bethsheba know what Nathan said?\u201d inquired Semej in a whisper.\n\n\u201cYes, she knows,\u201d replied Sadok.\n\n\u201cAnd has she agreed to it?\u201d asked Rej.\n\n\u201cShe had to agree. Does not God speak through the mouth of Nathan? It\nis her fault that she does not perform the last service for David the\nKing.\u201d\n\n\u201cShe is old. She is burdened with years and illness,\u201d objected Semej.\n\n\u201cHush! The King moves,\u201d whispered Banahash.\n\n\u201cNo--it was just a rustling noise in the outer hall. Slaves are\nbringing the warming pans, and the coals.\u201d\n\nSeven negroes in short, red tunics entered. They bore bronze pans\nfilled with glowing coals, which shone like the sweet star, Sahil, when\nit first pierces the mist of evening and looks down upon a sleeping\nworld. They placed two pans at the foot of the king, two at the head,\nand one on either side. They sprinkled myrrh and powdered incense upon\nthe coals, and disappeared as softly as phantoms. The seven glowing\npans lighted the dim room and sent up a blueish smoke that filled the\nair with fragrance. The pale face of the king looked paler. The four\nmen who sat and watched him sank lower their heads upon their breasts.\n\nTo the warmth of the summer night was added the heat of the steaming\npans. Beads of sweat stood out upon the brows of the watching men, and\ndotted like pearls their long, black beards.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe door opened. A man of giant body stood upon the threshold. His hair\nand beard were unkempt. They knew neither oil nor comb. His caftan was\ngirdled with a rope. His knotty, muscular feet were covered with dust.\nHis naked breast was weather stained and looked like the trunk of a\ngnarled fig tree. White, bushy brows shaded his eyes which glowed like\nthe coals in the warming pans.\n\n\u201cNathan!\u201d cried the watchmen by the bed. They arose and greeted him\nwith gestures of submission. The expressions upon their faces changed.\nThe face of Sadok showed curiosity held in check by fear; the face of\nBanahash, the calm of expectation, and satisfied desire; the faces of\nSemej and Rej, mistrust coupled with fear of the prophet.\n\nNathan looked about the room, and came nearer.\n\n\u201cHow is the Anointed of the Lord?\u201d he asked quickly.\n\n\u201cAs he was when you left so is he now. Did you bring the Sunnamite\nmaiden?\u201d\n\n\u201cShe is here; her father, too,\u201d replied Nathan, beckoning toward the\nanteroom.\n\nA man entered. His head was bowed. He had little twinkling eyes, a red\nbeard, and dirty hands. It was Lamek of the tribe of Issaher. A slender\nmaiden enveloped in a veil followed him. Even her face was covered,\nonly the shadow of her eyes could be seen.\n\nLamek bowed low as to his knees. At this moment he was so small he\nresembled a dwarf. This impression was strengthened by the saffron\nyellow caftan and red hair. The maiden towered like a young palm beside\nhim.\n\n\u201cBanahash,\u201d directed Sadok, \u201ctake the maiden to the bath of the king\nthat she may be fit for the bed of the king.\u201d\n\nBanahash opened a little door that shone like gold, which was entrance\nto the place of the bath. The room was walled with jasper. In the\ncenter was the bath, hewn round from a single block of black marble.\nFrom the center of the ceiling two sea serpents, in which huge rubies\nshone for eyes, spouted rose water.\n\nBanahash took the hand of the maiden and led her to the door, where\nhe gave her over to the care of four slave women. Two held jars of\nprecious ointment, two mirrors of ebony, and coverings made of purple\nwool.\n\nSadok returned to Lamek who had not yet lifted his head. But his sharp,\nsly eyes kept circling the room, so that not the slightest motion of\nthe faces of those present escaped him. Nathan, the prophet, stood\nby the bed of David the King. He held his hands extended as one who\nimplores a blessing. His lips trembled with prophetic words.\n\n\u201cIs this your daughter, Lamek?\u201d asked Sadok.\n\n\u201cYes; but she is handsomer than I--or her dead mother.\u201d\n\n\u201cAre you willing to do what Nathan, the man of God, has told you?\u201d\n\n\u201cIf it is the will of God--and the people of Israel may be saved.\u201d\n\n\u201cDid she agree?\u201d\n\n\u201cShe does not know. But my daughter is obedient. My will is hers.\u201d\n\n\u201cIs there one who loves her?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes--and no! My daughter is beautiful. And yet she really has no\nlover, because he does not know how beautiful she is. My eyes watch her\nas if she were a nugget of gold, or a drop of water in the desert.\u201d\n\n\u201cWho is her lover?\u201d\n\n\u201cA youth--an insignificant youth. He owns nor field nor vineyard.\nHe owns no camels, nor is he the chief of a caravan. He owns\nnothing--_nothing_--It is my wish to obtain money enough to buy a\nvineyard near Sunnam--to leave to my children--that I may not die\nchildless.\u201d\n\n\u201cDoes--this lover--know what is to happen?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes--He is calm. He only said to my daughter, \u2018I will stand by the\nouter door of the palace until the end. I will await you there, to lead\nyou back to the vineyard which your father will buy for us. If you\nremain as you are now, you will come without my calling you. If you do\nnot come until the sun has set, I shall go away and I shall never look\nupon your face again\u2019.\u201d\n\nSadok did not answer. He went into a room in the rear of the sleeping\nroom, where a massive chest stood. He beckoned to Lamek to come nearer.\nThe Hebrew\u2019s eyes greedily took in the contents of the chest. He saw\nbars upon bars of red gold, cups of beaten silver, rings, armlets,\npearls the size of pigeon\u2019s eggs. He saw gems as varied in color as the\nflowers of the fields in spring. Sadok buried his hands in the chest,\ndrew out bar after glittering bar, and piled one upon another upon the\nfloor. He piled up rings covered with gems. Lamek filled his arms,\nwhile his eyes shone fiercer than the metal.\n\nSadok wished to close the cover. But the Hebrew stood there and\nwould not let him. He kept saying: \u201c_For so little I will not sell my\ndaughter!_\u201d Sadok bent down and gave Lamek another cup, this time of\nsilver and starred with rubies, and two armlets. On each armlet was the\nhead of Anubis carved of a single onyx. Lamek was satisfied now and\ndrew back.\n\nThe door of the bath opened and two slave women came in leading Abisag.\nShe was robed in white, transparent muslin. About wrists and ankles\nwere jewels. Gold dust sparkled upon her long, black hair, like stars\nin a dark night.\n\nSadok signalled the slaves to leave. The Sunnamite maiden stood alone\nand trembling in the midst of the grey, old men. Her eyes were fastened\nupon the marble floor. Her arms were folded upon her breast, which rose\nand fell with the agitation that swayed her.\n\nSadok drew his brows together sharply. Banahash understood the sign,\napproached the bed of the king and drew back the lions\u2019 skins that\ncovered it. Sadok lifted the muslin robe from the shoulders of the\nmaiden.\n\nHer hair, in which the gold dust sparkled, covered her like a cloak.\nHer cheeks were the color of the pomegranate. Nathan took her by the\nhand and led her to the bed of the king, while Banahash, the son of\nJohad, lifted up the lions\u2019 skins.\n\nThe maiden embraced the cold body of the king as a daughter would\nembrace a dying father. Sadok spread upon them a woolen coverlet and\nmotioned to the others. They left the room. Nathan, alone, remained,\nkneeling by the bed of David, the King, uplifting his hands in prayer.\n\nThe old men did not know that when they led Abisag to the bed of the\nking, a young man wearing a white robe appeared in the doorway. He went\naway again as quickly as he came. But he had seen the beauty of the\nSunnamite maiden. This young man was Solomon.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nFrom that moment peace vanished from the heart of Solomon. He was even\nindifferent that Adonias, the son of Hagith, whom friends had chosen\nking, was reveling day and night in the streets of Jerusalem, with his\nfollowers. He did not know that his mother, Bethsheba, stood white and\ntrembling, her heart filled with bitterness and envy, behind a door of\nKing David\u2019s chamber, to watch the influence of Abisag upon the life of\nthe King. He paid no heed to the opinions of the unstable courtiers and\nroyal sycophants, nor to what the cunning Sadok and secretive Nathan\nhad in mind. Weary in body and dispirited, he betook himself to his\npleasure palace in Baalhamon. Here he shut himself in, and throughout\nthe night wandered along its garden ways, where century old sycamores\nlooked down upon him, listening the while to the cicadas of the nights\nof summer, sing and sing.\n\nOnce when he was about to lie down upon his couch to rest, a slave\nannounced the unexpected arrival of Banahash.\n\nSolomon did not care to see him.\n\nThe son of Johad did not await permission, he rushed into the room\ndeclaring breathlessly:\n\n\u201cGood news! The king lives. The king spoke.\u201d\n\nSolomon arose from his couch as if he expected some more definite\ncommunication.\n\n\u201cYou must go back with me to the palace. It is a question of the\nanointing of a king.\u201d\n\nSolomon fell back weakly against the heaped up rugs upon his bed.\n\n\u201cI go not there again.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut it is the will of the king, and Bethsheba, your mother. Nathan\nawaits us by the river. In his hand is the holy oil for anointing.\nAdonias fled to the mountains.\u201d\n\n\u201cI go not,\u201d repeated Solomon.\n\n\u201cThe nation awaits you. The judges are on your side. The warriors are\ncalling your name through the streets of Jerusalem. And all this you\nowe to the Sunnamite maiden.\u201d\n\n\u201cAbisag,\u201d repeated Solomon slowly. \u201cAm I pledged to give thanks to\nAbisag?\u201d\n\n\u201cFor everything,\u201d answered Banahash. \u201cShe awoke the king. Otherwise he\nwould never again have spoken.\u201d\n\n\u201cVery well. On--on! I go,\u201d said Solomon.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nSeldom has a king at his anointing shown such indifference as Solomon.\nThey did with him as they wished. They led him hither and thither.\nAfter being proclaimed king, he would gladly have gone back to\nBaalhamon. But David again lay as one dead, wordless, motionless,\nbetween the pans of glowing coals, wrapped in the yellow lion\u2019s skin.\nNathan, the prophet, thought the end was near. Abisag still visited the\nking, but her efforts were useless.\n\nWhen Solomon entered the room of his father, David, the King, it was\nevening. Banahash, alone, was with him. Solomon sat down beside him and\nseemed like one in a dream. He wished to see Abisag when she came to\nthe king. Hours passed. Banahash bent over the king and arranged the\ncoverings. A shudder seized him. David\u2019s heart did not beat. He thought\nhe must be mistaken. He took a mirror of bronze and held it to the\nmouth of the king. The shimmering surface remained smooth and bright.\nDavid was dead!\n\nBanahash tore his garments, ran to Solomon, fell down in front of him,\nand touched his forehead to the floor.\n\n\u201cWhat is it, Banahash?\u201d questioned Solomon, still in his dream.\n\n\u201cYou are king! David is no more. I hasten to announce to the priests.\u201d\n\n\u201cWait!\u201d commanded Solomon. \u201cI forbid you to take a step.\u201d\n\nThen his voice changed and became gentle and pleading.\n\n\u201cDo you love me, Banahash?\u201d\n\n\u201cI would give my life to you,\u201d replied the courtier.\n\n\u201cIt is your duty to watch by the King\u2019s bed until morning. Very easily\nyou can delay the announcement of the death of the King.\u201d\n\nSolomon bent and whispered in the ear of Banahash.\n\n\u201cWill you do it, Banahash?\u201d\n\n\u201cI will, my King, if you will tell me what it was your father demanded\nagainst Joab, and Semej, whom they call the magician.\u201d\n\n\u201cI will tell you--later.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo: now I must know it!\u201d insisted Banahash.\n\n\u201cLater I will tell you. I swear it by the body of David, the King!\u201d\n\n\u201cI go--to announce to Bethsheba, and the priests--\u201d\n\n\u201cListen, then, and hear!\u201d\n\nAgain he bent to the ear of the still kneeling Banahash and whispered\nthe last will of David, the King.\n\n\u201cYou know what Joab did to me. You will proceed against him as is just.\nSemej, too, you hold in your power, who cursed me with a grievous\ncurse. In my wrath I swore against him: I will not slay you with the\nsword! But you--pardon him not. You can make him descend early into the\ngrave.\u201d\n\n\u201cI will warn my companions,\u201d Banahash thought quickly.\n\n\u201cI will do whatever seems good to me,\u201d thought Solomon.\n\nJust as upon the evenings before, the Sunnamite, Abisag, ascended the\ncouch of David, the King. She did not notice that the light was dimmed\nin the hanging receptacles of bronze, and that the great room grew dark\nand darker. She did not notice that the pans of coals had been carried\naway, nor that a great mass of lion\u2019s skins and purple coverings had\nbeen heaped upon the couch of David. She lay down and fell asleep.\n\nAt first her dream was monotonous like the desert. But this desert\nwas not one of heat. Cold winds blew over it. The desert stretched\nto the horizon; it was dark and deep, like a great room at night. No\nbird swept across it. Abisag dreamed that she stood alone upon this\nmonotonous grey-yellow expanse, lost in a sea of twilight, and that\ninvisible hands placed weights upon her feet. Across the desert blew\ncold winds such as are known in the East, and Abisag thought that the\nstones were such as mark the way of tombs. She was afraid. She wished\nto cry for help. Then the waste trembled, and the twilight began to\nlighten. Strips of azure streaked the sky. Grass sprang up upon the\nsand. Cranes flew overhead. Abisag had closed her eyes, but her eyelids\nwere made of mother of pearl and she saw through them. Where the desert\nhorizon joined the sky something roared and swayed. It was a forest\nof cedar trees a century old. The sunlight lay upon their fabulously\nlovely summits, and the wind wafted their fragrance abroad. As by magic\nthe forest drew nearer and nearer. She heard fountains leap beneath it.\nNarcissus blossoms rose to greet her, and their circle of leaves was\nlike human eyes. Flowering vines embraced her body. In the crown of the\ngreat cedar above her head, a bird of gold nested, and when it spread\nits wings scarlet blossoms fell about her. And the song of the bird was\na song of power and mystery. \u201c_Set me like a seal upon thine heart.\nStrong as death is love, and desire is implacable as the grave--._\u201d\n\nDay touched her eyelids. She awoke. Beside her lay not the dead,\ngrey King, but a man of youth and beauty, robed in white. He slept.\nTerrified, Abisag leaped from the couch, and stole away from the room.\nOutside, upon the streets of Jerusalem, where a great crowd swayed, and\nwaving palm leaves were carried on high, voices called:\n\n\u201c_Long live Solomon, King of Israel!_\u201d\n\nBanahash and Nathan had announced the death of David, the King, because\nthe sun had risen and day had come.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe Sunnamite maiden did not leave the royal palace. Some days later\nwhen she stepped from her bath, her slave women told her that Adonias,\nthe son of Hagith, had been slain by Banahash at command of Solomon,\nand that his dead body lay before the palace door.\n\nAbisag went down the palace steps and out upon the terrace. She saw\nthe dead body. She wept. She fell upon it and covered it with kisses.\nWhile Abisag wept beside the body of Adonias, Solomon, amid the clang\nof trumpets, music of zithers and bells, was welcoming the Queen of\nSheba. She came with a great retinue of camels, elephants, negroes and\njesters, to learn of the wisdom and splendor of Solomon.\n\nThat same day were Joab, and Semej the magician, put to death, just as\nSolomon had promised David, the King.\n\n\n\n\n                          THE KING\u2019S CLOTHES\n\n                          By KOLOMAN MIKSZ\u00c1TH\n\n\n\n\n                               MIKSZ\u00c1TH\n\n\nA volume of short stories by Koloman Miksz\u00e1th--one of the most original\nand talented writers of modern Hungary--was published a few years ago\nin English. The story we give in translation--\u201cThe King\u2019s Clothes,\u201d\nwas printed some fifteen years ago, and we think it was this Hungarian\nstory teller\u2019s first appearance in print in the United States.\n\nThis story illustrates well his peculiar talent and his ironical,\nwitty, satirical manner. Two novels by him--most unusual in both\nsubject and treatment, are _The Magic Cloak_ and _The Village That Had\nNo Men_ (Szelistye).\n\n\n\n\n                         THE KING\u2019S CLOTHES[5]\n\n\nChroniclers are sometimes mistaken. They tell us the story of King\nMorus but they forget to state over what land he ruled. Yet this\ndoes not have anything to do with the subject, because who believes\nbelieves. I will relate it truthfully.\n\nOne afternoon King Morus escaped from the duties of kingship, which\nmeans that he signed some seventy documents, which the Minister read\nto him in a sing-song voice. His Majesty closed his eyes and was kind\nenough to listen to the unavoidable documents from end to end. There\nwere some appointments to make, a few death sentences, and other\nsimilar trifles. He yawned only occasionally at the reading. \u201cWe have\nfinished,\u201d declared at length the Minister, putting the huge book of\npapers under his arm and sticking the seal of the realm in his pocket.\n\n\u201cWait a moment, Narciz,\u201d commanded the King. \u201cGive me that little piece\nof iron from your pocket, and stamp it upon one of these empty death\nsentences, then hand it over and I will sign it.\u201d\n\n\u201cAn empty death sentence, Your Majesty?\u201d questioned the Minister\nastonished.\n\n\u201cI\u2019d like to know if you have anything against it? Perhaps it may occur\nto you that you are my constitutional Minister and it is your business\nto know what the seal is to be put upon. Narciz you are becoming\nchildish.\u201d\n\n\u201cO Your Majesty!--Your Majesty--what can you be thinking of? I am the\nhumble servant of the best of kings.\u201d\n\nKing Morus graciously patted old Narciz on the shoulders, then took the\npaper and placed it in the inner pocket of his coat of gold.\n\n\u201cNow, Old Man, I have the genuine, constitutional feeling within me. By\nHeaven, I have it, and I don\u2019t mind telling you--_in confidence_--what\nI am about to do with this death sentence.\u201d\n\n\u201cMost glorious King!\u201d murmured Narciz.\n\n\u201cI am trying to win the favor of a very beautiful lady--and she asked\nme for this trifle. You see of course I couldn\u2019t refuse her a little\nthing like this.\u201d\n\n\u201cYour Majesty is too gracious!\u201d\n\n\u201cI am wise, Narciz! The pity is the poor woman has no power, but she\nhas a husband. I give her the power and she gets rid of the husband.\n_Sh--sh--Narciz_--Not a word to any one--\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is sweeter to kiss than to kill,\u201d flattered Narciz.\n\n\u201cRight you are, Old Man! I am going to carry this little piece of\npaper to her now, because the favor of the King is a fruitful seed.\nWrite that sentence down in the Golden Book of the realm. Have you\nalready written down what I said yesterday about the reckoning of the\nground-rent?\u201d\n\n\u201cCertainly, Your Majesty.\u201d\n\n\u201cLet me hear how it sounds.\u201d\n\nThe Minister opened the Golden Book and read the last lines: \u201cA good\nking is like a gardener who trims the trees often.\u201d\n\n\u201cVery well said,\u201d opined the king, putting on his fez. He walked to the\nprivate garden by the shore of the sacred Nile, the garden which no one\nwas permitted to enter.\n\nThe servants and courtiers whom he met on the way bowed to the ground\nas he passed. \u201cWe greet you, great King Morus.\u201d\n\nHis glowing, golden garments dazzled all eyes, and beneath his proud\nstep the earth trembled. The nightingale in the garden sang of love, as\nif it divined the King\u2019s thoughts. The white lilies bowed their heads.\nThe roses strewed fragrant leaves across his path, and the azaleas\nwhispered a name--not the name of the king--but instead the name\nFlorilla, the enchanting woman who was step-daughter of Narciz. Within\nthe palace all were wondering where the King was going. The Minister\nwhispered to his son: \u201cHe is carrying someone\u2019s head in his pocket.\u201d\n\nRogus, frightened, felt for his own head. He found it just where it\nalways was, upon his neck, between his two shoulders.\n\nHe spoke at once to the watchman who stood by the garden gate:\n\n\u201cHere is a purse of gold. Exchange clothes with me, and let me into the\ngarden.\u201d\n\nThe watchman refused. \u201cI can not. The King would cut my head off when\nhe returns.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou are an ass,\u201d replied Rogus. \u201cThe King can not kill you until he\ncomes back. I will kill you upon the instant if you do not obey me. So\nyou can see you can win both time and money.\u201d\n\nThe watchman agreed. Rogus, who had long suspected something, put on\nthe watchman\u2019s clothes and followed the King. Before him, too, the\nlilies bent their heads. The roses strewed fragrant leaves, and the\nazaleas whispered the name, Florilla. But Rogus stepped upon them and\ncrushed them. A secret gate, to which King Morus had the key, led from\nthe garden to the shore of the Nile, along which were pleasure palaces.\nAmong these palaces stood the villa of Rogus, which the King had built\njust the summer before and presented to his faithful servant. Likewise,\njust a year before, the Minister had written in the Golden Book, that\nthe favor of the King was a fruitful seed.\n\nRogus kept following the King, an easy thing now, because the King had\nforgotten to lock the garden gate.\n\nProfound quiet reigned by the river, even the voice of the ripples was\nsubdued. The twilight was beginning to color the Nile steel blue so\nthat it resembled the curving blade of an executioner\u2019s giant sword.\n\nWhen the King reached the dwelling of Rogus, he blew three times on a\nsilver whistle. At this sign a young woman appeared upon the balcony. I\nonly say this about her, that the artists of that day could not find a\nfiner head to preserve for posterity.\n\n\u201cFlorilla,\u201d whispered the King.\n\nRogus hid behind some shrubbery and listened. To be sure he knew all\nabout it, because he had suspected it long.\n\n\u201cYes, my King,\u201d replied Florilla.\n\n\u201cMay I be permitted to enter the Kingdom of Heaven?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy ask? A King commands.\u201d\n\n\u201cI have left your husband busy at court, so he can not surprise us.\nPerhaps, too, the end has come for him. Here is the death sentence.\u201d\n\n\u201cWith the seal of the Minister?\u201d\n\n\u201cOf course.\u201d\n\n\u201cA shabby trick in my father,\u201d thought Rogus.\n\n\u201cBring it up to me in an hour,\u201d whispered Florilla. \u201cWithin the hour I\nwill put all my serving women to sleep.\u201d\n\nAn hour was a long time for a King who was in love to wait. The evening\nwas hot. An odor of heat arose from the earth. There was no breeze\nand the Nile was smooth as a mirror. A conceited bee swam boldly upon\na rose leaf, without fear of shipwreck. The King looked long at the\nenticing water, until a desire arose in him. And what a King desires--\nHe seated himself beside some shrubbery near Rogus and took off the\nyellow shoes with the golden spurs. He laid aside his purple cloak and\nthe gold colored vest with the diamond buttons. He took the silver\nwhistle from his neck, and then took off all his costly royal clothes,\nand placed them upon the soft grass. The mighty ruler looked about.\nNo one was to be seen. Who indeed would dare to intrude upon this\nforbidden shore of the sacred Nile!\n\nThe mirroring water alone was shameless enough to look at him and\nreflect him. Morus jumped into the water which kissed flatteringly\nhis heated body. He enjoyed himself greatly. The trees covered with\ntrailing vines built a fragrant sheltering wall and he walked upon\nshining pebbles which tickled his feet.\n\nWhen he had bathed long enough and the hour of the love tryst drew\nnear, he came out of the water and hastened to the place where he had\nleft his clothes. But evidently he had mistaken the piece of shrubbery\nand hastened to the next one. He went back. There was no trace of the\nroyal garments. He walked--his teeth chattering--from bush to bush. He\nran up and down the shore, looking behind all the bushes.\n\n\u201cWhere are my clothes? Who has stolen them? It could not have been a\nman. Do you hear, Earth? If you have swallowed them, I will tear up all\nthe trees and grass in my realm.\u201d\n\nHe threw himself upon the ground and began to sob. Then he jumped up\nand began to revile the moon.\n\n\u201cShine better, you miserable old night-light! If you don\u2019t I\u2019ll smash\nyour temple.\u201d\n\nBut the moon did not seem to hear. The moon acted like a timid girl and\nhid behind a veil of cloud. It began to rain. The dirt and water from\nthe trees disfigured his face. In despair he determined to return to\nthe palace and procure fresh clothes. The great disgrace of being seen\nby the watchmen was unavoidable, but he knew how to get even. He would\nhave their heads chopped off. He would make it impossible for them to\nlaugh about it.\n\nHe hastened to the secret gate. The gate was locked. Then he remembered\nhe had left the key in it. There was nothing to do but to walk along\nthe shore to the south gate, and from there through many streets to\nthe palace. What ridiculous songs they would write about him--his\nsubjects, when they saw him like this. But fortunately no one saw him.\nThe streets through which he went were empty. There was only a beggar\nsleeping by the door of a temple. The King awoke him. \u201cGive me that\nsack that covers you,\u201d he commanded. The frightened beggar struck at\nhim with his cane.\n\n\u201cGet out! If you don\u2019t I\u2019ll knock you down.\u201d\n\nThe King saw that he was the weaker and hurried on. A pack of hungry\ndogs began to follow him howling. The watchman was sleeping at the gate\nwhen someone slapped him on the back.\n\n\u201cOh! Oh! Who are you? What do you want?\u201d\n\n\u201cLet me in--and give me your cloak.\u201d\n\nThe watchman thought it was a joke. He made up a face and then laughed.\n\n\u201cIs that all you want? I\u2019m sorry the imbecile asylum is so far away.\u201d\n\n\u201cI command you to obey,\u201d repeated the King in wrath.\n\n\u201cGet out!\u201d pointing his spear at the ridiculous figure, with tousled\nhair and bleeding feet.\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t you know me?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo.\u201d\n\n\u201cI am the King.\u201d\n\n\u201cOr a fool. Get out! You are lucky that I am not too sleepy to give you\na good beating in the name of the King.\u201d\n\nKing Morus then began to speak gently. He recalled that this was the\nway to get on with underlings.\n\n\u201cListen--my noble Hero! To-night I bathed in the Nile. Some one stole\nmy clothes. I swear to you that I am King Morus.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou fool,\u201d declared the soldier.\n\nCrawling along the wall, weak and dejected, he made his way to the\npalace of his adored one. He decided to knock and ask for clothes.\nHe also made up his mind to reduce the entire city to ashes--just as\nsoon--_just as soon_--as he procured clothes.\n\nClothes? Is this all there is to a King? Then he saw the beggar. The\nold good-for-nothing was up and awake and waiting for the wine shops to\nbe opened.\n\n\u201cGive me that covering of yours,\u201d said the King. The beggar threw him a\nlook of scorn.\n\n\u201cYou don\u2019t feel quite so high and mighty, do you? Where did you pawn\nyour clothes? It\u2019s a shame the way the wine merchants carry on. If I\nwere the King I\u2019d hang them all.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s just what I\u2019ll do,\u201d whispered Morus--\u201cif you\u2019ll only give me\nyour covering.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou\u2019d like to trick me, would you, you rascal?\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019m the king.\u201d\n\nThe beggar looked amazed.\n\n\u201cHaven\u2019t you seen my face on the gold pieces?\u201d\n\n\u201cI? I never had any gold pieces!\u201d giving the king his covering.\n\nNow he could go boldly to the castle of Rogus. Despite the early hour,\nthere was a crowd waiting at the gate. They were whispering. The King\nrecognized his servile courtiers. They avoided him. They did not want\nhis dirty covering to touch their fine clothes. The King struck the\ndoor with his fist.\n\n\u201cOpen! I command in the name of the King!\u201d\n\nThe watchman by the door laughed. \u201cPoor fool!\u201d Morus began to implore.\n\u201cDon\u2019t you recognize me? My well beloved subjects, look at me! I am\nyour ruler.\u201d\n\nLaughter was his answer.\n\n\u201cKabul, you to whom last week I gave a fortune, why are you silent? And\nyou--Niles--whom I lifted from poverty, can you deny me?\u201d\n\nNeither Kabul nor Niles knew the King.\n\n\u201cUngrateful men!\u201d he raged. \u201cWhere is the mistress? Where is Florilla?\nShe will recognize me.\u201d\n\nAt this moment the herald of the King came out. Upon his lifted spear\nhe bore a head--the head of Florilla.\n\nShe could recognize him no more. She was silent forever. The golden\nhair fluttered about the beautiful head, and covered part of the long\nspear. The people shouted with joy. The King sorrowfully demanded who\nhad done this. No one answered, but he soon found out. The herald read\na proclamation, then nailed it to the door, so that all could see that\nit had the seal of the Minister. King Morus pressed his hands to his\ntemples and murmured: \u201cPerhaps I am not king Morus.\u201d\n\nThe crowd increased. Knights and ladies came to see the beautiful head,\nwhich from now on could cause neither envy nor love. The beggar came,\ntoo. The only one who spoke to the King was the beggar who gave him the\ncovering.\n\n\u201cGet out of here! The great lords will beat you and take away the\ncovering I gave you.\u201d The beggar took him by the hand and led him away.\nHe felt limp and weak and had no will of his own.\n\nOn the great square his eyes again brightened. He saw Narciz. The\nMinister was hurrying to the royal presence, a package under his arm.\nHe ran after him. He fell upon his neck.\n\n\u201cNarciz! Narciz! You dear old man! Lucky for me to find you!\u201d\n\nThe Minister, in anger, freed himself.\n\n\u201cWhat sort of shameless creature are you?\u201d\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t you recognize me? I am the King.\u201d\n\n\u201cOf course not!\u201d replied the Minister, laughing. \u201cYou resemble him a\nlittle, if you were not so hoarse.\u201d He tapped him gently on the back\nwith the gold headed cane which the King had given him on his fiftieth\nbirthday.\n\nIn the merriest mood the Minister entered the royal dwelling. Servants\nran ahead to open doors for him, until he came to the room of the royal\npresence--where the King--Rogus--awaited him.\n\nRogus told the story to him; how he had overheard the conversation\nbetween Florilla and the King, how he had put on the King\u2019s clothes,\nand written Florilla\u2019s name upon the empty death sentence. What\nhappened after this chroniclers relate, to be sure, but I am not going\nto repeat it to you, because I do not believe the ending of the affair\nmyself.\n\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[5] I published this story some fifteen years ago in a magazine devoted\nto translations. It was, I believe, the first appearance by Miksz\u00e1th in\nEnglish.--E. W. Underwood.\n\n\n\n\n                      WHEN THE BRIGHT NIGHTS WERE\n\n                           By PETRI ROSEGGER\n\n\n\n\n                               ROSEGGER\n\n\nPetri Kettenfeier Rosegger (born in 1843 Alpel, Steiermark) is a\npopular and prolific writer of Austria. His father and mother were both\ncharcoal burners in the great forest which he has pictured so often,\nand his youthful surroundings were most meager. His mother was a woman\nof talent; she was one of nature\u2019s poets and from her came his mental\nability. At seventeen he was apprenticed to a tailor, and in the few\nyears that followed, he worked in sixty-seven different families.\n\nIn this way he learned the life of the peasants of his country and at\nthe same time sketched the idea of _Waldheimat_ (Forest Home), his\nfirst important work--which has now become a classic--and from which\nthis story is taken.\n\nLater Dr. Svoboda, editor of a paper in Graz, heard of him, and with\nthe aid and co\u00f6peration of friends, helped him to an education. His\ndescriptions of the wooded country where he was born, and of peasant\nlife in the Alps, are among the finest in the language.\n\n\n\n\n                      WHEN THE BRIGHT NIGHTS WERE\n\n\nThe summer had been hot. The moss in the forest was faded and dry,\nand between the sparse blades of grass one could see the grey ground.\nBeside the piles of dried pine needles on the floor of the forest, lay\ndead ants and beetles. The stones in the bed of the river were dry and\nwhite as ivory. Fish and frogs were dying in the little round pools\nthat were occasionally visible between the stones.\n\nThe air was heavy, and the mountains--even the near ones--were blue.\nWhen the sun arose it was as red as the autumn leaf of a beech tree,\nthen, later, pallid and dull, so that one could look straight at it. It\ncrawled lifelessly across the grey desert of the sky; the people began\nto hope for rain, but a little breeze sprang up, and when morning came,\nthe clouds had disappeared and even the dew was not to be seen.\n\nDown in the village they appointed a day of prayer for rain. From all\nthe forest the people came in crowds. Only old Markus and I remained\nat home in the empty house, and the old servant said to me; \u201cIf fine\nweather comes, it will rain--so of what use is the day of prayer? If\nthe Lord God made us and put us here, he hasn\u2019t the foolish head to\nforget us. And if he hasn\u2019t any head at all but just made the world\nwith his hands and feet, then he hasn\u2019t any ears, has he? So what\u2019s\nthe use of all this howling in the village! Don\u2019t you agree with me\nyourself, Boy?\u201d\n\nWhat all do not people say! Old Markus breaks his head thinking over\nthings he knows nothing about, is what they say.\n\nJust then a shepherd from the Riegelberg jumped into the door. He was\nso excited he could hardly speak. He pointed through the window with\nboth forefingers, toward the crest of the Filnbaum Forest. The old\nservant followed the direction and clasped his hands in fear. There,\nbehind the summit, whirled upward a circling column of red smoke, which\nspread out and blackened the sky.\n\n\u201cThat may be very serious,\u201d declared Markus. He seized an axe and\nhurried away. The smoke rose thicker and thicker, and spread out faster\nand faster. I began to cry. Old Markus paid no attention to me; he had\nother work to do.\n\nOn the sunny slopes of the Filnbaum Forest it had begun, where there\nwas a space overgrown with withered briars and bushes. Near the growth\nof dry larch trees the fire began, no one knows how. First it skipped\nalong lightly from twig to twig, then upward from great bough to bough,\nwith wide fluttering wings. Soon the conflagration unchained its\nwild powers, and set floating its red, victorious banners. Here the\nforest becomes thicker and loftier; long braids of moss swing from the\nbranches, and the great trees which were wounded by a hail storm some\nyears ago, are bare and resinous to the summit. With what relish the\nfiery tongues lick these great trunks, and then flare up into space!\nAnd down upon the ground a brood of little red serpents begin to crawl\nin all directions, and to develop a hideous life. The few wood choppers\nrun around and around in confusion, and come and cry for help. But the\ngreat forest and all its huts are empty.\n\nThe people have gone to the village to pray for rain. When, hours\nlater, they start to return, the great forest is in flames. There is a\nfeverish trembling in the air, a cracking and rattling; twigs break,\ntrunks crash down and send up a multitude of sparks, and waves of\nsmoke. Fresh breaths of burning air float over the woodland; the flames\ngive birth to a storm-wind which they ride.\n\nMen worked and worked; some, half burned, had to be carried out.\nThe servant, Markus, saw the heart-breaking result, but he did not\ncomplain nor was he discouraged, he worked quietly and persistently.\nHis clothing began to catch fire. He ran down to the river bed and\nrolled in the sand until it clung to and covered his rough clothing.\nNow he owned a coat of mail. He hewed off branches; he cut down trees,\nbut that did not help. The glowing river rolled on; dead trees, bare\nbranches waited eagerly for the devouring flame, and burned at the\nfirst breath.\n\nNow the workmen tried to get ahead of the fire by cutting down great\nspaces of trees, and thus by making a clearing, set a limit to its\npower. Then the conflagration divided itself and spread out resplendent\narms in other directions. When evening came the wind rose; it tore into\nshreds the gorgeous and triumphant flame-banners, and scattered the\nfragments\u2019 over the forest land. There was a monotonous and uncanny\nmoaning in the heavens, and a marvelous, unnatural light flung far and\nwide over all the darkly wooded country.\n\nExhausted and helpless, the workmen rested; the women carried their\nbelongings out of their cottages without knowing what to do with them.\n\nIn the deep valleys there was peace and quiet. There one heard only the\nwhispering of the tall pine trees. But the night sky was rose-colored,\nand occasionally a fire-dragon sped overhead. Sometimes twittering\nbirds came, and homeless animals. The deer came up to the dwellings of\nmen.\n\n\u201cOur fate will be that of the deer,\u201d complained the old women. \u201cThere\nis no hope of saving the forest now. It will all be burned! Oh! Holy\nSavior--this is the Last Judgment.\u201d\n\nFor days the conflagration lasted.\n\nFrom our house--high among the woodlands--we could look down upon the\ntrees of the Filnbaum Forest, and watch the flames climb up. The land\nwas covered with a sad veil, and smoke choked us. Above, in the sky,\nhung a huge, tragic, red wheel which the smoke whirled about but could\nnot destroy. That was the sun. We watched the flames draw nearer and\nnearer to us. They swept over the heights, down into the valleys, and\nat length climbed the hillside toward our house. We needed no burning\npine cones in the evenings, we had light enough, because ten minutes\nwalk from our door the beautiful forest was flaming. Long ago we had\ndriven the cattle to the Alm Meadow and carried the furniture out into\nthe field. People came running by who were half mad. Old Martin kept\nhis senses better than the rest, although his hut was burned, he picked\ncranberries at midnight by the light of the flames. My father went upon\nthe roof of our cottage, carrying a pole on the end of which was a rag\nwhich was wet. With this he put out the falling sparks. On the fifth\nnight, when we were sleeping in a corner of our empty rooms, we were\nawakened by a great roaring. Old Markus, who was keeping watch upon the\nroof, called to us. \u201c_That\u2019s good! That\u2019s good!_\u201d\n\nA storm had arisen and now it was raging over the burning woodland,\nwith a power that was splendid and terrifying. It roared and thundered\nlike a cataract turned loose among the trees. The fire was turned away\nfrom our direction, and that was what caused the words of old Markus.\nThe flames were in wild flight. They leaped over entire stretches of\nforest and set fire to fresh woodlands far away.\n\n\u201cIt is over! We are saved!\u201d exclaimed the helpless people in surprise.\nSome, indeed, when the smoke cleared away and they saw the bald\nmountain sides, regained their normal mind and said: \u201cSurely there is\ngoing to be a great festival for the mountains have shaved themselves.\u201d\n\nWhen the storm was over, the rain came. For days the rain fell and the\nheavy clouds hung low. At last the fire was extinguished. Over the\nforest spread a frosty fog, for fall had come.\n\nThe burning of the forests was so huge a thing that it could be painted\nonly by a powerful imagination. Such an imagination is not mine,\ntherefore there was nothing left for me to do but to sketch it roughly\nwith the worn pencil of memory.\n\nAfter the cold mists of autumn came the snow. That winter from our\nwindows we saw more white spaces than black. When spring came, then\nwe realized what the great fire had done. Every where black ground,\nrust hued stones, roots that looked like coals, and tall, black trunks\ntowering over all.\n\nWorkmen came. They plowed the blackened soil. They sowed grain. The\nearly fall brought splendor. No one in all our forest land had ever\nseen such a magnificent harvest as covered the mountain sides. I recall\nwhat the village pastor said: \u201cThe Lord God strikes wounds, but he\nsends the balsam that heals. Praised be His name!\u201d\n\nFrom the Filnbaum Forest to our very door were fields, and for thirty\nyears the burned woodland gave our people bread. Since then our people\nare scattered; they have moved away, and a fresh, new, forest is\nbeginning to grow upon the mountain sides.\n\n\n\n\n                           THE POINT OF VIEW\n\n                       By ALEXANDER L. KIELLAND\n\n\n\n\n                               KIELLAND\n\n\nAlexander L. Kielland is the Norwegian writer of whom it has been said\nthat he has given to his northern tongue the flexibility and the grace\nof the French tongue. He is _par excellence_ a writer of the short\nstory and is renowned for the skill of his technique.\n\nOne volume of his stories has been published in America. The story we\ngive--_The Point of View_, is new, however, to American readers.\n\n\n\n\n                           THE POINT OF VIEW\n\n\nIn front of the garden gate of the villa of Lawyer Abel a small,\nelegant trap drew up, to which two handsome, well groomed horses were\nattached.\n\nUpon the harness was neither silver nor any shining metal; it was dull\nblack, and even the buckles were covered with leather. The shining\nwood of the trap showed just a trace of dark green in its color. The\nupholstery was a dark and modest grey, and only when one examined it\nclosely, did one discover that it was made of heavy silk. The coachman\nwas as correct as an English coachman; all in black, the coat tightly\nbuttoned, showing a space of white at the neck.\n\nMrs. Warden, who sat alone in the trap, bent forward and placed her\nhand upon the ivory handle. Slowly she got out, her long gown trailing\nbehind her, and carefully closed the door of the trap.\n\nMrs. Warden walked through the little garden, and entered. She looked\nthrough the open door into the adjoining room, and saw the lady of the\nhouse standing beside a table littered with bright colored cloth, and\nwith several copies of \u201cThe Bazaar.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh--you have come just in time--dear Emilie!\u201d declared Mrs. Abel. \u201cI\nam in despair about my seamstress. She can not design anything new, so\nhere I sit turning the leaves of \u201cThe Bazaar.\u201d Take off your wraps and\nhelp me. I am trying to design a street dress.\u201d\n\n\u201cI am not capable of helping you when it is a question of dress,\u201d\nreplied Mrs. Warden.\n\nMrs. Abel stared at her in astonishment. There was something unusual\nin the tone of voice, and she had great respect for the opinion of her\nwealthy friend.\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t you remember that I told you that just a little while ago Mr.\nWarden insisted upon my buying a new silk gown?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes--yes--of Madame Labiche. Of course I remember,\u201d interrupted Mrs.\nAbel. \u201cAnd now I suppose you are on the way to purchase it. Take me\nwith you! That will be pleasant.\u201d\n\n\u201cI am not going to see Madame Labiche,\u201d replied Mrs. Warden with solemn\ndignity.\n\n\u201cFor goodness sake, why not?\u201d questioned her friend, opening her pretty\nbrown eyes with astonishment.\n\n\u201cWell--I will tell you,\u201d replied Mrs. Warden. \u201cI am convinced that we\ncan not spend so much money and keep a good conscience--when we know\nhow much poverty there is in this city in which we live. There are\nhundreds of families who are suffering--the direst need!\u201d\n\n\u201cYes--but--,\u201d objected Mrs. Abel, casting a deprecating glance toward\nthe table. \u201cIt is so everywhere. There can not help but be inequality--\u201d\n\n\u201cWe must be careful not to increase the inequality. We must do\neverything in our power to lessen it,\u201d insisted Mrs. Warden. Mrs. Abel\nfelt that her friend gave a glance of disapproval at the table covered\nwith cloth, where the copies of \u201cThe Bazaar\u201d lay.\n\n\u201cIt is only alpaca,\u201d she ventured timidly.\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t think, dear Caroline, that I reproach you. Things of this kind\ndepend wholly upon the individual. Every one must act as he thinks he\nis answerable to his own conscience.\u201d\n\nThe conversation continued in this manner, and Mrs. Warden explained\nthat she was now on her way to visit one of the poorest quarters of the\ncity, in order to see conditions with her own eyes, and to convince\nherself of the way in which the poor really live.\n\nA few days before, she had read the yearly statement of a private\ninstitution for the poor, of whose board of managers her husband\nwas a member. She had purposely avoided asking the police, or the\nSuperintendent of the Poor, for statements, because it was her\nintention to see for herself, and to form her own opinion. The good-by\nof the friends was a little cooler than usual. Both were in serious\nmood. Mrs. Abel remained in the garden room. She did not feel inclined\nto proceed further with the design for the street dress, although the\nmaterial was unusually attractive. She heard the sound of the wagon\nwheels upon the level roadway of the residence quarter as it rolled\naway.\n\n\u201cWhat a good heart Emilie has!\u201d she sighed.\n\nNothing was further from this young woman\u2019s disposition than envy and\nill will, and yet it was with a feeling akin to this that to-day she\nwatched the trap drive away. Whether it was the good heart or the\nelegant trap it would be hard to say.\n\nThe coachman had taken his orders without a change of expression.\nHe drove farther and farther along the strange streets of the poor\nquarter, just as if he were going to a court ball.\n\nAt last he received command to stop, and it was high time. The streets\nbecame narrower and narrower, it was almost as if the well fed horses\nand the elegant trap would be caught like a stopper in the neck of a\nbottle.\n\nThe correct coachman gave no sign of anxiety although the situation was\nreally becoming acute. An impudent voice called from a garret window\nand advised him to kill the horses because they would never get out\nalive.\n\nMrs. Warden climbed down and turned into a still narrower street. She\nhad made up her mind to see the worst. In a door stood a half grown\ngirl. \u201cDo poor people live in this house?\u201d\n\nThe girl laughed and answered something then darted ahead of her\nthrough the door. Mrs. Warden did not catch the words, but she had the\nfeeling that she said something insulting.\n\nShe entered the first room she came to. The air was so thick it made\nher dizzy, and she was glad to find a place to sit down by the stove.\nIn the gesture with which the woman swept the clothing from the seat\nto the floor, and in the smile with which she greeted the elegant\nlady, there was something that offended her. She received likewise the\nimpression that the woman had seen better days, although her manner\nwas rather bold than gentle, and the smile certainly was not pleasant.\nThe long train of the pale, grey street dress floated out over the\ndirty floor, and when she seated herself she could not help remembering\na witticism of Heine\u2019s: \u201cYou look like a bon-bon that has been lying in\nthe sun.\u201d\n\nThe conversation began and progressed as is the custom with such\nconversations. If each of these women had kept to the usual tone of her\nconversation, neither would have understood a word of what the other\nsaid.\n\nBut since the poor know the rich so much better than the rich know the\npoor, they hit upon a form of speech, which experience had taught, and\nwhich is so far successful that the rich are at once put in mood to\ngive. Better than this they can not know each other.\n\nThis speech the poor woman understood to perfection, and soon Mrs.\nWarden began to comprehend their miserable life. She had two children,\none a boy of four or five who lay on the floor, and a baby.\n\nMrs. Warden looked attentively at the little colorless creatures and\ncould not believe that the baby was thirteen months old. She had a baby\nat home of seven months who was twice as large.\n\n\u201cYou ought to feed the baby something strengthening,\u201d she said. Then\nshe said something that floated through her head about prepared foods.\nAt the words \u201c_something strengthening_,\u201d an unkempt head rose from the\nstraw bed. It was the pale, hollow-eyed face of a man, with a cloth\ntied tightly about his forehead.\n\nMrs. Warden was afraid. \u201cYour husband?\u201d she inquired.\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d was the reply. \u201cHe did not go back to work to-day because he had\nthe toothache.\u201d\n\nMrs. Warden had had toothache. She knew how painful it was. She at once\nsaid something sympathetic. The man murmured something and fell back\nupon the straw. At this moment Mrs. Warden discovered another person\nwhom she had not seen before--a young girl, who sat in the opposite\ncorner by the stove. She stared at the elegant lady a moment, and then\nturned her back upon her. Mrs. Warden thought the young girl had some\nsort of work in her lap which she wished to conceal. Perhaps it was an\nold dress which she was trying to mend.\n\n\u201cWhy does the boy lie there on the floor?\u201d she inquired.\n\n\u201cHe is lame,\u201d answered the mother. Now followed a pitiful tale and a\ndescription of what had happened after the scarlet fever.\n\n\u201cYou should buy him a wheeled chair,\u201d Mrs. Warden was on the point of\nremarking, when it occurred to her it would be better for her to buy\nit. It is not wise to give poor people money, she remembered. But she\nwould give the poor woman something, of course. She felt in her pocket\nfor her purse. It was not there. She must have left it in the trap.\nJust as she was about to explain to the poor woman what had happened, a\nwell dressed man opened the door and entered. His face was round and of\na peculiar dry pallor.\n\n\u201cMrs. Warden, I believe,\u201d said the stranger. \u201cI saw your trap up here\nin the street, and I suppose this is your pocket book which I am\nbringing you.\u201d\n\nIt belonged to her. Upon the smooth ivory was E.W. engraved in black.\n\n\u201cJust as I turned the corner, I saw it in the hands of a girl--one of\nthe worst in the quarter. I am Superintendent of the Poor for this\ndistrict.\u201d\n\nMrs. Warden thanked him. When she turned toward the occupants of the\nroom again, she was terrified at the change that had taken place. The\nman was sitting up in bed and staring at the stranger. The woman\u2019s face\nwore a hateful expression, and the lame child on the floor, propped up\nupon its arms, bristled like a wild animal. In all the eyes lay the\nsame hate, the same warlike defiance.\n\n\u201cWhat a sight you are to-day, Martin!\u201d declared the stranger. \u201cI\nthought to myself that you were one of them last night. I was right you\nsee. They\u2019ll come after you this afternoon. You\u2019ll get at least two\nmonths in prison.\u201d\n\nThen the deluge descended upon them. The man and woman shrieked at\neach other. The girl came from behind the stove and joined them. No\none could distinguish words they were so busy with hands and eyes. It\nseemed as if the little stuffy room must explode with the pressure of\nunchained passions.\n\nMrs. Warden turned pale and arose. The stranger opened the door and\nthey went out. In the corridor she heard the frightful laughter of the\nwoman. And the woman who laughed like that was the same woman who had\nspoken so gently and pitifully of the sick children. Almost unwillingly\nshe followed the man who had brought about this amazing change. At\nfirst she listened to him with a proud indifferent air. Gradually,\nhowever, her attitude changed, there was so much truth in his words. He\nwas glad to meet a woman like Mrs. Warden who had heart for the poor\nwho suffered. Although--usually--the best intentioned help fell in the\nwrong place. Good heartedness was something praiseworthy anyway.\n\n\u201cBut does not this family need help? I received the impression that the\nwoman had seen better days. Perhaps she could be helped out of this\nlife.\u201d\n\n\u201cI am sorry to tell you, Madam, that she has been a very bad--public\ncharacter.\u201d\n\nMrs. Warden trembled.\n\nShe had spoken with a woman like that!--_about children_.\n\n\u201cAnd the young girl?\u201d she asked timidly.\n\n\u201cDid you not look at her Madam, and observe her condition?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo--you mean--?\u201d\n\nThe Superintendent of the Poor murmured a few words. Mrs. Warden\nshuddered \u201c--and that man? _The man of the house!_\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, Madam. I am sorry to tell you this,\u201d and he whispered again.\n\nThis was too much for the elegant lady. She became faint and dizzy.\nThey were walking toward her trap, which was somewhat farther on than\nthe place where she had left it.\n\nThe correct coachman had played a trick upon the street urchins. After\nhe had sat for a time as straight and impassive as a taper of wax, he\nguided the fat horses, step by step, to a wider place in the street\nwhich could not have been noticed by any one except the trained eye of\nthe correct coachman. A crowd of ragged gamins surrounded him and tried\nto frighten the fat horses, but the spirit of the correct coachman had\nbecome their spirit.\n\nAfter he had sat there calmly for a while, he saw a little irregular\nspace, made by two opposing stair-ways. Slowly he guided the horses\nhere and made a turn, so sharp, so crisp, that it seemed as if the\nfrail trap must be crushed between the masonry, but so accurately, that\nscarcely an inch intervened on either side. Now he was sitting again\nas straight as a taper of wax. But he was treasuring in his mind the\nnumber of the policeman, who had seen him make the turn, so he could\nhave some one to refer to when he told the incident at home in the\nstable.\n\nThe Superintendent helped Mrs. Warden into the trap. She begged him to\ncall the next day.\n\n\u201cLawyer Abel,\u201d she called to the coachman, and the carriage rolled on.\nThe farther she went from the poor quarter, the smoother and swifter\nthe carriage moved. When they entered the residence section, the fat\nhorses lifted their heads gladly to breathe the good air, that came\nacross the gardens. And the correct coachman, without any visible\nreason cracked his whip three times.\n\nHow could one expect that such degenerate people could ever rise\nto any height of intelligence! What condition must exist in their\nmiserable conscience--how could they be expected to withstand the\ntemptations of life! She herself knew what temptation was. Did she not\nhave to fight against one all the time--against wealth! She shuddered\nto think what these beasts of men, and these wretched women would\ndo, if wealth were suddenly given to them. Wealth was no slight test\nof character. Just day before yesterday her husband had led her into\ntemptation. He insisted upon hiring an English groom. And she had\nresisted the temptation and replied:\n\n\u201cNo--it is not right. I will have no groom upon the box. Perhaps we\nare rich enough, but we must guard against pride. I can get out and in\nwithout help, thank God.\u201d\n\nMrs. Abel, who was clearing the table of the cloth and the copies of\n\u201cThe Bazaar,\u201d was glad to see her.\n\n\u201cYou are back so soon, Emilie? I have just told the seamstress to go.\nWhat you said to me took away all desire for the new dress,\u201d declared\nkind, little Mrs. Abel.\n\n\u201cEvery one must follow his own conscience,\u201d answered Mrs. Warden gently.\n\nMrs. Abel looked up. She had not expected this answer.\n\n\u201cLet me tell you what I have experienced,\u201d continued Mrs. Warden. She\nrepeated what the Superintendent of the Poor had told her. When she\nhad finished describing the condition of the young girl, Mrs. Abel\nbecame so ill, the maid had to bring her a glass of port wine. When\nthe costly, cut crystal decanter and glasses were brought in, Mrs. Abel\nwhispered to her.\n\n\u201cWhat--all in one bed? You can\u2019t mean it!\u201d exclaimed Mrs. Abel clasping\nher hands tragically.\n\n\u201cI would not have believed it an hour ago,\u201d replied Mrs. Warden.\n\n\u201cHow lucky you were to get safely out of the place, Emilie!\u201d\n\n\u201cYes--and when we consider,\u201d continued Mrs. Warden, \u201cthat not even\nthe heathen--who have nothing--not even an excuse to keep them from\nwrong--nor any conscience--\u201d\n\n\u201cThis surely speaks loudly for all who listen to the teachings of the\nchurch,\u201d interrupted Mrs. Abel sympathetically.\n\n\u201cYes--God knows that--who does it,\u201d replied Mrs. Warden, looking\nstraight ahead, a smile upon her lips. The two friends separated after\nembracing each other warmly.\n\nMrs. Warden took hold of the ivory handle and stepped into the trap,\nthe long, grey, train floating behind her. She closed the trap door\ncarefully, without making any noise.\n\n\u201cTo Madame Labiche!\u201d she directed. She looked toward Mrs. Abel and\nsaid: \u201cNow, Heaven be praised, I can order that silk dress with a clear\nconscience.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, indeed, you can!\u201d was the answer.\n\nThen she hastened into the house.\n\n\n\n\n                        MY TRAVELING COMPANION\n\n                         By PIETARI P\u00c4IV\u00c4RINTA\n\n\n\n\n                              P\u00c4IV\u00c4RINTA\n\n\nP\u00e4iv\u00e4rinta--who belongs to the new school of Finnish writers--although\nhe was born much earlier--is the prose poet of the peasant and one of\nhis strongest equipments for this aesthetic role which he was to play\nso well, is the greatness of his heart--a sort of tragic pity--which\nis found in everything he writes. He sees with his heart and nothing\nescapes this seeing. Sometimes it lifts him to just such dramatic\nheights as the \u201cHomeric laughter\u201d of G\u00f3gol, which, by the way, too, was\nfull of tears. It is an x-ray vision that lays bare the soul. He lived\nthe life of a peasant, so he knows at first hand the things of which he\nwrites. He left the plowshare after he was forty to picture the humble\ncompanions among whom he had spent his days. Like Burns, he did manual\nlabor with one hand while he held a book in the other. The date of his\nbirth--1827--seems long ago for him to be of that new school of story\ntellers of Finnland, among whom are Frosterus, Pakkala, Raijonen, Aho.\nHis parents were poor, day laborers. He was brought up to work, and\nto the observance of stern discipline. There were a number of other\nchildren. Pietari was the eldest. The parents fell ill, and he was\nobliged to go out begging as a child in order to procure bread enough\nfor the others. When he was scarcely out of his teens he married a poor\npeasant girl and bought himself a little piece of forest land. Unable\nto make a living by farming he traveled from parish to parish and sang;\nhe had a voice of great beauty and power which won him his first fame.\nAt length he settled down as clerk of a parish. Later he represented\nhis peasant community in the Finnish Parliament. His first book was\n_Episodes of the Great War_, and it was published with success the year\nhe wrote it. This was followed by others among which was an account of\nhis own life. The subjects were always the same, pictures of peasant\nlife. P\u00e4iv\u00e4rinta is a Joseph Israel of the pen.\n\n\n\n\n                        MY TRAVELING COMPANION\n\n\nIt was the last of March. The weather was fair and here and there one\ncould see signs of approaching Spring. Birds were beginning to twitter\nin the branches. Sleighing, if not completely broken up, was bad; the\nroads were rough and muddy, and in several places the bare ground\nshowed through. Brooks and rivers were filled with floating snow and\nice and dirt, and only the sharp freezing at night kept them from\noverflowing their banks. In favored places many a little brook had\nburst through to freedom and was joyfully leaping down the declivities,\nand rushing noisily away to the breast of its mother--the ancient sea.\n\nSuch was the season and condition of traveling, when business forced me\nto take a journey outside my own parish.\n\nEarly that morning I came across a man, who like myself was forced to\ntravel on business. He had one emaciated old horse and a heavy sleigh;\nindeed he went on foot and pushed the sleigh. When I overtook him I\njumped out and trudged along beside him.\n\n\u201cGood morning, old man,\u201d I began, as I reached his side.\n\n\u201cGood morning,\u201d was the reply, without looking in my direction.\n\nI had now opportunity to observe my companion at close range. His\nhorse was really little more than a skeleton, and the load was two\nbarrels of tar. In the sleigh I saw reeds and swamp-grass, evidently\nthe horse\u2019s food, and very likely for the same purpose was a sack\nfilled with straw, which was placed on top of the tar barrels and stuck\nout over the front. In addition, in the sleigh, there was a small\nbirch-bark basket which probably held food for the man. He wore an old\nand ragged coat, which was held tight at the hips by a worn leather\nstrap. The coat had no buttons, and it was not provided with any means\nof fastening at the top. The strap about his hips had no effect upon\nholding the old coat together at the neck, so the man\u2019s chest was bare.\n\nHis shoes were likewise old and they had been mended time and again.\nNow they were torn and wisps of straw which he had used to try to stuff\nthe holes, stuck through. On his hands he wore tattered, often mended\nmittens, and on his head an ancient sheep skin cap.\n\nAs I said, the old man was trudging along behind the sleigh. He did not\nseem to have planned upon riding, because the two barrels of tar and\nthe food for the old mare filled it completely.\n\nWhen he came to a place in the road where the snow was gone, the old\nman pushed the sleigh with all his strength, in attempt to help the\nfeeble horse. Holes in the road, and furrows cut by sleighs, were\nfilled with water, and this ice water went in through the holes in the\nold man\u2019s shoes.\n\n\u201cWhere are you going?\u201d I inquired, in order to begin a conversation,\nafter making the above observations.\n\n\u201cTo the city!\u201d was the curt and melancholy reply.\n\n\u201cYou have chosen a bad time for your journey, because now sleighing is\nuncertain.\u201d\n\nHe answered: \u201cTrue; the road is bad but I couldn\u2019t wait for a better\none.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat could force you to make the journey now when it is so difficult\nto get along?\u201d\n\n\u201cThreat of execution for debt. That doesn\u2019t wait for weather,\u201d said\nthe old man sadly, looking up at me for the first time, with shy,\ngrief-shadowed eyes.\n\nThis was my first glimpse of his face. It was wrinkled, and eaten out\nby misfortune, and made old before years had done so. Both his body and\nhis manner indicated fewer years than his face.\n\n\u201cWho is such a cruel creditor as to drive you to the city in weather\nlike this?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe parson!\u201d said the old man sharply.\n\n\u201cThe parson? You owe him so much then?\u201d I inquired in astonishment.\n\n\u201cOnly last year\u2019s interest.\u201d\n\n\u201cOnly last year\u2019s interest? Haven\u2019t you been to him and asked him to\nwait?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes--several times.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, what does he say?\u201d\n\n\u201cHe was very angry and exclaimed: You\u2019re stealing from me--you\nvagabond. He didn\u2019t have any pity when I begged him with tears in my\neyes.\u201d\n\n\u201cI must say that you have a hard hearted parson. It wouldn\u2019t hurt him\nto wait a little--anyway until the roads are dry,\u201d I explained in ill\ntemper, without knowing why I was so agitated.\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s just what I think--that he could wait. But I\u2019m so ignorant I\ndon\u2019t suppose I know anything about such things--of course the pastor\nknows better than I do. He has great responsibility for all our souls,\nand I suppose that\u2019s why he has to look after his interest. He\u2019s a good\npreacher--though--does everything just right. Of course, I don\u2019t like\nto blame the pastor--but I wouldn\u2019t steal however much good it would\ndo me. Some say the pastor is _tight_ and thinks only of his share.\nBut how could he carry such great responsibility--looking after our\nsouls--if he didn\u2019t get all that was coming to him?\u201d observed the old\nman innocently.\n\nThis simplicity threw light upon the old man\u2019s nature. Surely he\nhad been tried severely by the hardships of life--far more than the\npastor--about whose material welfare he was so concerned. All his life\nhe had struggled with want, with suffering--with the bitter climate\nof our Finnland. And still he felt it his duty to give to others what\nwas coming to them, no matter whether or not he had anything to live\nupon. The only thing that grieved him was his inability to meet his\nobligations punctually.\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t think it was right for the pastor to call me a thief. I\nwouldn\u2019t steal--but still I can\u2019t pay,\u201d continued the old man.\n\nThis utterance came from a heart that was honest--if worn out in the\nstruggle.\n\n\u201cIf I can haul these two barrels of tar to the city I can pay\nthe pastor--and then there\u2019ll be no danger of the execution,\u201d he\nwent on. He seemed to become more confidential. I was interested\nto know something more about the life of the old man, and observed\nindifferently:\n\n\u201cThat mare of yours is pretty thin. How can you expect her to haul\nthose two barrels of tar to the city?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, true it is. The mare is lean. But how could the poor creature be\nfat, when fed upon swamp-grass and water?\u201d confessed the old man.\n\n\u201cBut the creature ought to be provided for first,\u201d I suggested.\n\n\u201cSo anyone would say, who observed from a distance and did not know.\nBut when the cold has killed everything, you\u2019d take what little you\ncould get and put into the pot, to keep the family from starving.\nThere\u2019s very little difference between what we get to eat and the old\nmare. I guess you\u2019d find the old mare fares just as well as we do,\u201d the\nold man explained, looking up in surprise at my way of judging.\n\n\u201cAt least you should have had these boots of yours mended. Your feet\nare wet.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnyone would say so--who didn\u2019t know. But if you had six hungry, naked\nchildren, and a wife, you wouldn\u2019t have time to think about mending\nshoes. Besides, these shoes have been mended and mended--and now they\ncan\u2019t be mended any more. Of course I\u2019d like to wear respectable\nclothes--but there\u2019s no way,\u201d--declared the old man with a peculiar\nintonation of melancholy.\n\n\u201cWhere\u2019s your home?\u201d\n\n\u201cJust outside a village on the edge of this parish.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat\u2019s your name?\u201d\n\n\u201cSv\u00e4ltbacka Matti--they call me, and I\u2019ve suffered hunger all my life\non my \u201chunger field.\u201d\u201d\n\n\u201cHow\u2019s that?\u201d\n\n\u201cWell it\u2019s true anyway. My hut is at the far end of a lonely village,\nbetween swamps on one side and marsh land on the other. I live there\nbecause it is not good enough for anyone else. My father built the\nplace, but now every year the cold starves us out.\u201d\n\n\u201cCan\u2019t you get away from such a place? You could earn a better living\nsomewhere else.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is not so easy to get away as you think. If we tried to get away no\none would buy the place, so how could we buy another? We\u2019ve got to stay\nthere. And it\u2019s better there than tramping--and begging. If I could\nonly get away from these payments!\u201d\n\n\u201cIs it last year\u2019s tar you are taking to the city?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo. How could I keep that so long? Everything goes from hand to mouth.\nThat was used up long ago. Hardly was it in the barrels before away it\nwent to the city.\u201d\n\nWhile we talked on we reached a farm, which at the same time was a\nrest-house, and the old man said he would stop and feed his horse. This\nwas my intention, too, I had traveled so far that my horse needed food\nand rest. The sleigh of the old man began to grate on the harsh, bare\nground in front of the farm, and the two of us then helped the old mare\nas best we could.\n\nWhen we had unharnessed the horses and given them fodder, we took\nour food bags and started toward the house. We, too, felt need of\nbreakfast. The old man picked up the little birch basket, took\nsomething from it and sat down upon a bench in the corner near the\nstove. I wanted to know what he had to eat and made believe that I had\nbusiness in the same corner. Poor and needy was his lunch. It was only\nblack bread and salt.\n\nI turned away and took up my food box. I tried to appear calm and\nindifferent, although my heart was moved by strange emotions. When,\noutwardly, I had regained composure, I said to him:\n\n\u201cCome over here and eat with me!\u201d The old man looked up in my face and\ndid not answer. He did not seem to comprehend. Perhaps he did not hear\nor perhaps he wished to hold out on what he had to eat.\n\n\u201cCome! Come over and eat with me,\u201d I asked again.\n\n\u201cWhy should you be so good to me?\u201d replied the old fellow, carefully\npacking away again his own food in the birch basket. He came across\nwith slow steps, giving a hasty, searching glance at my face, in order\nto convince himself that the offer was genuine.\n\n\u201cWe know each other so well now that we ought to be good to each\nother,\u201d I answered.\n\n\u201cSit down now and eat.\u201d\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nOur roads separated. The old man went on toward the city. And while I\njogged on again alone, I could not get the poor old fellow out of my\nmind. His lean mare, his scanty food, his ragged insufficient clothes,\nand his face which had grown old before its time, were constantly in\nmy mind. And I kept on hearing his words: \u201cAnyone would think so if he\ndidn\u2019t know!\u201d\n\nI travelled on one day, two days. Ahead now I saw a good sized, well\nbuilt village and a church. The village extended considerable distance\nand the fields that stretched between the buildings, were extensive,\ntoo. This was no new village, the work of pioneers. The farms were old\nand well developed. Upon this land many struggles for existence had\ntaken place, many a life had been sacrificed. Upon these unpromising\nfields even in ancient times the same struggle had been going on,\nfor generations and generations, in order that people of today might\nenjoy the result. They who lived here now were reaping reward from\nthe suffering, the tears, the want, the oppression of them who had\nstruggled and died. Perhaps none of these who had died had paid their\ninterest to the pastor.\n\nThe prosperous looking church stood upon a hill, on a thread of land,\nbordering a long, indented arm of the sea. Pine woods shadowed it on\nall sides. A little farther ahead, upon a piece of land projecting into\nthe water stood the elegant home of the pastor, in the midst of a park.\nMy business led me to call upon the pastor. He was a stately figure.\nAnd in his home there was every luxury that modern civilization can\nprovide.\n\nThe pastor was sitting in an expensive, richly upholstered chair. He\nwas tall, well built. No one could say that he had grown old before\nhis time. He was pastor of the parish to which Matti\u2019s \u201chunger-field\u201d\nbelonged, and it was because of him that Matti was trying to get to the\ncity with two barrels of tar.\n\nWhen I arrived the pastor was having a set-to with the clerk.\n\n\u201cYou act like an honest man according to your own reckoning, and you\nhave never once told me how many cows each person owns, and I know\nperfectly well that you have the number on most of the farms,\u201d declared\nthe pastor.\n\n\u201cWho? I?\u201d answered the clerk.\n\n\u201cOf course--you,\u201d was the reply, looking sharply at the clerk.\n\n\u201cHow could I know just how many cows each one has?\u201d objected the clerk.\nHe seemed to wish to escape a violent attack of temper on the part of\nthe pastor.\n\n\u201cYou know well enough; and I know you do. But you try to conceal it\nfrom me. The wretches are all stealing from me--and who shields them\nshares the sin. Do you know clerk, what the punishment for theft is?\u201d\nshrieked the pastor in a rage.\n\nRed, of indignation and wounded honor dyed his cheeks, and he replied\nto this accusation, which according to my opinion had gone too far.\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t think it my duty to run about the village, and count the cows,\nin order to report to the pastor. Neither do I think it my duty--to\nGod or man--to report cows that do not exist. To be sure, upon earth\nthere are two kinds of people; they who make their incomes as large as\npossible, and they who make it as small as possible. Who has visited\nthe homes of the poor--and had dealings with them--he knows the\nconditions. The pastor--according to my opinion, has said things he has\nno right to say.\u201d\n\nNow it was the pastor\u2019s turn to become red. Then he let all his anger\nloose upon the clerk.\n\n\u201cDo you know, clerk, whom you address?\u201d\n\n\u201cI know very well. I speak with my lord, the pastor, but not with a\ngracious lord.\u201d\n\nWith these words he went away. They did not take leave of each other. I\nnow had opportunity to introduce my own business. The pastor was in a\nbad temper. The just reproach of the clerk had done its work.\n\n\u201cThis ignorant clown is loud mouthed, and doesn\u2019t know better than to\nattack his superiors. He has always been obstinate and self-willed.\nMany a pastor has said to me: \u2018If I had him, I\u2019d send him going.\u2019\u201d\n\nI had no answer to make to this, because it seemed to me the pastor had\nbeen the cause of what happened. I politely brought my own business\nto his attention. The pastor thought he understood the peasants and\ntheir customs better than anyone else. He cherished the belief, and\ngave expression of it to everyone, that the peasants did not show\nany gratitude toward their benefactors. He did not happen to mention\njust who their benefactors were, but he let it be understood that he,\nhimself, was the most prominent among them. This speech of his sounded\nto me very like a preachment upon the subject of martyrdom.\n\nI concluded my business as speedily as possible and went my way.\n\nAs it happened I still kept thinking of Sv\u00e4ltbacka Matti and his two\nbarrels of tar. I couldn\u2019t get him out of my head. I compared his life\nand surroundings with that of the pastor. There was a great difference\nbetween them. But as human beings they were equal.\n\nBusiness kept me several days in the little village. When I traveled\non again, I went into a more remote part of the parish. Here the roads\nwere so poor and confusing that I was forced to hire a guide. He was\na young man and wholly untouched by the responsibilities and cares of\nthis world. We scarcely exchanged two words on the trip.\n\nAbout a mile and a half from the church, on the left at a little\ndistance there was a farm, where a lot of people were assembled.\n\n\u201cWhat sort of farm is that?\u201d I inquired of my guide.\n\n\u201cThat is Sv\u00e4ltbacka,\u201d replied the young man carelessly. I started.\n\n\u201cWhat are all those people doing there?\u201d I ventured, confused.\n\n\u201cO--that\u2019s an auction sale--an execution. It\u2019s because of a debt to the\npastor,\u201d he explained indifferently.\n\n\u201cIs the owner\u2019s name Matti?\u201d I asked.\n\n\u201cYes, that\u2019s it,\u201d replied the young man with increasing indifference.\n\n\u201cI met him on the way to your village. He was going to the city. We\nwent along together. How is this sale possible? I surely should have\nmet him again.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s easy enough to understand. Matti took another road. There\u2019s a\ndetour here.\u201d\n\n\u201cI suppose he is not back from the city, because he was going to the\ncity to sell two barrels of tar to pay the interest,\u201d I ventured.\n\n\u201cProbably so.\u201d\n\nHere the road turned toward Sv\u00e4ltbacka.[6]\n\n\u201cDrive up to the house,\u201d I ordered.\n\nThe guide obeyed.\n\nWhen we came near I saw that the auction was all over. There hadn\u2019t\nbeen much to sell. One or two lean cows was all! Besides the cows there\nwere a few half naked, hungry little children, and a worn looking\nwoman. But a creditor hasn\u2019t any use for creatures of this kind.\n\nThe cows were outside the yard, tied together with willow twigs. The\nnew owner held one end of the twigs. They were just in the act of being\ndriven away. The woman, white and trembling, stood in the midst of the\nhungry children. She did not weep. She had wept all she could long ago,\nas her eyes bore witness. I went up to her and said:\n\n\u201cDid your husband not get back from the city? Is that the cause of the\nauction?\u201d\n\n\u201cHow do you know that Matti went to the city?\u201d was the reply, looking\nat me searchingly.\n\n\u201cI went part of the way with him.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, he hasn\u2019t come back. And he said he was going to hasten all he\ncould. I\u2019m afraid something has happened. The road is bad. The old\nmare is so lean, too. But when Matti comes now it won\u2019t do any good.\nNow everything\u2019s gone. It\u2019s all over. Even if the cows were not good\nfor much, they gave a few drops for the children. They were sold for\nnothing, too. Who would pay for them when they were so lean? They\ndidn\u2019t bring enough to pay the pastor, let alone the costs of the\nauction.\u201d Thus spoke the woman.\n\nYes, yes, the misfortune had come. Things had gone their way, and no\none could say that a wrong had been done, for law is changeless and\npower is holy.\n\nI had seen enough. I sought out my guide in the crowd, betook myself\nto my conveyance and again we set out. Traveling across the untenanted\nland that had just been cleared strange thoughts came to me, and we did\nnot talk, my guide and I.\n\n\u201cWhat sort of man is the pastor? What do the villagers think of him?\u201d\nat length I inquired of my guide.\n\n\u201cOh, the pastor is a fine _preacher_. But he\u2019s so mean and niggardly\nthat he steals the very ashes from the hearths,\u201d replied the young man\nindifferently, beginning to hum a song.\n\nThat day I reached the end of the journey. Here I tarried several\ndays. Then again one Saturday I set out with my guide on the return.\nSunday morning I was in the village. I put my horse up at a farm, and\ndetermined to go to church, since the opportunity presented itself. The\nchurch bells rang solemnly. They were summoning the people to listen to\na message of love and peace.\n\nWhen I reached the church they were carrying a dead man upon a bier.\nThe pall bearers put their burden down, to wait for the pastor and the\nclerk. It looked as though the pastor was still quarreling with the\nclerk, and he said: \u201cI tell you the rascals are stealing from me.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhom are they burying?\u201d I asked of some one near.\n\n\u201cSv\u00e4ltbacka Matti. He died driving to the city.\u201d\n\nNow I understood. A shudder ran over me. My old traveling companion was\ndead. He had put forth too great an effort to make the journey. That\nwas the reason he could not return and prevent the auction.\n\nThe clerk read the psalm:\n\n\u201cGreat suffering and sorrow in the valley of tears,\u201d etc.--\n\nProbably Matti\u2019s pastor chose this psalm. His sharp eyes and instinct\nhad told him that it was appropriate.\n\nWhen we reached the grave and the pastor began to bless the last place\nof rest, he took the shovel, stuck it in the ground, lifted up earth\nthree times and threw it upon the coffin of the dead man. With great\npathos then he exclaimed: \u201cDust thou art, and to dust thou shalt\nreturn.\u201d When he had thrown the wet and frozen earth upon Matti\u2019s\ncoffin, it seemed to me I could hear a voice saying: \u201cHe\u2019s a fine\n_preacher_. I don\u2019t blame the pastor--I wouldn\u2019t steal--but I couldn\u2019t\npay.\u201d\n\nAmong the mourners I looked for Matti\u2019s wife. This woman who had been\ntried in sorrow was tragically white. With tearless, reddened eyes and\nhollow cheeks, she stood in the midst of the half naked children, who\nwere shivering and looked at one point--the coffin. I went up to speak\nto her.\n\nWhen the burial was over I asked some of the people about Matti.\nHe was taken ill with pneumonia before he reached the city. He was\nill-clothed, wet, underfed, and he could not struggle against it.\n\nNow the bell summoned to church service. With others I entered the\nbuilding. After the singing and the altar service, the pastor went to\nthe pulpit. He chose for text: \u201cLove thy neighbor as thyself.\u201d \u201cLove,\u201d\nhe said, \u201cwas the fulfilling of the law.\u201d With pathos and display of\ngenuine ability he explained to his hearers this high and noble command.\n\nDuring the most zealous part of his speech I heard again the words: \u201cHe\nis a good _preacher_.\u201d The lengthy sermon seemed not to be lacking in\neffect. Here and there women wept.\n\nAfter service he spoke of the dead man. \u201cGod in his mercy has taken\nfrom this vale of tears, the farmer Matti Antinporka of Sv\u00e4ltbacka,\naged forty-two years, three months and eight days.\n\n    What is wealth and what is gold?\n    Trash--that melt to dust and mold.\n    Care and sorrow here below\n    Both the rich and poor must know.\u201d\n\nThus the pastor bestowed the last earthly service upon Matti. And he\ndid not do it in the cheap manner of a hireling, but with oratorical\neloquence and fervor. When he read the hymn above, it seemed to his\nhearers that he scorned gold and riches, and that he really suffered\nfor the companions in suffering of poor Matti.\n\nBut while he was reading the hymn in a loud and impressive voice, I\nheard another voice saying:\n\n\u201cI\u2019m so stupid that of course I don\u2019t understand such things. The\nPastor--he knows more about it than I!\u201d\n\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[6] Sv\u00e4ltbacka means Hunger Field.\n\n\n\n\n                          Transcriber\u2019s Notes\n\nObvious punctuation and accentuation errors have been corrected.\n\nPage 24: \u201cthe gentle rythm\u201d changed to \u201cthe gentle rhythm\u201d\n\nPage 89: \u201ccolor of the pomegranite\u201d changed to \u201ccolor of the\npomegranate\u201d\n\nPage 100: \u201chumble servent\u201d changed to \u201chumble servant\u201d","title":"Famous stories from foreign countries","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":29394}