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THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME
THE
SWEET-SCENTED NAME

AND OTHER FAIRY TALES, FABLES
AND STORIES

BY

FEDOR SOLOGUB

EDITED BY

STEPHEN GRAHAM

NEW YORK
G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS

1915

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CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION .

. WINes

. Tue Sweet-Scentep Name

TURANDINA

LouENGRIN

. Wuo art Tuou?

Tue Dress or THE Lity anp oF THE CABBAGE
SHE wHo worE sa Crown

Tue Deticate Cuitp

Tue Bit or Canny.

Tue Lump or Sugar : ; F ‘ A

. Tue Bui

Tue Go.tpeNn Post . ‘ - ‘ ‘ ‘
So arosE a MIsuNDERSTANDING

Frocs

. Tue Lapy in Ferrers . ‘ ‘ : 3
. Tue Kiss or THE Unsorn

. THe Hunery Gieam

PAGE
vii

12
34
67
87
89
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
106
118
135
18.
19.
20.
21.
22.
23.
24,
25.
26.
27.
28.
29.

THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

Tue Littie Stick .

EqQua.ity

ADVENTURES OF A CoBBLE-STONE
Tue Future .

Tue Roap ann THE Licut
Tue Keys

Tur INDEPENDENT Leaves

Tue Crrson Risson

Stavers oF InNoceNnT Bases
Tue Herawp or THE Beast
On THE OTHER Sipe oF THE River Mairure .

Tue CaNnDLEs .

vi

PAGE

151
152
153
155
157
159
161
162
188
202
216
239
INTRODUCTION

EDOR SOLOGUB is one of the
cleverest of contemporary Russian
tale-writers and poets. He ranks with

Tchekhof and Kuprin and Remizof, though
he has very little in common with these
writers. He is not a realist; he does not love
to comment on life as ‘Tchekhof did, nor to—
flood his pages ‘with delicious details as does
Kuprin; he has nothing of either the melan-
choly or the energy of Gorky. He is more
modern than these; he scents new thoughts,
and endeavours to find a new medium of
style an le and language to present them. to his age. :
His genius lies in the power he has to suggest _
atmosphere. ‘He can cast the reader into a
erence rr
spell and then say magical sentences in his
ears—it may be a sweet spell as in “‘ Turan-
dina” or a terrible one as in “‘ The Herald
vu
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

of the Beast,’’ but the reader is infallibly
beguiled out of the everyday atmosphere
into the mirage or phantasy or trance which
the author, who is a sort of Prospero, wishes.

Apart from this magic, Sologub possesses
and exhibits a pleasant sense of humour.
His witty fables, of which only a few are
interspersed in these pages, are famous in
Russia. In politics he is a Liberal, and is
capable of biting satire. Like Biely and
Andreef and Kuprin, and many another
Russian writer, he was infected by despair
after the Russo-Japanese war and the bloody
revolutionary era. The literature of 1906,
1907, 1908 was marked by hysteria, and
several of Sologub’s tales of that time are
incoherent through grief. But as the years
go on he is quickly convalescent. As Russia
righted herself he recovered, and in the time
before the great war of 1914 he is found in
haleyon mood. One_would-hardly——dream
that. public events and the political well-
being of his nation could “affect the-author
of such stories as these, and yet_th there is
always the reflection of the Russia of “the

heur-in the story of the hour. Such respon-

viii

 
INTRODUCTION

siveness to national moods is characteristic
of national life. ~~

Sologub’s works comprise two novels,
The Little Demon and Drops of Blood, a
volume of poems, some essays, and about a
dozen volumes of short tales. This volume,
which my wife and I have selected and
translated, is offered as a foretaste of some
very remarkable work.

Russia is the land of such short tales.
Long novels are exceptional and not very
popular. Nearly all Russian writers of note
to-day are either poets or essayists or short-
story writers. Tchekhof, who wrote some
twenty volumes of little tales, really made the
short story popular. ‘“‘ I have made a way
for this sort of writing,” he is reported to
have said to Kuprin. “ After me it will be
easy for others to go on writing such tales.”
The prophecy has been fulfilled. More than
eighty per cent of the fiction published since
his death has been collections of little stories.

Fedor Sologub is one of the cleverest of
these writers of tales. He has reduced the
short story to a minimum, and some of his

cleverest efforts do not exceed half a page
ix
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

in length. Many are little more than epi-
grams, and give one the idea that they were
probably written at the oddest moments,
between courses at dinner, whilst waiting
for an answer to a riddle, in bed, in cabs.
The author is notoriously eccentric in life.
Most of these stories were originally pub-
lished in Russian newspapers, and only after
some time collected into volumes. The
Russian newspapers give the hospitality of
their columns to many short stories and
sketches. Long-winded serials are almost
unknown in the press, and indeed the public
demands a type of literature much higher
than that which commonly adorns the
columns of our British daily papers. The
feuilleton of the Russian newspaper is gener-
ally either a quarter-page article written by
one of the brilliant publicists of the day, such
as Rozanof or Merezhkovsky, or a short
tale by Sologub or Kuprin or Gorky, or
one or other of the great Russian tale-writers.
A great number of Sologub’s stories have, for
instance, appeared in the Reich. Of those
given in the present volume, “ Lohengrin,”
‘““Who art Thou?” and “The Hungry

x
INTRODUCTION

Gleam” appeared in the Retch; ‘She
who wore a Crown” in the Russian Word;
‘““Turandina’”’ in the Voice of the Earth;
“The Kiss of the Unborn” in the Morning
of Russia; ‘‘ The River Mairure” in Our Life;
“The Crimson Ribbon” in the New Word—
all daily newspapers of Russia. All the
stories were written within the last ten
years. Of these translations “ Wings” and
“The Sweet-scented Name” appeared in
Country Life, and that journal retains the
right to reproduce them in a volume of
Russian fairy-tales and fables if it so desires.

STEPHEN GRAHAM.

Xi
ry

Wings

she wept. The farmer’s daughter
came by and asked, ‘‘ What are
you blubbering about ? ”

““T haven’t got any wings,” cried the
peasant girl. ‘Oh, I wish I could grow
some wings.”

“You stupid!” said the farmer’s
daughter. “Of course you haven’t got
wings. What do you want wings for ?”

“I want to fly up into the sky and sing
my little songs there,” answered the little
peasant girl.

Then the farmer’s daughter was angry,
and said again, ‘“‘ You stupid! How can
you ever expect to grow wings’? Your
father’s only a farm-labourer. They might
grow on me, but not on you.”

When the farmer’s daughter had said
that, she went away to the well, sprinkled
some water on her shoulders, and stood out
among the vegetables in the garden, waiting

1 B

A PEASANT girl was feeding geese, and
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

for her wings to sprout. She really believed
the sun would bring them out quite soon.

But in a little while a merchant’s daughter
came along the road and called out to the
girl who was trying to grow wings in the
garden, ““What are you doing standing
out there, red face ? ”’

‘““T am growing wings,” said the farmer’s
daughter. ‘I want to fly.”

Then the merchant’s daughter laughed
loudly, and cried out, ‘‘ You stupid farm-
girl; if you had wings they would only be
a weight on your back.”

The merchant’s daughter thought she
knew who was most likely to grow wings.
And when she went back to the town where
she lived she bought some olive-oil and
rubbed it on her shoulders, and went out
into the garden and waited for her wings to
grow.

By and by a young lady of the Court came
along and said to her, ‘‘ What are you doing
out there, my child ?”

When the tradesman’s daughter said that
she was growing wings, the young lady’s
face flushed and she looked quite vexed.
‘** That’s not for you to do,” she said. “ It
is only real ladies who can grow wings.”

And she went on home, and when she got

2
WINGS

indoors she filled a tub with milk and bathed
herself in it, and then went into her garden
and stood in the sun and waited for her
wings to come out.

Presently a princess passed by the garden,
and when she saw the young lady standing
there she sent a servant to inquire what she
was doing. The servant came back and
told her that as the young lady had wanted
to be able to fly she had bathed herself in
milk and was waiting for her wings to grow.

The princess laughed scornfully and ex-
claimed, ‘‘ What a foolish girl! She’s giving
herself trouble for nothing. No one who is
not a princess can ever grow wings.”

The princess turned the matter over in
her mind, and when she arrived at her father’s
palace she went into her chamber, anointed
herself with sweet-smelling perfumes, and
then went down into the palace garden to
wait for her wings to come.

Very soon all the young girls in the
country round about went out into their
gardens and stood among the vegetables
so that they might get wings.

The Fairy of the Wings heard about this
strange happening and she flew down to
earth, and, looking at the waiting girls,
she said, “If I give you all wings and let

3
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

_ you all go flying in the sky, who will want
to stay at home to cook the porridge and
look after the children? I had better only
give wings to one of you, namely to her who
wanted them first of all.”

So wings grew from the little peasant
girl’s shoulders, and she was able to fly up
into the sky and sing.
The Sweet-Scented Nam=

bed. And in heaven God called

an angel to His side and bade her
go down to earth and dance before the little
girl and amuse her. But the angel thought
it unbecoming to her dignity to dance before
the people of the earth.

And God knew the proud thoughts of the
angel and ordained a punishment for her.
She was born into the world of men and
became a little child there—a princess in
a royal house—and she forgot all that she
had known of heaven and her ‘former life,
forgot even her own name.

Now the angel had been called by a name
of purity and fragrance, and the people of
the earth know no such names as these.
So when she became an earthly princess she
had only. a human name, and was called
the Princess Margaret.

When the little princess grew up she
often felt as if she wanted to remember

5

A LITTLE peasant girl lay ill in her
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

something she had once known, but she
could not think what it: might be, and she
became unhappy because she could not
remember.

One day she asked her father :

‘* How is it we cannot hear the sunshine ? ”

The king smiled at the question, but he
could not answer it, and the little princess
looked very grieved.

Another day she said to her mother :

‘““The roses smell very sweet; how is
it I cannot see their scent?” And when
her mother laughed at the strange question
the princess felt sadder than ever.

Some time afterwards she came to her
nurse and said :

‘How is it that names are not sweet-
scented ? ”

The old nurse laughed at her, and again
the princess was grieved that no one could
answer any of her questions. Then a rumour
went about the land that the king’s daughter
was different from other people, and that
her mind was weak. And everybody tried
to think of some means to cure her and
make her well.

She was a quiet and melancholy child,
and was always asking strange and unusual
questions. She was thin and pale, and no

6
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

one thought her beautiful. But she grew
older, and at last the time came for her to
marry. Many young princes came to her
father’s court to woo her, but when she began
to talk to them no one wanted to have her
as a wife. At last a prince named Maxi-
milian arrived, and when the princess saw
him she said to him:

“With us human beings everything seems
quite separate from other things—I can
only hear words, I cannot smell them; and
though I can see flowers and smell their
scent, yet I cannot hear them. It makes
life dull and uninteresting, don’t you think ?”’

“What would make life more beautiful
for you ?” said Maximilian.

The princess was silent for some time,
but at last she said, ‘‘ I should so much like
to have a sweet-smelling name.”

“Yes, fair princess,” said he, “‘ the name
Margaret is not nearly good enough for you.
You ought to have a name of sweet fragrance,
but there are no such names known upon
the earth.” Then the poor little princess
wept sad tears, and Maximilian felt very
sorry for her, and he loved her more than
any one else in the whole world. He tried
to comfort her by saying, “Do not weep,
dear princess. I will try and find out if

7
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

there are such names, and come and tell
you of them.”

The princess smiled through her tears
and said, “If you can find for me a name
which gives forth a sweet odour when it is
spoken, then I will kiss your stirrup-leather.”
And she blushed as she said this, for she
was a princess and very proud.

Hearing this, Maximilian grew bolder
and said, ‘‘ And will you then be my wife ? ”
And the princess answered that she would.

So Maximilian departed to search through-
out all the world until he found a name
which would give forth a sweet fragrance and
perfume the air when it was spoken. He
travelled into far lands and made inquiries
of rich and poor, learned and ignorant;
but everybody laughed at his quest, and
told him he had set out upon a foolish
errand. At last, after long journeying, he
came again to the town where the princess
dwelt. Just outside the town was a peasant’s
cottage, and at the door stood an old white-
haired man. As soon as Maximilian saw
him he thought in his heart “ the old man
will know,” and he went up to him and told
him of his quest, and how he was in search
of a sweet-smelling name.

The old man looked up gladly and

8
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

answered at once, “‘ Yes, yes; there is such
a name—a holy and spiritual name it is. I
myself do not know this name, but my
little grandchild has heard it.”

So Maximilian went with the old man
into the poor cottage, and there he saw a
little peasant girl lying ill in her bed. The
old man went up to her and said, ‘“ Doonia,
here is a gentleman who wants to know
the holy name you told me of; can you
remember it and tell him ?”

The little girl looked joyfully at Maxi-
milian and smiled sweetly at him, but she
could not remember the wonderful name.
She told the prince that in a dream an
angel had come to her and danced before
her, and as she watched the angel she saw
that his garment was of many colours, like
a soft rainbow. Then the angel had talked
to her, and had told her that soon another
angel would come and visit her and would
dance before her in still more beautiful
colours than those she had seen. He told
her the angel’s name, and as she heard the
name she smelt a delicious fragrance, and
all the air was filled with a sweet scent.
** But now,” said the child, ‘‘I cannot
remember that wonderful name, though it
still makes me happy to think about it.

9
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

If only I could remember it and say it myself
I think I should be quite well again. But
the beautiful angel will soon come, and
then I shall remember the name.”

Maximilian went away to the palace
and told the princess all that had befallen
him, and she came with him to the cottage
to visit the sick girl. As soon as she saw
the child she was filled with pity for her,
and sat down by her side and petted her,
and tried to think of something that would
amuse her and make her forget her pain.

By and by she got up and began to dance
before the sick child, clapping her hands
together, and singing. And as the little
girl watched the princess she saw all kinds
of lovely colours and heard many beautiful
sounds. She felt very happy, and she
laughed aloud in her happiness. And sud-
denly she remembered the name of the
angel and spoke it aloud. And all the
cottage was filled with a sweet scent as of
flowers.

Then the princess. remembered all she
had been trying to recall, and she knew that
the sweet-scented name that she had been
seeking was her own heavenly name, and
she remembered why she had been sent
upon the earth.

10
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

The little peasant girl soon became quite
well, and the princess married Maximilian
and lived with him happily on the earth
until the time came for her to return to her
heavenly home and God’s eternal kingdom.

ll
Turandina

I

ETER ANTONOVITCH BULANIN

Pp was spending the summer in the

country with the family of his cousin,

a teacher of philology. Bulanin himself was

a young advocate of thirty years of age,

having finished his course at the University
only two years before.

The past year had been a comparatively
fortunate one. He had successfully defended
two criminal cases on the nomination of the
Court, as well as a civil case undertaken at
the instigation of his own heart. All three
cases had been won by his brilliant pleading.
The jury had acquitted the young man who
had killed his father out of pity because the
old man fasted too assiduously and suffered
in consequence; they had acquitted the
poor seamstress who had thrown vitriol at
the girl her lover wished to marry; and in
the civil court the judge had awarded the
plaintiff a hundred and fifty roubles, saying

12
TURANDINA

that his rights were indisputable, though
the defendant asserted that the sum had
previously been paid. For all this good
work Peter Antonovitch himself had received
only fifteen roubles, this money having been
paid to him by the man who had received
the hundred and fifty.

But, as will be understood, one cannot
live a whole year on fifteen roubles, and
Peter Antonovitch had to fall back on his
own resources, that is, on the money his
father sent him from home. As far as the
law was concerned there was as yet nothing
for him but fame.

But his fame was not at present great,
and as his receipts from his father were
but moderate Peter Antonovitch often fell
into a despondent and elegiac mood. He
looked on life rather pessimistically, and
captivated young ladies by the eloquent
pallor of his face and by the sarcastic
utterances which he gave forth on every
possible occasion.

One evening, after a sharp thunder-storm
had cleared and refreshed the air, Peter
Antonovitch went out for a walk alone. He
wandered along the narrow field-paths until
he found himself far from home.

A picture of entrancing beauty stretched

13
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

itself out before him, canopied by the bright-
blue dome of heaven besprinkled with
scattered cloudlets and illumined by the
soft and tender rays of the departing sun.
The narrow path by which he had come led
along the high bank of a stream rippling
along in the winding curves of its narrow
bed—the shallow water of the stream was
transparent and gave a pleasant sense of
cool freshness. It looked as if one need
only step into it to be at once filled with the
joy of simple happiness, to feel as full of life
and easy grace of movement as the rosy-
bodied boys bathing there.

Not far away were the shades of the
quiet forest; beyond the river lay an im-
mense semi-circular plain, dotted here and
there with woods and villages, a dusty ribbon
of a road curving snake-like across it. On
the distant horizon gleamed golden stars,
the crosses of far-away churches and belfries
shining in the sunlight.

Everything looked fresh and sweet and
simple, yet Peter Antonovitch was sad.
And it seemed to him that his sadness was
but intensified by the beauty around; as if
some evil tempter were seeking to allure
him to evil by some entrancing vision.

For to Peter Antonovitch all this earthly

14
TURANDINA

beauty, all this enchantment of the eyes,
all this delicate sweetness pouring itself
into his young and vigorous body, was only
as a veil of golden tissue spread out by the
devil to hide from the simple gaze of nia
the impurity, the imperfection, and the evi
of Nature.

This life, adorning itself in beauty and }
breathing forth perfumes, was ing, reglity,
thought Peter Antdonovitch, only the’ dull
prosaic iron chain of cause and effect—the
burdensome slavery from which mankind
could never get free.

Tortured by such thoughts Peter Antono-
vitch had often felt himself as unhappy as
if in him there had awakened the soul of
some ancient monster who had howled
piteously outside the village at night. And
now he thought : .

“If only a fairy-tale could come into
one’s life and for a time upset the ordered
arrangement of pre-determined Fate! Oh,
fairy-tale, fashioned by the wayward desires
of men who are in captivity to life and who
cannot be reconciled to their captivity—
sweet fairy-tale, where art thou ? ”

He remembered an article he had read
the day before in a magazine, written by
the Minister of Education ; some words in it

15
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

had specially haunted his memory. The
article spoke of the old fairy-tale tradition
of the forest enchantress, Turandina. She
had loved a shepherd and had left for him
her enchanted home, and with him had
lived some happy years on earth until she
had been recalled by the mysterious voices
of the forest. She had gone away, but the
happy years had remained as a grateful
memory to mankind.

Peter Anténovitch gave himself up to ~
the fancy—oh for the fairy-tale, for a few
enchanted years, a few days...! And
he cried aloud and said :

** Turandina, where art thou ? ”’

II

The sun was low down in the sky. The
calm of even had fallen on the spreading
fields. The neighbouring forest was hushed.
No sound was heard, the air was still, and
the grass still sparkling with raindrops was
motionless.

It was a moment when the desires a
a man fulfil themselves, the one moment '
which perhaps comes once in his life to every |
man. It seemed that all around was waiting '
in a tension of expectation.

16
TURANDINA

Looking before him into the shining
misty vapour, Peter Antonovitch cried

again : :

‘“* Turandina, where art thou ? ”’

And under the spell of the silence that f
encompassed him, his own separate in- |’

dividual will became one with the great
universal Will, and with great power and
authority he spoke as only once in his life
a man has power to speak :

** Turandina, come!”

And in a sweet and gentle voice he heard
the answer : :

“‘T am here.” Fi

Peter Antonovitch trembled and looke
about. Everything seemed again quite
ordinary and his soul was as usual the soul
of a poor human being, separate from the
universal Soul—he was again an ordinary
man, just like you and me, who dwell in
days and hours of time. Yet before him
stood she whom he had called.

She was a beautiful maiden, wearing a
narrow circlet of gold upon her head, and
dressed in a short white garment. Her long
plaits of hair came below her waist and
seemed to have taken to themselves the
golden rays of the sunlight. Her eyes, as
she gazed intently at the young man, were

17 c

.
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

as blue as if in them a heaven revealed
itself, more clear and pure than the skies
of earth. Her features were so regular and
her hands and feet so well-formed, so perfect
were the lines of the figure revealed by the
folds of her dress that she seemed an embodi-
ment of perfect maiden loveliness. She
would have seemed like an angel from
heaven had not her heavy black eyebrows
met and so disclosed her witchery; if her
skin had not been dark as if tanned by the
rays of a burning sun.

Peter Antonovitch could not speak for
wonder at her, and she spoke first :

“Thou didst call me and so I came to
thee. Thou calledst to me just when I was
in need of an earthly shelter in the world of
men. Thou wilt take me to thy home. I
have nothing of my own except this crown
upon my brow, this dress, and this wallet
in my hand.”

She spoke quietly, so quietly that the
tones of her voice could not have been heard
above earthly sounds. But so clear was her
speech and so tender its tone that even the
most indifferent man would have been touched
by the least sound of her voice.

When she spoke about going home with
him and of her three possessions, Peter

18
TURANDINA

Antonovitch saw that she held in her hand
a little bag of red leather drawn together
by a golden cord—a very simple and beauti-
ful little bag; something like those in
which ladies carry their opera-glasses to the
theatre.

Then he asked :

“* And who art thou ? ”

““T am Turandina, the daughter of King
Turandon. My father loved me greatly,
but I did that which was not for me to do—
out of simple curiosity I disclosed the future
of mankind. For this my father was dis-
pleased with me and drove me from his
kingdom. Some day I shall be forgiven
and recalled to my father’s home. But now
for a time I must dwell among men, and to
me have been given these three things:
a golden crown, the sign of my birth; a
white garment, my poor covering; and
this wallet, which contains all that I shall
need. It is good that I have met with thee.
Thou art a man who defendeth the unhappy,
and who devoteth his life to the triumph
of Truth among men. Take me with thee
to thy home; thou wilt never regret thy
deed.”

Peter Antonovitch did not know what to
do or what to think. One thing was clear :

19
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

this maiden, dressed so lightly, speaking so
strangely, must be sheltered by him; he
could not leave her alone in the forest, far
from any human dwelling.

He thought she might be a runaway,
hiding her real name and inventing some
unlikely story. Perhaps she had escaped
from an asylum, or from her own home.

There was nothing in her face or in her
appearance, however, except her scanty
clothing and her words, to indicate anything
strange in her mind. She was perfectly
quiet and calm. If she called herself
Turandina it was doubtless because she
had heard some one mention the name, or
she might even have read the fairy-story
of Turandina.

III

With such thoughts in his mind Peter
Antonovitch said to the beautiful unknown :

“Very well, dear young lady, I will take
you home with me. But I ought to warn
you that I do not live alone, and therefore
I advise you to tell me your real name.
I’m afraid that my relatives will not believe
that you are the daughter of King Turandon.
As far as I know there is no such king at
the present time.”

20
TURANDINA

Turandina smiled as she said :

““T have told thee the truth, whether thy
people believe it or not. It is sufficient for
me that thou shouldst believe. And if
thou believest me, thou wilt defend me from
all evil and from all unhappiness, for thou
art a man who hast chosen for thyself the
calling in which thou canst uphold the truth
and defend the weak.”

Peter Antonovitch shrugged ‘his shoulders.

“If you persist in this story,” answered
he, ‘‘ I must wash my hands of the matter,
and I cannot be answerable for any possible
consequences. Of course I will take you
home with me until you can find a more
suitable place, and I will do all I can to help
you. But as a lawyer I very strongly advise
you not to hide your real name.”

Turandina listened to him with a smile,
and when he stopped speaking she said :

‘““Do not be at all anxious; everything
will be well. Thou wilt see that I shall
bring happiness to thee if thou canst show
me kindness and love. And do not speak
to me so much about my real name. I have
spoken the truth to thee, and more I may
not say, it is forbidden me to tell thee all.
Take me home with thee. Night is coming on;
I have journeyed far and am in need of rest.”

21
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

““ Peter Antonovitch was quick to apolo-
gise.

‘““Ah, pardon me, please. I am sorry
that this is such an out-of-the-way place ;
it’s quite impossible to get a carriage.”

He began to walk in the direction of his
home, and Turandina went with him. She
did not walk as though she were tired; her
feet seemed hardly to touch the ground,
though they had to walk over stiff clay and
sharp stones, and the moist grass and rain-
soaked pathway did not seem to soil her
little feet.

When they reached the high bank of the
river and could see the first houses of the
village, Peter Antonovitch glanced uneasily at
his companion and said somewhat awkwardly :

“* Pardon me, dear young lady . . .”

Turandina looked at him, and with a
little frown interrupted him, saying re-
proachfully :

““Hast thou forgotten who I am and
what is my name? I am Turandina, and
not ‘dear young lady.’ I am the daughter
of King Turandon.”

“Your pardon, please, Mademoiselle
Turandina—it is a very beautiful name,
though it is never used now—TI wanted to
ask you a question.”

22
TURANDINA

“Why dost thou speak so to me?”
asked Turandina, interrupting him once
more. ‘Speak not as to one of the young
ladies of thy acquaintance. Say ‘thou’ to
me, and address me as a true knight would
speak to his fair lady.”

She spoke with such insistence and
authority that Peter Antonovitch felt com-
pelled to obey. And when he turned to
Turandina and for the first time spoke to
her intimately and called her by her name,
he at once felt more at ease.

* Turandina, hast thou not a dress to
wear? My people would expect thee to wear
an ordinary dress.”

Turandina smiled once more and said :

““T don’t know. Is’nt my one garment
enough ? I was told that in this wallet I
should find everything that I should need
in the world of men. Take it and look
within; perhaps thou wilt find there what
thou desirest.”’

With these words she held out to him her
little bag. And as he pulled apart the cord
and opened it, Peter Antonovitch thought
to himself, “‘ It will be good if some one has
put in some kind of frock for her.”

He put his hand into the wallet and feeling
something soft he drew out a small parcel,

23
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

so small that Turandina could have closed
her hand over it. And when he unwrapped
the parcel, there was just what he wanted,
a dress such as most young girls were wearing
at that: time.

He helped Turandina to put it on, and
he fastened it for her, for, of course, it but-
toned at the back.

“Ts that all right now ?” asked Turan-
dina.

Peter Antonovitch looked regretfully at
the little bag. It looked much too small to
hold a pair of shoes. But he put in his
hand again and thought, “A pair of sandals
would do nicely.”

His fingers touched a little strap, and he
drew forth a tiny pair of golden sandals.
And then he dried her feet and put on
the sandals and fastened the straps for
her.

““ Now is everything all right?” asked
Turandina again.

There was such a humility in her voice
and gesture as she spoke that Peter Antono-
vitch felt quite happy. It would be quite
easy to manage her now, he thought. So
he said, ““Oh yes; we can get a hat later
on.”

24
TURANDINA

IV

And so there came a fairy-story into the
life of a man. Of course, it seemed some-
times as if the young lawyer’s life were quite
unsuited for such a thing. His relatives
were utterly unable to believe the account
their young guest gave of herself, and even
Peter Antonovitch himself lacked faith.
Many times he begged Turandina to tell him
her real name, and he played various tricks
on her to trap her into confessing that her
story was not really true. But Turandina
was never angry at his persistence. She
smiled sweetly and simply, and with great
patience said over and over again :

“IT have told you the truth.”

‘* But where is the land over which King
Turandon reigns?” Peter Antonovitch
would ask.

“* It is far away,” Turandina would answer,
“‘ and yet if you wish it, it is near also. But
none of you can go thither. Only we who
have been born in the enchanted kingdom
of King Turandon can ever get to that
wonderful country.”

“But can you not show me how to go
there ?”’ asked Peter Antonovitch.

‘No, I cannot,” answered Turandina.

25
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

‘“* And can you return yourself ?” said he.

‘* Now, I cannot,” said she, ‘“‘ but when
my father calls me, I shall return.”

There was no sadness in her voice and
expression, nor any joy, as she spoke of her
expulsion from the enchanted land and of
her return. Her voice was always calm and
gentle. She looked on all she saw with in-
quiring eyes, as if seeing everything for the
first time, but with a quiet calmness, as if
knowing that she would soon become accus-
tomed to all new and strange things, and
would easily recognise them again. When
she once knew a thing she never made a
mistake nor confused it with anything else.
All ordinary rules of conduct that people
told her or that she herself noticed, were
lightly and easily followed, as if she had been
accustomed to them from her childhood.
She remembered names and faces of people
after having once seen them.

Turandina never quarrelled with any one,
and she never said anything untrue. When
she was advised to use the ordinary Society
evasions she shook her head and said :

““One must never say what is untrue.
The earth hears everything.”

At home and in the company of others
Turandina behaved with such dignity and

26
TURANDINA

graciousness that all who could believe in
a fairy-tale were obliged to believe that
they were in the presence of a beautiful
princess, the daughter of a great and wise
king.

But the fairy-tale was somewhat difficult
to reconcile with the ordinary life of the
young lawyer and his people. There was
a perpetual struggle between the two, and
many difficulties arose in consequence.

V

When Turandina had been living with the
family for a few days, an official came to the
house and said to the servant :

““They say there’s a young lady visitor
here. She must send in her passport and
have it signed.”

The servant told her mistress, who spoke
to her husband about the matter. He asked
Peter Antonovitch about the passport, and
the latter went to find Turandina and ask
her. Turandina was sitting on the verandah
reading a book with much enjoyment.

“ Turandina,’ said Peter Antonovitch,
going out to her. ‘‘ The police have sent to
ask for your passport. It must be sent to

be signed.”
27
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

Turandina listened very attentively to
what Peter Antonovitch had to say. And
then she asked :

“* What is a passport ? ”

““Oh, a passport,” said he, ‘don’t you
know, is — a passport. A paper on which
is written your name and your father’s
name, your age, your rank. You can’t
possibly live anywhere without a passport.”

“If it’s necessary,” said Turandina
calmly, “then, of course, it ought to be in
my little bag. Look, there’s the bag, take
it and see if the passport is inside.”

And in the wonderful little bag there was
found a passport—a small book in a brown
cover, which had been obtained in the
province of Astrakhan, in which was in-
scribed the name of the Princess Tamara
Timofeevna Turandon, seventeen years of
age, and unmarried. Everything was in
order: the seal, the official signature, the
signature of the princess herself, and so on,
just as in all passport books.

Peter Antonovitch looked at Turandina
and smiled :

“So that’s who you are,” said he, “ you
are a princess, and your name is Tamara.”

But Turandina shook her head.

** No,” said she, ‘‘ I’ve never been called

28
TURANDINA

Tamara. That passport doesn’t tell the
truth ; it’s only for the police and for those
people who do not know and cannot know
the truth. I am Turandina, the daughter of
King Turandon. Since I have lived in
this world I have learnt that people here
don’t want to know the truth. I don’t
know anything about the passport. Who-
ever put it in my little bag must have known
that I should need it. But for thee, my
word should be enough.”

After the passport had been signed Turan-
dina was known as the princess, or Tamara
Timofeevna, but her own people continued
to call her Turandina.

VI

Her own people—for they came to be
her own people. The fairy-tale came into
a man’s life, and as often happens in a fairy-
tale, so it now occurred in life. Peter
Antonovitch fell in love with Turandina and
Turandina loved him also. He made up
his mind to marry her, and this led to slight
difficulties in the family.

The teacher-cousin and his wife said :

“In spite of her mysterious origin and
her obstinate silence about her family, your

29
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

Turandina is a very dear girl, beautiful, in-
telligent, very good and capable, and well
brought up. In short, she is everything that
one could wish. But you ought to remember
that you have no money, and neither has
she. os

““ It will be difficult for two people to live
in Petersburg on the money your father
allows you.

““ Especially with a princess.

“You must remember that in spite of her
sweet ways she’s probably accustomed to
live in good style.

““She has véry small soft hands. True,
she has been ery modest here, and you say
she was barefoot when you met her first
and had very little clothing. But we don’t
know what kind of garments she will want
to wear in a town.”

Peter Antonovitch himself was rather
pessimistic at first. But by and by he
remembered how he had found a dress for
urandina in the little bag. A bold thought
came into his mind, and he smiled and said :

“I found a house-frock for Turandina
in her little bag. Perhaps if I were to
‘ummage in it again I might find a ball-
lress for her.”

But the teacher’s wife, a kind young

80
TURANDINA

woman with a genius for housekeeping,
said :

““Much better if you could find some
money. If only she had five hundred
roubles we could manage to get her a good
trousseau.”’

““ ‘We ought to find five hundred thousand
—for a princess’s dowry,” said Peter Antono-
vitch, laughing.

“Oh, a hundred thousand would be quite
enough for you,” laughed his cousin in
reply.

Just then Turandina came quietly up
the steps leading from the garden, and
Peter Antonovitch called to her and
said :

“Turandina, show me your little bag,
dear. Perhaps you have a hundred thousand
roubles there.”

Turandina held out her little bag to him
and said :

“If it’s necessary, you will find it in the
bag.” r

And Peter Antonovitch again put his
hand into the little bag and drew forth a
large packet of notes. He began to count
them, but without counting he could
see they represented a large quantity of
money.

31
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

VII

So this great fairy-tale came into the
young man’s life. And though it didn’t
seem well suited to the taking-in of a
fairy-tale, yet room was found for it some-
where. The fairy-tale bought a place in
his life—with its own charm and the treasures
of the enchanted bag.

Turandina and the young lawyer were
married. And Turandina had first a little
son and then a daughter. The boy was like
his mother, and grew up to be a gentle
dreamy child. The girl was like her father,
gay and intelligent.

And so the years went by. Every summer,
when the days were at their longest, a strange
melancholy overshadowed Turandina. She
used to go out in the mornings to the edge
of the forest and stand there listening to
the forest voices. And after some time she
would walk home again slowly and sadly.

And once, standing there at midday,
she heard a loud voice calling to her :

**Turandina, come. Your father has for-
given you.”

And so she went away and never re-
turned. Her little son was then seven years
old and her daughter three.

82
TURANDINA

Thus the fairy-tale departed from this
life and never came back. But Turandina’s
little son never forgot his mother.

Sometimes he would wander away by
himself so as to be quite alone. And when
he came home again there was such an
expression upon his face that the teacher’s
wife said to her husband in a whisper :

‘“* He has been with Turandina.”

383 D
Lohengrin

I

ASHENKA PESTRYAKOVA was a
M young and pretty girl, dreamy in
temperament, and by no means
intellectual. Her nose was a little upturned
her eyes grey and vivacious, and in the),
Spring she had freckles on her cheeks, under |)
her eyes, and on her nose. She lived with
her mother and brother in Pea Street, in
the same house in which Oblomof once lived.
She taught in a sort of private school, and
received her meagre salary at irregular in-
tervals. She was very fond of going to
the opera, and liked best of all to hear
“Wagner.

Mashenka’s mother had a small pension,
which she augmented by selling some books
on commission and by letting apartments.
They gave up three rooms of their house
in this way and used the rest themselves.
The little brother went to school every day,
and Mashenka helped him with his lessons

34
LOHENGRIN

in the evening and gave part of her salary
to her mother.

Mashenka often let her thoughts wander
into vague and pleasant reveries. Some-
times these reveries would take a mor
definite form, and the sweet image of her,
dream would be identified with one or other
of her youthful acquaintances. Then for a
while meetings with the new friend would
be very agreeable to her. But the Ecniy
never lasted very long.

The reality was always disappointing. \,
The actual happening was so different from |

her own beautiful vision of life. Instead of |
listening to passionate glowing words like |

those which sound so attractive in the pages
of a novel and are so charming when sung
by Sobinof on the stage of the Marinsky
Theatre—so different from the usual sounds
of life in Pea Street—her companion would
speak in a dull and prosaic way about their
own doings or those of their neighbours,
would utter words about money, words of
blame, envious sneers, spiteful gossip, some-
times even compliment her in an embarrass- ,
ing way. Then the dear figure of her!
dream would grow dim and become no |}
longer attractive, and there would be days.
when Mashenka didn’t want to dream about
35

ee

ae,
nas REY I'S

|
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

anything or anybody; she would only feel
apathetic and bored. Then she would look
forward to the next meeting. And next
time she would be disappointed again.

—_ And yet in spite of this some one did
come and take possession of Mashenka’s
soul—a rather ugly young man, short and
awkward, and delicate in health, with weak
eyes that seemed to blink continuously,
thin reddish hair, meagre reddish whiskers,
and scanty beard. He dressed himself neatly
and carefully, wore a cornelian stone ring
on his finger and a pearl pin in his mauve
or green necktie, but his dress showed neither
special taste nor abundance of means.

For a long time Mashenka did not know
his real name nor his occupation. She
called him by a strange nickname—taken
from the opera,—Lohengrin.

““My Lohengrin is coming to-day,” she
used to say to her mother.

“That’s your Lohengrin’s ring,” her
mother would say when they heard a timid,
uncertain little sound from the door-bell.

“Your Lohengrin’s a silly,” said her'
little brother Serezha frankly. He liked
to tease Mashenka sometimes. Only occa-
sionally, of course. He was only twelve
years old, and just a little afraid of his sister.

36
LOHENGRIN

At first Mashenka called her friend Lohen-
grin because she met him first in the gallery
of the Marinsky Theatre one evening when
Lohengrin was being performed. And after-
wards there were other reasons why he still
kept so strange a nickname.

Il

Mashenka had gone to the theatre that
evening with a girl friend and two student-
acquaintances. ‘“‘ Lohengrin” sat behind
her, just a little to one side, and before the
beginning of the second act Mashenka noticed
that he was looking at her very intently.
She began to feel awkward, and looked round
angrily at the young man.

She did not much like the look of him.
His persistent gaze seemed rude and tiresome.
And she disliked him still more when, after
turning on him for the second time a more
severe glance and a more decided frown,
the young man averted his gaze with such
guilty haste that it seemed to her he must
be accustomed to stare rudely at people
and then suddenly turn away.

She wanted to point him out to her com-
panions and ask whether they knew the
young man, but just then the orchestra

37
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

began to play, and every one was silent.
Mashenka, under the spell of the incompar-
able music, quickly forgot all about the tire-
some person behind her.

In the next entr’acte Mashenka walked
up and down the corridor with her friends,
and did not think of the young man until
she became conscious that he was walking
behind and staring at her. For a long time
afterwards she felt his gaze upon her neck,
just on the line where the bare neck shows
between the top of the white collar and the
hair above it. It was so annoying and em-
barrassing that she didn’t know what to do.

The entr’acte was at an end, and they
were all crowding back through the narrow
doors when Mashenka took advantage of
the general noise and confusion to say to
the student beside her :

““Do you know the young man next to
us ? His seat is just behind ours.”

She spoke in a low voice so that the young
man behind should not hear. But the
student looked round and said aloud :

““No, I don’t know him. Why do you
ask ?”

It was a little difficult to reply.

‘*He stares at me all the time,” she
whispered.

88
LOHENGRIN

*'You’ve made a conquest of him,” said
the student calmly, still speaking loudly.

When they were in their places again
and preparing to listen, Mashenka for some
reason or other felt vexed that the student
had treated the matter so lightly. As if
to spite him she looked attentively at the
young man behind, and thought to herself
with a condescending pity :

‘“* Poor thing! Perhaps he thinks himself
handsome and irresistible.”

A faint smile played about her lips, and
she noticed with some satisfaction that the
young man blushed a little, and that in his
eyes there was a gleam of pleasure. But she
quickly recollected herself and frowned again,
looked angrily at him, and turned away,
thinking :

‘“*He’s no business to think anything of
‘himself. He’s quite ugly.”

In the third entr’acte he walked behind
her again, not at all disconcerted, though
somewhat timid and confused, looking like
an amusing reddish-coloured shadow stealing
along the wall.

After the opera was over Mashenka saw
him again while she was putting on her
cloak. He was evidently hurrying to get
out before she did, and was already dressed

39
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

in a long coat with an astrakhan collar
and a fur hat. He stood and looked across
at her, searching through the crowd as if
boring through it with his pointed beetle-
like whiskers—looked at her with a sadly
strange and furtive glance, as if he wished
to notice particularly and remember every
little fold of her dress and her cloak.

Once more Mashenka felt vexed and
awkward, and she made up her mind not
to tell any one about this young man.

‘“* Nuisance !’’ said she angrily to herself.

Il

Mashenka went home with a whole crowd
of young people, all talking and laughing
gaily. She tried hard not to look behind
her, but she was certain that the young
man was following them. She didn’t want
to hear it, and yet she found herself listening
involuntarily to the light footfall—a cautious,
stealthy tread.

When she said good-bye to her friends
at the gate, Mashenka saw the stranger
once more. He went quietly past the house,
crossed over to the other side of the road,
and turned back in the direction from which
they had come.

40
LOHENGRIN

The clumsy dvornik, wearing an immense
shaggy overcoat and his cap pulled low down
over his forehead and ears, flung open the
creaking little door in the heavy gate.
Mashenka’s companions, still talking noisily
all together, went away up the street.
Mashenka went into the yard, and the little
door was slammed behind her. She waited
by the gate and listened.

Some one came along with stealthy little
steps, stopped outside, and began to speak
in a whisper to the dvornik. The latter
muttered something indistinctly, as if un-
willing to answer, but presently Mashenka
heard him thanking the other for something,
and then he went on talking. She tried
hard to hear what was said, but could
not catch a word, partly at first because
they spoke so softly, but afterwards she
was too much overwhelmed with confusion
to listen ; her heart beat rapidly, the blood
coursed through her veins and drummed in
her ears.

There was not much sleep for Mashenka
that night. In her dreams she saw the
beautiful knight, the bright-haired Lohen-
grin in shining armour, and heard his voice :

““T am Lohengrin, thy champion knight
from heaven.”

41
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

Then the features and the whole figure
of Lohengrin became strangely altered. An
unhealthy-looking little man with reddish
beetle-like whiskers, his fur hat pushed to
the back of his head, his little red ears
almost hidden by the fur collar of his over-
coat, waving his hands awkwardly in his
grey fur gloves, slipping in his shiny galoshes
on the icy pavement of Pea Street, sang
these same words. His voice was as sweet
and melodious as that of the stage Lohen-
grin, and yet it sounded a little ridiculous
and repulsive.

IV

After that evening Mashenka met the
young man every day as she was going
home from school. He walked behind her
like a tiresome and amusing shadow from
which she could not escape, and accompanied
her to the very door of her home. Some-
times he even entered the gate of the court-
yard and came up the outside staircase,
and when Mashenka went indoors and
slammed the door behind her she felt that
he was still waiting outside. Her heart
beat quickly, her cheeks crimsoned, her
eyes glistened as she smiled to herself and
thought :

42
LOHENGRIN

““'Who can he be, this red-haired Lohen-
grin?”

But at length she began to get tired of
it. One day when Lohengrin was walking
close behind her in the street Mashenka
turned sharply round, went up to him, and
said :

“What is it you want? Why do you
follow me every day ?”

Her cheeks were crimson and her voice
trembled a little as she spoke; her hands,
gloved and hidden away inside her muff,
were hot and shaking. It seemed to her
that even her shoulders under her thick
winter dress must be shaking and crimson
too, and that a fever of trembling ran
through her whole body.

The eyes of the young man looked guiltily
away from her. He raised his hat, then put
it on again, and bowing awkwardly, began
to speak in a pleasant though slightly
hoarse voice, as if he had a cold.

““I beg your pardon, please forgive me,
Marya Constantinovna.”

““However do you know my name?”
cried Mashenka angrily.

She was astonished to find that the young
man’s voice, which she heard now for the
first time, had in it a slight reminiscence of

43
gene W7:O™ 4
Want \eea vel toa 8

\ \ "THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

the voice of the singer who had taken the
part of Lohengrin in the theatre—the same
Russian tone and the same gentle sweet-
ness. It would even have sounded more
like it if it had not been so unpleasantly °
hoarse.

“I learnt your name from the dvornik
of your house, Marya Constantinovna,”
answered the young man. “I had no means
of getting to know it otherwise, as I
have no friends who are acquainted with
you.”

“That means, I suppose, that you asked
the dvornik all about me,” said Mashenka
in a tone of annoyance. “It was a nice
occupation for you, I must say.”

But the young man was not at all abashed.

“Yes, I asked him about you and about
your honoured mother and your nice little
brother. I got all the information on the
evening when I first met you.”

‘** But why did you want to know about
us ?”’ asked Mashenka.

Not noticing what she was doing the girl
turned and walked again in the direction
of her home, and the red-haired young
man walked by her side. He answered her
with a strange circumstantiality.

“Of course you yourself understand,

44
Ss ee oe.
' \gaun yh EL eM a0
LOHENGRIN

Marya Constantinovna, that in the present
day one needs to be very particular in
making new acquaintances,”’ said he. ‘ One
can’t make friends with everybody one
meets; one ought to know beforehand
something of the person one is dealing
with.”

“Yes, indeed,” said Mashenka with a
laugh. ‘Please be particular and don’t
try to get acquainted with me.”

““Pardon me, Marya Constantinovna,”’
replied the young man seriously, “but that
would be quite impossible.”

“What would be impossible?” asked
the young girl in astonishment.

““It is impossible for me not to get- to
know you,” answered the young man quietly,
“‘ because at our first meeting at the opera
when Lohengrin was being played—if you
will allow me to remind you of that night—
you made such an indelible impression on
me that I felt at once that I loved you with
a great and wonderful love. And so I
couldn’t help following you and getting to
know all I could about you from the dvornik
at your door.”

Mashenka smiled and said :

‘* But it’s no use your taking the trouble
to find out about me. I have quite enough

45
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

friends as it is, and I don’t need any more.
It’s not very nice for me to have you con-
tinually following me, and as you seem to
be a respectable young man, I ask you now
not to do so any more. I shouldn’t like
any of my friends to notice it and think
badly of me.”

The young man walking beside her listened
attentively to what she said, and did not
try to interrupt her. When she had finished
it seemed as if he thought he had given her
an answer, and Mashenka suddenly thought
to herself :

‘** Now he will raise his hat and go away
and never try to see me any more.”

And this thought, which should have
soothed and calmed her, somehow made
her feel suddenly annoyed and sad about
something — as if she had become quite
accustomed to her silent, ugly, awkward
companion and didn’t want him to leave
her. However he acted quite differently
from what she had thought. He did raise
his hat, but only to say :

‘** Allow me, Marya Constantinovna, to
have the honour of introducing myself to
you—Nikolai Stepanovitch Sklonyaef.”’

Mashenka shrugged her shoulders.

** It’s no use your introducing yourself,”

46
LOHENGRIN

said she. ‘‘ What makes you think I want
to know you? MHaven’t I just told you
that I am not on the look-out for any new
acquaintances ? ”

The young man looked timidly into her
eyes as he answered :

“Marya Constantinovna, don’t send me
away from you. I won’t ask you anything
just now, but because I love you so that
I cannot imagine how I could have lived
before without knowing you, please let me
have at least the hope that when you under-
stand how great is my love you also may
begin to love me in return.”

“What foolishness!’ cried Mashenka.
“A perfectly unknown young man comes
up to me in the street and talks like this!
And what am I to do? Why should I
listen to you? Please go away at once.”

Vv

Mashenka walked on quickly, but her
companion did not go away. He spoke to
her in words which vexed and confused her.
Still looking into her eyes with a timid and
cautious gaze he said :

‘“* Marya Constantinovna, please allow me
to remind you that it may often happen that

AT
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

people who were previously unacquainted
with one another suddenly become very
good friends.”

“Yes, but not in the street,” said
Mashenka, and now she laughed outright.

There was nothing to laugh at, of course,
and Mashenka quickly recollected herself and
bit her pretty full red underlip with her
strong little white teeth. It seemed to her
that her laugh only encouraged this im-
portunate young man.

But he said in a beseeching tone :

‘““For mercy’s sake, Marya Constantin-
ovna, and why not in the street? Isn’t
it all the same? If a man is truly in love,
believe me, Marya Constantinovna, all out-
ward circumstances and worldly conventions
cease to exist for him; he cannot think
of anything else except the object of his
passionate affection.”

Saying this, he pressed both his hands on
his heart and then waved his left hand in
the air exactly as the singer in the opera
had done when he sang the declaration of
Lohengrin.

Mashenka could not possibly take him
seriously. She even felt a little disappointed
that the adventure had nothing in it to
frighten her—it was simply amusing. She

48
LOHENGRIN

was a little sorry for the young man, so
persistent, so incoherent in his speech. She
smiled as she listened and thought to
herself :

“What a red-headed Lohengrin he is,
talking of love in this way!”

But he went on :

‘““ And because my intentions are entirely
honourable and exalted, I myself do not
wish to meet you in the streets or in any
public place, or in a private room in a
restaurant. And I should be very greatly
obliged, Marya Constantinovna, if you would
do me the great honour to present me to
your respected mother.”

“* What more will you want ?”’ exclaimed
Mashenka. ‘How could I present you to
my mother? She would be sure to ask me
where I met you first. Please go away now
or I shall really be angry.”

She laughed again, however, and the
young man went on:

“Do not be angry with me, Marya
Constantinovna. I shall do nothing to offend
you, and if after some time you cannot feel
any inclination towards me, then I will not
venture to disturb you any more, but will
go away into the shadow of my own poor
life and only watch from afar your happiness

49 E
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

with another, more worthy than I of your
love.”

His little nose got red, his small, restless
blinking eyes reddened also, and he twisted
his small body so that he seemed smaller
than ever and looked as if he were just going
to weep.

Mashenka considered the situation and
tried hard to keep a good opinion of herself
as she thought :

‘““ Now, how can I send him away! It’s
impossible not to feel sorry for such a man.
I can’t complain to a passer-by or call a
policeman.”

It was pleasant to think some one had
fallen in love with her. All the young men
who had paid her attentions before had
either not been serious or they themselves
had been odious to her. But this man was
so humble and spoke with such an engaging
eloquence; he simply would not leave her
side, and his words reminded her of the
love speeches of viscounts and marquises
in a novel.

She tried to look sternly at him as she
asked sharply :

““ ‘Well, and who are you ? ”

‘“‘T am a man who is in love with you,”
answered Lohengrin.

50
LOHENGRIN

‘““Yes, you’ve told me that before,” said
Mashenka, “but I want to know who you
are and what is your occupation.”

The thought suddenly came to her that
by so speaking she was giving the young
man some hope of getting to know her.
She felt vexed with herself. But her com-
panion answered :

‘“* Pardon me, Marya Constantinovna, why
is it necessary for you to know that ? ”

‘““ Ah, that’s quite true,’ said Mashenka,
“it’s nothing at all to do with me. I hope
you'll go away now.”

But his answer had really made her
angry, and this added to her former vexation.
She suddenly wished to make him see that
she had a right to question him, and not
being able to master this imprudent desire,
she continued :

‘“* Well, you say that you want me to
introduce you to my mother; how can I
do that without knowing? Shall I say to
her, ‘ Mother, this is a man who has fallen
in love with me!’ ”

“Yes, just that,” said he.

‘* What foolishness!” said Mashenka.
‘“* How is that possible ? ”

‘“* Why is it not possible if it’s the truth,”
said Lohengrin.

51
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

VI

When the time came for them to cross
the street, Lohengrin took Mashenka by the
arm. She looked at him with some surprise,
but did not draw herself away. Looking -
cautiously round so as to avoid the traffic,
he silently led her across the road, now
covered with a thin layer of dirty brownish
snow, and striped with the marks of carriage
wheels. When they reached the pavement
he dropped her arm and walked alone.

She went on with the conversation.

‘““No, it’s impossible. That’s not the
way such things are done, and after all,
‘what need is there to introduce you to my
mother ? ”

‘““ Believe me, Marya Constantinovna,”’
answered the young man, “I quite under-
stand that you would like to know my
occupation and my social position, and if
I do not tell you all about it just now it is
for very serious reasons. I have vowed not
to disclose these matters for certain worldly
considerations, and I cannot tell you for
fear of unpleasant consequences.”

‘“ What foolishness!” said Mashenka
again.

‘* No, Marya Constantinovna,” said he.

52
LOHENGRIN

“Do not say that. You remember the
opera where I had the honour of seeing you
for the first time. Lohengrin should remind
you that it is sometimes necessary to conceal
the truth until the right moment. You
saw how imprudent the beautiful but in-
quisitive Elsa was, beseeching her husband
to tell her his secret and disclose his name
and calling, and you saw how cruelly she
was punished. Certainly she repented of it
afterwards, but, as they say, if your head is
off it’s no use weeping for the loss of your
hair.”

““Oh yes, indeed,” put in Mashenka,
“you and I are certainly very much like
Lohengrin and Elsa.”

Her sarcastic tone did not disconcert her
companion. He answered :

“You, Marya Constantinovna, are in-
comparably more beautiful and good than
was the lady Elsa, and so if I do not dare to
liken myself to Lohengrin, yet all the same,
taken together, we can be compared with
them. It is true that knights in armour |
have gone out of fashion in our day, but the
knightly feelings remain; love burns in the
hearts of emotional people no less clear than
in former times.’ Our lives may appear
dull and barren, but in reality they are no

53

~
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

less wonderful and mysterious than was the
life of Lohengrin and Elsa when he came
down the stream to her, borne by the silver-
winged swan.”

‘  “ Ah, Lohengrin!’ exclaimed Mashenka,
mockingly, yet perhaps a little touched.

The young man looked at her and waited
for her to say more. But Mashenka was
silent and said no more until she reached her
home. Then she stood still for a moment
and looked in the young man’s eyes.

‘“* What am I to do with you, Mr. Lohen-
gtin? You must go home or about your
mysterious business. It’s not convenient for
you to come in just now.”

His answering gaze was one of happiness
and confusion, and so much hope that
Mashenka felt obliged to say :

‘* Well, come to-morrow evening at eight
o’clock. I will tell mother. I don’t know
what she'll say to me, but I daresay she will
receive you.”

VII

So Mashenka went indoors to tell her
mother what had happened and to prepare
her for the young man’s visit on the morrow.
The mother grumbled a little.

‘* What’s all this, Mashenka,”’ said she.

54
LOHENGRIN

“You surely don’t think it’s possible to have
a man in from the street. Who knows what
he may have in mind; it’s quite likely he’s a
rogue of some kind.”

But after a little while she came to the
conclusion :

“* Well, I suppose we'd better see him and
know what he’s after.” ”

So Lohengrin came at the appointed time,
brought a box of sweetmeats, stayed an
hour and a half, drank tea, behaved very
respectfully to the mother, joked with school-
boy Serezha, amused Mashenka with his
thetorical phrases, and took his departure
before any of them had time to get bored.

After he had gone the mother asked
Mashenka :

“* Well, who is he really ? ”

‘* Indeed, mother, I’ve told you everything
I know about him. I don’t know anything
more. I only know him as Lohengrin.
His name is Nikolai Stepanovitch Sklonyaef,
but what he does I don’t know. He’s just
Lohengrin.”

“You'd better look in the Directory to-
morrow when you go to school,” said her
mother, “‘ and find his name. By his talk
and his manners he’s quite all right, but you
never can tell. No one knows anything

55
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

about him and there may be something
under the surface. You must find out all
about him.”

So on the next day Mashenka looked
through the Directory, but she couldn’t
find anybody of the name of Sklonyaef.
She began to think that there could be no
such name and that Lohengrin had made it
up himself.

However, he continued to visit them,
bringing sometimes a bunch of flowers,
sometimes a box of chocolates. He no
longer tried to meet Mashenka in the street ;
when they met it was quite accidentally.

When he came the second time Mashenka
asked him why his name was not in the
Directory.

He was not in the least confused—
Mashenka was surprised to find that in spite
of his timid ways, his blinking eyes, and his
ingratiating manner, this strange young
man was generally self-possessed and very
rarely put out of countenance—

““T’ve only lately come to Petersburg,”
said he, “‘and my name is not in the
Directory yet. I expect it will be in next
year.”

He laughed as he spoke, and Mashenka
felt sure that he was not speaking the truth.

56
LOHENGRIN

““But where do you live?” asked she.
‘“* What'do you do for a living? Where do
you work ? ”

But Lohengrin made reply :

‘““Pardon me, Marya Constantinovna, I
cannot tell you anything about my address
or my occupation.”

“And why not?” asked Mashenka in
wonder.

‘“* Because, as I have already had the
honour of telling you, Marya Constantinovna,
I have important reasons for keeping these
matters a profound secret.”

Mashenka thought for a moment or two
and then said :

‘** But listen a moment. This is all very
strange. At first I thought you were simply
joking; but if you are in earnest, then it’s
all stranger than ever.”

‘*T am not joking at all,” said he; “ but
more than that I also trust that when you
love me it will be for myself alone, not
considering who I may be nor what is my
occupation.”

‘And if I don’t love you?” asked
Mashenka with a smile.

‘*Then I shall vanish from the field of
your vision,” said he, ‘“‘as Lohengrin did,
when he floated away in that wonderful

57

x
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

boat drawn down the many-watered Rhine
by the silver-winged swan.”

‘* Oh, Lohengrin,” laughed Mashenka once
more.

VIII

Mashenka laughed. She was getting used
to speak of him as Lohengrin. Everybody
called him that now.

Mashenka laughed, and yet sometimes
she fell into a reverie and dreamed. And
in her dreams the beautiful form of the stage
Lohengrin, clad in shining armour, singing
so sweetly and making his theatrically
beautiful stage gestures, blended itself with
the form of an unattractive young man
wearing a fur cap instead of a helmet, and a
starched shirt in place of armour; speaking
eloquently in his hoarse but pleasant-
sounding Yaroslavsky tone of voice, and
making these same amusingly - triumphant
gestures.

‘“He loves me, poor boy,” thought
Mashenka, and the thought became more
and more pleasant to her.

To believe firmly that you are beloved by
another, is it not as if you yourself loved ?
And is not love infectious? Sweet, in-
gratiating, enchanting, love spreads a brightly

58
LOHENGRIN

gleaming veil of enchantment over all the
objects of its desire.

And so, becoming accustomed little by
little to the pleasant thought of being be-
loved, accustomed to this amusing mixture
of the two Lohengrins—one of the opera
of the wise magician Wagner, the other of
the everyday life in Pea Street—Mashenka
felt at length that she was in love. The
amusing mystery enveloping his actual life
became less of a hindrance to her.

After some time Lohengrin guessed that
Mashenka had begun to care for him, and
one day he said to her:

““ Marya Constantinovna, you can make
me the happiest of men—I beg you to con-
sent to be my wife.”

Then, as if she were not yet ready to be
asked such a question, Mashenka was seized
with a profound alarm. The dark and
dreadful suspicions sleeping in her soul were
roused and they were too strong for her. She
looked at Lohengrin in terror and thought :

“Why does he hide his occupation from
me—it must be something shameful and
contemptible. Perhaps he is a spy or a
hangman !”

Not long before, Mashenka had read in
a newspaper an account of a young workman

59
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

who had hired himself out as a hangman.
He was described as a weak and ugly person,
and as she read the description of him, she
had thought that he must have looked
something like her Lohengrin.

“You must tell me first,’”? Mashenka said
timidly, “who you are. It’s dreadful not
to know.”

She felt her cheeks grow pale and her lips
tremble. She was seated in a deep soft
armchair in the corner of the drawing-room,
her mother’s favourite chair; it had been in
the family longer than any of them could
remember, and many remembrances of
pleasure and agitation were connected with
it. Enveloped in the depths of the large
chair, where she could smell the odour of its
old material, Mashenka felt herself. very
small and pitiful; her hands clasped together
on her knees were pale and trembling as if
with cold.

Lohengrin reddened a little and was more
confused than Mashenka had ever seen him.
He stood with his back to the windows, but
in the twilight Mashenka watched strange
shadows flitting across his face. His eyes
blinked continuously, his little red ears
twitched, he made strange unsuitable gestures
with his hands as he replied :

60
LOHENGRIN

“* Marya Constantinovna, if the lady Elsa
was inquisitive and indiscreet, and if the
noble Lohengrin could not withstand her
importunity, why need we repeat their
fatal mistake ? You were pleased to say,
Marya Constantinovna, that all this is dread-
ful for you, but why? I have an extra-
ordinary love for you, a love devouring all
my life, a love very rarely met with and only
described in old romances, not at all in the
works of present-day writers. Loving you
with such an unusual love, so ardent that I
cannot live without you,—if you refuse me
I shall quickly put an end to myself,—I
desire, dear Mashenka, that your own love
should overcome the terrors you are feeling,
and triumph over all that which is at present
unknown to you. True and passionate love
ought to be stronger even than death itself.
So, dear Mashenka, conquer your fears and
tell me—do you love me, and will you con-
tinue to love me whatever you may after-
wards learn about me?”

Mashenka began to weep. What else
could she do! Tears are so helpful in th
various difficulties of life. She fumbled fox
her handkerchief, but, of course, it was no
to be found, and she was obliged to wip
away her tears with the palm of her righ

61

   
  
  
:

j

THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

hand—the tears which trickled mercilessly
down both cheeks and along her little up-
turned nose. She wept and said :

“Why, oh why do you wish not to say
who you are? Why do you torture me like
this ? Perhaps you do something very bad.”

Lohengrin shrugged his shoulders as he
answered :

‘““That depends on how you look at it.
To some people my occupation may seem
mean and base, and some people may despise
me for it. But I do what I know how to
do, and you yourself have been able to see
what sort of a man I am apart from my work.
If you love me you must believe in me, and
even if it turned out that I was a loathsome
vampire you should follow me to my tomb,
for, if I see in you the most beautiful maiden
upon earth, the enchanting Lady Elsa, then
you, loving me in return, ought to see in me
the noble knight Lohengrin, whose father
Parsifal is the guardian of the Holy Grail.
And though we may live in the prosaic town
of Petersburg in one of the most ordinary
streets, and not in one of the castles of the
knights of old; though we have to live the
ordinary life of every day, and cannot per-
form the knightly exploits of old time—our
destiny has been portioned out to us by

62
LOHENGRIN

Fate—none of this can alter the passionate
feelings of our hearts.”

Mashenka still wept, and yet she was
able to laugh, too. The eloquence of Lohen-
grin’s plea was full of sweet and tender
soothing.

““I am the Princess Elsa,” she thought,
‘‘and not simply Mashenka. It means that
I am indeed what I feel in myself and not
what I appear to others. And he, my
Lohengrin! How is it possible for him to
be a spy or a conspirator or a hangman ?
How dreadful to think of such things! But
whatever he may do I love him all the same
—for me he is Lohengrin, and if it is
terrible and difficult to live with him, to
die with my beloved will be sweet to
me.”

She got up from her chair, put her arms
tenderly round the young man’s neck, and
still weeping bitterly, exclaimed :

‘* Lohengrin, my Lohengrin, whoever thou
mayest be I love thee. Whithersoever thou
wilt lead me I will follow thee. In what-
soever thou doest I will be thy aid—in life
and in death. I love thee as thou dost wish,
dear Lohengrin. I love thee as maidens
loved their knights in the stories of

old.”’
63
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

IX

Confident and happy, Lohengrin, the ac-
cepted lover of Mashenka, departed. Ma-
shenka still mingled her tears and laughter.
Her mother was astonished at the news.

‘** How can you think of marrying him,
Mashenka ?” said she. ‘‘ You don’t mean
to say you have promised without knowing
anything about him? You’ll find out sud-
denly one day that he’s an escaped convict
or something of that sort.”

But Mashenka only blushed, and repeated
obstinately :

“It doesn’t matter if he’s a convict or a
spy or even a hangman. I shall be one too,
for I love him.”

And Serezha whispered in her ear :

““ Tf he is the leader of a robber band ask
him to let me be one of his men. I’m small
enough to climb through the little windows.”

And Mashenka laughed.

But when Lohengrin reached home he
resolved that his secret was no longer worth
keeping. He put his visiting card into an
envelope and posted it to Mashenka.

Next day when she got home from school,
Serezha met her and said with an air of
mystery :

64
LOHENGRIN

““'There’s a letter for you. I expect it’s
from Lohengrin, arranging to meet you
somewhere.”

Mashenka ran off to her own room with
the letter, tore open the envelope, and found
a scrap of cardboard with something printed
on it and a few lines of writing in violet ink.
Her hands trembled, her eyes grew dim; it
was with difficulty she managed to read the
simple words :

NIKOLAI STEPANOVITCH BALKASHIN

SKILLED BOOKBINDER

48 MatrHew STREET.

And below was written :

I hid my real occupation from you, dear
Mashenka, fearing that you might despise an
artisan, but now I am no longer afraid, being con-
vinced that your love for me cannot change.

Both Mashenka and her mother rejoiced
that the secret held nothing terrible. The
mother felt inclined to grumble a little at
having a workman for her son-in-law, but
allowed herself to be pacified when Mashenka
assured her that his bookbinding would be
done in an artistic manner, and that this
branch of the work could be extended. But

65 F
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

Serezha was really disappointed; he had
dreamed of night expeditions, but there was
now no opportunity for him to climb through
the windows of houses. ©

Perhaps Mashenka was a little disap-
pointed also that everything had turned out
so simple and ordinary. But in spite of
everything Lohengrin would always remain
her Lohengrin, and the image of her dream
would never fade away; for love is not only
stronger than death, but it is able to triumph
over the terrible dulness of ordinary every-

ay life.

66
Who art Thou?

I

NE year follows after another, the |
centuries pass away, and still to

man is never revealed the mystery | Jerse 4,
of the world and the greater apystery of his ;
own soul. aa SY

Man seeks and questions, but does not: /)/. /
find an answer. Wise men are as children ; |
they do not know. And there are some
people who have not even got so far as to
ask the question :

“Who am 1?”

It was the end of May and already hot
weather in the large town. In the side-
street it was hot and stifling, and still worse
in the courtyard. The brownish-red iron
roofs of the five-storey stone buildings on
each of the four sides of the yard were
burning hot, as were also the large cobble-
stones of its dirty pavement. A new house
was being built at the side, just such another
ugly heap of pretension, a modern building

67

No
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

with an ugly front. From this building
came a pungent smell of lime and dry
brick-dust.

Several children were running about in
the yard, shrieking and quarrelling. They
belonged to the door-keeper, the servants,
and the humbler inhabitants of the building.
Little twelve-year-old Grishka, the son of
Anushka, the cook at No. 17, looked out
on them all from the fourth-floor kitchen
window. He lay on his stomach in the
window-seat, his thin little legs in their
short dark-blue knickers, and his bare feet
stretched out behind him.

Grishka’s mother wouldn’t let him go
out into the yard this morning; she was in
abad temper. She remembered that Grishka
had broken a cup yesterday; and though he
had been beaten then as a punishment, she
had reminded him of it again this morning.

‘“* Yow’re just spoilt,” said she. ‘‘ There’s
no need for you to run about in the yard.
You'll stay indoors to-day, and you can
learn your lessons.”

‘“‘ T haven’t got any examination,” Grishka
reminded her with some pride. And as usual,
when he remembered his school triumphs he
laughed joyfully. But his mother looked
sternly at him and said :

68
WHO ART THOU ?

“Well, all the same, you’ll stay indoors
unless you want a whipping. What are
you grinning at? If I were you I shouldn’t
find anything to laugh about.”

Anushka was fond of repeating this phrase
—quite enigmatical to Grishka. Ever since
her husband’s death, which obliged her to
go out as a servant, she had looked upon
Grishka and herself as unhappy creatures,
and when she thought about the child’s
future she always painted it in dark colours.
Grishka ceased to smile and began to feel
uncomfortable.

However, he didn’t much want to go
into the yard. He wasn’t dull indoors.
He had a picture-book which he hadn’t yet
read, and he betook himself to that enjoy-
ment. But he didn’t read for very long.
He climbed up on the window-seat and
looked out upon the children in the yard.
Presently, trying to forget a slight headache,
he let himself dream a little.

To dream—that was Grishka’s favourite
occupation. He imagined all sorts of things
in all sorts of ways, but he himself was
always in the centre—he dreamed about
himself and the world. When he went to
bed Grishka always tried to think of some-
thing tender, joyful, a little painful and

69
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

shameful perhaps, and sometimes dreadful.
Then a pleasant feeling stole over him,
though the day might have been an un-
pleasant one. Many unpleasant things often
fell to his lot in the day-time, this poor
little boy, brought up in the kitchen with
his poor, irritable, capricious, discontented
mother. But the more unpleasantnesses
there were, the pleasanter it was to console
himself by his fancies. It was with a mixture
of feelings that he snuggled his head into
the pillow and imagined terrible things.
When he woke in the morning Grishka
never hurried to get up. It was dark and
stuffy in the corridor where he slept; the
box on which his bed was made up was not
so soft as the spring mattress on the mistress’s
bed where he had sometimes thrown himself
when his mother wasn’t looking and the
people of the house were away. But all
the same it was comfortable and quiet
there as long as he didn’t remember that it
was time to go to school, or on a holiday,
until his mother called to him to get up.
And this only happened when it was neces-
sary to send him to a shop to buy something,
or for him to help in some way. At other
times his mother didn’t trouble about him,
and she was even glad to think he was
70
WHO ART THOU ?

asleep and not bothering her, not getting in
her way or staring at what she was-doing.

“It’s tiring enough without you,” she
often said to him.

And so Grishka often lay in bed quite
a long time, nestling under the torn wadded
quilt covering him both winter and summer,
though in summer, and when there was
a big fire in the kitchen, it was very hot
for him. And again he would dream of
something pleasant, joyful, gay, but not at
all dreadful.

The most insignificant reasons gave rise
to Grishka’s varied dreams. Sometimes he
had enjoyed reading a story or a fairy tale
from some old and torn book, one of those
given out by the teacher at school once a
week from the school library ; sometimes he
remembered a curious episode from a book
he had been reading aloud to his mother.
Everything that happened, everything heard
by him from somebody or other that excited
his imagination, set him dreaming and im-
agining in his own way.

He went every day to aschool in the town
and learnt easily but moderately, only—
he had no time. There was so much to
dream about. Also, whenever his mother
was free to sit down with some sewing or

71
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

knitting, Grishka had to read aloud to her
some novel or other. She was very fond of
novels, though she had never learnt to read
herself, and she liked to listen to stories of
adventure, and was greatly attracted by
the adventures of Sherlock Holmes and
The Key of Happiness. But she also listened
greedily to old novels of Dickens and
Thackeray and Eliot. Anushka got some
books to read from her mistress, some from
the girl student who lived in No. 14.

Anushka had a good memory for the
stories she had heard, and she loved to tell
them in detail to her friends—to the seam-
stress Dusha, and to the housemaid of the
general’s wife at No. 3.

And so very often in the evenings, plant-
ing his elbows affectedly on the white
wooden kitchen table, pressing his thin little
chest in his blue cotton shirt up against it,
crossing under the table his spindly legs
that were too short to reach the floor, Grishka
used to read aloud, quickly and clearly, not
understanding all he read, but often very
much agitated by the love passages. He
was much interested in situations of diffi-
culty and danger, but still more in the scenes
' of love or jealousy or tenderness, in caressing
, words, in words expressing the passion,
72
WHO ART THOU ?

the torture, and the languor of lovers whose /
happiness was frustrated by the evil of,
others.

And most of all in his dreams Grishka
pictured to himself beautiful ladies who
smiled and were tender and gentle, though |
occasionally cruel, and graceful, fair-haired,
blue-eyed pages. The beautiful ladies had
ruby lips, and they kissed so sweetly and ,
smiled so tenderly and spoke so gently, and ;
yet their words were sometimes without
mercy; they had soft white hands with
long thin fingers—soft hands, though they
were sometimes strong and cruel, and they
could promise all the joy and pain that one
human being can give to another. The
sweet young pages all had long golden curls |
reaching to their shoulders; their blue eyes
sparkled; they wore pointed slippers and
white silk stockings on their shapely legs.
Grishka heard their careless laughter, their
rosy lips bloomed tranquilly, the crimson
of their cheeks glowed brightly ; if there were
any tears shed sometimes, they came only
from the eyes of the sweet little pages.
The ladies themselves, beautiful and merci-
less as they were, never wept, they could
only laugh and caress and torture.

For some days past Grishka had been

73
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

occupied in dreaming about some far-off
beautiful and happy land in which wise
people dwelt—people, of course, quite unlike
all those he saw about him in this dull house
that seemed to him like a prison, in these
stifling roads and side-streets, everywhere
in this dull northern metropolis. What sort
of people lived in it ? Here were no beauti-
ful and affectionate ladies like those of his
dreams, but self-important and rude mis-
tresses and peasant servants, women and
girls, noisy, quarrelsome, bad. There were
no knights or pages either. No one wore
his lady’s scarf, and he had never heard of
any one fighting giants in order to protect
the weak. The gentlemen here were un-
pleasant and remote, and either rude or
contemptuously familiar ; the peasants were
also rude, and they were also remote from
Grishka, and their simplicity was as dreadful
to him and as artful as the incomprehensible
complexity of the gentlefolk.

Nothing that Grishka saw in real life
pleased him; it all afflicted his tender soul.
He even hated his own name. Even when
his mother in a rare interval of unexpected
tenderness would suddenly begin to call
him Grishenka, even this pet name did not
please him. But this stupid diminutive

74
WHO ART THOU ?

Grishka, the name everybody called him
by—his mother, her mistress, the young
ladies, and every one in the yard,—seemed
altogether foreign, altogether unsuitable to
what he thought himself. It seemed to
him sometimes that it would drop from
him, as a badly stuck-on label comes off a
wine-bottle.

Il

Anushka wanted to put a dish on the
window-seat. She seized Grishka’s thin
ankles in her large rough hand and dragged
him down, saying in a needlessly rough
way :

“You sprawl about everywhere. And
even without you there’s not enough room,
no place to stand anything.”

Grishka sprang away. He looked with
frightened eyes at the stern, lean face of
his mother, red from the heat of the kitchen
stove, and at her red arms, bare to the elbow.
It was stifling in the kitchen; something
was smoking and spluttering on the stove;
there was a bitter smell and a smell of burn-
ing. The door on to the outer stairway
was open. Grishka stood at the door, then,
seeing his mother busy at the stove and

75
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

taking no notice of him, he went out on to
the staircase. It was only then, when he
felt the hard dirty pavement of the land-
ing under his feet, that he noticed that
his head was aching and giddy; he felt
faint, his body was overcome by a feverish
lassitude.

““How stuffy it was in the kitchen,”
he thought.

He looked about him in a kind of per-
plexity, at the grey stone steps of the stair-
case, worn and dirty, running upwards and
downwards from the narrow landing on
which he stood. Opposite their door on
the other side of the landing was another
door, and from behind it came the sounds
of two women’s shrill voices; some one was
scolding another. The words rained out
like drops of lead from a carelessly unscrewn
hanging lamp, and it seemed to Grishka
that they must be running about on the
dry kitchen floor and making a noise, knock-
ing themselves against the iron and the
stove. There were many words, but they
all ran into one another in a shrieking
hubbub of scolding words. Grishka laughed
mirthlessly. He knew the people in that flat
were always quarrelling, and that they often
beat their naughty, dirty little children.

76
WHO ART THOU ?

There was a window on the landing like
the one in the kitchen, and from it one
could look out on to the same crowded,
uninteresting world—the red roofs, the yellow
walls, the dusty yard. Everything was
strange, foreign, unnecessary—quite unlike
the sweet intimate figures of his dreams.

Grishka climbed up on to the worn slab
of the window-seat, and leaned his back up
against one of the wide-open frames, but he
did not look out into the yard. A brightly
decorated palace showed itself to his gaze;
he saw in front of him a door leading to the
apartment of the auburn- haired Princess
Turandina. The door was opened wide, and
the princess herself, seated before a high
narrow window, weaving fine linen, looked
round at the sound of the opening door,
and stopping with her shapely white hand
the noisily humming spinning-wheel, looked
at him with a tender smile, saying :

‘* Come nearer to me, dear boy. I have
waited a long time for you. Don’t be afraid,
come along.”

Grishka went up to her and knelt at her
feet, and she asked him:

‘*Do you know who I am?”

Grishka was charmed by the golden tones
of her voice, and he answered :

77
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

“Yes, I know who you are. You are
the most beautiful Princess Turandina,
daughter of the mighty king of this land,
Turandon.”

The princess smiled gaily and said to
him :

“Yes, you know that, but you don’t
know all. I learnt from my father, the wise
King Turandon, how to weave spells and
enchantments, and I am able to do with you
as I will. I wanted to have a little game
with you, and so I cast a spell over you
and you went away from your princely
home and from your father, and now, you
see, you have forgotten your real name,
and you have become the child of a cook,
and you are called by the name of Grishka.
You have forgotten who you are, and you
can’t remember until I choose that you
should.”

“Who am I?” asked Grishka.

Turandina laughed. An evil light gleamed
in her cornflower-blue eyes like the light in
the eyes of a young witch not yet accustomed
to the art of sorcery. Her long fingers
pressed hard against the boy’s thin shoulder.
She teased him, speaking like a little street-

: girl :
' oy» “Shan’t tell you. Shan’t tell you for
wy. s

, 78
\

(ee
WHO ART THOU ?

anything. Guess yourself. Shan’t tell you,
shan’t. If you don’t guess yourself you'll
always be called Grishka. Listen, there’s
your mother the cook calling you. Go
along and be obedient to her. Go quickly
or she'll beat you.”

\

‘

III

Grishka listened; he heard his mother’s
harsh voice calling from the kitchen :

“‘ Grishka, Grishka, where are you? you
bad boy, where have you hidden yourself ? ”

Grishka jumped quickly down from the
window-seat and ran into the kitchen. He
knew when his mother called like that he
mustn’t dawdle, he must go at once. And
all the more just now when his mother was
busy preparing dinner. She was always
angry then, and especially when the kitchen
was hot and stuffy. The bright apartment
of the Princess Turandina faded from his
sight. The blue smoke of something burning
on the kitchen stove floated out to him.
He was again conscious that his head ached
and swam ; he at once felt tired and languid.

His mother called out to him :

““Now look lively; run along quickly
to Milligan’s and buy half a pound of lemon

79
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

biscuits and a shillingsworth of cakes. Hurry
up, I’ve just got to take in tea; the mistress
has some visitors—some devil has brought
them here at this outlandish hour.”

Grishka ran off into the corridor to find
his shoes and stockings, but Anushka cried
after him angrily :

“What are you doing there? There’s
no time to get your shoes—go as you are.
You must run there and back in no time.”

Grishka took the money, a silver rouble,
and held it tight in his burning palm. Then
he put on his hat and ran off down the
staircase. And as he ran he thought :

“Who am I? How can I have forgotten
my real name ? ”

He had a long way to go, several streets
away, because the cakes his mother wanted
couldn’t be got in the shop opposite but
only in this distant one. The mistress
thought that the cakes in the shop near by
were always fly-blown and not well made,
but those in the other shop, where she
herself made purchases, were good and clean
and specially nice.

‘Who am I?” thought Grishka per-
sistently.

All his dreams about the beautiful Prin-
cess Turandina were interrupted by this

80
WHO ART THOU ?

tiresome question. He ran along quickly
in his bare feet on the hard pavements of
the noisy streets, meeting many strangers,
getting in front of strangers, among this
multitude of rough, unpleasant people, all
hurrying somewhere, pushing their way along
and looking contemptuously at little Grishka
in his blue print shirt and short little dark-
blue knickers. Grishka was again conscious
of the strangeness and incongruity of the
fact that he, who knew so many delightful
stories, and who loved to dream about fair
ladies, should be living in this dull and cruel
town, should have grown up in just this
place, in a wretched stuffy kitchen, where
everything was so strange and foreign to him.

He remembered how, a few days ago,
the captain’s son, Volodya, who lived in
No. 24 flat, had called across from the second-
floor window of the opposite block and asked
him to come and have a talk. Volodya
was the same age as Grishka, a lively, affec-
tionate boy, and the two children sat down
on the window-seat and chatted gaily to-
gether. Suddenly the door opened, and
Volodya’s mother, a sour-faced woman, ap-
peared on the threshold. Screwing up her
eyes, she scrutinised Grishka from head to
foot, making him feel suddenly frightened,

8] G

Lang 1b

Ogar (—
Dag wv ;
bao xO}
Shem ——
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

and then she drawled, in a contemptuous
tone of voice :

“* What’s this, Volodya ? Why have you
got this wretched little barefooted boy here ?
Go off indoors, and in future don’t dare to
try and make his acquaintance.”

Volodya got red and muttered something
or other, but Grishka had already run off
home to the kitchen.

Now, in the street, he thought to himself :

“It’s impossible that it’s all like that.
I can’t be really only Grishka, the cook’s
little boy, whom nice children like Volodya
and the general’s son aren’t allowed to
know.”

And in the baker’s shop, when he was
buying the cakes he had been sent for—
none of which would fall to his own share,—
and all along his homeward way, Grishka
was thinking sometimes about the beautiful
Turandina, the proud and wise princess,
sometimes of the strange actuality of the
life around him, and he thought again :

‘““Who am I? And what is my own
real name ? ”

He imagined that he was the son of an
emperor, and that the proud palace of his
forefathers stood in a beautiful far-off land.
He had long been suffering from a grievous

82
WHO ART THOU ?

complaint, and lay in his quiet sleeping-
chamber. He was lying on a soft down
bed under a golden canopy, covered by a
light satin counterpane, and in his delirium
he imagined himself to be Grishka, the
cook’s little son. Through the wide open
window was wafted in to the sick child
the sweet scent of flowering roses, the voices
of his beloved nightingales, and the splash
of a pearly fountain. His mother, the Em-
press, sat at the head of his bed, and wept
as she caressed her child. Her eyes were
gentle and full of sorrow, her hands were
soft, for she never washed the clothes or
prepared the dinner or did sewing. When
this dear mother of his worked with her fingers
she only embroidered in coloured silks on
golden canvas for satin cushions, and from
under her delicate fingers there grew crimson
roses, white lilies, and peacocks with long
eye-laden tails. She was weeping now be-
cause her son lay ill, and because when at
times he opened his fever-dimmed eyes
he spoke strange words in an unintelligible
language.

But the day would come when the little
prince would recover his health and would
rise from his royal bed and would remember
who he was and what was his real name,

83
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

and then he would laugh at his delirious
fancies.

IV

Grishka felt more joyful when this thought
came into his mind. He ran along more
quickly, noticing nothing around him. But
suddenly an unexpected shock brought him
to his senses. He felt frightened, even before
he understood what had taken place.

The bag containing the cakes and biscuits
fell from his hand, the thin paper burst,
and the yellow lemon biscuits were scattered
over the worn and dirty grey pavement.

“You horrid little boy, how dare you
knock into me!” cried the shrill voice of
a tall stout lady against whom Grishka
had run.

She smelt unpleasantly of scent, and she
held up to her small angry eyes a horrible
tortoiseshell lorgnette. Her whole face
looked rude and angry and repulsive, and
Grishka was filled with terror and distress.
He looked up at her in fright, and did not
know what to do. He thought that per-
haps dvorniks and policemen, dreadful fan-
tastic beings, would come from all directions
and seize him and drag him away somewhere.

By the side of the lady stood a young

84
WHO ART THOU ?

man, very much overdressed, wearing a top
hat and horrible yellow gloves. He looked
down upon Grishka with his fierce protrud-
ing reddish eyes, and everything about him
looked red and angry.

“* Good - for - nothing little hooligan,” he
hissed through his teeth.

With a careless movement he knocked
off the child’s cap from his head, gave him
a box on the ear, and turning again to the
lady, said :

“Come along, mamma. It’s not worth
having anything more to do with such a
creature.”

“* But what a rude and daring boy he is,”
said the lady, turning away. “ Dirty little
ragamuffin, where were you pushing yourself ?
You’ve quite upset me. Fancy not being
able to walk quietly along the streets.
What can the policemen be doing ? ”

The lady and her companion, talking
angrily to one another, walked away.
Grishka picked up his cap and collected as
many as he could of the scattered cakes
and biscuits, putting them into the torn
paper bag, and ran off home. He felt
ashamed and he wanted to weep, but no
tears came. He could no longer dream
about Turandina, and he thought :

85
 

THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

‘“‘She’s just as bad as everybody here.
She cast me into a terrible dream, and I
shall never wake out of that dream, and
for ever I shall be unable to remember my
real name. And I shall never be able to
answer truly the question, ‘Who am I?’ ”

Who am I, sent into this world by an
unknown will for an unknown end? If I
am a slave, then whence have I the power
to judge and to condemn, and whence come
my lofty desires? If I am more than a
slave, then why does all the world around
me lie in wickedness, ugliness, and false-
hood ?

Who am I?

The cruel but still beautiful Turandina
aughs at poor Grishka, at his dreams and

is vain questionings.

86
The Dress of the Lily and of
the Cabbage

N a flower-bed in a garden grew a lily.
She was all white and red—proud and

beautiful.
She spoke gently to the wind passing
over her. ‘‘ Be more careful,” said she.

““T am a royal lily, and even Solomon, the
wisest of men, was not clothed so luxuriously
and so beautifully as I.”

Not far away, in the kitchen garden, a
cabbage ‘was growing.

She heard the lily’s words, and she
laughed and said :

‘That old Solomon, in my opinion, was
just a sans-culotte. How did they clothe
themselves, these ancients ? They cut out
somehow or other a garment to cover their
nakedness, and they imagined that they
were arrayed in the very best fashion. But
I taught people how to dress themselves,
and the credit ought to be given to me.

“You take a bare cabbage-stalk and you

87
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

put on it the first covering, an under-vest ;
over that something to fasten it; then an
under-skirt and fastenings for it; over this
you put a skirt and its fastenings, and then
a buckle. After the buckle you put on
another vest and skirt and fastenings and
bodice and buckle. Then you cover it all
up from the sides, over the top and up from
the bottom, so that the cabbage - stalk is
quite hidden. And then it’s quite warm and
decent.”

88
She who wore a Crown

T was a very ordinary, poorly furnished
room in St. Petersburg. Eléna Niko-
laevna stood at the window and looked

out into the street.

There was nothing interesting to look at
in the noisy and somewhat dirty town street,
but Eléna Nikolaevna did not look out
because she wanted to look at anything
interesting. True, it would soon be time
for her little son to come round the corner
on his way home from school, but Eléna
Nikolaevna would not have gone to the
window just for that. She had such con-
fident pride in him and in herself. He
would come at the right time, as he always
did—as everything in life would come at
its own appointed time.

Standing there, erect and proudly con-
fident, there was an expression on her
beautiful pale face as if she wore a crown.

She was remembering something which
had happened ten years ago, in that year

89
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

when her husband had died, leaving her so
soon after their wedded life had begun.

How terrible his death had been! One
fine spring morning he had gone out of the
house quite well and happy, and before
evening he had been brought home dead—
run over on the highway. It had seemed
then to Eléna Nikolaevna that life could
never more bring her happiness. She might
have died from grief, but the fingers of
her little child drew her back to life, and
in the old dreams of her childhood she was
able to find consolation. Yet how difficult
it had been to live; how poor she had
been !

The summer after her husband’s death she
had spent in the country with her younger
sister and her own little child. And to-day
she remembered with a marvellous distinct-
ness one bright day on which had happened
something delightful and strange—something
apparently insignificant in itself, yet shedding
upon her soul a wonderful light, illuminating
all the rest of her life. On that wonderful
day, long past, had happened that which
ever afterwards made Eléna Nikolaevna as
proudly calm as if she had been crowned
queen of a great and glorious land.

But this well-remembered day had dawned

90

?
SHE WHO WORE A CROWN

in the darkness of grief, and like every
day of that summer it had been watered
by her tears.

She had quickly accomplished the little
household duties that were necessary and
had gone into the forest so as to be far away
from everybody. She loved to wander in
the depths of the forest and dream there.
Often she wept there, remembering the
happiness that had been hers.

There was one glade which she especially
loved. The soft moist grass, the clear far-
away sky, the northern moistness, the tender
mossy slopes, the soft clouds—all were in
sympathy with her grief.

She stood by a grey boulder in this
favourite spot; her clear blue eyes gazed
at the scene; in her dreams she was far
away. She thought she heard herself called,
that a voice said :

“* Eléna, what are you dreaming about ? ”’

She trembled, and in a moment her sweet
dream lost itself in a maze of fancies—she
could not have told her dream.

And why should she tell any one what
her thoughts had been, where they had
wandered ? No one else could understand
. . . those dreamland princesses clothed in
shining garments, clear-eyed, celestial .. .

91
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

who came and comforted her. . . what
meaning had they for others ?

She stood alone in the quiet glade, her
hands crossed upon her breast. Her blue
eyes were shadowed by grief. The sun,
shining high above her, caressed her back
and shoulders, his rays gleaming on her long
red plaits of hair encircled her with a golden
halo. She dreamed. . . . Suddenly she heard
voices and laughter.

Before her stood three shining maidens,
three woodland princesses. Their dresses
were white, as Eléna’s own, their eyes were
blue like hers. On their heads were fragrant
flower-crowns. Their arms were bare as
were Eléna’s, their shoulders were kissed
by the sun like hers. Their little slightly
sunbrowned feet, like hers, were bathed in
the dew of the grass.

They came towards her and smiled, and
said :

** How beautiful she is!”

‘* She stands there and the sunlight makes
her hair look golden.”

** She holds herself like a queen.”

Joy and grief were strangely mingled in
Eléna’s heart. Holding out her hands in
welcome she spoke joyously in her ringing
voice :

92
SHE WHO WORE A CROWN

““ Greeting, dear sisters, dear woodland
princesses !”’

Clearly, clearly, like a little golden bell,
sounded the voice of Eléna, and clear as
the ringing of golden bells came in answer
the gentle laughter of the three as they
said :

“We are princesses—who art thou ?”

‘““Thou should’st be the queen of this
place.”

Sadness tinged Eléna’s voice as she
answered :

““ How could I be a queen? No crown
of gold is mine; my heart is full of sadness
for the loss of my beloved. No one can
crown me more.”

The sisters smiled no longer. Eléna heard
the quiet voice of the eldest sister:

“Why this earthly grief? Thy beloved
is dead, but is he not ever with thee? Thy
heart is sad, but in the remembrance of him
canst thou not rejoice? Canst thou not
raise thy desires to flow in union with the
Heavenly Will? Dost thou not desire to
be crowned here as our queen ?”

** Ah, I do desire it,” cried Eléna, and
she trembled with joy and shining tears
sparkled in her blue eyes.

Once more a question came :

93
   
  
 

HE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

“And wilt thou then be worthy of thy
rown ?”

Awe and wonder held the soul of Eléna,
and she said :

** I will be worthy of my crown.”

Then the princess spoke again :

‘“‘ Stand always in the presence of fate as
pure and brave as now thou standest here
before us. Look straight into the eyes of
men. Triumph over grief; fear neither life
nor the approach of death. Drive far from
thee all mean desires and slavish thoughts.
In poverty and in bondage and in misery
let thy soul be proud and free.”

Tremblingly she answered :

‘“* Though in slavery, I will be free.”

“Then you shall wear a crown,” said the
princesses.

“Yes, you shall wear a crown,” said
they.

They plucked the white and yellow
blossoms; with their white hands they
wove a chaplet of flowers—the fragrant
flower-crown of the woodland nymphs.

Thus Eléna was crowned, and the nymphs
joining hands danced about her in a gentle
dance—with joyful motion they encircled
her.

Fast and faster—the white dresses floated
94
SHE WHO WORE A CROWN

in the air, the light dancing feet moved over
the dew-laden grass.

Encircling, enclosing, they drew her into
their swift circle of ecstasy—away from
grief, from the sadness and anxiety of life,
they drew her away with them.

Time fulfilled itself, and the day waned,
and grief was as a flame of joy; the soul of
Elena lost itself in rapture.

Then they kissed her and departed.

‘“* Farewell, dear queen of ours!”

** Farewell, dear sisters ! ”’

Among the trees they disappeared; Eléna
was alone.

Proudly she walked upon her homeward
way; she wore her crown of flowers.

She told no one of her adventure in
the forest, but so radiant was her face that
her little sister smiled at her and said :

‘** Kléna looks a shining one to-day; one
might think it was the day of her angel.”

In the evening Eléna went to visit little
Paul, a sick child, who had not long to live.
She loved the boy because he was peaceful
and serene and nothing disturbed the calm-
ness of his mind. Sometimes at night she
would wake and remember little Paul and
weep because he must die so soon—and the
grief in her heart was strangely mingled :

95
/

THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

for her husband who was dead, for herself
so early left forlorn, for the child who so
soon must die.

Paul was sitting by himself in a summer-
house on the cliff watching the peaceful
flaming of the setting sun. He smiled at
Eléna’s approach; her coming was always
a joy to him. He loved her because she
always told him the truth and never sought
to comfort him with false hopes as did others.
He knew that he must die soon and that
there were only two who would long re-
member him—his mother and his friend
Eléna.

Eléna told him what had happened in
the forest, and little Paul closed his eyes
and sat in thought. But by and by he
spoke and said, smiling happily :

*““T am glad for you, my dear forest queen.
I have always known that you were pure
and free. Every one who can speak of him-
self and say, * I,’ ought to be as a conqueror
upon the earth. For man can overcome
the world.”

Then he saw three young ladies walking
below the cliff, and said to Eléna :

“Look! your three woodland princesses
are coming by.”

Eléna looked also, and she recognised

96
SHE WHO WORE A CROWN

them with a momentary feeling of pain.
Three ordinary girls! They wore the same
white dresses as in the morning; their eyes
were as blue, their hair as golden, their
figures as beautiful—but now they wore no
flower crowns, but instead white summer
hats. They were just ordinary young girls
—summer visitors.

They were hidden for a moment behind
the bushes, but soon they appeared again,
climbing up the cliff and coming along the
narrow path which passed the summer-
house. Paul bowed to them and smiled,
and they recognised Eléna.

‘* Greeting to you, dear queen.”

“* Dear ey said Eléna HADENY:

And ever since fiat vic Elena had
known joy. Under the guise of the ordinar
she had known the joy of her crowned life.
All poverty and wretchedness had been
transformed by her queenly pride, her
exalted dignity.

And now after many years, as she stood
by the window waiting for her little son,
though her dress was poor and shabby, she
was whispering to herself as she remembered
the crowning day of her life :

‘“* Man can overcome the world.”|

97 H
The Delicate Child

HERE once lived a delicate child.
When he was born they put him
in a glass bell-jar, so that flies should
not torment him.

So he lived in the bell-jar.

The boy looked out through the glass and
saw the birch tree shaking in the wind. But
he did not know that it was from the wind,
the delicate boy did not know.

And he cried out to the birch tree :

“Don’t shake, stupid birch, you'll break
yourself.”

The wind ceased to blow and the birch
became still. And the delicate boy was
very pleased, and so cried out :

“That’s a sensible tree, I’m glad you
listened to me.”

98
The Bit of Candy

LITTLE girl had some candy in a piece
A of paper.

At first there was much candy,
but she ate it till there was only one lump
left.

And she asked herself should she eat this
lump also or should she give it to the poor.

“ Tll give it to a poor girl,” said she.

But after a while she thought: “ Perhaps
it would be better to divide the candy in half
and share it.” So she ate up half the lump.

Then she thought about the bit that was
left, and she said to herself: ‘‘ I’ll break that
in two again and give half of it to the little
girl.”

At last so little remained of the lump of
candy that it wasn’t worth while giving it
to the poor girl—so she ate up what was left.

99
The Lump of Sugar

a little key to unlock a little cup-

board. In the little cupboard was
a little box, and in the little box was a wee
wee lump of sugar.

And the landlady had a little doggie, and
the doggie was very capricious and liked to
catch hold of the end of the landlady’s skirt
and tug at it.

The landlady took her little key and
opened the little cupboard, found the little
box and took out the wee wee lump of sugar.
The little doggie looked up at her and wagged
his tail.

But the landlady said :

“You tugged at my skirt, Capriza Pet-
rovna, so see this little lump of sugar, well,
you shan’t have it.”

And she put the sugar back where it was
before. The little doggie repented, yes, but
it was too late.

[ee it was once a landlady. She had

100
The Bull

LITTLE boy had a mama who wore
A light blue spectacles and a papa who
wore dark blue ones.

They weighed in a pair of scales all that
the little boy ate, meat, bread, milk, weighed
it all.

At last, one day, papa said to mama:

“Our boy has to-day finished his first
bull, to-morrow he starts on his second.”

When the little boy heard this he began
to ery, and he said :

‘““T don’t want to eat a bull—a bull has

got horns.”

101
The Golden Post

said to his nurse :

** As soon as I grow up I'll get to
be a general, and I’ll come to papa’s house
with a cannon and take him prisoner and tie
him up to a post.”

Papa, overhearing, cried out :

‘“* Ah, you bad boy! Tie papa to a post,
would you ? That would hurt papa badly.”

Bobby took fright, and said hesitatingly :

“But, papa, you. know it would be a
golden post, with a bit of writing on it—
‘For Bravery.’ ”’

Bsa was angry with his papa and
So Arose a Misunderstanding

BOY once asked :
‘“* What is coming ? ”

**T don’t know,” said his mother.

“* But I know,” said the boy.

** What ?”’ asked the mother.

The boy laughed and answered :

“T shan’t say.”

Mother got angry, complained to papa.
Papa cried out :

‘* What are you laughing about ?”

** What ?” said the little boy.

‘“‘ Insulting your mother! What do you
know ?”

The boy went pale and answered :

**T don’t know anything. I was joking.”

Papa got more and more angry. He
thought the boy knew something, so he
bellowed at him in a dreadful voice :

“Say out what you know! Say what is
coming !”’

The boy began to cry and could not say
what was coming.

In that way arose a misunderstanding.

103
Frogs

other a little younger. Said the
older: ‘‘Can you croak in other

ways?”

‘“‘ Rather,” said the younger, “I should
think I could.”

““Then go ahead,” said the elder.

The younger frog then began to croak in
this way :

“Kva...kva-kva...” and_ tried
various tones, but the elder cried out:

““Oh, ho, you’re only croaking Russian
just the same.”

‘** How else should I croak?” asked the
younger.

“Well in French for instance,’ replied
the elder.

‘““No one croaks in French,” said the
younger.

‘“*'Yes they do,”’ said the elder.

““ Then you do it,” said the younger.

** Kvew, kvew, kvew,”’ said the elder.

104

Tes frogs met, one a little older, the
FROGS

“TI can do that,” said the younger.

“* Go ahead, then,”’ said the elder.

““ Kvee, kvee, kvee,”’ said the younger one,
trying.

But the elder one laughed and cried out :
** That sounds more like German than French,
you with your kvee.”

The younger one tried hard but couldn’t
make kvew. Cried a little and then said :

‘“* Russian frogs croak better than French
ones—more clearly.”

105
The Lady in Fetters

N the house of a certain Moscow physician
| there is a magnificent picture gallery,
which after the death of its owner will
become the property of the town, though
now it is little known and difficult to get at.
In this gallery hangs a picture, strange in
its conception but marvellously painted,
not at all well known, though it is the work
of a highly-gifted Russian artist. In the
catalogue this picture is designated by. the
title, ‘‘ A Legend of the White Night.”

The picture is of a young lady dressed
in an exquisitely simple black gown, and
wearing a broad-brimmed black hat with
a white feather. She is seated on a bench
in a garden just budding into Spring. Her
face is very beautiful, but it holds an enig-
matical expression. In the unreal and en-
chanting light of the white night which the
artist has so marvellously represented it
seems at times that the lady is smiling in
joy, and at times the same smile seems to

106
THE LADY IN FETTERS

possess a haggard expression of terror and
despair.

Her hands are not seen—they are folded
behind her back, and from the pose of her
shoulders one feels that her arms are bound.
Her feet are bare and very beautiful. They
are encircled with gold bracelets and fastened
together by a short gold chain. The con-
trast of the black dress and white naked feet
is beautiful yet strange.

The picture was painted some years ago
by the young artist Andrew Pavlovitch
Kragaef, after a strange white night spent
by him with the lady of the picture—Irene
Vladimirovna Omejina—in her country villa
outside Petersburg.

It was at the end of May. The day had
been warm and enchantingly clear. In the
morning, or rather about the time when the
working-folk are going to their dinner,
Kragaef was called up on the telephone. A
well-known woman’s voice said :

“* It’s I—Madame Omejina. Are you dis-
engaged to-night, Andrew Pavlovitch? I
shall expect you here punctually at two
o’clock.”

‘“Thank you, Irene Vladimirovna ;
began Kragaef.

But the lady interrupted him.

107

?

 
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

“That’s right. I shall expect you.
Exactly at two.”

And she hung up the receiver. Her voice
sounded unusually cold and unmoved—the
voice of some one preparing for some signifi-
cant action. This and the brief conversa-
tion made Kragaef wonder not a little. He
was accustomed to have long talks on the
telephone, and with a lady the conversation
often went on quite a while. Irene Vladi-
mirovna had been no exception to this, and
her brevity was something new and un-
expected—the young man’s curiosity was
aroused.

He resolved to be most punctual and to
get there at two o’clock precisely. He
ordered a motor in good time to take him
there—he hadn’t one of his own.

Kragaef was fairly well acquainted with
Madame Omejina, though not intimate with
her. She was the widow of a rich land-
owner who had died some years before.
She had her own estates, and the villa to
which she had invited Kragaef that evening
belonged to her.

There had been strange rumours about
her married life. It had been said that her
husband often beat her cruelly. And people
often wondered that she, an independent

108
THE LADY IN FETTERS

woman, should endure this and not leave
him. There were no children, and people
thought it strange that they went on living
together.

It was exactly two o’clock by Kragaef’s
watch, and already quite light when the
automobile slowed up at the entrance to the
familiar villa. Kragaef had been there
several times during the previous summer.
On this occasion, however, he felt a curious
perturbation.

“I wonder if there will be any one else,
or if I’m the only visitor,” thought he. “ It
would be more pleasant to be alone with her
on such a beautiful night.”

No other carriage was to be seen at the
gates. Everything was quiet in the dark
garden, and there were no lights to be seen
in the windows.

‘* Shall I wait ?”’ asked the chauffeur.

‘““No, it’s not necessary,” said Kragaef,
as he paid and dismissed him.

The side gate was open a little way.
Kragaef went in and shut it after him. He
glanced at the gate and saw the key in it,
and impelled by some undefined presenti-
ment, he turned the key in the lock.

He walked quietly up the gravel-path to
the house. There was a cool air from the

109
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

river; somewhere in the bushes the first
birds of the morning twittered faintly and
uncertainly.

Suddenly a familiar voice called out to
him—the voice he had heard on the telephone
—that strangely cold and indifferent voice.

“I’m here, Andrew Pavlovitch,” said
Mme Omejina.

Kragaef turned in the direction of the
voice and saw his hostess seated on a bench
near a flower-bed.

She sat there and looked up at him
smiling. She was dressed exactly as he
afterwards painted her in the picture; in the
same black gown of an exquisitely simple
cut, entirely without any ornament or trim-
ming—in the same black broad-brimmed
hat with a white feather—her hands were
clasped behind her back and seemed to be
fastened there—there, calmly resting on the
gravel- path were her bare white feet en-
circled by golden bracelets—the thin gold
chain which fastened them just glittering
in the half-light.

She was smiling just that same uncertain
smile which Kragaef afterwards showed in
her portrait, and she said to him:

‘““Good evening, Andrew Pavlovitch. I
felt sure somehow that you would not fail

110
THE LADY IN FETTERS

to come at the appointed time. Pardon me
for not giving you my hand—my arms are
fastened behind me.”

Then, seeing his movement towards her,
she laughed constrainedly and said :

** No, no, don’t be alarmed ! You needn’t
unfasten me. It’s all necessary—it’s what
he wishes. His night has come once more.
Sit down here beside me.”

“Whom do you mean ?” asked Kragaef,
sitting down beside her and speaking cau-
tiously and in wonder.

‘““My husband,” answered she aids:
‘* To-day is the anniversary of his death. He
died just at this hour, and every year on this
night and at this moment I give myself up
to his power. Every year he chooses some
one into whom he sends his spirit, and he
comes to me and tortures me for hours. He
cannot be restrained. He goes away, and
I am free till the following year. This time
he has chosen you. But I can see that you
are astounded—you are ready to think that
I am mad.”

‘* Pardon me, Irene Vladimirovna,” Kra-
gaef was beginning to say.

The lady stopped him with a slight move-
ment of her head, and said :

‘“No, I’m not out of my mind. Listen!

111
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME
I

ll tell you all about it, and you will under-
stand me. It’s not possible that such a
sensitive and responsive person as yourself
—such a wonderful and delicate artist—
should not understand.”

Now, when a man is appealed to as a
sensitive and delicate person, of course he
is prepared to understand all that is wanted.
And Kragaef began to feel himself in sym-
pathy with the spiritual condition of the
lady. He wanted to kiss her hand in token
of his sympathy, and he thought with
pleasure of raising her small delicate hand
to his lips. But this he could not do—he
contented himself with gently squeezing her
elbow in his hand.

The lady responded by an inclination of
her head. Smiling uncertainly and strangely,
so that it was impossible to know whether
it were for happiness or a desire to weep,
she said :

““My husband was a weak and a wicked
man. I cannot understand even now why
I loved him and couldn’t leave him.

‘““He tortured me—at first timidly, but
every year more openly and cruelly. He
inflicted all kinds of torture on me, and he
soon discovered a very simple and ordinary
way. I can’t think why I put up with it.

112
THE LADY IN FETTERS

Perhaps I expected something from it—but,
however it may be, I became weak and
wicked before him, as a humble slave.”

And then she calmly began to tell in
detail how her husband had treated her.
She spoke as if it were of some one other than
herself “who had endured all his cruelty and
mockery.

Kragaef listened with pity and indignation,
but her voice sounded so unmoved, and there
was so much i ion in her words, that
he suddenly began to feel within himself a
wild desire to throw her on to the ground
and beat her as her husband had done. The
longer she talked and the more she described

“jir-detail how her husband had treated her,
the stronger became his feeling and the
greater his desire. At first it seemed to him
that his anger at the shameless frankness
with which she told of her sufferings, with
her quiet, almost innocent cynicism, aroused
this wild desire in him. But soon he under-
stood that there was a much deeper reason
for this wicked feeling.

Was it not, in truth, the soul of the dead
husband becoming incarnate in himself, the
monstrous spirit of an evil, weak torturer ?
He was terrified at first, fe an this
momentary pang of terror died away in his

113 I
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

soul, and more powerfully there arose in
him the lust for torture—the evil and mean .
infection.

‘“‘T endured all this,” continued the lady,
‘““and never once did I complain. Even
my spirit was unmurmuring. But one day
in Spring-time I became just as weak as he.
A strong desire arose in me that he should
die. Perhaps his cruelty was greater just
then, or it may be that the beautiful white
nights of Spring acted upon me in this way.
I don’t know how the desire arose within
me. So strange it was! I had never before
been weak or wicked. Some days I struggled
with the shameful wish. I sat at the window
at night, and looked out at the quiet twilight
of the night of our northern city, and in
grief and anger I pressed my hands together
and thought with insistent evil force, ‘ Die,
cursed one, die!’ And it happened that he
did die suddenly, on this very day, exactly
at two o’clock. But I didn’t kill him—oh,
don’t think it was I who killed him.”

““Merey on us, I don’t think it!” said
Kragaef, though his voice sounded almost
angry.

‘** He died of his own accord,”’ continued
she. ‘“‘Or perhaps it was the force of my
will that sent him to his grave. Perhaps the

114
THE LADY IN FETTERS

will of man is sometimes as strong as that,
eh? I don’t know. But I did not feel
repentant. My conscience was clear. And
I lived calmly on until the next Spring.
But then my mind grew disturbed, and the
clearer became the nights the worse it was
with me. My distress increased more and
more. At last, on the anniversary of his
death, he suddenly came to me and spent
many hours torturing me as he had done in
life.”’

““ Ah-ha, he came!” said Kragaef, with
sudden malice.

““Of course you understand,” said Mme
Omejina, ‘“‘that it was not the deceased
come from his grave. He was too well
brought up and. too much of a townsman
for such a fraud as that. He knew how to
arrange it differently. He took possession
of the will and spirit of a man who, like
yourself, came to me that night and tortured
me long and cruelly. And when he went
away and left me powerless from suffering,
I wept as if I had been a ruined girl. But
my soul was calm, and I did not think of
him again until the following year. But
every year when the white nights come on
I am tormented with distress, and on the
night of his death my torturer comes to me.”

115
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

‘“* Every year ?”’ asked Kragaef, his voice
hoarse with malice or agitation.

‘“‘ Every year,” said she, ‘“‘ somebody comes
to me at this time, and every year it is as if
the actual soul of my husband rejoiced in
my accidental tormentor. Then, after my
dreadful night, my anguish leaves me and I
can live again in the world. It happens so
every year. This year he wanted you to
come to me. He desired me to wait for you
here in this garden, dressed as I am, barefoot
and with my hands bound. And I have
obeyed his will, and I sit here and wait.”

She looked at Kragaef, and on her face
was that blending of expression which he
afterwards represented with such art in the
picture.

He got up with a somewhat unnecessary
haste; his face had become very pale. He
felt in himself an evil passion, and seizing
the lady by the shoulder he cried out to her
in a hoarse voice which he could not recognise
as his own :

“It’s been like this every year, and this
year will be no different from the others.
Come !”

She stood up and began to weep. Kragaef,
still grasping her by the shoulder, drew her
towards the house, and she followed him,

116
THE LADY IN FETTERS

trembling with cold and the dampness of
the gravel path under her bare feet, hasten-
ing and stumbling, feeling at each step the
painful restraint of her golden chain, and
making her golden anklets jangle—so they
passed into the house.

117
The Kiss of the Unborn

I

PERT little boy in buttons put his

A close-cropped head in at the door of

a room where five lady-typists were
clattering on their machines, and said :

** Nadezhda Alexevna, Mrs. Kolimstcheva
is asking for you on the telephone.”

A tall well-built girl of twenty-seven got
up and went downstairs to the telephone.
She walked with quiet self-possession, and
had that deep steadfastness of gaze only
given to those who have outlived heavy
sorrows and patiently endured them to the
end. She was thinking to herself :

““ ‘What has happened now ?”

She knew already that if her sister wanted
to speak to her it was because something
unpleasant had occurred—the children were
ill, the husband worried over business, they
were in need of money—something of that
sort. She would have to go there and see
what could be done—to help, to sympathise,

118
THE KISS OF THE UNBORN

to put matters right. Her sister was ten
years older than herself, and as she lived in
a remote suburb they rarely met.

She went into the tiny telephone - box,
smelling of tobacco, beer, and mice, took up
the speaking-tube, and said :

“Yes. Is it you, Tanichka ?”

The voice of her sister, tearful, agitated,
exactly as she had expected to hear it,
answered her:

‘* Nadia, for God’s sake come here quickly !
Something dreadful has happened. Serezha
is dead. He’s shot himself.”

Nadezhda Alexevna could hardly realise
the news. Her little nephew was dead—
dear little Serezha, only fifteen years old.
She spoke hurriedly and incoherently :

‘“* What is it, Tanya? How terrible!
Why did he do it ? When did it happen ?”

And neither hearing nor waiting for
answer, she added quickly :

** T’ll come at once, at once.”’

She put down the speaking-tube, forgetting
even to hang it up in its place again, and
hurried away to ask the manager for leave
of absence.

It was given her, though unwillingly.
‘You know we have a specially busy time
just now, before the holidays,” grumbled

119
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

the manager. ‘‘ You always seem to want
leave at the most awkward moment. You
can go if it’s really necessary, but don’t forget
that your work must be made up.”

II

A few minutes later Nadezhda Alexevna
got into a tram-car and began her twenty
minutes’ journey. She felt depressed and
uncertain. Spasms of keen pity for her
sister and regret for the dead boy caught
at her heart.

It was terrible to think that this fifteen-
year-old child, but lately a light - hearted
schoolboy, should have suddenly shot himself
—painful to imagine the mother’s grief.
How she would weep—her life seemed always
to have been unhappy and unsuccessful.

Yet Nadezhda Alexevna could not give
herself up entirely to such thoughts. Her
mind was dwelling on something else. It
was always so with her when she came to
one of those times common enough in this
ife of unexpected happenings—the interrup-
ken of the ordinary daily routine by some
unpleasant occurrence. There was an event
in the background of her own life which
weighed her down with a continuous and

120
THE KISS OF THE UNBORN

gnawing sorrow. For her there could be no
relief in tears, they seemed to have been
stopped at their source; rare indeed was it
for a few miserable drops to force themselves
to her eyes. She generally looked out upon
the world with an expression of dull in-
difference.

So now, once again, memory revolved
before her that passionate flaming circle of
her past life. She recalled once more that
short time of love and self-forgetfulness, of
passion and of self-abandonment.

Those bright summer days had been a
festival. The blue heaven had outspread
itself joyously for her delight, the summer
rain had pattered down for her amusement.
For her the pine odours had been more in-
toxicatingly sweet than roses. Roses would
not grow in such a climate. Yet it was a
place that the heart loved. The greeny-
grey moss in the dark forest was a soft and
tender couch; the forest rivulets flowing
over the tumbled boulders lisped clear and
sweet as streams of Arcady; their coolness
gladdened and refreshed.

How quickly had the days passed in the
glad rapture of love! The last day dawned,
which she knew not then to be the last.
The sky was cloudless, the heavens clear.

121
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

Simple happiness was all around. The broad
shadowy glades of the scented pine-forest
were cool and dreamy, the tender moss under-
foot was soft and warm. All was as it had
been on other days. Only the birds had
ceased to sing—they had nested and flown
away with their little ones.

But there had been a shadow on the
countenance of her beloved—he had received
an unpleasant letter that morning.

As he himself said :

““A dreadfully unpleasant letter. I am
desperate. So many days before I see you
again !”

““ How is that ?” she had said. Sadness
had not yet touched her.

““ My father writes to say that my mother
is ill and that I ought to go home.”

His father had written something quite
different—but Nadezhda Alexevna did not
know that. She had not yet learnt that it
is possible to be deceived in love, that the
lips that kiss may speak lies instead of truth.

With his arms around her and his lips
kissing hers he had said :

‘““I must go, there’s nothing else to do.
How lonely I shall be! I can’t think any-
thing serious is the matter, but I shall be
obliged to go.”

122
THE KISS OF THE UNBORN

“Why, of course,” said she. “If your
mother is ill, how could you stay! Write
to me every day ; it will be so dull when you
are gone.”

She went with him as usual as far as the
high road, and then home again along the
forest path, sad at his departure, yet certain
of his return. And he had never come back.

She had received two or three letters from
him, strange letters, confused, full of half-
expressed feelings, hints of something she
could not understand. Then no more.
Nadezhda Alexevna began to realise that he
had ceased to love her. And when the
summer had come to an end she heard a
chance conversation which told her of his
marriage.

“Why, haven’t you heard ? Last week.
They went off to Nice for the honeymoon.”

“Yes, he’s fortunate. He’s married a
rich and beautiful girl.”

‘** She has a large dowry, I suppose.”

““'Yes, indeed. Her father. . .”

Nadezhda Alexevna did not stay to hear
about the father. She moved away.

She often remembered all that had hap-
pened afterwards. Not that she wished to
remember—she had striven to stifle recollec-
tion and. to forget the past. It had all been

128
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

so grievous and humiliating, and there had
seemed no way of escape. It was then, in
those first dreadful days after she knew he
was married to another, in those sweet places
made dear to her by the memory of his
kisses, that she had first felt the movements
of her child—and linked with the first
thoughts of a new life had come the fore-
bodings of death. No child must ever be
born to her!

No one at home had ever known—she
had thought out some pretext for getting
away. Somehow or other, with great diffi-
culty, she had got enough money together
and had managed everything—she never
wished to remember how—and had returned
to her home, weak and ill, with pallid face
and tired body, yet with heroic strength of
spirit to conceal her pain and terror.

Memory often tried to remind her of all
that had taken place, but Nadezhda Alexevna
refused to acknowledge its power. When
sometimes in a flash she recalled everything,
she would shudder with horror and repulsion
and resolutely turn her mind away at once
from the picture.

But in her heart there was one memory
which she treasured; she had a child,
though it had never come to birth, and she

124
THE KISS OF THE UNBORN

often saw before her a sweet yet terrible
image of the little one.

Whenever she was alone and _ sitting
quietly by herself, if she closed her eyes, the
child came to her. She felt that she watched
him grow. So vividly did she see him that
at times it seemed to her that day after day
and year after year she had lived with him
as an actual mother with her living child.
Her breasts were full of milk for him. At
a sudden noise she trembled—perhaps the
child had fallen and would be hurt.

Sometimes she put out her hand to stroke
his soft, bright, golden curls, to touch his hand,
to draw him nearer. But he always escaped
her touch, her hand met empty air, and yet
she heard his little laughing voice as if he
were still near and hiding just behind her
chair.

She knew his face—the face of her child
who had never been born. It was quite
clear to her—that dear yet terrible blending
of the features of him who had taken her
love and discarded it, who had taken her
soul and drained it and forgotten, the
blending of the features of him who, in spite
of all, was still so dear with her own features.

His grey eyes and wavy golden hair and
the soft outline of his lips and chin were all

125
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

his father’s. The little pinky shell-like ears,
the rounded limbs, the rosy dimpled cheeks
were her own.

She knew all his little body—all. And his
little baby ways—how he would hold his
tiny hands, how he would cross one foot
over the other—learning from the father
he had never seen. His smile was like her
own—he had just that same trick of dropping
his head on one side in blushing confusion.

Painfully sweet memories. The tender, |
rosy fingers of her child touched her deep
wounds, and were cruel though dear. So
painful! But she never wished to drive
him away.

“IT cannot, cannot do without thee, dear
little unborn son of mine. If only thou
wert really living! If only I could give thee
life 1°°

For it was only a dream-life! It was for
her alone. The unborn can never rejoice
or weep for himself. He lives, but not for
himself. In the world of the living, in the
midst of people and earthly things, he doesn’t
exist at all. So full of life, so dear, so bright,
and yet he is not.

Nadezhda Alexevna used to say to herself,
““And this is my doing. Now he is small
and he doesn’t understand. But when he

126
THE KISS OF THE UNBORN

grows up he will know—he will compare
himself with living children, he will want to
live a real life, and then he will reproach me
and I shall want to die.”

She never thought how foolish were such
thoughts in the light of reality. She could
not imagine that the unborn child renounced
by her had never been the habitation of a
‘human soul. No—for Nadezhda Alexevna
her unborn child lived, and tortured her
heart with an endless grief.

To her he was as a shining one, clad in
bright garments, with little white hands and
feet, clear innocent eyes and pure smile.
When he laughed his laugh was happy and
musical. True, when she wanted to caress
him he evaded her, but he never went far
away, he was always hiding somewhere near.
He ran away from her embraces, but all the
same he often seemed to put his soft, warm
little arms about her neck and press his
tender lips to her cheek—at those times when
she sat quietly alone and closed her eyes.
But never once had he kissed her on the lips.

** When he grows up he will understand,”’
she thought. “‘ He will be sorry, and he
will go away and never come back any
more. And then I shall die.”

And now as she sat in the noisy, crowded

127
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

tram-car, in the company of strangers, push-
ing and jostling one another, Nadezhda
Alexevna closed her eyes and remembered
her own little child. Once more she looked
into his clear eyes, once more she heard the
tender lispings of his unuttered words...
all the way to the end of her journey, when
the time came for her to get out of the car.

III

When the tram stopped Nadezhda Alex-
evna made her way along the snow-covered
streets, past the low wooden and _ stone
houses, past the gardens and enclosed spaces
of the remote suburb. She was alone.
Many of the other passengers had been met,
but for her there was no companion. And
she thought to herself as she walked along :

““My sin will always remain with me;
I can never get away from it. How is it
that I go on living? Even little Serezha is
dead.”

A dull pain gnawed at her heart; she
could not answer her own question :

““Why doI goon living? Yet why should
I die?”

And again she thought :

‘He is always with me, my dear little

128
THE KISS OF THE UNBORN

one. But he is growing up now; he
eight years old, and he must be beginni\ _
to understand. Why isn’t he angry with
me? Doesn’t he want to be able to go and
play with the other children ; to ride on the
frozen snow in his little sledge? Doesn’t
all this winter beauty attract him? I feel
it all so delightful; even in spite of its
illusions the world is so beautiful and so
enchanting. Is it possible for him not to
want to live here in reality ?”

Then, as she went on and on, all alone,
through the monotonous streets, she began
to think of those to whom she had come :
her hard-worked brother-in-law, her tired
sister, the crowd of fretful children always
asking for something or other, the poverty-
stricken home, the lack of money. She
remembered her favourite nephews and
nieces—and little Serezha who had shot
himself.

Who could have expected him to die?
He had been so gay, so lively.

And then she remembered her talk with
the boy last week. Serezha had been sad
and upset then. He had been reading some
incident recorded in the newspapers and
had said :

‘“‘ Things are bad at home, and if you take

129 K
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

up @ newspaper you only read about horrors
and shameful happenings.”

She had said something which she herself
did not believe, in order to divert the boy’s
attention. Serezha had smiled grimly and
then continued :

“But, Auntie Nadia, how bad it all is!
Just think what is going on all around us.
Don’t you think it dreadful that one of the
best of people, an old, old man, went away
from his home to find a place in which to
die? It must have been because he saw
more plainly than we do the horrors around
us, and couldn’t endure to live any
longer. So'he went away and died.
Terrible ! ”

And after a little silence he went on:

“Auntie Nadia, I\tell you just what I

think, because you’re always kind to me and
you understand—I don’t nt Kat
all in a world where such thing®happen.'’ I

know I’m just as weak as everybody else,
and what is there for me to do? Only by
degrees to begin to get used to it all. Auntie,
Nekrasof was right when he said, * It is good
to die young.’ ”

Nadezhda Alexevna remembered that she
had felt anxious about the child and had had

a long talk with him. It seemed as if he ,;

130
THE KISS OF THE UNBORN

were convinced at last. He had smiled
again in his old way, and had said in his usual
careless tone :

** Ah, well, we shall live, and we shall see.
Progress is still going forward, and we ao)
not yet understand its aim.”

And now Serezha no longer lived—he had
killed himself. So he hadn’t wanted to live
and look on at the majestic march of Progress.
And what was his mother doing just now ?
Perhaps kissing his little waxen hand, or
perhaps getting supper for the hungry little
ones who were doubtless frightened and
crying, looking pitiful in their worn-out and
untidy clothes. Perhaps she had thrown
herself down upon her bed and was weeping,
—weeping endlessly. Happy woman, happy,
if she could weep. What in this world is
sweeter than the comfort of tears !

IV

At length Nadezhda Alexevna reached
her sister’s home, and went up the staircase
to the fourth floor. It was a narrow
stone staircase with very steep flights of
stairs, and she went up so quickly, almost
running, that she lost her breath, and
stopped outside the door to rest before

181
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

going in. She breathed heavily, holding on
to the balustrade with her woollen-gloved
hand.

The door was covered with felt, over which
oilcloth had been stretched, and on this oil-
cloth was a cross of narrow black strips, partly,
perhaps, for ornament, partly for strength.
One of the strips was half torn off and hanging
down, and behind it, through a hole in the
oilcloth, protruded the grey felt. For some
reason or other this suddenly seemed pitiful
and painful to Nadezhda Alexevna. Her
shoulders heaved quickly. Covering her face
with her hands she burst into loud sobbing.
She felt suddenly weak, and sitting down
hastily on the top step she wept. For a long
time she sat there hiding her face in her
hands. A warm rain of tears flowed over her
woollen gloves.

It was nearly dark, and very cold and
silent on the staircase—the doors on the
landing stood dumb and rigid. Long, long
she wept. . . . Then suddenly she heard a
light, familiar step, and as she waited in
expectation she felt her child come nearer
and put his arms about her neck. His
cheek pressed close to hers, and his warm
little fingers tried to push away the hands
which were screening and hiding her face.

182
THE KISS OF THE UNBORN

He put his lips to her cheek and whispered
gently :

“Why do you weep? How can you
have done wrong ? ”

Silently she sat and listened; she dare
not move or open her eyes lest the child
should disappear. She let her right hand
drop on to her knee, but still kept her eyes
covered with the left. Gradually her weep-
ing became less; she must not frighten the
child with her woman’s tears, the tears of a
sinful woman.

And the child went on, kissing her cheek
as he spoke, ‘‘ You haven’t done wrong at
all.”

Then he spoke again, and now his words
were those of Serezha:

**T don’t want to live in this world. I’m
very thankful to you, mother dear.”

And again :

‘* Indeed, dear mother, I don’t want to
be alive.”

These words had sounded terrible in her!
ears when Serezha had spoken them—terrible
because spoken by one who, having received
from unseen Powers the living form of
mankind, ought to have held as a precious
treasure the life committed to his care, and
not have wished to destroy it. But these

183

 
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

same words, spoken by the child who had
never been born into this world, rejoiced
his mother’s heart. Gently and timidly, as
if afraid of frightening him by the sound
of an earthly voice, she asked :

‘“* And my dear one forgives me ? ”

And heard the answer :

“You haven’t done wrong at all; yet if
you want to hear me say so, ‘ I forgive you.’ ”’

And suddenly her heart overflowed with
a foretaste of an unlooked-for happiness.
Hardly daring to hope, hardly knowing what
to expect, she slowly and fearfully stretched
out her hands—and felt her child on her knees,
with his little hands on her shoulders, his lips
pressed close to hers in a long, long kiss.

Her eyes were fast closed still, for she
feared to look on that which it is not given
to mankind to see, yet it seemed to her that
the child’s eyes looked into hers—and that
he breathed a blessing upon her—and shone
upon her like a Sun.

Then she felt the arms unclose, and on
the staircase she heard the light patter of
feet, and knew that the child was gone.

She got up, dried her tears, and rang the
bell. When she went in to her sister she
was full of calm and happiness, she had
power to strengthen and console.

134
The Hungry Gleam

 

dined very well to-day—compara-

tively, of course—as a man reckons
who has spent a year on other people’s
doorsteps and stairs searching for a job.
He has dined well, but all the same the
hungry gleam still remains in his sorrowful
dark eyes, and gives to his lean and swarthy
face an expression of unwontéd significance.

Moshkin spent on his dinner his last six
shilling 1 note, and there rattled in his pocket
only a few coppers, and in his purse a worn
fourpenny bit.2, He made a feast and made
merry, though he knew that it was stupid
to rejoice, premature and unfounded. But
he had sought work so hard and had come
to such a pass that he was ready to rejoice
even at the phantom of hope.

Moshkin had lately put an advertisement
in the Novoe Vremya. He had advertised
himself as a schoolmaster with literary gifts.

t ‘Three roubles. ® Fifteen copecks.

185

Gained MATVEITCH MOSHKIN
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

He had once been correspondent of a Volga
newspaper. That was why he lost his last
post; some one found out that he wrote
malicious tit-bits for a radical paper, in-
formed the Head of the rural council, who
in turn informed the inspector of national
schools. The inspector, of course, wouldn’t
stand it.

“We don’t want such teachers,” said
the inspector to him in a personal interview.

And Moshkin asked :

“Then what sort do you want ?”

But the inspector, avoiding an incon-
venient question, replied drily’:

‘Good-bye, till we meet again. Hope
to see you when we meet on that beautiful
shore.

Moshkin also announced in his givens:
ment that he would like to be secretary,
editor, sub-editor, or leader-writer of a news-
paper, lesson-hearer for young children, tutor,
pleasant companion to any one making
a tour in the Crimea, handyman about a
house, ete. He also declared that he had
no objection to taking a post at a distance.

He waited. There arrived one post card.
Strangely enough even that post card caused
him to hope.

It was the morning. Moshkin was having

186
THE HUNGRY GLEAM

his tea. In came the landlady herself. Her
little black eyes twinkled as she called out
sarcastically :

‘“* The correspondence of Sergey Matveitch
Moshkin, Esq.”

And whilst he read the card she peered
at him from under the yellow triangle of
her brow and muttered :

‘* Letters won’t pay for board and lodging.
Letters won’t fill your stomach. Better go
to people and hunt for work, not strut like
a Spaniard.”

He read :

‘““Be kind enough to call to discuss
matters from 6 to 7 p.M., 6th Line, No. 78,
lodging 57.”

Without signature.

Moshkin looked spitefully at the land-
lady. She stood at the door, fat, stiff, and
calm like a great, staring doll. And she
looked at him with cold, malicious, steady
eyes.

Moshkin cried out :

‘* Basta !

He struck with his fist on the table,
stood up, and commenced to march up and
down the room, all the while repeating :

“* Basta !”’

The landlady softly enquired :

137
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

“Will you pay, you Kazan and Astra-
khan correspondent ? Eh? MHas your ugly
face any conscience left ? ”

Moshkin stopped before her, stretched
out in front of her his empty hand, and
said expressively :

* All that I have.”

He didn’t say a word about the last-
left three-rouble note which he had in his
pocket, as yet unspent. The landlady boiled
over :

“Tm not the wife of an officer of hussars :
money’s necessary to me. How will I get
seven roubles’ worth of wood? If you don’t
keep yourself you’re just a spending machine.
Dear me, a man with abilities too, a young
man, and a sufficiently charming exterior.
You can find some one else to put you up.
But how can I? No matter what you turn
to, out flies the money. Blow—a rouble,
spit—a rouble, die—a hundred and fifty.”

Moshkin walked up to her and said :

“Don’t alarm yourself, Prascovia Pet-
rovna, this evening I shall receive a post
and will settle up.”

And once more he commenced his march,
shuffling in his slippers.

The landlady stood grumbling for some
time, and at last went out crying :

188
THE HUNGRY GLEAM

“T have a breast of steel. Had it been
any one else in my place they’d soon have
shown you the door, saying, ‘ Live without
me, tramp the streets, I’m not your born
slave.’ ””

She went out, and there remained in his
memory her doll-like figure, puffy arms,
yellow triangle of a brow over black waxy
eyes, her yellow triangle of tucked-up yellow
petticoat, the little triangle of her red snuffing
nose. Three triangles.

All day Moshkin was hungry, gay, and
wicked. He strayed aimlessly in the streets.
He looked at the girls, and they all seemed
to him dear, gay, ready to be loved—by the
rich. He stopped before jewellers’ windows,
and the hungry gleam grew keener in his eyes.

He bought a newspaper. Read it on a
seat in the square where the children were
running and laughing, where the nurses
aped the fashions, and the air was full of
dust and the smell of dry leaves—and the
smell of the streets and the garden mixed
disagreeably and reminded him of gutta-
percha. In the newspaper Moshkin was
struck by the story of a man who had gone
mad through hunger, and who, in his de-
mentia, had gone into a gallery and slashed
a picture about with his knife.

139
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

“‘That’s what. Splendid! I understand
that!”

Moshkin strode about saying to himself :

“That’s what. I understand that!”

And afterwards, as he wandered along
the rich avenues or sauntered by the grand
shops of the parade, passed in and out
among the equipages of Petersburg lords
and ladies, rubbed elbows with the rich,
the fine, the perfumed, and breathed the
atmosphere of all that wonderful world of
luxury to which only those who have money
have the entrée, he kept on repeating to
himself :

‘“‘That’s what. I understand that!”

He walked up to a great, fat, idle uni-
formed footman and cried :

‘“‘ That’s what! I understand that !”’

The footman turned a contemptuous gaze
on him, but did not move or speak. Moshkin
tittered cheerfully and added :

‘“‘ Fine fellows the anarchists ! ”’

““ Clear out!’ cried the footman angrily.

Moshkin moved off. Suddenly a horrible
thought occurred to him. A _ policeman
stood near, and his white gloves caught the
young man’s attention. He stopped in vexa-
tion, and whispered to himself :

‘* A bomb would suit you very well.”

140
THE HUNGRY GLEAM

He heard the footman spit angrily behind
him, and he walked on. He walked far,
and at about six in the evening entered a
middle-class restaurant. He took a seat
at a table by the window, drank a glass of
vodka, nibbled two anchovies, ordered dinner
at one and sixpence, drank a bottle of “‘ Iced
Chablais.”” After dinner he had a liqueur.
He felt giddy a bit. Some one was playing
a barrel-organ, and his head went round to
the music. He didn’t take his change,
and, leaving the restaurant with a little
swagger, he tipped the doorkeeper sixpence.

He looked at his nickel watch—it was
getting on for seven. Time. Perhaps he
would be late, and they would have engaged
some one else. He strode forward agitatedly.

Things got in his way awfully :

the roads were up ;

the sleepy cabmen kept running their
cabs in front of him as he took the crossings ;

people kept blocking the road, especially
peasants and well-dressed ladies ;

when people made way for him, turning
to their right, he made way for them, turning
to his left, and collided ;

beggars kept asking him for money ;

walking itself seemed to retard him.

It is difficult to conquer space and time

141
/

(

THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

when one is in a hurry. The earth itself
seems to suck you in, and at each step you
feel impotence and tiredness—you feel it like
a rheumatism in the marrow. Thence is
spite engendered and the hungry gleam
grows brighter in the eyes.

Moshkin thought :

‘The devil take it, eh, all the devils!”

However, he got there at last.

Behold the road and the house, No. 78.
It was a four-storey, dark-painted house
with two entrances. He went in at a great
yawning gate and read the list of occupiers.
Flat No. 57 was not indicated. He looked
round for some one to ask, but there was no
one about. At last, on a little metal plate
beside the dirty-white button of an electric
bell, he read: ‘‘ To the House-porter.”

He pressed the button and went in once
more to look at the list of occupiers, but
even before he got to it he met the porter,
a black-bearded man of insinuative ap-
pearance.

‘“* Where is lodging 57?”

Moshkin asked the question carelessly,
imitating that of the chief of the rural
council through whom he lost his place.
He knew by experience that with house-
porters it is necessary to speak in a certain

142
THE HUNGRY GLEAM

sort of way and not in another. Pilgrim-
aging from door to door and climbing up
many staircases gives a man a certain
varnish.

The porter asked somewhat suspiciously :

“Who is it you want to see?”

And with simple carelessness and a gentle
drawl Moshkin replied :

““T don’t really know myself. I have
come about an advertisement. I received
a letter, but the writer is not indicated.
Only the address is given. Who lives
there ?”

‘*Miss Engelgardova,” answered the
porter.

‘“* Engelgargt ? ’’ queried Moshkin.

The porter repeated :

‘* Engelgardova.”

Moshkin laughed.

‘* Russification ? ”

‘“* Helena Petrovna,”’ answered the porter.

“An old hag?” asked Moshkin doubt-
fully. The porter grinned.

‘““No, sir, a young lady. By the front
way, please ; through the gate on the right.”

“I’ve looked,’ said Moshkin. “ Only
the first numbers are there.”

“No,” said the porter. “ Fifty-seven is
there, at the bottom.”’

1438
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

Moshkin asked :

** And what is her occupation. Has she
some sort of business? A school? A pub-
lishing office ? ”’

**No, I never heard either of a school
or a publishing office. They have private
means.”

At Miss Engelgardova’s a very country-
looking chambermaid showed the young
man to the drawing-room and asked him
to wait.

He waited, grew bored and tired. He
surveyed the furniture. There was an ac-
cumulation of armchairs, tables, chairs,
screens, sideboards, there were little tables
with busts on them, lamps, knick-knacks,
mirrors on the walls, pictures, lithographs,
clocks, curtains on the walls, flowers. It
was close, oppressive, dark. Moshkin began
to walk up and down softly on the carpet.
He looked with spite at the pictures and
the busts.

“To the devil, eh, to all the devils!”
thought he.

But when the lady of the house came in
he hid the hungry gleam and looked at her
with his eyes.

She was young, tall, ruddy cheeked,
and by all accounts good-looking. She

144
THE HUNGRY GLEAM

walked up to him briskly and resolutely,
and then rather awkwardly held out to him
her strong white arm. It was bare to
the elbow.

She held her hand halfway high, as if
to say “‘ Shake it or kiss, which you please.”
Moshkin kissed. Pressing his lips till his
teeth touched her hand, he made a loud
and smacking kiss. She shuddered rather,
but said nothing. She walked to the sofa,
pushed aside a table, sat down, pointed to
an armchair for him. He sat down. She
questioned :

“That was your advertisement yester-
day ?”

He blurted :

‘* Mine.”

He thought a minute and then answered
more politely :

‘“* Mi-ne.”

And he felt vexed and thought again :

“To the devil, eh!”

She inquired what he could do, where
he was brought up, where he had worked ;
so cautiously she approached the real ques-
tion at issue that one might have thought
she was waiting for something else to happen
first.

At last it became clear. She wanted

145 L
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

some one to edit a journal. What sort of
journal? She hadn’t yet decided. Some
sort. A little one. She thought of buying
a paper already in existence; of the char-
acter of the paper she said nothing. He
might be useful in the counting-house per-
haps, but as he had written that he was a
schoolmaster she had assumed he had ma-
triculated. Could he edit with so small a
qualification ? She doubted it.

However, if he understood book-
keeping...

How to take in subscriptions . . .

Transcribe business and editorial letters . . .

Cash postal orders .. .

Correct proofs .. .

Fold the papers, pack and _ address
them...

Take them to the post...

And soon...

And soon...

The young lady talked for half an hour,
and gave a sufficiently confused impression
of the various duties.

“You need several men to do all that,”
said Moshkin bitterly.

The young lady blushed with vexation.
Lines of greed fluttered about her face.

“The journal will be a small one, a

146
THE HUNGRY GLEAM

special one. In such a little undertaking
to employ several clerks would be to risk
immediate extinction.”

He laughed and agreed :

“Yes, yes, I suppose. Well, time won’t
grow heavy on my hands.”

He asked :

““But how much of the day shall I be
occupied ? ” .

““Oh, from nine in the morning—that’s
not late, is it ?—to seven in the evening—
that won’t be too early, I suppose? Of
course sometimes when there’s a rush you
might stay a little longer or come in on a
Sunday. Ofcourse you’re free, aren’t you ?”’

“How much do you think to pay me?”

“Would one pound sixteen a month be
enough ? ”’

He reflected and laughed :

“* Rather little.”

“Well, I can’t go any higher than two
guineas.”

“Very well.”

In a sudden burst of rage he put his hand
in his pocket, took out the key of his room,
and called out calmly but most decidedly :

‘“* Hands up!”

“* Ah,” cried the young lady, and hurriedly
put up her arms.

147
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

She sat on the sofa, looking very pale.
She was big and strong; he little and
emaciated.

The loose sleeves of her blouse dangled
on her shoulders, and her white arms stretched
upward looked those of an acrobat. She
was evidently capable of holding hands up
for a long time.

Enjoying her confusion, Moshkin added
slowly and suggestively :

‘Only move! But tremble!”

He went up to a picture.

“* How much is it worth ?”’ he asked.

‘** Twenty-two pounds without the frame,”
said the young lady unhappily.

He fumbled in his pocket for his pen-
knife, and then jabbed a great cross into
the canvas.

““ Ah!” exclaimed the girl, holding her
hands up.

He went up to a marble bust.

** How much is it worth ?”

“Thirty pounds.”

He knocked off its nose with his key,
then an ear, then chipped the cheeks. The
lady sighed softly, and it was pleasant to
hear her soft sighing.

He cut up some more pictures, cut open
the back of an armchair, broke some vases.

148
THE HUNGRY GLEAM

He went up to the young lady and cried :

‘“* Get under the sofa.”

She obeyed.

“Lie quietly till some one comes or you'll
get a bomb.”

He went out, met no one either in the hall
or on the staircase.

At the gate the porter stood, and Moshkin
said :

“A strange lady that of yours!”

66 How ? 29

‘“* Doesn’t behave very well—makes scenes.
I should go up to her now, she’s feeling bad.”

“T can’t go till ’'m called.”

“* Well, you know best.”

He went out. The hungry gleam grew
dimmer in his eyes.

Moshkin tramped the streets a long while,
and he recounted to himself stupidly and
deliberately the events of that drawing-
room, and pictured again the torn pictures
and the lady under the sofa.

The dim water of the canal beckoned to
him. The glimmering light of the sunset
gave the surface a beautiful sadness, a
soothing like the music sometimes made by
an insane composer. Such also were the
rough flags of the pier and such the dusty
cobbles of the roadway, and such the stupid,

149
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

dirty children coming to meet him. All
was locked and inimical.

But the green-gold water of the canal
beckoned.

And the hungry gleam died away, died
away.

So musical was the sudden splash in the
water.

And there ran away, ring beyond ring,
black dark rings, wallowing over and eclips-
ing the green-gold water of the canal.

150
The Little Stick

wonderful little stick which will

cause all things to disappear and
turn your life into a dream if you touch
your head with it.

If you don’t like your life just take the
little stick and put it to one of your temples
—and suddenly all you didn’t like will
become a dream and you will start some-

thing quite new.
Of that sort is the wonderful little stick.

"ore is upon the earth a very

© oA
we NS Nis Jd

\

151
Equality

wanted to swallow him.
The little fish squeaked out :

“It is unjust. I also want to live. All
fishes are equal before the law.”

The big fish answered :

“What’s the matter? I won’t discuss
whether we are equal, but if you don’t want
me to eat you, then do you please swallow
me if you can—swallow me, don’t be afraid,
I shan’t set on you.”

The little fish opened his mouth and
poked about trying to get the big fish in,
sighed at last and said :

“You have it. Swallow me.”

A BIG fish overtook a little one and

152
Adventures of a Cobble-Stone

HERE was in the town a cobbled

roadway. A wheel of a passing cart

loosened one of the stones. The

stone said to himself, ‘“‘Why should I lie

here close packed with others of my kind?
I will live separately.”

A boy came along and picked up the
cobble-stone.

Thought the stone to himself: ‘“‘ I wanted
to travel and I travel. I only had to wish
sufficiently strongly.”

The boy threw the stone at a house.
Thought the stone: “I wish to fly and I
fly. It’s quite simple—I just willed it.”

Bang went the stone against the window-
glass. The glass broke and in doing so
cried out :

*“Oh, you scoundrel! What are you
doing ?”

But the stone replied :

‘** You’d have done better to get out of
the way. I don’t like people getting in my

153
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

way. Everything arranged for my benefit—
that’s my motto.”

The stone fell on a soft bed and thought :
** I’ve flown a bit, and now I'll lie down for
a while and rest.”

A servant came and took the stone off
the bed and threw it out at the window
again so that it fell back on the cobbled
roadway.

Then the stone cried out to his fellow-
cobbles: ‘‘ Brothers, good health, I’ve just
been paying a call at one of the mansions,
but I did not at all care for the aristocracy,
my heart yearned for the common people,
so I returned.”

154
The Future

bring. But there is a place where

the future gleams through an azure
veil of desire. This is the place where those
who are as yet unborn rest in peace. There
everything is joyful, peaceful, freshly cool.
No grief is there, and instead of air there is
diffused an atmosphere of pure joy, in which
the unborn have their being.

And no one ever leaves that land unless
he desires to leave it.

Once there were four souls who all wished
at the same moment to be born into this
world. And in the azure mist of desire our
four elements were revealed to them.

And one said :

“I love the earth—it is soft and warm
and firm.”

And another said :

“TI love water—eternally falling, cool, and
translucent.”

The third said :
155

N O one knows what the future will
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

“I love fire—gay and bright it is, and
purifying.”

And the fourth said :

“I love the air—stretching out so broad
and high—the light breath of life.”

And this is what life brought to them.

The first became a miner, and while he
was at work a shaft fell and buried him in
the earth.

And the second shed tears like water,
and at length was drowned.

And the third perished by fire in a burning
house.

And the fourth was hanged.

Poor innocent elements! Foolish desir-
ing ones !

Oh, why did Will lead them forth from
the happy place of non-existence !

156
The Road and the Light

()° a long country road came people

with horses and waggons, and only
the stars gave them light.

The night was a long one, but their eyes
were accustomed to the darkness, and they
were able to distinguish all the unevennesses
and windings of the road.

But the way being long it became dull
for one of the men, and he said :

‘““Hadn’t we better light lanterns so as
to see the way ?. Then the horses will move
more quickly and we shall get to our destina-
tion sooner.”’

The others believed him and_ lighted
lanterns, and not content with that, broke
off branches from the trees and made torches
—they even lighted bonfires, taking much
trouble over the lighting of the way.

The horses stood still. ‘‘ Never mind,”
said the men, “we shall get on quicker
afterwards.”

And all around them was a bright light,

157
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

and the light of the stars was darkened.
Then the wayfarers saw that there was not
one road only, but many side-tracks and
by-paths. And each road seemed to some
one the shortest road to take.

They quarrelled among themselves as to
which road to take, and they separated. The
morning light found them all on different
ways and far from the place whither they
were bound.

158
The Keys

bour :

‘*I go about everywhere, but you
lie still. Where have I not been, but you’ve
always remained at home. What are you
thinking about ? ”

The old key did not want to answer, but
she said :

‘““There is a strong oaken door. I lock
it, and when the time comes I unlock it
again.”

“Well,” said the skeleton-key, ‘ but
aren’t there a great many doors in the
world ?”

‘**T don’t need to know about any other
doors,” said the key. “I can’t open
them.”

“Can’t you? But I can open every
door !”

And the skeleton-key thought to herself :

“This key is really stupid if it can only
open one door.” But the key said to her :

159

A SKELETON - KEY said to her neigh-
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

‘*'You’re a thieves’ skeleton-key, but I
am a true and honest door-key.”

This the skeleton-key did not understand.
She did not know what truth and honesty
were, and she thought that the door-key
was so old that she had gone out of her
mind.

160
The Independent Leaves

OME leaves with very strong stalks
S were hanging from a branch, and
they found life very dull. It was
very unpleasant—they could see the birds
flying and the kittens running about; even
the clouds were being carried along—and
they were still on the branch. They swung
themselves about, trying to break off from
their stalks and be free.

They said to one another :

‘““'We can live independent lives. We
are quite grown up. But here we are under
guardianship, stuck fast to this old stupid
branch.”

They swung themselves about and at
last got free. They fell to the ground and
withered. Presently the gardener came and
swept them away with the refuse.

161 M
The Crimson Ribbon

I

HE old professor, Edward Henriovitch
Roggenfeldt, and his aged wife,
Agnes Rudolfovna, had been ac-
customed for many years to live from May
to September in the same watering-place,
in Esthonia on the southern shore of the
Gulf of Finland. Every year they occupied
the same beautiful country villa standing
in its own grounds. From the balcony of
this villa they had a broad and delightful
outlook over the waters of the gulf, the
meadows near the sea, and the beach.
Although this watering- place was in-
habited for the most part by families of
Germans, professors and physicians, and
bore the stupid ridiculous name of Trés-joli,
it was a very pleasant and convenient place
in which to live. All the people who owned
villas there were firmly convinced that
Esthonia was the healthiest place in the
world and that Trés-joli was the most
162
THE CRIMSON RIBBON

beautiful spot in North-West Russia. They
declared that this was printed in the Encyclo-
paedia in which other reliable information
could be found of this sort, for example,
that Edgar Poe lived a degraded life, and
was a lying and evil-living man.

The peasants of the place—Esthonians—
were peaceful and honest and well-behaved ;
no one ever heard of fights or robberies there.
There was a post and telegraph office quite
near, only four versts away. The postman, «.s—.
came twice a day, and not only brought the\
post but collected the letters. PuAg

There were two cafés in the neighbour- *«**
hood, one on the sea-shore, the other inland, Ske
near the baron’s estate, with very fine “° *«
gardens. Once a week there was music in |... bl
the café on the shore. Not far away, also —~—~
at a distance of four versts, was an Assembly
Room where there was a public dance once
a week, and where one could get wine and
beer or have dinners or suppers. But all
this was not too near—the people who lived
at Trés-joli could enjoy a peaceful quietude
and yet not be deprived of the conveniences
of civilisation. The tradesmen brought their
goods to the very doors of the villas—a
great convenience, which fully compensated
for not living near the town markets.

163

Choe Ras
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

The houses in Trés-joli stood on a high
cliff. The bank sloped down to the sea,
with here and there steep ravines in which
were trees and bushes and wild narcissus,
but in places the cliff was bare and laminated,
rejoicing the hearts of professors and students,
who found there ancient Silurian remains,
green and brown and yellow layers of lime-
stone and sandstone. Along the edge of
the sea stretched a broad strip of fine friable
pale yellow sand, dotted here and there with
large stones and some small pebbles. The
rugged boulders were ornamental, the pebbles
were rather a hindrance to walking, but the
sand was delightful and the bathing excellent,
and on the shore in front of the villas was a
row of clean-looking dressing-rooms.

The water of the gulf was of many varying
tints and colours, from the palest and most
delicate blue in the sunshine to the gloomiest
purple in dull weather. Sometimes it was
perfectly calm. Then the broad waters of
the gulf lay like an enormous expanse of
steel along which stripes of fleeting colour
streamed.

Sometimes the waves lashed noisily along
the sandy shore. The long wearisome sound
like the roar of a tired and hungry animal
kept nervous visitors from sleeping, flurried

164
THE CRIMSON RIBBON

the hysterical, and delighted the serious
fifteen-year-old schoolboys. On such days
they would come down to the shore and
meditate upon the “accursed” questions
of life and being—those questions familiar
to every progressive schoolboy of that age.

The sunsets were wonderful, each evening
different. Every evening the sky arrayed
itself in a new way, sometimes covering
itself with clouds, sometimes appearing clear
and cloudless.

If there were few clouds, or none at all,
the sky showed itself in an exquisite austerity
of beauty as its adornment. Then the sun,
solitary, weary, purple in colour, hiding
itself behind pale purple veils, sank majestic-
ally down towards the hardly distinguishable
line of the horizon, sinking slowly, dying
away in sadness and beauty, till at length,
with a last faint gleam shining for a moment
in the misty bed of the far and melancholy
distance, it went out like the last sigh of an
expiring universe. And then came on an
undisturbed serenity both in the heavens
and upon the earth, and’a spell of deepening
shadows was cast upon the warm sand and
the cold pebbles, on the dreaming trees and on
the humble roofs of the villagers, gradually
chilling all.

165
; THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME
When the sunset sky was massed with
\dark heavy lowering clouds, and bright
foam-like cloudlets were scattered like a
whimsical pattern on the blue enamel of
the heavens, the departing sun was attended
by a magnificence of flame and colour and
radiance and delicate gold-edged beams of
light. The enraptured gaze did not then
behold the setting sun in the majesty of its
departure, for the sun appeared as only one
of the heavenly marvels, and not the most
beautiful of all—only a monotonously glow-
ing disk of a uniform crimson incandescence.
All the broad and beauteous West was filled
with slow streams of wavering and glimmer-
ing molten many-toned liquid gold, blazing
with all the yellows of amber and _ half-
transparent topaz, flaming through the
innocent blue of heaven with all the passions
and crimsons of blood, trembling and un-
consumed in the flames of jasper, onyx and
emerald and the glowing carmine of rubies.
It seemed then as if a gigantic rainbow,
glowing in the heat of the heavenly furnace,
suddenly tore apart its thin half-transparent
veil, poured itself through and spread out
along the heavens its many-coloured stream,
which broke out into innumerable fires.
Sometimes in dull weather opal clouds
166
THE CRIMSON RIBBON

would appear in the sky, and the. pale angel —
of death would look down upon the earth, A
with his unswerving gaze, right into the'eyes ™!
of people who cannot perceive him.

But it is impossible to describe all the
sunsets, because the diversity of them is
endless, endless as the diversity of human
life itself.

The most pleasant feature of Trés-joli
was its delightful combination of sea and
forest, the trees in some places coming down
nearly to the water’s edge. Firs and leafy
trees were about equal in number, the stern
and stately pines and firs mingling with
white-trunked birches, trembling aspens, dull
alders, bitter rowans, and proud maples.
One rich merchant from Vishgorod had
even planted chestnuts and oaks on his
estate. The whole place was delightful, and
all the visitors rejoiced in its beauty.

The villagers industriously ploughed their
barren, stone-bestrewn fields, they prophesied
the weather according to the appearance of
the sky and the direction of the wind, they
caught sprats in the sea, but didn’t bathe
themselves in it, and they let their cows
wander in the forest and all along the sea-
shore. In short, they behaved as the villagers
in such places always do.

167
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

““ Aborigines,” they were called con-
temptuously by Professor Roggenfeldt’s
grandson, the schoolboy Eddy, who was an
unwearied seeker after fossils.

But Madame Roggenfeldt, a grey-haired
old lady, with a sweet attractive face of
great former beauty, said :

““The Esthonians here are so cultured.
They play Moliére in their public hall, they
have a choir and a band, and many of them
have pianos. Their children sing and play
very nicely, and on holidays they look quite
like young ladies.”

II

In this idyllic place one beautiful summer’s
day Madame Roggenfeldt was celebrating her
birthday. Everything was very gay. The
families of her son and daughter had all
come, and the grandchildren had presented
her with flowers and congratulated her
prettily. Guests had come in from town,
and they expected to have music and singing
in the evening.

After luncheon, about three o’clock in
the afternoon, there was dancing in the
meadow that lay between the cliff of Trés-joli
and the wood on the sea-shore. The local
band had been invited to play.

168
THE CRIMSON RIBBON

Only one old friend of the family was
absent—Professor Bernard Horn—and Pro-
fessor Roggenfeldt could not imagine why
he had not come. He had intended to send
a message to his house, but there had been
no time, all the servants and everybody in
the house had been very busy.

But Madame Roggenfeldt had been in a
nervous and disturbed state all the morning.
While the young folks were dancing she sat
with her husband on a seat in the garden
on the cliff and looked down at the scene
below.

The sun was not too bright, the sound
of the music was softened by distance, the
laughter and chatter of the young people
was not heard too loudly, the movements
of the dancers were slow and melancholy.

Three Esthonian peasant-musicians in grey
felt hats were seated one behind the other
with their backs to the sea on stools placed
at the edge of a square even space. Their
sunburnt faces expressed the zeal of close
attention and nothing else. Their sunburnt
hands moved exactly and mechanically
And from afar they looked like dolls placed
there, parts of a very complicated musical
machine.

In front of the players was a music-stand,

169
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

and behind it stood a short elderly man
waving his conductor’s stick calmly, con-
fidently, and as mechanically as the players
moved their hands. He too had a sun-
burnt neck and hands. When he moved a
few steps from the stand he was seen to be
very lame. And it seemed as if his lameness
had been planned by an ignorant but artistic
workman, fashioning this fine toy so as to
be more suitable for the music of the dance.

The sounds of the music seemed extra-
ordinarily regular and monotonous. One
could have wished for some slight inaccuracy
or capricious interruption of the rhythm ;
but afterwards one remembered that it
could not be otherwise, that such was the
law of this methodically gay and yet melan-
choly measure.

The young men and girls sat on benches
on the other two sides of the square. The
fourth side had a light fence beyond which
the ground sloped upward, and here upon
the grass lay some onlookers who did not
dance but had come to watch others dance
and. to listen to the music.

All the people present seemed to be under
the spell of the devilishly-monotonous and
inhumanly precise rhythm of this wonderfully
executed music. All the young folks danced

170
THE CRIMSON RIBBON

together and stepped apart with the earnest-
ness and exactitude demanded of them by
the power of the mechanical example given
them by the sunburnt hand of the lame
conductor beating out the time. And the
spectators who looked on respectfully and
the little peasant children who stood around
never moved; they looked as if they all
had been carved out of the same unbending
material and coloured with the same colours
of amber and red-lead :
| SJ

i

* Don’t you think the musicians play
very well, Agnes ?”’ asked Professor Roggen-
feldt of his wife.

Agnes Rudolfovna sighed, as if she had
been brought back from some sweet vision
of the past:

. “Yes, they play very well,” said she,
** especially if one remembers that they are
only simple peasants.”

‘““The peasants here have culture and so
are very different from the Russian peasants,”
said her husband.

** Yes, indeed,” said Agnes Rudolfovna.

“But I can’t think why our friend,
Doctor Horn, hasn’t come. I feel quite

171
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

anxious about him. I’m afraid he must
have been taken ill suddenly. If he doesn’t
come soon, I think we must send and enquire
about him.”

Agnes Rudolfovna did not reply. She
looked intently at the dancers. Her thin
but still beautiful fingers trembled as she
smoothed down the folds of her white dress.

It was strange and somewhat painful to
look down upon this slow dance and to listen
to the melancholy sounds of the waltz,
played so precisely by the stiff brown hands
of the musicians.

Yes, it was painful but yet sweet to the
old lady to recall that far-off time when
Edward and Agnes were still young, when
he was a fine young man with sparkling
eyes, and she a beautiful girl, beautiful as
only a beloved and loving woman can be.
In sweetness and in pain there revived in
her soul memories of that far-off night in
the happy month of May and of that old
sweet wrong-doing, now long past with her
departed youth.

Many years had passed away and she
had kept her secret. But to-day Agnes
Rudolfovna felt that the time had come
when she must speak out the dreadful words
of a delayed confession.

172
THE CRIMSON RIBBON

She had wept much during the past night,
and early this morning she had risen and
written a letter and sent it off to Doctor
Horn.

During the morning her old friend had
sent her a bouquet of flowers and an answer
to her letter,—a few words written in the
firm even hand of a strong-souled man, and
a scrap of crimson ribbon.

And now the old lady sat by the side of
her aged husband on the seat overlooking
the steep cliff, looking out on to the bright
greenness, on the blue of the heavens and
the sea, listening to the beating of her
fainting heart and preparing herself to speak.
But she couldn’t make up her mind to begin.

IV

A tall thin elderly gentleman in a shabby
grey coat and faded grey felt hat came
along, crunching the gravel of the path
under his feet, and stood near the professor.
He looked at the musicians and the dancers,
screwing up his grey eyes to see them better.
There was an expression of astonishment
on his dry, nervous face.

‘** Pardon me,” he said at last, raising his
hat, ‘“‘ but what is this? What band is it?”

178
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

Professor Roggenfeldt turned his calm
blue eyes on the unexpected visitor and
answered with a bow of acknowledgment :

“Oh, that is the local peasant band.
The villagers form their own band and
they play if one invites them. Once every
summer they give a concert in that field
and take a collection from the audience, and
with the money they buy music and pay
their expenses. But the visitors here don’t
often hire the band and they don’t get much
money at their annual concert. And yet they
keep up their band from year to year, and it’s
a wonderfully good one for a country place.”

“The villagers are very musical and
have some education,” said Madame Roggen-
feldt. “‘ They’ve even got their own theatre
where the young people produce classical
pieces quite passably.”’

“Thanks very much,” replied the
stranger. ‘‘ But don’t you think they play
very strangely ?”

Agnes Rudolfovna blushed slightly, smiled
a little, and said quietly :

“No, I don’t find it strange.”

“* Nor I either,”’ said her husband.

‘* But,” insisted the stranger, ‘‘ don’t you
think that these people are just like wooden
dolls and that they play without under-

174
THE CRIMSON RIBBON

standing the music just as in all probability
they don’t understand anything of their
beautiful surroundings ? ”’

Agnes Rudolfovna shook her head as she
answered :

““If they didn’t understand the music
they couldn’t play so well.”

“No,” said the old professor, ‘“ their
lack of understanding would be bound to
show itself in their playing. And I think,
or rather I am convinced, that they don’t
make any mistakes. At least my ear doesn’t
distinguish any false notes, and though I
can’t call myself a musician I understand
something about music and I play a little
myself.”

Agnes Rudolfovna looked tenderly at her
husband.

‘Edward plays excellently,” saidshe. ‘He
has a good touch and an irreproachable ear.”

Professor Roggenfeldt kissed his wife’s
hand and said :

‘“* Well, well, we won’t exaggerate. But
they certainly play very accurately.”

‘* Accurately !”’? exclaimed the stranger.
“Tt would be better if they made mistakes
and confused the time, if only they didn’t
play so soullessly. Don’t you think it would
be better if these people didn’t play at all ?

175
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

Just look at them—isn’t it dreadful to watch
their wooden movements? ‘The dancers are
obliged to move stiffly and the children are
as immovable as in a trance. Look, isn’t
it as if some cruel devil had changed human
beings into marionettes !”

Professor Roggenfeldt looked at the
stranger in some perplexity, and then look-
ing again at the musicians he said :

“TI think you exaggerate a little. Of
course it’s not a first-class band, and Nikish
is not there to conduct, but I don’t think
they deserve such a cruel attack.”

The stranger seemed a little confused.

‘““No, that’s true,” said he. ‘I was
exaggerating. Please forgive me. You are
quite right. But it’s dreadful to look upon

these= devils. I must go away from
pe neiae os

He raised his hat again, and, walking off
quickly in the direction from which he had
come, was soon out of sight.

Vv

The old couple looked at one another and
both smiled.
‘““What a strange person!” said the
professor.”
176

ao

Coe
THE CRIMSON RIBBON

“Yes, very strange,” agreed his wife.
‘““He expects far too much from these
simple peasants. They can only do what
is in their power and give what they are
able to give.”

““No, they can’t give more,” said the
professor.

They were silent and looked once more
at the dancers. At length Professor Roggen-
feldt said :

“* It’s true they play without any vivacity.
And the young people dance very languidly
to their music. If you remember, Agnes,
we used not to dance like that. The poet
is right indeed when he says that the world
is growing wiser, but colder.”

Agnes smiled but did not reply. Her
delicate youthful-looking face was again
suffused with a slight blush.

Presently there came an interval between
two dances. The lame conductor talked to
the dancers, and a ringing voice was heard :

‘* A mazurka, a mazurka, please.”

Agnes turned to her husband, and in a
strangely agitated way began to speak.

‘“* Edward,” said she, “‘I used to think,
or rather I used to feel, in the same way as
this strange gentleman. Yes, in just the
same way, and I even more than he. The

177 N
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

measured beat of life bored me and I did
what he advocates. I made a daring, but
a false, note.”’

The old professor shook his fine grey head
and smiled as he said gently :

‘““ No, Agnes, you have played your part
well. Your partner has never been put out
of tune through your mistakes.”

But the old lady showed still greater
agitation. She nearly wept as she said :

“No, no, Edward, you don’t know. I
have been silent for a long time, but to-day
I have resolved to tell you all. And that’s
the reason why Doctor Horn hasn’t come.”

And still trembling, and with difficulty
keeping back her tears, the old lady began
hurriedly to tell the story of what had hap-
pened to her so many years before, on one
clear and perfumed night of May, when she
had deceived her husband and allowed his
friend Bernard Horn to make love to her.

VI

““ Tt was in the third year of our married
life,” said Agnes. ‘‘ We lived here during
the first summer, and there were few other
visitors, so it was sometimes difficult to get
provisions. But because our young friend

178
THE CRIMSON RIBBON

Bernard Horn—he wasn’t a doctor then—
often went into the town, he used to get
things for us as well as for himself. You
were indoors a good deal, for you were very
busy then, finishing your thesis for your
doctor’s degree. In the evenings, when it
didn’t rain, we used to go for walks, and
our young friend Bernard often accompanied
us. One evening at the end of May you
didn’t want to go as usual. You were so
much interested in an article in a magazine
which had come that day from Brussels that
we couldn’t tear you away from it, and we
went off by ourselves, laughing and chatter-
ing together.”

“Yes, yes,” said Edward Roggenfeldt
quietly. “‘The author had so mixed his
true judgments with paradoxes that even
now I haven’t forgotten the article. I sat
over it a long time, looked up some points
in several other books, and then in conse-
quence wrote three superfluous pages of
my thesis. Superfluous, that is, in com-
parison with my original idea, but as I
think not entirely superfluous in essence.”

He was silent for a few moments and
then went on:

‘* However, half an hour after your de-
parture I came after you. I remember it

179
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

was a lovely evening. I wanted to think
over some matter, and I walked along the
shore where the sea made scarcely a splash
on the sand. But afterwards I returned
and sat down to my books again.”

“Bernard and I walked to the West
Cape,” continued Agnes. ‘“‘ The sunset that
night was wonderful. I don’t think ever
before or since have I seen such a magnificent
sky, such a sea, and such clouds. Every-
thing in front of us was flaming, all the shore
was suffused with crimson as if blushing
with happiness, the air was so clear, so calm,
so full of rosy colour that one wanted to
weep and to laugh at the same time. It
was as if a pure golden light had dissolved
in tears and blood, and the soul was full of
rapture and sorrow. Oh, I cannot say how
I felt then. I think I didn’t know then
what was happening to me. Some unknown
force overpowered me, and I felt unable to
withstand it. It was as if a curtain had been
lifted from my life, as if the triumphant
light of this heavenly glow had suddenly
illumined in a clear light before me some-
thing which I had never noticed before—
and I suddenly understood that Bernard
Horn was in love with me.”

Edward Roggenfeldt stroked his wife’s

180
THE CRIMSON RIBBON

hand tenderly as he said in a caressing
tone :

““ He fell in love with you the first time
he saw you.”

Agnes was beginning to conquer her
agitation, and her voice rang out clearly
and young as she continued :

“TI looked at him. I knew that I was
doing wrong, but I knew that in that moment
I was happy. Never for one moment, dear
Edward, did I love you less. But some one
powerful and insidious seemed to whisper
to me that the soul of man is broad and
high, that the soul of man is greater than
the world, and that love knows neither
bounds nor measure.

“IT don’t remember what we talked
about, but I remember where we went. It
was already beginning to get dark, for we
had gone into the forest, and the midnight
glow came faintly through the trees. I
listened to the voice of love. I kissed
Bernard Horn. I lay submissively in his
arms and responded to his caresses with
passionate embraces, and I laughed and
wept. I laughed as I haven’t known how
to laugh for a long time; I wept as I weep
now.”

The tears trickled gently down her cheeks.

181
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

Edward Roggenfeldt put his arms about her
and soothed her, saying :

“Don’t weep. Don’t weep, my dear
Agnes. You have been a faithful wife to
me.”

And she, weeping bitterly, restraining
her tears no longer, continued :

““T was false to you, my dear one, on that
passionate, that beautiful night. I lost my
senses, and what I did then seemed neither
dreadful nor shameful. I leant on Bernard’s
arm as we walked home from the forest,
and I listened to him and talked to him
and was not ashamed nor fearful. When
we parted near our house I gave him the
crimson ribbon I wore for a memory. And
he has kept it all these years.”

Vil

Agnes was silent for a moment. Her
eyes held a rapturous expression, and dilated
as she gazed before her. Her face showed
the remembrance of past happiness. Pres-
ently she went on:

““The next day I came to myself. I
was overcome by shame and terror. I
was utterly unlike myself all day. Bernard
came as usual in the evening. He was

182
THE CRIMSON RIBBON

thoughtful and confused. He looked me
straight in the eyes and understood what
I was feeling, and it grieved him. I seized
a moment when we were alone together
to say, ‘Dear Bernard, we have done very
wrong. I forgot my duty; I broke faith
with my husband whom I love truly and
devotedly. I don’t know what happened
to me,’ I said to him, ‘ but when we were
together yesterday I felt as if I loved you.’ ”’

“You have always loved him, Agnes,
since the first time you saw him,” said her
husband in a very quiet gentle tone.

Agnes trembled a little. She wanted
to Jook up at her husband, but could not,
and she went on hurriedly :

“*T am very sinful,’ I said to Bernard
Horn, ‘ because I love you both, my dear
husband and you. This is a great sin
in the sight of God and of men,’ I said, ‘a
sin, because a wife ought to be faithful to
her husband, and he to her. Dear Bernard,’
said I to him, ‘I shall always cherish the
sweet memory of last night, but what
happened then must never be repeated,
and I must never again walk alone with you
on this beautiful shore. And you, dear
Bernard, must give me your word that you
will never ask me what I cannot give you,

183
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

and you won’t expect kisses from me.’ I
wept as I spoke to him, like a little girl,
and my heart was torn with grief and with
a strange joy. I knew my sin, and my
contrite heart trembled in my bosom. I
repented, and in that moment I knew that
He who had given me a heart to love and
to be happy had forgiven me. Bernard
looked lovingly at me, and I saw that he
was touched to the depths of his soul. He
kissed my hand and said, ‘Don’t take
away the crimson ribbon from me, dear
Agnes,’ and I whispered back, ‘ Keep it,’
and ran away to my own room. For a
long time I wept there, and I wanted to
weep endlessly. But I remembered that I
must see after the supper, and I came down-
stairs, after carefully bathing my swollen
eyelids in cold water.”

Agnes was silent, and with a_ timid
imploring gaze looked up at her husband.
The eyes of the old man glowed as radiantly
as in his youth. He put his arm around his
wife tenderly and said :

““T remember that day, dear Agnes. I
remember it, because I knew all. I saw
you and I understood everything.”

“You knew!” exclaimed Agnes quietly.
“You knew, and said nothing to me!”

184
THE CRIMSON RIBBON

“IT knew,” said Professor Roggenfeldt,
“that you said nothing to me about the
matter for fear of hurting me. I trusted
you; I knew you were loyal to me; and if
you did sin against me then I forgave you
before you realised that it was a sin. Like
this old gentleman who was here just now,
I was ready to forgive deviation from
rhythm, and even a mistake in the playing,
if only the playing were not without soul.
But you have always warmed and en-
lightened my life. You have not been Jike
these mechanical musicians who have learned
by heart their parts, which never express
their souls. I have been happy with you,
because you have given me the rapture of
love.”

‘““My dear one, my beloved,” said she,
touched by his words, “‘I knew that you
had a great and a beautiful soul. It’s true,
I didn’t want to grieve you. But now that
so many years have passed, and we have not
much longer to live in this beautiful world,
I resolved at last to tell you all. This
morning I wrote to Doctor Horn, and at
my request he sent me back the crimson
ribbon. I put it on your writing-table
after lunch, before we came out here. It
is yours.”

185
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

“No, no,”’ answered Edward with anima-
tion. “* Our dear friend, Doctor Bernard Horn,
must keep it. He has done us much service,
and he was with you in that fateful moment
when your heart was surcharged with an
unreasonable, immeasurable love. He held
a cup of sweet wine to your thirsty lips,
and may God bless him for this as I bless
him for it. But now, Agnes, dry your
tears and send at once to Bernard. He
must come to-day and bring his violin,
and we again .. .”

VIII

By this time the music below had come
to an end. The young folks, laughing and
talking noisily together, were climbing up-
wards along the sloping road that wound
along the steep cliff.

Edward and Agnes walked slowly home-
ward. There was a sweet delicate fragrance
of eglantine in the air, pale peonies fluttered
their rosy double petals, the first poppies
crimsoned and flamed on the long beds
under the windows. Over the straggling
dark green of the wild vine on the terrace
was borne the fragrance of stocks. Wonder-
ful tuberoses dreamed unceasingly, exhaling

186
THE CRIMSON RIBBON

an infinite fragrance of happiness immeasur-
able and of love without end.

On the threshold of their home Edward
Roggenfeldt paused for a moment and said :

“Yes, he is right. These wooden mu-
sicians are terrible. I’m glad we can’t hear
them playing any longer. But you and I,
Agnes, have not played our part in life with-
out inspiration ! ”’

187
Slayers of Innocent Babes

AVING with great success quelled the
H rebellion of those who had refused
to offer sacrifice and bow before
the effigy of the god-like emperor, the
detachment of Roman horse returned to
camp. Much blood had been shed, many
of those disrespectful unto Caesar had been
slain, and the tired soldiers looked forward
impatiently to the joyful hour when they
could get to their tents, where they could
without disturbance take delight in the
company of the wives and daughters that
they had borne off from the villages of the
rebellious.

These women and maids, seized at the
very moment of the slaying of their husbands
and fathers, at the moment of the burning
of their farms, lay bound on straw at the
bottom of the heavy carts drawn by stout
horses, and they had been sent on in advance
by the direct road to the camp.

The horsemen themselves had chosen a

188
SLAYERS OF INNOCENT BABES

roundabout road home, for, according to
the Centurion, several of the insurgent
villagers had taken to flight and hidden
themselves in out-of-the-way parts, and he
thought to come up with some of them and
despatch them. For though their swords
had been made into long-toothed saws by
the fighting and were covered with blood,
though their spears were blunted with hard
work, their Roman appetite still craved
the fresh hot blood of further victims.

It was a sultry day, and the hottest hour
of the day, just afternoon. The sky was
cloudlessly and mercilessly. bright. The
fiery Dragon of the sky quivering with fury
poured streams of fierce rage into the vast
and tired emptiness. The withered grass
held to the thirsting and parched earth,
and grieved with her, and lay stifling under
the hot dust.

Smoke of dust rose from the horses’
feet and remained a cloud in the still air.
The dust settled on the armour of the tired
horsemen and gave a dull glimmer of velvet
to their accoutrements. Through the clouds
of their own dust the country through
which they passed seemed _portentous,
gloomy, melancholy.

Earth herself, burned up by the fierce

189
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

Dragon, lay submissive under the horses’
hoofs. The empty road trembled and jingled
under the blows of the iron horseshoes.

At rare intervals they came upon poor
villages and collections of wretched huts,
but the Centurion, overcome by the heat,
relented in his purpose of searching out
those who might be in hiding. As he sat
in his saddle, jogging rhythmically with his
horse’s movement, he thought merely of
the end of the journey, the escape from
the heat, the cool tent, the night tide, the
new bride.

A young soldier, however, interrupted
his thoughts, saying :

“* Over there by the roadside I see a crowd
of people. Order us, Marcellus, and we will
whirl down upon them and scatter them.
The wind which our horses will make will
disperse the stupor into which the heat
has cast us, and will fan away the dust
and tiredness from both you and us.”

The Centurion cast his sharp gaze in the
direction indicated by the soldier, and looked
attentively.

‘““No, Lucillus,” said he, smiling, ‘* that
crowd is a crowd of children playing by the
roadside. It’s not worth chasing them.
Let them look at our fine horses, at our

190
SLAYERS OF INNOCENT BABES

gallant troop, and so gain in early years a
strong impression of the grandeur of the
Roman arms and the fame of our uncon-
querable and godlike Caesar.”

Young Lucillus did not dare to object to
the Centurion’s words. But his face grew
dark. He dropped back into his accustomed
position in the troop and said in a whisper
to his neighbour, also a young man :

‘“‘ These children are perhaps the offspring
of that same rebellious gang. I’d cut them
up with joy. Our Centurion has become
too sensitive and is losing the true valour
of a soldier.”

But his friend replied in displeasure:
** Why should we fight with children ? What
glory would there be in that? It is enough
for us to fight with those who can defend
themselves.”

Lucillus thereupon turned red and was
silent.

The soldiers approached the children.
The children ceased their game and stood
at the side of the road and gazed at the
soldiers, wondering at their fine horses, at
their shining armour, their sunburnt faces.
They wondered, lisped, stared—stared with
widely-opened eyes.

Suddenly one of the children, the beautiful

191
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

boy Lin, cried out an unexpected word,
and his black eyes glowed with sacred
rage:

“* Murderers ! ”’

And he pointed his little hand at the
Centurion, who for his part went past
gloomily, not hearing what the child said.

The children, frightened at the words of
little Lin, crowded round him and implored
him not to say anything more. And they
whispered :

“* Let’s run, else they’ll kill us all.”

And the girls began to cry. But beautiful
Lin got free of the little crowd and fearlessly
shook his fist in the faces of the soldiers, and
once more cried out :

‘““Executioners! Torturers of innocent
people !”

His black eyes glowed with rage and he
repeated his cries :

“* Executioners ! Executioners !”’

The children wailed aloud in order to
smother the sound of the boy’s words, and
several of them took him by the arms and
drew him away, but he broke away from
them and turned to the horsemen of the
emperor and cursed them once more.

The horsemen stopped, and the youngest
of them exclaimed :

192
SLAYERS OF INNOCENT BABES

‘“ Spawn of unbelievers. They’ve got the
taint in their hearts. They ought to be
destroyed. There’s no room in the world
for those who insult the Roman warrior.”

And even the older soldiers went to the
Centurion and said :

*“‘The impudence of these rascals deserves
condign punishment. Command us to go
after them and slaughter them. We should
destroy the unbelievers whilst they are
young and weak, for when they grow up
they will be capable of combining and doing
much damage.”

And the Centurion yielded and said :

“You go after them, kill those who
shouted at us and punish the rest, so that
they may remember to the end of their
days what it means to insult the Roman
soldier.”

And the Centurion and the troop of horse
turned back and galloped through the dust
after the children.

Lin saw the soldiers coming after them
and cried to the others :

‘“‘Leave me. You cannot save me, but
if we all flee together then we shall all be
killed by this dishonourable and _ pitiless
troop. I will go and meet them. They will
kill me only, and I have no wish to go on

198 o
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

living in a world where such ugly things are
done.”

Lin stopped, and his tired and frightened
companions could not drag him further.
They all came to a standstill and the horse-
men quickly came up and surrounded them.

The drawn swords gleamed in the sun-
light. The children trembled, burst into
sobs, and clung close together in a bunch.

The fiery Dragon of the sky urged the
soldiers to murder, inflamed their blood, and
was ready even to kiss the innocent blood
of the children and to breathe his sultry
heat upon their dismembered bodies. But
the boy Lin came bravely forth from the
crowd and thus addressed the Centurion :

“Old man, it was I who called your men
murderers and executioners, I who cursed
you and called down vengeance from the
true lord upon you. These others are only
children trembling and weeping. They are
afraid that your wicked men will kill them
and that they will follow and kill our fathers
and mothers. They are submissive unto
you. Therefore, if you are not yet sated
with murder, kill me only. I am not afraid
of you; I hate you. I despise your sword
and your unjust sway over our country. I
do not wish to live on the earth which is

194
SLAYERS OF INNOCENT BABES

trampled by the horses of your false troops.
My hands are weak, and I am not yet tall
enough to fight you or I would. So kill me
whilst you have the chance.”

The Centurion listened in astonishment,
but answered :

““'No, cockatrice, not as you will but as
I will. You shall die, but not you only.”

And to the troops he said :

“Kill them all. Don’t leave one of the
serpent brood alive. The words of this
bold boy will have fallen as seed in their
hearts. Kill them all without mercy, big
and little, babes also.”

The soldiers fell upon them and cut them
to bits with their merciless swords. The
gloomy valley and the dusty road became
tremblingly vocal with children’s shrieks.
The misty horizon echoed painfully, and
echoed again and was silent. The horses
deflated their nostrils and smelt the smoking
blood, and with their iron-shod hoofs they
trod on the poor bodies.

Then the warriors returned to the road
laughing joyfully and cruelly. They hastened
homeward to their camp conversing and
rejoicing.

But the road went on, still went on dusty
as ever, ravaged by the fiery eyes of the

195
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

Dragon. Afternoon turned to evening and
the Dragon effaced himself in shadow, but
there came no evening coolness. The wind,
as if enchanted by silence and fear, lay
asleep. The sultry Dragon sinking into
darkness looked in the eyes of the Centurion
and seemed to smile a calm and dreadful
smile. The twilight was calm and sultry
and shadowy; the beat of the horses’ feet
was even and rhythmical and drowsy, and
the Centurion felt sad at heart.

So measured was the beat of the sounding
hoofs, and so grey, so hopeless and unlifting
was the column of dust in which they moved,
that it seemed as if they were on an endless
journey. The greyer became the night the
more lonely and remote they seemed, and
the empty clangour of their beating hoofs
resounded in the far distance of the wilder-
ness. A sense of dread came over him, a
dread to which as to his tiredness he saw no
term.

He seemed to hear the sounds of wailing
somewhere afar.

The earth trembled and murmured under
the beat of the horses’ hoofs.

Some one was running towards them.

A dim voice, a voice like that of the boy.

began to cry.
196
SLAYERS OF INNOCENT BABES

The Centurion looked round on_ his
soldiers. The shadow of night lay on their
bowed faces, distorted with dust, sunken
with tiredness, and a look of confused terror
hung on their countenances.

The parched lips of Lucillus whispered
nervously, “Oh that the camp were in
sight.”

‘“* What is it, Lucillus ?”? asked the Cen-
turion looking fixedly into the tired face of
the young soldier.

And Lucillus whispered in reply :

““T am in dread.”

And then, blushing to have confessed to
fear, he added in a louder voice :

“It’s terribly hot.”

And then relapsing into a whisper, he
shuddered and went on.

‘““ That accursed boy is on my conscience,
his face pursues me. He was in league with
sorcerers, and though we cut him down we
could not lay him, he was enchanted . . .”

The Centurion scanned the dark land-
scape. There was not a soul to be seen,
near or far.

‘““Have you lost the amulet you re-
ceived from the old priest at Carthage ?
I remember it was said that he who
wore that amulet was immune from the

197
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

spells of night enchantments,” said the
Centurion.

““T am wearing it now,” said the young
man. “ But it is burning into my chest.
There are earth-fiends after us; I hear the
murmur of the earth disgorging the hurrying
fiends.”

““Oh, you make a mistake,” said the
Centurion, seeking to reassure him by reason-
able words. ‘ The earth fiends are mightily
beholden unto us for giving them a rich
feast to-day. In any case, fear should find
no place in the heart of a valiant soldier,
not even the fear engendered by the moaning
of sprites in the night in the wilderness.”

‘Oh, I fear, I fear,” cried Lucillus. ‘Ihear
the voice of that strange child following us.”

Then suddenly in the sultry silence of
the night a moaning and maledictory voice
broke forth :

“Curses . . . curses upon the heads of
the murderers.”

The soldiers shuddered, spurred their
horses and clattered along more quickly.
But the voice of an unseen spirit pursued
them and cried out all about them, now in
front of them, now behind, now at one side,
now another, sharply, distinctly :

‘““ Murderers ! Slayers of innocent babes !

198
SLAYERS OF INNOCENT BABES

Merciless soldiers; ye yourselves shall not
receive mercy !”

The soldiers took fright and spurred their
steeds and hastened. But the old Centurion
was angry and scolded them, crying :

“For shame! Of whom are you afraid.
Are soldiers of the mighty and godlike
Emperor afraid of shadows. From whom
do you flee? From a boy whom you killed,
from a dead body raised to life by unclean
charms! Pull yourselves together, men, and
remember that the Roman arms triumph not
only over our enemies, but over the enchant-
ments of the enemy also.”

The soldiers took shame. At the bidding
of the Centurion they came to a halt. They
were still and listened to the noises of the
night. Some one was distinctly on their
tracks following after them, waiting and
denouncing. No shape was seen in the
darkness or upon the vague shadowiness of
the landscape, but a small intense voice of
a child cried out incessantly.

““Let us find out who it is,’ said one
soldier, and the troop spurred their horses
across the waste in the direction of the
sound. And when they had lost sight of
the road they came suddenly upon a strange
child running on the heath, his garments

199
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

torn, his dark hair dabbled in blood. And
the child streaming blood as he ran, moaned
and shouted and threatened with a male-
dictory hand.

With wild rage the soldiers drew their
swords and dashed at the boy and slew him
again, hacking him into a hundred bits and
trampling the flesh under their horses’ feet.
And before they resumed their journey they
scattered the remains of the dead child’s
body and flung portions north, south, east,
and. west.

Then they wiped their swords in the
grass, got into their saddles, and hastened
once more onward on the long roundabout
homeward road. But hardly had they re-
sumed their journey than the moody silence
that was between them and around them
was broken by a sharp exclamation :
““Murderers!”’ and once more they were
assailed by a running accompaniment of
curses and denunciation from an unseen
child.

They turned their horses in terror and
rage, and sought the spirit out again, and
away in the darkness once more they saw
the strange boy running with torn garments
and black hair dabbled in blood, with blood
streaming from his hands. And once more

200
SLAYERS OF INNOCENT BABES

they set upon him and cut him down, and
stamped upon the body and scattered the
severed limbs and galloped away.

But again and again the wailing child
came after them. And in the rage of murder
that had no end and of wails and denuncia-
tions that never ceased the troop missed
the way to the Camp and went round and
round the wild district where the children
had been slain by them. The grandeur of
night spread over the valley and the stars

glimmered, sinless, innocent, sus Ue Pemort J

The soldiers followed on their own tracks,
and the cries of the boy on the heath were
heavy on their souls. Round and round
they wandered and killed in fury and yet
could not kill.

At last, just before sunrise, with madness
at their heels the troop galloped on to the
shore of the sea. And the waves boiled
under the frenzied onrush of the horses.

So perished all the horsemen and with
them the Centurion Marcellus.

And to the far silent spot where by the
roadway lay the bodies of the boy Lin and
the other children, blood-stained, unburied,
wolves came creeping stealthily, fearfully,
and they sated themselves with the innocent
and sweet bodies of the children.

201

Oe,
The Herald of the Beast

I

\T was quiet and peaceful, neither glad-
[’ ness nor sadness was in the room.
“The electric light was on. The walls
seemed solid, firm as adamant, indestructible.
The window was hidden behind heavy dark
green curtains, and the big door opposite
the window was locked and bolted, as was
also the little one in the wall at the side.
But on the other side of the doors all was
dark and empty, in the wide corridor and
in the melancholy hall where beautiful palms
yearned for their southern homes.

Gurof was lying on the green divan. In
his hands was a book. He read it, but
often stopped short in his reading. He
thought, mused, dreamed—and always about
the same thing, always about them.

They were near him. MHe had long
since noticed that. They had hid them-
selves. They were inescapably, near. They

202 Zé
THE HERALD OF THE BEAST

rustled round about, almost inaudibly, but
for a long time did not show themselves
to his eyes. Gurof saw the first one a few
days ago; he wakened tired, miserable,
pallid, and as he lazily turned on the electric
light so as to expel the wild gloom of the
winter morning he suddenly saw one of
them.

A wee grey one, agile and furtive pattered
over his pillow, lisped something, and hid
himself,

And afterwards, morning and evening,
they ran about Gurof, grey, agile, furtive.

And to-day he had expected them.

Now and then his head ached slightly.
Now and then he was seized by cold fits and
by waves of heat. Then from a corner ran
out Fever long and slender, with ugly yellow
face and dry bony hands, lay down beside
him, embraced him, kissed’ his face and
smiled. And the rapid kisses of the caress-
ing and subtle Fever and the soft aching
movements in his head were pleasant to him.

Weakness poured itself into all his limbs.
And tiredness spread over them. But it
was pleasant. The people he knew in the
world became remote, uninteresting, entirely
superfiuous. He felt he would like to remain
here with them.

208
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

Gurof had been indoors for several days.
He had locked himself up in the house. He
permitted no one to see him. Sat by himself.
Thought of them. Waited them.

Il

Strangely and unexpectedly the languor
of sweet waiting was broken. There was a
loud knocking at an outer door and then
the sound of even unhurrying footsteps in
the hall.

As Gurof turned his face to the door a
blast of cold air swept in, and he saw, as he
shivered, a boy of a wild and strange appear-
ance. He was in a linen cloak, but showed
half his body naked, and his arms were bare.
His body was brown, all sunburnt. His
curly hair was black and bright; black also
were his eyes and sparkling. A wonderfully
correct and beautiful face. But of a beauty
terrible to look upon. Not a kind face, not
an evil one.

Gurof was not astonished at the boy’s
coming. Some dominant idea had possession
of his mind. And he heard how they crept
out of sight and hid themselves.

And the boy said :

“ Aristomakh |! Have you forgotten your

204
THE HERALD OF THE BEAST

promise ? Do noble people act thus? You
fled from me when I was in mortal danger.
You promised me something, which it seems
you did not wish to fulfil, Such a long
time I’ve been looking for you! And behold
I find you living in festivity, drowning in
luxury.”

Gurof looked distrustfully at the half-
naked beautiful boy and a confused remem-
brance awakened in his soul. Something
long since gratefully buried in oblivion rose
up with indistinct feature and asking for
remembrance tired his memory. The enigma
could not be guessed though it seemed near
and familiar. =

And where were the unwavering walls ?
Something was happening round about him,
some change was taking place, but Gurof
was so obsessed by the struggle with his
ancient memory that he failed to take stock
of those changes. He said to the wonderful
boy :

ve Dear boy, tell me clearly and simply
without unnecessary reproaches what it was
I promised you and when it was I left you
in mortal danger. I swear to you by all
that is holy my honour would never have
allowed me to commit the ignoble act with
which for some reason you charge me,”

205
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

The boy nodded, and then in a loud
melodious voice gave answer :

“ Aristomakh ! You always were clever
at verbal exercises, and indeed as clever in
actions demanding daring and caution. If
I said that you left me in a moment of mortal
danger it is not a reproach. And I don’t
understand why you speak of your honour.
The thing purposed by us was difficult and
dangerous, but why do you quibble about it.
Who is here that you think you can deceive
by pretending ignorance of what happened
this morning before sunrise and of the
promise you had given me?”

The electric light became dim. The ceil-
ing seemed dark and high. There was the
scent of a herb in the room—but what herb ?
Its forgotten name had one time sounded
sweetly on his ear. On the wings of the
scent a cool air seemed wafted into the room.
Gurof stood up and cried out :

“What thing did we purpose? I deny
nothing, dear boy, but I simply don’t know
of what you are speaking. I don’t re-
member.”

It seemed to Gurof that the child was at
one and the same time both looking at him
and not looking at him. Though the boy’s
eyes were directed towards him they seemed

206
THE HERALD OF THE BEAST

to be staring at some other unearthly person
whose body coincided with his but who was
not he.

It grew dark around him and the air
became fresher and cooler. A gladness leapt
in his soul and a lightness as of elementary
existence. The room disappeared from his
remembrance. Above he saw the stars
glittering in the black sky. Once more the
boy addressed him :

““'We ought to have killed the Beast. I
shall remind you of that when under the
myriad eyes of the all-seeing sky you are
again confused with fear. And how not
have fear! The thing that we purposed
was great and dreadful, and it would have
given a glory to our names in far posterity.”

In the night quietude he heard the mur-
muring and gentle tinkling of a brook. He
could not see the brook, but he felt that it
was deliciously and tantalisingly near. They
were standing in the shadow of spreading trees,
and the conversation went on. Gurof asked :

““ Why do you say that I left you in a
moment of mortal danger? Am I the sort
of man to take fright and run away ?”

The boy laughed, and like music was his
laughter. Then in sweet melodious accents

he replied :
207
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

“‘ Aristomakh, how cleverly you pretend
to have forgotten all! But I don’t under-
stand why you take the trouble to exercise
such cunning, or why you contrive re-
proaches against yourself which I for my
part should not have thought of alone.
You left me in the moment of mortal danger
because it was clearly necessary, and you
couldn’t help me otherwise than by abandon-
ing me there. Surely you won’t remain
obstinate in your denial after I remind you
of the words of the oracle.”

Gurof suddenly remembered. It was as
if a bright light had flooded into the dark
abyss of the forgotten. And he cried out
loudly and excitedly :

‘“* He alone will kill the Beast!”

The boy laughed. Aristomakh turned
to him with the question :

‘** Have you killed the Beast, Timaride ?”’

“With what? Even were my hands
strong enough I am not he who has the power
to kill the Beast with a blow of the fist.
We were incautious, Aristomakh, and with-
out weapons. We were playing on the
sands and the Beast fell upon us suddenly
and struck me with his heavy paw. My fate
was to give my life as a sweet sacrifice to
glory and in high exploit, but to you it

208
THE HERALD OF THE BEAST

remained to finish the work. And whilst
the Beast tore my helpless body you might
have run, swift-footed Aristomakh, might
have gained your spear, and you might
have struck the Beast whilst he was drunk
with my blood. But the Beast did not
accept my sacrifice; I lay before him
motionless and looked up at his blood-
weltering eyes, and he kept me pinned to the
ground by the heavy paw on my shoulder.
He breathed hotly and unevenly and he
growled softly, but he did not kill me. He
simply licked over my face with his broad
warm tongue and went away.”

‘“* Where is he now?” asked Aristomakh.

The night air felt moist and calm, and
through it came the musical answer of
Timaride :

‘“‘ T rose. when he had left me but he was
attracted by the scent of my blood and
followed after me. I don’t know why he
has set upon me again. Still I am glad that
he follows, for so I bring him to you. Get
the weapon that you so cleverly hid, and
kill the Beast, and I in my turn will run
away and leave you in the moment of mortal
danger, face to face with the enraged Beast.
Good luck, Aristomakh !”

And saying that Timaride ran away, his

209 P
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

white cloak gleaming but a minute in the
darkness. And just as he disappeared there
broke out the horrible roaring of the Beast
and the thud of his heavy paws on the
ground. Thrusting to right and left the
foliage of the bushes there appeared in the
darkness the immense monstrous head of
the Beast, and his large eyes gleamed like
luminous velvet. The Beast ceased to roar,
and with his eyes fixed on Aristomakh
approached him stealthily and silently.

Terror filled the heart of Aristomakh.

“Where is the spear?” he whispered,
and immediately he turned to flee. But
with a heavy bound the Beast started after
him, roaring and bellowing, and pulled him
down. And when the Beast held him a
great yell broke through the stillness of the
night. Then Aristomakh moaned out the
ancient and horrible words of the curse of
the walls.

And up rose the walls about him. . . .

III

The walls of the room stood firm, un-
wavering, and the barely reflected electric
light seemed to die upon them. All the rest
of the room was customary and usual.

210
THE HERALD OF THE BEAST

Once more Fever came and kissed him
with dry yellow lips and caressed him with
wizened bony hands. The same tedious
little book with little white pages lay on the
table, and in the green divan lay Gurof, and
Fever embraced him, scattering rapid kisses
with hurrying lips. And once more the
grey ones rustled and chattered.

Gurof raised his head a little as if with
great effort and said hollowly :

““ The curse of the walls.”

What was he talking about? What
curse ? What was the curse? What were
the words of it? Were there any ?

The little ones, grey and agile, danced
about the book and turned with their tails
the pallid pages, and with little squeaks and
whimpers answered him :

“Our walls are strong. We live in the
walls. No fear troubles us inside the walls.”

Among them was a singular looking one,
not at all like the rest. He was quite black
and wore dress of mingled smoke and flame.
From his eyes came little lightnings. Sud-
denly he detached himself from the others
and stood before Gurof who cried out :

** Who are you? What do you want ?”

The black guest replied :

“IT ...am the Herald of the Beast.

211
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

On the shore of the forest stream you left
long since the mangled body of Timaride.
The Beast has sated himself with the fine
blood of your friend—he has devoured the
flesh which should have tasted earthly
happiness ; the wonderful human form has
been destroyed, and that in it which was
more than human has perished, all to give a
moment’s satisfaction to the ever insatiable
Beast. The blood, the marvellous blood,
godly wine of joy, the wine of more than
human blessing—where is it now? Alas!
the eternally thirsting Beast has been made
drunk for a moment by it. You have left
the mangled body of Timaride by the side
of the forest stream, have forgotten the
promise given to your splendid friend, and
the word of the ancient oracle has not driven
fear from your heart. Think you then, that
saving yourself you can escape the Beast
and that he will not find you ?”

The voice and the words were stern.
The grey ones had stopped in their dancing
to listen. Gurof said :

““ What is the Beast to me. I have fixed
my walls about me for ever, and the Beast
will not find a way to me in my fortress.”

At that the grey ones rejoiced and scam-
pered round the room anew, but the Herald

212
THE HERALD OF THE BEAST

of the Beast cried out once more, and sharp
and stern were his accents:

““Do you not see that I am here. I am
here because I have found you. I am here
because the curse of the walls has lost power.
I am here because Timaride is waiting and
tirelessly questioning. Do you not hear
the gentle laughter of the brave and trust-
ing child? Do you not hear the roaring of
the Beast ?”’

From beyond the wall broke out the
terrible roaring of the Beast.

“But the walls are firm for ever by the
spell I cast, my fortress cannot be destroyed,”
cried Gurof.

And the Black One answered, imperiously :

**T tell thee, man, the curse of the walls
is dead. But if you don’t believe, but still
think you can save yourself, pronounce the
curse again.”

Gurof shuddered. He indeed believed
that the curse was dead, and all that was
around him whispered to him the terrible
news. The Herald of the Beast had pro-
nounced the fearful truth. Gurof’s head
ached, and he felt weary of the hot kisses
that clinging, caressing Fever still gave him.
The words of the sentence seemed to strain
his consciousness, and the Herald of the

213
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

Beast as he stood before him was magnified
until he obscured the light and stood like a
great shadow over him, and his eyes glowed
like fires.

Suddenly the black cloak fell from the
shoulders of the visitor and Gurof recognised
him—it was the child Timaride.

“Are you going to kill the Beast?”
asked Timaride in a high-sounding voice.
““T have brought him to you. The malicious
gift of godhead will avail you no longer, for
the curse is dead. It availed you once,
making as nothing my sacrifice and hiding
from your eyes the glory of your exploit.
But to-day the tune is changed, dead is the
curse, get your sword quickly and kill the
Beast. I was only a child; now I have
become the Herald of the Beast. I have fed
the Beast with my blood but he thirsts
anew. To you I have brought him, and do
you fulfil your promise and kill him. Or
die.”

He vanished.

The walls shuddered at the dreadful
roaring. The room filled with airs that were
cold and damp.

The wall directly opposite the place where
Gurof lay collapsed, and there entered the
ferocious, immense, and monstrous Beast.

214
THE HERALD OF THE BEAST

With fearful bellowing he crept up to Gurof
and struck him on the chest with his paw.
The merciless claws went right into his
heart. An awful pain shattered his body.
And looking at him with gleaming bloody
eyes the Beast crouched over Gurof, grinding
his bones in his teeth and devouring his yet-
beating heart.

215
On the Other Side of the River

Mairure

I

HE two weeks spent by my brother
Sin and myself in the magnificent
capital, a vicious if splendid city,
passed by as quickly and confusedly as the
story of a dream. It was astonishing and
bewildering to us, this proud imperial city
full of human ingenuity and enticement,
and we felt far from it, not only because
our native villages were far away, but be-
cause our morals and customs were further
still removed. Alack, too late I learned
that the town was not simply wonderful,
glorious, noisy, populous, but also fearsone
and terrible to the young untried heart
fresh with the innocence of the country. It
was my fate to endure incomparable tempta-
tion and mortification. But my young
brother! Ah, that I had never brought
him with me to this place !
216
THE RIVER MAIRURE

Our friend Sarroo, with whom we stayed,
wished to show us some return for the
hospitality which he enjoyed when he had
been staying some time back up in our own
country. He gave himself up to us entirely,
and we were, you may say, inseparable; he
put himself to infinite trouble that we might
miss nothing in this great and wonderful
town. Other men await the departure of
their guests with scarcely feigned impatience,
but our good friend was even mortified
because we could not stay the whole year
round with him and witness the cycle
of pageants, festivities, and offerings of
sacrifice.

Sarroo showed us everything: the temples
of gracious and ingracious gods, the woods
sacred to mysterious spirits, the dark towers
of tranquillity, the sweet-smelling gardens
of voluptuous delight, the taverns where
caresses may be bought for money, bazaars
full of beautiful cloth and carpets, weapons,
precious stones, perfumes, chattering birds,
monkeys, slaves of all skins and colours,
from delicate rose to darkest black, coffee-
houses, shows—strange sights without
number. But the calamity that befell us
lay not in the many things that we saw. I
have not yet mentioned the singular tempta-

217
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

tion that involved ourselves and our villages
in the greatest unhappiness.

O that I had never visited that town !
Or that I had not brought with me a child
so weak to withstand temptation !

One morning our friend Sarroo said to us:
“To-day I will show you the imperial
menagerie ’’—at that time the menagerie
might be seen not only by ourselves but by
foreigners.

My brother Sin agreed with shouts of
pleasure. I, for my part, hesitated, for I
had had, the night before, a dream in which
I saw a beast of immeasurable power and
fierceness, whose roaring was like that of
him who dwells in the woods on the other
side of the river Mairure. And I did not
wish to visit the accursed beast-garden, but
I did not like to offend our kind host.

Il

First of all we wandered through a park
which seemed almost limitless in extent, and
we saw a marvellous diversity of birds all
shut in cages. We saw gigantic birds with
great wings able to carry in their talons fat
sheep, and we saw birds almost devoid of
wings, but of wonderfully beautiful plumage

218
THE RIVER MAIRURE

which reminded us of the luminous stones
which we find in the sand of the river
Mairure, birds whose melodious singing
charmed our ears, even birds who could
speak the language of that land, but not very
well, though quite loudly and distinctly.

In immense tanks we saw the wonders of
the seas and the rivers. In cages and glass-
houses we saw poisonous adders and immense
cobras—they distended their jaws with such
rage, and thrusting out their dreadful stings
we trembled involuntarily. Before their eyes
we quailed, and at moments seemed rooted
to the ground before their gaze. They say
that their teeth and poison-bags have been
removed, otherwise visitors might yet be
drawn to their death by the power of the
serpents’ eyes.

And we saw innumerable beasts both
fierce and gentle, camels with two humps,
rhinoceroses, hippopotamuses, unheard - of
beasts with terrible claws, monsters with
noses like serpents.

My young brother Sin was elated by the
sights. I for my part, under the influence
of such a variety of impressions and emotions,
revolting odours and appalling sounds, grew
more and more confused. .

** In a minute I will show you a beast that

219
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

is truly royal,” said our friend Sarroo at
‘length; but before he had time to tell us its
name I was overcome by an inexplicable
emotion, and I heard a sound which forced
me to fling myself on my face on the ground.
Out of all the mingled cries and voices of
the menagerie there suddenly rose up a
threatening roar—the voice of the dweller
in the woods on the other side of the
Mairure.

That roar, in the quiet of our village
nights, had often broken on our hearts telling
us that the dwellers of the woods thirsted
anew for a victim, and behold we heard it
in the menagerie of the Great Emperor. —
Lying prostrate on the ground I waited that |
he should make his choice, and my heart
was full of terror. I said good-bye to life—
never had I heard that roaring so near to
me before.

Then whilst my brother and I lay there
in the dust and waited, we heard a noise
louder than the roaring of the beast—the
laughter_of the.people in the garden, and
our friend Sarroo, laughing like the rest,
tried to raise us from the earth.

Seared in a cage, and eat bo out of it
220
THE RIVER MAIRURE

even were it five times as strong as it is.
The man who made the cage knew his work.
And think, friends, how could there be any
danger from the beasts in the king’s pleasure-
ground ?”

Then, not raising my head, I answered
my friend Sarroo: ‘‘My heart knows not
fear, and does not tremble even in moments
of mortal danger, but I heard the roar of
the dweller in the woods on the other side
of the river Mairure, and at that sound it
becomes a man to lie in the dust and
wait till the choice of a victim has been
made.”

Then, laughing as before, Sarroo replied :
“* That is only a beast in a cage roaring, and
it is quite harmless. Look! Even little
children go right up to the cage and are
not afraid; the wire cannot be broken.
The beast is fed by the keepers, and the
meat they give him he has, and no more.”

As I lay in the dust the roaring continued.
I remembered the many nights in the village
when, awakening in my tent, I heard the
same awful demands for a victim, and I
dared not get up. But at last I heard my
brother Sin say to me, “I have dared to
look up; it seems the roaring proceeds
from a beast shut in a cage.”

221
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

Hearing that, I did not know what to
think or what to do. Had any demon such
power as to dare to imitate his threatening
roar ? Could demons dare so much, were
they so strong? Did the dweller on the
other side of the river Mairure conceal
himself in the hide of an imprisoned and
harmless beast ? did he mock the pitiful
blind people who looked at him and from
them make choice of a victim? But could
the great and stern one descend to such a
degree as to hide himself in the skin of a
caught beast ? Or could it be thought that
the contemptible demon of this dishonour-
able town had wrought a spell ?

Did it not augur innumerable misfortunes
for myself and my brother Sin that we
dared to take part in the false triumph of
the people of this debauched and cursed
city, even though we lay humbly in the dust
before the horrible cage ? And what meant
this fearful, overwhelming thing? It was
incomprehensible to us, perhaps altogether
beyond the understanding of the weak mind
of man. At least it was insulting to the
covenants of our blessed country.

Then whilst I lay in the dust, and the
dishonourable made mock of us, my brother
Sin said to me:

222
THE RIVER MAIRURE

“Let us go hence.”

But was it possible to go whilst he roared
over us? And what if I saw him whom
none of us had ever looked in the face? If
it were indeed he, how could we go away and
how could we leave him there in shame and
insult ? But staying, did we not share in
the most disgusting of human sins? I
resolved to go; there was no way else, though
such a thought had been so far from me
when first the roaring broke upon our
ears.

But first, before I rose, I carefully covered
up the face of my brother Sin with my cloak,
for I thought if one of us must perish meeting
the enraged gaze let it be the elder of us,
for he, my brother, had yet to taste the
sweetest moments of life. And I also
thought he might perhaps do something
rash, and having seen once, by accident and
without retribution might on his own account
dare to look a second time, and I know by
experience that it is madness to tempt
Fate.

So we slunk out of the gardens followed
by the coarse and laughing crowd. Truly
that people, their accursed city, and its
walls crowned by towers, are worthy of a

great punishment !
228
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

Iil

That very day we laded our camels, and
before sunset had left the horrible town.

We had much time on the way to think
on what had happened to us at the menagerie
of the Great Emperor. But the phenomenon
entirely baffled us.

It was not necessary to think that it
portented evil and frightful misfortune, nor
could we take it as a sign of blessing. Do
we ever hear of the most powerful one
appearing with the single object of being a
sign to man? No, when even in the most
ancient traditions, true, it has been handed
down that the dweller on the other side of
the river Mairure showed himself as a sign
of impending calamity or blessing, or that
he came to prophesy at all—he always came
roaring threateningly, and took the one of
us on whom his choice fell.

For a long time we wandered through
the desert saying not a word to one another.
I knew by my brother’s gloomy silence that
he also thought on what had happened. At
last, when we were but three days’ journey
from home, he broke silence, saying, ‘“* Whilst
we lay on the ground and the people laughed
at us, and I lifted my head, I saw the open

224
THE RIVER MAIRURE

jaws of the beast. There could be no
mistake, the roaring proceeded from one of
the caught beasts that were shut in the
cages.”

And I said to my brother Sin :

““ Of such bodeful appearances it is better
to be silent. So our forefathers enjoined.
There is much in the world that is inexplic-
able, and even if it is possible to consider it
familiarly and without fear, we ought always
to hold ourselves humbly and reverently
toward it.”

Sin was a long time without words, but
towards sunset he broke silence, saying:
‘““It was the same roaring which we heard
outside our village when he came for a

victim. He to whom we prostrate ourselyes
with seh poy and who has devoured
countless delicate girls and pretty children
is a wild beast with green cat’s eyes, with
yellow hide sown all over with black spots.
And it is possible to catch him and put him
. Sieg ge ar ence
in a cage.

“J was horrified, and forbade my brother
Sin to speak such dishonouring words. But
Sin was possessed of the spirit that eternally
strives against the dweller on the other
side of the river Mairure, and he turned

upon me in rage and cried out :
225 Q
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

“IT saw that it was a wild beast. Why
hould we make any more sacrifices to him ?
Can we not also build a cage for him—a
worthy chamber—and make him live peace-
fully there, so saving ourselves and our
amilies from terror and death ? tl am not

  
   
   
 
 
 

sheep or bulls ? iy shoal ae weep -for
our childrén~v when he can make such an
excellent repast on cattle 2? ~~~

‘In vain-I forbade my brother, in vain
did I mercilessly beat him, his tongue
continued to utter the same lying and
dishonourable words.

And we returned home.

IV

Soon the young people of. our village
began to hold ‘secret..meetings, my brother
Sin gathering them together and delighting
them with his foolish thoughts and delibera-
tions. Alas! I was myself actually called
upon to confirm the story of what we had
heard in the imperial gardens. I was
asked to say that the threatening roar
came from a wild beast caught by cunning
and powerful hunters and placed by them

226
THE RIVER MAIRURE

in a great barred chamber, where he was
harmless.

Certainly I did not tire of eating: to
the hesitant that the dweller on the other
side of the river Mairure could not possibly
be in a cage, and that the roaring proceeding |
from the cage was simply one of those
inexplicable — phenomena which again and
again prove too much for weak human
reason, and about which it is better to
preserve silence. But they did not listen
to me, and were more ready to believe the
evil suggestion of my brother Sin.

At length there grew up a decided opposi- |
tion of opinion—one half the people beliey-
ing one way, one half the other. The one
half held to the. tradition of our fathers
and preserved the belief that he who dwells
im the impenetrable thickets of the other |
side of the stream is incomprehensible to
the human kind, and that he comes out of
the~Furyle—by night, announcing to the
villages by his roaring that he requires
another sacrifice. They held also that his
presence near a village brought good fortune,
saving us from many calamities and giving
us success in the hunt and at our labours.
The other half, with absurd vehemence and
\ obstinacy, repeated the foolish story of the

227
\

\

THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

beast in the cage and turned a deaf ear to
the wisdom of their elders.

There was much confusion and exaspera-
tion, fights, murders even, and brother rose
against brother, son against father. Through-
out all the country-side sweet peace was
broken and quarrels began.

V

At last the wise Bellessis became possessed
of a wily but deceptive thought, and many
who liked to find middle paths were brought
to a peaceful state of mind. Thus spake
the wise Bellessis :

“Our fathers taught us to reverence the
dweller in the woods who takes of us human
sacrifice, and the teaching of our forefathers
should in no wise be forgotten or laid aside.
The whole system on which our life is frame
would fall to pieces if we learned to have
no fear before the eyes of green fire that
shine on us out of the darkness of our
nights. And if we elders and _ teachers
should encourage a frivolous and neglectful
attitude towards the mysterious one, it is
certain that our boisterous and self - willed
youths, dismissing the serious thought,
losing the trembling in the night, will fall

228
THE RIVER MAIRURE

into the most excessive debauch and.
rascality.”’

The old men and the teachers welcomed
these wise words with loud commendations,
but having thus ingratiated himself in the
heart of the elders the wise Bellessis went
on and tried to make himself pleasing to the
foolish. Thus he spake :

‘*“Qn the other hand, we cannot doubt
the probity of our common friend Melech,
and the truth of the story his son tells.
They say that they saw a finely ornamented
place they call a cage, but which was no
doubt a magnificent apartment worthy t
be the palace of the dweller on the othe
side of the river Mairure. They heard a
voice proceeding from this wonderful palace.
It seemed to be the roaring which we know,
and both Melech and Sin fell down in rever-
ence to him who was in the cage. Then our
rash Sin actually dared to look up and see
what it was that roared thus at that time;
Melech and Sin were bowed to the ground,
but the rabble in the garden laughed at
them and gave a witness of their impolite-
ness. And Sin saw that that which roared
was like a beast. Such is the story they
brought home from the great city, and how
can we disbelieve it? And why cannot the

229
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

dweller on the other side of the river Mairure
have the appearance of a beast? What
does the devourer of our young ones demand
of us? Do we not know that he wants
living flesh and blood ? We know he does
not roast his meat or smoke it or salt it,
but just devours it live. But how do we
know that he needs flesh that is human ?
If we build him as fine a place as that which
was given the beast in the Emperor’s
menagerie, will he not bless our work?
Perhaps when we have built a palace for him
he will change his desires and prefer to be
fed with living calf or lamb.”

The young men and the girls welcomed
this speech with wild shouts and exclama-
tions.

“* Let us build a palace,” said they. ox

The more foolish even dared to say,
“Build him rather a cage and drive him’
into it. He has lived on our loveliest long
enough.” These were very stupid young
ones truly, for they thought that life was
the greatest blessing.

But in vain did the wise and aged strive;
to restrain the people in the faith of their
forefathers ; in vain did they try and save
them from the fearful act. Alack! Eve
the aged, many of them, were won over to

230
THE RIVER MAIRURE

the young, for they loved their children 7
more than they should.

VI

While they were building what they,
called a palace, but which was after all onl:
a cage, several of the more impatient made
a party and went to the other side of the
river Mairure to hunt with arrows and
spears. Of course they met their doom.

And another thing happened which
greatly confused the honourable people of
our countryside and emboldened the youth.

Young Zakkir, one of the bravest and
cleverest of our hunters, went by himself
and abode in the jungle a long time. We
gave him up for dead; and since he did not
return the girls sang him sweet funeral
chants.

But a week later Zakkir returned, weak
from loss of blood, covered with horrible
wounds, but all the same radiant with joy
and daring. Very unwillingly and evasively
did he answer the questions of the oldest
of us, but we often saw him talking to his
comrades and the young fellows in lonely
places. Very soon a rumour;,was spread
through the village that Zakkir had met

2381
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

the dweller on the other side of the river
Mairure and had battle with him.

We could not tolerate the blasphemous
stories and the enmity which was being
worked up against the oldest and wisest of
the village. So Zakkir was taken and put
to the torture in order that we might know

what had in truth befallen him.
7x Zakkir did Not cndure much torment,

e confessed, and we listened to him in
dread. These were his words :

“The night was calm, and there was no
moon when I approached the thicket that
stretches a three days’ journey beyond the
river Mairure. My dagger was sharp and
ready, my arrows poisoned, for I had firmly
resolved to follow up and kill the monster.
Suddenly, as near from me as a maiden
stands looking at the youth she loves, as near
as a little child throws a stone at the first
attempt, I heard the roaring break forth.
Moved by the power of the habit I fell down
on my face on the earth and waited. I
heard the heavy approach and the crackling
of dry branches under feet. I waited. But
a cold lizard slid along my leg as I lay and
reminded me of the Emperor’s menagerie
and the story of the beast in the palace.
I already felt his hot and fiery breath upon

232

wi

‘\
o

oe
THE RIVER MAIRURE

me when I jumped to my feet and pulled
out my dagger. I don’t know whether he
whom I saw was of the stock of demons or
of wild beasts, but he was immense fierce,
green-eyed. His jaws were open to devour
me, and the great white teeth made me
tremble. In truth, whether demon, god, or
beast, he is mighty and terrible. I don’t
know how I kept my feet and did not fall
down again before him. It was some power
stronger than I that kept me face to face
with him and made me slave of fate. I
resolved to fight the monster whatever he
was. The beast crouched to spring like a
cat, and once more gave out the terrible
roaring which filled me with quaking. But
I followed his movements, and when —he_.
sprang I turned_craftily and hid behind a
tree. The beast prepared to Spring again.
is failure seemed to give him a grieved
and shamed appearance; he slunk away
and hid himself—cunning, cautious, evil.
I hurriedly prepared an arrow, and its
poisoned_copper thrummed in the air and
struck the beast as he sprang a second time.
This time I did not succeed in dodging, and
the cruel claws rent my body. But I
plucked forth my dagger and fought with
that till I fell to the ground unconscious
233
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

from loss of blood. What happened I know

not, but the beast went away without
touching my body again. When I regained
consciousness night was already over. As
I lay, weak and smeared with blood, I saw
the trace of the beast’s footsteps away from
me. Then I understood that I_had wounded
him grievousl e_ had gone away
to die perhaps, perhaps to heal his wounds
with forest leaves.”

The otd"rién deliberated a long while
over the crime of Zakkir—could not make
up their minds what to do, but at last the
crafty Bellessis made a suggestion that won
much praise.

“Let us wait till we hear the roaring

again,” said he. “If we hear the voice again’

that will show the victory of the dweller on
the other side of the river Mairure over
death, and we will then deliver to him

Zakkir, naked and bound. So shall we be! ”

requited for the insult, and his anger not
fall upon us.”

The boys and girls of the village rejoiced,
assuming that the beast was dead. ‘“ He
is dead,”’ they cried; “‘ he will not come and
roar any more outside our houses.”’

They crowned the rash and _ beautiful
hunter with flowers, danced round him, and

234
THE RIVER MAIRURE

sang, and the sounds of flute and cymbal
rose higher than the clouds.

But their joy did not last. Not a week
passed before we heard the threatening
voice once more.

And Zakkir was taken, made naked,
bound, and placed in the jungle beyond the
river. Next day, not far from the place
where we left him, we found his bones. The
boys and girls wept inconsolably, and the
memory of Zakkir was ineffaceably printed
on their hearts. But the elders cursed the
daring one.

Vil

But behold, the painted palace was ready.
We placed it on the shore of the river Mairure,
just at the place where he walks when
awaiting his victim. In the cage we put for
him as a last and dainty human victim the
young and beautiful Hannai, taking awayj'<,
her dress so as not to put him to any uname
necessary trouble.

We did not wait long. He came for his
prey. We went to meet him with music
and chanting. There was a strange excite-
ment among all those who expected for the
first time to see him face to face. And
many felt a sweet pleasure at the thought

235
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

that they would henceforth meet him openly
with songs rather than as before in secret
and with sorrow.

We were all attired as for a festival, our
skins annointed with sweet oils, our heads
crowned with flowers and sweet-smelling
herbs. Not one of us carried a weapon—we
obeyed the advice of the oldest, who warned
us not to anger him with the sight of arms
as one of us had already so foolishly done.
Calmly and joyfully we went forth to meet
him, singing the sacred hymns. Nearer and
nearer sounded his voice, and behold at last
the velvet light of our torches fell upon his
face.

We stood around the cage, leaving him
a wide and open road to the door of it. But
he did not enter and take his victim, but
bounded into a crowd of our children and
struck to earth my daughter Lotta.

He tore the dear body of my daughter
Lotta, growling with greediness, mewing
with pleasure, and I looked up suddenly
and I saw that he to whom we_had for ever
bowed ourselves, and_for_whom we had
sactificed—an -infinite_number_of our tribe,
was indeed a ferocious bloodthirsty beast,
strong only because we were weak, dreadful
only because we trembled before him.

6
THE RIVER MAIRURE

We also saw how the beast’s body was
yellow with ugly blotches of black upon it,
and we cried out through our wailing, “‘ Truly
it is a wild and evil beast. Now we have
seen with our 6) itis that dwells in
the thickets beyond the river Mairure, and
we know the miserable fate of our children
who have been victims, and of Zakkir,
devoured by the ferocious, senseless beast.”

But the beast- set upon “us mand
took another victim. We fled, and he fol-
lowed after us, tearing many with his claws,
and choosing for his prey the youngest and
sweetest.

On that day the beast was glutted with
our_blood,_..Wé_sbut.ourselves_in our huts
and.-mourned:;~-And--we--prepared__to take

= aS

vengeance, .._ lw? pn .
» VIII

The days went on. The crafty beast hid
himself. There were diverse opinions held
about him, but not many adhered to the
ancient faith. Many rash youths perished
in the jungle through incautious hunting.

The aged for the most part reproved the
youths, saying, ‘“‘ Foolish ones, what do you
strive for? What do you want? Think
what will happen if you kill him? How

237
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

can we live without him? You will over-
throw all the traditions of our ancestors—
but upon what will you rebuild our life?”

Alack! We did not know about that,
nor did we care to think. All we wished
was to be rid of the cruel beast !

And, behold, one morning there were
joyful shouts ringing through the village
streets, and all the children ran about crying,
‘““The beast is wounded! The beast is
dying!”

The girls of the village clapped their
hands and danced and sang, saying, “ The
beast is dead, is dead !”’

On the banks of the river Mairure the
beast lay dying, wounded by a poisoned
arrow. His green eyes burned with power-
less rage, and his fearful claws tore the earth
and the herbage, all defiled by his foul blood.

Those who still feared the beast hid
themselves in their huts and wept.

But we rejoiced that day.

We didn’t think how we were going to
live.

We did not consider who might come to
_ the shore of the river Mairure and enslave us
by another and more evil tyranny.

    
 

238
The Candles

HERE were two candles burning, and
many lamps along the walls. A man
was reading from an exercise-book,

and others were silent and listened.

The flames trembled. The candles also
listened —they liked listening; but there
was a draught from somewhere, and they
trembled.

The man finished. The candles were
blown out and the people went away.

And it was just as before.

There was one grey candle burning. A
woman sat and sewed. A child slept, and
coughed in his sleep. There was a draught
from the walls. The candles wept white,
heavy tears. The tears trickled away and
froze. It began to dawn. The woman with
red eyes still sewed on. She blew out the
candle. She sewed on.

And it was just as before.

Three yellow candles were burning. A
man lay in a coffin—yellow and cold. Some-

239
THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME

one was reading from a book. A woman
wept. The candles were dying from fear
and sorrow. A crowd arrived. They sang;
they flung incense. They lifted up the
coffin. The candles were blown out. They
went away.

And it was just as before.

FINIS

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