mm Mm «f iiii Hliiji lljijil Mill Ml I iJBlii Digitized by tJie-lnternet Arcinive in 2007 with funding from IVIicrosoft Corporation littp://www.arcliive.org/details/bookofsliortstoryOOjessricli THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY EDITED BY ■A- ALEXANDER JESSUP > EDITOR OF LITTLE FRENCH MASTERPIECES, ETC. AND HENRY SEIDEL CANBY ASSISTANT PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH IN THE SHEFFIELD SCIENTIFIC SCHOOL, YALE UNIVERSITY NEW YORK AND LONDON D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 1918 05f COPVRICHT, T903 Bv D. APPLETON AND COMPANY PRINTED AT ".HE APPLETOr fR^Sfi,' NEW YOJUC, V. S. A. - t * t ' t » . ACkNOWLEDGME. Rip Van Winkle is republished in this the permission of Messrs. G. P. Putnam's Soi thorised publishers of Washington Irving's co. works. ^Thanks are due the same pubHshers for per- mission to use their text of The Cask of Amontillado, from their edition of the works of Edgar Allan Poe. The Birthmark is used by special arrangement with, and the permission of, Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin & Co., the authorised publishers of the complete works of Nathaniel Hawthorne. The Taking of the Redoubt, La Grande Breteche, and A Coward, copyrighted, 1903, by Messrs. G. P. Putnam's Sons, and here used by spe- cial arrangement and permission, are taken from the Merimee, Balzac, and Maupassant volumes of their Lit- tle French Masterpieces series. Thanks are due Prof. Wilbur L. Cross, of the Shef- field Scientific School of Yale University, and Prof. Curtis Hidden Page, of Dartmouth College, for val- uable assistance in the latter portion of the work. Thanks are also due Prof. Albert S. Cook, of Yale Uni- versity, Mr. Nathan Haskell Dole, and Mr. Charles Harvey Genung, for helpful advice and assistance. The Introduction to this volume first appeared as a separate paper in the series of Yale Studies in English edited by Prof. Albert S. Cook, and is the work of Prof. Henry S. Canby. It is here published in a largely revised form. The Editors. V 42 08 77 CONTENTS Introduction The Shipwrecked Sailor. About 250.0 b. c. From an Egyptian Papyrus of the Xllth Dynasty The Book of Ruth. Abqut 450 b. c Bible. The Story of Cupid and Psyche. 2d century a. d. Apuleius. Frederick of the Alberighi and His Falcon.^ 1353 Boccaccio. ^ The Story of Ali Baba, and the Forty Robbers Destroyed by a Slave. 1548 .... Tfu Thousand and One Nights. The Liberal Lover. 1613 . . . ' Ce7i>anies. ^ The Apparition of Mrs. Veal. 1706 . Defoe. Jeannot and Colin. 1764? Vo^tui^: ' 1/ Rip Van Winkle. 1819 , Washington Irving. Wandering Willie's Tale. 1824 . Sir Walter Scott. The Taking of the Redoubt. 1829 Prosper Merimee. ' V PAGE I 31 43 55 79ir 91 129 193 213 229 255 281 viii CONTENTS PAGB La Grande BRExicHE. 1832 293 Honori de Balzac. j/ The Birthmark. 1843 321 Nathaniel Hatothorne. ^ The Cask of Amontillado. 1846 345 Edgar Allan Poe. j/ A Lear of the Steppes. 1870 . . . . . .359 Ivan Turgeneff. Markheim. 1885 , , . . 441 Robert Louis Stevenson. ^ A Coward. 1885 463 Guy de Maufassant, ^ Without Benefit of Clergy. 1890 481 Rudyard Kipling. / A List of Representative Tales and Short Stories 29. 41. 53. 77. 89, 127, 191. an, 227, 253, 279, 291, 319, 34.-*- 357, 439. 463, 479 Il^TRODUCTION THE SHORT STORY THE SHORT STORY AND THE TALE \ Tales, short narratives, usually of one event, have existed of course since man first felt the need of turn- ing actual or imagined happenings into words. Their development from the stories of the Egyptian papyri, or the fables of Pilpay, or whatever beginning one is pleased to take, has been that of narrative in general, and in each literary period before the nineteenth cen- tury the short story ^ differs from the long principally in the matter of length, although a didactic purpose, which will be found much more frequently in the briefer va- * The term short story seems to have taken to itself a meaning only partially indicated by the adjective short. For the sake of clearness in language, it is essential that the use of this expression as a symbol should first be made clear, and then justified. Such is the purpose of this dis- cussion, and the attempt will demand a plain statement of that which differentiates the Short Story from the novel and from the narrative which happens to be merely short. For this last I shall henceforth in this essay use the word tale, and 1 shall use short story for all short narratives which differ in form or in substance from the novel, romance, or other long stories, and keep Short Story for a nineteenth century development in which, for reasons to be explained in the following pages, this difference is sharper and more readily defined. For a more extensive discussion of the whole subject, with a distinction between short and long narra- tives in earlier periods which is somewhat different from the one sug- gested in this essay, consult The Short Story in English (Henry Holt & Co., 1909), by the author of this introduction. 3 4 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY . liefty; ' tciif 'tauSe some divergence in the selection and use of incident, and thus in the form of the story. But, as a rule, one takes an episode, the other ten, or conden- sation makes the difference between them. It is possible to select a few typical stories among the famous tales of past times. The Cupid and Psyche of The Golden Ass of Apuleius is perhaps the best example of the classic, and Ruth of the Biblical. For one type of the mediaeval, Frederick of the Alberighi and His Falcon, of The Decameron ; and for another. Amis and Amile are representative; and Cervantes's The Liberal Lover, of the seventeenth century, will stand for that period. Do these differ in genre from longer stories of their times, from Daphnis and Chloe, from Reynard the Fox, from the prose romances of chivalry, from Scu- dery's Grand Cyrus? Scarcely, for they are all simple narrative, designed first of all to tell a story. In one case the plot is more compact, or perhaps there is but one main episode; or there is condensation, and, seem- ingly, no other important distinction. And this is illustrated by The Book of Ruth, one of the best-told and most beautiful stories* m all literature. It is simple narrative, which, hke histo^, purports to select from the events supposed to have happened all those necessary to give a true account of the episode. In spite of the perfect unity of the story, this method might readily be continued, in such a way that our tale, without change, should become the first chapter in a longer narrative; and, supposing for an instant that the contemporary novel were in question, might take a dif- ferent and a wider view, and illustrate very probably the evil results of the hasty marriage of Boaz and Ruth. The plot of Cupid and Psyche is more extensive than that of Ruth, and covers a greater period of time ; but it, too, is a simple product of selection on the author's part from a certain amount of imagined incident. If he had cut out less, or added more episodes, the story would INTRODUCTION 5 have been a long one ; thus the actual tale is merely a condensatioa of a hypothetical narrative of greater length. Successful condensation, to be sure, requires an art of its own, a very nice choice of incident and a very efficient setting forth of character; but that is scarcely enough to supply a dividing line between the long story and the short tale. Nor is it easy to foist a definition upon the stories of intrigue, the novelle and the fabliaux of the Middle Ages, and to tell when they differ from an incident, let us say, in a picaresque novel. In Boccaccio's Frederick of the Alberighi and His Falcon the treatment is not alto- gether natural, and the conception of self-sacrifiGing devotion serves principally to make the plot go. The friendship of Amis and Amile is a like impelling force, and there are aozens of stories in The Decameron, and in the Gesta Romanorum and Hke collections which are skeletons merely^ But pad put with details, construct an extension at either end, and you have a novel of the Smollett type without change of form. Select certain *' dovetailable '' stories from The Decameron, clip off the first and mst paragraphs, normalise th^ principal characters, and one can obtain a structure with a notable resemblance to certain portions of Gil Bias, or Humphrey Clinker, minus the general reflections. A clever writer could smuggle half a dozen Italian novelle into Nash's Jack Wilton or Smollett's Roderick Random. What has been said of Ruth will apply to the eight- eenth century tale, although the short narratives which are to be found scattered through the pages of The Spec- tator, The Guardian, and other periodical publications of the age may be noted as partial exceptions. These sto- ries, as M r^ Walt er ^I or xis4iaj;]l: points out in his essay on Hawthorne and the Short Stbry, are a development of the p eriodical essay. They are intended to illustrate concretely what the essay might faillto explain as well by general exposition. Upon this assumption he proceeds 6 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY to derive the Short Story from the periodical essay, and with his conclusion I shall have to do later. But the point to be emphasised here is that while these stories are intended to make an explanation more telling, and there- fore have a purpose beyond that of simple narrative, they may be detached from their context, and this pur- pose excluded. They then become simple tales, although the selection of incident will here lead towards the expo- sition of the point to be made, just as in the intrigue stories it favours the development of the plot. So.it is with Voltaire's Jeannot and Colin, so with Christ's par- ables, or the moralised beast-tales, and with all fables, which, throughout the ages, have been told with a more or less didactic purpose. These eighteenth century stories are all more or less of the same type, but they constitute no new development in literature. To select 'a few at random, the Letter from Octavia Complaining of the Ingratitude of her Husband, which is No. 322 of The Spectator, is a good example, whose text is the in- advisability of marrying a man above you ; as that of the Letter from Sir John Envil, Married to a Woman of Quality, No. 299 in the same periodical, is the incon- venience of marrying a woman of greater rank than yourself. Both of these, apart from their explanatory introduction, are simple tales requiring no moral reflec- tion, just as Ruth does not require that one should say, at the end : " This shows that one should be humble in mind." These tales always tend to run beyond that which is necessary for the argument. The Story of Theodosius and Constantine, No. 164 of The Spectator, is such a narrative, and Dr. Langhorne expanded this into a collection of letters filling two volumes. Indeed, these tales may be easily fitted into, or abstracted from, the longer stories of the time. You cannot precisely cut up The Vicar of Wakefield into a certain number of Spec- tator stories, because The Vicar is a novel, and there are certain diflFerences in structure and treatment, but it is INTRODUCTION 7 possible to extract a number of tales therefrom, leaving a residue of piecing and filling. One such tale would be the trip to the fair, in which Moses bought a gross of green spectacles ; another, the intrigue between OHvia and Mr. Thornhill; the story of George Primrose's travels would be still another ; and, by selection and con- densation, enough narratives to furnish forth many Spectators could easily be provided, while the moral re- flections to precede them might be found in the same text, tjenerally speaking, then, there would seem to be no generic distinction in narrative before the nineteenth century other than narrative short and long, tales of many episodes and tales of one, with a partial exception for fables and such didactic tales ; and with this qualifica- tion, that in the novelle there is a compactness of plot, a certain husbandry of words and choice of incident which indicates a consciousness of the necessity of doing a great deal in a little space. It is partly this realisation, with a conception of the power of brevity, that has led to the mechanical development of the Short Story. If what has been said so far be taken to indicate that the ancient family of tales possesses no fundamental dis- tinction except length, and sometimes a certain point of view, to set apart its members from narrative in general, then, in order to discover any originality in the Short Story, it is necessary to find a real difference between Ruth, a Sir Roger de Coverley paper, or Ali Baba and the Forty Robbers, and Markheim, A Coward,»or The Real Thing. The difference is easily felt by the reader; but the question remains, is it merely mechanical and due to a more dramatic structure, or is it of deeper origin ? Early in the nineteenth century, Washington Irving began the publication of short tales possessing greater merit than any hitherto produced in America. These stories were modelled, presumably, upon some of The Spectator papers, and resemble them in form. They are tales still, in that their purpose is simply narrative, but 8 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY in careful workmanship and conscious art they more closely approximate to the modern Short Story form. Irving's attitude towards the children of his fancy could not have been far different from that of Boccaccio or of Chaucer. He says, in his introduction to the Tales of a Traveler : ** For my part, I consider a story merely as a frame upon which to stretch my materials. It is the play of thought, and sentiment, and language ; the weav- ing in of characters, Hghtly, yet expressively delineated ; the familiar and faithful exhibition of scenes in common life ; and the half-concealed vein of humour that is often playing through the whole — these are among what I aim at, and upon which I felicitate myself in proportion as I think I succeed." Let us take his story, The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, which is an excellent result of such a process, and com- pare it with Hawthorne's The White Old Maid, a Short Story in which the element I wish to bring forward is slightly exaggerated, and therefore well fitted for our pur- pose. The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, like Ruth, is a story of a simple episode ; although, in the complicated plot, the emphasis placed upon the denouement, and the vivid description, it betrays much more conscious art. But what is the impression of the reader? It can scarcely be called an impression, although there are distinct pic- tures arising from the vividness of the narrative; it is rather a memory of a series of events, and to produce such acecord is the aim of simple narrative. What ma- chinery there is in the story consists mainly of devices to emphasise certain portions, to create an atmosphere, and to catch and hold the interest in the characters. Contrast now with this The White Old Maid. Very briefly, the plot is as follows : Two young women sit in a mysterious room beside the dead body of a youth they have both loved. There has been mysterious wrong done to him now dead, and the guilty one — the dark girl by his bed- side — is to do penance through suffering in the world INTRODUCTION 9 before she may come back to that room to be forgiven. Years pass, the ancient house without inhabitant falls into gloomy disrepair; in the town a mysterious woman, robed in white, follows for a generation each funeral. One day she appears without her accustomed cause, knocks on the ancient doorway of the deserted house, and, to the confounding of the townsfolk, is admitted. A coach rolls up the street, upon its panels emblazoned the arms of a family whose last representative has just died abroad. An old woman descends, and also enters the mysterious house. After a while there is a shriek heard from within, and when the aged minister, with one of the townspeople bolder than the rest, has made his way in, and up to the strange chamber, there is the White Old Maid just at the point of death, and they are too late to learn her secret. This, too, is a story, in the sense that something hap- pens ; and yet the real story, by which I mean the nar- rative which would logically connect and develop these events, is just hinted at, and is not very important. It is subordinated, indeed, to a new aim. The White Old Maid is narrative for a purpose, and this purpose is to suggest an impression, and to leave us with a vivid sen- sation rather than a number of remembered facts. In short, it is contrived, not to leave a record of such and such an old woman who did this or that, but rather to stamp upon our minds the impression of a mystery- haunted house, mysterious figures entering, strange words, and a terrible sorrow behind all. Towards such a result the structure of the plot, every bit of description, every carefully chosen word, directly tends. There is no rambling, leisurely narrative like that of The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, nor digressions, nor a natural sequence of events such as might be expected in real life. The spell of the end is over every word and every choice of incident. It is this which, for want of a less-abused word, may be called impressionism, that is characteristic 2 10 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY to some extent of all typical Short Stories, and serves as the most fundamental distinction between them and the earher tales. Before going further, it is well to try to answer the question of source which naturally arises here ; and, without dipping far into a historical inquiry, it is pos- sible to hazard a hypothesis. It is evident that following the Hne of influence of The Spectator papers through Irving we discover and can account for a well-modelled, carefully written, thoroughly artistic tale, best exempli- fied, perhaps, by Rip Van Winkle. This would and does account for much in the form of Hawthorne's stories. It is as easy to turn to the romantic school of Germany for the new elements which are to be discerned in this story of The White Old Maid, and in much more of his work. In the mystical, rhapsodical writings of that school we cannot fail to be impressed by much that is characteristic of Hawthorne, and of Poe as well. Tieck is more hke Hawthorne than is any American writer; Hoffmann's characters, particularly Master Martin, powerfully sug- gest the half-real, symboHstic figures of Hawthorne's creation. In the introduction to The Serapion Brethren, Hoffmann formulates a method which was often Haw- thorne's, and is certainly that of many impressionistic, modern Short Stories. " At least," he says, " let each one of us [the Brethren who are to tell the tales] strive earnestly and truly to grasp the image that has arisen in his mind in all its features, its colours, its lights and its shades ; and then, when he feels himself really enkindled by them, let him proceed to embody them in an external description." Then the resemblance of Feathertop to The Scare- crow of Tieck has often been pointed out, and many another similarity. But none of this proves the direct debt of the Short Story to the Germans. Hawthorne learned to read German, with difficulty, in 1843 — ^^at is, after much of his best work had been published. There INTRODUCTION !1 were translations of a few of Tieck's tales, to be sure, by 1825 ; but the best were not chosen, and it is not to be assumed that Hawthorne ever saw them. As for The Scarecrow, it was published in 1835, but in the Berlin Novellenkranz, an " annual," and Hawthorne could not possibly have read it until after its inclusion in a story collection in 1842. But the suggestion for the story is included among the many in the American Note- Books, -and dated 1840. Schonbach, whose critical knowledge of the two Germans and of the American gives him an authoritative word, sums the matter up very definitely. " However," he says, ** that Tieck was Hawthorne's master and was imitated by him, as Poe believed, and as has since been persistently reiterated, seems to me, merely for these internal reasons, to be highly improbable." That is from his Contribution to the Characterisation of Nathaniel Hawthorne, in Eng- lische Studien, in which he reasons the matter from internal as well as from external evidence. To trace an influence is always difficult, and here the result seems particularly doubtful. The Germans of the' romantic school felt much as Hawthorne, and wrote somewhat like him, or he like them; that is about as far as it is safe to go. The truth of the matter appears to be that this indefinable and indefinite element of romanti- cism seems to have been in the air of this period, in Ger- many, in England, and in America, and Hawthorne per- haps derived his mysticism, his fondness for the unreal, his susceptibility to impressions, much as Wordsworth did his. In fact, in many of Wordsworth's poems impres- sionistic motives analogous to those which can be traced in most Short Stories are at the root of the writing. The Yew-Trees, I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud, perhaps To a Highland Girl, and many another, show such an origin ; and Keats and other poets of the period will im- mediately suggest themselves as companions, and to be classed with Wordsworth in this respect. Think for an 12 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY instant of the cause and effect of the Ode on a Grecian Urn. This phase of romanticism was in the air, then, and Hawthorne may have absorbed some of it with the Spenser, common food of all romanticists, which he read in his youth. No doubt, too, there was some leaking of German influence ; nor should Mrs. Radcliffe be forgotten. But the attempt to create an impression through nar- rative was not thoroughly successful in Germany. The tales of Tieck, and particularly of Hoffmann, are too often formless, rambling, without unity. They arise often enough from impressions, and are intended to con- vey them. Indeed, in the case of Hoffmann, we have sometimes the history of the actual impression to com- pare with the story which resulted. But these stories are not good Short Stories, because they do not confine themselves to one unified purpose ; many of them have motifs akin to that of The White Old Maid, but they lack the architectonics necessary to convey them. The best stories of these authors will be found thus deficient — such tales as those in The Serapion Brethren ; Tieck's ^ ^JTThe Goblet, or The Fair-Haired Eckbert. Fouque's \\^ Undine is structurally better designed to gain the end r of an impression ; but that is a comparatively long story, (^ and the impression the very broad one of the mystery of \ nature. ^ — But Hawthorne, saturated with the same spirit, sus- ceptible as they to the impressions which nature, char- , 'acter, strange incongruities, horrible fancies, made upon /' his imagination, had at his command the well-ordered instrument which Irving and his literary forefathers had e) been polishing for their needs ; and the use he made of >^ it is largely responsible for the Short Story. This does not assert that Hawthorne was among the first of the impressionists ; nor, indeed, that a Short Story writer is a so-called impressionist at all, since that word seems to possess a dangerous variety of meanings. Hawthorne's story, it seems, is intended to suggest a INTRODUCTION 1 3 picture to the mind of the reader, or to produce an im- pression upon it, which will resemble that vivid one which either actually or in imagination the writer re- ceived when the combination of the mysterious figure and the strange old house, full of gloomy suggestions, left its record upon his mind. Indeed, to convey this seems to be the main purpose of his writing; and, throughout, the story is constructed to produce such an effect. Poe had such an attempt in mind in his work ; he expresses it in his criticism of Hawthorne's stories, published in Graham's Magazine for May of 1842. *' If wise," he says of the writer o^ tales, ** he has not fash- ioned his thoughts to accommodate his incidents; but having conceived, with deliberate care, a certain unique or single effect to be wrought out, he then invents such incidents — he then combines such events as may best aid him in establishing the preconceived effect. If his very initial sentence tend not to the outbringing of this effect, then he has failed in his first step. In the whole compo- sition there should be no word written, of which the tendency, direct or indirect, is not to the one preestab- lished design." This " preconceived effect " may be regarded as the impression which the author wishes to convey. So the nucleus of Bret Harte's story. The Luck of Roaring Camp, may have been the glimpse of a lank, rough figure, with a tiny baby in its arms ; and, in spite of the excellent plot, a feeling akin to the pleasurable emotion which would follow upon such a scene in real life remains longest with the reader. According to this theory the process, if one should attempt to write a Short Story, might be something like this : I leave my room and meet a drunken beggar reeling from the gut- ter. As I turn to avoid him, he pulls himself together and quotes huskily a dozen lines of Virgil with a bow and a flourish, and stumbles off into the darkness. I make him into a story, and, be the plot what it may, the effect t4 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY upon the reader that I shall strive for will be a vivid im- pression of incongruity, not far different from that which I felt when the drunkard turned scholar and re- lapsed. Not all Short Stories can be analysed back to their basic element as easily as this one may be built up, but with many the process is easy and obvious. Nearly every conte of Maupassant is a perfect example ; his titles. Fear, Happiness, A Coward, would lead one to suspect as much. In the motifs and suggestions for stories, some utilised later, some not, which may be found in quantity scattered through Hawthorne's Amer- ican Note-Books, such an impression is often noted at the moment of its inception. Here, in the American Note-Books, ii, 176, is: " The print in blood of a naked foot to be traced through the streets of a town," which seems to inspire Dr. Grimshawe's Secret ; and again, N. B- i, 13 : " In an old house a mysterious knocking might be heard on the wall, where had formerly been a door- way now bricked up," which is applied in Peter Gold- thwaite's Treasure ; also : " A stranger, dying, is buried ; and after many years two strangers come in search of his grave and open it." But Hawthorne inclined more often to moral, philosophical reflections for his begin- nings, such as : " To make one's own reflection in a mir- ror the subject of a story," afterwards used in Monsieur du Miroir ; and then his stories often become symbolistic tales, or didactic narratives. An excellent tale, and yet not to be ranked as a typical Short Story, is The Great Stone Face. Another, The Birthmark, is not so ob- viously allegorical, yet certainly springs from a philo- sophical source. Kipling has written many stories whose motifs are impressions, such as The Ship that Found Herself, and The Mark of the Beast, to take two very different ones. Stories of horror, such as the narrative last mentioned and Poe's The Pit and the Pendulum, are usually of this nature. Indeed, nearly every collection of Short Stories INTRODUCTION IS may be drawn upon for examples. In Henry James's story, Flickerbridge, included in his volume, The Better Sort, the action of the story can be explained only by the deep impression which the quaint, delightful lady of Flickerbridge makes upon the hero, an impression it is the intent of the author to convey to the reader ; and so with many another. But the commonest variety is not so simple. Ste- venson's A Lodging for the Night, Kipling's Without Benefit of Clergy, Bret Harte's The Outcasts of Poker Flat, Maurice Hewlett's Madonna of the Peach-Tree, and perhaps a majority of the magazine stories of the day, preserve the old desire to tell a story well as an equal or the dominant motive, only modified by the at- tempt to convey that impression which was probably at the foundation of the narrative. I venture to say that an imagined contrast between the proud, God-honouring, simple-minded seigneur, and the poor devil of a Villon, clever and rascally, was the starting-point of A Lodging for the Night ; and perhaps a sight or a thought of such a group as that about the fire in The Outcasts of Poker Flat, the pure and the stained, the reprobate and the innocent, all under the spell of a common peril, was the germ of that great story. But in both instances the plot is highly developed, and by no means entirely aims at these single effects, although in each case they are prob- ably sought for as the sum of the story. This subdivision will naturally suggest what is known as the '' character-sketch," a form of the Short Story in which again there is another element besides that of pure impressionism. Take, for instance, Verga's Jeli the Shepherd, a story of a simple herdboy of good in- stincts fostered by close association with nature, a love Hke hero-worship, and a mind slow to admit new ideas. The story tells how he loves and marries Mara; and when the knowledge comes to him that she is false, he merely works on stupidly until one day the realisation l6 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY comes, he sees her with her lover, and a man's throat is cut. This story is psychological, it deals with charac- ter-exposition, but it approaches it through an impres- sion; the attempt is first of all to make the reader feel this simple herdboy's mental make-up and personality; and then, by added incident, fact, and explanation, appeal to the reason, that the impression may be explained and made convincing. Many of Miss Mary E. Wilkins's New England stories are similarly constructed. Worn old women, pale girls with colourless ideals — Maupas- sant would be content with making us feel such types — and often, as in Arethusa and most of her Under- studies, Miss Wilkins goes no further, for Arethusa seems to be the working out of that feeling which one gets from a chance sight of a shy girl with the wild in- stincts of maidenhood in her eyes; and another. The Monkey, the memory of a homesick monkey reaching his little arms restlessly through the bars of his. cage. But the commoner type of the Short Story of character deals with an impression reenforced by psychological work, or motive-seeking, or thought-exposition, de- signed to appeal to the reason of the reader, to confirm and make more complete, more reasonable, the impres- sions he has received from the story. Bjornson, Henry _ Ta mes, Turgeneff — there are dozens who have written — .^ such stories. Mr. W. M. Hart, in the essay which I have already mentioned, feels, evidently, that a purpose ulterior to that of mere narrative is the characteristic quality of a Short Story, but he takes this purpose to be explanatory, and a proof that an essay is in the family tree, say of the Plain Tales from the Hills. The transition from the tales with a purpose of The Spectator, which Irving imitated and Hawthorne studied, to the " impression " story of the latter author, is not difficult; but the step is a long one, and originality can scarcely be denied to the latter form. What appeal The Spectator tale makes, beyond INTRODUCTION I? that of its narrative, is to the intellect solely, while the first aim of the later stories of which I have been speak- ing is to make the reader feel that with which the writer was impressed. This point may be illustrated by a com- parison of Spectator paper No. 299, Letter from Sir John Envil, Married to a Woman of Quality, with Miss Sarah Orne Jewett's story, David Berry. The first deals with " those calamities and misfortunes which a weak man suffers from wrong measures and ill-concerted schemes-'of life ; " that is, the danger arising from marry- ing a wife above his rank ; the second with the downfall of a virtuous old shoemaker, brought about indirectly by his ambitious dame. I have quoted a line or so from the introduction to The Spectator paper, and it is evi- dent that this story begins with an abstraction, a theory, which is dressed in narrative to enforce the point. But it is just as clear that David Berry is first of all an idea, a memory, or an impression of the kindly old fellow, simple and honest and overgenerous, and that the moral side, the lesson that one may learn, is merely the almost inevitable result which follows the working out of a character which woulc make such an impression upon us. One story works from the abstract forward, the other from the concrete backward. And thus the line of development of the Short Story from the essay source, while in part traceable, is sufficiently tenuous. Although this impressionism, used strictly as defined, when combined with the other elements of a Short Story, seems to make for a new literary form, there is nevertheless much earlier writing with impressionistic tendencies. Sterne is full of it, and A Sentimental Jour- ney has a kind of impressionism as its most serious pur- pose. But A Sentimental Journey lacks all the other qualifications of a Short Story. It rambles ; it has no particular unity ; it observes none of the rigid require- ments which confine a Short Story to one incident, one main impression, and a unified, climactic development. I8 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY It would be possible to select an episode such as that of the glove-merchant's wife, or that of the fille de chambre, which would have a considerable unity, but the impres- sions he there chronicles are slight ones, so slight that a graceful style, wit, and chance hits can convey them, and the narrative amounts to nothing, or is there for its own sake. Many poets, too, have been praised for, or accused of, impressionism ; but, except in regard to sources, that is outside the inquiry, since it is with the Short Story as with the novel, its elements are to be found elsewhere; but it is their combination, and their development when so combined, which results in a form distinct from its antecedents. The particular terseness, vividness attained by choice of words, rapid description, and swift action character- istic of this modern story, are all naturally employed in the attempt to convey with sufficient force the impres- sion which the author has received. In the simple narra- tive of the early tales these devices are utilised to some extent. But it is this new, or newly-matured purpose, which has brought to a nicety that which may be called the machinery of the Short Story. To tell a tale well requires careful arrangement of events, a careful propor- tioning, careful adjustment of description and of narra- tion, of character and of action, and this may result in such an excellent story as Wandering Willie's Tale. But, by means of this well-told tale, to make a vivid im- pression of a mood, an incongruity, a pathetic situation, or a strange companionship, as in Kipling's The Brush- wood Boy, a still more careful art is necessary. Every word must count; and, for the sake of definite outline, everything not essential must be rigorously excluded. The result is a concise, narrative picture of something striking in events or in character, or in the union of the two. Suppose this process be applied to a tale which is to be told for the story simply, notably a tale with a re- INTRODUCTION t9 versal. Should this story be written with the terseness, the vivid action, the condensed description, the absohite unity and tot^ity of the Short Story form, the result will be a vivid impression of the plot, and particularly of the reversal, but not an impression in precisely the sense which I have used before. Many modern stories may be included here, of which the ubiquitous detective story, best exemplified perhaps in Poe's The Purloined Letter, is the most familiar. For the tales with a reversal, a sur- prise at the end, we must look to work of a lighter mood. Some of H. C. Bunner's Short Sixes, such a tale as T. B. Aldrich's Marjorie Daw, and many familiar narratives, will be remembered and so classified. It is very difficult now to find good Short Stories in which some trace of the impressionistic element cannot be discovered, but those belonging to the class of The Purloined Letter or Marjorie Daw may be said to be tales, in the sense de- fined, built along the lines developed for the Short Story ; and this highly-perfected, very dramatic structure is largely a result of the attempt to convey an impression by narrative. And, finally, it must be remembered that it is never advisable to plot too mathematically the boundaries of literary forms. Tlie artist works with only his own pur- pose in view, and the most we can hope to accomplish is to ascertain what he has done and how. He certainly does not sit down to write a tale or a Short Story accord- ing to the choice of the moment. But the story-writer of to-day does seem to have accomplished something which differs from that which the old tale-teller attempted to achieve. There are probably several ways of getting at this difference. Professor Edward Everett Hale, Jr., suggests that the handling of the tale is simple and the ^interest centred upon incident, while the handling of the Short Story is complex and the interest there fixed upon situation. This seems to be a very useful distinction, for nothing is more characteristic of the more original of I8 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY It would be possible to select an episode such as that of the glove-merchant's wife, or that of the fille de chambre, which would have a considerable unity, but the impres- sions he there chronicles are slight ones, so slight that a graceful style, wit, and chance hits can convey them, and the narrative amounts to nothing, or is there for its own sake. Many poets, too, have been praised for, or accused of, impressionism ; but, except in regard to sources, that is outside the inquiry, since it is with the Short Story as with the novel, its elements are to be found elsewhere; but it is their combination, and their development wtien so combined, which results in a form distinct from its antecedents. The particular terseness, vividness attained by choice of words, rapid description, and swift action character- istic of this modern story, are all naturally employed in the attempt to convey with sufficient force the impres- sion which the author has received. In the simple narra- tive of the early tales these devices are utilised to some extent. But it is this new, or newly-matured purpose, which has brought to a nicety that which may be called the machinery of the Short Story. To tell a tale well requires careful arrangement of events, a careful propor- tioning, careful adjustment of description and of narra- tion, of character and of action, and this may result in such an excellent story as Wandering Willie's Tale. But, by means of this well-told tale, to make a vivid im- pression of a mood, an incongruity, a pathetic situation, or a strange companionship, as in Kipling's The Brush- wood Boy, a still more careful art is necessary. Every word must count ; and, for the sake of definite outHne, everything not essential must be rigorously excluded. The result is a concise, narrative picture of something striking in events or in character, or in the union of the two. Suppose this process be applied to a tale which is to be told for the story simply, notably a tale with a re- INTRODUCTION 19 versal. Should this story be written with the tefseness, the vivid action, the condensed description, the absohite unity and tot^ity of the Short Story form, the result will be a vivid impression of the plot, and particularly of the reversal, but not an impression in precisely the sense which I have used before. Many modern stories may be included here, of which the ubiquitous detective story, best exemplified perhaps in Poe's The Purloined Letter, is the most familiar. For the tales with a reversal, a sur- prise at the end, we must look to work of a lighter mood. Some of H. C. Bunner's Short Sixes, such a tale as T. B. Aldrich's Marjorie Daw, and many familiar narratives, will be remembered and so classified. It is very difficult now to find good Short Stories in which some trace of the impressionistic element cannot be discovered, but those belonging to the class of The Purloined Letter or Marjorie Daw may be said to be tales, in the sense de- fined, built along the lines developed for the Short Story ; and this highly-perfected, very dramatic structure is largely a result of the attempt to convey an impression by narrative. And, finally, it must be remembered that it is never advisable to plot too mathematically the boundaries of literary forms. The artist works with only his own pur- pose in view, and the most we can hope to accomplish is to ascertain what he has done and how. He certainly does not sit down to write a tale or a Short Story accord- ing to the choice of the moment. But the story-writer of to-day does seem to have accomplished something which differs from that which the old tale-teller attempted to achieve. There are probably several ways of getting at this difference. Professor Edward Everett Hale, Jr., suggests that the handling of the tale is simple and the ^interest centred upon incident, while the handling of the Short Story is complex and the interest there fixed upon situation. This seems to be a very useful distinction, for nothing is more characteristic of the more original of 4 22 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY youthful deed and the aged penalty. Either by details, or, when that was not practicable, by suggestion, their transcription of life has been as full as they could make it. Their art is always to imitate the breadth and the fulness of living. At one extreme of this imitation is realism, and there the picture is somewhat photo- graphic ; at the other extreme is romance, where the reader's imagination is tickled into supplying much not plainly told by the author. In either case, the life de- picted in the books, Hke the life in the world, has many facets ; and, even though the multiplicity of actual experience may not be present, the suggestion of it, if the book is good, will not be lacking. Thus this novel is natural, in so far as any artistic transfer of the real world into the world of imagination can be natural. But here we must make a further qualification and feeparation. All modern novels do not attempt to convey the suggestion of the whole of life, facet by facet, even though, to a greater extent than the Short Story, they ape the multiplicity of actual experience. What of the so-called impressionistic school of which, in English at least, Henry James is the head? If you examine his Washington Square, you will find it to be a love-story of some length and of actual manners ; a novel, indeed, ac- cording to definition ; and yet every incident, every detail, every bit of description is focused upon the rela- tion between the dull and faithful Catherine and her lover, the brilliant but unsteady Maurice Townsend. The story covers the life of the girl to middle age, yet there is only one point of view, and, at the end, one im- pression. But this impression is not the result of the fusion of numerous observations, each drawn, as in real life, from some attitude, action, or remark upon charac- ter. This is the method of Romola and of The Egoist, but in Washington Square it is attained by the presenta- tion of certain incidents selected from the girl's life- INTRODUCTION ^3 story. To use a geological figure, Henry James follows a single vein throughout its course by means of an occa- sional outcrop. Among foreigners, Turgeneff has done notable work which must be regarded from this point of view. His Mumu is the story of the brute love of a gigantic serf, Gerasim, for first a woman and then a dog. The interest of the story centres entirely in this love, and in the character of which it is a result. His A Lear of the Steppes is focused even more narrowly upon the steps to'' a tragedy. The Diary of a Superfluous Man wonderfully presents a weak-willed, conceited lover, doing no work in the world and aware of it, but hunger- ing for the tribute of praise and affection which only one worthy of it can gain. This is a life-story from birth to death, but this unfortunate's character, or lack of it, can be thoroughly illustrated in the course of his short love- aflfair; and, consequently, the incidents selected are nearly all from that event itself, or preparatory to it, or in summary of what it has shown. Select certain pas- sages regarding Levin from Tolstoy's Anna Karenina, and you could construct a companion piece. These " impressionistic novels " and their class, to some extent an intermediate form between the novel of the Vanity Fair type and the Short Story, may perhaps be looked upon as expanded Short Stories, and belonging to their genre. Indeed, some of the stories of Turgeneff may be called by either name. Without the concentration of the Short Story and the resulting vividness, they are told with a like view, and a like selection of those facts which are at the base of all narration. But in the novel which attempts to give a natural picture of the various sides of life there is a point of view which differs from that of the Short Story. If the name had not already been appropriated, I should like to say the historical novel, because in this respect it fol- lows the methods of history. The " ubiquitous novel " it has been called, I believe, and this expresses the dis- 24 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY linction which resuhs in another structure and another treatment from that of the Short Story. The primal difference lies in the way the authors view their crude materials, the life about them. While the novel-writer, even one of the impressionistic type, aims at an eminently natural method of transcription, the author of the Short Story adopts a very artificial one. His endeavour is to give a striking narrative picture of one phase of the situation or the character, as the case may be. His aim is towards a strip lengthwise, disre- garding much that a cross-section might show. He deals with a series of incidents, closely related to one another but not at all to the by-play of life which, in reality, must accompany them. He treats of a mood always existing, but in the story supremely indicated; perhaps of an adventure or a catastrophe, which differs from the denouement of a novel in that the interest is concentrated : the cause is in the hero's character, ready- made for the occasion ; the results are in the circum- stances of the story. If all narration amounts, as critics say, merely to a simplification of experience, imagina- tive or real, then a Short Story is simplification to the highest degree. We are selecting far more than in a novel, and this because we are looking only for the chain of related incidents that go to make up one event. We are picking out the steps that make the tragedy, as in Maupassant's famous story. The Necklace, or in Kip- ling's Without Benefit of Clergy; we are looking only for what bears upon our narrow purpose, that the inter- est may be concentrated, and the conception vivified, beyond the power of a novel. The process is very artificial, but very powerful ; it is like turning a telescope upon one nebula in the heavens. Thus it is the stand- point of the author that makes the distinction between a short novel, always excepting the impressionistic vari- ety, and a long Short Story. In the one the writer digests life-histories, or portions of them ; in the other he looks INTRODUCTION 25 only for the episode, which, like the bubble on the stream, is part of, and yet distinguished from, the main current. Recognising the futility in certain cases, and the needlessness in others, of expressing the whole truth, he succeeds much better with the half. He foregoes com- pleteness and gains in force, and this by a change in the standpoint from which he views his world of fact and of fancy. Evidence that the Short Story and the novel are not products of the same artistic process has been sought in the frequent inability of writers of good Short Stories to construct equally good novels, and if this argument is not pushed too far it is a good one. Hawthorne, per- haps, certainly Maupassant and KipHng, men who made their literary reputations by their Short Stories, found, and in the case of Kipling and his Kim, still find, diffi- culty with the longer form of fiction. Bjornson had trouble in handling his novels. Flags are Flying in Town and Harbour, and In God's Way ; and much more testimony of the same character may be gathered. But there is much to be said against an absolute statement, for Tolstoy, Dickens, and many other great novelists have succeeded with the Short Story ; and the excellence of Stevenson's unfinished Weir of Hermiston is evident enough even in the fragment which he gave us. It is safe to say no more than that the writer of Short Stories finds it generally difficult, and sometimes impossible, to enlarge his conceptions and broaden and lengthen his action to the scope which the novel demands, with this statement in reverse equally true for the novelists. But this is just what might be expected if, as I have en- deavoured to show, it is true that the difference between the modes lies in the point of view. For if the writer, who, aside from his artistic faculty, is after all merely a transcriber, gifted with the power of observation and granted the right of selection from what he sees, should look always for the essential facts that make up his sin- 3 36 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY gle episode and produce his impression, he might see only Short Stories in the life about him, and find it as difficult to adjust his vision to a different perspective as the forester who looks only for single trees, their height and kind, and now would wish, with artist's eye, to com- prehend the curves and colours in the wide sweep of the mountain forest. To sum up briefly what has been said heretofore, it might be asserted that what is loosely called the modern Short Story seems to differ from the old tale by a very scientific adaptation of means to end, which end may be called vividness ; by a structure which, in its nice propor- tions and potentiality for adequate expression, is a more excellent instrument than anything the old tale can show; and by an interest in situation, as a rule, rather than in simple incident. Also through the source, which is an impression or impressions, usually of a situation; and the purpose, which is fitly to convey these impres- sions as well as to tell a story. Ruth will do very well as an example of the tale ; The Purloined Letter, as a tale done into Short Story form; and Markheim, A Coward, or Without Benefit of Clergy, for the typical Short Story. If it is necessary to say what characterises all of the shorter stories now being written, I should suggest that it is an attempt at greater vividness, and this attempt is made largely through those practices in composition which the endeavour to convey fitly an im- pression has brought into common use. In a comparison with the novel, we may take all these shorter stories, and say that the difference lies in the point of view — provided that the novel be of that class which aims at a natural transcription of all sides of life, as does Middlemarch or Vanity Fair. On the other hand, it may be said that the Short Story differs from the " impressionistic " novel in concentration only. That literary variety strikes deeper, goes further; but the Short Story is intended for surface-work ; it is formed to INTRODUCTION 27 catch and record the striking things, and to make them more striking. It is a precipitate of the important things from the general solution, and as such has a force distinctly its own and a form as distinctive; which, through the efforts of the great men who have laboured with it, has been developed to gain and to exercise its power. THE RISE OF THE SHORT STORY NeW developments in literature do not arise nor be- come popular without reason. There are causes, artistic and otherwise, for the present blossoming of the Short Story, causes which in themselves differ from those which have made the novel flourish. In a time of much writing tastes are quickly jaded, and the Short Story, because it is terse, striking, highly-coloured, and some- wdiat new, meets with quick applause. ' Its brevity is of advantage, for many people can be made to swallow good literature in a pill who reject it in larger doses. But the class of readers thus gained accounts less for the Hterary development of the tale than for the vast number of poor Short Stories now breeding manifold. Such a cHentele can increase the production, and will usually debase the quality, of any form of literary en- deavour, as the attitude of the prurient-minded Lon- doners of the Restoration increased and debased the output of the contemporary dramatists. Unintelligent appreciation is not likely to be responsible for a high de- velopment in art. That there has been an artistic advance, and a great one, in story-telling, needs for illus- tration only a comparison of a Blackwood's tale of the 30's and a Kipling story of the 90's. The old desire for something new and more pungent would account for the encouragement which this new development has received. And there is an undoubted need, in a generation whose Hfe is greatly varied by- widely diffused knowledge and extensive intercommuni- ( 28 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY cation, for the vivid expression of little things. This would add another impulse. But a literary structure which displays the greatest nicety of form to be found outside the domain of poetry indicates some cause more aesthetic than those so far mentioned. In simple truth, the Short Story has attained a wonderful perfection be- cause wonderful men have worked with it and through it. It has just come into its own. In the England of the 30's, publishers would not look upon anything less than a volume of fiction as a serious literary effort — and they preferred three volumes. It was only in the first half of the last century that Irving, Hawthorne, and Poe in America began the cult of the short narrative, and Merimee in France achieved his masterpieces of simple brevity. Coppee's search for the inevitable word, and Maupassant's refinement of the conte, came later still. The Short Story was adapted to the needs of the time and to the tastes of the people. Men of genius found through it a new voice, and the attempt to per- fect, to give laws and a form to the instrument, pro- gressed because of the men who tried. In pre-Irvingian times these authors employed the tale for the by- products of their minds ; since then it has served to express some of the great conceptions of their genius. It is this, with its new purpose as a Short Story, -which best accounts for the chastening of its form. '- Except in one instance, which is the vivid expression of single incidents or detached movements of life, the Short Story is not to be chosen before the novel ; but in its capacity for perfection of structure, for nice discrim- ination in means, and for a satisfying exposition of the full power of words, it is much superior to the novel, and can rank below only the poem. But the novel and the Short Story are distinct instruments, differently de- signed, for diverse needs ; and with such a point of view it is impossible not to grant to the latter a separate use and classification. A LIST OF REPRESENTATIVE TALES AND SHORT STORIES This list, while presenting, it is hoped, a fair show- ing of the most representative tales and Short Stories, is intended to be suggestive merely, and indicative of what may be found in the literatures that are drawn upon. Its greatest usefulness will be in connection with a library catalogue. For this reason, the titles of the va- rious works listed, with the exception of the Egyptian, Greek, Hebrew, Icelandic, Latin, and Russian, have been left in their original form. The arrangement is chrono- logical as far as the year is concerned; and while the classic literatures have been separated, the mediaeval and modern, because of their closer connection, and for sim- plicity, have been grouped together. Stories in verse have been listed after the mediaeval period only in the case of a few pressing instances, such as the Fables ( 1668- 94) of La Fontaine, and in every case have been marked by an asterisk (*). Both individual stories and story col- lections have been listed ; and the dates, as far as possible, are those of first publication, or of composition. The question of distinction between the conte and the nou- velle, the roman and the tale, etc., has been insufficiently treated, although for the mediaeval period Ten Brink and Gaston Paris have something to say of the matter ; and Ferdinand Brunetiere, in his Introduction to the Balzac volume of the Little French Masterpieces series, has at- tempted to differentiate the conte, the nouvelle, and the roman. For the present list a tale has been defined as a short narrative of one, or few, events, and of con- siderable simplicity of construction. In the mediaeval period, where the literary species are well marked, it has seemed advisable to exclude all romans d'aventure, 29 36 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY retaining only such prose tales as Aiicassin et Nicolette to serve as an example of the comparatively simple tale into which the complicated romance may easily fall. After the Renaissance it is more difficult to draw the line, and such comparatively long works as Aphra Behn's Oroonoko (1688) and Voltaire's Candide (1758) have been listed because they seem to belong here rather than under the novel. Other things being equal, the shorter narratives of an author have been listed, as nearer the ideal of the tale. The modern Short Story seems to be a special condition of the tale in which the story is told with a certain end in view (see introductory essay). With stories of this kind have been listed oth- ers, such as Rip Van Winkle, and Wandering Willie's Tale, excellent short stories, possessing unity of impres- sion, but not the conscious impressionistic purpose, and the resulting form, which distinguishes the narratives for which, in this volume, the term Short Story, both words capitalized, has been used. Egyptian Papyrus Stories (4000 b. c. to iooo b. c.) : Tales of the Magicians (Vth or Vlth Dynasties, from about 4000 to about 3000 B. c.) : Khafra's Tale. Baufra's Tale. Hordedef's Tale. The Peasant and the Workman (IXth Dynasty, about 3000 B. c). The Shipwrecked Sailor (Xllth Dynasty, about 2500 b. c). The Adventures of Sanehat (Xllth Dynasty, about 2100 b. c). The Doomed Prince (XVIIIth Dynasty, about 1450 b. c). Anpu and Bata (XlXth Dynasty, about 1350 b. c). Setna and the Magic Book (XlXth Dynasty, about 1300 B. c). THE SHIPWRECKED SAILOR THE SHIPWRECKED SAILOR One of the most complete documents existing on papyrus is the story of The Shipwrecked Sailor. The tale itself seems to date from a very early period, when imagination could still have full play in Upper Nubia. The rapyrus, which apparently is of the age of the Xllth Dynasty, is preserved at St, Petersburg, but is still unpublished. W. M. FHnders Petrie says, in his Egyptian Tales, of the stories preserved on papyrus : *' It will be no- ticed how the growth of the novel is shadowed out in the varied grounds and treatment of the tales. The ear- liest is purely a collection of marvels or fabulous inci- dents of the simplest kind. Then we advance to con- trasts between town and country, between Egypt and foreign lands. Then personal adventure, and the inter- est in schemes and successes, becomes the staple mate- rial; while only in the later periods does character come in as the groundwork. The same may be seen in Eng- lish Hterature — first the tales of wonders and strange lands, then the novel of adventure, and lastly the novel of character." Of The Shipwrecked Sailor itself it may be said that the construction is much more advanced than the earlier Tales of the Magicians, of the Vth or Vlth Dynasties. Says Mr. Petrie : " The family of serpents and the man- ner of the great serpent is well conceived, and there are many fine touches of literary quality: such as noise as of thunder, the trees shaking and the earth being moved at the appearance of the great serpent — the speeches of the serpent and his threat — the sailors who had seen heaven and earth — the contempt of the serpent for his offerings . . . and the scene of departure. All of 33 34 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY these points show a firm hand and practised taste, although there is still a style of simplicity cHnging to it which agrees well with its date in the Xllth Dynasty. . . . The colophon of the copyist at the end shows by the style of the name that it belongs to the earlier part of the Xllth Dynasty; and if so, the composition might be referred to the opening of foreign trade under Sankhkara or Amenemhat I." Or, roughly speaking, about the year 2500 b. c. The idea of an enchanted island, which has risen from the waves and will sink again, is seen to be one of the very oldest plots for a tale of marvels. In the story of The Shipwrecked Sailor is possibly the origin of The Story of Sindbad the Sailor, of The Thousand and One Nights. It will be remembered that Sindbad lands on an island of serpents in his Third Voyage. The present version is taken from Egyptian Tales, by W. M. Flinders Petrie. The few foot-notes added to the story, on some points which may need explanation, are the work of Francis L. Griffith. AUTHORITIES : ^ Egyptian Tales, by W. M. Flinders Petrie. Egyptian Archaeology, by Gaston Maspero. * The lists of "authorities" given in this volume make no at- tempt to be exhaustive, or to include "primary" authorities. Their purpose is to refer the reader to the most accessible and reliable means of further information in regard to the literatures, or the lives and writings of the authors, in question. — [Ed.] THE SHIPWRECKED SAILOR The wise servant said : "Let thy heart be satisfied, O my lord, for that we have come back to the country; after we have long been on board, and rowed much, the prow has at last touched land. All the people rejoice and embrace us one after another. Moreover, we have come back in good health, and not a man is lacking; although we have been to the ends of Wawat,^ and gone through the land of Senmut,' we have returned in peace, and our land — behold, we have come back to it. Hear me, my lord ; I have no other refuge. Wash thee and turn the water over thy fingers, then go and tell the tale to the Majesty." His lord replied : " Thy heart continues still its wander- ing words; but although the mouth of a man may save him, his words may also cover his face with confusion. Wilt thou do, then, as thy heart moves thee ? This that thou wilt say, tell quietly." The sailor then answered : " Now I shall tell that which has happened to me, to my very self. I was going to the mines of Pharaoh, and I went down on the Sea ^ on a ship of 150 cubits long and 40 cubits wide, with 150 sailors of the best of Egypt, who had seen heaven and earth, and whose hearts were stronger than lions. They had said that the wind would not be contrary, or that there would be none. But as we approached the land the wind arose, and threw up waves eight cubits high. As for me, I seized a piece of wood ; but those who were in the vessel perished, without one remaining. A wave threw me on an island, after that I had been three days alone, without a companion beside my own heart. I laid me in a thicket and the shadow covered me. * Lower Nubia. — [Ed.] ' District about the first cataract. — [Ed.] • A name often applied to the great river Nile. — [Ed.] 35 36 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY Then stretched I my limbs to try to find something for my mouth. I found there figs and grapes, all manner of good herbs, berries and grain, melons of all kinds, fishes and birds. Nothing was lacking. And I satisfied myself, and left on the ground that which was over, of what my arms had been filled withal. I dug a pit, I lighted a fire, and I made a burnt-offering unto the gods. " Suddenly I heard a noise as of thunder, which I thought to be that of a wave of the sea. The trees shook and the earth was moved. I uncovered my face, and I saw that a serpent drew near. He was thirty cubits long, and his beard greater than two cubits ; his body was as overlaid with gold, and his colour as that of true lazuH. He coiled himself before me. " Then he opened his mouth, while that I lay on my face before him, and he said to me : * What has brought thee, what has brought thee, little one, what has brought thee? If thou sayest not speedily what has brought thee to this isle, I will make thee know thyself; as a flame thou shalt vanish; if thou tellest me not something I have not heard, or which I knew not before thee.* " Then he took me in his mouth and carried me to his resting-place, and laid me down without any hurt. I was whole and sound, and nothing was gone from me. Then he opened his mouth against me, while that I lay on my face before him, and he said : * What has brought thee, what has brought thee, little one, what has brought thee to this isle which is in the sea, and of which the shores are in the midst of the waves ? ' " Then I replied to him, and holding my arms low before him,* I said to him : * I was embarked for the mines by the order of the Majesty, in a ship; 150 cubits was its length, and the width of it 40 cubits. It had 150 sailors of the best of Egypt, who had seen heaven and earth, and the hearts of whom were stronger than lions. They said that the wind would not be contrary, or that there would be none. Each of them exceeded his companion in the prudence of his heart and the strength of his arm, and I was not beneath any of them. A storm came upon us while we were on the * The usual Egyptian attitude of respect to a superior was to Stand bent slightly forward, holding the arms downward. — [Ed.] THE SHIPWRECKED SAILOR 37 sea. Hardly could we reach to the shore when the wind waxed yet greater, and the waves rose even eight cubits. As for me, I seized a piece of wood, while those who were in the boat perished without one being left with me for three days. Behold me now before thee, for I was brought to this isle by a wave of the sea.' " Then said he to me : * Fear not, fear not, little one, and make not thy face sad. If thou hast come to me, it is God ^ who has let thee live. For it is he who has brought thee to this isle of the blest, where nothing is lacking, and which is filled with all good things. See now, thou shalt pass one month after another, until thou shalt be four months in this isle. Then a ship shall come from thy land with sailors, and thou shalt leave with them and go to thy country, and thou shalt die in thy town. " * Converse is pleasing, and he who tastes of it passes over his misery. I will therefore tell thee of that which is in this isle. I am here with my brethren and my children around me; we are seventy-five serpents, children and kin- dred; without naming a young girl who was brought unto me by chance, and on whom the fire of heaven fell, and burnt her to ashes. " ' As for thee, if thou art strong, and if thy heart waits patiently, thou shalt press thy infants to thy bosom and em- brace thy wife. Thou shalt return to thy house which is full of all good things, thou shalt see thy land, where thou shalt dwell in the midst of thy kindred ! ' " Then I bowed, in my obeisance, and I touched the ground before him. ' Behold now that which I have told thee before. I shall tell of thy presence unto Pharaoh, I shall make him to know of thy greatness, and I will bring to thee of the sacred oils and perfumes, and of incense of the temples with which all gods are honoured. I shall tell, more- over, of that which I do now see (thanks to him), and there shall be rendered to thee praises before the fulness of all the land. I shall slay asses for thee in sacrifice, I shall pluck ' The polytheistic Egyptians frequently used the term Goc/ with- out specifying any particular deity : perhaps, too, in their own minds they did not define the idea, but applied it simply to some general notion of Divinity.— [Ed.] 38 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY for thee the birds, and I shall bring for thee ships full of all kinds of the treasures of Egypt, as is comely to do unto a god, a friend of men in a far country, of which men know not.' " Then he smiled at my speech, because of that which W&8 in his heart, for he said to me : * Thou art not rich in perfumes, for all that thou hast is but common incense. As for me, I am a prince of the land of Punt,* and I have per- fumes. Only the oil which thou saidst thou wouldst bring is not common in this isle. But, when thou shalt depart from this place, thou shalt never more see this isle; it shall be changed into waves.' " And behold, when the ship drew near, according to all that he had told me before, I got me up into an high tree, to strive to see those who were within it. Then I came and told to him this matter; but it was already known unto him before. Then he said to me : * Farewell, farewell, go to thy house, little one, see again thy children, and let thy name be good in thy town ; these are my wishes for thee ! ' " Then I bowed myself before him, and held my arms low before him, and he, he gave me gifts of precious perfumes, of cassia, of sweet woods, of kohl, of cypress, an abundance of incense, of ivory tusks, of baboons, of apes, and all kinds of precious things. I embarked all in the ship which was come, and bowing myself, I prayed God for him. " Then he said to me : * Behold, thou shalt come to thy country in two months, thou shalt press to thy bosom thy children, and thou shalt rest in thy tomb ! ' After this I went down to the shore unto the ship, and I called to the sailors who were there. Then on the shore I rendered adoration to the master of this isle and to those who dwelt therein. " When we shall come, in our return, to the house of Pharaoh, in the second month, according to all that the ser- pent has said, we shall approach unto the palace. And I shall go in before Pharaoh, I shall bring the gifts which I have brought from this isle into the country. Then he shall thank me before the fulness of all the land. Grant * Punt was the "land of spices" to the Egyptian, and thence, too, the finest incense was brought for the temple services. It in. eluded Somaliland in Africa, and the south of Arabia. — [Ed.] THE SHIPWRECKED SAILOR 39 then unto me a follower, and lead me to the courtiers of the King. Cast thine eye upon me after that I am come to land again, after that I have both seen and proved this. Hear my prayer, for it is good to listen to people. It was said unto me : * Become a wise man, and thou shalt come to honour,' and behold I have become such." This is finished from its beginning unto its end, even as it was found in a writing. It is written by the scribe of cunning fingers, Ameni-amen-aa ; may he live in life, wealth, and health ! • , ^ ^ A LIST OF REPRESENTATIVE TALES AND SHORT STpRIES II » Greek (looo b. c. to 500 a. d.) : Early Greek: ♦The Story of CEneus and Meleager, Homer, Iliad (about the 9th century b. c.)- * The Story of Ares and Aphrodite, Homer, Odyssey (about the 9th century b. c). * The Story of Polyphemus, Homer, Odyssey (about the 9th century b. c). * The Story of Pandora, Hesiod, Works and Days (about the 9th century b. c). * The Story of Prometheus, Hesiod, Theogony (about the 9th century b. c.)- The Story of Arion and the Dolphin, Herodotus, History (5th century b. c). The Story of Polycrates and the Ring, Herodotus, History (5th century b. c). The Story of Abradates and Panthea, Xenophon, Cyropsedia (4th century b. c). The Island of Atlantis, Plato, Critias (4th century b. c). The Man Er's Visit to the Place of Departed Souls, Plato, Republic (4th century b. c). The Creation of Man, Plato, Timseus (4th century b. c). Late Greek: Tales, Parthenius of Nicaea (ist century b. c). The Hunter of Euboea, Dion Chrysostomus (ist century A. D.). * The Fables of ^sop, Babrius (about the 3d century a. d.). Cnemon's Story, Heliodorus, -^thiopica (about the 4th cen- tury A. D.). 4 41 42 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY Hebrew (about 450 b. c. to the time of christ) : The Book of Ruth, Bible (about 450 b. c). The Book of Jonah, Bible (about 300 b. c). Story of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego; Bible, The Book of Daniel (about 200 b. c). The Book of Esther, Bible (about 2d century b. c). The Book of Tobit, Bible, Apocrypha (about 2d century B. c). The Book of Judith, Bible, Apocrypha (about 2d century B. c). The History of Susanna, Bible, Apocrypha (about ist century A. D.) Bel and the Dragon, Bible, Apocrypha (about ist century A. D.). THE BOOK OF RUTH THE BOOK OF RUTH The;^ Book of Ruth is a sequel to The Book of Judges, though in the Hebrew Canon it does not imme- diately follow it, as it does in English editions of the Bible, but forms part of the Hagiographa, or last divis- ion of the Canon. It serves to connect the period of the Judges with the monarchy, and supplies an important link in the ancestry of David. No certain date can be assigned for its authorship, but it was probably written long after the time of David. David reigned from about 1055 to 10 1 5 B. c. ; perhaps the nearest date assignable for the authorship of The Book of Ruth is about 450 b. c. But some authorities give it a still later date. In regard to the literary character of The Book of Ruth, Richard G. Moulton says, in his introduction to Ruth in The Modern Reader's Bible: " The Book of Ruth is the very ideal and type of the Idyl: so delicate in its transparent simplicity that the worst service one can do the story is to comment on it. Suffice it to say, that the warp and woof of the tale is a friendship between two women, and the grand climax up to which all is working is the birth of a baby. Instead of war, of national strife, of poHtical struggle, we have here great harvest festivals, ceremonial transfers of land, fam- ily contingencies such as hard times and emigration, marriage, and the strange process by which an extinct family might be restored to the genealogies of Israel: such little things as are great to the little man of every- day life. Even in the little there are gradations : in this book are found such minutiae as attentions shown to a shy 45 46 » THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY stranger girl at the harvest feast, petty contrivances for giving her unfair advantages in the gleaning field; de- tails still more minute — how Ruth pockets the scraps at the feast to bring home to her mother-in-law, who has been sitting solitary at home while she herself has had the excitement of the harvesting. Trifles like these, fit- ted into their natural frame the Idyl, have kept afloat over some thirty centuries of time; and this story has done more to enable us to live over again in remote Hebrew antiquity than all the heroic achievements of Joshua and Judges put together." Various objects have been suggested for The Book of Ruth : that it was written to give an account of David's ancestors; to enforce the obligation to marry a kinsman's widow ; as a counterblast to Ezra's crusade against foreign wives. " But," suggests W. H. Bennett, '' was any other motive necessary than the simple pleas- ure of telling a charming and edifying story? " The version of The Book of Ruth here presented is the authorised, or King James, translation. But the descriptive chapter-headings have been omitted, and the verses merged in paragraphs; the punctuation has been somewhat modernised. AUTHORITIES *. The Literary Study of the Bible, by Richard G. Moulton. A Primer of the Bible, by W. H. Bennett. An Introduction to the Literature of the Old Testa- ment, by Samuel R. Driver. THE BOOK OF RUTH Now it came to pass in the days when the judges ruled, that there was a famine in the land. And a certain man of Beth-lehem-Judah went to sojourn in the country of Moab, he, and his wife, and his two sons. And the name of the man was Elimelech, and the name of his wife Naomi, and the name of his two sons Mahlon and Chilion, Ephrathites of Beth-lehem-Judah. And they came into the country of Moab, and continued there. And Elimelech Naomi's hus- band died; and she was left, and her two sons. And they took them wives of the women of Moab; the name of the one was Orpah, and the name of the other Ruth : and they dwelled there about ten years. And Mahlon and Chilion died also both of them; and the woman was left of her two sons and her husband. Then she arose with her daughters-in-law, that she might return from the country of Moab: for she had heard in the country of Moab how that the Lord had visited his people in giving them bread. Wherefore she went forth out of the place where she was, and her two daughters-in-law with her ; and they went on the way to return unto the land of Judah. And Naomi said unto her two daughters-in-law: Go, return each to her mother's house ; the Lord deal kindly with you, as ye have dealt with the dead, and with me. The Lord grant you that ye may find rest, each of you in the house of her husband. Then she kissed them; and they lifted up their voice and wept. And they said unto her: Surely we will return with thee unto thy people. And Naomi said : Turn again, my daughters; why will ye go with me? are there yet any more sons in my womb, that they may be your husbands? Turn again, my daughters, go your wiiy; for I am too old to have an husband. H I should say : I hav^e hope ; if I should have an husband also to-night, and should also bear sons, would ye tarry for them till they were grown? 47 48 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY would ye stay for them from having husbands^ nay, my daughters; for it grieveth me much for your sakes that the hand of the Lord is gone out against me. And they lifted up their voice, and wept again ; and Orpah kissed her mother-in- law; but Ruth clave unto her. And she said: Behold, thy sister-in-law is gone back unto her people and unto her gods; return thou after thy sister-in-law. And Ruth said: Intreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee: for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge; thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God : where thou diest, will I die, and there will I be buried : the Lord do so tp me, and more also, if ought but death part thee and me. When she saw that she was steadfastly minded to go with her, then she left speaking unto her. So they two went until they came to Beth-lehem. And it came to pass when they were come to Beth-lehem, that all the city was moved about them, and they said: Is this Naomi ? And she said unto them : Call me not Naomi,^call me Mara ; for the Almighty hath dealt very bitterly with m€. I went out full, and the Lord hath brought me home again empty : why call ye me Naomi, seeing the Lord ha^i testified against me, and the Almighty hath afflicted me? iSo Naomi returned, and Ruth the Moabitess, her daughter-in-law, with her, which returned out of the country of Moab: and they came to Beth-lehem in the beginning of barley harvest. II And Naomi had a kinsman of her husband's, a mighty man of wea^h, of the family of Elimelech ; and his name was Boaz. f^And Ruth the Moabitess said unto Naomi : Let me now go to the field, and glean ears of corn after him in whose sight I shall find grace. And she said unto her : Go, my daughter. And she went, and came, and gleaned in the field after the reapers: and her hap was to light on a part of the field belonging unto Boaz, who was of the kindred of Elimelech. And, behold, Boaz came from Beth-lehem, and said unto the reapers : The Lord be with you. And they an- swered him : The Lord bless thee. Then said Boaz unto his servant /that was set over the reapers : Whose damsel is this ? THE BOOK OF RUTH 49 And the servant that was set over the reapers answered and said : It is the Moabitish damsel that came back with Naomi out of the country of Moab; and she said: I pray you, let me glean, and gather after the reapers among the sheaves: so she came, and hath continued even from the mojpning until now, save that she tarried a little in the house. Then said Boaz unto Ruth : Hearest thou not, my daughter ? Go not to glean in another field, neither go from hence, but abide here fast by my maidens. Let thine eyes be on the field th^t they do reap, and go thou after them: have I not charged the young men that they shall not touch thee? and when thou art athirst, go unto the vessels, and drink of that which the young men have drawn. Then she fell on her face, and bowed herself to the ground, and said unto him: Why have I found grace in thine eyes, that thou shouldst take knowledge of me, seeing I am a stranger? And Boaz answered and said unto her: It hath fully been shewed me, all that thou hast done unto thy mother-in-law since the death of thine husband ; and how thou hast left thy father and thy mother, and the land of thy nativity, and art come unto a people which thou knewest not heretofore. The Lord recom- pense thy work, and a full reward be given thee of the Lord God of Israel, under whose wings thou art come to trust. Then she said: Let me find favour in thy sight, my lord; for that thou hast comforted me, and for that thou hast spoken friendly unto thine handmaid, though I be not like unto one of thine handmaidens. And Boaz said unto her: At mealtime come thou hither, and eat of the bread, and dip thy morsel in the vinegar. And she sat beside the reapers; and he reached her parched corn, and she did eat, and was sufficed, and left. And when she was risen up to glean, Boaz commanded his young men, saying: Let her glean even among the sheaves, and reproach her not; and let fall also some of the handfuls of purpose for her, and leave them, that she may glean them, and rebuke her not. So she gleaned in the field until even; and beat out that she had gleaned, and it was about an ephah of barley. And she took it up, and went into the city: and her mother-in-law saw what she had gleaned; and she brought forth, and gave to her that she had reserved after she was sufficed. And her mother-in-law said unto her: Where hast so THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY thou gleaned to-day? and where wroughtest thou? blessed be he that did take knowledge of thee. And she shewed her mother-in-law with whom she had wrought, and said: The man's name with whom I wrought to-day is Boaz. And Naomi said unto her daughter-in-law: Blessed be he of the Lord, who hath not left off his kindness to the living and to the dead. And Naomi said unto her : The man is near of kin unto us, one of our next kinsmen. And Ruth the Moabitess said : He said unto me also. Thou shalt keep fast by my young men, until they have ended all my harvest. And Naomi said unto Ruth her daughter-in-law : It is good, my daughter, that thou go out with his maidens, that they meet thee not in any other field.^So she kept fast by the maidens of Boaz to glean unto the end of barley harvest and of wheat harvest; and dwelt with her mother-in-law. "^ III Then Naomi her mother-in-law said unto her : My daugh- ter, shall I not seek rest for thee, that it may be well with thee? And now is not Boaz of our kindred, with whose maidens thou wast? Behold, he winnoweth barley to-night in the threshing-floor. Wash thyself therefore, and anoint thee, and put thy raiment upon thee, and get thee down to the floor ; but make not thyself known unto the man, until he shall have done eating and drinking. And it shall be, when he lieth down, that thou shalt mark the place where he shall lie, and thou shalt go in, and uncover his feet, and lay thee down ; and he will tell thee what thou shalt do. And she said unto her: All that thou sayest unto me I will do. And she went down unto the floor, and did according to all that her mother-in-law bade her. And when Boaz had eaten and drunk, and his heart was merry, he went to lie down at the end of the heap of corn : and she came softly, and uncovered his feet, and laid her down. And it came to pass at midnight, that the man was afraid, and turned himself: and, behold, a woman lay at his feet. And he said : Who art thou ? And she answered : I am Ruth thine handmaid ; spread therefore thy skirt over thine handmaid ; for thou art a near kinsman. And he said: Blessed be thou of the Lord, my daughter; thou hast shewed more kindness in the latter end than at the beginning, inasmuch as thou followedst not young THE BOOK OF RUTH 51 mefi, whether poor or rich. And now, my daughter, fear not ; I will do to thee all that thou requirest ; for all the city of my people doth know that thou art a virtuous woman. And now it is true that I am thy near kinsman :4imvt>«i4-4j^e-i*^a kins- man nearer rfrafi-,!. Tarry this night, and it shall be in the morning, that if he will perform unto thee the part of a kins- man, well ; let him do the kinsman's part : but if he will not do the part of a kinsman to thee, then will I do the part of a kinsman to thee, as the Lord liveth; lie down until the morning. And she lay at his feet until the morning : and she rose up before one could know another. And he said : feet-it not be known that a woman came into the floor. Also he said : Bring the vail that thou hast upon thee, and hold it. And when she held it he measured six measures of barley, and laid it on her: and she went into the city. And when she came to her mother-in-law, she said : Who art thou, my daughter? And she told her all that the man had done to her. And she said : These six measures of barley gave he me ; for he said : Go not empty unto thy mother-in-law. Then said she : Sit still, my daughter, until thou know how the matter will fall ; for the man will not rest, until he have finished the thing this day. IV Tl^en Boaz went up to the gate, and sat him down there : and, behold, the near kinsman of whom Boaz spake came by ; unto whom he said : Ho, such a one ! turn aside, sit down here. And he turned aside, and sat down. And he took ten men of the elders of the city, and said : Sit ye down here. And they sat down. And he said unto the kinsman : Naomi, that is come again out of the country of Moab, selleth a parcel of land, which was our brother Elimelech's: and I thought to advertise thee, saying: Buy it before them that sit here, and before the elders of my people. If thou wilt redeem it, re- deem it; but if thou wilt not redeem it, then tell me, that I may know : for there is none to redeem it beside thee ; and I am after thee. And he said: I will redeem it. Then said Boaz : What day thou buyest the field of the hand of Naomi, thou must buy it also of Ruth the Moabitess, the wife of the dead, to raise up the name of the dead upon his inheritance. And the near kinsman said: I cannot redeem it for myself, 52 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY lest I mar mine own inheritance; redeem thou my right to thyself, for I cannot redeem it. Now this was the manner in former time in Israel con- cerning redeeming and concerning changing, for to confirm all things: a man plucked off his shoe, and gave it to his^ neighbour; and\this was a testimony in Israel. Therefore the kinsman said'^nnto Boaz: Buy it for thee. So he drew off his shoe. And'^^oaz said unto the elders, and unto all the people : Ye are wl^iiesses this day, that I have bought all that was Elimelech's, anti all that was Chilion's and Mahlon's, of the hand of Naomi. Moreover Ruth the Moabitess, the wife of Mahlon, have I pof chased to be my wife, to raise up the name of the dead upoi^ his inheritance, that the name of the dead be not cut off fronjN^tnong his brethren, and from the gate of his place^j^e-are witnesses this day. And all the people that wer^-ifTthe gate, and the elders, said: We are witnesses. The Lord make the woman that is come into thine house like Rachel and like Leah, which two did build the house of Israel ; and do thou worthily in Ephratah, and be famous in Beth-lehem: and let thy house be like the house of Pharez, whom Tamar bare unto Judah, of the seed which the Lord shall give thee of this young woman. So Boaz took Ruth, and she was his wife: and when he went in unto her, the Lord gave her conception, and she bare a son. And the women said unto Naomi : Blessed be the Lord, which hath not left thee this day without a kinsman, that his name may be famous in Israel. And he shall be unto thee a restorer of thy life, and a nour- isher of thine old age : for thy daughter-in-law, which loveth thee, which is better to thee than seven sons, hath borne him. And Naomi took the child, and laid it in her bosom, and became nurse unto it. And the women her neighbours gave it a name, saying: There is a son born to Naomi; and they called his name Obed : he is the father of Jesse, the father of David. "Now these are the generations of Pharez: Pharez begat Hezron, and Hezron begat Ram, and Ram begat Amminadab, and Amminadab begat Nahshon, and Nahshon begat Salmon, and Salmon begat Boaz, and Boaz begat Obed, and Obed begat Jesse, and Jesse begat David. A LIST OF REPRESENTATIVE TALES AND SHORT STORIES III Latin (300 b. c. to the fall of rome) : * The Fable of the Tufted Lark, Ennius, Satires (3d cen- tury B. c). * The City Mouse and the Country Mouse, Horace, Satires (ist century b. c). ♦Metamorphoses, Ovid (ist century b. c). * Fables, Phaedrus (ist century a. d.). Trimalchio's Banquet, Petronius Arbiter, Satires (ist cen- tury A. D.). The Matron of Ephesus, Petronius Arbiter, Satires (ist century a. d.). Tales, Pliny the Younger, Letters (ist century a. d.). The Story of Cupid and Psyche, Lucius Apuleius, The Golden Ass (2d century a. d.). Eastern Tale Collections: The Buddhist Jataka (about 400 b. c). The Brahmanical Panchatantra (about 300 a. d,). The Fables of Pilpay (8th century a. d.). These contain much material from the two preceding, and many of them passed into mediaeval literature through the Directorium Vitae Humanse of John of Capua (1270). 53 THE STORY OF CUPID AND PSYCHE THE STORY OF CUPID AND PSYCHE The Golden Ass, also called The Metamorphoses, was written by Lucius Apuleius (born about 125 a. d.), and was probably his earliest work. It imitated a portion of The Metamorphoses of Lucian ; or perhaps rather, both Lucian and Apuleius were indebted to an earlier writer, Lucius of Patrae. The best-known episode is that of Cupid and Psyche, founded on a popular legend or myth of Grecian origin. Some of the adventures of Don Quixote and of Gil Bias are drawn from The Golden Ass, and Bocaccio has used many of the comic episodes. The author relates the story in his own person. His dabbling in magic results in his transformation into an ass ; in which form, however, he retains his human intel- ligence. As to the origin of the epithet golden, as applied to this romance, Dunlop says in his History of Prose Fiction : ** It's readers, on account of its excellence, as is gen- erally supposed, added the epithet of golden. Warburton, however, conjectures, from the beginning of one of Pliny's epistles, that Aurece {golden) was the common title given to the Milesian, and such tales as strollers used to tell for a piece of money to the rabble in a circle : * Assem para et accipe auream fabulam.' These Milesian fables were much in vogue in the age of Apuleius." The beautiful Story of Cupid and Psyche is in extreme contrast with the body of the Golden Ass. Apuleius perfected this wild flower of ancient folk-lore into a per- ennial plant that has blossomed ever since along the paths of literature and art. The story has been accepted 5 57 5^ THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY as a fitting embodiment of the struggle of the soul to- wards a higher perfection. It is not only its pleasing exe- cution, it is the enduring beauty of the conception that has continued to fascinate. Hence we may say of The Golden Ass in its entirety, that whether readers are in- terested in esoteric meanings to be divined, or in the author's vivid sketches of his own period, the romance has a charm which long centuries have failed to dim. The present rendering of The Story of Cupid and Psyche is a faithful reprint of the translation by Walter Pater, as given in the first edition of his Marius the Epicurean (1885). AUTHORITIES I A History of Latin Literature from Ennius to Boe- thius, by George A. Simcox. History of Roman Literature, by Wilhelm Teuffel ; revised and enlarged by Ludwig Schwabe. Henry Wilson's annotated edition of John C. Dun- lop's History of Prose Fiction. ^ THE STORY OF CUPID AND PSYCHE In a certain city lived a king and queen who had three daughters exceeding fair. But the beauty of the two elder, though pleasant to behold, yet passed not the measure of human ptaise, while such was the loveliness of the youngest that men's speech was too poor to command it worthily and could express it not at all. Many of the citizens and of strangers, whom the fame of this excellent vision had gath- ered thither, confounded by that matchless beauty, could but kiss the finger-tips of their right hands at sight of her, as in adoration to tlie goddess Venus herself. And soon a rumour passed through the country that she whom the blue deep had borne, forbearing her divine dignity, was even then moving among men, or that, by some fresh germination from the stars, not the sea now, but the earth, had put forth a new Venus, endued with the flower of virginity. This belief, with the fame of the maiden's loveliness, went daily farther into distant lands, so that many people were drawn together to behold that glorious model of the age. Men sailed no longer to Paphos, to Cnidus or Cythera, to the presence of the goddess Venus; her sacred rites were neglected, her images stood uncrowned, the cold ashes were left to disfigure her forsaken altars. It was to" a maiden that men's prayers were offered, to a human countenance they looked, in propitiating so great a godhead: when the girl went forth in the morning they strewed flowers on her way, and the victims proper to that unseen goddess were presented as she passed along. This conveyance of divine worship to a mortal kindled meantime the anger of the true Venus. "Lo ! now the ancient parent of nature," she cried, "the fountain of all elements ! Behold me, Venus, benign mother of the world, sharing my honours with a mortal maiden, while my name, built up in heaven, is profaned by the mean things of earth ! Shall a perishable woman bear my image about with her? In vain did the shepherd of Ida prefer me I 59 6o THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY Yet shall she have little joy, whosoever she be, of her usurped and unlawful loveliness !" Thereupon she called to her that winged, bold boy, of evil ways, who wanders armed by night through men's houses, spoiling their marriages ; and stirring yet more by her speech his inborn wantonness, she led him to the city, and showed him Psyche as she walked. " I pray thee," she said, " give thy mother a full revenge. Let this maid become the slave of an unworthy love." Then, embracing him closely, she departed to the shore and took her throne upon the crest of the wave. And lo ! at her un- uttered will, her ocean-servants are in waiting : the daughters of Nereus are there singing their song, and Portunus, and Salacia, and the tiny charioteer of the dolphin, with a host of Tritons leaping through the billows. And one blows softly his sounding sea-shell, another spreads a silken web against the sun, a third presents the mirror to the eyes of his mis- tress, while the others swim side by side below, drawing her chariot. Such was the escort of Venus as she went upon the sea. Psyche meantime, aware of her loveliness, had no fruit thereof. All people regarded and admired, but none sought her in marriage. It was but as upon the finished work of the craftsman that they gazed upon that divine likeness. Her sisters, less fair than she, were happily wedded. She, even as a widow, sitting at home, wept over her desolation, hating in her heart the beauty in which all men were pleased. And the king, supposing that the gods were angry, in- quired of the oracle of Apollo, and Apollo answered him thus : " Let the damsel be placed on the top of a certain mountain, adorned as for the bed of marriage and of death. Look not for a son-in-law of mortal birth ; but for that evil serpent-thing, by reason of whom even the gods tremble and the shadows of Styx are afraid." So the king returned home and made known the oracle to his wife. For many days she lamented, but at last the ful- filment of the divine precept was urgent upon her, and the company was made ready to conduct the maiden to her deadly bridal. And now the nuptial torch gathers dark smoke and ashes; the pleasant sound of the pipe changes into a cry; the marriage hymn concludes in a sorrowful wailing. Below her yellow wedding-veil the bride shook away her tears ; in- THE STORY OF CUPID AND PSYCHE 6l SOmuch that the whole city was afflicted together at the ill- luck of the stricken house. But the mandate of the god impelled the hapless Psyche to her fate, and, those solemnities being ended, the funeral of the living soul goes forth, all the people following. Psyche, bitterly weeping, assists not at her marriage but at her own obsequies, and while the parents hesitate to accomplish a thing so unholy the daughter cries to them : " Wherefore tor- ment your luckless age by long weeping ? This was the prize of my extraordinary beauty! When all people celebrated us with divine honours, and with one voice named the New Venus, it was then ye should have wept for me as one dead. Now at last I understand that that one name of Venus has been my ruin. Lead me and set me upon the appointed place. I am in haste to submit to that well-omened marriage, to be- hold that goodly spouse. Why delay the coming of him who was born for the destruction of the whole world ? " She was silent, and with firm step went on the way. And they proceeded to the appointed place on a steep moun- tain, and left there the maiden alone, and took their way homeward dejectedly. The wretched parents, in their close- shut house, yielded themselves to perpetual night; while to Psyche, fearful and trembling and weeping sore upon the mountain-top, comes the gentle Zephyrus. He lifts her gently, and, with vesture floating on either side, bears her by his own soft breathing over the windings of the hills, and sets her lightly among the flowers in the bosom of a valley below. Psyche, in those delicate grassy places, lying sweetly on her dewy bed, rested from the agitation of her soul and arose in peace. And lo ! a grove of mighty trees, with a fount of water, clear as glass, in the midst ; and hard by the water, a dwelling-place, built not by human hands but by some divine cunning. One recognised, even at the entering, the delightful hostelry of a god. Golden pillars sustained the roof, arched most curiously in cedar-wood and ivory. The walls were hidden under wrought silver, all tame and woodland creatures leaping forward to the visitor's gaze. Wonderful indeed was the craftsman, divine or half divine, who by the subtlety of his art had breathed so wild a soul into the silver ! The very pavement was distinct with pictures in goodly stones. In the glow of its precious metal the house is its own daylight, hav- 62 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY jng no need of the sun. Well might it seem a place fashioned for the conversation of gods with men ! Psyche, drawn forward by the delight of it, came near, and, her courage growing, stood within the doorway. One by one, she admired the beautiful things she saw ; and, most wonderful of all ! no lock, no chain, nor living guardian pro- tected that great treasure-house. But as she gazed there came a voice — a voice, as it were, unclothed of its bodily vesture. " Mistress ! " it said, " all these things are thine. Lie down, and relieve thy weariness, and rise again for the bath when thou wilt. We thy servants, whose voice thou hearest, will be beforehand with our service, and a royal feast shall be ready." And Psyche understood that some divine care was pro- viding, and, refreshed with sleep and the bath, sat down to the feast. Still she saw no one : only she heard words falling here and there, and had voices alone to serve her. And the feast being ended, one entered the chamber and sang to her unseen, while another struck the chords of a harp, invisible with him who played on it. Afterwards the sound of a com- pany singing together came to her, but still so that none was present to sight; yet it appeared that a great multitude of singers was there. And the hour of evening inviting her, she climbed into the bed ; and as the night was far advanced, behold, a sound of a certain clemency approaches her. Then, fearing for her maidenhood, in so great solitude, she trembled, and more than any evil she knew dreaded that she knew not. And now the husband, that unknown husband, drew near, and as- cended the couch, and made her his wife ; and lo ! before therise of dawn he had departed hastily. And the attendant voices ministered to the needs of the newly married. And so it happened with her for a long season. And as nature has willed, that new thing, by continual use, became a delight to her, and the sound of the voice grew to be her solace in that condition of loneliness and uncertainty. One night the bridegroom spoke thus to his beloved : " O Psyche, most pleasant bride ! Fortune has grown stern with us, and threatens thee with mortal peril. Thy sisters, trou- bled at the report of thy death and seeking some trace of thee, will come to the mountain-top. But if by chance their cries THE STORY OF CUPID AND PSYCHE 6^ reach thee, answer not, neither look forth at all, lest thou bring sorrow upon me and destruction upon thyself." Then Psyche promised that she would do according to his will. But the bridegroom had fled away again with the night. And all that day she spent in tears, repeating that she was now dead indeed, shut up in that golden prison ; powerless to con- sole her sisters, sorrowing after her, or to see their faces : and so went to rest weeping. And after a while came the bridegroom again, and lay down be'side her, and embracing her as she wept, complained : " Was this thy promise, my Psyche ? What have I to hope from thee? Even in the arms of thy husband thou ceasest not from pain. Do now as thou wilt. Indulge thine own desire, though it seeks what will ruin thee. Yet wilt thou remember my warning, repentant too late." Then, protesting that she is like to die, she obtains from him that he suffer her to see her sisters, and to present to them moreover what gifts she would of golden ornaments ; but therewith he oft- times advised her never at any time, yielding to pernicious counsel, to inquire concerning his bodily form, lest she fall, through unholy curiosity, from so great a height of fortune, nor feel ever his embrace again. " I would die a hundred times," she said, cheerful at last, " rather than be deprived of thy most sweet usage. I love thee as my own soul, beyond comparison even with Love himself. Only bid thy servant Zephyrus bring hither my sisters, as he brought me. My honey-comb ! My husband ! Thy Psyche's breath of life ! " So he promised; and 'after the embraces of the night, ere the light appeared, vanished from the hands of his bride. And the sisters, coming to the place where Psyche had been abandoned, wept loudly among the rocks, and called upon her by name, so that the sound came down to her, and running out of the palace distraught, she cried : " Wherefore afflict your souls with lamentations ? I whom you mourn am here." Then summoning Zephyrus, she reminded him of her husband's bidding; and he bare them down with a gentle blast. " Enter now," she said, " into my house, and relieve your sorrow in the company of Psyche your sister." And Psyche displayed to them all the treasures of the golden house, and its great family of ministering voices, nursing in them the malice which was already at their hearts. 64 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY And at last one of them asks curiously who the lord of that celestial array may be, and what manner of man her hus- band ? And Psyche answered dissemblingly : " A young man, handsome and mannerly, with a goodly beard. For the most part he hunts upon the mountains." And lest the secret should slip from her in the way of further speech, loading her sisters with gold and gems, she summoned Zephyrus to bear them away. And they returned home, on fire with envy. " See now the injustice of fortune ! " cried one. " We, the elder chil- dren, have been given like servants to be the wives of stran- gers, while the youngest is possessed of so great riches, who scarcely knows how to use them. You saw, sister ! what a hoard of wealth is lying in the house; what glittering gowns; what splendour of precious gems, besides all that gold trodden under foot. If she indeed hath, as she said, a bridegroom so goodly, then no one in all the world is happier. And it may be that that husband, being of divine nature, will make her too a goddess. Nay ! so in truth it is. It was even thus she bore herself. Already she looks aloft and breathes divinity; who, but a woman, has pure voices for her hand- maidens, and can command the winds." " Think," answered the other, " how arrogantly she dealt with us, grudging us these trifling gifts out of all that store, and when she found our company a burden, causing us to be hissed and driven away from her through the air ! But I am no woman if she keep her hold on this great fortune: and if the insult done us has touched thee too, take we counsel together. Meanwhile let us hold our peace, and know nought of her, aHve or dead. For they are not truly happy of whose happiness other folk are unaware." And the bridegroom, whom still she knows not, warns her thus a second time, as he talks with her by night : " Seest thou what peril besets thee? Those cunning wolves have made ready for thee their snares, of which the sum is that they persuade thee to search into the fashion of my coun- tenance, the seeing of which, as I have told thee often, will be the seeing of it no more forever. But do thou neither listen nor make answer to aught regarding thy husband. Besides, we have sown also the seed of our race. Even now this bosom grows with a child to be born to us, a child, if thou THE STORY OF CUPID AND PSYCHE 6^ but keep our secret, of divine quality; if thou profane it, subject to death." And Psyche was glad at the tidings, re- joicing in that solace of a divine seed, and in the glory of that pledge of love to be, and the dignity of the name of mother. Anxiously she noted the increase of the days, the waning months. And again, as he tarries briefly beside her, the bridegroom repeats his warning: "Even now the sword is drawn with which thy sisters seek thy life. Have pity on thyself, sweet wife, and upon our child, and see not those evil woipen again." But the sisters made their way once more into the palace and cried to her in wily tones: "O Psyche! and thou too wilt be a mother ! How great will be the joy at home ! Happy indeed shall we be to have the nursing of the golden child. Truly if he does but answer duly to the beauty of his parents, it will be a birth of Cupid himself." So, little by little, they stole upon the soul of their sister. She, meanwhile, bids the lyre to sound for their delight and the playing is heard. She bids the pipes to move and the quire to sing, and the music and the singing come invisibly, soothing the mind of the listener with sweetest modulation. But not even thereby was their malice put to sleep : once more they seek to know what manner of husband she has, and whence that seed. And Psyche, simple overmuch, forget- ting her first story, answers : " My husband comes from a far country, trading for great sums. He is already of middle age, with whitening locks." And therewith she dismisses them again. And returning home upon the soft breath of Zephyrus one cried to the other: " What shall be said of so ugly a lie? He who was a young man with florid beard is now in middle life. It must be that she told a false tale : else is she indeed igno- rant what manner of man that is. Howsoever it be, let us destroy her quickly. For if she indeed knows not, be sure that her bridegroom is one of the gods ; it is a god she bears in her womb. And let that be far from us ! If she be called mother of a god, then will my life be more than I can bear." So, full of rage against her, they returned to Psyche, and said to her craftily : " Thou livest in an ignorant bliss, all incurious of thy real danger. It is a deadly serpent, as we certainly know, that comes to sleep by thy side. Remember the words of the oracle, which declared thee destined to a 66 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY cruel beast. There are those who have seen it at nightfall, coming back from its feeding. It will not be much longer, they say, ere it will end its blandishments. It but waits for the babe to be formed in thee, that it may devour thee by so much the richer. If indeed the solitude of this musical place, or it may be the loathsome commerce of this hidden love, delight thee, we at least with sisterly piety have done our part." And at last the unhappy Psyche, so simple and frail of soul, was carried away by the terror of their words, and losing memory of her husband's precepts and her own prom- ise, brought upon herself a great calamity. Trembling and turning pale, she answers them : " And they who tell those things, it may be, speak the truth. For in very deed never have I seen the face of my husband, nor know I at all what manner of man he is. Always he frights me diligently from the sight of him, threatening some great evil should I too curiously look upon his face. Do ye, if ye can help your sister in her great peril, stand by her now." Her sisters answered her : " The way of safety we have well considered, and will teach thee. Take a sharp knife, and hide it in that part of the couch where thou art wont to lie; take also a lamp filled with oil, and set it privily behind the curtain. And when he shall have drawn up his coils into the accustomed place, and thou hearest him breathe in sleep, slip then from his side and discover the lamp, and, knife in hand, put forth all thy strength, and strike off the serpent's head." And so they departed in haste. And Psyche left alone (alone but for the furies which beset her) is tossed up and down in her distress, like a wave of the sea ; and though her will is firm, yet, in the moment of putting hand to the deed, she falters, and is torn asunder by various apprehension of that great calamity upon her. She hastens and anon delays ; is now full of distrust, and now of angry courage: under one bodily form she loathes the mon- ster, and loves the bridegroom. But evening ushers in the night ; and at last in haste she makes ready for the terrible deed. Darkness came, and the bridegroom ; and he first, after some faint essay of love, fell into a deep sleep. And she, erewhile of no strength, the hard purpose of des- tiny assisting her, is confirmed in force. With lamp plucked forth, and the knife in her hand, she put by her sex; and lol THE STORY OF CUPID AND PSYCHE 6) as the secrets of the bed became manifest, the sweetest and most gentle of all creatures, Cupid himself, reclined there, in his own proper loveliness ! At the sight of him the very flame of the lamp kindled more gladly ! But Psyche was afraid at the vision, and, faint of soul, trembled backward upon her knees, and would have hidden away the steel in her own bosom. But the knife slipped from her hand : and now, undone, yet ofttimes looking upon the beauty of that divine countenance, she lives again. She sees the locks of that golden head, pleasant with the unction of the gods, shed down in graceful entanglement behind and before, about the ruddy cheeks and white throat. The pinions of the winged god, yet fresh with the dew, are spotless upon his shoulders, the delicate plumage wavering over them as they lie at rest. Smooth he was, and, touched with light, worthy of Venus his mother. At the foot of the couch lay his bow and arrows, the instruments of his power, propitious to men. And Psyche, gazing hungrily upon all that, drew an arrow from the quiver, and trying its point upon her thumb, tremu- lous still, drave in the barb, so that a drop of blood came forth. Thus fell she, by her own act, and unaware, into the love of Love. Falling upon the bridegroom, with indrawn breath and a hurry of kisses from her eager and open lips, she shuddered as she thought how brief that sleep might be. And it chanced that a drop of burning oil fell from the lamp upon the god's shoulder. Ah ! maladroit minister of love, thus to wound him from whom all fire comes; though 't was a lover, I trow, first devised thee, to have the fruit of his desire even in the darkness ! At the touch of the fire the god started up, and beholding the overflow of her faith, quietly took flight from her embraces. And Psyche, as he rose upon the wing, laid hold on him with her two hands, and hung upon him in his passage through the air, till she sank to the earth through weariness. And as she lay there, the divine lover, tarrying still, lighted upon a cypress-tree which grew near, and, from the top of it, spake thus to her, in great emotion : " Foolish one ! un- mindful of the command of Venus, my mother, who had de- voted thee to the bed of one of base degree, I fled to thee in his stead. Now know I that that was vainly done. Into mine own fiesh pierced mine arrow, and I made thee my 6S THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY wife, only that I might seem a monster beside thee — that thou shouldst seek to wound the head wherein lay the eyes so full of love to thee ! Again and again, I thought to put thee on thy guard concerning these things, and warned thee in loving kindness. Now I would but punish thee by my flight hence." And therewith he winged his way into the deep sky. Psyche, prostrate upon the earth, and following far as sight might reach the flight of the bridegroom, wept and lamented; and when the breadth of space had parted him wholly from her, cast herself down from the bank of a river which was near. But the stream, turning gentle in honour of the god, put her forth again unhurt upon its margin. And as it happened, Pan, the rustic god, was sitting just then by the waterside, embracing, in the body of a reed, the god- dess Canna; teaching her to respond to him in all varieties of slender sound. Hard by, his flock of goats browsed at will. And the shaggy god called her, wounded and outworn, kindly to him and said : " I am but a rustic herdsman, pretty maiden, yet wise, by favour of my great age and long experience; and, if I guess truly by those faltering steps, by thy sorrow- ful eyes and continual sighing, thou labourest with excess of love. Listen then to me, and seek not death again, in the stream or otherwise. Put aside thy woe and turn thy prayers to Cupid. He is in truth a deHcate youth : win him by the delicacy of thy service." So the shepherd-god spoke, and Psyche, answering noth- ing, but with a reverence to his serviceable deity, went on her way. And while she, in her search after Cupid, wandere'd through many lands, he was lying in the chamber of his mother, heart-sick. And the white bird which floats over the waves plunged in haste into the sea, and approaching Venus as she bathed, made known to her that her son lies afflicted with some grievous hurt, doubtful of life. And Venus cried, angrily : " My son, then, has a mistress ! And it is Psyche, who witched away my beauty and was the rival of my god- head, whom he loves ! " Therewith she issued from the sea, and returning to her golden chamber, found there the lad, sick, as she had heard, and cried from the doorway : " Well done, truly ! to trample thy mother's precepts under foot, to spare my enemy that THE STORY OF CUPID AND PSYCHE 69 cross of an unworthy love ; nay, unite her to thyself, child as thou art, that I might have a daughter-in-law who hates me ! I will make thee repent of thy sport, and the savour of thy marriage bitter. There is one who shall chasten that body of thine, put out thy torch and unstring thy bow. Not till she has plucked forth that hair, into which so oft these hands have smoothed the golden Hght, and sheared away thy wings, shall I feel the injury done me avenged." And with that she hastened in anger from the doors. And Ceres and Juno met her, and sought to know the meaning of her troubled countenance. " Ye come in season," she cried; "I pray you, find for me Psyche. It must needs be that ye have heard the disgrace of my house." And they, ignorant of what was done, would have soothed her anger, saying : " What fault. Mistress ! hath thy son committed, that thou wouldst destroy the girl he loves? Knowest thou not that he is now of age? Because he wears his years so lightly must he seem to thee ever but a child? Wilt thou forever thus pry into the pastimes of thy son, always accusing his wantonness, and blaming in him those delicate wiles which are all thine own ? " Thus, in secret fear of the boy's bow, did they seek to please him with their gracious patronage. But Venus, angry at their light taking of her wrongs, turned her back upon them; and with hasty steps took her way once more to the sea. And in the meanwhile, Psyche, tossed in soul, wandering hither and thither, rested not night nor day, in the pursuit of her husband, desiring, if she might not soothe his anger by the endearments of a wife, at the least to propitiate him with the prayers of a handmaid. And seeing a certain temple on the top of a high mountain, she said : " Who knows whether yonder place be not the abode of my lord?" Thither, there- fore, she turned her steps; hastening now the more because desire and hope pressed her on, weary as she was with the labours of the way ; and so, painfully measuring out the high- est ridges of the mountain, she drew near to the sacred couches. She sees ears of wheat, in heaps or twisted into chaplets; ears of barley also; and there were sickles and all the instruments of harvest, lying there in disorder, thrown at random from the hands of the labourers in the great heat. These she curiously sets apart, one by one, duly ordering 70 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY them ; for she said within herself : " I may not neglect the shrines, nor the holy service, of any god there be, but must rather win by supplication the kindly mercy of them all." And Ceres found her as she bent sadly on her task, and cried aloud : " Alas, Psyche ! Venus, in the furiousness of her anger, tracks thy footsteps through the world, seeking for thee to pay her the utmost penalty ; and thou, thinking of any- thing rather than thine own safety, hast taken on thee the care of what belongs to me ! " Then Psyche fell down at her feet, and sweeping the floor with her hair, and washing the footsteps of the goddess with her tears, besought her mercy, with many prayers : " By the gladdening rites of har- vest, by the lighted lamps and mystic marches of the Mar- riage and mysterious Invention of thy daughter Proserpine, and by all beside that the holy place of Attica veils in silence, minister, I pray thee, to the sorrowful heart of Psyche ! Suf- fer me to hide myself but for a few days among the heaps of corn, till time has softened the anger of the goddess, and my strength, outworn in my long travail, be recovered by a little rest." But Ceres answered her : *' Truly thy tears move me, and I would fain help thee; only I dare not incur the ill-will of my kinswoman. Depart hence as quickly as may be." And Psyche, repelled against hope, and afflicted now with two- fold sorrow, making her way back again, beheld among the half- lighted woods of the valley below a sanctuary builded with cunning art. And that she might lose no way of hope, howso- ever doubtful, she drew near to the sacred doors. She sees there gifts of price and garments fixed upon the doorposts and to the branches of the trees, wrought with letters of gold which told the name of the goddess to whom they were dedi- cated, with thanksgiving for that she had done. So, with bent knee and hands laid about the glowing altar, she prayed, saying : " Sister and spouse of Jupiter ! be thou to these my desperate fortunes, Juno the Auspicious ! I know that thou dost willingly help those in travail with child ; deliver me from the peril that is upon me." And as she prayed thus, June in the majesty of her godhead was straightway present, and answered : " Would that I might incline favourably to thee ; but against the will of Venus, whom I have ever loved as a daughter, I may not, for very shame, grant thy prayer." THE STORY OF CUPID AND PSYCHE 7^ And Psyche, dismayed by this new shipwreck of her hope, communed thus with herself, " Whither, from the midst of the snares that beset me, shall I take my way once more? In what dark solitude shall I hide me from the all-seeing eye of Venus? What if I put on at length a man's courage, and yielding myself unto her as my mistress, soften by a humility not yet too late the fierceness of her purpose? Who knows but that I may find him also whom my soul seeketh after, in the abode of his mother ? " And Venus, renouncing all earthly aid in her search, pre- pared to return to heaven. She ordered the chariot to be made ready, which Vulcan had wrought for her as a marriage-gift, with a cunning of hand which left his work so much the richer by the weight of gold it had lost under his tool. From the multitude which housed about the bedchamber of their mistress, white doves came forth, and with joyful motions bent their painted necks beneath the yoke. Behind it, with playful riot, the sparrows sped onward, with other birds sweet of song, making known by their soft notes the ap- proach of the goddess. Eagle and cruel hawk alarmed not the quireful family of Venus. And the clouds broke away, as the uttermost ether opened to receive her, daughter and god- dess, with great joy. And Venus passed straightway to the house of Jupiter to beg of him the use of Mercury, the god of speech. And Jupiter refused not her prayer. And Venus and Mercury de- scended from heaven together; and as they went, the former said to the latter, " Thou knowest, my brother of Arcady, that never at any time have I done anything without thy help; for how long time, moreover, I have sought a certain maiden in vain. And now nought remains but that, by thy heraldry, I proclaim a reward for whomsoever shall find her. Do thou my bidding quickly." And with that she conveyed to him a little scrip, in the which was written the name of Psyche, with other things; and so returned home. And Mercury failed not in his office; but departing into all lands, proclaimed that whosoever should deliver up to Venus the fugitive girl, should receive from herself seven kisses — one thereof full of the inmost honey of her throat. With that the doubt of Psyche was ended. And now, as she came near to the doors of Venus, one of the household, whose 12 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY name was Use-and-Wont, ran out to her, crying : " Hast thou learned, Wicked Maid ! now at last ! that thou hast a mis- tress?" and seizing her roughly by the hair, drew her into the presence of Venus. And when Venus saw her, she cried out, saying : " Thou hast deigned then to make thy saluta- tions to thy mother-in-law. Now will I in turn treat thee as becometh a dutiful daughter-in-law ! " And she took barley and millet and poppy seed, every kind of grain and seed, and mixed them together, and laughed, and said to her : " Methinks so plain a maiden can earn lovers only by industrious ministry: now will I also make trial of thy service. Sort me this heap of seed, the one kind from the others, grain by grain ; and get thy task done before the evening." And Psyche, stunned by the cruelty of her bid- ding, was silent, and moved not her hand to the inextricable heap. And there came forth a little ant, which had under- standing of the difficulty of her task, and took pity upon the consort of the god of Love: and he ran deftly hither and thither, and called together the whole army of his fellows. " Have pity," he cried, " nimble scholars of the Earth, Mother of all things ! have pity upon the wife of Love, and hasten to help her in her perilous effort." Then, one upon the other, the hosts of the insect people hurried together ; and they sorted asunder the whole heap of seed, separating every grain after its kind, and so departed quickly out of sight. And at nightfall Venus returned, and seeing that task fin- ished with so wonderful diligence, she cried : " The work is not thine, thou naughty maid, but his in whose eyes thou hast found favour." And calling her again in the morning, " See now the grove," she said, " beyond yonder torrent. Certain sheep feed there, whose fleeces shine with gold. Fetch me straightway a lock of that precious stuff, having gotten it as thou mayst." And Psyche went forth willingly, not to obey the com- mand of Venus, but even to seek a rest from her labour in the depths of the river. But out of the river, the green reed, lowly mother of music, spake to her : " O Psyche, pollute not these waters by thy destruction, and approach not that terrible flock; for, as the heat groweth, they wax fierce: lie down under yon plane-tree, till the quiet of the river's breath have soothed them. Thereafter thou mayst shake down the THE STORY OF CUPID AND PSYCHE 73 fleecy gold from the trees of the grove, for it holdeth by the leaves." And Psyche, instructed thus by the simple reed, in the humanity of its heart, filled her bosom with the soft golden stuff, and returned to Venus. But the goddess smiled bit- terly, and said to her : " Well know I who was the author of this thing also. I will make further trial of thy discretion, and the boldness of thy heart. Seest thou the utmost peak of yonder steep mountain ? The dark stream which flows down thence paters the Stygian fields, and swells the stream of Cocytus. Bring me now, in this little urn, a draft from its innermost source." And therewith she put into her hands a vessel of wrought crystal. And Psyche set forth in haste on her way to the moun- tain, looking there at last to find the end of her hapless life. But when she came to the region which borders on the cliff pointed out to her, she understood the deadly nature of her task. From a great rock, steep and slippery, a horrible river of water poured forth, falling straightway down a channel exceeding narrow into the unseen gulf below. And lo ! creep- ing from the rocks on either hand, angry serpents, with their long necks and sleepless eyes. The very waters found a voice and bade her depart, in smothered cries of: Depart hence! and What doest thou here? Look around thee! and Destruc- tion is upon thee ! And then sense left her, in the immensity of her peril, as one changed to stone. But not even then did the distress of that innocent soul escape the steady eyes of a gentle providence. For the bird of Jupiter spread his wings and took flight to her, and asked her : " Didst thou think, simple one, even thou ! that thou couldst steal one drop of that relentless stream, the most holy river of Styx, terrible even to the gods ? But give me thine urn." And the bird took the urn, and filled it at the source, and returned to her quickly from among the teeth of the serpents, bringing with him of the waters, all unwilling — nay ! warning him to depart away and not molest them. And she, receiving the urn with great joy, ran back quickly that she might deliver it to Venus, and yet again satisfied not the angry goddess. " My child ! " she said, " in this one thing further must thou serve me. Take now this tiny casket, and get thee down even unto hell, and deliver it 6 74 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY to Proserpine. Tell her that Venus would have of her beauty, so much at least as may suffice for but one day's use; that beauty she possessed erewhile being foreworn and spoiled, through her tendance upon the sick-bed of her son; and be not slow in returning." And Psyche perceived there the last ebbing of her for- tune — that she was now thrust openly upon death, who must go down, of her own motion, to Hades and the Shades. And straightway she climbed to the top of an exceeding high tower, thinking within herself : " I will cast myself down thence; so shall I descend most quickly into the kingdom of the dead." And the tower, again, broke forth into speech : " Wretched Maid ! Wretched Maid ! Wilt thou destroy thy- self ? If the breath quit thy body, then wilt thou indeed go down into Hades, but by no means return hither. Listen to me. Among the pathless wilds not far from this place lies a certain mountain, and therein one of hell's vent-holes. Through the yawning breach a rough way lies open, follow- ing which thou wilt come, by direct course, to the castle of Orcus. And thou must not go empty-handed. Take in each hand a morsel of barley-bread, soaked in hydromel; and in thy mouth two pieces of money. And when thou shalt be now well onward in the way of death, thou wilt overtake a lame ass laden with wood, and a lame driver, who will beg thee to reach him certain cords to fasten the burden which is falling from the ass ; but be thou cautious to pass on in silence. And soon as thou comest to the river of the dead, Charon, in that crazy bark he hath, will put thee over upon the farther side. There is greed even among the dead: and thou shalt deliver to him, for the ferrying, one of those two pieces of money, in such wise that he take it with his hand from be- tween thy lips. And as thou passest over the stream, a dead old man, rising on the water, will put up to thee his moulder- ing hands, and pray thee to draw him into the ferry-boat. But beware that thou yield not to unlawful pity. " When thou hast crossed, and art upon the causeway, certain aged women, spinning, will cry to thee to lend thy hand to their work : and beware again that thou take no part therein ; for this also is the snare of Venus, whereby she would cause thee to cast away one at least of those cakes thou bearest in thy hands. And think not that a slight mat- THE STORY OF CUPID AND PSYCHE 75 ter; for the loss of either one of them will be to thee the losing of the light of day. For a watch-dog exceeding fierce lies ever before the threshold of that lonely house of Proser- pine. Close his mouth with one of thy cakes; so shalt thou pass by him, and enter straightway into the presence of Proserpine herself. Then, do thou deliver thy message, and taking what she shall give thee, return back again ; offering to the watch-dog the other cake, and to the ferryman that other pi^ce of money thou boldest in thy mouth. After this manner mayst thou return again beneath the stars. But withal, I charge thee, think not to look into, nor open, the "casket thou bearest, with that treasure of the beauty of the divine countenance hidden therein." So spake the stones of the tower ; and Psyche delayed not, but proceeding diligently after the manner enjoined, entered into the house of Proserpine, at whose feet she sat down humbly, and would neither the delicate couch nor that divine food which the goddess offered her, but did straightway the business of Venus. And Proserpine filled the casket secret- ly, and shut the lid, and delivered it to Psyche, who fled there- with from Hades with new strength. But coming back into the light of day, even as she hasted now to the ending of her service, she was seized by a rash curiosity. " Lo ! now," she said within herself, " my simpleness ! who bearing in my hands the divine loveliness, heed not to touch myself with a particle at least therefrom, that I may please the more by the fervour of it, my fair one, my beloved ! " Even as she spoke, she lifted the lid; and behold! within, neither beauty, nor anything beside, save sleep only, the sleep of the dead, which took hold upon her, filling all her members with its drowsy vapour, so that she lay down in the way and moved not, as in the slumber of death. And Cupid, his wound being now healed, because he would endure no longer the absence of her he loved, gliding through the narrow window of the chamber wherein he was holden, his pinions being now repaired with a little rest, fled forth swiftly upon them; and coming to the place where Psyche was, shook that sleep away from her, and set him in his prison again, awaking her with the innocent point of his arrow. " Lo ! now, thine old error again," he said to her, " which had like once more to have destroyed thee ! But do f6 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY thou now what is lacking of the command of my mother; the rest shall be my care." With these words, the lover rose upon the air; and being consumed inwardly with the great- ness of his love, penetrated with vehement wing into the highest place of heaven, to lay his cause before the father of the gods. And the father Qi gods took his hand in his, and kissed his face, and said to him : " At no time, my son, hast thou regarded me with due honour. Often hast thou vexed my bosom, wherein lies the disposition of the stars, with those busy darts of thine. Nevertheless, because thou hast grown up between these mine hands, I will accomplish thy desire." And straightway he bade Mercury to call the gods together; and, the council-chamber being filled, sitting upon a high throne : " Ye gods," he said, " all ye whose names are in the white book of the Muses, ye know yonder lad. It seems good to me that his youthful heats should by some means be restrained. And that all occasion may be taken from him, I would even confine him in the bonds of marriage. He has chosen and embraced a mortal maiden. Let him have fruit of her love, and possess her forever." And thereupon he bade Mercury produce Psyche in heaven ; and holding out to her his ambrosial cup, " Take it," he said, " and live forever: nor shall Cupid ever depart from thee." And the gods sat down together to the marriage-feast. - On the first couch lay the bridegroom, and Psyche in his bosom. His rustic serving-boy bare the wine to Jupiter ; and Bacchus to the rest. The Seasons crimsoned all things with their roses. Apollo sang to the lyre, while a little Pan prat- tled on his reeds, and Venus danced very sweetly to the soft music. Thus, with due rites, did Psyche pass into the power of Cupid ; and from them was born the daughter whom men call Voluptas. A LIST OF REPRESENTATIVE TALES AND SHORT STORIES IV MedicBval Literature (end of classical period to renaissance) : Sagas : Old English: * The Story of Sigemund, Beowulf (about the 7th century). * Waldere (8th century). * The Battle of Finnsburg (8th century). * The Battle of Brunanburh (loth century). Icelandic : Thor's Adventures, and other tales; The Younger Edda (i2th century). The Tale of Hogni and Hedinn (12th century or earlier). Gunnlawg the Worm-Tongue (13th century). Frithiof the Bold (14th century). Roi the Fool (about the 14th century). Viglund the Fair (15th century). Lais (about the i2th Century) ; * Le Cor, Robert Biket. * Lanval, Marie de France. * Ywenec, Marie de France. * Le Fresne, Marie de France. * Eliduc, Marie de France. * Le Bisclaveret, Marie de France. * Milun, Marie de France. * Le Chevrefeuille, Marie de France. * Orfeo and Heurodis. Fabliaux (from the I2th to the beginning of the 14TH century) : * Richeut (about 1156). *Estula. * Le Vair Palefroi, Huon le Roi. * Barat et Hairnet, Jean Bedel. * La Veuve, Gautier le Long. * Chariot le Juif, Rustebeuf. * La Bourse Pleine de Sens, Jean le Galois d'Aubepierre. * La Housse Partie, Bernier. 77 78 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY * Le Clerc Cache, Jean de Conde. ♦Dame Siriz (13th century). Beast-Tales: * Ysopet, Marie de France (12th century). *The cycle of Le Roman du Renart (12th century). * Fables, Robert Henryson (15th century). Religious Collections and Contes Devots: Vitse Fatrum (Lives of the Fathers) (5th century). Gregory's Dialogues (6th century). * Miracles de Nostre Dame, Gautier de Coinci (1236). *Le Tombeur de Nostre Dame (12th or 13th century). ♦L'Ange et I'Ermite (12th or 13th century). Legenda Aurea (The Golden Legend), Jacobus a Voragine (13th century). Collections of Exampla: The Exempla of Jaques de Vitry (12th century). Gesta Romanorum (Deeds of the Romans) (about the four- teenth century). Short Romances of Adventure in Prose: Aucassin et Nicolette (12th century). Jehan de Paris (15th century). Tale Collections drawn from Eastern Sources: * Les Sept Sages (in French, in the 12th century). Disciplina Clericalis (Rules for the Clergy), Petrus Alphonsi (i2th century). * Barlaam et Joasaph (in French, in the form of a saint's legend, by the 13th century). Directorium Vitae Humanse (Guide for Human Life), John of Capua (1270), Talc Collections of a Somewhat More Original Character: II Novellino (about the end of the 13th century). II Decamerone, Giovanni Boccaccio (1353). * Confcssio Amantis, John Gower (1383). * The Canterbury Tales, Geoffrey Chaucer (about 1387). Cent Nouvelles Nouvelles, Antoine de la Sale (1462). FREDEPICK OF THE ALBERIGHI AND HIS FALCON FREDERICK OF THE ALBERIGHI AND HIS FALCON FREpERICK OF THE AlBERIGHI AND HiS FaLCON IS a story from The Decameron, a famous collection of one' hundred tales by Giovanni Boccaccio (1313-1375), pub- lished in 1353, and written a few years earlier. Of these tales, ten are represented as told each day for ten days, in a garden near Florence, during the plague of 1348. Fred- erick is the ninth story of the fifth day. Preceding the stories is a masterly description of the plague at Flor- ence ; the tales themselves range from the pathetic to the grossly licentious. Of Frederick it has been remarked, that " as a picture of the habitual workings of some one powerful feeling, where the heart reposes almost entirely on itself, without the violent excitement of opposing duties or untoward circumstances, nothing ever came up to the story of Fred- erick and His Falcon. The perseverance in attachment, the spirit of gallantry and generosity displayed in it, has no parallel in the history of heroical sacrifices. The feel- ing is so unconscious, too, and involuntary, is brought out in such small, unlooked-for, and unostentatious cir- cumstances, as to show it to have been woven into the very nature and soul of the author." Of the character of the tales it may be said that, while some of them are indelicate to modern taste, the best of them, such as Frederick, Griselda, The Stone of Invisi- bility, The Pot of Basil, The Jew Abraham Converted to Christianity by the Immorality of the Clergy, are sto- ries which belong to all subsequent times, as they may bav^ belonged to the ages before. 8j 82 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY Many of the English translations of The Decameron are inaccurate. The present version of Frederick of the Alberighi and His Falcon is by W. J. Stillman. AUTHORITIES I Giovanni Boccaccio as Man and Author, by John Addington Symonds. Henry Wilson's annotated edition of John C. Dun- lop's History of Prose Fiction. A History of Italian Literature, by Richard Garnett (Literatures of the World series). FREDERICK OF THE ALBERIGHI AND HIS FALCON You must know that Coppo di Borghese Domenchini — who was in our city, and perhaps still is, a man of reverence and of great authority amongst us, both for his opinions and for his virtues, and much more for the nobility of his family, being distinguished and wealthy and of enduring reputation, being full of years and experience — was often delighted to talk with his neighbours and others of the things of the past, which he, better than anybody else, could do with excellent order and with unclouded memory. Amongst the pleasant stories which he used to tell was this : In Florence there was a young man called Frederick, son of Master Philip Alberighi, who for military ability and for courteous manners was reputed above all other gentlemen of Tuscany. He, as often happens with gentlemen, became enamoured of a gentle lady called Madonna Giovanni, in her time considered the most beautiful and most graceful woman in Florence. In order that he might win her love he tilted and exercised in arms, made feasts and donations, and spent all his substance without restraint. But Madonna Giovanni, no less honest than beautiful, cared for none of these things which he did for her, nor for him. Frederick then spent more than his means admitted, and gaining nothing, as easily hap- pens, his money disappeared, and he remained poor and with- out any other property than a poor little farm, by the income of which he was barely able to live; besides this, he had his falcon, one of the best in the world. On this account, and because unable to remain in the city as he desired, though more than ever devoted, he remained at Campi, where his little farm was ; and there, as he might hunt, he endured his poverty patiently. Now it happened one day, when Frederick had come to 83 84 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY extreme poverty, that the husband of Madonna Giovanni be- came ill, and, seeing death at hand, made his will ; and being very rich, in this will left as his heir his son, a well-grown boy ; and next to him, as he had greatly loved Madonna Gio- vanni, he made her his heir if his son should die without legitimate heirs, and then died. Remaining then a widow, as the custom is amongst our women. Madonna Giovanni went that summer with her son into the country on an estate of hers near to that of Frederick, so that it happened that this boy, beginning to become friendly with Frederick and to cultivate a liking for books and birds, and having seen many times the falcon of Frederick fly, took an extreme pleasure in it and desired very greatly to have it, but did not dare to ask it, seeing that it was so dear to Frederick. In this state of things it happened that the boy became ill, and on this account the mother, sorrowing greatly, he being that which she loved most of everything which she had, tended him constantly and never ceased comforting him ; and begged him that if there was anything that he wanted, to tell her, so that she certainly, if it were possible to get it, would obtain it for him. The young man, hearing many times this proposal, said : " Mother, if you can manage that I should have the falcon of Frederick, I believe that I should get well at once." The mother, hearing this, reflected with herself and began to study what she might do. She knew that Frederick had long loved her, and that he had never received from her even a look ; on this account she said : " How can I send to him or go to him, to ask for this falcon, which is, by what I hear, the thing that he most loves, and which be- sides keeps him in the world; and how can I be so ungrate- ful as to take from a gentleman what I desire, when it is the only thing that he has to give him pleasure?" Embar- rassed by such thoughts, and feeling that she was certain to have it if she asked it of him, and not knowing what to say, she did not reply to her son, but was silent. Finally, the love of her son overcoming her, she decided to satisfy him, whatever might happen, not sending but going herself for the falcon ; and she replied : " My son, be comforted and try to get well, for I promise you that the first thing I do to-mor- row will be to go and bring to you the falcon " ; on which account the son in his inv showed the same day an improve- FREDERICK OF THE ALBERIGHI 85 ment. The lady the next day took as companion another lady, and as if for pleasure went to the house of Frederick and asked for him. It being early, he had not been hawking, and was in his garden attending to certain Httle operations; and hearing that Madonna Giovanni asked for him at the door, wondering greatly, joyfully went. She, seeing him coming, with a ladylike pleasure went to meet him, and Fred- erick having saluted her with reverence, she said : " I hope you are well, Frederick," and then went on : "I have come to recompense you for the losses which you have already had on vtiy account, loving me more than you need ; and the reparation is, then, that I intend with this my companion to dine with you familiarly to-day." To this Frederick hum- bly replied : "Madonna, I do not remember ever to have suf- fered any loss on your account, but so much good that if ever I was worth anything, it is due to your worth, and to the love which I have borne you; and certainly your frank visit is dearer to me than would have been the being able to spend as much more as I have already spent, for you have come to a very poor house." So saying, he received them into his house in humility and conducted them into his garden; and then, not having any person to keep her company, he said : " Ma- donna, since there is no one else, this good woman, the wife of my gardener, will keep you company while I go to arrange the table." He, although his poverty was so great, had not yet realised how he had, without method or pleasure, spent his fortune; but this morning, finding nothing with which he could do honour to the lady for whose love he had already entertained so many men, made him think and suffer ex- tremely; he cursed his fortune, and as a man beside himself ran hither and thither, finding neither money nor anything to pawn. It being late, and his desire to honour the gentle lady in some manner, and not wishing to call on anybody else, but rather to do all himself, his eyes fell upon his beloved falcon, which was in his cage above the table. Tie therefore took it, and finding it fat, and not having any other resource, he considered it to be a proper food for such a woman ; and without thinking any further, he wrung its neck and ordered his servant that, it being plucked and prepared, it should be put 0x1 the spit and roasted immediately. And S6 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY setting the table with the whitest of linen, of which he had still a little left, with a delighted countenance he returned to the lady and told her that such dinner as he was able to pre- pare for her was ready. Thereupon, the lady with her com- panion, rising, went to dinner, and without knowing what she ate or what Frederick served, ate the good falcon. Then, leaving the table, and after pleasant conversation with him, it appeared to the lady that it was time to say what she had come for, and so she began amiably to say to Frederick: "Frederick, recalling your past life and my honesty, which perhaps you considered cruelty and severity, I do not doubt in the least that you will be astonished at my presumption, hearing what I have come for ; but if you had ever had children, through whom you might know how great is the love which one bears them, it seems to me certain that in part you would excuse me. But as you have not, I, who have one, cannot escape the law common to all mothers; obeying which, I am obliged, apart from my own pleasure, and all other convention and duty, to ask of you a gift which I know is extremely dear, and reasonably so, because no other delight and no other amusement and no other consola- tion has your exhausted fortune left you; this gift is your falcon, which my boy has become so strongly enamoured of, that if I do not take it to him I fear that his illness will be- come so much aggravated that I may lose him in conse- quence; therefore I pray you, not on account of the love which you bear me,- but because of your nobility, which has shown greater courtesy than that of any other man, that you would be so kind, so good, as to give it to me, in order that by this gift the life of my son may be preserved, and I be forever under obligation to you." Frederick, hearing what the lady demanded, and knowing that he could not serve her, because he had already given it to her to eat, commenced in her presence to weep so that he could not speak a word in reply ; which weeping the lady at first believed to be for sorrow at having to give up his good falcon more than anything else, and was about to tell him that she did not want it, but, hesitating, waited the reply of Frederick until the weeping ceased, when he spoke thus: " Madonna, since it pleased God that I bestowed my love upon you, raonej, influence, and fortune have been contrary FREDERICK OF THE ALBERIGHI 87 to me, and have given me great trouble ; but all these things are trivial in respect to what fortune makes me at present suffer, for which I shall never have peace, thinking that you have come here to my poor house — to which while I was rich you never deigned to come — and asked of me a little gift, and that fortune has so decreed that I shall not be able to give it to you ; and why I cannot do so I will tell you in a few words. When I heard that you in your kindness wished to dine with me, having regard for your excellence and your worth, I^ considered it worthy and proper to give you the dearest food in my power, and therefore the falcon for which you now ask me was this morning prepared for you, and you have had it roasted on your plate and I had prepared it with delight; but now, seeing that you desire it in another manner, the sorrow that I cannot so please you is so great that never again shall I have peace " ; and saying this, the feathers and the feet and the beak were brought before them in evidence; which thing the lady seeing and hearing, first blamed him for having entertained a woman with such a falcon, and then praised the greatness of his mind, which his poverty had not been able to diminish. Then, there being no hope of having the falcon on account of which the health of her son was in question, in melancholy she departed and re- turned to her son; who either for grief at not being able to have the falcon, or for the illness which might have brought him to this state, did not survive for many days, and to the great sorrow of his mother passed from this life. She, full of tears and of sorrow, and remaining rich and still young, was urged many times by her brothers to marry, which thing she had never wished; but being continually urged, and remembering the worth of Frederick and his last munificence, and that he had killed his beloved falcon to hon- our her, said to her brothers : " I would willingly, if it please you, remain as I am ; but if it please you more that I should take a husband, certainly I will never take any other if I do not take Frederick degli Alberighi." At this her brothers, making fun of her, said : " Silly creature, what do you say ? Why do you choose him? He has nothing in the world." To this she replied : " My brothers, I know very well that it is as you say; but I prefer rather a man who has need of riches, than riches that have need of a man." The brothers, S8 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY hearing her mind, and knowing Frederick for a worthy man, —although poor — as she wished, gave her with all her wealth to him; who, seeing this excellent woman whom he had so much loved become his wife, and besides that, being most rich, becoming economical, lived in happiness with her to the end of his days. A LIST OF REPRESENTATIVE TALES AND SHORT STORIES / 1500 TO 1600: Till Eulenspiegel (1515). Tales, Francois Rabelais, Gargantua and Pantagruel (1532- 64)/ Grande Parangon de Nouvelles Nouvelles, Nicolas de Troyes (1535). Belfagor, Giovanni Brevio (1545). Propos Rustiques, Noel du Fail (1547). The Thousand and One Nights (earliest Mss., 1548). Baliverneries, Noel du Fail (1548). Le Gene, A. F. Grazzini (i6th century). Tredeci Piacevoli Notte, G. F. Straparola (i 550-1 554).* Lazarillo de Tormes, D. H. de Mendoza? (1554). Novelle, Matteo Bandello (1544-73). Das Rollwagen Biichlein, Jorg Wickram (1555). Gartengesellschaft, Jacob Frei (1556). Weg Kiirzer, M. Montanus (1557). Heptameron, Marguerite de Navarre (1558). Nouvelles Recreations et Joyeux Devis, Bonaventure des Periers '(1558). Ecatommiti; G. B. Giraldi, or Cinthio (1565). Wendunmuth, H. W. Kirchhoff (1565-1603). The Palace of Pleasure, William Painter (1566-1567). Penelope's Web, Robert Greene (1588). Alcida, Robert Greene (1588?). The Gentle Craft, Thomas Deloney (1597). ^ This arrangement of dates indicates publication between the dates given, inclusive. — [Ed.] * This arrangement of dates indicates publication at the dates given. — [Ed.] 7 89 THE STORY OF ALI BABA, AND THE FORTY ROBBERS DE- STROYED BY A SLAVE THE STORY OF ALI BABA, AND THE FORTY ROBBERS DESTROYED BY A SLAVE The oldest known manuscript of The Thousand and One Nights, popularly known in English as The Arabian Nights' Entertainments, dates from 1548. The Nights were probably reduced to their present form in Cairo, Egypt. The tales are a working-over into Arabic of a much older Persian original, which in its turn must have been made up of stories collected from a remoter an- tiquity. In the transition from Persian to Arabic, much was undoubtedly both changed and added. There are three styles of writing employed in the stories : a prose lying midway between the literary language and the com- mon speech ; a strange, riming style built up rhythmically on a rime or rimes ; and lastly, verse proper. To this day the rdwi, the professional story-teller, recites these tales in Bagdad and in Cairo, declaiming the prose, in- toning the rime paragraphs, and chanting the verse to the accompaniment of a rabdb. Regarding the character of the stories and the mate- rial contained in them, there may be distinguished three categories: beast-fables, fairy-tales, and anecdotes. The beast-fables represent probably the oldest structure; the fairy-tales show the Eastern imagination at its best, and are, according to Sir Richard F. Burton, " wholly and purely Persian"; while the anecdotes, including the sto- ries introduced to prove a point or to point a moral, are the genuine product of the Arabic mind. The Story of Ali Baba is not technically a part of The Nights. It comes to us through Antoine Galland, the 93 94 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY Frenchman who first (1704-17) put The Nights into Eu- ropean circulation. It is to be found with Aladdin and other favourites, also apocryphal, in the body of his Nights, but it exists in no known manuscript of the tales, and has not yet been discovered in any Arabic form. There are two plausible theories for its origin: one is that Galland heard it in the East, and wrote it out from the version as recited ; the other, that it is a tale of late writing, added to the original body of The Nights, per- haps in the seventeenth century. As a seventeenth-cen- tury original for Aladdin has recently been discovered, it is possible that this is the true explanation. But while the matter is undecided, Ali Baba may conveniently be classed with the body of The Nights. As far as inter- nal evidence goes, it is one with them; certainly no story is more characteristic of the collection at its best, and assuredly none is better known to English readers. Of English translations of The Nights, based on the Arabic, there are now three : that of E. W. Lane, consid- erably abridged and somewhat expurgated ; that by John Payne, based upon the Macon MSS. ; and Sir Richard F. Burton's, which contains tales not included in the Macon MSS., and drawn from other printed texts, and manu- scripts. The present version of Ali Baba is an English translation of Galland's. AUTHORITIES I A History of Arabic Literature, by Clement Huart (Literatures of the World series). Terminal Essay by Sir Richard F. Burton to his translation of The Nights. Arabian Society in the Middle Ages, by E. W. Lane; edited by Stanley Lane-Poole. THE STORY OF ALI BABA, AND THE FORTY ROBBERS DESTROYED BY A SLAVE In a* town in Persia there lived two brothers, one nameci Cassim, the other Ali Baba. Their father left them no great property; but as he had divided it equally between them, \t should seem their fortune would have been equal ; but chance directed otherwise. Cassim married a wife, who, soon after their marriage, became heiress to a plentiful estate, and a good shop and warehouse full of rich merchandises; so that he all at once became one of the richest and most considerable merchants, and lived at his ease. Ali Baba, on the other hand, who married a woman as poor as himself, lived in a very mean habitation, and had no other means to maintain his wife and children but his daily labour, by cutting of wood in a forest near the town, and bringing it upon three asses, which were his whole substance, to town to sell. One day, when Ali .Baba was in the forest, and had just cut wood enough to load his asses, he saw at a distance a great cloud of dust, which seemed to approach towards him. He observed it very attentively, and distinguished a large body of horse coming briskly on; and though they did not talk of robbers in that country, Ali Baba began to think that they might prove such ; and, without considering what might become of his asses, he was resolved to save himself. He climbed up a large thick tree, whose branches, at a little distance from the ground, divided in a circular form so close to one another that there was but little space between them. He placed himself in the middle, from whence he could see all that passed without being seen ; and this tree stood at the bottom of a single rock, which was very high above it, and so steep and craggy that nobody could climb up it. This troop, who were all well mounted and well armed, 95 96 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY came to the foot of this rock, and there dismounted. All Baba counted forty of them ; and, by their looks and equipage, never doubted they were thieves. Nor was he mistaken in his opinion ; for they were a troop of banditti, who, without doing any hurt to the neighbourhood, robbed at a distance, and made that place their rendezvous; and what confirmed him in this opinion was, every man unbridled his horse and tied him to some shrub or other, and hung about his neck a bag of corn, which they brought behind them. Then each of them took his portmanteau, which seemed to AH Baba to be full of gold and silver by their weight. One, who was most personable among them, and whom he took to be their cap- tain, came with his portmanteau on his back under the tree in which Ali Baba was hid; and, making his way through some shrubs, pronounced these words so distinctly. Open, Sesame, that Ali Baba heard him. As soon as the captain of the robbers had uttered these words, a door opened; and after he had made all his troop go in before him, he fol- lowed them, and the door shut again of itself. The robbers stayed some time within the rock; and Ali Baba, who feared that some one, or all of them together, should come out and catch him if he should endeavour to make his escape, was obliged to sit patiently in the tree. He was, nevertheless, tempted once or twice to get down and mount one of their horses, and lead another, driving his asses before him with all the haste he could to town ; but the un- certainty of the event made him choose the safer way. At last the door opened again, and the forty robbers came out. As the captain went in last, he came out first, and stood to see them all pass him ; and then Ali Baba heard him make the door close, by pronouncing these words, Shut, Sesame. Every man went and bridled his horse, fastening his port- manteau and mounting again ; and when the captain saw them all ready, he put himself at their head, and they returned the same way they came. Ali Baba did not immediately quit his tree; for, said he to himself, they may have forgotten something and come back again, and then I shall be taken. He followed them with his eyes as far as he could see them; and after that stayed a considerable time before he came down. Remem- bering the words the captain of the robbers made use of to THE STORY OP ALl BAB A 97 cause the door to open and shut, he had the curiosity to try if his pronouncing them would have the same effect. Ac- cordingly he went among the shrubs, and perceiving the door concealed behind them, he stood before it, and said, Open, Sesame. The door instantly flew wide open. Ali Baba, who expected a dark, dismal place, was very much surprised to see it well-lighted and spacious, cut out by men's hands in the form of a vault, which received the light from an opening at the top of the rock, cut in like manner. He saw all sorts of provisions, and rich bales of merchan- dises, of silk stuff, brocade, and valuable carpeting, piled upon one another; and, above all, gold and silver in great heaps, and money in great leather purses. The sight of all these riches made him believe that this cave had been occu- pied for ages by robbers, who succeeded one another. Ali Baba did not stand long to consider what he should do, but went immediately into the cave, and as soon as he was in, the door shut again. But this did not disturb him, because he knew the secret to open it again. He never re- garded the silver, but made the best use of his time in carry- ing out as much of the gold coin, which was in bags, at several times, as he thought his three asses could carry. When he had done, he collected his asses, which were dis- persed, and when he had loaded them with the bags, laid the wood on them in such a manner that they could not be seen. When he had done, he stood before the door, and pronounc- ing the words. Shut, Sesame, the door closed after him ; for it had shut of itself while he was within, and remained open while he was out. He then made the best of his way to town. When Ali Baba got home, he drove his asses into a little yard, and shut the gates very carefully, threw off the wood that covered the bags, carried them into his house, and ranged them in order before his wife, who sat on a sofa. His wife handled the bags, and finding them full of money, suspected that her husband had been robbing, inso- much that when he brought them all in, she could not help saying: Ali Baba, have you been so unhappy as to — Be quiet, wife, interrupted Ali Baba; Do not frighten yourself; I am no robber, unless he can be one who steals from robbers. You will no longer entertain an ill opinion of me when I shall tell you my good fortune. Then he emptied the bags^ 98 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY which raised such a great heap of gold as dazzled his wife's eyes: and when he had done, he told her the whole adven- ture from the beginning to the end; and, above all, recom- mended it to her to keep it secret. The wife, recovered and cured of her fears, rejoiced with her husband at their good luck, and would count the money piece by piece. Wife, replied Ali Baba, You do not know what you undertake, when you pretend to count the money ; you will never have done. I will go and dig a hole and bury it ; there is no time to be lost. — You are in the right of it, hus- band, replied the wife. But let us know, as nigh as possible, how much we have. I will go and borrow a small measure in the neighbourhood, and measure it, while you dig the hole. — What you are going to do is to no purpose, wife, said Ali Baba; If you would take my advice, you had better let it alone ; but be sure to keep the secret, and do what you please. Away the wife ran to her brother-in-law, Cassim, who lived just by, but was not then at home ; and addressing her- self to his wife, desired her to lend her a measure for a little while. Her sister-in-law asked her whether she would have a great or a small one. The other asked for a small one. She bid her stay a little, and she would readily fetch one. The sister-in-law did so, but as she knew very well Ali Baba's poverty, she was curious to know what sort of grain his wife wanted to measure; and bethought herself of art- fully putting some suet at the bottom of the measure, and brought it to her with an excuse, that she was sorry that she had made her stay so long, but that she could not find it sooner. Ali Baba's wife went home, set the measure upon the heap of gold, and filled it and emptied it often, at a small distance upon the sofa, till she had done : and she was very well sat- isfied to find the number of measures amounted to as many as they did, and went to tell her husband, who had almost finished digging the hole. While Ali Baba was burying the gold, his wife, to show her exactness and diligence to her sister-in-law, carried the measure back again, but without taking notice that a piece of gold stuck at the bottom. Sister, said she, giving it to her again: You see that I have not kept your measure long ; I am obliged to you for it, and return it with thanks. THE STORY OF ALI BABA 99 As soon as AH Baba's wife's back was turned, Cassim's wife looked at the bottom of the measure, and was in an in- expressible surprise to find a piece of gold stuck to it. Envy immediately possessed her breast. What ! said she, Has AH Baba gold so plentiful as to measure it? Where has that poor wretch got all this gold ? Cassim, her husband, was not at home, as I said before, but at his shop, which he left al- ways in the evening. His wife waited for him, and thought the time an age ; so great was her impatience to tell him the news, at which he would be as much surprised, Wh^n Cassim came home, his wife said to him: Cassim, I warrant you, you think yourself rich, but you are much mistaken ; AH Baba is infinitely richer than you ; he does not count his money, but measures it. Cassim desired her to explain the riddle, which she did, by telling him the strata- gem she had made use of to make the discovery, and showed him the piece of money, which was so old a coin that they could not tell in what prince's reign it was coined. Cassim, instead of being pleased at his brother's pros- perity, conceived a mortal jealousy, and could not sleep all that night for it, but went to him in the morning before sun- rise. Now, Cassim, after he had married the rich widow, never treated AH Baba as a brother, but forgot him. AH Baba, said he, accosting him. You are very reserved in your affairs ; you pretend to be miserably poor, and yet you meas- ure gold. How, brother ! replied AH Baba ; I do not know what you mean : explain yourself. — Do you pretend igno- rance? replied Cassim, showing him the piece of gold his wife had given him. How many of these pieces, added he. Have you ? My wife found this at the bottom of the meas- ure you borrowed yesterday. By this discourse AH Baba perceived that Cassim and his wife, through his own wife's folly, knew what they had so much reason to keep secret ; but what was done could not be recalled ; therefore, without showing the least surprise or trouble, he confessed all, and told his brother by what chance he had discovered this retreat of the thieves, and in what place it was ; and offered him part of his treasure to keep the secret. — I expect as much, repHed Cassim haughtily; But I will know exactly where this treasure is, and the signs and tokens how I may go to it myself when I have a mind; 100 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY otherwise I will go and inform against you, and then you will not only get no more, but will lose all you have got, and I shall have my share for my information. Ali Baba, more out of his natural good temper than fright- ened by the insulting menaces of a barbarous brother, told him all he desired, and even the very words he was to make use of to go into the cave and to come out again. Cassim, who wanted no more of Ali Baba, left him, re- solving to be beforehand with him, and hoping to get all the treasure to himself. He rose early the next morning a long time before the sun, and set out with ten mules laden with great chests, which he designed to fill; proposing to carry many more the next time, according to the riches he found; and followed the road which Ali Baba had told him. He was not long before he came to the rock, and found out the place by the tree, and other marks his brother had given him. When he came to the door he pronounced these words. Open, Sesame, and it opened; and when he was in, shut again. In examining the cave, he was in great admiration to find much more riches than he apprehended by Ali Baba's relation. He was so covetous and fond of riches, that he could have spent the whole day in feasting his eyes with so much treasure, if the thought that he came to carry some away with him, and loading his mules, had not hindered him. He laid as many bags of gold as he could carry away at the door ; and coming at last to open the door, his thoughts were so full of the great riches he should possess, that he could not think of the necessary word; but instead of Sesame, said. Open, Barley, and was much amazed to find that the door did not open, but remained fast shut. He named several sorts of grain, all but the right, and the door would not open. Cassim never expected such an accident, and was so frightened at the danger he was in, that the more he endeav- oured to remember the word Sesame, the more his memory was confounded; and he had as much forgotten it as if he had never heard it in his life before. He threw down the bags he had loaded himself with, and walked hastily up and down the cave, without having the least regard to all the riches that were round him. In this miserable condition we will leave him bewailing his fate, and undeserving of pity. About noon the robbers returned to their cave, and at THE STORV O^ ALI BABA loi some distance from it saw Cassim's 'mules str^gg^Kng^'^ about the rock, with great chests on their backs. Alarmed at this novelty they galloped full speed to the cave. They drove away the mules, which Cassim had neglected to fasten, and they strayed away through the forest so far that they were soon out of sight. The robbers never gave themselves the trouble to pursue the mules; they were more concerned to know whom they belonged to. And while some of them searched about the rock, the captain and the rest went di- rectly to the door, with their naked sabres in their hands; and pronouncing the words, it opened. Cassim, who heard the noise of the horses' feet from the middle of the cave, never doubted of the coming of the rob- bers and his approaching death; but resolved to make one effort to escape from them. To this end he stood ready at the door, and no sooner heard the word Sesame, which he had forgotten, and saw the door open, but he jumped briskly out, and threw the captain down; but could not escape the other robbers, who with their sabres soon deprived him of life. The first care of the robbers after this was to go into the cave. They found all the bags which Cassim had brought to the door, to be more ready to load his mules with ; and carried them all back again to their places, without perceiv- ing what Ali Baba had taken away before. Then holding a council, and deliberating upon this matter, they guessed that Cassim, when he was in, could not get out again ; but they could not imagine how he got in. It came into their heads that he might have got down by the top of the cave ; but the opening by which it received light was so high, and the top of the rock so inaccessible without, besides that nothing showed that he had done so, that they believed it impractica- ble for them to find out. That he came in at the door they could not satisfy themselves, unless he had the secret of making it open. In short, none of them could imagine which way he entered; for they were all persuaded that nobody knew their secret, little imagining that Ali Baba had watched them. But, however it happened, it was a matter of the greatest importance to them to secure their riches. They agreed, therefore, to cut Cassim's body into four quarters; and to hang two on one side, and two on the other, within 102 Tm,^<\ti,6^ THE SHORT STORY the 'door of the cave, to terrify any person that should attempt the same thing, determining not to return to the cave till the stench of the body was completely exhaled. They had no sooner taken this resolution than they exe- cuted it; and when they had nothing more to detain them, they left the place of their retreat well closed. They mounted their horses and went to beat the roads again, and to attack the caravans they should meet. In the meantime Cassim's wife was very uneasy when night came and her husband was not returned. She ran to Ali Baba in a terrible fright, and said: I believe, brother-in- law, that you know that Cassim, your brother, is gone to the forest, and upon what account; it is now night, and he is not returned; I am afraid some misfortune has come to him. Ali Baba, who never disputed but that his brother, after what he had said to him, would go to the forest, declined going himself that day, for fear of giving him any umbrage ; there- fore told her, without any reflection upon her husband's un- handsome behaviour, that she need not frighten herself, for that certainly Cassim did not think it proper to come into the town till the night should be pretty far advanced. Cassim's wife, considering how much it concerned her husband to keep this thing secret, was the more easily per- suaded to believe him. She went home again, and waited patiently till midnight. Then her fear redoubled with grief the more sensible, because she durst not vent it, nor show it, but was forced to keep it secret from the neighbourhood. Then, as if her fault had been irreparable, she repented of her foolish curiosity, and cursed her desire of penetrating into the affairs of her brother- and sister-in-law. She spent all that night in weeping; and as soon as it was day, went to them, telling them, by her tears, the cause of her coming. Ali Baba did not wait for his sister-in-law to desire him to go and see what was become of Cassim, but went immediately with his three asses, begging of her at first to moderate her affliction. He went to the forest, and when he came near the rock, and having seen neither his brother nor his mules in his way, he was very much surprised to see some blood spilt by the door, which he took for an ill omen; but when he had pronounced the word, and the door opened, he was much more startled at the dismal sight of his brother's quar- THE STORY OF ALI BABA 1 03 ters. He was not long in determining how he should pay the last dues to his brother; and, without remembering the little brotherly friendship he had for him, went into the cave, to find something to wrap them in, and loaded one of his asses with them, and covered them over with wood. The other two asses he loaded with bags of gold, covering them with wood also as before ; and then bidding the door shut, came away : but was so cautious as to stop some time at the end of the forest, that he might not go into the town before night. When -^he came home, he drove the two asses loaded with gold into his little yard ; and left the care of unloading them to his wife, while he led the other to his sister-in-law's. Ali Baba knocked at the door, which was opened by Morgiana, a cunning, intelligent slave, fruitful in inventions to insure success in the most difficult undertakings : and Ali Baba knew her to be such. When he came into the court, he unloaded the ass ; and, taking Morgiana aside, said to her : The first thing I ask of you is an inviolable secrecy, which you will find is necessary both for your mistress's sake and mine. Your master's body is contained in these two bundles ; and our business is, to bury him as if he died a natural death. Go, tell your mistress I want to speak with her; and mind what I say to you. Morgiana went to her mistress, and Ali Baba followed her. Well, brother, said she, with great impatience, What news do you bring me of my husband? I perceive no com- fort in your countenance. — Sister, answered Ali Baba, I can- not tell you anything before you hear my story from the beginning to the end, without speaking a word; for it is ot as great importance to you as to me to keep what has hap- pened secret. — Alas ! said she. This preamble lets me know that my husband is dead; but at the same time I know the necessity of the secrecy you require of me, and I must con- strain myself : say on ; I will hear you. Then Ali Baba told his sister the success of his journey, till he came to the finding of Cassim's body. Now, said he, Sister, I have something to tell you, which will afflict you much the more, because it is what you so little expect ; but it cannot now be remedied ; and if anything can comfort you, I offer to put that little which God hath sent me, to what you have, and marry you; assuring you that my wife will not be 104 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY jealous, and that we shall live happily together. If this pro- posal is agreeable to you, we must think of acting so, as that my brother should appear to have died a natural death. I think you may leave the management of it to Morgiana, and I will contribute all that lies in my power. What could Cassim's widow do better than accept of this proposal? For though her first husband had left behind him plentiful substance, this second was much richer, and by the discovery of this treasure might be much more so. Instead of rejecting the offer, she looked upon it as a reasonable motive to comfort her ; and drying up her tears, which began to flow abundantly, and suppressing the outcries usual with women who have lost their husbands, showed AH Baba she approved of his proposal. Ali Baba left the widow, and recommended to Morgiana to act her part well, and then returned home with his ass. Morgiana went out at the same time to an apothecary, and asked him for a sort of lozenges, which he prepared, and which were very efficacious in the most dangerous distem- pers. The apothecary asked her who was sick at her mas- ter's. She replied with a sigh, her good master, Cassim him- self : that they knew not what his distemper was, but that he could neither eat nor speak. After these words Morgiana carried the lozenges home with her, and the next morning went to the same apothecary's again; and, with tears in her eyes, asked for an essence which they used to give to sick people only when at the last extremity. Alas ! said she, taking it from the apothecary, I am afraid that this remedy will have no better effect than the lozenges, and that I shall lose my good master. On the other hand, as Ali Baba and his wife were often seen to go between Cassim's and their own house all that day, and to seem melancholy, nobody was surprised in the even- ing to hear the lamentable shrieks and cries of Cassim's wife and Morgiana, who told it everywhere that her master was dead. The next morning soon after day appeared, Morgiana, who knew a certain old cobbler that opened his stall early, before other people, went to him, and, bidding him good morrow, put a piece of gold into his hand. — Well, said Baba Mustapha, which was his name, and who was a merry old THE STORY OF ALI BABA 105 fellow, looking on the gold, though it was hardly daylight, and seeing what it was : This is good hansel ; what must I do for it? I am ready. Baba Mustapha, saidMorgiana, You must take with you your sewing-tackle, and go with me; but I must tell you, I shall blindfold you when you come to such a place. Baba Mustapha seemed to boggle a little at these words. Oh, oh ! replied he, You would have me do something against my conscience, or against my honour. — God forbid ! said Mor- giana, j^utting another piece of gold into his hand. That I should ask anything that is contrary to your honour; only come along with me and fear nothing. Baba Mustapha went with Morgiana, who, after she had bound his eyes with a handkerchief, at the place she told him of, carried him to her deceased master's house, and never unloosed his eyes till he came into the room where she had put the corpse together. Baba Mustapha, said she. You must make haste, and sew these quarters together; and when you have done, I will give you another piece of gold. After Baba Mustapha had done, she blindfolded him again, gave him the third piece of gold, as she promised, recommending secrecy to him, carried him back to the place where she first bound his eyes, pulled off the bandage, and let him go home, but watched him that he returned to his stall, till he was quite out of sight, for fear he should have the curiosity to return and dodge her, and then went home. By the time Morgiana had warmed some water to wash the body, Ali Baba came with incense to embalm it, and bury it with the usual ceremonies. Not long after, the joiner, ac- cording to Ali Baba's orders, brought the coffin, which Morgi- ana, that he might find out nothing, received at the door, and helped Ali Baba to put the body into it; and as soon as he had nailed it up, she went to the mosque to tell the imam that they were ready. The people of the mosque, whose business it was to wash the dead, offered to perform their duty, but she told them it was done already. Morgiana had scarce got home before the imam and the other ministers of the mosque came. Four neighbours car- ried the corpse on their shoulders to the burying-ground, fol- lowing the imam, who recited some prayers. Morgiana, as a slave to the deceased, followed the corpse, weeping, beating 8 io6 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY her breast, and tearing her hair. And Ali Baba came after with some neighbours, who often relieved the others in car- rying the corpse to the burying-ground. Cassim's wife stayed at home mourning, uttering lam- entable cries with the women of the neighbourhood, who came according to custom during the funeral; and, joining their lamentations with hers, filled the quarter far and near with sorrow. In this manner Cassim's melancholy death was concealed and hushed up between Ali Baba, his wife, Cassim's widow, and Morgiana, with so much contrivance, that nobody in the city had the least knowledge or suspiciqn of it. Three or four days after the funeral, Ali Baba removed his few goods to the house of his brother's widow; but the money he had taken from the robbers he conveyed thither by night; and soon after the marriage with his sister-in-law was published, and as these marriages are common in our religion, nobody was surprised. As for Cassim's shop, Ali Baba gave it to his own eldest son, who had been some time out of his apprenticeship to a great merchant; promising him withal, that if he managed well, he would soon give him a fortune to marry very advan- tageously according to his situation. Let us now leave Ali Baba to enjoy the beginning of his good fortune, and return to the forty robbers. They came again at the appointed time to visit their re- treat in the forest; but how great was their surprise to find Cassim's body taken away, and some of their bags of gold. We are certainly discovered, said the captain, And shall be undone, if we do not take care and speedily apply some rem- edy; otherwise we shall insensibly lose all the riches which our ancestors have been so many years amassing together with so much pains and danger. All that we can think of this loss which we have sustained is, that the thief whom we have surprised had the secret of opening the door, and we came luckily as he was coming out: but his body being re- moved, and with it some of our money, plainly shows that he has an accomplice; and as it is likely that there were but two who had got this secret, and one has been caught, we must look narrowly after the other. What say you to it, my lads? THE STORY OF ALl BABA X07 All the robbers thought the captain's proposal so reason- able, that they unanimously approved of it; and agreed that they must lay all other enterprises aside, to follow this closely, and not give it up till they had succeeded. I expected no less, said the captain, From your courage and bravery : but, first of all, one of you who is bold, artful, and enterprising, must go into the town dressed like a trav- eller and stranger, and exert all his contrivance to try if he can hear any talk of the strange death of the man whom we have Killed, as he deserved, and to endeavour to find out who he was, and where he lived. This is a matter of the first importance for us to know, that we may do nothing which we may have reason to repent of, by discovering our- selves in a country where we have lived so long unknown, and where we have so much reason to continue; but to warn that man who shall take upon himself this commis- sion, and to prevent our being deceived by his giving us a false report, which may be the cause of our ruin, I ask you all, if you do not think it fit that in that case he shall submit to suffer death? Without waiting for the suffrages of his companions, one of the robbers started up, and said : I submit to this law, and think it an honour to expose my life, by taking such a com- mission upon me ; but remember, at least, if I do not succeed, that I neither wanted courage, nor good- will to serve the troop. After this robber had received great commendations from the captain and his comrades, he disguised himself so that nobody would take him for what he was ; and taking his leave of the troop that night, went into the town just at daybreak, and walked up and down till he came to Baba Mustapha's stall, which was always open before any of the shops of the town. Baba Mustapha was set on his seat with an awl in his hand, just going to work. The robber saluted him, bidding him good morrow; and perceiving that he was very old, he said : Honest man, you begin to work very early ; is it possi- ble that any one of your age can see so well ? I question, even if it were somewhat lighter, whether you could see to stitch. Certainly, replied Baba Mustapha, You must be a stranger, and do not know me ; for, old as I am, I have extraordinarily good eyes; and you will not doubt it when I tell you that I Io8 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY sewed a dead body together in a place where I had not so much Hght as I have now. The robber was overjoyed to think that he had addressed himself, at his first coming into the town, to a man who gave him the intelHgence he wanted, without asking him. A dead body ! replied he with amazement, to make him explain him- self. What could you sew up a dead body for ? added he : You mean, you sewed up his winding-sheet. — No, no, answered Baba Mustapha, I know what I say; you want to have me speak out, but you shall know no more. The robber wanted no greater insight to be persuaded that he had discovered what he came about. He pulled out a piece of gold, and putting it into Baba Mustapha's hand, said to him : I do not want to know your secret, though I can assure you that I would not divulge it if you trusted me with it. The only thing which I desire of you, is to do me the favour to show the house where you stitched up the dead body. if I would do you that favour which you ask of me, re- plied Baba Mustapha, holding the money in his hand, ready to return it, I assure you I cannot ; and you may believe me, on my word, I was carried to a certain place, where they first blinded me, and then led me to the house, and brought me back again after the same manner ; therefore you see the impossibility of doing what you desire. Well, replied. the robber, You may remember a little of the way that you were led blindfold. Come, let me blind your eyes at the same place. We will walk together by the same way and turnings; perhaps you may remember some part; and as everybody ought to be paid for their trouble, there is another piece of gold for you : gratify me in what I ask you. So saying, he put another piece of gold into his hand. The two pieces of gold were great temptations to ,Baba Mustapha. He looked at them a long time in his hand, with- out saying a word, thinking with himself what he should do ; but at last he pulled out his purse, and put them in. I cannot assure you, said he to the robber. That I remember the way exactly; but, since you desire it, I will try what I can do. At these words Baba Mustapha rose up, to the great satis- faction of the robber, and without shutting up his shop, where he had nothing valuable to lose, he led the robber to the THE STORY OF ALI BABA 109 place where Morgiana bound his eyes. It was here, said Baba Mustapha, I was blindfolded; and I turned as you see me. The robber, who had his handkerchief ready, tied it over his eyes, and walked by him till he stopped, partly lead- ing him, and partly guided by him. I think, said Baba Mustapha, I went no farther; and he had now stopped di- rectly at Cassim's house, where AH Baba lived then; upon which the thief, before he pulled off the band, marked the door with a piece of chalk, which he had ready in his hand; and when he pulled it off, he asked him if he knew whose house that was : to which Baba Mustapha replied, that as he did not live in that neighbourhood he could not tell. The robber, finding that he could discover no more from Baba Mustapha, thanked him for the trouble he had given him, and left him to go back to his stall, while he returned to the forest, persuaded that he should be very well received. A little after the robber and Baba Mustapha parted, Mor- giana went out of Ali Baba's house for something; and com- ing home again, seeing the mark the robber had made, she stopped to observe it. What is the meaning of this mark? said she to herself; Somebody intends my master no good, or else some boy has been playing the rogue with it: with whatever intention it was done, added she, It is good to guard against the worst. Accordingly she went and fetched a piece of chalk, and marked two or three doors on each side in the same manner, without saying a word to her master or mis- tress. In the meantime the thief rejoined his troop again in the forest, and told them the good success he had, expatiating upon his good fortune in meeting so soon with the only per- son who could inform him of what he wanted to know. All the robbers listened to him with the utmost satisfaction ; when the captain, after commending his diligence, addressing him- self to them all, said : Comrades, we have no time to lose ; let us all set off well-armed, without its appearing who we are ; and that we may not give any suspicion, let one or two go pri- vately into the town together, and appoint the rendezvous in the great square; and in the meantime our comrade, who brought us the good news, and I, will go and find out the house, that we may consult what is best to be done. This speech and plan was approved by all, and they were no THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY soon ready. They filed off in small parcels of two or three, at the proper distance from each other; and all got into the town without being in the least suspected. The captain and he that came in the morning as a spy, came in last of all. He led the captain into the street where he had marked Ali Baba's house, and when they came to one of the houses which Mor- giana had marked, he pointed it out. But going a little far- ther, to prevent being taken notice of, the captain observed that the next door was chalked after the same manner, and in the same place: and showing it to his guide, asked him which house it was ; that, or the first. The guide was so con- founded, that he knew not what answer to make ; and much less, when he and the captain saw five or six houses besides marked after the same manner. He assured the captain, with an oath, that he had marked but one, and could not tell who had chalked the rest so like to that which he marked, and owned, in that confusion, he could not distinguish it. The captain, finding that their design proved abortive, went directly to the place of rendezvous and told the first of his troop that he met that they had lost their labour, and must return to their cave the same way as they came. He himself set the example) and they all returned as they came. When the troop was all got together, the captain told them the reason of their returning; and presently the conductor was declared by all worthy of death. He condemned himself, acknowledging that he ought to have taken better precaution, and kneeled down to receive the stroke from him that was appointed to cut off his head. But as it was the safety of the troop that an injury should not go unpunished, another of the gang, who promised him- self that he should succeed better, presented himself; and his offer being accepted, he went and corrupted Baba Mustapha, as the other had done; and being shown the house, marked it, in a place more remote from sight, with red chalk. Not long after, Morgiana, whose eyes nothing could es- cape, went out ; and seeing the red chalk, and arguing after the same manner with herself, marked the other neighbours' houses in the same place and manner. The robber, at his return to his company, valued himself very much upon the precaution he had taken, which he looked upon as an infallible way of distinguishing Ali Baba's house THE STORY OF ALl BABA Itl from his neighbours' ; and the captain and all of them thought it must succeed. They conveyed themselves into the town in the same manner as before ; and when the robber and his cap- tain came to the street, they found the same difficulty; at which the captain was enraged, and the robber in as great confusion as his predecessor. Thus the captain and his troop were forced to retire a sec- ond time, and much more dissatisfied ; and the robber, as the author of the mistake, underwent the same punishment, which he willpgly submitted to. The captain, having lost two brave fellows of his troop, was afraid of diminishing it too much by pursuing this plan to get information about Ali Baba's house. He found, by their example, that their heads were not so good as their hands on such occasions, and therefore resolved to take upon himself this important commission. Accordingly, he went and addressed himself to Baba Mus- tapha, who did him the same piece of service he had done to the former. He never amused himself with setting any par- ticular mark on the house, but examined and observed it so carefully, by passing often by it, that it was impossible for him to mistake it. The captain, very well satisfied with his journey, and in- formed of what he wanted to know, returned to the forest; and when he came into the cave, where the troop waited for him, he said: Now, comrades, nothing can prevent our full revenge; I am certain of the house, and in my way hither I have thought how to put it in execution, and if any one knows a better expedient, let him communicate it. Then he told them his contrivance ; and as they approved of it, he or- dered them to go into the towns and villages about and buy nineteen mules, and thirty-eight large leather jars, one full, and the others all empty. In two or three days' time the robbers purchased the mules and jars, and as the mouths of the jars were rather too nar- row for his purpose, the captain caused them to be widened; and after having put one of his men into each, with the weapons which he thought fit, leaving open the seam which had been undone to leave them room to breathe, he rubbed the jars on the outside with oil from the full vessel. Things being thus prepared, when the nineteen mules were 112 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY loaded with thirty-seven robbers in jars and the jar of oil, the captain, as their driver, set out with them, and reached the town by the dusk of the evening, as he intended. He led them through the streets till he came to Ali Baba's, at whose door he designed to have knocked ; but was prevented by his sitting there, after supper, to take a little fresh air. He stopped his mules, and addressed himself to him, and said : I have brought some oil here, a great way, to sell at to-morrow's market; and it is now so late, that I do not know where to lodge. If I should not be troublesome to you, do me the favour to let me pass the night with you, and I shall be very much obliged to you. Though Ali Baba had seen the captain of the robbers in the forest, and had heard him speak, it was impossible for him to know him in the disguise of an oil-merchant. He told him he should be welcome, and immediately opened his gates for the mules to go into the yard. At the same time he called to a slave he had, and ordered him, when the mules were un- loaded, not only to put them into the stable, but to give them corn and hay; and then went to Morgiana, to bid her get a good hot supper for his guest, and make him a good bed. He did more. To make his guest as welcome as possible, when he saw the captain had unloaded his mules, and that they were put into the stable as he ordered, and he was look- ing for a place to pass the night in the air, he brought him into the hall where he received his company, telling him he would not suffer him to be in the court. The captain e?ccused himself, on pretence of not being troublesome; but really to have room to execute his design, and it was not till after the most pressing importunity that he yielded. Ali Baba, not content to keep company with the man who had a design on his life till supper was ready, continued talking with him till it was ended, and repeating his offer of service. The captain rose up at the same time, and went with him to the door; and while Ali Baba went into the kitchen to speak to Morgiana, he went into the yard, under pretence of looking at his mules. Ali Baba, after " charging Morgiana afresh to take great care of his guest, said to her : To-morrow I design to go to the bath before day : take care my bathing- linen be ready, and give it to Abdallah [which was the THE STORY OF ALI BABA 1 13 slave's name], and make me some good broth against I come back. After this he went to bed. In the meantime, the captain of the robbers went from the stable to give his people orders what to do; and beginning at the first jar, and so on to the last, said to each man : As soon as I throw some stones out of the chamber-window where I lie, do not fail to cut the jar open with the knife you have about you, pointed and sharpened for the purpose, and come out, and I will be presently with you. After this he returned into the kitchen; and Morgiana, taking up a light, conducted him to his chamber, where, after she had asked him if he wanted anything, she left him ; and he, to avoid any suspicion, put the light out soon after, and laid himself down in his clothes, that he might be the more ready to rise again. Morgiana, remembering Ali Baba's orders, got his bath- ing-linen ready, and ordered Abdallah, who was not then gone to bed, to set on the pot for the broth ; but while she skimmed the pot the lamp went out, and there was no more oil in the house, nor any candles. What to do she did not know,' for the broth must be made. Abdallah, seeing her very uneasy, said : Do not fret and tease yourself, but go into the yard, and take some oil out of one of the jars. Morgiana thanked Abdallah for his advice ; and while he went to bed, near Ali Baba's room, that he might be the bet- ter able to rise and follow Ali Baba to the bath, she took the oil-pot, and went into the yard; and as she came nigh the first jar, the robber within said softly, Is it time? Though the robber spoke low, Morgiana was struck with the voice the more, because the captain, when he unloaded the mules, opened this and all the other jars, to give air to his men, who were ill enough at their ease without wanting room to breathe. Any other slave but Morgiana, so surprised as she was to find a man in a jar, instead of the oil she wanted, would have made such a noise as to have given an alarm, which would have been attended with ill consequences ; whereas Morgiana, apprehending immediately the importance of keeping the se- cret, and the danger Ali Baba, his family, and she herself were in, and the necessity of applying a speedy remedy with- out noise, conceived at once the means, and collecting herself without showing the least emotion, answered: Not yet, but 114 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY presently. She went in this manner to all the jars, giving the same answer, till she came to the jar of oil. By this means, Morgiana found that her master Ali Baba, who thought that he had entertained an oil-merchant, had admitted thirty-eight robbers into his house, looking on this pretended merchant as their captain. She made what haste she could to fill her oil-pot^ and returned into her kitchen; where, as soon as she had lighted her lamp, she took a great kettle, and went again to the oil- jar, filled the kettle, and set it on a great wood fire to boil ; and as soon as it boiled, went and poured enough into every jar to stifle and destroy the robber within. When this action, worthy of the courage of Morgiana, was executed without any noise, as she had projected, she re- turned into the kitchen with the empty kettle, and shut the door ; and having put out the great fire she had made to boil the oil, and leaving just enough to make the broth, put out also the lamp, and remained silent; resolving not to go to bed till she had observed what was to follow, through a window of the kitchen which opened into the yard, as far as the darkness of the night permitted. She had not waited a quarter of an hour, before the cap- tain of the robbers waked, got up, and opened the window; and finding no light, and hearing no noise, nor any one stir- ring in the house, gave the signal, by throwing little stones, several of which hit the jars, as he doubted not by the sound they gave. Then he listened, and neither hearing nor per- ceiving anything whereby he could judge that his compan- ions stirred, he began to grow very uneasy, and threw stones again a second and a third time, and could not comprehend the reason that none of them should answer to his signal: cruelly alarmed, he went softly down into the yard, and going to the first jar, and asking the robber, whom he thought alive, if he was asleep, he smelled the hot boiled oil, which sent forth a steam out of the jar, and knew thereby that his plot to murder Ali Baba and plunder his house was discov- ered. Examining all the jars one ofter another, he found that all his gang were dead; and by the oil he missed out of the last jar, he guessed at the means and manner of their deaths. Enraged to despair at having failed in his design, he forced the lock of a door, that led from the yard to the THE STORY OF ALI BABA 115 garden; and, climbing over the walls of several gardens, at last made his escape. When Morgiana heard no noise, and found, after waiting some time, that the captain did not return, she guessed that he chose rather to make his escape by the gardens than by the street-door, which was double-locked; satisfied and pleased to have succeeded so well, and at having secured the house, she went to bed and fell asleep. Ali Baba rose before day, and, followed by his slave, went to-lhe baths, entirely ignorant of the amazing accident that had happened at home; for Morgiana did not think it right to wake him before for fear of losing her opportunity ; and afterwards she thought it needless to disturb him. When he returned from the baths, and the sun had risen, he was very much surprised to see the oil-jars, and that the merchant was not gone with the mules. He asked Morgiana, who opened the door, and had let all things stand as they were, that he might see them, the reason of it. My good mas- ter, answered she, God preserve you and all your family ! You will be better informed of what you wish to know when you have seen what I have to show you, if you will give yourself the trouble to follow me. As soon as Morgiana had shut the door, Ali Baba followed her; and when she brought him into the yard, she bid him look into the first jar, and see if there was any oil. Ali Baba did so, and seeing a man, started back frightened, and cried out. Do not be afraid, said Morgiana ; The man you see there can neither do you nor anybody else any harm. He is dead. — ■ Ah, Morgiana ! said Ali Baba, What is it you show me ? Ex- plain the meaning of it to me. — I will, replied Morgiana; Moderate your astonishment, and do not excite the curiosity of your neighbours ; for it is of great importance to keep this affair secret. Look in all the other jars. Ali Baba examined all the other jars, one after another; and when he came to that which had the oil in it, he found it prodigiously sunk, and stood for some time motionless, sometimes looking on the jars, sometimes on Morgiana, without saying a word, so great was his surprise: at last, when he had recovered himself, he said : And what is become of the merchant? Merchant ! answered she : He is as much one as I am. I il< THE iBOOK OF THE SHORT STORY will tell you who he is, and what is become of him ; but yoU had better hear the story in your own chamber; for it is time for your health that you had your broth after your bathing. While AH Baba went into his chamber, Morgiana went into the kitchen to fetch the broth and carry it to him; but before he would drink it, he first bid her satisfy his impa- tience, and tell him the story with all its circumstances ; and she obeyed him. Last night, sir, said she. When you were gone to bed, I got your bathing-linen ready, and gave it to Abdallah ; afterwards I set on the pot for the broth, and as I was skim- ming the pot, the lamp, for want of oil, went out ; and as there was not a drop more in the house, I looked for a candle, but could not find one. Abdallah, seeing me vexed, put me in mind of the jars of oil which stood in the yard. I took the oil-pot, and went directly to the jar which stood nearest to mc ; and when I came to it, I heard a voice within it say : Is it time? Without being dismayed, and comprehending immediately the malicious intention of the pretended oil-mer- chant, I answered: Not yet, but presently. Then I went to the next, and another voice asked me the same question, and I returned the same answer ; and so on, till I came to the last, which I found full of oil, with which I filled my pot. When I considered that there were thirty-seven robbers in the yard, who only waited for a signal to be given by the captain, whom you took to be an oil-merchant, and enter- tained so handsomely, I thought there was no time to be lost : I carried my pot of oil into the kitchen, lighted the lamp, and afterwards took the biggest kettle I had, went and filled it full of oil, and set it on the fire to boil, and then went and poured as much into each jar as was sufficient to prevent them from executing the pernicious design they came about: after this I retired into the kitchen, and put out the lamp; but before I went to bed, I waited at the window to know what measures the pretended merchant would take. After I had watched some time for the signal, he threw some stones out of the window against the jars, and neither hearing nor perceiving anybody stirring, after throwing three times, he came down, and I saw him go to every jar ; after which, through the darkness of the night, I lost sight of him. THE STORY OF ALI BABA I17 I waited some time longer, and finding that he did not return, I never doubted but that, seeing he had missed his aim, he had made his escape over the walls of the garden. Persuaded that the house was now safe, I went to bed. This, said Morgiana, Is the account you asked of me ; and I am convinced it is the consequence of an observation which I had made for two or three days before, but did not think fit to acquaint you with ; for when I came in one morning early, I found our street-door marked with white chalk, and the next morning with red ; and both times, without knowing what was the intention of those chalks, I marked two or three neigh- bours' doors on each hand after the same manner. If you re- flect on this, and what has since happened, you will find it to be a plot of the robbers of the forest, of whose gang there are two wanting, and now they are reduced to three: all this shows that they had sworn your destruction, and it is proper you should stand upon your guard, while there is one of them alive: for my part I shall not neglect any- thing necessary to your preservation, as I am in duty bound. When Morgiana had left off speaking, Ali Baba was so sensible of the great service she had done him, that he said to her : I will not die without rewarding you as you deserve ; I owe my life to you, and for the first token of my acknowl- edgment I will give you your liberty from this moment, till I can complete your recompense as I intend. I am persuaded with you that the forty robbers have laid all manner of snares for me : God, by your means, has delivered me from them, and I hope will continue to preserve me from their wicked designs; and, by averting the danger which threatened me, will deliver the world from their persecution and their cursed race. All that we have to do is to bury the bodies of these pests of mankind immediately, and with all the secrecy im- aginable, that nobody may suspect what has become of them. But that Abdallah and I will undertake. Ali Baba's garden was very long, and shaded at the far- ther end by a great number of large trees. Under these trees he and the slave went and dug a trench, long and wide enough to hold all the robbers ; and as the earth was light, they were not long doing it. Afterwards they lifted the bodies out of the jars, took away their weapons, carried them to the end Ii8 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY of the garden, laid them in the trench, and levelled the ground again. When this was done, Ali Baba hid the jars and weap- ons ; and as for the mules, as he had no occasion for them, he sent them at different times to be sold in the market by his slave. When Ali Baba took these measures to prevent the pub- lic from knowing how he came by his riches in so short ^ time, the captain of the forty robbers returned to the forest, in most inconceivable mortification; and in the agitation, or rather confusion, he was in at his success, so contrary to what he had promised himself, he entered the cave, not being able, all the way from the town, to come to any resolution what to do to Ali Baba. The loneliness of the dark place seemed frightful to him. Where are you, my brave lads, cried he. Old companions of my watchings, inroads, and labour? What can I do without you ? Did I collect you to lose you by so base a fate, and one so unworthy your courage? Had you died with your sabres in your hands, like brave men, my regret had been less ! When shall I get so gallant a troop again? And if I could, can I undertake it without exposing so much gold and treas- ure to him, who hath already enriched himself out of it? I cannot, I ought not to think of it, before I have taken away his life. I will undertake that myself, which I could not ac- complish with so powerful assistance ; and when I have taken care to secure this treasure from being pillaged, I will pro- vide for it new masters and successors after me, who shall preserve and augment it to all posterity. This resolution being taken, he was not at a loss how to execute it ; but, easy in his mind, and full of hopes, he slept all that night very quietly. When he awoke early next morning, as he had proposed, he dressed himself, agreeably to the project he had in his head, and went to the town, and took a lodging in a khan. And as he expected what had happened at Ali Baba's might make a great noise in the town, he asked his host, by way of discourse, what news there was in the city. Upon which the innkeeper told him a great many things, which did not con- cern him in the least. He judged by this that the reason why Ali Baba kept this affair so secret was for fear people should know where the treasure lay, find the means of coming at it; THE STORY OF ALI BABA II9 and because. he knew his life would be sought upon account of it. And this urged him the more to neglect nothing to rid himself of so dangerous a person. The next thing that the captain had to do was to provide himself with a horse, to convey a great many sorts of rich stuffs and fine linen to his lodging, which he did by a great many journeys to the forest, but with all the necessary pre- cautions imaginable to conceal the place whence he brought them. In order to dispose of the merchandises, when he had amassed tjiem together, he took a furnished shop, which hap- pened to be opposite to that which was Cassim's, which Ali Baba's son had not long occupied. He took upon him the name of Cogia Houssain; and as a newcomer, was, according to custom, extremely civil and complaisant to all the merchants his neighbours. And as Ali Baba's son was young and handsome, and a man of good sense, and was often obliged to converse with Cogia Hous- sain, he soon made them acquainted with him. He strove to cultivate his friendship, more particularly when, two or three days after he was settled, he recognized Ali Baba, who came to see his son, and stopped to talk with him as he was ac- customed to do ; and when he was gone, he learned from his son who he was. * He increased his assiduities, caressed him after the most engaging manner, made him some small pres- ents, and often asked him to dine and sup with him; and treated him very handsomely. Ali Baba's son did not care to lie under such obligation to Cogia Houssain without making the like return ; but was so much straitened for want of room in his house, that he could not entertain him so well as he wished; and therefore acquainted his father, Ali Baba, with his intention, and told him that it did not look well for him to receive such favours from Cogia Houssain without inviting him again. Ali Baba, with great pleasure, took the treat upon him- self. Son, said he, To-morrow (Friday), which is a day that the shops of such great merchants as Cogia Houssain and yourself are shut, get him to take a walk with you after din- ner, and as you come back, pass by my door, and call in. It will look better to have it happen accidentally, than if you gave him a formal invitation. I will go and order Morgiana to provide a supper. 120 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY The next day, after dinner, Ali Baba's son and Cogia Houssain met by appointment, and took their walk; and as they returned, Ali Baba's son led Cogia Houssain through the street where his father lived; and when they came to the house, he stopped and knocked at the door. This, sir, said he. Is my father's house ; who, upon the account I have given him of your friendship, charged me to procure him the honour of your acquaintance; and I desire you to add this pleasure to those I am already indebted to you for. Though it was the sole aim of Cogia Houssain to intro- duce himself into Ali Baba's house, that he might kill him without hazarding his own life or making any noise, yet he excused himself, and offered to take his leave. But a slave having opened the door, Ali Baba's son took him obligingly by the hand, and in a manner forced him in. Ali Baba received Cogia Houssain with a smiling coun- tenance, and in the most obliging manner he could wish. He thanked him for all the favours he had done his son; adding withal, the obligation was the greater, as he was a young man not very well acquainted with the world, and that he might contribute to his information. Cogia Houssain returned the compliment, by assuring Ali Baba that though his son might not have acquired the experi- ence of older men, he had good sense equal to the experience of many others. After a little more conversation on differ- ent subjects, he offered again to take his leave; when Ali Baba, stopping him, said : Where are you going, sir, in so much haste ? I beg you would do me the honour to sup with me, though what I have to give you is not worth your ac- ceptance ; but such as it is, I hope you will accept it as heart- ily as I give it. — Sir, replied Cogia Houssain, I am thoroughly persuaded of your good-will ; and if I ask the favour of you not to take it ill that I do not accept of your obliging invita- tion, I beg of you to believe that it does not proceed from any slight or intention to affront, but from a certain reason, which you would approve of if you knew it. And what may that reason be, sir, replied Ali Baba, If I may be so. bold as to ask you? — It is, answered Cogia Hous- sain, That I can eat no victuals that have any salt in them; therefore judge how I should look at your table. — If that is- the only reason, said Ali Baba, It ought not to deprive me of THE STORY OF ALI BAB A 121 the honour of your company at supper ; for, in the first place, there is no salt ever put into my bread, and for the meat we shall have to-night I promise you there shall be none. I v^^ill go and take care of that. Therefore you must do me the favour to stay ; I will come again immediately. Ali Baba went into the kitchen, and ordered Morgiana to put no salt to the meat that was to be dressed that night; and to make quickly two or three ragouts besides what he had ordered, but be sure to put no salt in them. Morgiana, who was always ready to obey her master, could not help, this time, seeming dissatisfied at his new order. Who is this difficult man, said she, Who eats no salt with his meat? Your supper will be spoiled, if I keep it back so long. — Do not be angry, Morgiana, replied Ali Baba, He is an honest man; therefore do as I bid you. Morgiana obeyed, though with no little reluctance, and had a curiosity to see this man who eat no salt. To this end, when she had done what she had to do in the kitchen, and Abdallah laid the cloth, she helped to carry up the dishes; and looking at Cogia Houssain, knew him at the first sight to be the captain of the robbers, notwithstanding his dis- guise; and examining him very carefully, perceived that he had a dagger hid under his garment. I am not in the least amazed, said she to herself, That this wicked wretch, who is my master's greatest enemy, would eat no salt with him, since he intends to assassinate him ; but I will prevent him. When Morgiana had sent up the supper by Abdallah, while they were eating, she made the necessary preparations for executing one of the boldest acts which could be thought on; and had just done, when Abdallah came again for the dessert of fruit, which she carried up, and as soon as Abdallah had taken the meat away, set it upon the table: after that, she set a little table and three glasses by Ali Baba, and going out, took Abdallah along with her to go to supper together, and to give Ali Baba the more liberty of conversation with his guest. Then the pretended Cogia Houssain, or rather captain of the robbers, thought he had a favourable opportunity to kill Ali Baba. I will, said he to himself, make the father and son both drunk; and then the son, whose life I intend to spare, will not be able to prevent my stabbing his father to the 122 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY heart; and while the slaves are at supper, or asleep in the kitchen, I can make my escape over the gardens as before. Instead of going to supper, Morgiana, who penetrated into the intentions of the counterfeit Cogia Houssain, would not give him leave to put his villainous design in execution, but dressed herself neatly with a suitable head-dress like a dancer, girded her waist with a silver-gilt girdle, to which there hung a poniard with a hilt and guard of the same metal, and put a handsome mask on her face. When she had thus disguised herself, she said to Abdallah : Take your tabour, and let us go and divert our master and his son's guest, as we do some- times when he is alone. Abdallah took his tabour, and played before Morgiana all the way into the hall ; who, when she came to the door, made a low curtsey, with a deliberate air, to make herself taken notice of, and by way of asking leave to show what she could do. Abdallah, seeing that his master had a mind to say something, left off playing. Come in, Morgiana, said AH Baba, And let Cogia Houssain see what you can do, that he may tell us what he thinks of you. But, sir, said he, turning towards Cogia Houssain, Do not think that I put myself to any expense to give you this diversion, since these are my slave, and my cook and housekeeper ; and I hope you will not find the entertainment they give us disagreeable. Cogia Houssain, who did not expect this diversion after supper, began to fear that he should not have the opportunity that he thought he had found; but hoped, if he missed it now, to have it another time, by keeping up a friendly correspond- ence with the father and son; therefore, though he could have wished Ali Baba would have let it alone, he pretended to be obliged to him for it, and had the complaisance to ex- press a pleasure at what he saw pleased his host. As soon as Abdallah saw that Ali Baba and Cogia Hous- sain had done talking, he began to play on the tabour, and ac- companied it with an air; to which Morgiana, who was an excellent dancer, danced after such a manner as would have created admiration in any other company but that before which she now exhibited, among whom, perhaps, none but the false Cogia Houssain was in the least attentive to her. After she had danced several dances with the same pro- priety and strength, she drew the poniard, and holding it in THE STORY OF ALI BAB A 123 her hand, danced a dance, in which she outdid herself, by the many different figures and light movements, and the surpris- ing leaps and wonderful exertions with which she accompa- nied it. Sometimes she presented the poniard to one's breast, and sometimes to another's, and oftentimes seeming to strike her own. At last, as if she was out of breath, she snatched the tabour from Abdallah with her left hand, and holding the dagger in her right, presented the other side of the tabour, after the manner of those who get a liveHhood by dancing, and soligit the liberality of the spectators. Ali Baba put a piece of gold into the tabour, as did also his son ; and Cogia Houssain, seeing that she was coming to him, had pulled his purse out of his bosom to make her a present ; but while he was putting his hand into it, Morgiana, with a courage and resolution worthy of herself, plunged the poniard into his heart. Ali Baba and his son, frightened at this action, cried out aloud. Unhappy wretch ! exclaimed AH Baba, What have you done to ruin me and my family? — It was to preserve you, not to ruin you, answered Morgiana ; For see here, said she (opening Cogia Houssain's garment, and showing the dag- ger). What an enemy you had entertained ! Look well at him, and you will find him to be both the pretended oil-merchant and the captain of the gang of forty robbers. Remember, too, that he would eat no salt with you ; and what would you have more to persuade you of his wicked design? Before I saw him, I suspected him as soon as you told me you had such a guest. I saw him, and you now find that my suspicion was not groundless. Ali Baba, who immediately felt the new obligation he had to Morgiana for saving his life a second time, embraced her. Morgiana, said he, I gave you your liberty, and then prom- ised you that my gratitude should not stop there, but that 1 would soon complete it. The time is come for me to give you a proof of it, by making you my daughter-in-law. Then addressing himself to his son, he said to him : I believe you, son, to be so dutiful a child, that you will not refuse Mor- giana for your wife. You see that Cogia Houssain sought your friendship with a treacherous design to take away my life ; and, if he had succeeded, there is no doubt but he would have sacrificed you also to his revenge. Consider, that by 124 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY marrying Morgiana, you marry the support of my family and your own. The son, far from showing any dislike, readily consented to the marriage; not only because he would not disobey his father, but that his inclination prompted him to it. After this, they thought of burying the captain of the rob- bers with his comrades, and did it so privately that nobody knew anything of it till a great many years after, when not any one had any concern in the publication of this remarkable history. A few days afterwards, Ali Baba celebrated the nuptials of his son and Morgiana with great solemnity and a sumptu- ous feast, and the usual dancing and spectacles ; and had the satisfaction to see that his friends and neighbours, whom he had invited, had no knowledge of the true motives of that marriage; but that those who were not acquainted with Morgiana's good qualities commended his generosity and goodness of heart. Ali Baba forbore, a long time after this marriage, from going again to the robbers' cave, from the time he brought away his brother Cassim and some bags of gold on three asses, for fear of finding them there, and being surprised by them. He kept away after the death of the thirty-seven rob- bers and their captain, supposing the other two robbers, whom he could get no account of, might be alive. But at the year's end, when he found they had not made any attempt to disturb him, he had the curiosity to make an- other journey, taking the necessary precautions for his safety. He mounted his horse, and when he came to the cave, and saw no footsteps of men or horses, he looked upon it as a good sign. He alighted off his horse and tied him to a tree ; and presenting himself before the door, and pronouncing these words, Open, Sesame, the door opened. He went in, and by the condition he found things in, he judged that nobody had been there since the false Cogia Houssain, when he fetched the goods for his shop, and that the gang of forty robbers was completely destroyed, and never doubted he was the only person in the world who had the secret of opening the cave, and that all the treasure was solely at his disposal ; and hav- ing brought with him a wallet, into which he put as much gold as his horse would carry, he returned to town. THE STORY OF ALI BABA 125 Afterwards AH Baba carried his son to the cave, taught him the secret, which they handed down to their posterity; and using their good fortune with moderation, lived in great honour and splendour, serving the greatest offices of the city. A LIST OF REPRESENTATIVE TALES AND SHORT STORIES VI 1600 TO 1700: Dialogos de Apacible Entretenimiento, G. L. Hidalgo (1610). Novelas Exemplares, Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra (1613). Sylvanire, Honore d'Urfe (1627). Historiettes, Tallemant des Reaux (life: 1619-1692). Nouvelles Tragi-Comiques, Paul Scarron (1654). La Princesse de Montpensier, Mme. de La Fayette (1662). *Contes, Jean de La Fontaine (1665-85). * Fables, Jean de La Fontaine (1668-94). Simplicianische Schriften, Grimmelshausen (about 1670- 72). Pentamerone, G. B. Basile (1672). La Comtesse de Tende, Mme. de La Fayette (after 1678). Oroonoko, Aphra Behn (1688). The Fair Jilt, Aphra Behn (1688). * Contes en Vers, Charles Perrault (1694). Contes de ma Mere TOye, Charles Perrault (1697). Contes de Fees, Catherine dAulnoy (1698). 127 THE LIBERAL LOVER THE LIBERAL LOVER Th^ Liberal Lover is one of the Exemplary Novels, or tales, by Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra (1547-1616), first published in 1613. The Exemplary Novels, to- gether with The Curious Impertinent and The Captive's Story, both inserted in Don Quixote, were composed by Cervantes during his sojourn in Seville, between 1588 and 1603. The Novels were received throughout Europe almost as favourably as Don Quixote (1605-1615) had been. They soon became a fertile source whence dramatists and story-tellers could draw both plots and dialogue. Beaumont and Fletcher (or rather, the latter only), among others, profited by the volume, as the groundwork of The Chances, Love's Pilgrimage, and other comedies shows. Cervantes himself tells us that he resolved to call his stories exemplary, because, if any one will examine them, there is not one from which some useful moral may not be drawn. These tales of Cervantes, howevei, differ from the moral tales so commonly written in the eighteenth century, in that in them the morality is not given such undue prominence. As may be supposed, the tales are not all of equal merit; The Liberal Lover is perhaps the best one of the lot. The narrative is based on some of the author's ex- periences when he was held captive by the Moors. After Don Quixote, the Exemplary Novels constitute Cer- vantes's chief claim to immortality. In the opinion of some Spanish critics, they are even superior to the famous romance in point of style. 131 132 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY The version of The Liberal Lover given in the pres- ent volume is a faithful reprint of the translation by James Mabbe, published in London in 1640, a garbled text of which has been wrongly ascribed to Thomas Shelton. Mabbe's version was published in London in a limited edition in 1900, under the editorship of Mr. S. W. Orson, and his reprint has been drawn on for the present volume. The text (says Mr. Orson) has been carefully collated with the original; and, though the spelling and punctuation have been modernised, and some gross print- er's blunders corrected, no liberties have been taken with either language or grammar. Brief notes, on some pas- sages which seem to require explanation, have been ap- pended. Mabbe's version is regarded as a model of racy and flowing English; the translation, too, has the supreme merit of reading like an original. AUTHORITIES I The Life of Miguel d^ Cervantes Saavedra, by James Fitzmaurice-Kelly. A History of Spanish Literature, by George Ticknor. The Life of Miguel de Cervantes, by Henry Edward Watts (Great Writers series). A History of Spanish Literature, by James Fitz- maurice-Kelly (Literatures of the World series). THE LIBERAL LOVER " O the lamentable ruins of unhappy Nicosia ! * the blood of thy valiant and unfortunate defenders being yet scarce dry ! If (as thou art senseless thereof) thou hadst any feeling at all in this desolate and woful estate wherein now we are, we might jointly bewail our misfortunes and that wretched estate and condition wherein we are; and happily having a companion in them, it would help to ease me in some sort of my torment, and make that burden of my grief the lighter, which I find so heavy — I had almost said insupportable — for me to bear. Yet there is some hope left unto thee, that these thy strong towers dismantled and laid level with the ground, thou mayst one day see them, though not in so just a defence as that wherein they were overthrown, raised to their former height and strength. But I, of all unfortunate the most un- fortunate man, what good can I hope for in that miserable strait wherein I find myself, yea, though I should return to the same estate and condition wherein I was before I fell into this? Such is my misfortune that when I was free and at liberty I knew not what happiness was, and now in my thraldom and captivity I neither have it nor hope it." These words did a Christian captive utter, looking with a sad and heavy countenance from the rising of a hill on the ruined walls of the late-lost Nicosia; and thus did he talk with them, and compared his miseries with theirs, as if they had been able to understand him (the common and proper condition of afflicted persons, who being violently carried away with their own feigned fancies and imaginary concep- tions, do and say things beyond all reason, and without any good discourse and advisement). Now, whilst he was thus discoursing with himself, from out a pavilion, or one of those tents pitched there in the ^Nicosia — a town of Cyprus, taken by the Turks in 1570. — [Ed.J 133 134 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY field, not far from him, issued out a Turk, a handsome young man, of a good presence, an ingenious aspect, and accompa- nied with spirit and mettle answerable to his looks; who drawing near unto the Christian, without much ceremony, yet in a fair and civil way, said unto him : " Sir, I durst lay a wager with you that those your pensive thoughts which I read in your face have brought you hither." " You read aright," answered Ricardo (for this was the captive's name) ; " they have brought me hither indeed. But what doth it avail me, since in no place whithersoever I go I am so far from procuring a peace that I cannot obtain a truce or any the least cessation of them ? Nay, rather, these ruins which from hence discover themselves unto me have rather increased my sorrows." "Those of Nicosia, you mean?" replied the Turk. " What other should I mean ? " answered Ricardo, " since there are no other which here offer themselves to my view? " " You have great cause," quoth the Turk, "to weep if you entertain your thoughts with these and the like contempla- tions; for they who but some two years since had seen this famous and rich island of Cyprus in its prosperity and peaceable estate, the inhabitants thereof enjoying all that human happiness and felicity which the Heavens could grant unto men or themselves desire, and now to see them banished out of it or made miserable slaves in it, who can be so hard- hearted as to forbear from bewailing its calamity and mis- fortune ? But let us leave talking of these things, since they are remediless, and let us come to your own bosom sorrows, for I desire to see if they be such as you voice them to be; and therefore I earnestly entreat and beseech you, and con- jure thee by that which thou owest to those good offices I have done thee, the good-will I bear thee, the love I have shown thee, and by that which ought to oblige thee thereunto, in that we are both of one and the same country and bred up in our childhood together, that thou wilt deal freely with me, and lay open unto me what is the cause which makes thee so exceeding sad and melancholy. For howbeit captivity alone of itself be sufficient to grieve the stoutest heart in the world and to check its mirth, though otherwise naturally inclined thereunto, yet notwithstanding I imagine that the current of your disasters hath a farther reach and deeper bottom: THE LIBERAL LOVER 135 for generous minds such as thine is, do not use to yield and render up themselves to common and ordinary misfortunes in such a measure as to make show of extraordinary sorrows; and I am the rather induced to believe what I conceive be- cause I know that you are not so poor but that you are well enough able to pay any reasonable ransom they shall require of you, nor are you clapped up in the towers of the Black Sea as a prisoner of note or captive of consideration, who late or never obtains his desired liberty, and therefore your ill fortune not having taken from you the hope of seeing your- self a free man; and yet notwithstanding all this, when I see thee so much overcharged with sorrows, and making such miserable manifestations of thy misfortunes, it is not much that I imagine that the pain proceeds from some other cause than thy lost liberty, which I entreat thee to acquaint me withal, offering thee all the assistance I am able to give thee. Perhaps, to the end that I may be serviceable unto thee, For- tune in her wheeling hath brought this about that I should be clad in this habit which I so much hate and abhor. Thou knowest already, Ricardo, that my master is Cadi of this city, which is the same as to be its Bishop; thou likewise knowest the great sway which he beareth here, and how much I am able to do with him; together with this, thou art not ignorant of the fervent desire and inflamed zeal which I have not to die in this estate which I thus seem to profess. But God knows my heart, and if ever I should come to be put to my Vrial, I am resolved openly to confess and in a loud voice to publish to the whole world the faith of Jesus Christ, from which my few years and less understanding separated me, though that I were sure that such a confession should cost me my life ; for that I may free myself from losing that of my soul, I should think the losing of that of my body very well employed. Out of all this which hath been said unto thee, I leave it to thyself to infer the conclusion, and that thou wilt take it into thy deeper and better consideration whether my proffered friendship may be profitable and useful unto thee. Now that I may know what remedies thy misfor- tune requires, and what medicines I may apply both for the easing and curing of it, it is requisite that thou recount it unto me, the relation thereof being as necessary for me as that of the rich patient to his physician; assuring thee, in 136 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY the faith of a friend, that thou shalt deposit it in the deepest and darkest den of silence, never to come to light." To all these words of his Ricardo gave an attentive ear, though his tongue were silent; but seeing himself obliged by them and his own necessity, returned him thereunto this answer: " If as thou hast hit the right vein, O my dear friend Mahamut [for so was this Turk called], touching that which thou imaginest of my misfortune, thou couldst hit as right upon its remedy, I should hold myself happy in my lost liberty, and would not change my unhappiness for the greatest happiness that may be imagined. But I wot well that it is such that all the world may take notice of the cause whence it proceedeth, but that man cannot therein be found which dare undertake not only the finding out of any remedy for it, but of giving it any the least ease ; and to the end that thou mayst rest thyself thoroughly satisfied of the truth thereof, I will relate the same unto thee as briefly and compendiously as I can, shutting much in a few words. But before I enter into this confused labyrinth of my miseries, I would first have thee to recount unto me what is the cause why Azam Bashaw, my master, hath pitched here in this field these tents and pavilions before he maketh his entry into Nicosia, being deputed (and to that purpose bringing his provision with him) to be Viceroy there, or Bashaw, the usual style or title which the Turks give their Viceroys." " I will," answered Mahamut, " answer your demand in a few words, and therefore would have you to know that it is a custom amongst the Turks that they who come to be Viceroys of some province do not instantly enter into the city where their predecessor resideth, till he issueth out of it, and leave the residence freely to his successors. Now, when the new Bashaw hath made his entrance, the old one stays without in the field, expecting what accusations shall come against him, and what misdemeanours during his government they shall lay to his charge, which being alleged and proved, are re- corded and a note taken of them, all possibility being taken away from him of interviewing, either to help himself by suborning of witnesses, or by his friends, unless he have made his way beforehand, for the clearing of himself. Now, the other being settled in his residency, there is given by him to him that leaves his charge, a scroll of parchment sealed THE LIBERAL LOVER 137 Up very close, and therewith he presents himself at the gate of the Grand Signior — that is to say, in the court before the Grand Council of the Great Turk; which being seen and perused by the Visir-Bashaw, and by those other four inferior Bashaws, they either reward or punish him according to the relation that is made of his residency. In case that he come home faulty, with money he redeems and excuseth his punish- ment; but if faultless, and they do not reward him — as com- monly it falleth out — with gifts and presents, he procureth that chaVge which himself most affecteth ; for places of com- mand and offices are not given for merit, but for money; all is sold, and all bought. They who have the provision, or, as we style it, commission and authority for the conferring of charges and offices, rob those which are to have these offices and charges, and fleece them as near as the shears can go; and they, again, out of this their bought office gather wealth and substance for to buy another which promiseth much more gain. All goes as I tell you; all this empire is violent^ — a sign that it will not last long. For that reason, then, that I have rendered thee, thy master Azam Bashaw hath remained in this field four days ; and he of Nicosia, that he hath not as yet come forth as he ought to have done, the cause is that he hath been very sick, but is now upon the mending hand, and will without fail come forth either to-day or to-morrow at the farthest, and is to lodge in certain tents which are pitched behind this rising hill, which as yet thou hast not seen ; and thy master is forthwith to enter into the city. And having made this already delivered known unto thee is all the satisfaction that I can give to your propounded demand." " Listen then unto me," replied Ricardo ; " but I know not whether I shall be as good as my word in complying with that which I formerly promised, that I would in a few words re- count unto you my misfortunes, they being so large that to make up the full measure of them I want words enough to do it ; yet notwithstanding I will do herein what may be, and as time and your patience will permit. But let me first of all ask you if you know in our town of Trapana a damosel to whom fame hath given the name of the fairest woman M// this empire is violent— xXidil is, ruled not by justice but by force. — [Ed-I 10 138 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY in all Sicily, in whose praise all curious tongues have spent themselves, and of whom the rarest judgments have ratified that she was the perfectest piece of beauty that the past age had, the present hath, and that which is to come can hope to have; one of whom the poets sang that her hairs were golden wires, her eyes two resplendent suns, and her cheeks pure damask roses, her teeth pearls, her lips rubies, her neck alabaster, and that her parts with the whole frame, and the whole with her parts, made up a most pleasing harmony and most harmonious concord. Nature spreading over the whole composure such a sweet delightfulness of colours, so natural and so perfect, that envy itself cannot tax her in any one particular. And is it possible, Mahamut, that all this while thou hast not told me yet who she is, and by what name she is called? I undoubtedly believe that either thou dost not hear me, or that when thou wast in Trapana thou didst want thy senses." Mahamut hereunto answered: "That if she whom thou hast set forth with such extremes of beauty be not Leonisa, the daughter of Rodolphus Florencius, I know not who she is ; for she alone had that fame which you speak of." " This is she, O Mahamut," replied Ricardo; " this is she, O my dear friend, who is the principal cause of all my felicity and of all my misfortune. This is she, and not my lost lib- erty, for whom mine eyes have, do, and shall shed tears not to be numbered ; this is she for whom my heart-burning sighs inflame the air far and near; and this is she for whom my words weary Heaven which hears them, and the ears of those which hearken unto them. This is she for whom thou tookest me to be mad, or at least for a man of small worth and less courage. This Leonisa, to me a lioness, and to another a meek and gentle lamb, is she which holds me in this wretched and miserable estate ; for I must give thee to understand that from my tender years, or at least ever since I had the use of reason, I did not only love but adore her, and did serve her with such solicitude and devotion as if neither on earth nor in heaven there were any other deity for me to serve and adore save herself. Her kinsfolk and parents knew my de- sires, considering withal that they were directed to an honest and virtuous end; and that therefore, many a time and oft, which escaped not my knowledge, they acquainted Leonisa THE LIBERAL LOVER 139 with the fervent love and affection I bare unto her, for the better disposing of her will to accept me for her husband. But she, who had placed her eyes on Cornelio, the son of Ascanio Rotulo (whom you know very well, a young gallant, neat and spruce, with white hands and curled hairs, having a mellifluous voice, and amorous words at will, and in a word, being all made of amber, musk, and civet, clad in tissue, adorned with rich embroideries), would not vouchsafe to cast so much as one glance of her eye on my countenance, which was not So dehcate as that of Cornelio, neither would enter- tain, notwithstanding my best endeavours to please her, with thankfulness my many and continual services, requiting my good-will with disdain and hatred. And to such extremes did the excess of my love bring me, that I should have held myself happy had her disdains and unkindnesses killed me outright, that I might not have lived to have seen her confer such open though honest favours on Cornelio. Consider now, being anguished with disdain and hatred, and almost mad with the cruel rage of jealousy, in what miserable case you may imagine my soul was, two such mortal plagues reigning therein. Leonisa's parents dissembled those favours which she did to Cornelio, believing, as they had good reason to believe it, that the young man, attracted by her most exquisite and incomparable beauty, which none could match but her own, would make choice of her for his spouse, and so in him gain a richer son-in-law than in me : and well, if he were so, might he be so. But I dare be bold to say, without arrogancy be it spoken, that as good blood runs in my veins as his, my quality and condition nothing inferior to his; and for his mind, it cannot be more noble than mine, nor his valour go beyond mine. But that indeed which did overbalance me was Leonisa's favour and her parents' furthering the business, and this only made the scales uneven by their inclining to Cornelio. Now it so fell out, that persisting in the pursuit of my pretensions, it came to my knowledge that one day in the month of May last past, which this very day makes up a year, three days, and five hours, Leonisa, her parents, and Cornelio and some friends of his, went to solace themselves, accompanied with their kindred and servants, to Ascanio his garden, near adjoining to the seaside, in the way that leads to the salt-pits." UO THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY " 1 know that place passing well," said Mahamut ; " go on, Ricardo. I was more than four days in one of them; I could have wished I had been there but four minutes." " I knew that," replied Ricardo, " and in that very instant that I knew it my soul was possessed with such a fury, such a rage, and such a hell of jealousies, and with that vehemency and rigour, that it bereaved me of my senses, as thou shalt plainly see, by that which I presently did, which was this: I hied me to the garden where I was told they were, where I found most of the company solacing themselves, and Cor- nelio and Leonisa sitting under a walnut-tree, somewhat out of the way from the rest. How my sight pleased them I do not know, but know, to say so much of myself, that her sight wrought so upon me that I lost the sight of mine own eyes, and stood stock still like a statua, without either voice or mo- tion. But T continued not long so before that my anger awakened my choler, choler heated my blood, my blood in- flamed rage, and rage gave motion to my hands and tongue. Howbeit my hands were bound by the respect which, me- thought, was due to that fair face which I had before me;, but my tongue breaking silence, vented forth these words: * How canst thou find in thy heart, how give thyself content, O ihou mortal enemy of my rest! in having (and therein taking so much pleasure) before thine eyes the cause which must make mine to overflow with rivers of tears, and by my continual weeping become another deluge? Come, come — cruel as thou art ! — a little nearer, and wreathe thy twining ivy about this unprofitable trunk, which woos thy embracings. Let him lay his head in thy lap, and let thy fingers learn to play with those braided locks of this thy new Ganymede. What thou wilt do, do quickly ; make an end at once of deliv- ering up the possession of thyself to the green and ungoverned years of this your minion, to the end that I, losing all hope of obtaining thee, may together with that end this my life, so much by me abhorred. Thinkest thou, peradventure, thou proud and ill-advised damosel ! that this young princox, pre- sumptuous by reason of his riches, arrogant by your gracing of him, unexperienced in that he is too young, and insolent by his relying on his lineage, will love as he ought, and you deserve ? No, he cannot ; no, he knows not how to love con- stantly, nor to esteem that which is inestimable, nor come THE LIBERAL LOVER 141 to have that understanding and knowledge which accom- panies ripe and experimented years. If you think so, do not think it; for the world hath no other good thing save the doing of its' actions always after one and the same manner; for none are deceived but by their own ignorance. In young men there is much inconstancy; in rich, pride; vanity in the arrogant; in the beautiful, disdain; and in those that have all these, foolishness, which is the mother of all ill success. And thou, O young gallant ! art such a one who thinkest to carry aH^before thee, and to go clear away with that reward which is more due to my good desires than thy idle protesta- tions. Why dost thou not arise from that carpet of flowers whereon thou liest, and come to take this my soul from me, which so deadly hateth thine? Not because thou offendest me in that which thou doest, but because thou knowest not how to esteem that good which fortune gives thee; and it is clear and evident that thou makest little reckoning of it, since thou wilt not rise up to defend it, that thou mayest not put thyself to the hazard of discomposing that painted composure of thy gay clothes. If Achilles had had thy re- posed condition, or been of thy cold temper, Ulysses might very well hav^ been assured that he would not have gone through with that which he undertook. Go, get thee gone, and sport thyself amongst thy mother's maids, and there have a care of kembing and curling thy locks, and keeping thy hands clean and white; thou art fitter to handle soft silks than a hard-hilted sword.' All these words could not move Cornelio to rise from the place where I found him, but sate him still, looking upon me as one aghast, not once offering to stir. But the voice wherewith I uttered these words which you have heard occasioned the people which were walking in the garden to draw nearer, stood a little while listening, hearing many other disgraceful speeches which I gave him, and thereupon made in ; who, taking courage by their coming (for all or most of them were his kinsfolk, servants, or friends), he made show of rising; but before he was fully upon his feet I laid hand on my sword, drew it, and did set not only upon him, but on as many as were there. Leonisa no sooner saw my glittering sword but she fell into a deadly swound, which did put greater courage into me, and stir up greater despite; and I cannot say whether those so many 142 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY which did set upon me sought only to defend themselves, as we see men usually do against a furious madman, or whether^ it were my good fortune and diligence, or Heaven's disposing, to expose me to greater evils, and to reserve me to further miseries; in conclusion, I wounded seven or eight of them which came next to my hand. Cornelio betook him- self to his heels, and by his swift flight escaped my hands. Being in this so manifest a danger hemmed in by my enemies, who now, seeing their blood run from them, and enraged with the wrong which they had received, sought to revenge themselves upon me, lo ! Fortune provided a remedy for this mischief, but such a one as was worse than the disease; for better had it been for me there to have left my life, than in restoring it me by so strange and unexpected a means, to come to lose it every hour a thousand and a thousand times over and over. And this it was, that on the sudden there rushed into the garden a great number of Turks, pirates of Biserta, who with two galleys had put into a little creek of the sea between two rocks hard by the shore, where they disembarked themselves without being heard or seen by the sentinels of the watch-towers, nor discovered by those scouts whose daily office it was to scour the coasts and see that all was clear. When my adversaries had espied them, leaving me alone, they, with the rest in the garden, ran their way as fast as their legs would carry them, and shifted so well for them- selves that they had got themselves out of their danger and put themselves in safety; so that of all the whole companies the Turks took no more captives but three persons besides Leonisa, who lay there still in a swound. They took me after they had shrewdly wounded me in four several places, revenged before by me on four Turks whom I left dead in the place. This assault ended, the Turks with their accus- tomed diligence, and not being very well pleased with the success, made haste to embark themselves, and presently put farther to sea, so that what with their sails and help of their oars, in a short space they recovered Fabiana, where they mustered their men, and finding that the slain were four soldiers, Levant-men, as they call them, being of the best and choicest and of most esteem amongst them, they were the more willing and desirous to take their revenge of me, and therefore the admiral of the captain-galley commanded them THE LIBERAL LOVER 143 to hang me up on the mainyard. All this while Leonisa stood looking on this speedy preparation for my death (who was now come again to herself), and seeing me in the power of these pirates, the tears trickled down in great abundance from her beauteous eyes, and wringing her soft and delicate hands, not speaking so much as one word, gave diligent ear and was very attentive to hear if she could understand what the Turks said. But one of the Christian slaves that was chained to the oar spake to her in Italian, giving her to understand how that the captain had given order to have that Christian hanged up (pointing unto me), because I had slain in her defence four of the best soldiers belonging to his gal- leys; which being heard and understood by Leonisa (being the first time that ever she showed herself pitiful towards me), she willed the said slave that he should speak unto the Turks to spare his life, and not to hang him, for in so doing they would lose a great ransom, and that he should advise them to tack about and make again for Trapana, where his ransom would presently be brought aboard unto them. This, I say, was the first and the last kindness which Leonisa used towards me, and all this for my greater ill. The Turks hear- ing what their captive told them, did easily believe him, and this their hope of profit turned the course of their choler. The very next morning, hanging out a flag of peace, they an- chored before Trapana. That night thou mayst better con- ceive than I utter with what a deal of grief I passed it over, not so much for my wounds' sake, though they were very sore and painful, as to think on the peril wherein my cruel enemy was amongst these barbarous people. Being come now, as I told thee, to the city, one of the galleys entered the haven, the other stood off. All the citizens flocked to the seaside, the Christians standing as thick one by another as the shore would give them leave. And that carpet-knight ^ Cornelio stood afar off observing what passed in the galley whilst my steward was treating of my ransom; to whom I had given order that he should in no wise treat of my liberty, but of that of Leonisa, and that he should give for the freeing of * Carpet-knight — one knighted at court as a favourite, not on ac- count of valour in the field. See Twelfth Night, iii. 4, 257 ; and Fairfax's Tasso, xvi. 32.— [Ed.] 144 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY her all whatsoever I was worth either in lands or goods; and I willed him, moreover, that he should go ashore and tell Leonisa's parents that they should leave it to him to treat of their daughter's liberty. This being done, the chief cap- tain, who was a Grecian, but a renegado, his name Ysuph, demanded for Leonisa six thousand crowns, and for myself four thousand, and that he would not sell the one without the other ; setting this so great a price, as I was given after- wards to understand, because he was enamoured of Leonisa, and was therefore unwilling she should be redeemed; pur- posing to give to the captain of the other galley, with whom he was to share the one half of the prize, myself at the rate of four thousand crowns in ready money, and one thousand more in other commodities, which made up five thousand, prizing Leonisa at other five thousand ; and this was the rea- son why he rated us two in ten thousand crowns. Leonisa's parents offered him nothing on their part, relying on the promise which on my part my steward had made them; neither did Cornelio so much z^s once open his lips to offer anything towards her ransom; and so, after many demands and answers, my steward concluded the business with giving for Leonisa five thousand and for me three thousand crowns. Ysuph accepted this offer, forced thereunto by the persuasions of his companion and all the rest of their soldiers. But be- cause my steward had not so much money in cash, he en- treated only three days' time to make up the full sum, with intention to sell my goods under hand and at a cheap rate, till he had got so much together as would pay the ransom. Ysuph was glad of this, thinking with himself in the mean- while to find some occasion that the bargain might not go forward ; and so returning back again to the island of Fabi- ana, he said that by that time the three days were expired he would not fail to be there with them to receive the money according to the agreement. But spiteful and ungrateful Fortune, not yet wearied out with ill-entreating me, had so ordained it that a galley's boy, who sate on the top of the mast as the Turks' sentinel, discovered afar off at sea six Italian galleys, and did guess (which was true) that they were either of Malta or Sicily. He came running down with all the haste he could to give them news thereof, and in a trice the Turks embarked themselves who were ashore, some THE LIBERAL LOVER 145 dressing their dinner, some washing their Hnen, and weighing anchor in an instant, hoisting sail and working hard with their oars, turning their prows towards Barbary, in less than two hours they lost the sight of those galleys, and so being shadowed with the island, and covered from ken by the ap- proaching night, they were secured from that fear which affrighted them. Now I leave it to thy good consideration, my friend Mahamut, how much my mind was troubled in this voyage, finding it to fall out so cross and contrary to that which I expected ; and much more when, the next day, the two galleys reaching the island of Pantanalea on the south part, the Turks went ashore to get them wood and fresh vict- uals; but most of all, when I saw both the captains land, and fell to sharing between them in equal proportion all those prizes they had taken, each action of these was to me a delayed death. Coming then at last to the dividing of my- self and Leonisa, Ysuph gave to Fetala (for so was that captain of the other galley called) six Christians, four for the oar, and two very beautiful boys, both naturals of Corso,^ and myself likewise with them, that he might have Leonisa for himself; wherewith Fetala rested very well contented. And albeit I were present at all this, I could not understand what they said, though I knew what they did; neither had I known then the manner of their sharings if Fetala had not come unto me and told me in Italian : 'Christian, thou art now mine, and put into my hands as my captive, thou being rated at two thousand crowns; if thou wilt have thy liberty, thou must give me four thousand, or resolve here to end thy days.' I then demanded of him whether the Christian damosel were his too; he told me no, but that Ysuph kept her for himself, with intention to make her turn Moor and then marry her. And therein he said true, for one of the galley-slaves told me that sate chained on his bank at his oar, and understood very well the Turkish language, that he overheard Ysuph and Fetala treating thereof. Whereupon I came to my master and told him: * Sir, if you will bring the business so about that the Christian damosel may become your captive, I will give you ten thousand crowns in good gold for her ransom.' He replied : * It is not possible, but I will acquaint Ysuph 1 Corso — Corsica. — [Ed.] 14^ THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY with this great sum which thou offerest for her freedom, and perhaps, weighing the profit he shall reap thereby, he will alter his purpose, and accept of the ransom.' He did so ; and then presently commanded all those of his own galley to embark themselves as soon as possibly they could, because he would go for Tripoli in Barbary, whence he was. And Ysuph likewise determined to go for Biserta, and so embarked with the selfsame haste as they use to do when they ken either galleys which they fear or vessels which they mind to rob; and that which moved them to make the more haste was that they saw the weather began to change, with manifest signs of a storm. Leonisa was on land, but not there where I might see her, save only at the time of her embarking, where we both met at the seaside. This her new lover led her by the hand, and setting her foot upon the plank which reached from the land to the galley, she turned back her eyes to look upon me, and mine, which never were off from her, looked wishly on her, but with such tenderness, that without knowing how such a cloud was cast before them, that it took away my eyesight, and being robbed of it and of my senses, I fell in a swound to the ground. The like they afterwards told me befell Leonisa ; for they saw her fall from the plank into the sea, and that Ysuph leapt in after her, and brought her out thence in his arms. This was told me by those of my master's galley, whereinto they had put me, I not knowing how I came there. But when I came again to myself, and saw myself alone in that galley, and the other steering a con- trary course and gone clean out of sight from us, carrying away with them the one half of my soul, or, to say better, all of it, my heart was clouded anew, and I began anew to curse my misfortune, and called out aloud for death. And such and so great was the moan and lamentation I made, that my master's ears being offended therewith, threatened with a great cudgel that if I did not hold my peace he would severely punish me; whereupon I repressed my tears and smothered my sighs, thinking that the violent restraining of them would break out the more forcibly in some one part or other, and open a door to l.et my soul out, which I so earnestly desired might relinquish this my miserable body. But froward Fortune not contenting herself to have put me into this so narrow a strait, topk a course to overthrow all by THE LIBERAL LOVER M7 taking from me all hope of remedy; for in an instant the storm we so much feared overtook us, and the wind, which blew strongly from the south, blew full in the teeth of us, and began with such fury to reinforce itself that we were forced to tack about, putting the prow in the poop's place, suffering our galley to go which way the wind would carry her. Our captain's design was, by fetching of boards,^ to have put into some part of the island for shelter, and more particularly on the north^part thereof; but it fell not out answerably to his expectation, but rather quite contrary to what he had de- signed ; for the wind charged us with such impetuousness that [despite] all that which we had sailed in two days, within little more than fourteen hours we saw ourselves within two leagues or thereabout of the same island from whence he had put forth ; and now there was no remedy for hindering our being driven upon it^ and not to run ourselves upon some sandy shore, but amongst very high rocks, which presented themselves to our view, threatening inevitable death to our lives. We saw on the one side of us that other our fellow- galley wherein was Leonisa, and all their Turks, and captive- rowers labouring hard with their oars to keep themselves off as well as they could from running upon the rocks. The like did we in ours, but with better success it should seem, and greater force and strength than the other, who, being tired out with their travail, and overcome by the stiffness of the wind and blustering storm, forsaking their oars, and with them abandoning themselves, they suffered themselves, we looking upon them, to fall amongst the rocks, against which the galley dashing itself, was split in a thousand pieces. Night was then drawing on, and so great was the cry of those that gave themselves for lost, and the fright of those who in our vessel feared to be lost, that not any one of those many things which our captain commanded was either understood or done by them; only they did attend the not foregoing of their oars, plying them still, holding it for their best remedy to turn the prow to the wind and to cast two anchors into the sea, to keep off death for a while, which they held to be cer- tain. And although the fear of dying was general in all of ' Fetching of boards — tacking to and fro. Cf. the word starboard^ etc.— [Ed.1 14^ THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY them, yet in me was it quite contrary ; for, fed with the de* ceitful hope of seeing her in that other world who was so lately departed out of this, every minute that the galley de- ferred its drowning or splitting against the rocks was to me an age of a more painful death. The high-swollen waves which passed over the top of our weather-beaten vessel and my head made me very watchful to see whether or no I could espy floating upon those crump-shouldered billows the body of unfortunate Leonisa. But I will not detain myself now, O Mahamut, in recounting unto thee piece by piece the pas- sions, the fears, the anguishes, the thoughts, which in that tedious and terrible night I had and passed, that I may not go against that which before I propounded and promised, in relating briefly unto thee my misfortune. Suffice it that they were such and so great that if Death had come to me at that time, he needed not to have taken any great pains in taking away my life. Day appeared, but with appearance of a far greater storm than the former, and we found that our vessel lay riding out at sea, and a good ways off from the rocks ; and having descried a point of the island, and perceiving that we might easily double it, both Turks and Christians began to be of good cheer, taking new hopes and new hearts unto them, fell anew to their work; in six hours we doubled the point, and found the sea more calm and quiet, insomuch that with a great deal more ease they could handle and use their oars; and coming under lee of the island, the Turks leapt out to land, and went to see if there were any relics remaining of the galley which the night before fell on the rocks. But even then, too, would not Fortune be so favourable unto me as to give me that poor comfort which I hoped to have had of see- ing Leonisa's body in these my arms, which though dead and broken I would have been glad to have seen it, for to break that impossibility which my star had put upon me of linking myself therewith, as my desires well deserved, and therefore entreated one of the renegadoes to disembark himself to go in search thereof, and to see if the rolling of the sea had cast her on the shore. But, as I told thee, all this did Heaven deny me; and just in that very instant the wind began to rise and the sea grow rough, so that the shelter of that island was not of any benefit at all unto us.. Fctala, seeing this, would not strive against Fortune, who had so violently persecuted THE LIBERAL LOVER 149 him, and therefore commanded them to right and fit the galley to bear a little sail, and to turn the prow to the seaward and the poop to the windward; and he himself taking charge of the rudder, sate at the helm, suffering her to run through the wide sea, being well assured that no impediment would cross its course. The oars bare themselves very even, being seated very orderly on their banks, and all the rest of the company got them into the hold underneath the hatches, so that there was not. a man to be seen on the deck save the master, who for his mbre safety caused himself to be bound fast to his seat, giving thence direction to the rowers for the better governing and guiding of the vessel, which made its way with that swiftness that in three days and three nights, passing in sight of Trapana, of Melazo, and Palermo, she imboked^ by the Pharos of Messina, to the wonderful fear of those that were in her, and of those likewise which beheld them on the land. In fine, not to be tedious in recounting unto thee the terrible- ness of this tempest, which is beyond all expression, I say, that being weary, hungry, and tired out with such a large com- pass about as was the rounding of almost all the whole island of Sicily, we arrived at Tripoli in Barbary, where my master (before that he had reckoned with his Levant-men, shared out the spoils, and given that unto them which was their due, and a fifth to the King, as the custom is) fell sick of a pleurisy, accompanied wath a burning fever, in that violent manner that within three days it sent him packing to hell. The King of Tripoli seized presently upon all his goods, and the Alcaide de los Muertos, which is an office of inquiry con- cerning the dead, substituted by the Great Turk, who, as you know, is heir ^ to those that are his natural subjects after their deaths. These two possessed themselves of all my mas- ter Fetala's wealth, and I fell into the hands of him who was the Viceroy of Tripoli, and within fifteen days after he re- ceived his patent for Cyprus, with whom, you see, I am come hither, but without any intention at all to ransom myself, though he hath often told me that I should if I would, and wondered why I did not do it all this while, being, as Fetala's . ^ /mdoked—emhogued, passed into the strait, — [Ed.] ' Heir — more correctly, inherits the goods of those who die with out heirs. — [Ed.] 150 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY soldiers told him, a principal person and a man of good means in his own country; but I was so far from entertaining that motion that I told him that they had misinformed him of my fortunes. And if thou wilt, Mahamut, that I acquaint thee truly with what I think, know thou then that I will never return back again to that place, where I can no ways receive any comfort, and where Leonisa's death will in part, if not wholly, be imputed unto me. What pleasure then can I take, either there or here, in this my thraldom, though I must con- fess that the remembrance of her loss is more grievous unto me than a thousand captivities? And if it be true that con- tinual sorrows must of force have an end, or end him who suffers them, mine cannot choose but do it, for I am resolved to give them such a loose rein that within a few days they shall give an end to this my miserable life, which I hold so much against my will. This, O my brother Mahamut, is my sad success; this is the cause of these my sighs and tears. Behold now and consider if this be not sufficient for to hale the one from out the deepest bottom of my bowels, and to exhale the other from out my afflicted and tormented bosom? Leonisa is dead, and with her my hope; and though that which I had (she living) hung but by a small and slender thread, yet — yet " — And with this " yet " his tongue clave so close to the roof of his mouth that he could not speak one word more, nor refrain from weeping, whose tears, drop after drop, one overtaking another, trickled down his face in such abundance that the ground was all wet whereon they fell. Mahamut accompanied those with his tears. But this paroxysm being over-past, caused by relating this sad story and calling to mind his lost Leonisa, Mahamut was very willing, and withal went about to comfort him all that he could, with as good terms and persuasions as possibly he could devise. But Ricardo did cut him short of telling him : " That which thou art, my dear friend, to do is, that thou wilt advise me what course I shall take for to fall into dis- grace with my master, and with all those with whom I shall converse, that being hated and abhorred by him and by them, the one and the other might ill-entreat me, and persecute me in such sort that, adding sorrow to sorrow, I may speedily obtain that which I so earnestly desire, which is, to end my life." THE LIBERAL LOVER 15 1 "Now I find that to be true," said Mahamut, " which is commonly spoken : ' Lo que se sabe sentir, se sabe decir ' — He that knows his grief, knows how to speak it — though sometimes it so happeneth that it maketh the tongue dumb. But howsoever it be, whether thy sorrows reach to thy words, or thy words outgo thy sorrows, thou shalt ever, Ricardo, find me thy true friend either for assistance or for counsel; for albeit my few years and the inconsiderateness which I have committed in putting myself into this habit may cry out against me that of neither of these two things which I offer thee thou mayst have any confidence or hope, yet will I endeavour to the utmost of my power that this suspicion may not prove true, nor any such opinion be held for certain. And albeit thou wilt not neither be advised nor assisted by me, yet will I not leave off doing that which shall be fitting and convenient for thee ; as good physicians use to deal with their sick patients, who do not give them that which they crave, but what they think convenient for them to have. There is not any in all this city that can do or prevail more than the Cadi my master; no, not even thine, who comes to be Viceroy thereof, is so powerful as he. This being so as it is, I dare be bold to say that I am the man that can do most in this city, because I can do whatsoever I will with my master. I speak this, because it may be I shall so plot the business with him, and bring it so handsomely about, that thou mayst come to be his; and being in my company, time will teach us that which we are to do, as well for to comfort thee, if thou wilt or canst be comforted, as likewise for myself to get out of this to a better life, or at least to some place where it may be more safe when I leave this." " I kindly thank you, Mahamut," repHed Ricardo, " for your proffered friendship, though sure I am that when thou hast done all thou canst do, thou canst not do anything that can do me any good. But let us now give over this discourse and make towards the tents; for, if my eyesight deceive me not, I see a great press of people coming out of the city, and doubtless it is the old Viceroy, who comes forth into the field for to give place unto my master, that he may enter the city to make his residence." " It is even so," said Mahamut. " Come along with me, Ricardo, and thou shalt see the ceremonies wherewith they t^2 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORV receive him, for I know thou wilt take pleasure in seeing them." " With a very good will/' answered Ricardo ; " for per- adventure I shall have need of thee, if happily the guardian of my master's captives should happen to meet with me, who is a renegado, and by birth of Corso, but of no very pitiful and tender bowels." Here they left off any further communication, and came to the tents just at that very instant as the old Bashaw came thither, and the new one came forth to receive him at the door of the tent. Ali Bashaw (for so was he called who left the government) came accompanied with all the Janizaries, being the ordinary garrison soldiers in Nicosia ever since the Turks were masters of it, being to the number of five hun- dred. They came in two wings or files, the one with their muskets and the others with naked cimeters. They came to the tent of the new Bashaw Hazan, rounding it from one side at the door thereof till they met at the other, where Ali Bashaw, bowing his body, made a lowly reverence to Hazan ; and he, with a less inclining himself, re-saluted him. This done, Ali presently entered into Hazan's pavilion, where the Turks presently mounted him upon a proud horse, with wondrous rich furniture, and conducting him round about the tents and a good part of the field, clamouring out with loud acclamations in their own language : " Long live Solyman Sultan, and Hazan Bashaw in his name ! " They re- peated this very often, reinforcing their voices and vocifera- tions, and then presently returned back again to the tent, where Ali Bashaw remained, who with the Cadi and Hazan shut themselves up close for the space of one hour all alone. Mahamut then told Ricardo that they had thus retired them- selves to treat of that which was fit to be done in the city touching such businesses as were commenced but not finished by Ali. Within a little while after the Cadi came forth to the door of the tent, and said with a loud voice in the Turk- ish, Arabic, and Greek tongue : " That all they who would enter to crave justice or to lay any other matter against Ali Bashaw might have free entrance; for there was Hazan Bashaw, whom the Grand Signior hath sent for Viceroy of .Cyprus, who would do them all right and justice." This license being given, the Janizaries left the door of the tent THE LIBERAL LOVER 153 disoccupied, and gave way to such as would enter in. Maha- mut wrought Ricardo to go in with him, who, for that they were Kazan's slaves, had without any hindrance free access thereunto. There entered to crave justice some Greek Christians and some Turks, but all of them charging him with such trifling things and of so small moment that the Cadi despatched most of them without giving a copy to the defendant, without further examination, demands, and answers; for all causes, unless th6y be matrimonial, are despatched in an instant, more by the judgment of a good understanding man than the quirks of law. And among these Barbarians (if they be so in this particular) the Cadi is the competent judge of all causes, who doth abbreviate them and determine them in the turning of a hand, and forthwith pronounceth sen- tence, without any appealing therefrom to any other tri- bunal. In this interim entered in a Chauz, which is as it were an Alquazil, and said that there was a Jew at the tent door who had brought to be sold a most fair and beautiful Christian; the Cadi commanded that they should bid him come in. The Chauz went forth, and presently came in again, leading the way to a venerable Jew, who led by the hand a woman in a Barbary habit, so well made and set forth that the richest Moor in Fez or Morocco was not able to compare therewith, for in her whole dress throughout she surpassed all the Afri- can women; yea, though even those of Argiers should have presented themselves there with all their pearls and rich embroideries. She came in having her face covered with a scarf of crimson taffeta; about the smalls of her legs (which discovered themselves) there appeared two golden chains of pure burnished gold; and on her arms, which likewise through a smock of sendall, or thin taffeta sarcenet were transparent, and showed themselves to the searching curious eyes of the beholders, she ware two bracelets of gold, wherein were set scatteringly here and there many fair pearls and precious stones. In conclusion, the fashion of her clothes and all 'other habiliments about her were such that she presented herself before them most richly and gorgeously attired. The Cadi and the other two Bashaws upon the very first sight of her being mightily taken, before any other thing was 11 1S4 TH£ BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY said or questioned by them, they willed the Jew that he should take the scarf from off the Christian's face. He did so, and withal did discover such a splendour and such a beau- tiful countenance as did dazzle the eyes and glad the hearts of all the standers-by. As the sun scarfed with clouds after much darkness offers itself to the eyes of those who long for its desired presence, such and no otherwise than such was the beauty of this captived Christian in this her bravery and gallantry. But he on whom this wonderful light which was discov- ered wrought the greatest and deepest impression was this our sorrowful Ricardo, as one who better than any other knew her, since that she was his cruel and beloved Leonisa, who so often and with so many tears had by him been reputed and deplored for dead. With the sudden and unexpected sight of the singular beauty of this Christian the heart of AH was wounded and captivated, and in the same degree and with the selfsame wound Hazan found himself touched; the Cadi himself not being exempted from this amorous wound, who, more perplexed than both the other, knew not how to remove his eyes from looking on those fairer lights of Leonisa. And for to endear the great and powerful force of love, I would have thee to take notice that at one and the same instant there was bred in the hearts of all these three one and the same (as they flattered themselves) firm hope of obtaining and enjoying her; and therefore, without questioning how, where, and when the Jew came by her, they only asked him what he would take for her. The covetous Jew answered : " Two thousand crowns." But he had scarce set the price but that AH Bashaw said unto him that he would give him so much for her, and that he would go to his tent and pres- ently bring him his money. But Hazan Bashaw, who was minded that he should not have her, though therein he should hazard his life, said: " I likewise will give for her those two thousand crowns which the Jew demandeth ; yet would I neither give so much, neither set myself to cross AH herein, or what he hath offered, did not that enforce me thereunto, which he himself shall con- fess is reason, and doth oblige and force me to do as I do, and this it is, that this Gentile slave appertaineth not to either of us two, but only to the Grand Signior, and therefore I say THE LIBERAL LOVER 155 that in his name I buy her. Now let us see who dare be so bold as to offer to take her from me ! " " Marry, that dare I," replied Ali, " because for the self- same end and purpose do I buy her ; and it appertaineth more especially unto me to tender this present to the Grand Signior, in regard of the conveniency that I have to convey her forthwith to Constantinople, carrying her along with me, that thereby I may gain the good-will of the Grand Signior. For I being now a man^ as thou now, Hazan, seest, without any charge or command, I had need seek out some means to procure it, wherein thou art surely settled for three years, since that this is the very first day in which thou beginnest to bear rule and to govern this rich kingdom of Cyprus ; and therefore, as well for these reasons as that I was the first that offered the propounded price for her, it stands with all reason, O Hazan, that thou leave her unto me." " Nay, rather it is more fitting, and will be better taken at my hands," replied Hazan, " to procure her and send her to the Grand Signior, since that I do it without being moved thereunto out of mine own private interest or expectancy of profit. And whereas you allege the commodiousness and con- veniency of carrying her along with you, I will set forth a galley of mine own well armed, putting thereinto men of mine own, some servants, some slaves, which shall serve for her convoy and go along with her." At these words Ali's blood began to rise, and rising upon his feet, he laid his hand on his cimeter, saying : " Hazan, my intentions being the same for the presenting and carrying of this Christian to the Grand Signior, and I having been the first chapman that drave the bargain, it is grounded upon all reason and justice that thou leave her unto me; and if thou shouldst but think to carry her from me, this cimeter which I lay my hand on shall defend my right and chastise thy presumption." The Cadi, who was attentive to all that passed between them, and burned no less in love's flames than the other two, fearing lest he might go without the Christian, bethought himself how he might quench this great fire which was kin- dled between them, and withal to get the captive into his own custody without giving any the least suspicion of his dam- nable intention; and therefore, rising up, he interposed him- 15^ THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY self between them, and said : " Hazan and AH, let me entreat you both to be quiet and lay aside these your differences, and I doubt not but I shall be able to compose them in such sort that both of you may effect your intentions, and the Grand Signior be, as you desire, well served by you." To these words of the Cadi they presently showed them- selves obedient, and had he commanded them a greater mat- ter they would have done it (so great is the respect which those of that sect bare to his gray hairs). The Cadi then prosecuting what he had begun in this manner : " Thou, Ali, sayest that thou wouldst have this Christian for the Grand Signior ; and Hazan he says the like. Thou allegest that thou wast the first in offering the de- manded price for her, and therefore she ought to be thine. Hazan contradicts thee in this; and though he doth not put his argument so home to the pinching-point, yet I find it is the same as thine is — that is, the same intention, which without all doubt was hatched as soon as thine was, in his desire and willingness to buy the slave for the same effect, only thou gotst the start of him in having first declared thy- self ; yet ought not this to be a cause that he should absolutely and wholly be defrauded and frustrated of his good desire, and therefore, iq my opinion, it shall not be amiss to accord this business between you in this form and manner following : that both of you shall have equal interest in this slave, and since that the use of her is to be at the will and pleasure of the Grand Signior, for whom she is bought, it belongeth unto him to dispose of her. In the meanwhile, you, Hazan, shall pay two thousand^ crowns, and Ali shall lay down the other two thousand, and the captive shall remain in my power, to the end that in both your names I may send her to Constantinople, that neither of you might remain unreward- ed; and can certify, as being an eye-witness, your forward- ness to gratify the Grand Signior, and therefore offer myself to send her thither at my cost and charge with that author- ity and decency which is due to him to whom she is sent, writing to the Grand Signior, acquainting him with all * Two thousand— \\. ought to be one thousand. Mabbe is occa- sionally inaccurate in his rendering of numbers and sums of money. — [Ed.] THE LIBERAL LOVER 157 that which passed here and your readiness to do him this service." These two enamoured Turks neither knew, nor .could, nor would contradict him, each of them forming and imagining in his mind a hope, though doubtful, of promising to them- selves the attaining to the end of their inflamed desires. Hazan, who was to continue Viceroy of Cyprus, thought upon giving great gifts to the Cadi, that being thereby overcome and obliged, he should deliver up unto him the captive; and AH he imagined to do some such act as should assure the obtaining of what he desired; and each of them holding his own design the best and the surest, they easily condescended to what the Cadi had propounded, and with a joint consent both of them delivered her up presently unto hiin, and made each of them present payment to the Jew one thousand crowns apiece. But the Jew said he would not part with her upon those terms, if they meant to have into the bargain her wearing apparel and her jewels, which he valued at one thou- sand crowns more. And in very deed they could be little less worth, because in her hairs, which partly hung dishevelled on her shoulders and partly knit up in curious knots on her forehead, there appeared some ropes of pearls which very gracefully were interwoven with them. The bracelets about her arms and above her ankles, in the small of the leg, were likewise full of great pearls; her raiment throughout was very rich, and thereon a mantle, after the Moorish manner, of green satin, deeply fringed and embroidered with gold. In a word, it seemed to all that were there present that the Jew had undervalued the attiring of her; and the Cadi, that he might not show himself less liberal than the two Bashaws, told him he would pay him those thousand crowns, because he would have her to be presented in the same dress which she was now in to the Grand Signior. The two com- petitors did approve very well of it, each of them believing that all should fall out as they would have it. I want now words significant enough to tell you what Ricardo thought in seeing his soul set out thus to open sale, and those thoughts which then came into his head, and those fears which suddenly surprised him, whereas he saw that his finding of his beloved pledge was to lose her the more. He knew not for a while whether he were sleeping or waking, 15^ THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY not believing his own eyes in giving credit to that which they had seen ; for it seemed unto him a thing impossible that they should see so unexpectedly before them those eyes of hers which he had not long since given to be shut up in eternal darkness. When he saw that this was no phantasma or dream, but a real truth, he came to his friendly Mahamut, and whisper- ing him in the ear, said softly unto him : " Friend, dost not thou know her ? " " Not I," said Mahamut. " Then would I have thee know," replied Ricardo, " that it is Leonisa." " How," answered Mahamut, " what is that, Ricardo, thou sayest ? " " That," said Ricardo, " which thou hast already heard." " Hold thy peace, then, and do not discover her," replied Mahamut ; " for Fortune goes now so ordering the business that thou shalt find her good and prosperous, since that she is in my master's power." " Dost thou think it fit," said Ricardo, " that I go and put myself in some such place where I may be seen by her? " " No, by no means," replied Mahamut, " lest she should put you, or you her, into some sudden passion; and have a great care that you do not give any the least sign or token that you know her, or that ever you had seen her, for if you should do so it might redound much to the prejudice of my design, if not utterly overthrow it." " I will follow your advice," answered Ricardo ; and so went his way, leaving the place lest his eyes might encounter with those of Leonisa; who held hers all the while that this passed nailed to the ground, trilling some tears down from them. She being thus, as you have heard, rendered up unto the Cadi, he came unto her, and laying hands on her, delivered her unto Mahamut, commanding him to carry her to the city, with charge to deliver her to his lady Halima, and to tell her withal that she should use and entreat her well, as being the slave of the Grand Signior. Mahamut did so, and left Ricardo all alone, who with his eyes went following this his star, till it was wholly taken out of his sight and covered as it were with a cloud from him by the walls of Nicosia. Having THE LIBERAL LOVER 159 lost her, he goes to look out the Jew, finds him, and com- ing civilly unto him, asked him where he had bought this captive Christian, and how and in what manner she came into his hand. The Jew made him answer that he lighted on her in the island of Pantanalea, and that he bought her of cer- tain Turks whose galley had suffered wrack, being split there against the rocks ; and being willing to have gone on in the prosecution of what he had begun, it received interruption and was wholly broken off by one that came from the Ba- shaws, tilling the Jew that he must come away presently unto them, who had purposely sent for him that they might demand that of him which Ricardo was so desirous to know ; and thereupon he abruptly took his leave. In the way which was between the tents and the town Mahamut took occasion to ask Leonisa (speaking unto her in Italian) whence she was and of what place; who made him answer that she was of the city of Trapana. Then Mahamut demanded again of her whether she did know in that city a rich and noble gentleman called Ricardo. At her hearing him named Leonisa fetched a deep sigh, saying : " Too, too well, to my hurt." " How to your hurt ? " replied Mahamut. " Because he knew me," said Leonisa, " to his own and my unhappiness." " But I pray tell me," quoth Mahamut, " did you know likewise in the said city another gentleman, of a gentle dispo- sition, the son of very rich parents, and himself in his own person very valiant, very liberal, and very discreet, called Cornelio ? " " I likewise know him," said Leonisa, " and, I may say, much more to my hurt than Ricardo. But I pray, sir, who are you, who know these two and ask me of them ? " " I am," said Mahamut, " of Palermo, and by various ac- cidents in this disguise and different habit from that which I was wont to wear. I know them passing well, for it is not many days since that they were both in my power ; for cer- tain Moors of Tripoli in Barbary had taken Cornelio captive and sold him to a Turk, who brought him to this island, whither he came with merchandise (for he is a merchant of Rhodes), who had trusted Cornelio with all his goods." " And he will keep them well/' said Leonisa, " because i6o THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY he knows so well to keep his own. But tell me, sir, how of with whom Ricardo came to this island ? " " Marry, he came," answered Mahamut, " with a pirate who took him prisoner in a garden near the seashore of Tra- pana, and [said] that together with him he had captivated a damosel, but I could never get him to tell me her name. He abode here some few days with his master, who was to go to visit Mahomet's Sepulchre, which is in the city of Almedina ; but just at the time of his departure Ricardo fell so extreme sick that his master left him with me (for that I was his countryman), to the end that I might use all the best means for his recovery, and take care and charge of him till his return ; and in case that he did not return hither, that I should send him unto him to Constantinople, whereof he would ad- vertise me when he came thither. But Heaven had otherwise ordered it, since that unfortunate Ricardo, without having any accident or symptom of a dangerous sickness, within a few days ended those of his life, making often mention of one Leonisa, whom, as himself told me, he loved more than his own life, and was as dear unto him, if not dearer, than his own soul ; which Leonisa, as he at large related unto me, suffered shipwreck at the island of Pantanalea, the galley wherein she was being split upon the rocks, and herself drowned; whose death he continually lamented, and with much weeping bewailed, till that his mourning had brought him to breathe his last, for I perceived no sickness at all in him in his body, but great shows of grief and sorrow in bis soul." " Tell me, sir," replied Leonisa, " this other young man whom you speak of, in those his discourses which he had with you, which (for that you were of his own country) could not but be very many, did he not at any time speak of Leonisa? And did he tell you how she and Ricardo were made captives, and the whole manner of it?" " Speak of her? " said Mahamut. " Yes, a thousand and a thousand times, and asked me many a time and oft whether any Christian of this name had of late been brought to this island, and with such and such marks and tokens, and how glad he would be to hear any tidings of her, that he might ransom her. And withal I must tell you that he had told his master, and in telling made him believe, that she was not §o THE LIBERAL LOVER 163 rich as he took her to be, and for that he had enjoyed her, he might now make the less reckoning of her, and that if three or four hundred crowns would purchase her freedom he would willingly give so much for her, because heretofore he had borne some good-will and affection towards her." " Very little," said Leonisa, " must that his affection be which would not go beyond four hundred crowns. But Ri- cardo is more liberal, more valiant, more generous and in- genious than to make so poor an offer for that which he prized at so high a value. God pardon the party that was the cause of his death ! for it was I that am that unhappy woman, whom he bewailed for dead ; and God knows if I should not be glad with all my heart that he were alive, that I might re- quite his kindness, and that he might see how sensible I should be of his misfortune, who hath sorrowed so much for mine. I, sir, as I have already told you, am she who is as little beloved of Cornelio as I was greatly bewailed of Ricardo; she who by very many and various chances am come to this miserable estate wherein I now find myself; and though it be so dangerous, as you see, yet have I always, by Heaven's gracious assistance, kept mine honour entire and untouched, wherewith in this my misery I live contented. But now, woe is me ! neither do I know where I am nor who is my master, nor whither my contrarious fates will hurry me; wherefore I beseech you, sir, by that blood which you have in you of a Christian, that you will give me your best counsel and advice in these my troubles, which for that they have been many, though they have made me look about and be somewhat the more wary and circumspect, yet notwith- standing such and so many every moment came upon me that I knew not well how to prevent and withstand them." Whereunto Mahamut answered, that he would do all what- soever he was able to do in serving, advising, and assisting her with his best wit and strength ; and then did he advertise her of the difference between the two Bashaws for her sake, and how that she now remained in the power of the Cadi his master, for the conveying and presenting her to the Great Turk Selim, at Constantinople ; but rather than this should take effect, he hoped in the true God, in whom he believed, though a bad Christian, that He would dispose otherwise of her; advising her withal, that by bearing herself fairly she i6o THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY ^'^hould work and insinuate herself into Halima's favour and good opinion, wife to the Cadi his master, in whose power she was to remain till they should send her to Constantinople, acquainting her withal with Halima's conditions and qual- ities, and besides these told her many other things which might make much for her good, holding talk and discourse with her all the way till he had brought her to and left her in the Cadi's house and in the power of Halima, to whom he delivered his master's message. The Moor, for that she saw she was so well clad and so beautiful, gave her a very kind and friendly welcome. Maha- mut having rendered up his charge into Halima's hands, re- turned back to the tents to recount unto Ricardo what had passed betwixt himself and Leonisa, and meeting with him, told him all, point by point, from the beginning to the end- ing. " But when I came to tell him how sorrowful Leonisa was when I signified unto her that he was dead, the water stood in his eyes. I told him how I had feigned that coun- terfeit story of Cornelio's being a captive, to see how she would take it; I acquainted him with her coldness to Cor- nelio, and the bad conceit she had of him for his undervaluing her." All which was as a sovereign cordial to Ricardo's afflict- ed heart ; who said unto Mahamut : " There comes now into my mind, friend Mahamut, a tale which my father told me, who you know how curious he was, and have heard, I am sure, what great honour the Emperor Charles the Fifth did him, whom he still served in honourable places in his wars. I tell you that he told me that when the Emperor was at the siege of Tuniz, and took it, together with the fort Goleta, being one day in the field in his tent, they presented unto him a Moor, as a singular rarity for her beauty, and that at that very time wherein they presented her unto him entered in certain beams of the sun at the one side of the tent and rested on the hairs of the Moor, which seemed to stand in competition with those of the sun, being between red and yellow, resembling the colour of golden wires — a rare and strange thing amongst the Moors, with whom your black hairs are in greatest esteem and request. He told me likewise that on that occasion there were in the tent, amongst many other, two Spanish gentlemen, both very discreet, and both poets, the one of Andaluzia, the other of Catalunia. The former THE LIBERAL LOVER 163 having taken a view of her, vented certain verses which they call coplas, ending in rhyme ; but being at a stand when he had uttered five of his verses, the other gentleman (seeing him stick, and that he could go no further to make an end of what he had begun for want of words, which on the sudden did not offer themselves to his liking), who stood close by him and had heard these his verses, went presently on where he left, adding instantly five other to the former; and this presented itself unto my memory when I saw that most beau- tiful Le^nisa enter the Bashaws' tent, not only outshining the beams of the sun, should they have lighted on her, but even heaven itself with all its stars." " Hold," said Mahamut ; " no more, lest, friend Ricardo, thy tongue run riot; for at every word thou utterest I am afraid thou wilt pass so far beyond the bounds of not only reason but religion in the praise and commendation of thy fair Leonisa, that leaving to seem a Christian, thou wilt be taken for a Gentile. Let me hear those verses or coplas, or what else you please to call them, that we may afterwards talk of other things that may be more pleasing and perhaps more profitable." " In good time," said Ricardo ; " but let me once again advertise thee that the Andaluz vented the first five verses, and the Catalan the other five, both extempore, and these they be : And. ' Whilst I behold thy glittering golden hairs, Dishevelled thus, waving about thy ears, And see those locks thus loosed and undone, For their more pomp to sport them in the sun, Love takes those threads and weaves them with that art' Cat. • He knits a thousand knots about my heart. And with such skill and cunning he them set*. My soul lies taken in those lovely nets. Making me cry, fair prison that dost hold My heart in fetters wrought of burnished gold."^ " I like them well," said Mahamut, " but much better, my Ricardo, that you are in this good humour of repeating verses, because the saying or making of them requireth the minds of men that are dispassionated." 1 64 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY " Men likewise use," replied Ricardo, "to wail over hearses as to sing verses; both are Verse. But laying this aside, tell me what thou mindest to do in this our business ; for though I understood not what the Bashaws treated in the tent till thou hadst carried away Leonisa, a renegado of my master, a Venetian, told me all, who was then present, and understood the Turkish language very well; and therefore above all things it is most needful and requisite to set our wits awork and seek out some plot to prevent Leonisa's coming to the hands of the Grand Signior." " That which is fittest first of all to be done," answered Mahamut, " is that thou come to be in the power of my master. This being effected, we will afterwards consult on that which shall convene best for us." Whilst they were thus talking came the guardian of the Christian captives belonging to Hazan and carried Ricardo away with him. The Cadi returned with Hazan to the city, who in a few days despatched Ali's residency, and gave it him rolled up and sealed, that he might carry it along with him to Constantinople. He taking his leave, prepared forthwith to set forward on his journey, being very instant with the Cadi that he would hasten the sending of the captive, and withal write his letters to the Grand Signior in his favour, for the better furthering of his pretensions. The Cadi promised him he would, but with treacherous bowels, which were almost turned into ashes, so were they set on fire by the inflamed love which he bare to the captive. Ali being gone full of false hopes, and Hazan abiding behind not void of them, Mahamut so brought the business about that Ricardo came into the power of his master. Hours and days ran on, the time passed away, and the longing desire to see Leonisa did so press and wring Ricardo that he could not take one poor short minute of rest. Ricardo changed his own name into that of Mario, because his might not come to Leonisa's ears before that his eyes had seen her; and for to see her was very hard and difficult, for that the Moors are extremely jealous, and keep covered from all men the faces of their women ; howbeit they do not much mislike the show- ing of them to Christians, which happily may be because being captives they do not reckon them for men, but slight them as contemptible creatures. THE LIBERAL LOVER 165 Yet one day it so happened that the lady Halima saw her slave Mario, and in seeing him took such a good liking of him that he remained deeply engraven in her heart and strongly fixed in her memory ; and peradventure taking little contentment in the cold and weak embracements of her aged husband, she the more easily gave way to this her evil desire, and with the like easiness she acquainted Leonisa therewith, whom she now dearly loved, and made exceeding much of, for her «weet behaviour and discreet carriage, and likewise showed her great respect for that she was to be sent for a rarity to the Grand Signior. She acquainted her how that the Cadi had brought and received into his house a Christian captive of so gentle an aspect and comely presence that in her eye he was the handsomest man that ever she saw in her life, and that they said he was a chilibi, that is to say a gentleman, and countryman to Mahamut their renegado, and that she knew not how to give him clearly to understand the good- will and affection which she bare unto him, fearing lest that the Christian should slight and neglect her for declaring and manifesting her love unto him at the first sight, before she had further and better knowledge of him. Leonisa asked her what was the captive's name. Halima told her Mario ; to whom Leonisa replied : " If he be a gentle- man, and of that place they say he is, certainly I should know him; but of this name Mario I do not remember that there is any such in Trapana. But if it shall stand with your lady- ship's pleasure that I may but see him and talk a while with him, I shall be able to inform you both who he is and what may be hoped from him." " It shall be so," said Halima; " and on Friday next, when- as the Cadi shall be at the Mezquita, performing those rites and ceremonies which are then and there required in their devotions and adorations, I will take occasion to call him in hither, where leaving you two together, you may talk alone by yourselves ; and if you think fit, you may give him some inkling of my desires and well-wishings towards him, and that you will do me this friendly office in the best manner your wit and discretion can devise, of both which I have had already sufficient trial, and therefore need not to express myself or press you any further in this particular." This Halima said to Leonisa, and within less than two 1 66 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY hours after, the Cadi called Mahamut and Mario unto him, and with no less efficacy than Halima had discovered her heart to Leonisa did this enamoured old-young man discover his to his two slaves, craving their counsel and advice what course he should take for to keep the Christian to himself and enjoy her, and yet comply with the Grand Signior, whose she was ; telling them withal that he would rather die a thou- sand deaths than deliver her up once to the Great Turk. With such affection did this Moor express his passions that they left a deep impression and belief in the hearts of his two slaves ; whose thoughts were fully bent to run a contrary course to that which he imagined. He thought one thing, and they another ; in the end, it was concluded between them that Mario, as being a man of her own nation and country, howbeit he had told him that he knew her not, should take in hand the soliciting her and in declaring his fervent affec- tion ; and in case that by his fair means he could not prevail and procure her good-will, he should then use force, she being now in his power; and this being done, to give out that she was dead, and so he should excuse his sending of her to Constantinople. The Cadi rested wonderful well contented with this device of his slaves, and out of the great joy which he Had imagined to himself he instantly gave Mahamut his liberty, bequeath- ing besides unto him after his death the one half of his goods. He likewise promised Mario, if he procured that which he so earnestly desired, not only his liberty, but good store of crowns, wherewith he should return home to his own country rich, honoured, and contented. H he were liberal in promising, his captives were prod- igal, offering to hale down the moon from heaven to do him service, how much more easily to draw Leonisa to the bent of his bow, and to condescend to his desire, so as Mario by his leave might have the conveniency offered him of speak- ing with her. " I will give him free leave of access unto her," answered the Cadi, " even as often as he will himself, if that will ad- vance the business; for I will so order it that Halima shall go hence to the house of her parents, who are Greek Chris- tians, where she shall stay some few days, or longer time if need be ; and she being abroad, I will command my porter that THE LIBERAL LOVER 1 67 he suffer Mario to enter into the house, and to have free in- gress and egress as often as he pleaseth ; and I will tell Leo- nisa that she may, if it please her, talk and converse with her countryman." Thus did the wind begin to chop about of Ricardo's mis- fortunes, blowing with a gentle gale in his favour, his master not witting which way he meant to shape his course. This appointment being made and concluded on between these three, tlje first that laid this plot was Halima, showing herself a right woman, whose nature is facile, and whose wit quick and sudden for the effecting of that which she hath a mind unto, especially if her heart be eagerly set upon it. That very selfsame day the Cadi came to Halima and told her that she might when she would go out of the town to visit her father and mother, and make merry with them and the rest of her good friends, and to stay there as long as she listed, or till he sent for her ; but because her heart was overjoyed with those good hopes which Leonisa had given her, she not only would not go to her parents' house, nor yet to that feigned paradise of Mahomet, and therefore told him that at this time she had no great mind to go thither; when she had, she would ac- quaint him therewith; but whensoever she went, she would carry the captive Christian along with her. " Oh, by no means," replied the Cadi, " for it is not fit that this pledge of the Grand Signior should be seen of any ; besides, it would do her more hurt than good to converse with Christians, since that you know that when she comes into the power of the Grand Signior she must be shut up in the seraglio, and turn Turk whether she will or no." " But if she go along with me," replied Halima, " it mat- tereth not much that she be in my parents' house, nor that she converse with them, with whom myself converse much more and yet I cease not for all that to be a good Turk. Besides, the longest time that I mean to spend with them in their house shall be at the farthest but four or five days, for the great love which I bear unto you will not give me leave to be any longer absent and not see you." The Cadi made no reply, that he might not give her occa- sion to breed some suspicion or other in her of his intention. Whilst this business was a-brewing, Friday came, and he went to the Mezquita, from whence he could not come forth 1 68 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY in almost four hours ; and Halima had scarce seen him put his foot over the threshold of his house but she commanded Mario to be called for to come unto her ; but a Christian of Corsica would not suffer him to enter, who was then porter and waited at the gate of the outward court, if Halima her- self had not called out aloud unto him that he should let him come in. And so he entered, but much troubled, and trem- bling, as if he had been to fight with a whole army of enemies. Leonisa was in the same dress and attire as when she entered the Bashaws' tent, sitting at the foot of a curious staircase of polished marble, which led the way up to a large and spacious gallery rounding the whole house; her head hung downward towards her bosom, resting itself on the palm of her right hand, and leaning her elbow on her knee ; her eyes were turned another way quite contrary to the door by which Mario entered, so that though he went towards the place where she sate yet did she not see him. No sooner was Ricardo let in but he walked through the whole house with his eyes, yet could he not perceive anything save a dumb and still silence, till that he cast his eye aside where Leonisa sate; instantly whereupon so many thoughts took hold on enamoured Ricardo as did work in him both amazement and gladness, conceiting himself to be a thousand paces and more distanced from his happiness and content- ment; he considered likewise with himself that he was a captive, and his glory in another's power. Revolving these things with himself, he made towards her by a little and a little, and with a fearful love, a joyful sadness, and timor- ous courage (for such passions accompany true lovers), he came by degrees to the centre where his heart's joy was, when by chance Leoniga turned her head aside, and fixed her eyes on those of Mario, who looked very steadfastly on her. But when both their looks had thus encountered each other, by different effects [they] gave evident signs of that which their several souls felt within. Ricardo stood stock still, and could not stir one foot farther; and Leonisa, who upon Mahamut's relation gave Ricardo for dead, and to see him now and that so unexpectedly alive, full of fear and amazement, without unfixing her eyes or turning her back, she stepped up backward four or five stairs, she blessed THE LIBERAL LOVER 1 69 herself as if she had seen some phantasma or a thing of another world. Ricardo returned from out his astonishment, and knew by that which Leonisa did the true cause of her fear, and therefore said unto her : " It grieves me to the very soul, O of all fair the fairest, Leonisa ! that the news did not fall out true which Mahamut gave thee of my death, for by it I might have excused those fears which now I have in thinking with myself whether that rigour which heretofore thou hast used towards me continue still in the same force and being. Quiet yourself, dearest in my love, and come down again; and if you dare do that which hitherto you never did, which is to draw near unto me, come and touch me, and thou shalt see that I am no phantastical body, no wandering ghost. I am Ricardo, Leonisa — that unfortunate Ricardo whom thou hast made so." Whilst he was speaking this, Leonisa puts her finger upon her mouth, whereby Ricardo understood that it was a sign that he should be silent or speak more softly; and taking a little better heart unto him, he drew a little nearer unto her, in such a distance that he might hear these words come from her: " Speak lower, Mario (for so methinketh thou now call- est thyself), and treat not of any other thing now save what I shall treat with thee, and consider withal that it may so happen th^t if we be overheard we shall never see one an- other any more. I verily believe that Halima our mistress Hsteneth to hear, if not heareth us; who, to deal plainly and briefly with thee, hath told me that she adores thee, and hath entreated me to be the intercessoress of this her desire. If thou wilt answer her wishes, it will be better for thy body than thy soul ; but if thou wilt not, yet must thou feign that thou dost embrace her love, as well because I entreat thee so to do as also for that the declared desires of a woman ought not uncivilly to be despised and utterly rejected." Hereunto Ricardo answered : " I did never think nor ever could imagine, fairest Leonisa, that there was that thing whatsoever which you should entreat me to do that should bring with it an impossibility of complying therewith, but that which you now require of me hath disdeceived me. Is peradventure man's will so light that it may be moved to and fro, and carried hither and thither whither the pleasure of 170 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY others shall guide and direct it? or doth it stand with the honour and faith of a gentleman, or with the repute of an honest man, to feign and dissemble in things of such weight and high a nature as this is? If it seem good unto you that any of these things in this kind ought to be or may be done, do that which shall be most pleasing in your own eyes, be- cause you are the sole mistress of my will. But I now know that you likewise deceive me in this, since that you never rightly knew my will, and therefore know not how to dispose thereof; but because you may not say that in the first thing you commanded me you should not be obeyed, I will lose somewhat of myself, and of being what I ought to be; I will satisfy your desire, and that of Halima, as you say, feignedly, so that I may thereby gain the happiness to see you ; and therefore do you feign my answers to your own good liking, for from henceforth my feigned will doth firm and confirm them. Now, in requital of this office which I do for you, which is in my opinion the greatest that ever I can or shall be able to do, though I should give my soul anew unto you, which I have so often given you, I beseech you that you will briefly tell me how you escaped from the hands of the pirates, and how you came to those of the Jew who so lately sold you." " The story of my misfortunes," answered Leonisa, " re- quires more leisure than time will now permit to "relate, yet notwithstanding I will not leave you wholly unsatisfied. Know, then, that the same very evening we parted, Ysuph's galley was with a stiff and strong wind driven to the same isle of Pantanalea where we likewise saw your vessel; but ours, we being not able to hinder it, ran remedilessly upon the rocks. My master then having his destruction before his eyes, and that there was little or no hope of safety left, with all possible haste emptied two hogsheads which were full of water, then stopped up the bungholes very close, and having bound the one to the other with good strong cords, he seated me between them; that done, he presently stripped himself, and taking another hogshead, spreading his arms over it, and binding a rope about his middle, causing the same to be fastened to the casks whereon I sate bound, with great courage he rushed into the sea, towing me after him. I had not the heart to rush in after him, which one of the THE LIBERAL LOVER 171 Turks seeing, pushed me forward with all his force, and sent me packing after Ysuph, where I lay without any sense, nor came again to myself till I found myself on land in the arms of two Turks, who bowing my head and body towards the ground, held me so a pretty space, all that while great store of salt water which I had swallowed down coming forth at my mouth. At last* I opened mine eyes, but as one amazed, and looking about, who should I see but Ysuph lying by me, y^ith his brains beaten out against the rocks when he had almost recovered the shore, where he ended his life. This I afterwards understood by the Turks ; and they likewise told me that, taking hold of the cord, they drew me on land, without receiving any further harm than what I mentioned before unto you ; of all the whole company only eight persons escaped drowning. Eight days we abode in the island, the Turks using me with as much respect as if I had been their sister, if not more. We kept ourselves close in a cave, the Turks fearing that if they should be espied, the Christians which had the command of the fort which is in the island would sally forth upon them and take them captive. They sustained themselves with wet biscuits which the sea had cast upon the shore from out the broken bins of the galley, which they went forth to gather up by night, that they might not be discovered. Fortune had so ordered it for my great ill that the fort was without a captain, who died but a few days before; and in all the fort there were not above twenty sol- diers. This we came to know by a youth which was capti- vated by the Turks, who came down from thence to gather cockles by the seaside. At the eight days' end there arrived on that coast a vessel of the Moors, which they call Carma- mucales; the Turks saw it coming in, and that they lay at anchor a little off the land, and so made towards them, making such signs to the vessel, which was not far off, that they who were in her knew they were Turks that called unto them. Thereupon they sent out their cock-boat, and they recounted unto them their distress, and they received them into their bark, wherein came an exceeding rich Jew, a merchant; and all the lading of the vessel, or the most part of it, was his, being fraughted with carpets and hides and other commodi- ties which they bring from Barbary to the Levant. In the said vessel the Turks went for Tripoli, and in that voyage 172 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY they sold me to the Jew for two thousand ducats — an ex- cessive price, if his love towards me had not made him so liberal, which the Jew afterwards discovered unto me. Leav- ing the Turks after all this in Tripoli, the vessel tacked about to perform her voyage, and the Jew in most impudent manner fell to soliciting of me; but I showed him such a countenance as his filthy desireS deserved. Seeing himself then in despair of obtaining his lustful ends, he resolved to rid himself of me upon the first occasion that should offer itself unto him. And it coming to his knowledge that the two Bashaws, AH and Hazan, were in this island, where he might sell and vent his merchandise as well as in Xio,^ whither he was bound, he came hither with intention to sell me to one of the two Bashaws, and for this cause put me in this dress and wear wherein you now see me, for to affectionate them the more unto me who should buy me. I am given to understand that this Cadi hath bought me with purpose to carry me for a present to the Great Turk, whereof I am not a little afraid. Here I came to know thy feigned death ; and I must now tell thee, if thou wilt believe me, and believe me thou mayst, that it grieved me to the very soul, and that I did more envy than pity thee, yet not out of any ill will that I bare unto thee, though I did not answer thy love according to thy expectation, for I shall never be in- grateful and disrespective where I have found so much love and respect, but because thou hadst then made an end of thy life's tragedy." " Dear Leonisa," answered Ricardo, " you say not amiss herein, if death had not hindered the happiness of my coming again to see you, esteeming more this instant of glory which I enjoy in seeing you than any other happiness, saving that which is eternal, which either in life or in death might assure unto me my desire. The Cadi, now my master, into whose power I am come by no less various accidents than yours, bears the like fervent affection unto you as Halima doth to me ; he hath made choice of me to be the interpreter of his thoughts. I entertained the motion, not for to do him any pleasure thereby, but that I might gain the commodity and conveniency of speaking with you, to the end that you may » A'lc;— Chios.— [Ed.] THE LIBERAL LOVER I73 see, Leonisa, to what hard terms our misfortunes have brought us — you to be the means of working an impossibility (for you know my mind touching the motion you made unto me), and mc to be likewise set awork about such a business as I least dreamt of, and for which I would give, rather than obtain it, my life, which now I esteem according to its high worth and value since that it hath had the happiness to see you." " I know not what to say unto thee, Ricardo," replied Leonisa, " nor how we shall be able to get out of this intri- cate labyrinth whereinto, as thou sayest, our hard fortune hath brought us; only I know to say thus much, that we must be driven in this business to use that which is contrary to our condition and hateful to honest minds, to wit, dissem- bling and deceit; and therefore say unto thee, that I will acquaint Halima with some such words delivered by thee that shall rather entertain her with hopes than drive her to de- spair. Thou likewise shalt say of me to the Cadi that which thou shalt think most convenient for the securing of mine honour and the deceiving of him; and since that I put mine honour into thy hands, thou mayst assure thyself that it is yet as true and entire as ever, though the many ways which I have gone and the many assaults which I have endured might call it into question, though you nor any else, without great injustice, can make the least doubt of it. For our speaking and conversing each with other will be, by their means, most facile and easy; always presupposed that you never once open your mouth nor treat aught with me which shall any way appertain to your declared pretension, for in what hour you shall do that, in the same you shall take your leave of seeing me any more. For I would not have thee think that my value is of so little worth, and of so few quilates,^ that captivity shall work that with me which lib- erty could not do. I will be, by Heaven's favour, like gold, which the longer it is in the chrysol ^ comes forth thence the purer and the finer. Rest satisfied and content thyself with that which I have already said unto thee, lest the very sight of thee should, as it hath done heretofore, cause a distance in me, if not a loathing; for I would have thee to know, Ricardo, * Qtiilates — carats. — [Ed.] ' Chrysol— zx\xz\\i\^. — [Ed.] 174 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY that I always held thee to be too rough and arrogant, and to presume somewhat more of myself than was fitting. I confess likewise that I may be deceived ; and it may be that, making this trial of thee, experience will set the truth before mine eyes, and tell me I was deceived, and being put out of this error I may be more kind but never less honest. Go, get you gone, for I fear me Halima may have overheard us, who hath some understanding of our Christian language — at least of that mingled speech which is used whereby we all understand one another." " You say very well, mistress of my heart," answered Ri- cardo, " and I infinitely thank you, and take in exceeding good part this disdeceiving which you have given me, and make as high esteem thereof as of the favour you do me in suffering me to see you. And, as you say, experience perad- venture will make known unto you how plain and downright my condition is, and how meek and humble my disposition, especially for to adore you ; and had you not put a bound and limit to my carriage and treating with you, yet should it have been so fair and so honest towards you as you cannot wish or desire to have it better. Touching that which concerneth the entertaining of the Cadi, take you no care of that, leave it to me; do you the like with Halima. And, by the way, I would have you, lady, to know that since I have seen you there is bred in me such a strong hope and confidence as as- sureth me that it shall not be long before we procure our desired liberty, and so God have you in His keeping. At an- other time and better leisure I shall relate unto you the revo- lutions, the turnings and windings by which Fortune hath brought me to this estate, after that she had put us asunder and severed me from your sight." With this they took their leaves each of other, Leonisa remaining well contented and satisfied with Ricardo's plain proceeding, and he the most joyful man in the world that he had heard one word from Leonisa's mouth without tartness. Halima had shut up herself in her oratory, praying to her prophet Mahomet that Leonisa might bring her a good de- spatch of that business which she had recommended unto her. The Cadi he was in the Mezquita, recompensing with his desires those of his wife, they keeping him very solicitous, as wholly depending on the answer which he hoped to hear THE LIBERAL LOVEft t;^ from his slave to whose charge he had committed his talking with Leonisa ; and that he might better come to have some speech with her, Mahamut should afford him opportunity though that Halima were in the house. Leonisa increased in Halima her lewd lust and filthy de- sire by giving her very good hopes that Mario would conde- scend to her will and do whatsoever she would command him, but telling her withal that she must have patience till two moons were first passed over, before which time he could not compl)^ with that which he much more desired than herself; and this term he entreated of her that he might make his prayers and supplications unto God for the freeing of him from his captivity and restoring him again to his former lib- erty. Halima contented herself with the excuse and relation of her beloved Ricardo, whom she would free from his slavery before the deputed time, so as he would accomplish her desire; and therefore entreated Leonisa that she would treat with him, and see if she could work him to dispense with the said time and to cut off all delays, and she would furnish him with as much money as the Cadi should require of him for his ransom. Now, before that Ricardo returned an answer to his mas- ter, he consulted with Mahamut what answer he should make him ; and they agreed between them to tell him that the case was desperate, no hope of winning her, and that as soon as possible he could he should carry her away to Constantinople, and that in the way thitherward, either by fair means or by force, obtain his desire ; and as touching the inconvenience which might offer itself for his complying with the Grand Signior, he should do well to buy him another slave, and in the voyage to feign and cause it to be given out that Leo- nisa was fallen sick, and making our advantage of a dark night, we may cast the bought Christian overboard into the sea, saying that it was Leonisa the captive of the Grand Signior that was dead ; and that may be done, and should be done, in such manner that the truth thereof should never be discovered, and so remain blameless with the Grand Signior and fulfil his own will, and that for the continuation of his pleasure they would afterwards devise some convenient course that should make all safe and sure. This poor man, this old Cadi, his love to Leonisa made 176 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY him so blind that had they told him a thousand other greater unlikelihoods, so as they were directed to the fulfilling of his hopes, he would have believed them all ; how much more when it seemed unto him that all which they said was good and current, and in a very fair way promising prosperous suc- cess. And so indeed it might have proved if the intention of these his two counsellors had not been to make themselves masters of the vessel, and to make an end of him and his foolish thoughts together. But another difficulty offered itself to the Cadi, which in his own opinion was greater than all the rest, it running still in his head that his wife Halima would not let him go to Constantinople unless he would carry her with him. But presently they did facilitate that, telling him that instead of the Christian which they were to buy, and must die and be turned overboard, instead of Leonisa, Halima would serve excellently for that purpose, and none better, of whom he desired to be freed more than from death. With the same facility as he entertained this in his thought, with the like did Mahamut and Ricardo yield thereunto. And being firmly resolved thereon, that very day the Cadi breaks with Halima about the voyage which he thought to make to Constantinople, to carry the Christian to the Grand Signior, by whose liberality he hoped he should be made the great Cadi of Cairo, or of Constantinople. Halima told him that she liked very well of his determination, think- ing that he would leave Ricardo at home ; but when the Cadi had certified her that he would carry him along with him, and likewise Mahamut, she began to change her opinion, and to disadvise him from that which before she had advised him to do; in fine, she concluded that if he did not take her with him, she would in no hand give way to his going. The Cadi would not cross her, but if she would needs have it so, her will should be his; thinking then with himself that he would quickly shake off that yoke which lay so heavy on his neck. All this while Hazan Bashaw was not careless in soliciting the Cadi to deliver up the slave unto him, offering him moun- tains of gold, having besides given him Ricardo before for nothing, whose ransom he prized at two thousand crowns. All these gifts and promises wrought no further good with the Cadi than to make him hasten the more his departure; THE LIBERAL LOVER 177 and so, solicited by his desire and by the importunities of Hazan, together with those of Halima, who likewise built vain hopes in the air, within twenty days he had fitted and rigged up a brigantine of fifteen banks, manning it with vol- untary soldiers, lusty young able men, partly Moors, partly Greek Christians. Therein he embarked all his wealth, and Halima left not aught at home in her house of any moment, and entreated her husband that he would give her leave to carry with her her father and mother, that they might see Constantinople. Halima's intention was the same with that of Mahamut, meaning to deal with him and Ricardo that when they were on their voyage they should make themselves masters of the brigantine and go away with it ; but she would not open her mind nor declare herself unto them till she saw herself embarked, and this, too, with a full purpose and reso- lution to go to the Christian's country, and to return to that religion which she had first been of, and to be married to Ricardo ; being verily persuaded that, carrying such store of wealth along with her, and turning Christian, he would not refuse to take her to wife. In this interim Ricardo had speech with Leonisa, and declared unto her his whole intention; and she again ac- quainted him with Halima's purpose, who had imparted the same unto her. They enjoined each other secrecy, and rec- ommending themselves to God, they stood expecting the day of their departure; which being come, Hazan went forth, accompanying them with all his soldiers to the seaside, and did not leave them till they had hoised sail, neither did he take off his eye from the brigantine till he had quite lost the sight of it; and it seemed that the air and breath of those sighs which the enamoured Moor vented forth did fill and drive forward with greater force the sails which wafted away his soul. But he, as one who a long time lived in such tor- ment, oppressed by love that he could take no rest, thinking on that which he was to do, that he might not die by the hands of his violent desires, omitted not to put that pres- ently in execution which with long deliberation and a reso- lute determination he had forecasted; and therefore in a vessel of seventeen banks which he had made ready in an- other port, he clapped into her fifty soldiers, all his friends and acquaintance, whom he had obliged unto him by many 178 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY gifts and promises, giving them in charge that they should put forth to sea, set upon and take the Cadi's brigantine and all the wealth that was in her, putting to the edge of the sword as many as went in her, save Leonisa the captive, for she was the only spoil that he looked after, prizing her above all the other riches and treasure which were in the vessel ; he likewise gave order that they should sink her, so that not any one thing might remain that might give any the least sign or token of their perdition. The covetousness of the spoil added wings to their feet and courage to their hearts, howbeit they knew very well that they should find but little resistance in those of the brigantine, in regard that they were disarmed and without any the least suspicion that any such unexpected accident should befall them. Two days had the brigantine now gone in her intended course, which to the Cadi seemed two ages ; for the very first day of all he would fain have put in execution his determina- tion, but his slaves advised him that the business must first be so carried that Leonisa should fall sick, to give thereby some colour to her death, and that this would require some days of sickness. He did not like of that, but would have given it out that she died suddenly, and so quickly make an end of what they had projected by despatching his wife out of hand, that he might allay the heat of that fire which by little and little went consuming his bowels ; but in conclusion he must condescend to that which the other two thought fit. Now, in this meanwhile Halima had declared her intent to Mahamut and Ricardo, and they were ready to put it in execution as soon as they had doubled the points of Alexan- dria or passed by the castles of Natolia. But the Cadi was so hasty with them and so sharp-set that they promised to perform the task they undertook upon the first occasion that should offer itself unto them. And one day, at the end of six which they had sailed [on their] voyage, and that now it seemed to the Cadi that the feigning of Leonisa's sickness was sufficient, he did importune his slaves that they should conclude the next day with Halima, and throw her, wrapped up in a winding-sheet, into the sea, saying it was the captive of the Grand Signior. The day afterwards began to break wherein, according to the intention of Mahamut and Ricardo, was to be the accom- THE LIBERAL LOVER 179 plishment of their desires or the end of their days; when lo, they might descry a vessel which with sail and oar came chasing them. They were afraid that they were Christian pirates, from whom neither the one nor the other could ex- pect any good ; for being such, the Moors feared to be made captives, and the Christians that, though they should get their liberty, they should lose their goods and be stripped of all they had. But Mahamut and Ricardo contented themselves with Leonisa's and their own liberty; yet notwithstanding this imagined* hope, they much feared the insolency of your rov- ers at sea, for they that follow such kind of exercises and make a common trade thereof, be they of what religion or nation soever, they usually are cruelly minded and of an insolent condition. They prepared to defend themselves, without forsaking their oars, and doing all that might be done in such a case of necessity and so sudden. It was not long, a matter of two or three hours, little more or less, that they drew nearer and nearer, till they came within cannon-shot of them. Seeing this, they strook sail, loosed their oars, betook themselves to their arms, and expected their coming. Howbeit, the Cadi bid them be of good cheer and fear nothing, for the vessel was Turkish, and would not do them any harm. He commanded that a white flag in token of peace should presently be set up, placing it on the yard-sail of the poop, because they might the better discern it, who being already blinded with covetousness and greediness of gain made up with great fury to board the ill-defended brigantine. While this was in acting, Mahamut by chance turned his head aside, and perceived that from the westward there was a galley coming up, and to his thinking of some twenty banks, whereof he certified the Cadi ; and some Christians which wrought at the oar said that the vessel they had de- scried was of Christians ; all which did but double their con- fusion and fear, holding them in suspense, not knowing what to do, fearing and hoping such success as God should be pleased to give them. By this time I conceive that the Cadi would have given (being in that strait that now he was), to have found himself again in Nicosia, all the hopes of his pleasure, so great was iSo THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY the confusion and amazement wherein he was, though he were quickly put out of it by that first vessel, which without respect to the flag of peace, or that which was due to their religion, did set upon that of the Cadi with such force and fury that they wanted very little of sinking it. The Cadi presently knew those that had thus set upon them, for his eyes gave him assured notice that the soldiers were of Ni- cosia. He soon guessed the cause of their coming, and by whom set awork, and gave himself for a lost and dead man ; and had it not been that the soldiers gave themselves more to the spoil than the slaughter, not a man of them had escaped alive. But when they were most busy about their pillaging a Turk cried out aloud unto them, saying : " Arm, arm, fellow soldiers ! for a vessel of Christians is coming upon us." And he had good reason to say so, because the vessel which the Cadi's brigantine descried bare Christian flags, and very fiercely did set upon that of Hazan; but before they came to grapple with her one from the prow demanded of them in the Turkish language what vessel that was, and whence? They made answer that it was Kazan's the Bashaw, Viceroy of Cyprus. " Why then," replied the Turk, " you being Musolimans, have set upon and robbed this vessel wherein we know goes the Cadi of Nicosia ? " Whereunto they an- swered that they knew no other cause save that they were commanded to take her, and that they as being his soldiers, in obedience unto him, had done his command. The captain of the second vessel who came in a Christian disguise resting satisfied with that which he desired to know, fell off from that of Hazan, and made towards that of the Cadi ; and with the very first volley of shot he gave them he killed ten of those Turks that were in her, and presently after entered her with great courage and speed. But they had scarce set their feet on the hatches but the Cadi instantly knew that it was not a Christian that had thus set upon him, but Ali Bashaw, who was in love with Leonisa, who with the same intent as Hazan stood waiting his coming, and that he might not be known had clad his soldiers like Christians, to the end that by this device his theft might not be dis- covered. The Cadi, who knew the intentions of these lovers and THE LIBERAL LOVER i8l traitors, began in a loud voice to vent his malice, saying: " What is this thou doest, thou traitor Ali Bashaw, that thou being a Musoliman, that is to say a Turk, settest upon me as a Christian? And you traitors, Hazan's soldiers, what a devil hath moved you to commit so great an outrage,^ for that to fulfil the lascivious and lustful appetite of him who sent you hither will thus go against your natural lord?" Upon these words of his all of them silenced their arms, no more clattering was heard, and looking one upon another, they came at last to know each other, because they had all of them been soldiers of one and the same captain, and served under one and the same banner; and being now abashed at the Cadi's word, and ashamed of their own bad act, the points of their cimeters were blunted and the edges of them dulled, their courages were quelled and their minds mightily dis- mayed. Only Ali shut his eyes and ears to all that he saw or heard, and falling upon the Cadi, he gave him such a cut in the head that if the blow had not been borne off by a hundred yards of calico wrapped about it, doubtless he had cleft his head asunder, yet it strook him down between the banks of the vessel ; and being fallen, the Cadi said : " O cruel rene- gado, enemy of our Prophet ! and is it possible that there is none that will chastise thy cruelty and this thy great in- solency ? How, accursed as thou art ! durst thou presume to lay hands and draw thy sword against thy Cadi, and a min- ister of Mahomet? " These words added force to force, and more fuel to the former fire ; the which being heard by Kazan's soldiers, and moved with fear that Ali his soldiers would take their prey from them (which they held yet to be theirs), they determined to put all upon adventure; and one beginning first, and all the rest following after, they set upon the soldiers of Ali with such haste, rancour, and courage that in a little while they behaved themselves so manfully that though they were more by many than they, they reduced them to a very small number; but they which remained of them took heart unto them, leaving scarce four of Kazan's men alive, and those very sorely wounded. Ricardo and Mahamut stood looking on, who ever and anon put their heads out of the scupper-holes of the poop cabin to see what would become of this great fray, which on l82 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY both sides was so hotly pursued; and seeing that the Turks were in a manner all slain, and they that were alive sore wounded, and how easily they might make an end of all of them, he called to Mahamut, and two kinsmen of Halima whom she had wrought to embark themselves with her, that they might assist in going away with the vessel, and with their help and her father's, taking up the cimeters of the slain, they showed themselves upon the deck, crying out: " Liberty ! liberty ! " and being aided by the voluntaries who were Greek Christians, with a great deal of ease and without receiving any one wound, they cut the throats of them all; and boarding Ali's galley, which they found without defence, they took it, with all that was therein. Of those that died in the second encounter one of the first was AH Bashaw, whom a Turk in revenge of the Cadi ran through the body. Being now masters of all the three vessels, they consulted what was now best to be done. In the end they yielded to Ricardo's advice, which was, that they should take out all things that were of any price or value, both in their own and Kazan's vessel, and stow them in Ali's galley, which was a vessel of far greater burden and fitter to take in the lading, and make good their voyage; and the rather, for that the rowers were Christians, who resting well contented with their recovered liberty, and with many other good things which Ricardo liberally shared among them, offered to carry him to Trapana, and if need were, even to the end of the world. This being thus ordered, Mahamut and Ricardo, full of joy for this their good success, went to the Moor Halima and told her that if she would return to Cyprus they would man her own vessel with good valiant voluntaries, and give her the one half of the goods which she had embarked. But she, who notwithstanding this so great a calamity had not yet lost that itching love and amorous affection which she bare to Ricardo, told him that she would go with him to the land of Christians, whereof her parents were wondrous glad. The Cadi was by this time come to himself, and having dressed and bound up his wound as their haste and the place would permit, they likewise told him that he should make choice of one of these two, either to go with them to the land of Christians, or to return in the same vessel he set THE LIBERAL LOVER 183 forth to Nicosia. Whereunto he answered, that since his ill fortune had brought him to such bad terms, he would rather accept of the liberty which they gave him, and that he would go to Constantinople and make his complaint to the Grand Signior of the great and grievous wrong which from Hazan and Ali he had received. But when he knew that Halima would leave him and turn Christian, he was almost ready to run mad. In conclusion, they manned his own vessel, and furnished him with ^11 things necessary for his voyage, and gave him some chequines^ of these which once had been his own. And so, having taken his leave of all of them, being re- solved to return to Nicosia, he besought before he had hoised sail that Leonisa would do him the favour to embrace him, for that grace and honour she therein should show him would of itself be sufficient to make him forget all his mis- fortune. All of them entreated Leonisa to confer that favour on one that loved her so well, since in so doing she should not go against the decorum and decency of her honesty. Leo- nisa yielded to their request; and the Cadi further entreated of her that she would but lay her hands upon his head, for that he hoped that imposition would heal his wound. Leonisa, to give him content, condescended thereunto. This done, and having bored many holes in Kazan's vessel, a fresh east wind favouring them, which seemed to court the sails and woo them that they might be admitted to come into them, did set them going amain, so that in a very few hours they lost the sight of the Cadi's brigantine; who with tears in his eyes stood looking how the winds carried away his wealth, his wife, and with Leonisa his soul's delight. With different thoughts from the Cadi's sailed Ricardo and Mahamut ; and so, not being willing to touch anywhere, as they went along on land, they passed by the town of Alex- andria, launching through the deep Gulf, and without strik- ing sail, or being driven to make use of their oars, the'y came to the strong island of Corfu, where they took in fresh water; and presently, without any further stay, they passed by those noted high cliff's the Acroserauros. And the second day they discovered afar off Paquino, the promontory of the ^ Chequines — sequins. — [Ed.] 184 THE 'BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY most fertile Trinacria, out of whose sight and that famous island of Malta they went flying, for with no less swiftness did this happy bottom bear them. In fine, compassing that island, some four days after they descried Lampadosia, and anon after the island where they had like to have been wrecked, and the galley wherein Leo- nisa was, split against the rocks, the very sight whereof made her to tremble, calling to mind the danger wherein she had so lately seen herself. The day following they might ken before them their desired and beloved country, which quick- ened that joy which was already in their hearts; their spirits were transported with this new contentment, which is one of the greatest which can be had in this life, to arrive after a long captivity safe in their own native country; and the next that may be equalled with it is that which men receive in getting the victory over their enemies. They found in the galley a great chest full of flags and streamers of silk of sundry colours, with which Ricardo caused the galley to be adorned in most gallant manner. The day was but newly broken whenas they found themselves to be within less than a league of the city, and rowing lustily, and sending forth ever and anon shoutings of joy and glad- ness, they slacked their oars the nearer they came to the haven, making in very leisurely. In her entering into the port an infinite number of people in an instant appeared ; who having seen how slowly that well-trimmed vessel made to land, there was not any one in all the whole city which did not come forth hastening to the seaside. While they were thus flocking to the shore, Ricardo en- treated Leonisa that she would clothe and adorn herself in the same manner as when she entered into the tent of the Rashaws, because he would put a pretty jest upon her parents. She did so ; and adding gallantry to gallantry, pearls to pearls, and beauty to beauty (which the heart's contentment commonly increaseth), she attired and dressed herself in such sort as caused a new admiration and wonder. Ricardo also put himself into the Turkish habit, the like did Mahamut and all those Christians that plied the oar, for there were raiments enough of the slain Turks to serve all of them. When they arrived at the port it was about eight of the clock in the morning, which showed itself so fair and so clear that it THE LIBERAL LOVER 185 seemed to appear so of purpose for to behold that joyful entrance. Before their entering the port Ricardo made them to dis- charge their pieces of ordnance belonging to the galley, to wit, one cannon and two falcons. The city answered them with the like. The people stood as thick as they could stand together, expecting the coming in of this goodly vessel, so bravely waving her flying flags and streamers, moving to and fro with a gentle gale of wind. But when they were come so near them as to discern that they were Turkish, by reason of those white turbans that they wore on their heads, they began to wax fearful and jealous of some fraud and deceit; whereupon they betook them to their arms, and as many as were trained soldiers in the city hastened to the port, whilst the horsemen went some one way, some another, scouring the coast. Of all which stir they took great pleasure, who by little and little drew nearer and nearer till they entered the haven, and casting anchor near the shore, throwing out a plank, and pulling in their oars one by one, as it were in pro- cession came on land, which with tears of joy they kissed again and again — an evident sign that they were Christians who had made prize of that vessel. The last that landed were the father and mother of Halima and her kinsmen, all, as we told you, clad after the Turkish fashion. That which made up the total sum or final end of all was fair Leonisa, having a veil cast over her face of crimson taffeta, led by Ricardo and Mahamut ; which spectacle drew after them the eyes of all that infinite multitude, who at their landing pros- trated themselves as the rest did, saluting the earth with their kisses. By that time this was done, the Captain and Governor of the city was come up unto them, who knew very well that they of all the rest were the chief and principal persons ; but he had scarce come fully near them but presently he knew Ricardo, and ran with open arms and signs of exceeding great joy to embrace him. There came along with the Governor Cornelio and his parents, and those of Leonisa, with all her kinsfolk, together with those of Ricardo, all which were the greatest persons of rank and quality in the whole city. Ricardo embraced the Governor, and repaid them all with thanks thfX gave him the 13 i86 TIffi BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY parabien * of his return. He took Cornelio by the hand, who as soon as he knew him and found that he held him fast, his colour began to change, and began to shake and tremble for fear, and taking Leonisa likewise by the hand, he said : " Gen- tlemen, of courtesy, sirs, I beseech you, that before we enter the city, and into the temple to give due thanks unto our Lord God for the great favours which He hath done for us in our misfortunes, you will be pleased to hear me speak a few words which I am desirous to deliver unto you." Whereunto the Governor answered that he might utter what he would, for they should all with much content and silence give him both a willing and attentive ear. Presently hereupon all the chiefest among them placed themselves round about him ; and he, raising his voice to such a height as he might (not overstraining it) be well heard, spake unto them after this manner: " Gentlemen, ye may well remember the misfortune which some months since befell me in the garden near the salt-pits, together with the loss of Leonisa; it cannot likewise have fallen out of your memory the diligence which I used in procuring her liberty, since that, being forgetful of mine own, I offered for her ransom all my whole estate ; and though this perhaps, to your seeming, was then accounted great liberality, yet can it not, neither ought it, to redound to my praise, since that I was to give it for the ransom of my soul. That which from that time since hath happened to both of us will require long time, a more seasonable conjuncture, and another tongue less troubled than mine. Let it suffice for the present that I tell you, that after many various and strange accidents, and after a thousand lost hopes of remedying our misfortunes, Heaven taking pity of us, without any merit of ours, hath re- turned us home to our native country, as full of content as abounding in wealth; yet neither from this nor my procured liberty is the end answerable to my desire, nor do I take any great contentment in the enjoying of these, but in that which I conceive this both in peace and war my sweet enemy taketh, as well for to see herself free as to see here before her, as she doth, the image of her own soul. Yet notwithstanding I greatly rejoice in this general rejoicing which they receive ' Parabien — felicitation. — [Ed.] THE LIBERAL LOVER 187 who have been my companions in misery; and though hard misfortunes and sad mischances are wont to alter our dispo- sitions and to depress valiant minds, yet was it not so with the overthrower of my good hopes ; for I may be bold to say it, that she amid these her miseries hath with the more un- daunted courage and constant resolution endured the ship- wreck of her disadventures and the encounters of my earnest but honest importunings ; wherein that old adage is verified : * They may change their countries but not their customs who hav^ once gotten a habit of them.' Of all this which I have said I thence infer that I offered my whole estate for her ransom, gave her my soul in my good desires, plotted the means of her liberty, and adventured more for her than myself, my life; and though from all these, in the construc- tion of noble and ingenious dispositions, may be raised en- gagements of some moment, yet will I not press any one upon her, save only this one which I presume she will make good " ; and in saying this, he put up his hand, and in a very civil and mannerly way took away the scarf from before Leonisa's face, which resembled as it were the removing of a cloud which darkens the beautiful brightness of the sun. Then did he prosecute his speech, saying : " Lo, here, Cornelio, I deliver unto thee such a jewel, which thou oughtest to esteem above all those things that are esteemed worthy. And so here, thou fair Leonisa, I give thee that which thou hast ever had in thy memory. This if you please you may term lib- erality; in comparison whereof, to give away my estate, my life, my honour, is all as nothing. Take her, O thou fortu- nate young man! take her, I say; and if thy knowledge can but come to reach so high as to come to know her worth, I shall hold thee to be the hai5piest man this day on earth. Together with her I will give thee likewise as much as comes to my share of all that which Heaven hath allotted to us all, which I make account will come to above thirty thousand crowns. All this mayst thou freely enjoy with much pleasure, quietude, and content; and Heaven grant that it may con- tinue many long and happy years. As for myself, being made unfortunate by some squint-eyed star at my birth, since that I must be without Leonisa, I am content to be poor; for he lives too long who lives without Leonisa." This said, he was silent, as if he had knit a knot upon /88 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORV his tongue. But within a very little while, before that any other spake, recollecting himself, he said : " O Heavens ! how do pinching troubles disturb the understanding ! I, gentle- men, out of the desire which I have to do good, have not weighed well what I said; for it is not possible that a man should show himself liberal of that which is another's, not his own. What jurisdiction or power have I in Leonisa for to give her unto another? or how can I make offer of that which is so far from being mine? Leonisa is his, and so much his that, were her parents dead (but long may they live) her affection would find no opposition. And if there may stand perhaps in her way those obligations which, being as she is, discreet, she ought to think she owes me, from this day forward I disclaim them, cancel them, and acknowl- edge them to be wholly void and of none effect, and therefore unsay what I said before. I give then to Cornelio nothing, because I cannot ; only I confirm the grant of my goods made to Leonisa, without desiring or looking for any other recom- pense save that she esteem for true my honest thoughts, and that she will have this belief of them, that they were never directed nor looked towards any other point save that which stood with her incomparable honesty, her great worth, and infinite beauty." And here Ricardo ended his speech. Whereunto Leonisa answered in this manner: "If any favours, O Ricardo, you imagine I did Cornelio, whenas you were enamoured and jealous of me, imagine likewise that it was both meet and honest, as being guided by the will and order of my parents, who, intending to make a match between US; laid their command upon me to do him those favours. If you rest satisfied with this, well may you satisfy yourself with that which experience hath made known unto you of my honesty and reservedness. I speak this for to give you, Ri- cardo, to understand that my will was always subject to an- other's will, to wit, my parents', whom I now most humbly, as is meet, beseech and earnestly entreat that they will give me leave and liberty freely to dispose of that which your valour and liberality hath bestowed on me." Her parents with a very good will gave her their leave so to do, relying on her discretion that she would make use thereof in such sort as should redound always to her own honour and their profit. THE LIBERAL LOVER I §9 Having obtained this license, discreet Leonisa proceeded thus : " I shall entreat you, as many as be here present, that you will bear me witness that I had rather incur the censure of lightness and inconstancy, which none of you all can or shall ever be able to charge me therewith, than to be taxed (which is hateful both in the sight of God and man) of un- thankfulness and ingratitude. And therefore, O valiant Ri- cardo, my good-will and affection, hitherto so reserved, so perplexed and doubtful, shall now declare itself in your fa- vour, to the end that you men may know that all women are not ingrateful, by my expressing of my thankfulness to you. I am thine, Ricardo, and will be thine till death, if some better knowledge move thee not to deny me thy hand ; for I desire nothing more than to have thee to be my husband." Ricardo hearing these words was so transported with joy and in a manner so beside himself, that he neither knew how, nor could not answer Leonisa in any other language than humbling himself on his knees before her and kissing her hands, which he held fast by force, bathing them often with his tender and loving tears. Cornelio did shed tears too, but of grief and sorrow; so did Leonisa's parents, but of joy and gladness; and of admiration and contentment all the standers-by. The Bishop of that city was then there present, and with his benediction and license brought them to the cathedral church, and, dispensing with the time, instantly married them. The joyful news of this wedding was quickly spread over all Trapana; and that very night, in token of rejoicing, infinite lights were set up and great bonfires made, accompanied with ringing of bells and divers loud musical instruments ; and for many days after there were masquings, comedies, sporting with canes,^ running of bulls, and solemn invitations and feastings made by the parents of Ricardo and Leonisa. Ma- hamut and Halima were reconciled to the Church, who im- possibilited of fulfilling her desire in being Ricardo's wife, contented herself in matching with Mahamut. To Halima's parents and kinsmen Ricardo gave liberally of those spoils which he had taken, wherewith they might be enabled to live not only sufficiently but plentifully. In conclusion, all of them * Sporting with canes — mock tournaments. — [Ed.] i9 SHORT STORIES VII 1700 TO 1750: Contes de Fees, Charles Perrault (i 700-11). * Fables, John Dryden (1700). The Apparition of Mrs. Veal, Daniel Defoe (1706). Tales (in The Tatler), Addison and Steele (i 709-11). " Tales (in The Spectator), Addison and Steele (1711-12- 1714). The Destruction of the Isle of St. Vincent, Daniel Defoe (1718). The Dumb Philosopher, Daniel Defoe (1719). The King of Pirates, Daniel Defoe (1719). Stories in A System of Magic, Daniel Defoe (1726). Ghost Stories, Daniel Defoe, An Essay on the History and Reality of Apparitions (1727). Histoire de Fleur d'Epine; Anthony, Count of Hamilton (1730)- Le Sopha, C. P. J. de Crebillon (1745). Zadig, Voltaire (1747?). Les Bijoux Indiscrets, Denis Diderot (1748). Le Monde Comme il Va, Voltaire (1748). 191 THE APPARITION OF MRS. VEAL THE APPARITION OF MRS. VEAL The short stories written in the eighteenth century may roughly be divided into three classes: those of the general 'realistic type, such as those of Defoe, which at- tempt to make fiction appear to be fact, of which the present story is an example; those with a purpose, as a sort of tract, of which Voltaire's tales are perhaps the supreme instance ; and finally, wonder-tales or fairy- stories, in which class the tales of the Frenchman, Charles Perrault, are the great example in the latter part of the seventeenth and in the early part of the eighteenth cen- tury. As Ferdinand Brunetiere says, " from 1680 to 1 71 5 no kind of literature was produced in more abun- dance than fairy-stories." The Apparition of Mrs. Veal, almost the earliest of Daniel Defoe's (i66i?-i73i) realistic fictions, was first published in a pamphlet in July, 1706. It was not, as has often been asserted, written to aid the sale of a book, though it was afterwards used for that purpose ; as it ap- pears, with rather ill success. " No one can read this marvellous creation of our author's," says William Lee in his Life of Defoe, " and study the whole of its details, without concurring in the eulogistic criticism of Sir Wal- ter Scott, and other writers who have considered it. The Apparition of Mrs. Veal could never have happened in reality ; and yet, it is perhaps the most perfect thing of its kind that ever was written." The skill of Defoe in dis- arming criticism by giving all the arguments both for and against the veracity of the characters has been aptly com- mented on by Leslie Stephen. Thomas Wright, in his Life of Defoe, suggests whether " a lady of Defoe's ac- quaintance, to whom he gives the name of Mrs. Bar- 195 196 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY grave, did not tell him, and in good faith, this story." Admitting that, the responsibility for the origin of the fiction is only, laid elsewhere. For a thorough threshing of this and other disputed questions, the reader is re- ferred to the introductions of the edition of Defoe's writings edited by George A. Aitken. The present text is a faithful copy of the first edi- tion, though the punctuation has been somewhat modern- ised; many of the modem reprints are very inaccurate. AUTHORITIES : Hours in A Library (first series), by Leslie Ste- phen. Daniel Defoe: His Life and Recently Discovered Writings, by William Lee. Daniel Defoe, by William Minto (English Men of Letters series). The Short Story in English, by Henry Seidel Canby (Chapter IX). A TRUE RELATION OF THE APPARITION OF ONE MRS. VEAL THE NEXT DAY AFTER HER DEATH TO ONE MRS. BARGRAVE AT CANTERBURY, THE 8TH OF SEPTEMBER 1705 THE PREFACE This relation is matter of fact, and attended with such circumstances as may induce any reasonable man to believe it. It w-as sent by a gentleman, a justice of peace at Maid- stone, in Kent, and a very intelligent person, to his friend in London, as it is here worded; which discourse is attested by a very sober and understanding gentlewoman and kins- woman of the said gentleman's, who lives in Canterbury, within a few doors of the house in which the within-named Mrs. Bargrave lives ; who believes his kinswoman to be of so discerning a spirit as not to be put upon by any fallacy, and who positively assured him that the whole matter as it is here related and laid down is what is really true, and what she herself had in the same words, as near as may be, from Mrs. Bargrave's own mouth, who, she knows, had no reason to in- vent and publish such a story, nor any design to forge and tell a lie, being a woman of much honesty and virtue, and her whole life a course, as it were, of piety. The use which we ought to make of it is to consider that there is a life to come after this and a just God who will retribute to every one ac- cording to the deeds done in the body, and therefore to reflect upon our past course of life we have led in the world; that our time is short and uncertain ; and that if we would escape the punishment of the ungodly and receive the reward of the righteous, which is the laying hold of eternal life, we ought, for the time to come, to return to God by a speedy repentance, ceasing to do evil and learning to do well, to seek after God early, if haply He may be found of us, and lead such lives for the future as may be well pleasing in His sight. 199 A RELATION OF THE APPARITION OF MRS. VEAL This thing is so rare in all its circumstances, and on so good authority, that my reading and conversation has not given me anything like it. It is fit to gratify the most in- genious and serious inquirer. Mrs. Bargrave is the person to whom Mrs. Veal appeared after her death; she is my in- timate friend, and I can avouch for her reputation for these last fifteen or sixteen years, on my own knowledge; and I can confirm the good character she had from her youth to the time of my acquaintance; though since this relation she is calumniated by some people that are friends to the brother of Mrs. Veal who appeared, who think the relation of this appearance to be a reflection, and endeavour what they can to blast Mrs. Bargrave's reputation and to laugh the sto/y out of countenance. But by the circumstances thereof, and the cheerful disposition of Mrs. Bargrave, notwithstanding the unheard-of ill-usage of a very wicked husband, there is not the least sign of dejection in her face; nor did I ever hear her let fall a desponding or murmuring expression ; nay, not when actually under her husband's barbarity, which I have been witness to, and several other persons of undoubted reputation. Now you must know Mrs. Veal was a maiden gentle- woman of about thirty years of age, and for some years last past had been troubled with fits, which were perceived com- ing on her by her going off from her discourse very abruptly to some impertinence. She was maintained by an only brother, and kept his house in Dover. She was a very pious woman, and her brother a very sober man, to all appearance ; but now he does all he can to null or quash the story. Mrs. Veal was intimately acquainted with Mrs. Bargrave from her childhood. Mrs. Veal's circumstances were then mean; 14 201 202 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY her father did not take care of his children as he ought, so that they were exposed to hardships; and Mrs. Bargrave in those days had as unkind a father, though she wanted neither for food nor clothing, while Mrs. Veal wanted for both; so that it was in the power of Mrs. Bargrave to be very much her friend in several instances, which mightily endeared Mrs. Veal ; insomuch that she would often say : " Mrs. Bargrave, you are not only the best, but the only friend I have in the world; and no circumstance in life shall ever dissolve mj friendship." They would often condole each other's adverse fortune, and read together Drelincourt upon Death, and other good books ; and so, like two Christian friends, they comforted each other under their sorrow. Some time after, Mr. Veal's friends got him a place in the Custom House at Dover, which occasioned Mrs. Veal, by little and little, to fall off from her intimacy with Mrs. Bargrave, though there was never any such thing as a quar- rel ; but an indifferency came on by degrees, till at last Mrs. Bargrave had not seen her in two years and a half; though above a twelvemonth of the time Mrs. Bargrave had been absent from Dover, and this last half-year had been in Can- terbury about two months of the time, dwelling in a house of her own. In this house, on the 8th of September last, viz., 1705, she was sitting alone, in the forenoon, thinking over her un- fortunate life, and arguing herself into a due resignation to Providence, though her condition seemed hard. " And," said she, " I have been provided for hitherto, and doubt not but I shall be still; and am well satisfied that my afflictions shall end when it is most fit for me " ; and then took up her sewing-work, which she had no sooner done but she hears a knocking at the door. She went to see who it was there, and this proved to be Mrs. Veal, her old friend, who was in a riding-habit: at that moment of time the clock struck twelve at noon. " Madam," says Mrs. Bargrave, " I am surprised to see you, you have been so long a stranger " ; but told her she was glad to see her, and offered to salute her, which Mrs. Veal complied with, till their lips almost touched; and then Mrs. Veal drew her hand across her own eyes and said : " I am not very well ", and so waived it. She told Mrs. Bargrave THE APPARITION OF MRS. VEAL 203 she was going a journey, and had a great mind to see her first. " But," says Mrs. Bargrave, " how came you to take a journey alone? I am amazed at it, because I know you have so fond a brother." " Oh," says Mrs. Veal, " I gave my broth- er the slip, and came away, because I had so great a desire to see you before I took my journey." So Mrs. Bargrave went in with her into another room within the first, and Mrs. Veal set her down in an elbow-chair, in which Mrs. Bargrave was sitting when she heard Mrs. Veal knock. Then says Mrs. Veal : " My dear friend, I am come to renew our old friend- ship again, and beg your pardon for my breach of it ; and if you can forgive me, you are one of the best of women." "Oh," says Mrs. Bargrave, " don't mention such a thing ; I have not had an uneasy thought about it ; I can easily forgive it." "What did you think of me?" said Mrs. Veal. Says Mrs. Bargrave : " I thought you were like the rest of the world, and that prosperity had made you forget yourself and me." Then Mrs. Veal reminded Mrs. Bargrave of the many friendly offices she did her in former days, and much of the conver- sation they had with each other in the time of their adver- sity; what books they read, and what comfort in particular they received from Drelincourt's Book of Death, which was the best, she said, on that subject ever wrote. She also mentioned Dr. Sherlock, and two Dutch books which were translated, wrote upon death, and several others ; but Drelin- court, she said, had the clearest notions of death and of the future state of any who had handled that subject. Then she asked Mrs. Bargrave whether she had Drelincourt. She said : " Yes." Says Mrs. Veal : " Fetch it." And so Mrs. Bar- grave goes upstairs and brings it down. Says Mrs. Veal : " Dear Mrs. Bargrave, if the eyes of our faith were as open as the eyes of our body, we should see numbers of angels about us for our guard. The notions we have of heaven now are nothing like what it is, as Drelincourt says. Therefore be comforted under your afflictions, and believe that the Al- mighty has a particular regard to you, and that your afflic- tions are marks of God's favour; and when they have done the business they are sent for, they shall be removed from you. And believe me, my dear friend, believe what I say to you, one minute of future happiness will infinitely reward you for all your sufferings; for I can never believe [and 204 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY claps her hand upon her knee with great earnestness, which indeed ran through most of her discourse] that ever God will suffer you to spend all your days in this afflicted state; but be assured that your afflictions shall leave you, or you them in a short time." She spake in that pathetical and heavenly manner, that Mrs. Bargrave wept several times, she was so deeply affected with it. Then Mrs. Veal mentioned Dr. Horneck's Ascetick, at the end of which he gives an account of the lives of the primitive Christians. Their pattern she recommended to our imitation, and said their conversation was not like this of our age; " for now," says she, " there is nothing but frothy, vain discourse, which is far different from theirs. Theirs was to edification, and to build one another up in faith ; so that they were not as we are, nor are we as they were ; but," said she, " we might do as they did. There was a hearty friendship among them ; but where is it now to be found ? " Says Mrs. Bargrave : " 'Tis hard indeed to find a true friend in these days." Says Mrs. Veal : " Mr. Norris has a fine copy of verses, called Friendship in Perfection, which I wonderfully admire. Have you seen the book?" says Mrs. Veal. " No," says Mrs. Bargrave, " but I have the verses of my own wri- ting out." " Have you ? " says Mrs. Veal ; " then fetch them." Which she did from above-stairs, and offered them to Mrs. Veal to read, who refused, and waived the thing, saying, holding down her head would make it ache ; and then desired Mrs. Bargrave to read them to her, which she did. As they were admiring Friendship Mrs. Veal said: "Dear Mrs. Bargrave, I shall love you forever." In the verses there is twice used the word Elysian. " Ah ! " says Mrs. Veal, " these poets have such names for heaven ! " She would often draw her hand across her own eyes and say : " Mrs. Bargrave, don't you think I am mightily impaired by my fits? " " No," says Mrs. Bargrave, " I think you look as well as ever I knew you." After all this discourse, which the apparition put in words much finer than Mrs. Bargrave said she could pretend to, and was much more than she can remember (for it cannot be thought that an hour and three-quarters' conversation could all be retained, though the main of it she thinks she does), she said to Mrs. Bargrave she would have her THE APPARITION OF MRS. VEAL 205 write a letter to her brother, and tell him she would have him give rings to such and such, and that there was a purse of gold in her cabinet, and that she would have two l3road pieces given to her cousin Watson. Talking at this rate, Mrs. Bargrave thought that a fit was coming upon her, and so placed herself in a chair just before her knees, to keep her from falling to the ground, if her fit should occasion it (for the elbow-chair, she thought, would keep her from falling on either side) ; and to divert Mrs. Vasal, as she thought, she took hold of her gown-sleeve several times and commended it. Mrs, Veal told her it was a scoured silk, and newly made up. But for all this, Mrs. Veal persisted in her request, and told Mrs. Bargrave she must not deny her ; and she would have her tell her brother all their conversation when she had an opportunity. " Dear Mrs. Veal," said Mrs. Bargrave, " this seems so impertinent that I cannot tell hdw to comply with it; and what a morti- fying story will our conversation be to a young gentleman ! " " Well," says Mrs. Veal, " I must not be denied." " Why," says Mrs. Bargrave, " 'tis much better, methjnks, to do it yourself." " No," says Mrs. Veal, " though it seems imper- tinent to you now, you will see more reason for it hereafter." Mrs. Bargrave then, to satisfy her importunity, was going to fetch a pen arid ink ; but Mrs. Veal said : " Let it alone now, and do it when I am gone ; but you must be sure to do it " ; which was one of the last things she enjoined her at parting; and so she promised her. Then Mrs. Veal asked for Mrs. Bargrave's daughter. She said she was not at home: "but if you have a mind to see her," says Mrs. Bargrave, " I'll send for her." " Do," says Mrs. Veal. On which she left her, and went to a neigh- bour's to send for her; and by the time Mrs. Bargrave was returning, Mrs. Veal was got without the door in the street, in the face of the beast-market, on a Saturday (which is market-day), and stood ready to part as soon as Mrs. Bar- grave came to her. She asked her why she was in such haste. She said she must be going, though perhaps she might not go her journey until Monday; and told Mrs. Bargrave she hoped she should see her again at her cousin Watson's before she went whither she was a-going. Then she said she would take her leave of her, and walked from Mrs. Bargrave in her 2o6 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY view, till a turning interrupted the sight of her, which was three-quarters after one in the afternoon. Mrs. Veal died the 7th of September, at twelve o'clock at neon, of her fits, and had not above four hours' senses before death, in which time she received the sacrament. The next day after Mrs. Veal's appearance,' being Sunday, Mrs. Bar- grave was mightily indisposed with a cold and a sore throat, that she could not go out that day ; but on Monday morning she sends a person to Captain Watson's to know if Mrs. Veai were there. They wondered at Mrs. Bargrave's in- quiry, and sent her word that she was not there, nor was expected. At this answer, Mrs. Bargrave told the maid she had certainly mistook the name, or made some blunder. And though she was ill, she put on her hood, and went herself to Captain Watson's, though she knew none of the family, to see if Mrs. Veal was there or not. They said they wondered at her asking, for that she had not been in town; they were sure, if she had, she would have been there. Says Mrs. Bargrave : " I am sure she was with me on Saturday almost two hours." They said it was impossible ; for they must have seen her, if she had. In comes Captain Watson while they are in dispute, and said that Mrs. Veal was certainly dead, and her escutcheons were making. This strangely surprised Mrs. Bargrave, who went to the person immediately who had the care of them, and found it true. Then she related the whole story to Captain Watson's family, and what gown she had on, and how striped; and that Mrs. Veal told her it was scoured. Then Mrs. Watson cried out : " You have seen her indeed, for none knew but Mrs. Veal and myself that the gown was scoured." And Mrs. Watson owned that she de- scribed the gown exactly ; " for," said she, " I helped her to make it up." This Mrs. Watson blazed all about the town, and avouched the demonstration of the truth of Mrs. Bar- grave's seeing Mrs. Veal's apparition; and Captain Watson carried two gentlemen immediately to Mrs. Bargrave's house to hear the relation from her own mouth. And then it spread so fast that gentlemen and persons of quality, the judicious and sceptical part of the world, flocked in upon her, which at last became such a task that she was forced to go out of the way; for they were in general extremely satisfied of the truth of the thing, and plainly saw that Mrs. Bargrave was THE APPARITION OF MRS. VEAL 207 no hypochondriac, for she always appears with such a cheer- ful air and pleasing mien, that she has gained the favour and esteem of all the gentry, and 'tis thought a great favour if they can but get the relation from her own mouth. I should have told you before that Mrs. Veal told Mrs. Bargrave that her sister and brother-in-law were just come down from London to see her. Says Mrs. Bargrave : " How came you to order matters so strangely ? " " It could not be helped," says Mrs. Veal. And her sister and brother did come to see her, and entered the town of Dover just as Mrs. Veal was expiring. Mrs. Bargrave asked her whether she would drink some tea. Says Mrs. Veal: " I do not care if I do; but I'll warrant this mad fellow [meaning Mrs. Bargrave's hus- band] has broke all your trinkets." " But," says Mrs. Bar- grave, " I'll get something to drink in for all that." But Mrs. Veal waived it, and said : " It is no matter ; let it alone " ; and so it passed. All the time I sat with Mrs. Bargrave, which was some hours, she recollected fresh sayings of Mrs. Veal. And one material thing more she told Mrs. Bargrave — that old Mr. Breton allowed Mrs. Veal ten pounds a year, which was a secret, and unknown to Mrs. Bargrave till Mrs. Veal told it her. Mrs. Bargrave never varies in her story, which puz- zles those who doubt of the truth, or are unwilling to believe it. A servant in a neighbour's yard adjoining to Mrs. Bar- grave's house heard her talking to somebody an hour of the time Mrs. Veal was with her. Mrs. Bargrave went out to her next neighbour's the very moment she parted with Mrs. Veal, and told v/hat ravishing conversation she had with an old friend, and told the whole of it. Drelincourt's Book of Death is, since this happened, bought up strangely. And it is to be observed that, notwithstanding all this trouble and fatigue Mrs. Bargrave has undergone upon this account, she never took the value of a farthing, nor suffered her daughter to take anything of anybody, and ther€fore can have no inter- est in telling the story. But Mr. Veal does what he can to stifle the matter, and said he would see Mrs. Bargrave ; but yet it is certain matter of fact that he has been at Captain Watson's since the death of his sister, and yet never went near Mrs. Bargrave; and some of her friends report her to be a great liar, and that she 2o8 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY knew of Mr. Breton's ten pounds a year. But the person who pretends to say so has the reputation of a notorious Har among persons whom I know to be of undoubted repute. Now, Mr. Veal is more a gentleman than to say she lies, but says a bad husband has crazed her; but she needs only to present herself, and it will effectually confute that pretence. Mr. Veal says he asked his sister on her deathbed whether she had a mind to dispose of anything, and she said : " No." Now, the things which Mrs. Veal's apparition would have disposed of were so trifling, and nothing of justice aimed at in their disposal, that the design of it appears to me to be only in order to make Mrs. Bargrave so to demonstrate the truth of her appearance, as to satisfy the world of the reahty thereof as to what she had seen and heard, and to secure her reputation among the reasonable and understanding part of mankind. And then again, Mr. Veal owns that there was a purse of gold ; but it was not found in her cabinet, but in a comb-box. This looks improbable; for that Mrs. Watson owned that Mrs. Veal was so very careful of the key of her cabinet, that she would trust nobody with it; and if so, no doubt she would not trust her gold out of it. And Mrs. Veal's often drawing her hand over her eyes, and asking Mrs. Bar- grave whether her fits had not impaired her, looks to me as if she did it on purpose to remind Mrs. Bargrave of her fits, to prepare her not to think it strange that she should put her upon writing to her brother to dispose of rings and gold, which looked so much like a dying person's request; and it took accordingly with Mrs. Bargrave, as the effects of her fits coming upon her;'and was one of the many instances of her wonderful love to her, and care of her, that she should not be affrighted; which indeed appears in her whole man- agement, particularly in her coming to her in the daytime, waiving the salutation, and when she was alone; and then the manner of her parting, to prevent a second attempt to salute her. Now, why Mr. Veal should think this relation a reflection (as 'tis plain he does by his endeavouring to stifle it) I can't imagine, because the generality believe her to be a good spirit, her discourse was so heavenly. Her two great errands were to comfort Mrs. Bargrave in her affliction, and to ask her forgiveness for her breach of friendship, and with a THE APPARITION OF MRS. VEAL 209 pious discourse to encourage her. So that, after all, to sup- pose that Mrs. Bargrave could hatch such an invention as this from Friday noon till Saturday noon (supposing that she knew of Mrs. Veal's death the very first moment), without jumbling circumstances, and without any interest too, she must be more witty, fortunate, and wicked too, than any in- different person, I dare say, will allow. I asked Mrs. Bar- grave several times if she was sure she felt the gown. She answered modestly : " If my senses be to be relied on, I am sure of itt" I asked her if she heard a sound when she clapped her hand upon her l^nee. She said she did not remember she did ; and she said : " She appeared to be as much a sub- stance as I did, who talked with her; and I may," said she, " be as soon persuaded that your apparition is talking to me now as that I did not really see her ; for I was under no man- ner of fear ; I received her as a friend, and parted with her as such. I would not," says she, " give one farthing to make any one believe it; I have no interest in it. Nothing but trouble is entailed upon me for a long time, for aught I know ; and had it not come to light by accident, it would never have been made public." But now she says she will make her own private use of it, and keep herself out of the way as much as she can; and so she has done since. She says she had a gentleman who came thirty miles to her to hear the relation, and that she had told it to a room full of people at a time. Several particular gentlemen have had the story from Mrs. Bargrave's own mouth. This thing has very much affected me, and I am as well satisfied as I am of the best grounded matter of fact. And why we should dispute matter of fact because we cannot solve things of which we have no certain or demonstrative notions, seems strange to me. Mrs. Bargrave's authority and sincerity alone would have been undoubted in any other case. A LIST OF REPRESENTATIVE TALES AND SHORT . STORIES VIII 1750 TO 1800: Memnon, Voltaire (1750). Tales (in The Rambler), Samuel Johnson (1750-52). Micromegas, Voltaire (1752?). Idyllen, S. Gessner (1756-1772). Candide, Voltaire (1758). Rasselas, Samuel Johnson (1759). Contes Moraux, J. F. Marmontel (1761). Jeannot et Colin, Voltaire (1764?). L'Ingenu, Voltaire (1767?). La Princesse de Babylone, Voltaire (1768). L'Homme aux quarante Ecus, Voltaire (1768). Le Diable Amoureux, J. Cazotte (1772). Les Deux Amis de Bourbonne, Denis Diderot (1773). Les Oreilles du Comte de Chesterfield, Voltaire (1775). Les Contemporaines, Restif de la Bretonne (1780-85). Volksmarchen der Deutschen, J. K. A. Musaus (1782-86). Travels and Surprising Adventures of Baron Miinchausen, R. E. Raspe? (1785). Paul et Virginie, Bernardin de St. Pierre (1786). Verbrecher aus Infamie, Friedrich Schiller (1787). Vathek, William Beckford (1787). * Fables, G. P. de Florian (1792). Pauline, Mme. de Stael (1793). Adelaide et Theodore, Mme. de Stael (1795). Mirza, Mme. de Stael (1795). Das Marchen, Goethe (1795). Tales, in Cheap Repository Tracts, Hannah More (1795-98). Tales, Denis Diderot, Jacques le Fataliste (1796). Volksmarchen, J. L. Tieck (1797). Ceci n' est pas un Conte, Denis Diderot (1798). 2X1 JEANNOT AND COLIN JEANNOT AND COLIN The great name of Voltaire (1694-1778) is not usu- ally associated with short stories. And yet, with an irony that he himself would have appreciated, his short tales no^ seem, of all his works, that part that will en- dure the longest. Jeannot and Colin, the example of his fiction presented in this volume, was probably written in 1764. It is both one of the briefest and one of the most artistic of all Voltaire's fictions. The story with a purpose, as has already been noted, is perhaps the most characteristic form of the short story in the eighteenth century. Take away the moral from Jeannot and Colin, and how much is left ? " It may be doubted," says George Saintsbury, " whether any of his works displays his peculiar genius more fully and more characteristically than the short tales in prose which he has left. Every one of them has a moral, political, social, or theological purpose." Among Voltaire's principal tales may be mentioned: Babouc (1746), Zadig (1747?), Memnon (1750), Micromegas (1752?), Candide (1758), Jeannot and CoHn (1764?), L'Ingenu (1767?), The Man of Forty Crowns (1768). The dates of many of his writings are uncertain, including those of the four tales queried above. The present version of Jeannot and Colin is that by Robert Bruce Boswell, in the Bohn Library. AUTHORITIES : Voltaire, by John Morley. Life of Voltaire, by James Parton. Life of Voltaire, by F. Espinasse (Great Writers series). JEANNOT AND COLIN Many trustworthy persons have seen Jeannot and Colin when they went^to .school at Jssoire in Auvergne, a town famous all over the world for its college and its kettles, Jeannot was the son of a dealer in mules, a man of consider- able reputation ; Colin owed his existence to a worthy hus- bandman who dwelt in the outskirts of the town, and culti- vated his farm with the help of four mules, and who, after paying tolls and tallage, scutage and salt-duty, poundage, poll-tax, and tithes, did not find himself particularly well off at the end of the year. Jeannot and Colin were very handsome lads for natives of Auvergne; they were much attached to each other, and had little secrets together ajid private understandings, such as old comrades always recall with pleasure when they after- wards meet in a wider world. Their schooldays were drawing near their end, when a tailor oneway brought Jeannot a velvet coat of three colours with a waistcoat of Lyons silk to match in excellent taste; this suit of clothes was accompanied by a letter addressed to Monsieur de la Jeannotiere. Colin admired the coat, and was not at all jealous; but Jeannot assumed an air of superi- ority which distressed Colin. From that moment Jeannot paid no more heed to his lessons, but was always looking at his reflection in the glass, and despised everybody but him- self. Some time afterwards a footman arrived post-haste, bringing .-f- second letter, addressed this time to His Lord- ship the Marquis de la Jeannotiere; it contained an order from his father for the young nobleman, his son, to be sent to Paris. As Jeannot mounted the chaise to drive off, he stretched out his hand to Colin with a patronising smile be- fitting his rank. Colin felt his own insignificance, and wept. So Jeannot departed in all his glory. 15 217 ai8 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY Readers who like to know all about things may be in- formed that Monsieur Jeannot, the father, had rapidly gained immense wealth in business. You ask how those great for- tunes are made? It all depends upon luck. Monsieur Jean- notiere had a comely person, and so had his wife ; moreover her complexion was fresh and blooming. They had gone to Paris to prosecute a lawsuit which was ruining them, when Fortune, who lifts up and casts down human beings, at her pleasure, presented them with an introduction to the wife of an army-hospital contractor, a man of great talent, who could boast of having killed more soldiers in one year than the cannon had destroyed in ten. Jeannot took the lady's fancy, and Jeannot's wife captivated the gentleman. Jeannot soon became a partner in the business, and entered into other spec- ulations. When one is in the current of the stream it is only necessary to let oneself drift, and so an immense fortune may sometimes be made without any trouble. The beggars who watch you from the bank, as you glide along in full sail, open their eyes in astonishment ; they wonder how you have managed to get on; they envy you at all events, and write pamphlets against you which you never read. That was what happened to Jeannot senior, who was soon styled Monsieur de la Jeannotiere, and, after buying a marquisate at the end of six months, he took the young nobleman his son away from school, to launch him into the fashionable world of Paris. Colin, always affectionately disposed, wrote a kind letter to his old schoolfellow in order to offer his congratulations. The little marquis sent him no answer, which grieved Colin sorely. The first thing that his father and mother did for the young gentleman was to get him a tutor. This tutor, who was a man of distinguished manners and profound igno- rance, could teach his pupil nothing. The marquis wished his son to learn Latin, but the marchioness would not hear of it. They consulted the opinion of a certain author who had obtained considerable celebrity at that time from some popular works which he had written. He was invited to dinner, and the master of the house began by saying : " Sir, as you know Latin, and are conversant with the manners of the Court " " I, sir ! Latin ! I don't know a word of it," answered JEANNOT AND COLIN ai9 the man of wit; " and it is just as well for me that I don't, for one can speak one's own language better, when the attention is not divided between it and foreign tongues. Look at all our ladies; they are far more charming in con- versation than men, their letters are written with a hun- dred times more grace of expression. They owe that supe- riority over us to nothing else but their ignorance of Latin." " There now ! Was I not right ? " said the lady. " I want my son to be a man of wit, and to make way in the world. You see tliat if he were to learn Latin, it would be his ruin. Tell me, if you please, are plays and operas performed in Latin? Are the proceedings in court conducted in Latin, when one has a lawsuit on hand? Do people make love in Latin ? " The marquis, confounded by these arguments, passed sen- tence, and it was decided that the young nobleman should not waste his time in studying Cicero, Horace, and Virgil. " But what is he to learn then? For still, I suppose, he will have to know something. Might he not be taught a little geography ? " " What good will that do him ? " answered the tutor. " When my lord marquis goes to visit his country-seat, will not his postillions know the roads? There will be no fear of their going astray. One does not want a sextant in order to travel, and it is quite possible to make a journey between Paris and Auvergne without knowing anything about the latitude and longitude of either." " Very true," replied the father ; " but I have heard people speak of a noble science, which is, I think, called astronomy." " Bless my soul ! " rejoined the tutor. " Do we regulate our behaviour in this world by the stars? Why should my lord marquis wear himself out in calculating an eclipse, when he will find it predicted correctly to a second in the almanac, which will moreover inform him of all the movable feasts, the age of the moon, and that of all the princesses in Eu- rope?" The marchioness was quite of the tutor's opinion, the little marquis was in a state of the highest delight, and his father was very undecided. " What then is my son to be taught? " said he. " To make himself agreeable," answered the friend whom 2 20 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY they had consulted ; " for, if he knows the way to please, he will know everything worth knowing; it is an art which he will learn from her ladyship, his mother, without the least trouble to either of them/' The marchioness, at these words, smiled graciously upon the courtly ignoramus, and said: It is easy to see, sir, that you are a most accomplished gentleman; my son will owe all his education to you. I imagine, however, that it will not be a bad thing for him to know a Httle history." " Nay, madame — what good would that do him ? " he an- swered. " Assuredly the only entertaining and useful history is that of the passing hour. All ancient histories, as one of our clever writers ^ has observed, are admitted to be nothing but fables; and for us moderns it is an inextricable chaos. What does it matter to the young gentleman, your son, if Charlemagne instituted the twelve Paladins of France, or if his successor " had an impediment in his speech ? " " Nothing was ever said more wisely ! " exclaimed the tutor. " The minds of children are smothered under a mass of useless knowledge; but of all sciences that which seems to me the most absurd, and the one best adapted to extinguish every spark of genius, is geometry. That ridiculous science is concerned with surfaces, lines, and points which^have no existence in nature. In imagination a hundred thousand curved lines may be made to pass between a circle and a straight line which touches it, although in reality you could not insert so much as a straw. Geometry, indeed, is nothing more than a bad joke." ^ The marquis and his lady did not understand much of the meaning of what the tutor was saying; but they were quite of his way of thinking. " A nobleman like his lordship," he continued, " should not dry up his brain with such unprofitable studies. If, some day, he should require one of those sublime geometri- cians to draw a plan of his estates, he can have them meas- ured for his money. If he should wish to trace out the » Bernard Fontenelle, who died in the year 1757.— [Ed.] * Louis le B6gue, i. e., the Stammerer, was third in succession from Charlemagne. — [Ed.] JEANNOT AND COLIN «lt antiquity of his lineage, which goes back to the most remote ages, all he will have to do will be to send for some learned Benedictine. It is the same with all the other arts. A young lord born under a lucky star is neither a painter, nor a musician, nor an architect, nor a sculptor ; but he may make all these arts flourish by encouraging them with his generous approval. Doubtless it is much better to patronise than to practise them. It will be quite enough if my lord the young marquis has taste; it is the part of artists to work for him, and thus there is a great deal of truth in the remark that people of quality (that is, if they are very rich) know every- thing without learning anything, because, in point of fact and in the long run, they are masters of all the knowledge which they can command and pay for." The agreeable ignoramus then took part again in the con- versation, and said: " You have well remarked, madame, that the great end of man's existence is to succeed in society. Is it, forsooth, any aid to the attainment of this succ^ess to have devoted oneself to the sciences? Does any one ever think in select company of talking about geometry? Is a well-bred gentle- man ever asked what star rises to-day with the sun? Does any one at the supper-table ever want to know if Clodion the Long-Haired crossed the Rhine? " ^ " No, indeed ! " exclaimed the Marchioness de la Jean- notiere, whose charms had been her passport into the world of fashion ; " and my son must not stifle his genius by study- ing all that trash. But, after all, what is he to be taught? For it is a good thing that a young lord should be able to shine when occasion offers, as my noble husband has said. I remember once hearing an abbe remark that the most en- tertaining science was something the name of which I have forgotten — it begins with a b." " With a b, madame ? It was not botany, was it ? " " No, it certainly was not botany that he mentioned ; it began, as I tell you, with a b, and ended in onry.'' " Ah, madame, I understand ! It was blazonry or her- aldry. That is indeed a most profound science; but it has ceased to be fashionable since the custom has died out of having one's coat of arms painted on the carriage-doors; it was the most useful thing imaginable in a well-ordered state. m THE BOOK: OP THE SHORT STORY Besides, that line of study would be endless, for at the pres- ent day there is not a barber who is without his armorial bearings, and you know that whatever becomes common loses its attraction." Finally, after all the pros and cons of the different sci- ences had been examined and discussed, it was decided that the young marquis should learn dancing. Dame Nature, who disposes everything at her own will and pleasure, had given him a talent which soon developed itself with prodigious success; it was that of singing street- ballads in a charming style. His youthful grace accom- panying this superlative gift, caused him to be regarded as a young man of the highest promise, He was a favourite with the ladies, and, having his head crammed with songs, he had no lack of mistresses to whom to address his verses. He stole the line, " Bacchus with the Loves at play," from one ballad ; and made it rhyme with " night and day " taken out of another, while a third furnished him with " charms " and " alarms." But inasmuch as there were always some feet more or less than were wanted in his verses, he had them corrected at the rate of twenty sovereigns a song. And The Literary Year placed him in the same rank with such sonneteers as La Fare, Chaulieu, Hamilton, Sarrasin, and Voiture. Her ladyship the marchioness then believed that she was indeed the mother of a genius, and gave a supper to all the wits of Paris, The young man's head was soon turned upside down, he acquired the art of talking without knowing the meaning of what he said, and perfected himself in the habit of being fit for nothing. When his father saw him so eloquent, he keenly regretted that he had not had him taught Latin, or he would have purchased some high appointment for him in the Law. His mother, who was of more heroic sentiments, took upon herself to solicit a regiment for her son; in the meantime he made love — and love is some- times more expensive than a regiment. He squandered his money freely, while his parents drained their purses and credit to a lower and lower ebb by living in the grandest style. A young widow of good position in their neighbourhood, who had only a moderate income, was well enough dis- JEANNOT AND COLIN 223 posed to make some effort to prevent the great wealth of the Marquis and Marchioness de la Jeannotiere from going altogether, by marrying the young marquis and so appro- priating what remained. She enticed him to her house, let him make love to her, allowed him to see that she was not quite indifferent to him, led him on by degrees, enchanted him, and made him her devoted slave without the least difficulty. She would give him at one time commendation and at another time counsel ; she became his. father's and mother's t)est friend. An old neighbour proposed marriage; the parents, dazzled with the splendour of the alHance, joy- fully fell in with the scheme, and gave their only son to their most intimate lady friend. The young marquis was thus about to wed a woman whom he adored, and by whom he was beloved in return. The friends of the family congratu- lated him, the marriage settlement was on the point of being signed, the bridal dress and the epithalamium were both well under way. One morning our young gentleman was on his knees be- fore the charmer whom fond affection and esteem were so soon to make his own; they were tasting in animated and tender converse the first fruits of future happiness ; they were settling how they should lead a life of perfect bliss, when one of his lady mother's footmen presented himself^ scared out of his wits. " Here's fine news which may surprise you ! " said he ; " the bailiffs are in the house of my lord and lady, remov- ingthe furniture. All has been seized by the creditors. They talk of personal arrest, and I am going to do what I can to get my wages paid." " Let us see what has happened," said the marquis, " and discover the meaning of all this." " Yes," said the widow, " go and punish those rascals — go, quick ! " He hurried homewards, he arrived at the house, his father was already in prison, all the servants had fled, each in a dif- ferent direction, carrying off whatever they could lay theit" hands upon. His mother was alone, helpless, forlorn, and bathed in tears; she had nothing left her but the remem- brance of her former prosperity, her beauty, her faults, and her foolish extravagance. 2 24 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY After the son had condoled with his mother for a long time, he said at last: "Let us not despair; this young widow loves me to dis- traction ; she is even more generous than she is wealthy, I can assure you; I will fly to her for succour, and bring her to you." So he returns to his mistress, and finds her conversing in private with a fascinating young officer. " What ! Is that you, my Lord de la Jeannotiere? What business have you with me ? How can you leave your mother by herself in this way ? Go, and stay with the poor woman, and tell her that she shall always have my good wishes. I am in want of a waiting-woman now, and will gladly give her the preference." " My lad," said the officer, " you seem pretty tall and straight ; if you would like to enter my company, I will make it worth your while to enlist." The marquis, stupefied with astonishment, and secretly enraged, went off in search of his former tutor, confided to him all his troubles, and asked his advice. He proposed that he should become, like himself, a tutor of the young. "Alas! I know nothing; you have taught me nothing whatever, and you are the primary cause of all my unhappi- ness." And as he spoke he began to sob. " Write novels," said a wit who was present ; " it is an excellent resource to fall back upon at Paris." The young man, in more desperate straits than ever, hastened to the house of his mother's father confessor; he was a Theatine ^ monk of the very highest reputation, who directed the souls of none but ladies of the first rank in soci- ety. As soon as he saw him, the reverend gentleman rushed to meet him. " Good gracious ! My lord marquis, where is your car- riage? How is your honoured mother, the marchioness?" The unfortunate young fellow related the disaster that had befallen his family. As he explained the matter further the — ■ i- * The Theatines are a religious brotherhood now confined to Italy, formed in 1524. Their first superior was one of the four founders of the order, Caraffa, Bishop of Theate (Chieti); hence th?ir name. — [Ed.] JEANNOT AND COLIN «a5 Theatine assumed a graver air, one of less concern and more self-importance. " My son, herein you may see the hand of Providence ; riches serve only to corrupt the heart. The Almighty has shown special favour then to your mother in reducing her to beggary. Yes, sir, so much the better ! — she is now sure of her salvation." " But, father, in the meantime are there no means of obtaining some succour in this world ? " " Farewell, my son ! There is a lady of the Court wait- ing for me." The marquis felt ready to faint. He was treated after much the same manner by all his friends, and learned to know the world better in half a day than in all the rest of his life. As he was plunged in overwhelming despair, he saw an old-fashioned travelling-chaise, more like a covered tumbril than anything else, and furnished with leather curtains, fol- lowed by four enormous waggons all heavily laden. In the chaise was a young man in rustic attire ; his round and rubi- cund face had an air of kindness and good temper. His little wife, whose sunburnt countenance had a pleasing if not a refined expression, was jolted about as she sat beside him. The vehicle did not go quite so fast as a dandy's chariot, the traveller had plenty of time to look at the mar- quis, as he stood motionless, absorbed in his grief. " Oh ! good Heavens ! " he exclaimed ; " I believe that is Jeannot there ! " Hearing that name the marquis raised his eyes — the chaise stopped. " 'Tis Jeannot himself ! Yes, it is Jeannot ! " The plump little man with one leap sprang to the ground, and ran to embrace his old companion. Jeannot recog- nised Colin; signs of sorrow and shame covered his coun- tenance. " You have forsaken your old friend," said Colin ; " but be you as grand a lord as you like, I shall never cease to love you." Jeannot, confounded and cut to the heart, told him with sobs something of his history. " Come into the inn where I am lodging, and tell me the 226 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY rest," said Colin; "kiss my little wife, and let us go and dine together." They went, all three of them, on foot, and the baggage followed. " What in the world is all this paraphernalia ? Does it belong to you ? " "Yes, it is all mine and my wife's; we. are just come from .the country. I am at the head of a large tin, iron, and copper factory, and have married the daughter of a rich tradesman and general provider of all useful commodi- ties for great folks and small. We work hard, and God gives us his blessing. We are satisfied with our condition in life, and are quite happy. We will help our friend Jeannot. Give up being a marquis; all the grandeur in the world is not equal in value to a good friend. You will return with me into the country ; I will teach you my trade, it is not a diffi- cult one to learn ; I will give you a share in the business, and we will live together with light hearts in that corner of the earth where we were born." Jeannot, overcome by this kindness, felt himself divided between sorrow and joy, tenderness and shame ; and he said within himself: " All my fashionable friends have proved false to me, and Colin, whom I despised, is the only one who comes to my succour. What a lesson ! " Colin's generosity developed in Jeannot's heart the germ of that good disposition which the world had not yet choked. He felt that he could not desert his father and mother. " We will take care of your mother," said Colin ; " and as for the good man your father, who is in prison — I know something of business matters — his creditors, when they see that he has nothing more, will agree to a moderate composi- tion. I will see to all that myself." Colin was as good as his word, and succeeded in effecting the father's release from prison. Jeannot returned to his old home with his parents, who resumed their former occupa- tion. He married Colin's sister, who, being like her brother in disposition, rendered her husband very happy. And so Jeannot the father, and Jeannotte the mother, and Jeannot the son came to see that vanity is no true source of hap- piness. A LIST OF REPRESENTATIVE TALES AND SHORT STORIES IX 1 800 TO 1820: Moral Tales, Maria Edgeworth (1801). Atala, F. R. A, Chateaubriand (1801). Nouveaux Contes Moraux, J. F. Marmontel (1801). Rene, F. R. A. Chateaubriand (1802). Tales of Fashionable Life (ist series), Maria Edgeworth (1809). Reise des Feldpredigers Schmelzle nach Flaz, J. P. F. Richter (1809). Die Neue Melusine, Goethe (1809). Undine, F. de la Motte Fouque (1811). Le Lepreux de la Cite d'Aoste, Xavier de Maistre (1812). Tales of Fashionable Life (2d series), Maria Edgeworth (18.2). Kinder- und Haus-Marchen, Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm (1812-1815). Peter Schlemihls Wundersame Geschichte, A. von Cha- misso (1814). Phantasiestiicke, Amadaus Hoffman (1814-15). La Jeune Siberienne, Xavier de Maistre (1815). Les Prisonniers du Caucase, Xavier de Maistre (1815). Deutsche Sagen, Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm (1816-1818). Nachtstiicke, Amadaus Hoffman (1817). Die Geschichte vom Braven Kasperl, Clemens Brentano (1817). The Sketch-Book, Washington Irving (1819). Die Serapionsbriider, Amadaus Hoffman (1819-21). A Tale for a Chimney Corner (in The Indicator), Leigh Hunt (1819). M7 RIP VAN WINKLE RIP VAN WINKLE In May, 1819, appeared the first part of The Sketch- Book, by Washington Irving (1783-1859). The parts were collected in a volume in 1820. Among other stories in the book was Rip Van Winkle: A Posthu- mous Writing of Diedrich Knickerbocker. Diedrich Knickerbocker may require a word of explanation. Un- der that pseudonym Irving had published his Knicker- bocker's History of New York (1809). Knickerbocker was the " small, elderly gentleman, dressed in an old black coat and cocked hat," who had left his lodgings, ac- cording to the Evening Post of late October, 1809, neg- lecting to take with him, as it developed later, " a very curious kind of written book," which proved to be A His- tory of New York, by Diedrich Knickerbocker. This clever advertisement was so successful that Rip Van Winkle and The Legend of Sleepy Hollow were later put forth as Knickerbocker's contribution to The Sketch- Book. With the name of Diedrich Knickerbocker must have gone a potent spell, for of all Irving's writings these two tales now seem destined to survive the longest. Of Rip Van Winkle, " it is the more remarkable and interesting," writes George William Curtis, *' because, although the first American creation, it is not in the least characteristic of American life, but, on the contrary, is a quiet and delicate satire upon it. The kindly vagabond asserts the charm of loitering idleness in the sweet leisure of woods and fields against the characteristic excitement of the overflowing crowd and crushing competition of the city." It is not merely the story's kindly humour, it 231 2 32 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY is also the truth of the character and the beauty of the conception, that has proved so alluring. Irving's principal collections of short stories and sketches, in addition to The Sketch-Book (1819), are: Bracebridge Hall (1822), Tales of a Traveler (1824), and Wolfert's Roost (1855). AUTHORITIES I Literary and Social Essays, by George William Curtis. Washington Irving, by Charles Dudley Warner (American Men of Letters series). The Life and Letters of Washington Irving, by Pierre M. Irving. A History of American Literature, by William P. Trent (Literatures of the World series). The Short Story in English, by Henry Seidel Canby (Chapter X). RIP VAN WINKLE A POSTHUMOUS WRITING OF DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER By Woden, God of Saxons, From whence comes Wensday, that is Wodensday, Truth is a thing that ever I will keep Unto thylke day in which I creep into My sepulchre Cartwright. [The following tale was found among the papers of the late Diedrieh Knickerbocker, an old gentleman of New York, who was very curious in the Dutch history of the province, and the manners of the descendants from its primitive set- tlers. His historical researches, however, did not lie so much among books as among men ; for the former are lamentably scanty on his favourite topics ; whereas he found the old burghers, and still more their wives, rich in that legendary lore so invaluable to true history. Whenever, therefore, he happened upon a genuine Dutch family, snugly shut up in its low-roofed farmhouse, under a spreading sycamore, he looked upon it as a little clasped volume of black-letter, and studied it with the zeal of a bookworm. The result of these researches was a history of the prov- ince during the reign of the Dutch governors, which he pub- lished some years since. There have been various opinions as to the literary character of his work, and, to tell the truth, it is not a whit better than it should be. Its chief merit is its scrupulous accuracy, which indeed was a little questioned on its first appearance, but has since been completely established ; and it is now admitted into all historical collections as a book of unquestionable authority. The old gentleman died shortly after the publication of 16 233 234 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY his work; and now that he is dead and gone, it cannot do much harm to his memory to say that his time might have been much better employed in weightier labours. He, how- ever, was apt to ride his hobby in his own way; and though it did now and then kick up the dust a little in the eyes of his neighbours, and grieve the spirit of some friends, for whom he felt the truest deference and affection, yet his errors and follies are remembered " more in sorrow than in anger ", and it begins to be suspected that he never intended to injure or offend. But however his memory may be appreciated by critics, it is still held dear by many folk whose good opinion is well worth having; particularly by certain biscuit-bakers, who have gone so far as to imprint his likeness on their New Year cakes; and have thus given him a chance for immor- tality, almost equal to the being stamped on a Waterloo medal, or a Queen Anne's farthing.] Whoever has made a voyage up the Hudson must remem- ber the Kaatskill Mountains. They are a dismembered branch of the great Appalachian family, and are seen away to the west of the river, swelling up to a noble height, and lording it over the surrounding country. Every change of season, every change of weather, indeed, every hour of the day, produces some change in the magical hues and shapes of these mountains, and they are regarded by all the good wives, far and near, as perfect barometers. When the weather is fair and settled, they are clothed in blue and purple, and print their bold outlines on the clear evening sky; but some- times, when the rest of the landscape is cloudless, they will gather a hood of gray vapours about their summits, which, in the last rays of the setting sun, will glow and light up like a grown of glory. At the foot of these fairy mountains, the voyager may have descried the light smoke curling up from a village, whose shingle-roofs gleam among the trees, just where the blue tints of the upland melt away into the fresh green of the nearer landscape. It is a little village, of great antiquity, having been founded by some of the Dutch colonists in the early time of the province, just about the beginning of the government of the good Peter Stuyvesant (may he rest in peace!), and there were some of the houses of the original RIP VAN WINKLE 235 settlers standing within a few years, built of small yellow bricks brought from Holland, having latticed windows and gable fronts, surmounted with weathercocks. In that same village, and in one of these very houses (which, to tell the precise truth, was sadly time-worn and weather-beaten), there lived, many years since, while the country was yet a province of Great Britain, a simple, good- natured fellow, of the name of Rip Van Winkle. He was a descendant of the Van Winkles who figured so gallantly in the chivalrous days of Peter Stuyvesant, and accompanied him to the siege of Fort Christina. He inherited, however, but little of the martial character of his ancestors. I have observed that he was a simple, good-natured man; he was, moreover, a kind neighbour, and an obedient, henpecked husband. Indeed, to the latter circumstance might be owing that meekness of spirit which gained him such universal popu- larity ; for those men are most apt to be obsequious and concil- iating abroad who are under the discipline of shrews at home. Their tempers, doubtless, are rendered pliant and malleable in the fiery furnace of domestic tribulation; and a curtain- lecture is worth all the sermons in the world for teaching the virtues of patience and long-suffering. A termagant wife may, therefore, in some respects, be considered a toler- able blessing; and, if so. Rip Van Winkle was thrice blessed. Certain it is, that he was a great favourite among all the good wives of the village, who, as usual with the amiable sex, took his part in all family squabbles ; and never failed, when- ever they talked those matters over in their evening gossip- ings, to lay all the blame on Dame Van Winkle. The children of the village, tbo, would shout with joy whenever he ap- proached. He assisted at their sports, made their playthings, taught them to fly kites and shoot marbles, and told them long stories of ghosts, witches, and Indians. Whenever he went dodging about the village he was surrounded by a troop of them, hanging on his skirts, clambering on his back, and playing a thousand tricks on him with impunity; and not a dog would bark at him throughout the neighbourhood. The great error in Rip's composition was an insuperable aversion to all kinds of profitable labour. It could not be from the want of assiduity or perseverance, for he would sit on a wet rock, with a rod as long and heavy as a Tartar's 236 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY lance, and fish all day long without a murmur, even though he should not be encouraged by a single nibble. He would carry a fowling-piece on his shoulder for hours together, trudging through woods and swamps, and up hill and down dale, to shoot a few squirrels or wild pigeons. He would never refuse to assist a neighbour even in the roughest toil, and was a foremost man at all country frolics for husking Indian corn or building stone fences; the women of the vil- lage, too, used to employ him to run their errands, and to do such little odd jobs as their less obliging husbands would not do for them. In a word, Rip was ready to attend to anybody's business but his own ; but as to doing family duty, and keeping his farm in order, he found it impossible. In fact, he declared it was of no use to work on his farm ; it was the most pestilent little piece of ground in the whole country; everything about it went wrong, and would go wrong, in spite of him. His fences were continually falling to pieces ; his cow would either go astray, or get among the cabbages; weeds were sure to grow quicker in his fields than anywhere else; the rain always made a point of setting in just as he had some out-of-door work to do; so that though his patrimonial estate had dwindled away under his manage- ment, acre by acre, until there was little more left than a mere patch of Indian corn and potatoes, yet it was the worst con- ditioned farm in the neighbourhood. His children, too, were as ragged and wild as if they belonged to nobody. His son Rip, an urchin begotten in his own likeness, promised to inherit the habits, with the old clothes, of his father. He was generally seen trooping like a colt at his mother's heels, equipped in a palir of his father's cast-off galligaskins, which he had much ado to hold up with one hand, as a fine lady does her train in bad weather. Rip Van Winkle, however, was one of those happy mor- tals, of foolish, well-oiled dispositions, who take the world easy, eat white bread or brown, whichever can be got with least thought of trouble, and would rather starve on a penny than work for a pound. If left to himself, he would have whistled life away in perfect contentment; but his wife kept continually dinning in his ears about his idleness, his care- lessness and the ruin he was bringing on his family. Morn- ing, noon, and night, her tongue was incessantly going, and RIP VAN WINKLE 237 everything he said or did was sure to prpduce a torrent of household eloquence. Rip had but one way of replying to all lectures of the kind, and that, by frequent use, had grown into a habit. He shrugged his shoulders, shook his head, cast up his eyes, but said nothing. This, however, always pro- voked a fresh volley from his wife; so that he was fain to draw off his forces, and take to the outside of the house — the only side which, in truth, belongs to a henpecked husband. Rip's sole domestic adherent was his dog Wolf, who was as much henpecked as his master; for Dame Van Winkle regarded them as companions in idleness, and even looked upon Wolf with an evil eye, as the cause of his master's going so often astray. True it is, in all points of spirit befit- ting an honourable dog, he was as courageous an animal as ever scoured the woods ; but what courage can withstand the ever-during and all-besetting terrors of a woman's tongue? The moment Wolf entered the house his crest fell, his tail drooped to the ground, or curled between his legs, he sneaked about with a gallows air, casting many a sidelong glance at Dame Van Winkle, and at tke least flourish of a broomstick or ladle he would fly to the door with yelping precipitation. Times grew worse and worse with Rip Van Winkle as years of matrimony rolled on ; a tart temper never mellows with age, and a sharp tongue is the only edged tool that grows keener with constant use. For a long while he used to con- sole himself, when driven from home, by frequenting a kind of perpetual club of the sages, philosophers, and other idle personages of the village, which held its sessions on a bench before a small inn, designated by a rubicund portrait of His Majesty, George the Third. Here they used to sit in the shade through a long, lazy summer's day, talking listlessly over village gossip, or telling endless sleepy stories about nothing. But it would have been worth any statesman's money to have heard the profound discussions that sometimes took place, when by chance an old newspaper fell into their hands from some passing traveller. How solemnly they would listen to the contents, as drawled out by Derrick Van Bummel, the schoolmaster, a dapper, learned little man, who was not to be daunted by the most gigantic word in the dictionary ; and how sagely they would deliberate upon public events some months after they had taken place. 238 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY The opinions of this junta were completely controlled by Nicholas Vedder, a patriarch of the village, and landlord of the inn, at the door of which he took his seat from morning till night, just moving sufficiently to avoid the sun and keep in the shade of a large tree ; so that the neighbours could tell the hour by his movements as accurately as by a sun-dial. It is true he was rarely heard to speak, but smoked his pipe incessantly. His adherents, however (for every great man has his adherents), perfectly understood him, and knew how to gather his opinions. When anything that was read or related displeased him, he was observed to smoke his pipe vehemently, and to send forth short, frequent, and angry puffs; but when pleased, he would inhale the smoke slowly and tranquilly, and emit it in light and placid clouds; and sometimes, taking the pipe from his mouth, and letting the fragrant vapour curl about his nose, would gravely nod his head in token of perfect approbation. From even this stronghold the unlucky Rip was at length routed by his termagant wife, who would suddenly break in upon the tranquillity of the assemblage and call the members all to naught ; nor was that august personage, Nicholas Ved- der himself, sacred from the daring tongue of this terrible virago, who charged him outright with encouraging her hus- band in habits of idleness. Poor Rip was at last reduced almost to despair; and his only alternative, to escape from the labour of the farm and clamour of his wife, was to take gun in hand and stroll away into the woods. Here he would sometimes seat himself at the foot of a tree, and share the contents of his wallet with Wolf, with whom he sympathised as a fellow sufferer in per- secution. " Poor Wolf," he would say, " thy mistress leads thee a dog's life of it; but never mind, my lad, while I live thou shalt never want a friend to stand by thee ! " Wolf would wag his tail, look wistfully in his master's face; and if dogs can feel pity, I verily believe he reciprocated the sentiment with all his heart. In a long ramble of the kind on a fine autumnal day, Rip had unconsciously scrambled to one of the highest parts of the Kaatskill Mountains. He was after his favourite sport of squirrel-shooting, and the still solitude had echoed and reechoed with the reports of his gun. Panting and fatigued, RIP VAN WINKLE ^39 he threw himself, late in the afternoon, on a green knoll, covered with mountain herbage, that crowned the brow of a precipice. From an opening between the trees he could over- look all the lower country for many a mile of rich wood- land. He saw at a distance the lordly Hudson, far, far below him, moving on his silent but majestic course, with the re- flection of a purple cloud, or the sail of a lagging bark, here and there sleeping on its glassy bottom, and at last losing itself in the blue highlands. On 4:he other side he looked down into a deep mountain glen, wild, lonely, and shagged, the bottom filled with frag- ments from the impending cliffs, and scarcely lighted by the reflected rays of the setting sun. For some time Rip lay musing on this scene ; evening was gradually advancing ; the mountains began to throw their long, blue shadows over the valleys; he saw that it would be dark long before he could reach the village, and he heaved a heavy sigh when he thought of encountering the terrors of Dame Van Winkle. As he was about to descend, he heard a voice from a dis- tance, hallooing : " Rip Van Winkle ! Rip Van Winkle ! " He looked round, but could see nothing but a crow winging its solitary flight across the mountain. He thought his fancy must have deceived him, and turned again to descend, when he heard the same cry ring through the still evening air: "Rip Van Winkle ! Rip Van Winkle ! " — at the same time Wolf bristled up his back, and giving a low growl, skulked to his master's side, looking fearfully down into the glen. Rip now felt a vague apprehension stealing over him; he looked anxiously in the same direction, and perceived a strange figure slowly toiling up the rocks, and bending under the weight of something he carried on his back. He was sur- prised to see any human being in this lonely and unfrequented place ; but supposing it to be some one of the neighbourhood in need of his assistance, he hastened down to yield it. On nearer approach he was still more surprised at the singularity of the stranger's appearance. He was a short, square-built old fellow, with thick bushy hair, and a griz- zled beard. His dress was of the antique Dutch fashion — a cloth jerkin strapped round the waist — several pair of breeches, the outer one of ample volume, decorated with rows of buttons down the sides, and bunches at the knees. He 240 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY bore on his shoulder a stout keg that seemed full of liquor, and made signs for Rip to approach and assist him with the load. Though rather shy and distrustful of this new acquaintance, Rip complied with his usual alacrity; and mu- tually relieving one another, they clambered up a narrow gully, apparently the dry bed of a mountain torrent. As they ascended, Rip every now and then heard long, rolling peals, like distant thunder, that seemed to issue out of a deep ravine, or rather cleft, between lofty rocks, towards which their rugged path conducted. He paused for an instant, but sup- posing it to be the muttering of one of those transient thun- der-showers which often take place in mountain heights, he proceeded. Passing through the ravine, they came to a hol- low, like a small amphitheatre, surrounded by perpendicular precipices, over the brinks of which impending trees shot their branches, so that you only caught glimpses of the azure sky and the bright evening cloud. During the whole time Rip and his companion had laboured on in silence ; for though the former marvelled greatly what could be the object of car- rying a keg of liquor up this wild mountain, yet there was something strange and incomprehensible about the unknown, that inspired awe and checked familiarity. On entering the amphitheatre, new objects of wonder pre- sented themselves. On a level spot in the centre was a company of odd-looking personages playing at ninepins. They were dressed in a quaint, outlandish fashion ; some wore short doublets, others jerkins, with long knives in their belts, and most of them had enormous breeches of similar style with that of the guide's. Their visages, too, were peculiar: one had a large beard, broad face, and small, piggish eyes; the face of another seemed to consist entirely of nose, and was surmounted by a white sugar-loaf hat, set off with a little red cock's tail. They all had beards of various shapes and colours. There was one who seemed to be the commander. He was a stout old gentleman, with a weather-beaten coun- tenance; he wore a laced doublet, broad belt and hanger, high-crowned hat and feather, red stockings, and high-heeled shoes, with roses in them. The whole group reminded Rip of the figures in an old Flemish painting, in the parlour of Dominie Van Shaick, the village parson, and which had been brought over from Holland at the time of the settlement. RIP VAN WINKLE «4X What seemed particularly odd to Rip was, that, though these folks were evidently amusing themselves, yet they maintained the gravest faces, the most mysterious silence, and were, withal, the most melancholy party of pleasure he had ever witnessed. Nothing interrupted the stillness of the scene but the noise of the balls, which, whenever they were rolled, echoed along the mountains like rumbling peals of thunder. As Rip and his companion approached them, they sud- denly desisted from their play, and stared at him with such fixed, statuelike gaze, and such strange, uncouth, lack-lustre countenances, that his heart turned within him, and his knees smote together. His companion now emptied the contents of the keg into large flagons, and made signs to him to wait upon the company. He obeyed with fear and trembling; they quaffed the liquor in profound silence, and then returned to their game. By degrees Rip's awe and apprehension subsided. He even ventured, when no eye was fixed upon him, to taste the beverage, which he found had much of the flavour of excel- lent hollands. He was naturally a thirsty soul, and was soon tempted to repeat the draught. One taste provoked another ; and he' reiterated his visits to the flagon so often that at length his senses were overpowered, his eyes swam in his head, his head gradually declined, and he fell into a deep sleep. On waking, he found himself on the green knoll whence he had first seen the old man of the glen. He rubbed his eyes — it was a bright, sunny morning. The birds were hopping and twittering among the bushes, and the eagle was wheeling aloft, and breasting the pure mountain breeze. " Surely," thought Rip, " I have not slept here all night." He recalled the occurrences before he fell asleep. The strange man with a keg of liquor — the mountain ravine — the wild retreat among the rocks — the woebegone party at ninepins — the flagon — " Oh ! that flagon ! that wicked flagon ! " thought Rip — " what excuse shall I make to Dame Van Winkle ? " He looked round for his gun, but in place of the clean, well-oiled fowling-piece, he found an old firelock lying by him, the barrel encrusted with rust, the lock falling off, and the stock* worm-eaten. He now suspected that the grave rois- 242 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY terers of the mountain had put a trick upon him, and, having dosed him with liquor, had robbed him of his gun. Wolf, too, had disappeared, but he might have strayed away after a squirrel or partridge. He whistled after him, and shouted his name, but all in vain; the echoes repeated his whistle and shout, but no dog was to be seen. He determined to revisit the scene of the last evening's gambol, and if he met with any of the party to demand his dog and gun. As he rose to walk he found himself stiff in the joints, and wanting in his usual activity. " These moun- tain beds do not agree with me," thought Rip, " and if this frolic should lay me up with a fit of the rheumatism, I shall have a blessed time with Dame Van Winkle ! " With some difficulty he got down into the glen; he found the gully up which he and his companion had ascended the preceding evening; but to his astonishment a mountain stream was now foaming down it, leaping from rock to rock, and filling the glen with babbling murmurs. He, however, made shift to scramble up its sides, working his toilsome way through thickets of birch, sassafras, and witch-hazel, and sometimes tripped up or entangled by the wild grape-vines that twisted their coils or tendrils from tree to tree, and spread a kind of network in his path. At length he reached to where the ravine had opened through the cliffs to the amphitheatre; but no traces of such opening remained. The rocks presented a high, impenetrable wall, over which the torrent came tumbling in a sheet of feathery foam, and fell into a broad deep basin, black from the shadows of the surrounding forest. Here, then, poor Rip was brought to a stand. He again called and whistled after his dog; he was only answered by the cawing of a flock of idle crows, sporting high in air about a dry tree that over- hung a sunny precipice; and who, secure in their elevation, seemed to look down and scoff at the poor man's perplexities. What was to be done? The morning was passing away, and Rip felt famished for want of his breakfast. He grieved to give up his dog and gun; he dreaded to meet his wife; but it would not do to starve among the mountains. He shook his head, shouldered the rusty firelock, and, with a heart full of trouble and anxiety, turned his steps homewards. As he approached the village he met a number of people, RIP VAN WINKLE 243 but none whom he knew, which somewhat surprised him, for he had thought himself acquainted with every one in the country round. Their dress, too, was of a different fashion from that to which he was accustomed. They all stared at him with equal marks of surprise, and whenever they cast their eyes upon him, invariably stroked their chins. The constant recurrence of this gesture induced Rip, involuntarily, to do the same, when, to his astonishment, he found his beard had grown a foot long ! He had now entered the skirts of the village. A troop of strange children ran at his heels, hooting after him, and pointing at his gray beard. The dogs, too, not one of which he recognised for an old acquaintance, barked at him as he passed. The very village was altered ; it was larger and more populous. There were rows of houses which he had never seen before, and those which had been his familiar haunts had disappeared. Strange names were over the doors — strange faces at the windows — everything was strange. His mind now misgave him; he began to doubt whether both he and the world around him were not bewitched. Surely this was his native village, which he had left but the day before. There stood the Kaatskill Mountains — there ran the silver Hudson at a distance — there was every hill and dale precisely as it had always been. Rip was sorely perplexed. " That flagon last night," thought he, " has addled my poor head sadly ! " It was with some difficulty that he found the way to his own house, which he approached with silent awe, expecting every moment to hear the shrill voice of Dame Van Winkle. He found the house gone to decay — the roof fallen in, the windows shattered, and the doors off the hinges. A half- starved dog that looked like Wolf was skulking about it. Rip called him by name, but the cur snarled, showed his teeth, and passed on. This was an unkind cut indeed. " My very dog," sighed poor Rip, " has forgotten me ! " He entered the house, which, to tell the truth, Dame Van Winkle had always kept in neat order. It was empty, for- lorn, and apparently abandoned. This desolateness over- came all his connubial fears — he called loudly for his wife and children — the lonely chambers rang for a moment with his voice, and then all again was silence. 244 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY He now hurried forth, and hastened to his old resort, the village inn — but it, too, was gone. A large, rickety wooden building stood in its place, with great gaping windows, some of them broken and mended with old hats and petticoats, and over the door was painted: The Union Hotel, by Jonathan Doolittle. Instead of the great tree that used to shelter the quiet little Dutch inn of yore, there now was reared a tall naked pole, with something on the top that looked like a red nightcap, and from it was fluttering a flag, on which was a singular assemblage of stars and stripes; — all this was strange and incomprehensible. He recognised on the sign, however, the ruby face of King George, under which he had smoked so many a peaceful pipe; but even this was singu- larly metamorphosed. The red coat was changed for one of blue and buff, a sword was held in the hand instead of a sceptre, the head was decorated with a cocked hat, and underneath was painted in large characters : General Wash- ington. There was, as usual, a crowd of folk about the door, but none that Rip recollected. The very character of the people seemed changed. There was a busy, bustling, disputatious tone about it, instead of the accustomed phlegm and drowsy tranquillity. He looked in vain for the sage Nicholas Ved- der, with his broad face, double chin, and fair long pipe, uttering clouds of tobacco smoke instead of idle speeches ; or Van Bummel, the schoolmaster, doling forth the contents of an ancient newspaper. In place of these, a lean, bilious-look- ing fellow, with his pockets full of handbills, was haranguing vehemently about rights of citizens — elections — members of Congress — liberty — Bunker Hill — heroes of '76 — and other words, which were a perfect Babylonish jargon to the bewil- dered Van Winkle. The appearance of Rip, with his long grizzled beard, his rusty fowHng-piece, his uncouth dress, and an army of women and children at his heels, soon attracted the attention of the tavern politicians. They crowded round him, eyeing him from head to foot with great curiosity. The orator bustled up to him, and, drawing him partly aside, inquired " on which side he voted." Rip stared in vacant stupidity. An- other short -but busy little fellow pulled him by the arm, and, rising on tiptoe, inquired in his ear " whether he was RIP VAN WINKLE 245 Federal or Democrat." Rip was equally at a loss to com- prehend the question; when a knowing, self-important old gentleman, in a sharp cocked hat, made his way through the crowd, putting them to the right and left with his elbows as he passed, and planting himself before Van Winkle, with one arm akimbo, the other resting on his cane, his keen eyes and sharp hat penetrating, as it were, into his very soul, demanded in an austere tone " what brought him to the election with a gun on his shoulder and a mob at his heels; and whether he meant to breed a riot in the village." — " Alas ! gentle- men," cried Rip, somewhat dismayed, " I am a poor, quiet man, a native of the place, and a loyal subject of the King, God bless him ! " Here a general shout burst from the bystanders — " A Tory ! a Tory ! a spy ! a refugee ! hustle him ! away with him ! " It was with great difficulty that the self-important man in the cocked hat restored order ; and, having assumed a tenfold austerity of brow, demanded again of the unknown culprit what he came there for and whom he was seeking. The poor man humbly assured him that he meant no harm, but merely came there in search of some of his neighbours, who used to keep about the tavern. " Well — who are they ? — name them." Rip bethought himself a moment, and inquired : " Where's Nicholas Vedder?" There was a silence for a Httle while, when an old man replied, in a thin, piping voice : " Nicholas Vedder ! Why, he is dead and gone these eighteen years ! There was a wooden tombstone in the churchyard that used to tell all about him, but that's rotten and gone too." " Where's Brom Dutcher? " " Oh, he went off to the army in the beginning of the war ; some say he was killed at the storming of Stony Point — others say he was drowned in a squall at the foot of An- thony's Nose. I don't know — he never came back again." " Where's Van Bummel, the schoolmaster ? " " He went off to the wars, too, was a great militia gen- eral, and is now in Congress." Rip's heart died away at hearing of these sad changes in his home and friends, and finding himself thus alone in the world. Every answer puzzled him, too, by treating of such 246 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY enormous lapses of time, and of matters which he could not understand: war — Congress — Stony Point — he had no cour- age to ask after any more friends, but cried out in despair: " Does nobody here know Rip Van Winkle ? " " Oh, Rip Van Winkle ! " exclaimed two or three, " oh, to be sure ! that's Rip Van Winkle yonder, leaning against the tree." Rip looked, and beheld a precise counterpart of himself, as he went up the mountain ; apparently as lazy, and certainly as ragged. The poor fellow was now completely confounded. He doubted his own identity, and whether he was himself or another man. In the midst of his bewilderment, the man in the cocked hat demanded who he was, and what was his name. " God knows," exclaimed he, at his wit's end ; " I'm not myself — I'm somebody else — that's me yonder — no — that's somebody else got into my shoes — I was myself last night, but I fell asleep on the mountain, and they've changed my gun, and everything's changed, and I'm changed, and I can't tell what's my name, or who I am ! " The bystanders began now to look at each other, nod, wink significantly, and tap their fingers against their fore- heads. There was a whisper, also, about securing the gun, and keeping the old fellow from doing mischief, at the very suggestion of which the self-important man in the cocked hat retired with some precipitation. At this critical moment a fresh, comely woman pressed through the throng to get a peep at the gray-bearded man. She had a chubby child in her ams, which, frightened at his looks, began to cry. " Hush, Rip," cried she, " hush, you little fool ; the old man won't hurt you." The name of the child, the air of the mother, the tone of her voice, all awakened a train of recol- lections in his mind. " What is your name, my good wom- an?" asked he. " Judith Gardenier." " And your father's name ? " " Ah, poor man, Rip Van Winkle was his name, but it's twenty years since he went away from home with his gun, and never has been heard of since — his dog came home with- out him ; but whether he shot himself, or was carried away by the Indians, nobody can tell. I was then but a little girl." RIP VAN WINKLE 447 Rip had but one question more to ask ; but he put it with a faltering voice: " Where's your mother?" " Oh, she, too, had died but a short time since ; she broke a blood-vessel in a fit of passion at a New England peddler." There was a drop of comfort, at least, in this intelligence. The honest man could contain himself no longer. He caught his daughter and her child in his arms. " I am your father ! " cried he — "young Rip Van Winkle once — old Rip Van Wikk now ! — Does nobody know poor Rip Van Win- kle?" All stood amazed, until an old woman, tottering out from among the crowd, put her hand to her brow, and peering under it in his face for a moment, exclaimed : " Sure enough ! It is Rip Van Winkle — it is himself ! Welcome home again, old neighbour. Why, where have you been these twenty long years ? " Rip's story was soon told, for the whole twenty years had been to him as but one night. The neighbours stared when they heard it ; some were seen to wink at each other, and put their tongues in their cheeks; and the self-important man in the cocked hat, who, when the alarm was over, had returned to the field, screwed down the corners of his mouth, and shook his head — upon which there was a general shaking of the head throughout the assemblage. It was determined, however, to take the opinion of old Peter Vanderdonk, who was seen slowly advancing up the road. He was a descendant of the historian of that name, who wrote one of the earliest accounts of the province. Peter was the most ancient inhabitant of the village, and well versed in all the wonderful events and traditions of the neighbourhood. He recollected Rip at once, and corroborated his story in the most satisfactory manner. He assured the company that it was a fact, handed down from his ancestor the historian, that the Kaatskill Mountains had always been haunted by strange beings. That it was affirmed that the great Hendrick Hudson, the first discoverer of the river and country, kept a kind of vigil there every twenty years, with his crew of the Half Moon ; being permitted in this way to revisit the scenes of his enterprise, and keep a guardian eye Mpon the river and the great city called By his name. That ^4^ THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY his father had once seen them in their old Dutch dresses playing at ninepins in a hollow of the mountain ; and that he himself had heard, one summer afternoon, the sound of their balls, like distant peals of thunder. To make a long story short, the company broke up and returned to the more important concerns of the election. Rip's daughter took him home to live with her; she had a snug, well-furnished house, and a stout, cheery farmer for a husband, whom Rip recollected for one of the urchins that used to climb upon his back. As to Rip's son and heir, who was the ditto of himself, seen leaning against the tree, he was employed to work on the farm ; but evinced an hereditary dis- position to attend to anything else but his business. Rip now resumed his old walks and habits ; he soon found many of his former cronies, though all rather the worse for the wear and tear of time; and preferred making friends among the rising generation, with whom he soon grew into great favour. Having nothing to do at home, and being arrived at that happy age when a man can be idle with impunity, he took his place once more on the bench at the inn door, and was rev- erenced as one of the patriarchs of the village, and a chron- icle of the old times " before the war." It was some time before he could get into the regular track of gossip, or could be made to comprehend the strange events that had taken place during his torpor: how that there had been a Revolu- tionary war — that the country had thrown off the yoke of old England — and that, instead of being a subject of His Majesty, George HI., he was now a free citizen of the United States. Rip, in fact, was no politician ; the changes of states and empires made but little impression on him ; but there was one species of despotism under which he had long groaned, and that was — petticoat government. Happily that was at an end ; he had got his neck out of the yoke of matrimony, and could go in and out whenever he pleased, without dread- ing the tyranny of Dame Van Winkle. Whenever her name was mentioned, however, he shook his head, shrugged his shoulders, and cast up his eyes; which might pass either for an expression of resignation to his fate or joy at his deliv- erance. He used to tell his story to every stranger that arrived RIP VAN WINKLE ^49 at Mr. Doolittle's hotel. He was observed, at first, to vary on some points every time he told it, which was, doubtless, owing to his having so recently awakened. It at last settled down precisely to the tale I have related, and not a man, woman, or child in the neighbourhood but knew it by heart. Some always pretended to doubt the reality of it, and insisted that Rip had been out of his head, and that this was one point on which he always remained flighty. The old Dutch inhab- itants, however, almost universally gave it full credit. Even to this day they never hear a thunder-storm of a summer afternoon about the Kaatskill, but they say Hendrick Hudson and his crew are at their game of ninepins ; and it is a com- mon wish of all henpecked husbands in the neighbourhood, when life hangs heavy on their hands, that they might have a quieting draught out of Rip Van Winkle's flagon. NOTE The foregoing tale, one would suspect, had been suggested to Mr. Knickerbocker by a little German superstition about the Emperor Frederick der Rothbart, and the Kypphauser mountain: the subjoined note, however, which he had ap- pended to the tale, shows that it is an absolute fact, narrated with his usual fidelity. " The story of Rip Van Winkle may seem incredible to many, but nevertheless I give it my full belief, for I know the vicinity of our old Dutch settlements to have been very subject to marvellous events and appearances. Indeed, I have heard many stranger stories than this, in the villages along the Hudson; all of which were too well authenticated to admit of a doubt. I have even talked with Rip Van Winkle myself, who, when last I saw him, was a very ven- erable old man, and so perfectly rational and consistent on every other point, that I think no conscientious person could refuse to take this into the bargain; nay, I have seen a cer- tificate on the subject taken before a country justice and signed with a cross, in the justice's own handwriting. The story, therefore, is beyond the possibility of a doubt. " D. K." 17 iSO THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY POSTSCRIPT The following are travelling-notes from a memorandum book of Mr. Knickerbocker: The Kaatsberg, or Catskill Mountains, have always been a region full of fable. The Indians considered them the abode of spirits, who influenced the weather, spreading sun- shine or clouds over the landscape, and sending good or bad hunting seasons. They were ruled by an old squaw spirit, said to be their mother. She dwelt on the highest peak of the Catskills, and had charge of the doors of day and night to open and shut them at the proper hour. She hung up the new moon in the skies, and cut up the old ones into stars. In times of drought, if properly propitiated, she would spin light summer clouds out of cobwebs and morning dew, and send them off from the crest of the mountain, flake after flake, like flakes of carded cotton, to float in the air; until, dissolved by the heat of the sun, they would fall in gentle showers, causing the grass to spring, the fruits to ripen, and the corn to grow an inch an hour. If displeased, however, she would brew up clouds black as ink, sitting in the midst of them like a bottle-bellied spider in the midst of its web; and when these clouds broke, woe betide the valleys ! In old times, say the Indian traditions, there was a kind of Manitou or Spirit, who kept about the wildest recesses of the Catskill Mountains and took a mischievous pleasure in wreak- ing all kinds of evils and vexations upon the red men. Some- times he would assume the form of a bear, a panther, or a deer, lead the bewildered hunter a weary chase through tan- gled forests and among ragged rocks; and then spring off with a loud ho ! ho ! leaving him aghast on the brink of a beetling precipice or raging torrent. The favourite abode of this Manitou is still shown. It is a great rock or cliff on the loneliest part of the mountains, and, from the flowering vines which clamber about it, and the wild flowers which abound in its neighbourhood, is known by the name of the Garden Rock. Near the foot of it is a small lake, the haunt of the solitary bittern, with water- snakes basking in the sun on the leaves of the pond-lilies l/hich lie on the surface. This place was held in great awe RIP VAN WINKLE 2$% by the Indians, insomuch that the lUolciest hunter would not pursue his game within its precincts. Once upon a time, however, a hunter, who had lost his way, penetrated to the Garden Rock, where he beheld a number of gourds placed in the crotches of trees. One of these he seized and made off with it, but in the hurry of his retreat he let it fall among the rocks, when a great stream gushed forth, which washed him away and swept him down precipices, where he was dashed to>pieces, and the stream made its way to the Hud- son, and continues to flow to the present day ; being the iden- tical stream known by the name of the Kaaterskill. A LIST OF REPRESENTATIVE TALES AND SHORT STORIES 1820 TO 1830: Smarra, Charles Nodier (1821). Die Flucht nach Agypten and Der Mann von Fiinfzig Jahren, Goethe, Wilhelm Meister's Wanderjahre (1821-1829). Trilby, Charles Nodier (1822). Die Gemalde, J. L. Tieck (1822). Die Verlobung, J. L. Tieck (1823). Wandering Willie's Tale, Sir Walter Scott, Redgauntlet (1824). Tales of a Traveler, Washington Irving (1824). Sayings and Doings, Theodore Hook (i 824-1 825-1 828). The Superannuated Man, Charles Lamb (1825). O'Hara Tales, John and Michael Banim (1825-42). . Die Novelle, Goethe (1826). My Aunt Margaret's Mirror, Sir Walter Scott (1828). The Tapestried Chamber, Sir Walter Scott (1828). Mateo Falcone, Prosper Merimee (1829). Vision de Charles XL, Prosper Merimee (1829). L'Enlevement de la Redoute, Prosper Merimee (1829). Tamango, Prosper Merimee (1829). Federigo, Prosper Merimee (1829). La Perle de Tolede, Prosper Merimee (1829). 253 WANDERING WILLIE'S TALE WANDERING WILLIE'S TALE Wandering Willie's Tale, by Sir Walter Scott (1771-1832), first published in Redgauntlet in 1824, was the first short story of importance that the famous romancer wrote. The Tales of a Grandfather (1828- 1829-1830) are not properly short stories, but history popularly presented. In 1828 there appeared in The Keepsake three short stories by Scott : My Aunt Mar- garet's Mirror, The Tapestried Chamber, and Death of the Laird's Jock. These three, together with Wandering Willie's Tale, are Scott's only important contributions to fiction in short story form. Wandering Willie's Tale is told by one of the charac- ters in Scott's romance, Redgauntlet, but it has no other connection with the longer work of fiction in which it is embedded. Perhaps its insertion where it so clearly of- fends against the unity of the narrative is a proof of Sir Walter's own high regard for its value. One critic calls it " the finest short story in the language " ; this is perhaps excessive praise, but as a tale of the weird it is scarcely surpassed either by Theophile Gautier's The Dead Leman (1836) or by Robert Louis Stevenson's Thrawn Janet (1881). In brief, it stands at or very near the head of its class. Like The Dead Leman, Wandering Willie's Tale is a dream-fantasy from beginning to end ; ** the wildest and most rueful of dreams," Lockhart calls it. For an interesting treatment of the " ghost " story, the conte cruel, the reader is referred to Scott's Apology for Tales of Terror (1799). 257 258 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY AUTHORITIES : Memoirs of the Life of Sir Walter Scott, by John G. Lockhart. Hours in a Library (first series), by LesHe Stephen. Sir Walter Scott, by George Saintsbury (Famous Scots series). Sir Walter Scott, by Richard Holt Hutton (English Men of Letters series). WANDERING WILLIE'S TALE " Honest folks like me ! How do ye ken whether I am honest, or what I am ? I may be the deevil himsell for what ye ken, for he has power to come disguised like an angel of light ; and, besides, he is a prime fiddler. He played a sonata to Corelli, ye ken." There was something odd in this speech, and the tone in which it was said. It seemed as if my companion was not always in his constant mind, or that he was willing to try if he could frighten me. I laughed at the extravagance of his language, however, and asked him in reply if he was fool enough to believe that the foul fiend would play so silly a masquerade. " Ye ken little about it — little about it," said the old man, shaking his head and beard, and knitting his brows. " I could tell ye something about that." What his wife mentioned of his being a tale-teller as well as a musician now occurred to me ; and as, you know, I like tales of superstition, I begged to have a specimen of his talent as we went along. " It is very true," said the blind man, " that when I am tired of scraping thairm or singing ballants I whiles make a tale serve the turn among the country bodies; and I have some fearsome anes, that make the auld carlines shake on the settle, and the bits o' bairns skirl on their minnies out frae their beds. But this that I am going to tell you was a thing that befell in our ain house in my father's time — that is, my father was then a hafflins callant ; and I tell it to you, that it may be a lesson to you that are but a young thoughtless chap, wha ye draw up wi"* on a lonely road ; for muckle was the dool and care that came o' 't to my gudesire." He commenced his tale accordingly, in a distinct narra- tive tone of voice, which he raised and depressed with con- 259 26o THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY siderable skill; at times sinking almost into a whisper, and turning his clear but sightless eyeballs upon my face, as if it had been possible for him to witness the impression which his narrative made upon my features. I will not spare a syllable of it, although it be of the longest ; so I make a dash — and begin: Ye maun have heard of Sir Robert Redgauntlet of that ilk, who lived in these parts before the dear years. The coun- try will lang mind him ; and our fathers used to draw breath thick if ever they heard him named. He was out wi' the Hielandmen in Montrose's time; and again he was in the hills wi' Glencairn in the saxteen hundred and fifty-twa; and sae when King Charles the Second came in, wha was in sic favour as the laird of Redgauntlet ? He was knighted at Lonon Court, wi' the king's ain sword; and being a red- hot prelatist, he came down here, rampauging like a lion, with commissions of lieutenancy (and of lunacy, for what I ken), to put down a' the Whigs and Covenanters in the country. Wild wark they made of it ; for the Whigs were as dour as the Cavaliers were fierce, and it was which should first tire the other. Redgauntlet was aye for the strong hand ; and his name is kend as wide in the country as Claver- house's or Tam Dalyell's. Glen, nor dargle, nor mountain, nor cave could hide the puir hill-folk when Redgauntlet was out with bugle and bloodhound after them, as if they had been sae mony deer. And, troth, when they fand them, they didna make muckle mair ceremony than a Hielandman wi' a roe- buck. It was just, " Will ye tak' the test? " If not—" Make ready — present — fire ! " and there lay the recusant. Far and wide was Sir Robert hated and feared. Men thought he had a direct compact with Satan ; that he was proof against steel and that bullets happed aff his buff-coat like hailstanes from a hearth ; that he had a mear that would turn a hare on the side of Carrifra-gauns ; * and muckle to the same purpose, of whilk mair anon. The best blessing they wared on him was, " Deil scowp wi' Redgauntlet ! " He wasna a bad master to his ain folk, though, and was weel aneugh liked by his tenants ; and as for the lackeys and troop- * A precipitous side of a mountain in Moffatdale. WANDERING WILLIE'S TALE a6l ers that rade out wi' him to the persecutions, as the Whigs caa'd those killing-times, they wad hae drunken themsells blind to his health at ony time. Now you are to ken that my gudesire lived on Redgaunt- let's grund — they ca' the place Primrose Knowe. We had lived on the grund, and under the Redgauntlets, since the riding-days, and lang before. It was a pleasant bit; and I think the air is callerer and fresher there than onywhere else in the country. It 's a' deserted now; and I sat on the broken door-cheek three days since, and was glad I couldna see the plight the place was in — but that 's a' wide o' the mark. There dwelt my gudesire, Steenie Steenson ; a ram- bling, rattling chiel' he had been in his young days, and could play weel on the pipes ; he was famous at " hoopers and girders," a' Cumberland couldna touch him at " Jockie Lattin," and he had the finest finger for the back-lilt between Berwick and Carlisle. The like o' Steenie wasna the sort that they made Whigs o'. And so he became a Tory, as they ca' it, which we now ca' Jacobites, just out of a kind of needcessity, that he might belang to some side or other. He had nae ill-will to the Whig bodies, and liked little to see the blude rin, though, being obliged to follow Sir Robert in hunting and hoisting, watching and warding, he saw niuckle mischief, and maybe did some that he couldna avoid. Now Steenie was a kind of favourite with his master, and kend a' the folk about the castle, and was often sent for to play the pipes when they were at their merriment. Auld Dougal MacCallum, the butler, that had followed Sir Robert through gude and ill, thick and thin, pool and stream, was specially fond of the pipes, and aye gae my gudesire his gude wurd wi' the laird; for Dougal could turn his master round his finger. Weel, round came the Revolution, and it had like to hae broken the hearts baith of Dougal and his master. But the change was not a'thegether sae great as they feared and other folk thought for. The Whigs made an unco crawing what they wad do with their auld enemies, and in special wi' Sir Robert Redgauntlet. But there were owermony great folks dipped in the same doings to make a spick-and-span new warld. So Parliament passed it a' ower easy ; and Sir Robert, bating that he was held to hunting foxes instead of Cove- 262 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY nanters, remained just the man he was.^ His revel was as loud, and his hall as weel lighted, as ever it had been, though may- be he lacked the fines of the nonconformists, that used to come to stock his larder and cellar ; for it is certain he began to be keener about the rents than his tenants used to find him before, and they behooved to be prompt to the rent-day, or else the laird wasna pleased. And he was sic an awsome body that naebody cared to anger him; for the oaths he swore, and the rage that he used to get into, and the looks that he put on made men sometimes think him a devil incarnate. Weel, my gudesire was nae manager — no that he was a very great misguider — but he hadna the saving gift, and he got twa terms' rent in arrear. He got the first brash at Whitsunday put ower wi' fair word and piping; but when Martinmas came there was a summons from the grund officer to come wi' the rent on a day preceese, or else Steenie be- hooved to flit. Sair wark he had to get the siller ; but he was weel freended, and at last he got the haill scraped thegether — a thousand merks. The maist of it was from a neighbour they caa'd Laurie Lapraik — a sly tod. Laurie had wealth o' gear, could hunt wi' the hound and rin wi' the hare, and be Whig or Tory, saunt or sinner, as the wind stood. He was a professor in this Revolution warld, but he liked an orra sough of this warld, and a tune on the pipes, weel aneugh at a by-time ; and, bune a', he thought he had gude security for the siller he len my gudesire ower the stocking at Primrose Knowe. Away trots my gudesire to Redgauntlet Castle wi' a heavy purse and a light heart, glad to be out of the laird's danger. Weel, the first thing he learned at the castle was that Sir Robert had fretted himsell into a fit of the gout because he did no appear before twelve o'clock. It wasna * The caution and moderation of King William III., and his principles of unlimited toleration, deprived the Cameronians of the opportunity they ardently desired, to retaliate the injuries which they had received during the reign of prelacy, and purify the land, as they called it, from the pollution of blood. They esteemed the Revolution, therefore, only a half-measure, which neither comprc hended the rebuilding the kirk in its full splendour, nor the reveng of the death of the saints on their persecutors. WANDERING WILLIE'S TALE 263 a'thegether for sake of the money, Dougal thought, but be- cause he didna like to part wi' my gudesire aff the grund. Dougal was glad to see Steenie, and brought him into the great oak parlour; and there sat the laird his leesome lane, excepting that he had beside him a great, ill-favoured jacka- nape that was a special pet of his. A cankered beast it was, and mony an ill-natured trick it played; ill to please it was, and easily angered — ran about the haill castle, chattering and rowling, and pinching and biting folk, specially before ill weather, or disturbance in the state. Sir Robert caa'd it Major Weir, after the warlock that was burnt ; ^ and few folk liked either the name or the conditions of the creature — they thought there was something in it by ordinar — and my gudesire was not just easy in mind when the door shut on him, and he saw himsell in the room wi' naebody but the laird, Dougal MacCallum, and the major — a thing that hadna chanced to him before. Sir Robert sat, or, I should say, lay, in a great arm-chair, wi' his grand velvet gown, and his feet on a cradle; for he had baith gout and gravel, and his face looked as gash and ghastly as Satan's. Major Weir sat opposite to him, in a red-laced coat, and the laird's wig on his head; and aye as Sir Robert girned wi' pain, the jackanape girned too, like a sheep's head between a pair of tangs — an ill-faur'd, fearsome couple they were. The laird's buff-coat was hung on a pin behind him, and his broadsword and his pistols within reach ; for he keepit up the auld fashion of having the weapons ready, and a horse saddled day and night, just as he used to do when he was able to loup on horseback, and sway after ony of the hill-folk he could get speerings of. Some said it was for fear of the Whigs taking vengeance, but I judge it was just his auld custom — he wasna gine not fear onything. The rental-book, wi' its black cover and brass clasps, was lying beside him ; and a book of sculduddery sangs was put be- twixt the leaves, to keep it open at the place where it bore evidence against the goodman of Primrose Knowe, as behind the hand with his mails and duties. Sir Robert gave my gudesire a look, as if he would have withered his heart in * A celebrated wizard, executed at Edinburgh for sorcery and other crimes. 264 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY his bosom. Ye maun ken he had a way of bending his brows that men saw the visible mark of a horseshoe in his fore- head, deep-tinted, as if it had been stamped there. "Are ye come light-handed, ye son of a toom whistle?" said Sir Robert. " Zounds ! if you are " My gudesire, with as gude a countenance as he could put on, made a leg, and placed the bag of money on the table wi' a dash, like a man that does something clever. The laird drew it to him hastily. " Is it all here, Steenie, man? " " Your honour will find it right," said my gudesire. " Here, Dougal," said the laird, " gie Steenie a tass of brandy, till I count the siller and write the receipt." But they werena weel out of the room when Sir Robert gied a yelloch that garr'd the castle rock. Back ran Dougal ; in flew the liverymen; yell on yell gied the laird, ilk ane mair awfu' than the ither. My gudesire knew not whether to stand or flee, but he ventured back into the parlour, where a' was gaun hirdie-girdie — naebody to say " come in " or " gae out." Terribly the laird roared for cauld water to his feet, and wine to cool his throat ; and " Hell, hell, hell, and its flames," was aye the word in his mouth. They brought him water, and when they plunged his swoln feet into the tub, he cried out it was burning; and folks say that it did bubble and sparkle like a seething cauldron. He flung the cup at Dougal's head and said he had given him blood instead of Burgundy; and, sure aneugh, the lass washed clotted blood afif the carpet the neist day. The jackanape they caa'd Major Weir, it jib- bered and cried as if it was mocking its master. My gude- sire's head was like to turn ; he forgot baith siller and receipt, and downstairs he banged ; but, as he ran, the shrieks came fainter and fainter ; there was a deep-drawn shivering groan, and word gaed through the castle that the laird was dead. Weel, away came my gudesire wi' his finger in his mouth, and his best hope was that Dougal had seen "the money-bag and heard the laird speak of writing the receipt. The young laird, now Sir John, came from Edinburgh to see thihgs put to rights. Sir John and his father never 'greed weel. Sir John had been bred an advocate, and afterward sat in the last Scots Parliament and voted for the Union, having gotten, it was thought, a rug of the compensations — if his father could have come out of his grave he would have brained WANDERING WILLIE'S TALE 265 him for it on his awn hearthstane. Some thought it was easier counting with the auld rough knight than the fair- spoken young ane — but mair of that anon. Dougal MacCallum, poor body, neither grat nor graned, but gaed about the house looking like a corpse, but direct- ing, as was his duty, a* the order of the grand funeral. Now Dougal looked aye waur and waur when night was coming, and was aye the last to gang to his bed, whilk was in a little round just opposite the chamber of dais, whilk his master occupied while he was living, and where he now lay in state, as they caa'd it, weeladay ! The night before the funeral Dou- gal could keep his awn counsel nae longer; he came doun wi' his proud spirit, and fairly asked auld Hutcheon to sit in his room with him for an hour. When they were in the round, Dougal took a tass of brandy to himsell, and gave another to Hutcheon, and wished him all health and lang life, and said that, for himsell, he wasna lang for this world ; for that every night since Sir Robert's death his silver call had sounded from the state chamber just as it used to do at nights in his lifetime to call Dougal to help to turn him in his bed. Dougal said that, being alone with the dead on that floor of the tower (for naebody cared to wake Sir Robert Redgauntlet like another corpse), he had never daured to answer the call, but that now his conscience checked him for neglecting his duty ; for, " though death breaks service," said MacCallum, " it shall never weak my service to Sir Robert ; and I will answer his next whistle, so be you will stand by me, Hutcheon." Hutcheon had nae will to the wark, but he had stood by Dougal in battle and broil, and he wad not fail him at this pinch ; so doun the carles sat ower a stoup of brandy, and Hutcheon, who was something of a clerk, would have read a chapter of the Bible ; but Dougal would hear naething but a blaud of Davie Lindsay, whilk was the waur preparation. When midnight came, and the house was quiet as the grave, sure enough the silver whistle sounded as sharp and shrill as if Sir Robert was blowing it; and up got the twa auld serving-men, and tottered into the room where the dead man lay. Hutcheon saw aneugh at the first glance ; for there were torches in the room, which showed him the foul fiend, in his ain shape, sitting on the laird's coffin ! Ower he couped as if he had been dead. He could not tell how lang he lay in 18 266 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY a trance at the door, but when he gathered himsell he cried on his neighbour, and getting nae answer raised the house, when Dougal was found lying dead within twa steps of the bed where his master's coffin was placed. As for the whistle, it was gane anes and aye; but mony a time was it heard at the top of the house on the bartizan, and amang the auld chimneys and turrets where the howlets have their nests. Sir John hushed the matter up, and the funeral passed over without mair bogie wark. But when a' was ower, and the laird was beginning to settle his affairs, every tenant was called up for his arrears, and my gudesire for the full sum that stood against him in the rental-book. Weel, away he trots to the castle to tell his story, and there he is introduced to Sir John, sitting in his father's chair, in deep mourning, with weepers and hang- ing cravat, and a small walking-rapier by his side, instead of the auld broadsword that had a hundredweight of steel about it, what with blade, chape, and basket-hilt. I have heard their communings so often tauld ower that I almost think I was there mysell, though I couldna be born at the time. [In fact, Alan, my companion, mimicked, with a good deal of humour, the flattering, conciliating tone of the tenant's ad- dress and the hypocritical melancholy of the laird's reply. His grandfather, he said, had, while he spoke, his eye fixed on the rental-book, as if it were a mastiff-dog that he was afraid would spring up and bite him.] " I wuss ye joy, sir, of the head seat and the white loaf and the brid lairdship. Your father was a kind man to freends and followers; muckle grace to you, Sir John, to fill his shoon — his boots, I suld say, for he seldom wore shoon, unless it were muils when he had the gout." " Ay, Steenie," quoth the laird, sighing deeply, and put- ting his napkin to his een, " his was a sudden call, and he will be missed in the country; no time to set his house in order — weel prepared Godward, no doubt, which is the root of the matter ; but he left us behind a tangled hesp to wind, Steenie. Hem ! hem ! We maun go to business, Steenie ; much to do, and little time to do it in." Here he opened the fatal volume. I have heard of a thing they call Doomsday-book — I am clear it has been at rental of back-ganging tenants. WANDERING WILLIE'S TALE 267 " Stephen," said Sir John, still in the same soft, sleekit tone of voice — " Stephen Stevenson, or Steenson, ye are down here for a year's rent behind the hand — due at last term." Stephen. Please your honour, Sir John, I paid it to your father. Sir John. Ye took a receipt, then, doubtless, Stephen, and can produce it? Stephen. Indeed, I hadna time, and it like your honour; for nae sooner had I set doun the siller, and just as his hon- our, Sir Robert, that 's gaen, drew it till him to count it and write out the receipt, he was ta'en wi' the pains that removed him. " That was unlucky," said Sir John, after a pause. " But ye maybe paid it in the presence of somebody. I want but a talis qualis evidence, Stephen. I would go ower-strictly to work with no poor man." Stephen. Troth, Sir John, there was naebody in the room but Dougal MacCallum, the butler. But, as your honour kens, he has e'en followed his auld master. *'Very unlucky again, Stephen," said Sir John, without altering his voice a single note. " The man to whom ye paid the money is dead, and the man who witnessed the payment is dead too ; and the siller which should have been to the fore, is neither seen nor heard tell of in the repositories. How am I to believe a' this? " Stephen. I dinna ken, your honour; but there is a bit memorandum note of the very coins, for, God help me ! I had to borrow out of twenty purses; and I am sure that ilka man there set down will take his grit oath for what purpose I borrowed the money. Sir John. I have little doubt ye borrowed the money, Steenie. It is the payment that I want to have proof of. Stephen. The siller maun be about the house. Sir John, And since your honour never got it, and his honour that was canna have ta'en it wi' him, maybe some of the family may hae seen it. Sir John. We will examine the servants, Stephen ; that is but reasonable. But lackey and lass, and page and groom, all denied stoutly that they had even seen such a bag of money as my ft68 THE BOOIt OF THE SHORT STORY gudesire described. What saw waur, he had unluckily not mentioned to any living soul of them his purpose of paying his rent. Ae quean had noticed something under his arm, but she took it for the pipes. Sir John Redgauntlet ordered the servants out of the room and then said to my gudesire : " Now, Steenie, ye see ye have fair play; and, as I have little doubt ye ken better where to find the siller than ony other body, I beg in fair terms, and for your own sake, that you will end this fasherie; for, Stephen, ye maun pay or flit." " The Lord forgie your opinion," said Stephen, driven almost to his wit's end — " I am an honest man." " So am I, Stephen," said his honour ; " and so are all the folks in this house, I hope. But if there be a knave among us, it must be he that tells the story he cannot prove." He paused, and then added, mair sternly : " If I understand your trick, sir, you want to take advantage of some malicious reports con- cerning things in this family, and particularly respecting my father's sudden death, thereby to cheat me out of the money, and perhaps take away my character by insinuating that I have received the rent I am demanding. Where do you sup- pose this money to be? I insist upon knowing." My gudesire saw everything look so muckle against him that he grew nearly desperate. However, he shifted from one foot to another, looked to every corner of the room, and made no answer. " Speak out, sirrah," said the laird, assuming a look of his father's, a very particular ane, which he had when he was angry — it seemed as if the wrinkles of his frown made that selfsame fearful shape of a horse's shoe in the middle of his brow; "speak out, sir! I will know your thoughts; do you suppose that I have this money?" " Far be it frae me to say so," said Stephen. " Do you charge any of my people with having taken it ? " "I wad be laith to charge them that may be innocent," said my gudesire ; " and if there be any one that is guilty, I have nae proof." " Somewhere the money must be, if there is a word of truth in your story," said Sir John ; " I ask where you think it is — and demand a correct answer ! " " In hell, if you will have my thoughts of it," said my WANDERING'S WILLIE'S TALE 269 gudesire, driven to extremity — " in hell ! with your father, his jackanape, and his silver whistle." Down the stairs he ran (for the parlour was nae place for him after such a word) and he heard the laird swearing blood and wounds behind him, as fast as ever did Sir Robert, and roaring for the bailie and the baron-officer. Away rode my gudesire to his chief creditor (him they caa'd Laurie Lapraik), to try if he could make onything out of him; but when he tauld his story, he got but the worst word in his wame — thief, beggar, and dyvour were the saftest terms; and to the boot of these hard terms, Laurie brought up the auld story of dipping his hand in the blood of God's saunts, just as if a tenant could have helped riding with the laird, and that a laird like Sir Robert Redgauntlet. My gude- sire was, by this time, far beyond the bounds of patience, and, while he and Laurie were at deil speed the liars, he was wan- chancie aneugh to abuse Lapraik's doctrine as weel as the man, and said things that garr'd folks' flesh grue that heard them — he wasna just himsell, and he had lived wi' a wild set in his day. At last they parted, and my gudesire was to ride hame through the wood of Pitmurkie, that is a' fou of black firs, as they say. I ken the wood, but the firs may be black or white for what I can tell. At the entry of the wood there is a wild common, and on the edge of the common a little lonely change-house, that was keepit then by an hostler wife — they suld hae caa'd her Tibbie Faw — and there puir Steenie cried for a mutchkin of brandy, for he had had no refresh- ment the haill day. Tibbie was earnest wi' him to take a bite of meat, but he couldna think o' 't, nor would he take his foot out of the stirrup, and took off the brandy wholely at twa draughts, and named a toast at each. The first was, the memory of Sir Robert Redgauntlet, and may he never lie quiet in his grave till he had righted his poor bond-tenant ; and the second was, a health to Man's Enemy, if he would but get him back the pock of siller, or tell him what came o' 't, for he saw the haill world was like to regard him as a thief and a cheat, and he took that waur than even the ruin of his house and hauld. On he rode, little caring where. It was a dark night turned, and the trees made it yet darker, and he let the beast 2 70 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY take its ain road through the wood; when all of a sudden, from tired and' wearied that it was before, the nag began to spring" and flee and stend, that my gudesire could hardly keep the saddle. Upon the whilk, a horseman, suddenly riding up beside him, said : " That 's a mettle beast of yours, freend ; will you sell him?" So saying, he touched the horse's neck with his riding-wand, and it fell into its auld heigh-ho of a stumbling trot. " But his spunk 's soon out of him, I think," continued the stranger, " and that is like mony a man's cour- age, that thinks he wad do great things." My gudesire scarce listened to this, but spurred his horse, with : " Gude-e'en to you, freend." But it 's like the stranger was ane that doesna lightly yield his point; for, ride as Steenie liked, he was aye beside him at the selfsame pace. At last my gudesire, Steenie Steenson, grew half angry, and, to say the truth, half feard. " What is it that you want with me, freend ? " he said. " If ye be a robber, I have nae money ; if ye be a leal man, wanting company, I have nae heart to mirth or speaking; and if ye want to ken the road, I scarce ken it mysell." " If you will tell me your grief," said the stranger, " I am one that, though I have been sair miscaa'd in the world, am the only hand for helping my freends." So my gudesire, to ease his ain heart, mair than from any hope of help, told him the story from beginning to end. "It 's a hard pinch," said the stranger ; " but I think I can help you." ** If you could lend the money, sir, and take a lang day — I ken nae other help on earth," said my gudesire. " But there may be some under the earth," said the stranger. " Come, I'll be frank wi' you; I could lend you the money on bond, but you would maybe scruple my terms. Now I can tell you that your auld laird is disturbed in his grave by your curses and the wailing of your family, and if ye daur venture to go to see him, he will give you the re- ceipt." My gudesire's hair stood on end at this proposal, but he thought his companion might be some humoursome chield that was trying to frighten him, and might end with lending him the money. Besides, he was bauld wi' brandy, and des- perate wi' distress; and he said he had courage to go to the WANDERING WILLIE'S TALE ^11 gate of hell, and a step farther, for that receipt. The stranger laughed. Weel, they rode on through the thickest of the wood, when, all of a sudden, the horse stopped at the door of a great house; and, but that he knew the place was ten miles off, my father would have thought he was at Redgauntlet Castle. They rode into the outer courtyard, through the muckle faulding yetts, and aneath the auld portcullis; and the whole front of the house was lighted, and there were pipes and fiddles, and as much dancing and deray within as used to be at Sir Robert's house at Pace and Yule, and such high seasons. They lap off, and my gudesire, as seemed to him, fastened his horse to the very ring he had tied him to that morning when he gaed to wait on the young Sir John. " God ! " said my gudesire, " if Sir Robert's death be but a dream ! " He knocked at the ha' door just as he was wont, and his auld acquaintance, Dougal MacCallum — just after his wont, too — came to open the door, and said : " Piper Steenie, are ye there, lad ? Sir Robert has been crying for you." My gudesire was like a man in a dream — he looked for the stranger, but he was gane for the time. At last he just tried to say: "Ha! Dougal Driveower, are you living? I thought ye had been dead." " Never fash yoursell wi' me," said Dougal, " but look to yoursell ; and see ye tak' naething frae onybody here, neither meat, drink, or siller, except the receipt that is your ain." So saying, he led the way out through halls and trances that were weel kend to my gudesire, and into the auld oak parlour; and there was as much singing of profane sangs, and birling of red wine, and blasphemy and sculduddery as had ever been in Redgauntlet Castle when it was at the blythest. But Lord take us in keeping ! what a set of ghastly revel- lers there were that sat around that table ! My gudesire kend mony that had long before gane to their place, for often had he piped to the most part in the hall of Redgauntlet. There was the fierce Middleton, and the dissolute Rothes, and the crafty Lauderdale; and Dalyell, with his bald head and a beard to his girdle ; and Earlshall, with Cameron's blude on his hand; and wild Bonshaw, that tied blessed Mr. Cargill's limbs till the blude sprung; and Dumbarton Douglas, the ^12 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY twice-turned traitor baith to country and king. There was the Bludy Advocate MacKenyie, who, for his wordly wit and wisdom, had been to the rest as a god. And there was Claverhouse, as beautiful as when he lived, with his long, dark, curled locks streaming down over his laced buff-coat, and with his left hand always on his right spule-blade, to hide the wound that the silver bullet had made.^ He sat apart from them all, and looked at them with a melancholy, haughty countenance; while the rest hallooed and sang and laughed, that the room rang. But their smiles were fearfully con- torted from time to time ; and their laughter passed into such wild sounds as made my gudesire's very nails grow blue, and chilled the marrow in his banes. They that waited at the table were just the wicked serving- men and troopers that had done their work and cruel bid- ding on earth. There was the Lang Lad of the Nethertown, that helped to take Argyle ; and the bishop's summoner, that they called the Deil's Rattlebag ; and the wicked guards- men in their laced coats; and the savage Highland Amorites, that shed blood like water; and mony a proud serving-man, haughty of heart and bloody of hand, cringing to the rich, and making them wickeder than they would be ; grinding the poor to powder when the rich had broken them to fragments. And mony, mony mair were coming and ganging, a* as busy in their vocation as if they had been alive. Sir Robert Redgauntlet, in the midst of a' this fearful riot, cried, wi' a voice like thunder, on Steenie Piper to come to the board-head where he was sitting, his legs stretched out before him, and swathed up with flannel, with his holster pistols aside him, while the great broadsword rested against his chair, just as my gudesire had seen him the last time upon earth; the very cushion for the jackanape was close to him; but the creature itsell was not there — it wasna its hour, it 's * The personages here mentioned are most of them characters of historical fame ; but those less known and remembered may be found in the tract entitled The Judgment and Justice of God Ex- emplified ; or, A Brief Historical Account of some of the Wicked Lives and Miserable Deaths of some of the most Remarkable Apos- tates and Bloody Persecutors, from the Reformation till after the Revolution. WANDERING WILLIE'S TALE 273 likely ; for he heard them say, as he came forward : " Is not the major come yet? " And another answered: " The jacka- nape will be here betimes the morn." And when my gudesire came forward. Sir Robert, or his ghaist, or the deevil in his likeness, said : " Weel, piper, hae ye settled wi' my son for the year's rent? " With much ado my father gat breath to say that Sir John would not settle without his honour's receipt. " Ye shall hae that for a tune of the pipes, Steenie," said the appearance of Sir Robert — " play us up Weel Hoddled, Luckie." Now this was a tune my gudesire learned frae a warlock, that heard it when they were worshipping Satan at their meet- ings ; and my gudesire had sometimes played it at the ranting suppers in Redgauntlet Castle, but never very willingly ; and now he grew cauld at the very name of it, and said, for ex- cuse, he hadna his pipes wi' him. " MacCallum, ye limb of Beelzebub," said the fearfu' Sir Robert, " bring Steenie the pipes that I am keeping for him ! " MacCallum brought a pair of pipes might have served the piper of Donald of the Isles. But he gave my gudesire a nudge as he offered them; and looking secretly and closely, Steenie saw that the chanter was of steel, and heated to a white heat; so he had fair warning not to trust his fingers with it. So he excused himsell again, and said he was faint and frightened, and had not wind aneugh to fill the bag. " Then ye maun eat and drink, Steenie," said the figure ; " for we do little else here ; and it 's ill speaking between a fou man and a fasting." Now these were the very words that the bloody Earl of Douglas said to keep the king's mes- senger in hand while he cut the head off MacLellan of Bom- bie, at the Threave Castle ; * and that put Steenie mair and mair on his guard. So he spoke up like a man, and said he came neither to eat nor drink, nor make minstrelsy ; but sim- ply for his ain — to ken what was come o' the money he had paid, and to get a discharge for it; and he was so stout- hearted by this time that he charged Sir Robert for con- science's sake (he had no power to say the holy name), and * The reader is referred for particulars to Pitscottie's History of Scotland. 274 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY as he hoped for peace and rest, to spread no snares for him, but just to give him his ain. The appearance gnashed its teeth and laughed, but it took from a large pocket-book the receipt, and handed it to Steenie. "There is your receipt, ye pitiful cur; and for the money, my dog-whelp of a son may go look for it in the Cat's Cradle." My gudesire uttered mony thanks, and was about to re- tire, when Sir Robert roared aloud: "Stop, though, thou sack-doudling son of a — ! I am not done with thee. Here we do nothing for nothing; and you must return on this very day twelvemonth to pay your master the homage that you owe me for my protection." My father's tongue was loosed of a suddenty, and he said aloud : " I refer myself to God's pleasure, and not to yours." He had no sooner uttered the word than all was dark around him; and he sank on the earth with such a sudden shock that he lost both breath and sense. How lang Steenie lay there he could not tell; but when he came to himself he was lying in the auld kirkyard of Redgauntlet parochine, just at the door of the family aisle, and the scutcheon of the auld knight, Sir Robert, hanging over his head. There was a deep morning fog on grass and grave- stane around him, and his horse was feeding quietly beside the minister's twa cows. Steenie would have thought the whole was a dream, but he had the receipt in his hand fairly written and signed by the auld laird ; only the last letters of his name were a little disorderly, written like one seized with sudden pain. Sorely troubled in his mind, he left that dreary place, rode through the mist to Redgauntlet Castle, and with much ado he got speech of the laird. "Well, you dyvour bankrupt," was the first word, "have you brought me my rent?" " No," answered my gudesire, " I have not ; but I have brought your honour Sir Robert's receipt for it." " How, sirrah ? Sir Robert's receipt ! You told me he had not given you one." " Will your honour please to see if that bit line is right? " Sir John loQked at every line, and at every letter, with WANDERING WILLIE'S TALE 475 much attention; and at last-at the date, which my gudesire had not observed — " From my appointed place," he read, " this twenty-fifth of November." " What ! That is yesterday ! Villain, thou must have gone to hell for this ! " *' I got it from your honour's father ; whether he be in heaven or hell, I know not," said Steenie. ** I will debate you for a warlock to the Privy Council ! " said Sir John. " I will send you to your master, the devil, with the help of a tar-barrel and a torch ! " " I intend to debate mysell to the Presbytery," said Steenie, " and tell them all I have seen last night, whilk are things fitter for them to judge of than a borrel man like me." Sir John paused, composed himsell, and desired to hear the full history; and my gudesire told it him from point to point, as I have told it you — neither more nor less. Sir John was silent again for a long time, and at last he said, very composedly : " Steenie, this story of yours con- cerns the honour of many a noble family besides mine ; and if it be a leasing-making, to keep yourself out of my danger, the least you can expect is to have a red-hot iron driven through your tongue, and that will be as bad as scaulding your fingers wi' a red-hot chanter. But yet it may be true, Steenie; and if the money cast up, I shall not know what to think of it. But where shall we find the Cat's Cradle? There are cats enough about the old house, but I think they kitten without the ceremony of bed or cradle." " We were best ask Hutcheon," said my gudesire ; " he kens a' the odd corners about as weel as — another serving- man that is now gane, and that I wad not like to name." Aweel, Hutcheon, when he was asked, told them that a ruinous turret lang disused, next to the clock-house, only accessible by a ladder, for the opening was on the outside, above the battlements, was called of old the Cat's Cradle. " There will I go immediately," said Sir John ; and he took — with what purpose Heaven kens — one of his father's pistols from the hall-table, where they had lain since the night he died, and hastened to the battlements. It was a dangerous place to climb, for the ladder was auld and frail, and wanted ane or twa rounds. However, 276 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY up got Sir John, and entered at the turret door, where hi* body stopped the only little light that was in the bit turret. Something flees at him wi' a vengeance, maist dang him back ower — bang ! gaed the knight's pistol, and Hutcheon, that held the ladder, and my gudesire, that stood beside him, hears a loud skelloch. A minute after, Sir John flings the body of the jackanape down to them, and cries that the siller is fund, and that they should come up and help him. And there was the bag of siller sure aneugh, and mony orra thing besides, that had been missing for mony a day. And Sir John, when he had riped the turret weel, led my gudesire into the dining-parlour, and took him by the hand, and spoke kindly to him, and said he was sorry he should have doubted his word, and that he would hereafter be a good master to him, to make amends. "And now, Steenie," said Sir John, " although this vision of yours tends, on the whole, to my father's credit as an hon- est man, that he should, even after his death, desire to see justice done to a poor man like you, yet you are sensible that ill-dispositioned men might make bad constructions upon it concerning his soul's health. So, I think, we had better lay the haill dirdum on that ill-deedie creature. Major Weir, and say naething about your dream in the wood of Pitmurkie. You had taen ower-muckle brandy to be very certain about onything; and, Steenie, this receipt" — his hand shook while he held it out — " it 's but a queer kind of document, and we will do best, I think, to put it quietly in the fire." " Od, but for as queer as it is, it 's a' the voucher I have for my rent," said my gudesire, who was afraid, it may be, of losing the benefit of Sir Robert's discharge. " I will bear the contents to your credit in the rental- book, and give you a discharge under my own hand," said Sir John, " and that on the spot. And, Steenie, if you can hold your tongue about this matter, you shall sit, from this time downward, at an easier rent." " Mony thanks to your honour," said Steenie, who saw easily in what corner the wind was; "doubtless I will be conformable to all your honour's commands; only I would willingly speak wi' some powerful minister on the subject, for I do not like the sort of soumons of appointment whilk your honour's father " WANDERING WILLIE'S TALE 277 " Do not call the phantom my father ! " said Sir John, in- terrupting him. " Well then, the thing that was so like him," said my gudesire; " he spoke of my coming back to see him this time twelvemonth, and it 's a weight on my conscience." " Aweel then," said Sir John, " if you be so much dis- tressed in mind, you may speak to our minister of the parish ; he is a douce man, regards the honour of our fam- ily, and the mair that he may look for some patronage from me." Wi' that, my father readily agreed that the receipt should be burned; and the laird threw it into the chimney with his ain hand. Burn it would not for them, though ; but away it flew up the lum, wi' a lang train of sparks at its tail, and a hissing noise like a squib. My gudesire gaed down to the manse, and the minister, when he had heard the story, said it was his real opinion that, though my gudesire had gane very far in tampering with dangerous matters, yet as he had refused the devil's arles (for such was the offer of meat and drink), and had refused to do homage by piping at his bidding, he hoped that, if he held a circumspect walk hereafter, Satan could take little advan- tage by what was come and gane. And, indeed, my gudesire, of his ain accord, lang forswore baith the pipes and the brandy — it was not even till the year was out, and the fatal day past, that he would so much as take the fiddle or drink usquebaugh or tippenny. Sir John made up his story about the jackanape as he iiked himsell; and some believe till this day there was no more in the matter than the filching nature of the brute. Indeed, ye '11 no hinder some to thread that it was nane o' the auld Enemy that Dougal and Hutcheon saw in the laird's room, but only that wanchancie creature the major, capering on the coffin ; and that, as to the blawing on the laird's whis- tle that was heard after he was dead, the filthy brute could do that as weel as the laird himsell, if not better. But Heaven kens the truth, whilk first came out by the minister's wife, after Sir John and her ain gudeman were baith in the moulds. And then my gudesire, wha was failed in his limbs, but not in his judgment or memory — at least nothing to speak of — was obliged to tell the real narrative to his freends, for 278 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY the credit of his good name. He might else have been charged for a warlock/ The shades of evening were growing thicker around us as my conductor finished his long narrative with this moral : " You see, birkie, it is nae chancy thing to tak' a stranger traveller for a guide when you are in an uncouth land." " I should not have made that inference," said I. " Your grandfather's adventure was fortunate for himself, whom it saved from ruin and distress ; and fortunate for his landlord." " Ay, but they had baith to sup the sauce o' 't sooner or later," said Wandering Willie ; " what was f risted wasna for- given. Sir John died before he was much over threescore; and it was just like of a moment's illness. And for my gude- sire, though he departed in fulness of life, yet there was my father, a yauld man of forty-five, fell down betwixt the stilts of his plough, and rase 'never again, and left nae bairn but me, a puir, sightless, fatherless, motherless creature, could neither work nor want. Things gaed weel aneugh at first; for Sir Regwald Redgauntlet, the only son of Sir John and the oye of auld Sir Robert, and, wae 's me ! the last of the honourable house, took the farm aff our hands, and brought me into his household to have care of me. My head never settled since I lost him; and if I say another word about it, deil a bar will I have the heart to play the night. Look out, my gentle chap," he resumed, in a different tone ; " ye should see the lights at Brokenburn Glen by this time." ' I have heard in my youth some such wild tale as that placed in the mouth of the blind fiddler, of which, I think, the hero was Sir Robert Grierson, of Lagg, the famous persecutor. But the be- lief was general throughout Scotland that the excessive lamenta- tion over the loss of friends disturbed the repose of the dead, and broke even the rest of the grave. [This note, and that on page 272, are given only in part, on account of their length and because they are not essential to the narrative. — Ed.] A LIST OF REPRESENTATIVE TALES AND SHORT STORIES XI 1830 TO 1840: Le Vase Etrusque, Prosper Merimee (1830). La Partie de Trictrac, Prosper Merimee (1830). El Verdugo, Honore de Balzac (1830). Traits and Stories of the Irish Peasantry, William Carle- ^ ton (1830). Un Episode sous la Terreur, Honore de Balzac (1830). Une Passion dans le Desert, Honore de Balzac (1830). Adieu, Honore de Balzac (1830). Evenings at the Farm of Dikanka, N. V. Gogol (1831). Legends and Stories of Ireland, Samuel Lover (1831). Jesus-Christ en Flandre, Honore de Balzac (1831). Le Chef d'CEuvre Inconnu, Honore de Balzac (1831). Le Requisitionnaire, Honore de Balzac (1831). The Gentle Boy, Nathaniel Hawthorne (1832). La^ Grande Breteche, Honore de Balzac (1832). Coptes Drolatiques, Honore de Balzac (1832- 1833- 1837). MS. Found in a Bottle, Edgar A. Poe (1833). Le Nid de Rossignols, Theophile Gautier (1833). Les Jeunes-France, Theophile Gautier (1833). Mosa'ique, Prosper Merimee (1833). Sketches by Boz, Charles Dickens (1833-36). Mirgorod, N. V. Gogol (1834). Les Ames du Purgatoire, Prosper Merimee (1834). Omphale, Theophile Gautier (1834). The Queen of Spades, Alexander Poushkin (1834). The Pistol-Shot, Alexander Poushkin (1834?). The Snow-Storm, Alexander Poushkin (1834?). Tales of the Border; J. M. Wilson, and others (1834-69). 279 28o THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY Berenice, Edgar A. Poe (1835). The Ambitious Guest, Nathaniel Hawthorne (1835). Un Drame au Bord de la Mer, Honore de Balzac (1835). Grandeur et Servitude Militaires, Alfred de Vigny (1835). Eventyr og Historier, Hans C. Andersen (1835-72). La Morte Amoureuse, Theophile Gautier (1836). Ld Messe de I'Athee, Honore de Balzac (1836). Emmeline, Alfred de Musset (1837). Deux Maitresses, Alfred de Musset (1837). JTvvice-Told Tales, Nathaniel Hawthorne (1837). La Venus d'llle, Prosper Merimee (1837). tine Nuit de Cleopatre, Theophile Gautier (1838). Frederic et Bernerette, Alfred de Musset (1838). Lady Eleanore's Alantle, Nathaniel Hawthorne (1838). Le Fils du Titien, Alfred de Musset (1838). Ligeia, Edgar A. Poe (1838). Mary Ancel, W. M. Thackeray (1838). The Avenger, Thomas De Quincey (1838). Gockel, Hinkel und Gackeleia; Clemens Brentano (1838). Des Lebens Uberfluss, J. L. Tieck (1839). Croisilles, Alfred de Musset (1839). Le Paratonnere, Charles de Bernard (1839). Le Pied d'Argile, Charles de Bernard (1839?). Stubb's Calendar, W. M. Thackeray (1839). La Toison d'Or, Theophile Gautier (1839). The Fall of the House of Usher, Edgar A. Poe (1839). THE TAKING OF THE REDOUBT 19 THE TAKING OF THE REDOUBT The /Taking of the Redoubt, written by Prosper Merimee (1803-1870) in 1829, was first published in the September-October Revue Frangaise of that year. It was his third Short Story. Previous to its pubHcation, in the same year, Mateo Falcone and The Vision of Charles XL had appeared ; and these three were followed before the year's end by Tamango, Federigo, The Pearl of Toledo, and The Etruscan Vase, the last being published in Janu- ary, 1830. From 1830 till 1846 hardly a year passed that Merimee did not write one or more of those short masterpieces that are still unsurpassed in French fiction, or indeed in French prose. It should be noted, more- over, that Merimee is a master of the simple style of writing, as Gautier is of the ornate. In addition to the stories already mentioned, espe- cially noteworthy are: The Double Misunderstanding (1833), The Venus of Ille (1837), Arsene Guillot (1844), and Carmen (1845); but these are compara- tively long stories. After the publication of The Abbe Aubain in 1846, Merimee wrote no more fiction for nearly a quarter of a century. Lokis, his last story, ap- peared in 1869, and is fully up to the standard of his earlier work. Merimee's most salient external characteristic is per- haps his elimination of the non-essential ; or, as Walter Pater expresses it, " Merimee's superb self-effacement, his impersonality, is itself but an effective personal trait, and, transferred to art, becomes a markedly peculiar qual- ity of literary beauty." Of Merimee's passion for elimi- nation, for compression. The Taking of the Redoubt is 283 284 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY one of tlie best examples. As Benjamin W. Wells has said, and other critics have not failed to remark : " It takes us in ten pages close up to the cannon's mouth with a restrained concision that makes it almost a perfect model of the Short Story." The present version of The Taking of the Redoubt is that by George Burnham Ives, in the Merimee volume of the Little French Masterpieces series. AUTHORITIES : Miscellaneous Studies, by Walter Pater. A Century of French Fiction, by Benjamin W. Wells. Merimee et Ses Amis, by Augustin Filon ; with a bib- liography of Merimee's complete works, by le Vicomte de Spoelberch de Lovenjoul. THE TAKING OF THE REDOUBT A military friend of mine, who died of a fever in Greece a few years ago, told me one day about the first action in which he took part. His story made such an impression on me that I wrote it down from memory as soon as I had time. Here it is: I joined the regiment on the fourth of September, in the evening. I found the colonel in camp. He received me rather roughly ; but when he had read General B 's recommenda- tion, his manner changed and he said a few courteous words to me. 1 was presented by him to my captain, who had just re- turned from a reconnaissance. This captain, with whom I hardly had time to become acquainted, was a tall, dark man, with a harsh, repellent face. He had been a private, and had won his epaulets and his cross on the battle-field. His voice, which was hoarse and weak, contrasted strangely with his almost gigantic stature. I was told that he owed that peculiar voice to a bullet which had passed through his lungs at the battle of Jena. When he learned that I was fresh from the school at Fontainebleau, he made a wry face and said: " My lieutenant died yesterday." I understood that he meant to imply : " You ought to take his place, and you are not capable of it." A sharp retort came to my lips, but I restrained myself. The moon rose behind the redoubt of Cheverino, about two gunshots from our bivouac. It was large and red, as it usually is when it rises. But on that evening it seemed to me of extraordinary size. For an instant the redoubt stood sharply out in black against the brilliant disk of the moon. 285 a: i^6 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORV It resembled the crater of a volcano at the instant of an eruption. An old soldier beside whom I happened to be, remarked upon the colour of the moon. " It is very red," said he ; " that's a sign that it will cost us dear to take that famous redoubt ! " I have always been superstitious, and that prophecy, at that particular moment especially, affected me. I lay down, but I could not sleep. I rose and walked about for some time, watching the tremendously long line of camp-fires that ^overed the heights above the village of Cheverino. When I thought that the fresh, sharp night air had cooled my blood sufficiently, I returned to the fire ; I wrapped myself carefully in my cloak and closed my eyes, hoping not to open them before dawn. But sleep refused to come. Insensibly my thoughts took a gloomy turn. I said to myself that I had not a friend among the hundred thousand men who covered that plain. If I were wounded, I should be taken to a hos- pital and treated roughly by ignorant surgeons. All that I had heard of surgical operations came to my mind. My heart beat violently, and I instinctively arranged my handker- chief, and the wallet that I had in my breast pocket, as a sort of cuirass. I was worn out with fatigue, I nodded every mo- ment, and every moment some sinister thought returned with renewed force and roused me with a start, r But weariness carried the day, and when they beat the ' reveille, I was sound asleep. We were drawn up in battle array, the roll was called, then we stacked arms, and every- thing indicated that we were to have a quiet day. About three o'clock an aide-de-camp appeared, bringing an order. We were ordered under arms again ; oiir skir- mishers spread out over the plain ; we followed them slowly, and after about twenty minutes, we saw all the advanced posts of the Russians fall back and return inside the re- / doubt. A battery of artillery came into position at our right, an- other at our left, but both well in advance of us. They began a very hot fire at the enemy, who replied vigorously, and the redoubt of Cheverino soon disappeared beneath dense clouds of smoke. Our regiment was almost protected from the Russian fire THE TAKING OF THE REDOUBT 287 by a rise in the ground. Their balls, which, indeed, were rarely aimed at us, for they preferred to fire at our gunners, passed over our heads, or, at the worst, spattered us with dirt and small stones. As soon as we received the order to advance, my captain I looked at me with a close scrutiny which compelled me to run my hand over my budding mustache twice or thrice, as unconcernedly as I could. Indeed, I was not frightened, and the only^ fear I had was that he should believe that I was frightened. Those harmless cannon-balls helped to maintain me in my heroically calm frame of mind. My self-esteem told me that I was really in danger, as I was at last under the , fire of a battery. I was overjoyed to be so entirely at my^ ease, and I thought of the pleasure I should take in telling of the capture of the redoubt of Cheverino in Madame de B 's salon on Rue de Provence. The colonel passed our company; he spoke to me: " Well, you are going to see some sharp work for your debut." I smiled with an altogether martial air as I brushed my coat-sleeve, on which a shot that struck the ground thirty yards away had spattered a little dust. It seems that the Russians observed the ill success of their cannon-balls ; for they replaced them with shells, which could more easily be made to reach us in the hollow where we were posted, A large piece of one took ofif my shako and killed a man near me. " I congratulate you," said my captain, as I picked up my shako ; " you're safe now for to-day." I was acquainted with the military superstition which be- lieves that the axiom, Non bis in idem, has the same applica- tion on a field of battle as in a court of justice. I proudly replaced my shako on my head. " That is making a fellow salute rather unceremoniously," I said as gaily as I could. That wretched joke was considered first-rate, in view of the circumstances. " I congratulate you," continued the captain ; " you will get nothing worse, and you will command a company this evening; for I feel that the oven is being heated for me. Every time that I have been wounded the officer nearest me has been hit by a spent ball ; and," he addvd in a low tone and a88 THE' BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY almost as if he were ashamed, " their names always began with a P." I feigned incredulity; many men would have done the same ; many men too would have been, as I was, profoundly impressed by those prophetic words. Conscript as I was, I realised that I could not confide my sensations to any one, and that I must always appear cool and fearless. r~ After about half an hour the Russian fire sensibly dimin- ished ; thereupon we left our sheltered position to march upon the redoubt. Our regiment consisted of three battalions. The second was ordered to turn the redoubt on the side of the entrance ; the other two were to make the assault. I was in the third battalion. As we came out from behind the species of ridge which had protected us, we were received by several volleys of mus- ketry, which did little damage in our ranks. The whistling of the bullets surprised me ; I kept turning my head, and thus induced divers jests on the part of my comrades, who were more familiar with that sound. " Take it all in all," I said to myself, " a battle isn't such a terrible thing." We advanced at the double-quick, preceded by skirmish- ers ; suddenly the Russians gave three hurrahs, three distinct hurrahs, then remained silent and ceased firing. " I don't like this silence," said my captain ; " it bodes us no good." I considered that our men were a little too noisy, and I could not forbear making a mental comparison between their tumultuous shouting and the enemy's impressive silence. We speedily reached the foot of the redoubt ; the palisades had been shattered and the earth torn up by our balls. The soldiers rushed at these newly-made ruins with shouts of "Vive VEmpereur! " louder than one would have expected to hear from men who had already shouted so much. ' I raised my eyes, and I shall never forget the spectacle that I saw. The greater part of the smoke had risen, and hung like a canopy about twenty feet above the redoubt. Through a bluish haze one could see the Russian grenadiers behind their half-destroyed parapet, with arms raised, mo- tionless as statues, It seems to me that I can see now each r THE TAKING OF TttE REDOUBT ^89 soldier, with his left eye fastened upon us, th,e right hidden by the levelled musket. In an embrasure, a few yards away, a man stood beside a cannon, holding a fusee. I shuddered, and I thought that my last hour had come. " The dance is going to begin," cried my captain. " Bon- soir ! " Those were the last words I heard him utter. The drums rolled inside the redoubt. I saw all the muskets drop. I closed my eyes, and I heard a most appalling crash, followed by shrieks and groans. I opened my eyes, surprised to find myself still among the living. The redoubt was filled with smoke once more. I was surrounded by dead and wounded. My captain lay at my feet; his head had been shattered by a cannon-ball, and I was covered with his brains and his blood. Of all my company only six men and myself were left on our feet. This carnage was succeeded by a moment of stupefaction. The colonel, placing his hat on the point of his sword, was the first to scale the parapet, shouting " Vive I'Empereur ! '* He was followed instantly by all the survivors. I have a very'^ dim remembrance of what followed. We entered the redoubt; how, I have no idea. We fought hand to hand, amid smoke so dense that we could not see one another. I believe that I struck, for my sabre was all bloody. At last I heard shouts of " Victory ! " and as the smoke grew less dense, I saw blood and corpses completely covering the surface of the re- doubt. The guns especially were buried beneath piles of , bodies. About two hundred men, in the French uniform, were standing about in groups, with no pretence of order, some loading their muskets, others wiping their bayonets. Eleven hundred Russian prisoners were with them. The colonel, covered with blood, was lying on a shattered caisson near the ravine. A number of soldiers were bustling about him. I approached. " Where is the senior captain ? " he asked a sergeant. The sergeant shrugged his shoulders most expressively. " And the senior lieutenant ? " " Monsieur here, who arrived last night," said the ser- geant, in a perfectly matter-of-fact tone. The colonel smiled bitterly. " Well, monsieur," he said, " you command in chief ; order 2go THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY the entrance to the redoubt to be strengthened with these waggons, for the enemy is in force ; but General C — — will see that you are supported." " Colonel," I said, " are you severely wounded ? " " Finished, my boy, but the redoubt is taken ! " A LIST OF REPRESENTATIVE TALES AND SHORT STORIES XII 1840 TO 1850: Pierre Grassou, Honore de Balzac (1840). Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque, Edgar A. Poe (1840). The Bedford Row Conspiracy, W. M. Thackeray (1840). The Murders in the Rue Morgue, Edgar A. Poe (1841). Nouvelles Genevoises, Rodolphe Toepffer (1841). The Masque of the Red Death, Edgar A. Poe (1842). Twice-Told Tales (2d series), Nathaniel Hawthorne (1842). Schwarzwalder Dorfgeschichten, B. Auerbach (1843). The Pit and the Pendulum, Edgar A. Poe (1843). A Christmas Carol, Charles Dickens (1843). The Gold-Bug, Edgar A. Poe (1843). The Birthmark, Nathaniel Hawthorne (1843). Tresor des Feves et Fleur des Pois, Charles Nodier (1844). Carmen, Prosper Merimee (1845). The Purloined Letter, Edgar A. Poe (1845). The Chimes, Charles Dickens (1845). Nouvelles, Theophile Gautier (1845). The Cricket on the Hearth, Charles Dickens (1845). L'Abbe Aubain, Prosper Merimee (1846). The Cask of Amontillado, Edgar A. Poe (1846). La Mare au Diable, George Sand (1846). Mosses from an Old Manse, Nathaniel Hawthorne (1846). Phil Fogarty, W. M. Thackeray (1847). Le Roi Candaule, Theophile Gautier (1847). Mrs. Perkins's Ball, W. M. Thackeray (1847). Gamle Hans Grenader, Jorgen Moe (before 1853). 991 LA GRANDE BRETECHE LA GRANDE BRETECHE La Grande Breteche, by Honore de Balzac (1799- 1850), was first published in the second edition of his Scenes of Private Life, a subdivision of that portion of The Human Comedy called Studies of Manners, in 1832, under the title. The Council. Under that heading was also grouped The Message. Later, La Grande Breteche appeared with the subtitle, Conclusion of Another Study of Woman. In the Edition Definitive of Balzac's works La Grande Breteche was merged in Another Study of Woman, and its distinctive title disappeared altogether. Among the best of Balzac's Short Stories may be men- tioned: Adieu (1830), A Passion in the Desert (1830), An Episode Under the Terror (1830), The Unknown Masterpiece (1831), The Conscript (1831), La Grande Breteche (1832), A Seashore Drama (1835), The Suc- cuba (Contes Drolatiques: 1832-1833-1837). It may be noted that, though Balzac is primarily a great French novelist, the best of his Short Stories are of the very first rank ; unfortunately for them, they have been unduly overshadowed by his longer works of fic- tion. No other French writer, unless it be Merimee or Maupassant, has written so many Short Stories of a high degree of excellence. La Grande Breteche is one of the best-known of Bal- zac's short pieces of fiction, and deservedly so; it takes rank among his half-dozen best of all. Contrary to a practice in which he was too prone to indulge, he is here not long in " getting under way," as George Saintsbury has remarked, and he does not waste a single stroke in drawing the dramatic close. " Indeed, the piece is so 295 296 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY short and so good that critical dwelling on it is almost an impertinence." As another critic, William P. Trent, has said : ** This story of a jealous husband's walling up his wife's lover in a closet of her chamber is as dramatic a piece of writing as Balzac ever did, and is almost if not quite as perfect a Short Story as any that has since been written in France." In his short fictions, Balzac avoids many of the faults of his longer works. The present version of La Grande Breteche is that by George Burnham Ives, in the Balzac volume of the Little French Masterpieces series. AUTHORITIES I A Century of French Fiction, by Benjamin W. Wells. Honore de Balzac, by Ferdinand Brunetiere (Little French Masterpieces series). French Poets and Novelists, by Henry James. Honore de Balzac, by Ferdinand Brunetiere (French Men of Letters series). LA GRANDE BRETECHE About one hundred yards from Vendome, on the banks of the Loire, there stands an old dark-coloured house, sur- mounted by a very high roof, and so completely isolated that there is not in the neighbourhood a single evil-smelling tan- nery or wretched inn, such as we see in the outskirts of almost every small town. In front of the house is a small garden bordering the river, in which the boxwood borders of the paths, once neatly trimmed, now grow at their pleasure. A few willows, born in the Loire, have grown as rapidly as the hedge which encloses the garden, and half conceal the house. The plants- which we call weeds adorn the slope of the bank with their luxuriant vegetation. The fruit-trees, neglected for ten years, bear no fruit; their offshoots form a dense undergrowth. The espaliers resemble hornbeam hedges. The paths, formerly gravelled, are overrun with purslane; but, to tell the truth, there are no well-marked paths. From the top of the mountain upon which hang the ruins of the old chateau of the Dukes of Vendome, the only spot from which the eye can look into this enclosure, you would say to yourself that, at a period which it is difficult to determine, that little nook was the delight of some gentleman devoted to roses and tulips, to horticulture in short, but especially fond of fine fruit. You espy an arbour, or rather the ruins of an arbour, beneath which a table still stands, not yet entirely consumed by time. At sight of that garden, which is no longer a garden, one may divine the negative delights of the peaceful life which provincials lead, as one divines the exist- ence of a worthy tradesman by reading the epitaph on his tombstone. To round out the melancholy yet soothing thoughts which fill the mind, there is on one of the walls a sun-dial, embellished with this commonplace Christian in- scription : ULTIMAM coGiTA. The roof of the house is terribly 20 a97 298 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY dilapidated, the blinds are always drawn, the balconies are covered with swallow's-nests, the doors are never opened. Tall weeds mark with green lines the cracks in the steps ; the ironwork is covered with rust. Moon, sun, winter, summer, snow, have rotted the wood, warped the boards, and corroded the paint. The deathly silence which reigns there is disturbed only by the birds, the cats, the martens, the rats and the mice, which are at liberty to run about, to fight, and to eat one an- other at their will. An invisible hand has written everywhere the word mystery. If, impelled by curiosity, you should go to inspect the house on the street side, you would see a high gate, arched at the top, in which the children of the neigh- bourhood have made numberless holes. I learned later that that gate had been condemned ten years before. Through these irregular breaches you would be able to observe the perfect harmony between the garden front and the court- yard front. The same disorder reigns supreme in both. Tufts of weeds surround the pavements. Enormous cracks furrow the walls, whose blackened tops are enlaced by the countless tendrils of climbing plants. The steps are wrenched apart, the bell-rope is rotten, the gutters are broken. " What fire from heaven has passed this way? What tribunal has ordered salt to be strewn upon this dwelling ? Has God been insulted here? Has France been betrayed ? " Such are the questions which one asks one's self. The reptiles crawl hither and thither without answering. That empty and de- serted house is an immense riddle, the solution of which is known to no one. It was formerly a small feudal estate and bore the name of La Grande Breteche. During my stay at Vendome, where Desplein had left me to attend a rich patient, the aspect of that strange building became one of my keenest pleasures. Was it not more than a mere ruin? Some souvenirs of undeniable authenticity are always con- nected with a ruin ; but that abode, still standing, although in process of gradual demolition by an avenging hand, con- cealed a secret, an unknown thought; at the very least, it betrayed a caprice. More than once, in the evening, I wan- dered in the direction of the hedge, now wild and uncared for, which surrounded that enclosure. I defied scratches, and LA GRANDE BRETeCHE 299 made my way into that ownerless garden, that estate which was neither pubHc nor private; and I remained whole hours there contemplating its disarray. Not even to learn the story which would doubtless account for that extraordinary spec- tacle, would I have asked a single question of any Vendomese gossip. Straying about there, I composed delightful ro- mances, I abandoned myself to little orgies of melancholy which enchanted me. If I had learned the cause of that perhaps most commonplace neglect, I should have lost the unspoken poesy with which I intoxicated myself. To me that spot represented the most diverse images of human life dark- ened by its misfortunes; now it was the air of the cloister, minus the monks; again, the perfect peace of the cemetery, minus the dead speaking their epitaphic language ; to-day, the house of the leper ; to-morrow, that of the Fates ; but it was, above all, the image of the province, with its meditation, with its hour-glass life. I have often wept there, but never laughed. More than once I have felt an involuntary terror, as I heard above my head the low rustling made by the wings of some hurrying dove. The ground is damp ; you must be- ware of lizards, snakes, and toads, which wander about there with the fearless liberty of nature; above all, you must not fear the cold, for, after a few seconds, you feel an icy cloak resting upon your shoulders, like the hand of the Commenda- tor on the neck of Don Juan. One evening I had shuddered there; the wind had twisted an old rusty weather-vane, whose shrieks resembled a groan uttered by the house at the mo- ment that I was finishing a rather dismal melodrama, by which I sought to explain to myself that species of monu- mental grief. I returned to my inn, beset by sombre thoughts. When I had supped, my hostess entered my roOm with a mysterious air, and said to me : " Here is Monsieur Regnault, monsieur." "Who is Monsieur Regnault?" "What! monsieur doesn't know Monsieur Regnault? That's funny ! " she said, as she left the room. Suddenly I saw a tall slender man, dressed in black, with his hat in his hand, who entered the room like a ram ready to rush at his rival, disclosing a retreating forehead, a small pointed head, and a pale face, not unlike a glass of dirty 300 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY water. You would have said that he was the doorkeeper of some minister. He wore an old coat, threadbare at the seams ; but he had a diamond in his shirt-frill and gold rings in his ears. " To whom have I the honour of speaking, monsieur ? " I asked him. He took a chair, seated himself in front of my fire, placed his hat on my table, and replied, rubbing his hands: " Ah ! it's very cold ! I am Monsieur Regnault, mon- sieur." I bowed, saying to myself : " // Bondocani! Look for him ! " " I am the notary at Vendome," he continued. " I am delighted to hear it, monsieur," I exclaimed, " but I am not ready to make my will, for reasons best known to myself." " Just a minute," he rejoined, raising his hand as if to impose silence upon me. " I beg pardon, monsieur, I beg pardon ! I have heard that you go to walk sometimes in the garden of La Grande Breteche." " Yes, monsieur ! " "Just a minute," he said, repeating his gesture; "that practice constitutes a downright trespass. I have come, mon- sieur, in the name and as executor of the late Madame Countess de Merret, to beg you to discontinue your visits. Just a minute ! I'm not a Turk, and I don't propose to charge you with a crime. Besides, it may well be that you are not aware of the circumstances which compel me to allow the finest mansion in Vendome to fall to ruin. How- ever, monsieur, you seem to be a man of education, and you must know that the law forbids entrance upon an enclosed estate under severe penalties. A hedge is as good as a wall. But the present condition of the house may serve as an excuse for your curiosity. I would ask nothing better than to allow you to go and come as you please in that house ; but, as it is my duty to carry out the will of the testatrix, I have the honour, monsieur, to request you not to go into that gar- den again. Even I myself, monsieur, since the opening of the will, have never set foot inside that house, which, as I have had the honour to tell you, is a part of the estate of Madame de Merret. We simply reported the number of LA GRANDE BRETECHE 3°! doors and windows, in order to fix the amount of the im- post which I pay annually from the fund set aside for that purpose by the late countess. Ah ! her will made a great deal of talk in Vendome, monsieur." At that, he stopped to blow his nose, the excellent man. I respected his loquacity, understanding perfectly that^ the administration of Madame de Merret's property was the im- portant event of his life — his reputation, his glory, his Resto- ration. I ^must needs bid adieu to my pleasant reveries, to my romances ; so that I was not inclined to scorn the pleasure of learning the truth from an official source. " Would it be indiscreet, monsieur," I asked him, " to ask you the reason of this extraordinary state of affairs ? " At that question an expression which betrayed all the pleasure that a man feels who is accustomed to ride a hobby passed over the notary's face. He pulled up his shirt collar with a self-satisfied air, produced his snuff-box, opened it, offered it to me, and at my refusal, took a famous pinch himself. He was happy; the man who has no hobby has no idea of the satisfaction that can be derived from life. A hobby is the precise mean between passion and mono- mania. At that moment I understood the witty expression of Sterne in all its extent, and I had a perfect conception of the joy with which Uncle Toby, with Trim's assistance, be- strode his battle-horse. " Monsieur," said Monsieur Regnault, " I was chief clerk to Master Roguin of Paris. An excellent office, of which you may have heard? No? Why, it was made famous by a disastrous failure. Not having sufficient money to prac- tise in Paris, at the price to which offices had risen in 1816, I came here and bought the office of my predecessor. I had relatives in Vendome, among others a very rich aunt, who gave me her daughter in marriage. Monsieur," he contin- ued after a brief pause, " three months after being licensed by the Keeper of the Seals I was sent for one evening, just as I was going to bed (I was not then married), by Madame Countess de Merret, to come to her Chateau de Merret. Her maid, an excellent girl who works in this inn to-day, was at my door with madame countess's carriage. But, just a minute ! I must tell you, monsieur, that Monsieur Count de Merret had gone to Paris to die, two months before I came 302 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY here. He died miserably there, abandoning himself to ex- cesses of all sorts. You understand? — On the day of his de- parture madame countess had left La Grande Breteche and had dismantled it. Indeed, some people declare that she burned the furniture and hangings, and all chattels whatso- ever now contained in the estate leased by the said — What on earth am I saying ? I beg pardon, I thought I was dictating a lease. — That she burned them," he continued, " in the fields at Merret. Have you been to Merret, monsieur ? No ? " he said, answering his own question. " Ah ! that is a lovely spot ! For about three months/' he continued, after a slight shake of the head, "monsieur count and madame countess led a strange life. " They received no guests ; madame lived on the ground floor, and monsieur on the first floor. When madame countess was left alone, she never appeared ex- cept at church. Later, in her own house, at her chateau, she refused to see the friends who came to see her. She was already much changed when she left La Grande Breteche to go to Merret. The dear woman — I say * dear,' because this diamond came from her; but I actually only saw her once — the excellent lady, then, was very ill; she had doubt- less despaired of her health, for she died without calling a doctor; so that many of our ladies thought that she was not in full possession of her wits. My curiosity was there- fore strangely aroused, monsieur, when I learned that Madame de Merret needed my services. I was not the only one who took an interest in that story. That same evening, although it was late, the whole town knew that I had gone to Merret. The maid answered rather vaguely the questions that I asked her on the road ; she told me, however, that her mistress had received the sacrament from the cure of Merret during the day, and that she did not seem likely to live through the night. " I reached the chateau about eleven o'clock ; I mounted the main staircase. After passing through divers large rooms, high and dark, and as cold and damp as the devil, I reached the state bedchamber where the countess was. According to the reports that were current concerning that lady — I should never end, monsieur, if I should repeat all the stories that are told about her — I had thought of her as LA GRANDE BkETECME 3C>3 a coquette. But, if you please, I had much difficulty in find- ing her in the huge bed in which she lay. To be sure, to light that enormous wainscoted chamber of the old regime, where everything was so covered with dust that it made one sneeze simply to look at it, she had only one of those old- fashioned Argand lamps. Ah ! but you have never been to Merret. Well, monsieur, the bed is one of those beds of the olden time, with a high canopy of flowered material. A small ni^ht-table stood beside the bed, and I saw upon it a copy of the Imitation of Jesus Christ, which, by the by, I bought for my wife, as well as the lamp. There was also a large couch for the attendant, and two chairs. Not a spark of fire. That was all the furniture. It wouldn't have filled ten lines in an inventory. " Oh ! my dear monsieur, if you had seen, as I then saw it, that huge room hung with dark tapestry, you would have imagined yourself transported into a genuine scene from a novel. It was icy cold; and, more than that, absolutely funereal," he added, raising his arm with a theatrical ges- ture and pausing for a moment. " By looking hard and walking close to the bed, I succeeded in discovering Madame de Merret, thanks to the lamp, the light of which shone upon the pillow. Her face was as yellow as wax, and re- sembled two clasped hands. She wore a lace cap, which revealed her lovely hair, as white as snow. She was sitting up, and seemed to retain that position with much difficulty. Her great black eyes, dulled by fever no doubt, and already almost lifeless, hardly moved beneath the bones which the eyebrows cover — these," he said, pointing to the arch over his eyes. — " Her brow was moist. Her fleshless hands re- sembled bones covered with tightly-drawn skin ; her veins and muscles could be seen perfectly. She must have been very beautiful ; but at that moment I was seized with an indefinable feeling at her aspect. Never before, according to those who laid her out, had a living creature attained such thinness without dying. In short, she was horrible to look at ; disease had so wasted that woman that she was nothing more than a phantom. Her pale violet lips seemed not to move when she spoke to me. Although my profession had familiarised me with such spectacles, by taking me sometimes to the pillows of dying persons to take down their last wishes, I 304 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY confess that the famiHes in tears and despair whom I had seen were as nothing beside that solitary, silent woman in that enormous chateau. " I did not hear the slightest sound, I could not detect the movement which the breathing of the sick woman should have imparted to the sheets that covered her; and I stood quite still, gazing at her in a sort of stupor. It seems to me that I am there now. At last her great eyes moved, she tried to raise her right hand, which fell back upon the bed, and these words came from her mouth like a breath, for her voice had already ceased to be a voice : * I have been awaiting you with much impatience.' — Her cheeks suddenly flushed. It was a great effort for her to speak, monsieur. — ' Madame,' I said. She motioned to me to be silent. At that moment the old nurse rose and whispered in my ear : ' Don't speak ; madame countess cannot bear to hear the sHghtest sound, and what you said might excite her ' — I sat down. A few moments later, Madame de Merret col- lected all her remaining strength, to move her right arm and thrust it, not without infinite difficulty, beneath her bolster; she paused for just a moment; then she made a last effort to withdraw her hand, and when she finally produced a sealed paper, drops of sweat fell from her brow. — ' I place my will in your hands,' she said. * Oh, mon Dieu! oh !' — That was all. She grasped a crucifix that lay on her bed, hastily put it to her lips, and died. The expression of her staring eyes makes me shudder even now, when I think of it. She must have suffered terribly ! There was a gleam of joy in her last glance, a sentiment which remained in her dead eyes. " I carried the will away ; and when it was opened, I found that Madame de Merret had appointed me her executor. She left all her property to the hospital at Vendome with the exception of a few individual legacies. But these were her provisions with respect to La Grande Breteche : She directed me to leave her house, for fifty years from the day of her death, in the same condition as at the moment that she died ; forbidding any person whatsoever to enter* the rooms, forbid- ding the slightest repairs to be made, and even setting aside a sum in order to hire keepers, if it should be found neces- sary, to assure the literal execution of her purpose. At the expiration of that period, if the desire of the testatrix has LA GRANDE BRETECHE 3^5 been carried out, the house is to belong to my heirs, for mon- sieur knows that notaries cannot accept legacies. If not. La Grande Breteche is to revert to whoever is entitled to it, but with the obligation to comply with the conditions set forth in a codicil attached to the will, which is not to be opened until the expiration of the said fifty years. The will was not attacked; and so " At that, without finishing his sentence, the elongated no- tary glanced at me with a triumphant air, and I made him altogether happy by addressing a few compliments to him. " Monsieur," I said, " you have made a profound impres- sion upon me,- so that I think I see that dying woman, paler than her sheets; her gleaming eyes terrify me; and I shall dream of her to-night. But you must have formed some conjecture concerning the provisions of that extraordinary will." " Monsieur," he said with a comical reserve, " I never allow myself to judge the conduct of those persons who hon- our me by giving me a diamond." I soon loosened the tongue of the scrupulous Vendomese notary, who communicated to me, not without long digres- sions, observations due to the profound politicians of both sexes whose decrees are law in Vendome. But those obser- vations were so contradictory and so diffuse that I almost fell asleep, despite the interest I took in that authentic narra- tive. The dull and monotonous tone of the notary, who was accustomed, no doubt, to listen to himself, and to force his clients and his fellow citizens to listen to him, triumphed over my curiosity. " Aha ! many people, monsieur," he said to me on the landing, "would like to live forty-five years more; but just a minute ! " and with a sly expression, he placed his right forefinger on his nose, as if he would have said : " Just mark what I say." — " But to do that, to do that," he added, " a man must be less than sixty." I closed my door, having been roused from my apathy by this last shaft, which the notary considered very clever ; then I seated myself in my easy-chair, placing my feet on the and- irons. I was soon absorbed in an imaginary romance a la Radcliffe, based upon the judicial observations of Monsieur Regnault, when my door, under the skilful manipulation of a 3o6 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY woman's hand, turned upon its hinges. My hostess appeared, a stout red-faced woman, of excellent disposition, who had missed her vocation: she was a Fleming, who should have been born in a picture by Teniers. " Well, monsieur," she said, " no doubt Monsieur Re- gnault has given you his story of La Grande Breteche ? " " Yes, Mother Lepas." "What did he tell you?" I repeated in a few words the chilling and gloomy story of Madame de Merret. At each sentence my hostess thrust out her neck, gazing at me with the true innkeeper's per- spicacity — a sort of happy medium between the instinct of the detective, the cunning of the spy, and the craft of the trader. " My dear Madame Lepas," I added, as I concluded, " you evidently know more, eh ? If not, why should you have come up here? " " Oh ! on an honest woman's word, as true as my name's Lepas " " Don't swear ; your eyes are big with a secret. You knew Monsieur de Merret. What sort of a man was he ? " Bless my soul ! Monsieur de Merret was a fine man, whom you never could see the whole of, he was so long; an excellent gentleman, who came here from Picardy, and who had his brains very near his cap, as we say here. He paid cash for everything, in order not to have trouble with any- body. You see, he was lively. We women all found him very agreeable." " Because he was lively?" I asked. " That may be," she said. " You know, monsieur, that a man must have had something in front of him, as they say, to mairv Madame de Merre t. ^who. without saying anything agamst the others, was the loveliest and richest woman in the whole province. She had about twenty thousand francs a year. The whole town went to her weddifig. The bride was dainty and attractive, a real jewel of a woman. Ah ! they made a handsome couple at that time ! " "Did they live happily together?" " Oh, dear ! oh, dear ! yes and no, so far as any one could tell; for, as you can imagine, we folks didn't live on inti- mate terms with them. Madame de Merret was a kind- LA GRANDE BRET£CHE 307 hearted woftiafi, Very pleasant, who had to suffer sometimes perhaps from her husband's quick temper; but although he was a bit proud, we liked him. You see, it was his business to be like that; when a man is noble, you know " " However, some catastrophe must have happened, to make Monsieur and Madame de Merret separate so vio- lently?" " I didn't say there was any catastrophe, monsieur. I don't know anything about it." " Good ! I am sure now that you know all about it." " Well, monsieur, I will tell you all I know. When I saw Monsieur Regnault come up to your room, I had an idea that he would talk to you about Madame de Merret in connection with La Grande Breteche. That gave me the idea of con- sulting with monsieur, who seems to me a man of good judgment and incapable of playing false with a poor woman like me, who never did anybody any harm, and yet who's troubled by her conscience. Up to this time I've never dared to speak out to the people of this neighbourhood, for they're all sharp-tongued gossips. And then, monsieur, I've never had a guest stay in my inn so long as you have, and to whom I could tell the story of the fifteen thousand francs," " My dear Madame Lepas," I said, arresting the flood of her words, " if your confidence is likely to compromise me, I wouldn't be burdened with it for a moment, for anything in the world." " Don't be afraid," she said, interrupting me ; " you shall see." This eagerness on her part made me think that I was not the only one to whom my worthy hostess had commu- nicated the secret of which I dreaded to be the only confidant, and I listened. " Monsieur," she began, " when the Emperor sent Span^ ish or other prisoners of war here, I had to board, at the expense of the government, a young Spaniard who was sent to Vendome on parole. In spite of the parole, he went every day to show himself to the subprefect. He was a Spanish grandee ! Nothing less ! He had a name in os and dia, some- thing like Bagos de Feredia. I have his name written on my register; you can read it if you wish. He was a fine young man for a Spaniard, who they say are all ugly. He was only 3©^ THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY five feet two or three inches tall, but he was well-built; he had little hands, which he took care of — oh ! you should have seen ; he had as many brushes for his hands as a woman has for all purposes ! He had long black hair, a flashing eye, and rather a copper-coloured skin, which I liked all the same. He wore such fine linen as I never saw before on any one, although I have entertained princesses, and among others General Bertrand, the Duke and Duchess d'Abrantes, Mon- sieur Decazes, and the King of Spain. He didn't eat much ; but he had polite and pleasant manners, so that I couldn't be angry with him for it. Oh ! I was very fond of him, although he didn't say four words a day, and it was impossible to have the slightest conversation with him ; if any one spoke to him, he wouldn't answer ; it was a fad, a mania that they all have, so they tell me. He read his breviary Hke a priest, he went to mass and to the services regularly. Where did he sit? We noticed that later : about two steps from Madame de Mer- ret's private chapel. As he took his seat there the first time that he came to the church, nobody imagined that there was any design in it. Besides, he never took his face off his prayer-book, the poor young man ! In the evening, mon- sieur, he used to walk on the mountain, among the ruins of the chateau. That was the poor man's only amusement ; he was reminded of his own country there. They say that there's nothing but mountains in Spain. " Very soon after he came here he began to stay out late. I was anxious when he didn't come home till midnight ; but we all got used to his whim; he would take the key of the door, and we wouldn't wait for him. He lived in a house that we have on Rue de Casernes. Then one of our stablemen told us that one night, when he took the horses to drink, he thought he saw the Spanish grandee swimming far out in the river, like a real fish. When he came back, I told him to be careful of the eel-grass ; he seemed vexed that he had been seen in the water. At last, monsieur, one day, or rather one morning, we didn't find him in his room; he hadn't come home. By hunt- ing carefully everywhere, I found a writing in his table drawer, where there were fifty of the Spanish gold-pieces which they call porttcgaises, and which were worth about five thousand francs; and then there were ten thousand francs' worth of diamonds in a little sealed box. His writing said LA GRANDE BRETECHE 3^9 that in case he didn't return, he left us this money and his diamonds, on condition that we would found masses to thank God for his escape and his salvation. In those days I still had my man, who went out to look for him. And here's the funny part of the story: he brought back the Spaniard's clothes, which he found under a big stone in a sort of a shed by the river, on the chateau side, almost opposite La Grande Breteche. " My busband went there so early that ho one saw him ; he burned the clothes after reading the letter, and we de- clared, according to Count Feredia's wish, that he had es- caped. The subprefect set all the gendarmerie on his track, but, bless my soul ! they never caught him. Lepas believed that the Spaniard had drowned himself. For my part, mon- sieur, I don't think it; I think rather that he was mixed up in Madame de Merret's business, seeing that Rosalie told me that the crucifix that her mistress thought so much of that she had it buried with her, was made of ebony and silver; now, in the early part of his stay here, Monsieur Feredia had one of silver and ebony, which I didn't see afterwards. Tell me now, monsieur, isn't it true that I needn't have any re- morse about the Spaniard's fifteen thousand francs, and that they are fairly mine?" " Certainly. But did you never try to question Rosalie ? " I asked her. "Oh! yes, indeed, monsieur. But would you believe it? That girl is like a wall. She knows something, but it's im- possible to make her talk." After conversing a moment more with me, my hostess left me beset by undefined and dismal thoughts, by a roman- tic sort of curiosity, a religious terror not unlike the intense emotion that seizes us when we enter a dark church at night and see a dim light in the distance under the lofty arches; a vague figure gliding along, or the rustling of a dress or a surplice; it makes us shudder. La Grande Breteche and its tall weeds, its condemned windows, its rusty ironwork, its closed doors, its deserted rooms, suddenly appeared before me in fantastic guise. I tried to penetrate that mysterious abode, seeking there the kernel of that sombre story, of that drama which had caused the death of three persons. In my eyes Rosalie was the most interesting person in Vendome. 310 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY As I scrutinised her, I detected traces of some inmost thought, despite the robust health that shone upon her plump cheeks. There was in her some seed of remorse or of hope ; her man- ner announced a secret, as does that of the devotee who prays with excessive fervour, or that of the infanticide, who con- stantly hears her child's last cry. However, her attitude was artless and natural, her stupid smile had no trace of criminal- ity, and you would have voted her innocent simply by glan- cing at the large handkerchief with red and blue squares which covered her vigorous bust, confined by a gown with white and violet stripes. " No," I thought, " I won't leave Vendome without learn- ing the whole story of La Grande Breteche. To obtain my end, I will become Rosalie's friend, if it is absolutely neces- sary." " Rosalie ? " I said one evening. " What is it, monsieur ? " " You are not married ? " She started slightly. " Oh ! I sha'n't lack men when I take a fancy to be un- happy ! " she said with a laugh. She speedily overcame her inward emotion ; for all wom- en, from the great lady down to the servant at an inn, have a self-possession which is peculiar to them. " You are fresh and appetising enough not to lack suitors. But tell me, Rosalie, why did you go to work in an inn when you left Madame de Merret's? Didn't she leave you some money ? " " Oh, yes ! but my place is the best in Vendome, mon- sieur." This reply was one of those which judges and lawyers call dilatory. Rosalie seemed to me to occupy in that romantic story the position of the square in the middle of the chess- board; she was at the very centre of interest and of truth; she seemed to me to be tied up in the clew ; it was no longer an ordinary case of attempting seduction; there was in that girl the last chapter of a romance; and so, from that mo- ment, Rosalie became the object of my attentions. By dint of studying the girl, I observed in her, as in all women to whom we devote all our thoughts, a multitude of good qual- ities : she was neat and clean, and ^e was fine-looking — that LA GRANDE BRETECHE 3^^ goes without saying; she had also all the attractions which our desire imparts to women, in whatever station of life they may be. A fortnight after the notary's visit, I said to Rosalie one evening, or rather one morning, for it was very early: " Tell me all that you know about Madame de Merret." *' Oh, don't ask me that, Monsieur Horace ! " she replied in alarm. Her pretty face darkened, her bright colour vanished, and her eyes lost their humid, innocent light. But I insisted. " Well,"> she rejoined, " as you insist upon it, I will tell you; but keep my secret." " Of course, of course, my dear girl ; I will keep all your secrets with the probity of a thief, and that is the most loyal probity that exists." " If it's all the same to you," she said, " I prefer that it should be with your own." Thereupon she arranged her neckerchief, and assumed the attitude of a story-teller ; for there certainly is an attitude of trust and security essential to the telling of a story. The best stories are told at a certain hour, and at the table, as we all are now. No one ever told a story well while standing, or fasting. But if it were necessary to reproduce faithfully Rosalie's diffuse eloquence, a whole volume would hardly suffice. Now, as the event of which she gave me a confused account, occupied, between the loquacity of the notary and that of Madame Lepas, the exact position of the mean terms of an arithmetical proportion between the two extremes, it is 'only necessary for me to repeat it to you in a few words. Therefore I abridge. The room which Madame de Merret occupied at La Grande Breteche was on the ground floor. A small closet, about four feet deep, in the wall, served as her wardrobe. Three months before the evening, the incidents of which I am about to narrate, Madame de Merret had been so seriously indisposed that her husband left her alone in her room and slept in a room on the first floor. By one of those chances which it is impossible to foresee, he returned home, on the evening in question, two hours later than usual, from the club to which he was accustomed to go to read the newspapers and to talk politics with the people of the neighbourhood. His wife supposed that he had come home, and had gone to 312 T?IE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY bed and to sleep. But the invasion of France had given rise to a lively discussion; the game of billiards had been very close, and he had lost forty francs, an enormous sum at Vendome, where everybody hoards money, and v^^here man- ners are confined within the limits of a modesty worthy of all praise, which perhaps is the source of a true happiness of which no Parisian has a suspicion. For some time past Monsieur de Merret had con- tented himself with asking Rosalie if his wife were in bed ; at the girl's reply, always in the affirmative, he went immediately to his own room with the readiness born of habit and confidence. But on returning hom.e that evening, he took it into his head to go to Madame de Merret's room, to tell her of his misadventure and perhaps also to console himself for it. During dinner he had remarked that Madame de Merret was very coquettishly dressed ; he said to himself as he walked home from the club, that his wife was no longer ill, that her convalescence had improved her; but he perceived it, as husbands notice everything, a little late. Instead of calling Rosalie, who at that moment was busy in the kitchen, watching the cook and the coachman play a difficult hand of hrisque, Monsieur de Merret went to his wife's room, lighted by his lantern, which he had placed on the top step of the stairs. His footstep, easily recognised, resounded under the arches of the corridor. At the instant that he turned the knob of his wife's door, he fancied that he heard the door of the closet that I have mentioned close ; but when he entered, Madame de Merret was alone, standing in front of the hearth. The husband naively concluded that Rosalie was in the closet ; however, a suspicion, that rang in his ears like the striking of a clock, made him distrustful; he looked at his wife and detected in her eyes something inde- finable of confusion and dismay. " You come home very late/" she said. That voice, usually so pure and so gracious, seemed to him slightly changed. He made no reply, but at that mo- ment Rosalie entered the room. That was a thunderclap to him. He walked about the room, from one window to an- other, with a uniform step and with folded arms. " Have you learned anything distressing, or are you ill?" his wife timidly asked him, while Rosalie undressed her. LA GRANDE BRETECHE 313 He made no reply. " You may go," said Madame de Merret to her maid ; " I will put on my curl-papers myself." She divined some catastrophe simply from the expression of her husband's face, and she preferred to be alone with him. When Rosalie was gone, or was supposed to be gone, for she stayed for some moments in the corridor. Monsieur de Merret took his stand in front of his wife, and said to her coldly: " Madame, there is some one in your closet ? " She looked at her husband calmly, and replied simply: " No, monsieur." That " no " tore Monsieur de Merret's heart, for he did not believe it; and yet his wife had never seemed to him purer and more holy than she seemed at that moment. He rose to open the closet door; Madame de Merret took his hand, stopped him, looked at him with a melancholy expres- sion, and said in a voice strangely moved: " If you find no one, reflect that all is at an end between us!" The indescribable dignity of his wife's attitude reawoke the gentleman's profound esteem for her, and inspired in him one of those resolutions which require only a vaster theatre in order to become immortal. " No," he said, " I will not do it, Josephine. In either case, we should be separated forever. Listen; I know all the purity of your soul, and I know that you lead the life of a saint, and that you would not commit a mortal sin to save your life." At these words, Madame de Merret looked at her husband with a haggard eye. " See, here is your crucifix ; swear to me before God that there is no one there, and I will believe you, I will never open that door." Madame de Merret took the crucifix and said: " I swear it." " Louder," said the husband, and repeat after me : * I swear before God that there is no one in that closet.' " She repeated the words without confusion. " It is well," said Monsieur de Merret coldly. After a moment's silence : " This is a very beautiful thing that I did 21 314 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY not know you possessed," he said, as he examined the crucifix of ebony encrusted with silver and beautifully carved. " I found it at Duvivier's ; when that party of prisoners passed through Vendome last year, he bought it of a Spanish monk," " Ah ! " said Monsieur de Merret, replacing the crucifix on the nail. And he rang. Rosalie did not keep him waiting. Monsieur de Merret walked hastily to meet her, led her into the embrasure of the window looking over the garden, and said to her in a low voice: " I know that Gorenflot wants to marry you, that poverty alone prevents you from coming together, and that you have told him that you would not be his wife until he found some way to become a master mason. Well, go to him, and tell him to come here with his trowel and his tools. Manage so as not to wake anybody in his house but him ; his fortune will exceed your desires. Above all, go out of this house without chattering, or " He frowned. Rosalie started, and he called her back. " Here, take my pass-key," he said. " Jean ! " shouted Monsieur de Merret in the corridor, in a yoice of thunder. Jean, who was both his coachman and his confiden- tial man, left his game of brisque and answered the sum- mons. " Go to bed, all of you," said his master, motioning to him to come near. And he added, but in an undertone : " When they are all asleep, asleep, do you understand, you will come down and let me know." Monsieur de Merret, who had not lost sight of his wife while giving his orders, calmly returned to her side in front of the fire, and began to tell her about the game of billiards and the discussion at the club. When Rosalie returned she found monsieur and madame talking most amicably. The gentleman had recently had plastered all the rooms which composed his reception-apartment on the ground floor. Plaster is very scarce in Vendome, and the cost of transporta- tion increases the price materially; so he had purchased quite a large quantity, knowing that he would readily find custom- ers for any that he might have left. That circumstance sug- gested the design which he proceeded to carry out. LA GRANDE BRETECHE 31 S " Gorenflot is here, monsieur," said Rosalie in an under- tone. " Let him come in," repHed the Pjcard gentleman aloud. Madame de Merret turned pale when she saw the mason. " Gorenflot," said her husband, ** go out to the carriage- house and get some bricks, and bring in enough to wall up the door of this closet ; you can use the plaster that I had left over, to plaster the wall." Then, beckoning Rosalie and the workman 'to him, he said in a low tone : " Look you, Goren- flot, you will sleep here to-night. But to-morrow morning you shall have a passport to go abroad, to a city which I will name to you. I will give you six thousand francs for your journey. You will remain ten years in that city; if you are not satisfied there, you can settle in another city, provided that it is in the same country. You will go by way of Paris, where you will wait for me. There I will give you a guarantee to pay you six thousand francs more on your return, in case you have abided by the conditions of our bargain. At that price you should be willing to keep silent concerning what you have done here to-night. As for you, Rosalie, I will give you ten thousand francs, which will be paid to you on the day of your wedding, provided that you marry Gorenflot ; but, in order to be married, you will have to be silent; if not, no dower." " Rosalie," said Madame de Merret, " come here and ar- range my hair." The husband walked tranquilly back and forth, watching the door, the mason, and his wife, but without any outward sign of injurious suspicion. Gorenflot was obliged to make a noise; Madame de Merret seized an opportunity, when the workman was dropping some bricks, and when her hus- band was at the other end of the room, to say to Rosalie : " A thousand francs a year to you, my dear child, if you can tell Gorenflot to leave a crack at the bottom. — Go and help him," she said coolly, aloud. Monsieur and Madame de Merret said not a word while Gorenflot was walling up the door. That silence was the result of design on the husband's part, for he did not choose to allow his wife a pretext for uttering words of double mean- ing ; and on Madame de Merret's part, it was either prudence or pride. When the wall was half built, the crafty mason $16 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY seized a moment when the gentleman's back was turned, to strike his pickaxe through one of the panes of the glass door. That act gave Madame de Merret to understand that Rosalie had spoken to Gorenflot. At that moment all three saw a man's face, dark and sombre, with black hair and fiery eyes. Before her husband had turned, the poor woman had time to make a motion of her head to the stranger, to whom that signal meant : " Hope ! " At four o'clock, about daybreak, for it was September, the work was finished. The mason remained in the house under the eye of Jean, and Monsieur de Merret slept in his wife's chamber. In the morning, on rising, he said carelessly: " Ah ! by the way, I must go to the mayor's office for the passport." He put his hat on his head, walked towards the door, turned back and took the crucifix. His wife fairly trembled with joy. " He will go to Duvivier's," she thought. As soon as the gentleman had left the room, Madame de Merret rang for Rosalie ; then, in a terrible voice, she cried : " The pickaxe ; the pickaxe ! and to work ! I saw how Gorenflot understood last night ; we shall have time to make a hole, and stop it up." In a twinkling Rosalie brought her mistress a sort of small axe, and she, with an ardour which no words can describe, began to demolish the wall. She had already loosened several bricks, when, as she stepped back to deal a blow even harder than the preceding ones, she saw Mon- sieur de Merret behind her; she fainted. " Put madame on her bed," said the gentleman, coldly. Anticipating what was likely to happen during his ab- sence, he had laid a trap for his wife; he had simply written to the mayor, and had sent a messenger to Duvivier. The jeweller arrived just as the disorder in the room had been repaired. » " Duvivier," asked Monsieur de Merret, " didn't you buy some crucifixes from the Spaniards who passed through here?" " No, monsieur." " Very well ; I thank you," he said, exchanging with his wife a tigerlike glance. — " Jean," he added, turning towards LA GkANDE BRETECHE ^t1 his confidential valet, " you will have my meals served in Madame de Merret's room; she is ill, and I shall not leave her until she is well again." The cruel man remained with his wife twenty days. During the first days, when there was a noise in the walled- up closet and Josephine attempted to implore him in behalf of the dying unknown, he replied, not allowing her to utter a word: " You jiave sworn on the cross that there was no one there." A LIST OF REPRESENTATIVE TALES AND SHORT STORIES XIII 1850 TO i860: The Great Stone Face, Nathaniel Hawthorne (1850). Contes de la Veillee, Charles Nodier (1850). A Child's Dream of a Star, Charles Dickens (1850). The Diary of a Superfluous Man, Ivan Turgeneff (1850). Gudbrand i Lien, from folk-lore stories collected by Asbjorn- sen and Moe (about 1850). The King of the Golden River, John Ruskin (1851). Ethan Brand, Nathaniel Hawthorne (1851). Arria Marcella, Theophile Gautier (1852). The Snow Image, and Other Twice-Told Tales; Nathaniel Hawthorne (1852). A Sportsman's Sketches, Ivan Turgeneff (1852). Nouvelles, Prosper Merimee (1852). Mumu, Ivan Turgeneff (1852). Immensee, T. W. Storm (1852). A Russian Proprietor, and Other Stories; Lyof Tolstoy (1852-59). LArrabbiata, Paul Heyse (1855). Sevastopol, Lyof Tolstoy (1855). Faust, Ivan Turgeneff (1855). ■ Wolfert's Roost, Washington Irving (1855). Novellen, Paul Heyse (1855). Kulturgeschichtliche Novellen, W. H. Riehl (1856). Les Mariages de Paris, Edmond About (1856). After Dark, W. W. Collins (1856). Romans et Contes, Theophile Gautier (1857). Synnove Solbakken, B. Bjornson (1857). Arne, B. Bjornson (1858). 319 320 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY The Diamond Lens, Fitz-James O'Brien (1858). Rab and his Friends, John Brown (1858). Dr. Manette's Manuscript, Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities (1859). En Glad Gut, B. Bjornson (1859). The Haunted and the Haunters, Edward Bulwer-Lytton (1859). My Double and How He Undid Me, Edward Everett Hale (1859). What Was It?, Fitz-James O'Brien (1859). The Wondersmith, Fitz-James O'Brien (1859). THE BIRTHMARK THE BIRTHMARK The Birthmark, by Nathaniel Hawthorne (1804- 1864), was first pubHshed in the March, 1843, number of The Pioneer, a short-Hved monthly edited by J. R. Lowell. It was republished in the first edition of Mosses from an Old Manse, in 1846. In 1837 had appeared the first series of Hawthorne's Twice-Told Tales, which was followed in 1842 by a second series. In 1852 appeared The Snow Image, and Other Twice-Told Tales. The four volumes mentioned form Hawthorne's most impor- tant ventures in the field of the short story. *' The great charm of these stories," says Henry James, " is that they are glimpses of a great field, of the whole deep mystery of man's soul and conscience." The Birthmark is one of the finest and most significant of all the pieces of fiction that Hawthorne wrote. It is not without a trace of that morbidity which allies him, on one side of his genius, with Edgar Allan Poe ; but the essen- tial sanity of his moral, and the perfection of the work- manship, render The Birthmark worthy of its high place among the Short Stories of the nineteenth century. '' The moral idea," says George E. Woodberry, " seems to flake off from the tale, like the moral of the old fable " ; and what remains is a story of singular charm and pathos. Among the best of Hawthorne's stories may be men- tioned: The Gentle Boy (1832), The Gray Champion (1835), Wakefield (1835), The Ambitious Guest (1835), The White Old Maid (1835), The Minister's Black Veil (1836), David Swan (1836), The Great Carbuncle (1836), Dr. Heidegger's Experiment (1837), Lady Elea- nore's Mantle (1838), Howe's Masquerade (1838), The Birthmark (1843), Drowne's Wooden Image (1844?), The Great Stone Face (1850), and Ethan Brand (1851). 323 324 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY AUTHORITIES I Nathaniel Hawthorne, by George E. Woodberry (American Men of Letters series). Nathaniel Hawthorne, by Henry James (English Men of Letters series). Literary Essays, by Richard Holt Hutton. Life of Nathaniel Hawthorne, by Moncure D. Con- way (Great Writers series). The Short Story in English, by Henry Seidel Canby (Chapter XH). THE BIRTHMARK » In the latter part of the last century there lived a man of science, an eminent proficient in every branch of natural philosophy, who not long before our story opens had made experience of a spiritual affinity more attractive than any chemical one. He had left his laboratory to the care of an assistant, cleared his fine' countenance from the furnace- smoke, washed the stain of acids from his fingers, and per- suaded a beautiful woman to become his wife. In those days, when the comparatively recent discovery of electricity and other kindred mysteries of Nature seemed to open paths into the region of miracle, it was not unusual for the love of sci- ence to rival the love of woman in its depths and absorbing energy. The higher intellect, the imagination, the spirit, and even the heart might all find their congenial aliment in pur- suits which, as some of their ardent votaries beheved, would ascend from one step of powerful intelligence to another, until the philosopher should lay his hand on the secret of creative force and perhaps make new worlds for himself. We know not whether Aylmer possessed this degree of faith in man's ultimate control over nature. He had devoted him- self, however, too unreservedly to scientific studies ever to be weakened from them by any second passion. His love for his young wife might prove the stronger of the two; but it could only be by intertwining itself with his love of science and uniting the strength of the latter to his own. Such a union accordingly took place, and was attended with truly remarkable consequences and a deeply impressive moral. One day, very soon after their marriage, Aylmer sat gazing at his wife with a trouble in his countenance that grew stronger until he spoke. " Geocgiana," said he, " has it never occurred to you that the mark upon your cheek might be removed ? " 32s 326 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY " No, indeed," said she, smiling ; but, perceiving the seri- ousness of his manner, she blushed deeply. " To tell you the truth, it has been so often called a charm, that I was simple enough to imagine it might be so." " Ah, upon another face perhaps it might," replied her husband ; " but never on yours. No, dearest Georgiana, you came so nearly perfect from the hand of Nature, that this slightest possible defect, which we hesitate whether to term a defect or a beauty, shocks me, as being the visible mark of earthly imperfection." " Shocks you, my husband ! " cried Georgiana, deeply hurt; at first reddening with momentary anger, but then bursting into tears. " Then why did you take me from my mother's side ? You cannot love what shocks you ! " To explain this conversation, it must be mentioned that in the centre of Georgiana's left cheek there was a singular mark, deeply interwoven, as it were, with the texture and substance of her face. In the usual state of her complex- ion — a healthy though delicate bloom — the mark wore a tint of deeper crimson, which imperfectly defined its shape amid the surrounding rosiness. When she blushed it gradually be- came more indistinct, and finally vanished amid the triumph- ant rush of blood that bathed the whole cheek with its bril- liant glow. But if any shifting motion caused her to turn pale there was the mark again, a crimson stain upon the snow, in what Aylmer sometimes deemed an almost fearful distinctness. Its shape bore not a little similarity to the hu- man hand, though of the smallest pigmy size. Georgiana's lovers were wonted to say that some fairy at her birth-hour had laid her tiny hand upon the infant's cheek, and left this impress there in token of the magic endowments that were to give her such sway over all hearts. Many a desperate swain would have risked life for the privilege of pressing his lips to the mysterious hand. It must not be concealed, however, that the impression wrought by this fairy sign-manual varied exceedingly according to the difference of temperament in the beholders. Some fastidious persons — but they were ex- clusively of her own sex — affirmed that the bloody hand, as they chose to call it, quite destroyed the effect of Georgi- ana's beauty and rendered her countenance even hideous. But it would be as reasonable to say that one of those small THE BIRTHMARK 327 blue stains which sometimes occur in the purest statuary marble would convert the Eve of Powers to a monster. Mas- culine observers, if the birthmark did not heighten their admiration, contented themselves with wishing it away, that the world might possess one living specimen of ideal loveli- ness without the semblance of a flaw. After his marriage — for he thought little or nothing of the matter before — Aylmer discovered that this was the case with himself. Had she been less beautiful — if Envy's self could have found aught else to sneer at — he might have felt his affection heightened by the prettiness of this mimic hand, now vaguely portrayed, now lost, now stealing forth again and glimmer- ing to and fro with every pulse of emotion that throbbed within her heart; but, seeing her otherwise so perfect, he found this one defect grow more and more intolerable with every moment of their united lives. It was the fatal flaw of humanity which Nature, in one shape or another, stamps in- effaceably on all her productions, either to imply that they are temporary and finite, or that their perfection must be wrought by toil and pain. The crimson hand expressed the includible gripe in which mortality clutches the highest and purest of earthly mould, degrading them into kindred with the lowest, and even with the very brutes, like whom their visible frames return to dust. In this manner, selecting it as the symbol of his wife's liability to sin, sorrow, decay, and death, Aylmer's sombre imagination was not long in render- ing the birthmark a frightful object, causing him more trouble and horror than ever Georgiana's beauty, whether of soul or sense, had given him delight. At all the seasons which should have been their happiest he invariably, and without intending it, nay, in spite of a pur- pose to the contrary, reverted to this one disastrous topic. Trifling as it at first appeared, it so connected itself with in- numerable trains of thought and modes of feeling that it became the central point of all. With the morning twilight Aylmer opened his eyes upon his wife's face and recog- nised the symbol of imperfection; and when they sat together at the evening hearth his eyes wandered stealthily to her cheek, and beheld, flickering with the blaze of the wood-fire, the spectral hand that wrote mortality where he would fain have worshipped. Georgiana soon learned to 328 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY shudder at his gaze. It needed but a glance with the peculiar expression that his face often wore to change the roses of her cheek into a deathlike paleness, amid which the crimson hand was brought strongly out, like a bas-relief of ruby on the whitest marble. Late one night, when the lights were growing dim so as hardly to betray the stain on the poor wife's cheek, she her- self, for the first time, voluntarily took up the subject. " Do you remember, my dear Aylmer," said she, with a feeble attempt at a smile, " have you any recollection, of a dream last night about this odious hand?" " None ! none whatever ! " replied Aylmer, starting ; but then he added, in a dry, cold tone, affected for the sake of concealing the real depth of his emotion, " I might well dream of it; for, before I fell asleep, it had taken a pretty firm hold of my fancy." "And you did dream of it ? " continued Georgiana, hastily ; for she dreaded lest a gush of tears should interrupt what she had to say. " A terrible dream ! I wonder that you can for- get it. Is it possible to forget this one expression ? — * It is in her heart now ; we must have it out ! ' Reflect, my husband ; for by all means I would have you recall that dream." The mind is in a sad state when Sleep, the all-involving, cannot confine her spectres within the dim region of her sway, but suffers them to break forth, affrighting this actual life with secrets that perchance belong to a deeper one. Aylmer novv^ remembered his dream. He had fancied himself with his servant Aminadab attempting an operation for the removal of the birthmark; but the deeper went the knife, the deeper sank the hand, until at length its tiny grasp appeared to have caught hold of Georgiana's heart ; whence, however, her hus- band was inexorably resolved to cut or wrench it away. When the dream had shaped itself perfectly in his mem- ory, Aylmer sat in his wife's presence with a guilty feeling. Truth often finds its way to the mind close-muffled in robes of sleep, and then speaks with uncompromising directness of matters in regard to which we practise an unconscious self- deception during our waking moments. Until now he had not been aware of the tyrannising influence acquired by one idea over his mind, and of the lengths which he might find in his heart to go for the sake of giving himself peace. THE BIRTHMARK 3^9 " Aylmer," resumed Georgiana, solemnly, " I know not what may be the cost to both of us to rid me of this fatal birthmark. Perhaps its removal may cause cureless deform- ity; or it may be th« stain goes as deep as life itself. Again: do we know that there is a possibility, on any terms, of un- clasping the firm gripe of this little hand which was laid upon me before I came into the world ? " " Dearest Georgiana, I have spent much thought upon the subject," hastily interrupted Aylmer. " I am convinced of the perfect practicability of its removal." " If there be the remotest possibility of it," continued Georgiana, " let the attempt be made, at whatever risk. Danger is nothing to me; for life, while this hateful mark makes me the object of your horror and disgust — life is a burden which I would fling down with joy. Either remove this dreadful hand, or take my wretched life ! You have deep science. All the world bears witness to it. You have achieved great wonders. Cannot you remove this little, little mark, which I cover with the tips of two small fingers? Is this beyond your power, for the sake of your own peace, and to save your poor wife from madness?" " Noblest, dearest, tenderest wife," cried Aylmer, rap- turously, " doubt not my power. I have already given this matter the deepest thought — thought which might almost have enlightened me to create a being less perfect than your- self. Georgiana, you have led me deeper than ever into the heart of science. I feel myself fully competent to render this dear cheek as faultless as its fellow ; and then, most beloved, what will be my triumph when I shall have corrected what Nature left imperfect in her fairest work ! Even Pygmalion, when his sculptured woman assumed life, felt not greater ecstasy than mine will be." " It is resolved, then," said Georgiana, faintly smiling. " And, Aylmer, spare me not, though you should find the birthmark take refuge in my heart at last." Her husband tenderly kissed her cheek — her right cheek — not that which bore the impress of the crimson hand. The next day Aylmer apprised his wife of a plan that he had formed whereby he might have opportunity for the in- tense thought and constant watchfulness which the proposed operation would require; while Georgiana, likewise, would 3$^ THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY enjoy the perfect repose essential to its success. They were to seclude themselves in the extensive apartments occupied by Aylmer as a laboratory, and where, during his toilsome youth, he had made discoveries in the elemental powers of nature that had roused the admiration of all the learned societies in Europe. Seated calmly in this laboratory, the pale philoso- pher had investigated the secrets of the highest cloud-region and of the profoundest mines; he had satisfied himself of the causes that kindled and kept alive the fires of the volcano; and had explained the mystery of fountains, and how it is that they gush forth, some so bright and pure, and others with such rich medicinal virtues, from the dark bosom of the earth. Here, too, at an earlier period, he had studied the wonders of the human frame, and attempted to fathom the very process by which Nature assimilates all her precious influences from earth and air, and from the spiritual world, to create and foster man, her masterpiece. The latter pursuit, however, Aylmer had long laid aside in unwilling recognition of the truth — against which all seekers sooner or later stumble — that our great creative Mother, while she amuses us with apparently working in the broadest sunshine, is yet severely careful to keep her own secrets, and, in spite of her pretended openness, shows us nothing but results. She permits us, in- deed, to mar, but seldom to mend, and, like a jealous patentee, on no account to make. Now, however, Aylmer resumed these half- forgotten investigations ; not, of course, with such hopes or wishes as first suggested them, but because they involved much physiological truth and lay in the path of his proposed scheme for the treatment of Georgiana. As he led her over the threshold of the laboratory Georgi- ana was cold and tremulous. Aylmer looked cheerfully into her face, with intent to reassure her, but was so startled with the intense glow of the birthmark upon the whiteness of her cheek that he could not restrain a strong convulsive shudder. His wife fainted. " Aminadab ! Aminadab !" shouted Aylmer, stamping vio- lently on the floor. Forthwith there issued from an inner apartment a man of low stature, but bulky frame, with shaggy hair hanging about his visage, which was grimed with the vapours of the fur- nace. This personage had been Aylmer's underworker during THE BIRTHMARIC H^ • his whole scientific career, and was admirably fitted for that office by his great mechanical readiness, and the skill with which, while incapable of comprehending a single principle, he executed all the details of his master's experiments. With his vast strength, his shaggy hair, his smoky aspect, and the indescribable earthiness that encrusted him, he seemed to represent man's physical nature; while Aylmer's slender fig- ure, and pale, intellectual face, were no less apt a type of the spiritual element. " Throw open the door of the boudoir, Aminadab," said Aylmer, " and burn a pastil." " Yes, master," answered Aminadab, looking intently at the lifeless form of Georgiana ; and then he muttered to him- self : " If she were my wife, I'd never part with that birth- mark." When Georgiana recovered consciousness she found her- self breathing an atmosphere of penetrating fragrance, the gentle potency of which had recalled her from her deathlike faintness. The scene around her looked like enchantment. Aylmer had converted those smoky, dingy, sombre rooms, where he had spent his brightest years in recondite pursuits, into a series of beautiful apartments not unfit to be the se- cluded abode of a lovely woman. The walls were hung with gorgeous curtains, which imparted the combination of gran- deur and grace that no other species of adornment can achieve ; and, as they fell from the ceiling to the floor, their rich and ponderous folds, concealing all angles and straight lines, appeared to shut in the scene from infinite space. For aught Georgiana knew, it might be a pavilion among the clouds. And Aylmer, excluding the sunshine, which would have interfered with his chemical processes, had supplied its place with perfumed lamps, emitting flames of various hue, but all uniting in a soft, empurpled radiance. He now knelt by his wife's side, watching her earnestly, but without alarm ; for he was confident in his science, and felt that he could draw a magic circle round her within which no evil might intrude. " Where am I ? Ah, I remember," said Georgiana, faint- ly; and she placed her hand over her cheek to hide the terrible mark from her husband's eyes. " Fear not, dearest ! " exclaimed he. " Do not shrink from 33^ THE book: op THE SHORT STORY me ! Believe me, Georgiana, I even rejoice in this single imperfection, since it will be such a rapture to remove it." " O spare me ! " sadly replied his wife. " Pray do not look at it again. I never can forget that convulsive shudder." In order to soothe Georgiana, and, as it were, to release her mind from the burden of actual things, Aylmer now put in practice some of the light and playful secrets which science had taught him among its profounder lore. Airy figures, absolutely bodiless ideas, and forms of unsubstantial beauty came and danced before her, imprinting their momentary footsteps on beams of light. Though she had some indistinct idea of the method of these optical phenomena, still the illusion was almost perfect enough to warrant the belief that her husband possessed sway over the spiritual world. Then again, when she felt a wish to look forth from her seclusion, immediately, as if her thoughts were answered, the proces- sion of external existence flitted across a screen. The scenery and the figures of actual life were perfectly represented but with that bewitching yet indescribable difference which al- ways makes a picture, an image, or a shadow so much more attractive than the original. When wearied of this, Aylmer bade her cast her eyes upon a vessel containing a quantity of earth. She did so, with little interest at first; but was soon startled to perceive the germ of a plant shooting upward from the soil. Then came the slender stalk ; the leaves grad- ually unfolded themselves ; and amid them was a perfect and lovely flower. " It is magical ! " cried Georgiana. " I dare not touch it." " Nay, pluck it," answered Aylmer — " pluck it, and inhale its brief perfume while you may. The flower will wither in a few moments and leave nothing save its brown seed-vessels ; but thence may be perpetuated a race as ephemeral as itself." But Georgiana had no sooner touched the flower than the whole plant suffered a blight, its leaves turning coal-black as if by the agency of fire. " There was too powerful a stimulus," said Aylmer, thoughtfully. To make up for this abortive experiment, he proposed to take her portrait by a scientific process of his own invention. It was to be effected by rays of light striking upon a polished plate of metal. Georgiana assented; but, on looking at the THE BIRTHMARK 333 result, was affrighted to find the features of the portrait blurred and indefinable; while the minute figure of a hand appeared where the cheek should have been. Aylmer snatched the metallic plate and threw it into a jar of cor- rosive acid. • Soon, however, he forgot these mortifying failures. In the intervals of study and chemical experiment he came to her flushed and exhausted, but seemed invigorated by her presence, and spoke in glowing language of the resources of his art. He gave a history of the long dynasty of the alche- mists, who spent so many ages in quest of the universal sol- vent by which the golden principle might be elicited from all things vile and base. Aylmer appeared to believe that, by the plainest scientific logic, it was altogether within the limits of possibility to discover this long-sought medium. " But," he a^ded, " a philosopher who should go deep enough to acquire the power would attain too lofty a wisdom to stoop to the exercise of it." Not less singular were his opinions in regard to the eHxir vitae. He more than intimated that it was at his option to concoct a liquid that should prolong life for years, perhaps interminably ; but that it would produce a discord in nature which all the world, and chiefly the quaffer of the immortal nostrum, would find cause to curse. " Aylmer, are you in earnest ? " asked Georgiana, look- ing at him with amazement and fear. " It is terrible to possess such power, or even to dream of possessing it." " O, do not tremble, my love," said her husband. " I would not wrong either you or myself by working such in- harmonious effects upon our lives; but I would have you consider how trifling, in comparison, is the skill requisite to remove this little hand." At the mention of the birthmark, Georgiana, as usual, shrank as if a red-hot iron had touched her cheek. Again Aylmer applied himself to his labours. She could hear his voice in the distant furnace-room giving directions to Aminadab, whose harsh, uncouth, misshapen tones were audible in response, more like the grunt or growl of a brute than human speech. After hours of absence, Aylmer reap- peared and proposed that she should now examine his cab- inet of chemical products and natural treasures of the earth. Among the former he showed her a small vial, in which, he 334 THE BOOK OF THE SHORT STORY remarked, was contained a gentle yet most powerful fra- grance, capable of impregnating all the breezes that blow across a kingdom. They were of inestimable value, the con- tents of that little vial ; and, as he said so, he threw some of the perfume into the air and *filled the room with piercing and invigorating delight. " And what is this ? " asked Georgiana. pointing to a small crystal globe containing a gold-coloured liquid. " It is so beautiful to the eye that I could imagine it the elixir of life." " In one sense it is/' replied Aylmer ; " or rather, the elixir of immortality. It is the most precious poison that ever was concocted in this world. By its aid I could apportion the lifetime of any mortal at whom you might point your finger. The strength of the dose would determine whether he were to linger out years, or drop dead in the midst of a breath. No king on his guarded throne could keep his life if I, in i»y private station, should deem that the welfare of millions jus- tified me in depriving him of it." "Why do you keep such a terrific drug?" inquired Georgiana, in horror. " Do not mistrust me, dearest," said her husband, smiling; " its virtuous potency is yet greater than its harmful one. But see ! here is a powerful cosmetic. With a few drops of this in a vase of water, freckles may be washed away as easily as the hands are cleansed. A stronger infusion would take the blood out of the cheek, and leave the rosiest beauty a pale ghost." "Is it with this lotion that you intend to bathe my cheek? " asked Georgiana, anxiously. " O, no," hastily replied her husband; " this is merely su- perficial. Your case demands a remedy that shall go deeper." In his interviews with Georgiana, Aylmer generally made minute inquiries as to her sensations, and whether the con- finement of the rooms and the temperature of the atmos- ph