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“The Trial for Murder,”
By Charles Dickens .
“The Necklace,”
By Henri René Albert Guy de Maupassant 20
* Peter Schlemihl,”
By Adelbert von Chamisso
“The Minister’s Black Veil,”
By Nathaniel Hawthorne... ... » « - 95
“The Siege of Berlin,”
By Alphonse Daudet . . . ». « - ~ HT
LO “The Pit and the Pendulum,”
Bearoy Ropar Allan-Poe es oe me oe a
| $ “Reality,”
5 By @haries Reade! 0) 4 a5. se ee GE
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THE TRIAL FOR MURDER
BY
CHARLES DICKENS
I HAVE always noticed a prevalent want of
courage, even among persons of superior intelli-
gence and culture, as to imparting their own
psychological experiences when those have
been of a strange sort. Almost all men are
afraid that what they could relate in such wise
would find no parallel or response in a listener’s
internal life, and might be suspected or laughed
at. A truthful traveller, who should have seen
some extraordinary creature in the likeness of a
sea-serpent, would have no fear of mentioning
it; but the same traveller, having had some
singular presentiment, impulse, vagary of
thought, vision (so-called), dream or other
remarkable mental impression, would hesitate
considerably before he would own to it. To
this reticence I attribute much of the obscurity
in which such subjects are involved. We do
not habitually communicate our experiences of
these subjective things as we do our experiences
of objective creation. The consequence is, that
the general stock of experience in this regard
appears exceptional, and really is so, in respect
of being miserably imperfect.
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Masterpieces of Fiction
In what I am going to relate I have no inten-
tion of setting up, opposing, or supporting any
theory whatever. I know the history of the
bookseller of Berlin, I have studied the case
of the wife of a late astronomer royal as related
by Sir David Brewster, and I have followed the
minutest details of a much more remarkable
case of spectral illusion occurring within my
private circle of friends. It may be necessary
to state as to this last, that the sufferer (a lady)
was in no degree, however distant, related to
me. A mistaken assumption on that head
might suggest an explanation of a part of my
own case—but only a part—which would be
wholly without foundation. It cannot be
referred to my inheritance of any developed
peculiarity, nor had I ever before any at all
similar experience, nor have I ever had any at
all similar experience since.
It does not signify how many years ago, or
how few, a certain murder was committed in
England, which attracted great attention. We
hear more than enough of murderers as they
rise in succession to their atrocious eminence,
and I would bury the memory of this particular
brute, if I could, as his body was buried, in
Newgate Jail. I purposely abstain from giving
any direct clew to the criminal’s individuality.
When the murder was first discovered, no
suspicion fell—or I ought rather to say, for I
cannot be too precise in my facts, it was nowhere
publicly hinted that any suspicion fell—on the
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Trial for Murder
man who was afterward brought to trial. As
no reference was at that time made to him in
the newspapers, it is obviously impossible that
any description of him can at that time have
been given in the newspapers. It is essential
that this fact be remembered.
Unfolding at breakfast my morning paper,
containing the account of that first discovery, I
found it to be deeply interesting, and I read it
with close attention. I read it twice, if not
three times. The discovery had been made in
a bedroom, and, when I laid down the paper, .
I was aware of a flash—rush—flow—I do not
know what to call it—no word I can find is
satisfactorily descriptive—in which I seemed
to see that bedroom passing through my room,
like a picture impossibly painted on a running
river. Though almost instantaneous in its
passing, it was perfectly clear, so clear that I
distinctly, and with a sense of relief, observed
the absence of the dead body from the bed.
It was in no romantic place that I had this
curious sensation, but in chambers in Piccadilly,
very near to the corner of St. James’s Street.
It was entirely new to me. I was in my easy-
chair at the moment, and the sensation was
accompanied with a peculiar shiver which
started the chair from its position. (But it
is to be noted that the chair ran easily on
castors.) I went to one of the windows (there
are two in the room, and the room is on the
second floor) to refresh my eyes with the moving
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objects down in Piccadilly. It was a bright
autumn morning, and the street was sparkling
and cheerful. The wind was high. As I
looked out, it brought down from the Park a
quantity of fallen leaves, which a gust took, and
whirled into a spiral pillar. As the pillar fell
and the leaves dispersed I saw two men on the
opposite side of the way, going from west to
east. They were one behind the other. The
foremost man often looked back over his shoulder.
The second man followed him, at a distance of
some thirty paces, with his right hand menac-
ingly raised. First, the singularity and steadi-
ness of this threatening gesture in so public a
thoroughfare attracted my attention; and next,
_ the more remarkable circumstance that nobody
heeded it. Both men threaded their way
among the other passengers with a smoothness
hardly consistent even with the action of
walking on a pavement; and no single creature,
that I could see, gave them place, touched them,
or looked after them. In passing before my
windows, they both stared up at me. I saw *
their two faces very distinctly, and I knew that
I could recognize them anywhere. Not that
I had consciously noticed anything very re-
markable in either face, except that the man
who went first had an unusually lowering
appearance, and that the face of the man who
followed him was of the colour of impure wax.
I am a bachelor, and my valet and his wife
constitute my whole establishment. My occupa-
4
Trial for Murder
tion is in a certain branch bank, and I wish that
my duties as head of a department were as light
as they are popularly supposed to be. They
kept me in town that autumn, when I stood in
need of change. I was not ill, but I was not well.
My reader is to make the most that can be
reasonably made of my feeling jaded, having a
depressing sense upon me of a monotonous life,
and being ‘‘slightly dyspeptic.”” I am assured
by my renowned doctor that my real state of
health at that time justifies no stronger de-
scription, and I quote his own from his written
answer to my request for it.
As the circumstances of the murder, gradually
unravelling, took stronger and stronger possession
of the public mind, I kept them away from mine,
by knowing as little about them as was possible
in the midst of the universal excitement. But
I knew that a verdict of wilful murder had been
found against the suspected murderer, and that
he had been committed to Newgate for trial.
I also knew that his trial had been postponed
Over one sessions of the Central Criminal Court,
on the ground of general prejudice and want of
time for the preparation of the defence. I may
further have known, but I believe I did not,
when, or about when, the sessions to which his
trial stood postponed would come on.
My sitting-room, bedroom, and dressing-room
are all on one floor. With the last there is
no communication but through the bedroom.
True, there is a door in it, once communicating
5
Masterpieces of Fiction
with the staircase, but a part of the fitting of
my bath has been—and had then been for
some years—fixed across it. At the same period,
and as a part of the same arrangement, the door
had been nailed up and canvased over.
I was standing in my bedroom late one night
giving some directions to my servant before he
went to bed. My face was toward the only
available door of communication with the
dressing-room, and it was closed. My servant’s
back was toward that door. While I was
speaking to him, I saw it open, and a man
look in, who very earnestly and mysteriously
beckoned to me. That man was the man who
had gone second of the two along Piccadilly,
.and whose face was of the colour of impure
wax.
The figure, having beckoned, drew back, and
closed the door. With no longer pause than
was made by my crossing the bedroom, I opened
the dressing-room door, and looked in. I had
a lighted candle already in my hand. I felt no
inward expectation of seeing the figure in the
dressing-room, and I did not see it there.
Conscious that my servant stood amazed, I
turned round to him, and said, ‘‘Derrick, could
you believe that in my cool senses I fancied I
saw a As I there laid my hand upon his
breast, with a sudden start he trembled violently,
and said, ‘‘Oh, Lord, yes, sir! A dead man
beckoning!”’
Now I do not believe that this John Derrick,
6
Trial for Murder
my trusty and attached servant for more than
twenty years, had any impression whatever of
having seen any such figure, until I touched
him. The change in him was so startling,
when I touched him, that I fully believe he
derived his impression in some occult manner
from me at that instant.
I bade John Derrick bring some brandy, and
I gave him a dram, and was glad to take one
myself. Of what had preceded that night’s
phenomenon I told him not a single word.
Reflecting on it, I was absolutely certain that I
had never seen that face before, except on the
one occasion in Piccadilly. Comparing its
expression when beckoning at the door with
its expression when it had stared up at me as I
stood at my window, I came to the conclusion
that on the first occasion it had sought to fasten
itself upon my memory, and that on the second
occasion it had made sure of being immediately
remembered.
I was not very comfortable that night, though
I felt a certainty, difficult to explain, that the
figure would not return. At daylight I fell into
a heavy sleep, from which I was awakened by
John Derrick’s coming to my bedside with a
paper in his hand.
This paper, it appeared, had been the subject
of an altercation at the door between its bearer
and my servant. It was a summons to me to
serve upon a jury at the forthcoming sessions
of the central criminal court at the Old Bailey.
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Masterpieces of Fiction
I had never before been summoned on such a
jury, as John Derrick well knew. He believed
—I am not certain at this hour whether with
reason or otherwise—that that class of jurors
were customarily chosen on a lower qualification
than mine, and he had at first refused to accept
the summons. The man who served it had taken
the matter very coolly. -He had said that my
attendance or non-attendance was nothing to
him; there the summons was, and I should deal -
with it at my own peril, and not at his.
For a day or two I was undecided whether to —
respond to this call, or take no notice of it. I
was not conscious of the slightest mysterious
bias, influence, or attraction, one way or other.
Of that I am as strictly sure as of every other
statement that I make here. Ultimately I
decided, as a break in the monotony of my life,
that I would go.
The appointed morning was a raw morning
in the month of November. There was a dense
brown fog in Piccadilly, and it became positively
black and in the last degree oppressive east of
Temple Bar. I found the passages and stair-
cases of the Court-House flaringly lighted with
gas, and the Court itself similarly illuminated.
I think that, until I was conducted by officers
into the Old Court and saw its crowded state,
I did not know that the murderer was to be
tried that day. I think that, until I was so
helped into the Old Court with considerable
difficulty, I did not know into which of the two -
8
Trial for Murder
courts sitting my summons would take me. But
this must not be received as a positive assertion,
for I am not completely satisfied in my mind on
either point.
I took my seat in the place appropriated to
jurors in waiting, and I looked about the court
as well as I could through the cloud of fog and
breath that was heavy in it. I noticed the
black vapour hanging like a murky curtain out-
side the great windows, and I noticed the stifled
sound of wheels on the straw or tan that was
littered in the street; also, the hum of the people
gathered there, which a shrill whistle, or a
louder song or hail than the rest, occasionally
pierced. Soon afterward the judges, two in
number, entered, and took their seats. The
buzz in the court was awfully hushed. The
direction was given to put the murderer to the
bar. He appeared there. And in that same
instant I recognised in him the first of the two
men who had gone down Piccadilly.
If my name had been called then I doubt if
I could have answered to it audibly; but it was
called about sixth or eighth in the panel, and I
was by that time able to say, ‘‘Here!”’
Now, observe. As I stepped into the box, the
prisoner, who had been looking on attentively,
but with no sign of concern, became violently
agitated, and beckoned to his attorney. The
prisoner’s wish to challenge me was so manifest
that it occasioned a pause, during which the
attorney, with his hand upon the dock, whispered
9
Masterpieces of Fiction
with his client, and shook his head. I after-
ward had it from that gentleman, that the
prisoner’s first affrighted words to him were,
“At all hazards, challenge that man!” But,
as he would give no reason for it, and admitted
that he had not even known my name until
he heard it called and I appeared, it was not
done.
Both on the ground already explained, that
I wish to avoid reviving the unwholesome
memory of that murderer, and also because a
detailed account of his long trial is by no means
indispensable to my narrative, I shall confine
myself closely to such incidents in the ten days
and nights during which we, the jury, were
kept together, as directly bear on my own
curious personal experience. . It is in that, and
not in the murderer, that I seek to interest my
reader. It is to that, and not to a page of the
Newgate Calendar, that I beg attention.
I was chosen foreman of the jury On the
second morning of the trial, after evidence had
been taken for two hours (I heard the church
clocks strike), happening to cast my eyes over
my brother jurymen, I found an inexplicable
difficulty in counting them. I counted them
several times, yet always with the same difficulty
In short, I made them one too many.
I touched the brother juryman whose place
was next me, and I whispered to him, ‘‘Oblige
me by counting us.’”’ He looked surprised by
the request, but turned his head and counted.
Io
Trial for Murder
“Why,” says he, suddenly, ‘‘we are thirt
But no, it’s not possible. No. Weare twelve.”
According to my counting that day, we were
always right in detail, but in the gross we were
always one too many. There was no appear-
ance—no figure—to account for it, but I had
now an inward foreshadowing of the figure that
was surely coming.
The jury were housed at the London Tavern.
We all slept in one large room on separate
‘tables, and we were constantly in the charge and
under the eye of the officer sworn to hold us in
safe-keeping. I see no reason for suppressing
the real name of that officer. He was intelligent,
highly polite, and obliging, and (I was glad to
hear) much respected in the city. He had an
agreeable presence, good eyes, enviable black
whiskers, and a fine sonorous voice. His name
was Mr. Harker.
When we turned into our twelve beds at
night, Mr. Harker’s bed was drawn across the
door. On the night of the second day, not
being disposed to lie down, and seeing Mr.
Harker sitting on his bed, I went and sat beside
him, and offered him a pinch of snuff. As Mr.
Harker’s hand touched mine in taking it from
my box, a peculiar shiver crossed him, and he
said, ‘‘Who is this?”’
Following Mr. Harker’s eyes, and looking
along the room, I saw again the figure I ex-
pected—the second of the two men who had
gone down Piccadilly. I rose and advanced a
Tr
Masterpieces of Fiction
few steps, then stopped, and looked round at
Mr. Harker. He was quite unconcerned, laughed,
and said, in a pleasant way, “I thought for a
moment we had a thirteenth juryman, without
a bed. But I see it is the moonlight.”
Making no revelation to Mr. Harker, but
inviting him to take a walk with me to the end
of the room, I watched what the figure did. It
stood for a few moments by the bedside of each
of my eleven brother jurymen, close to the
pillow. It always went to the right-hand side
of the bed, and always passed out crossing the
foot of the next bed. It seemed, from the action
of the head, merely to look down pensively at
each recumbent figure. It took no notice of
me, or of my bed, which was that nearest to
Mr. Harker’s. It seemed to go out where the
moonlight came in, through a high window, as
by an aerial flight of stairs.
Next morning at breakfast, it appeared that
everybody present had dreamed of the murdered
man last night, except myself and Mr. Harker.
I now felt as convinced that the second man
who had gone down Piccadilly was the murdered
man (so to speak), as if it had been borne into
my comprehension by his immediate testimony.
But even this took place, and in a manner for
which I was not at all prepared.
On the fifth day of the trial, when the case
for the prosecution was drawing to a close, a
miniature of the murdered man, missing from
his bedroom upon the discovery of the deed, and
14
Trial for Murder
afterward found in a hiding-place where the
murderer had been seen digging, was put in
evidence. Having been identified by the witness
under examination, it was handed up to the
bench, and thence handed down to be inspected
by the jury. As an officer in a black gown was
making his way with it across to me, the figure
of the second man who had gone down Piccadilly
impetuously started from the crowd, caught the
miniature from the officer, and gave it to me
with his own hands, at the same time saying, |
in a low and hollow tone—before I saw the
miniature, which was in a locket—‘‘J was
younger then, and my face was not then drained
of blood.”
It also came between me and the brother
juryman to whom I would have given the
miniature, and between him and the brother
juryman to whom he would have given it,
and so passed it on through the whole of our
number, and back into my possession. Not
one of them, however, detected this.
At table, and generally when we were shut
up together in Mr. Harker’s custody, we had
from -the first naturally discussed the day’s
proceedings a good deal. On that fifth day,
the case for the prosecution being closed, and
we having that side of the question in a com-
pleted shape before us, our discussion was more
animated and serious. Among our number was
a vestryman—the densest idiot I have ever seen
at large—who met the plainest evidence with
13
Masterpieces of Fiction —
the most preposterous objections, and who
was sided with by two flabby parochial parasites
—all the three impanelled from a district so
delivered over to fever that they ought to have
been upon their own trial for five hundred
murders. When these mischievous blockheads
were at their loudest, which was toward mid-
night, while some of us were already preparing
for bed, I again saw the murdered man. He
stood grimly behind them, beckoning to me.
On my going toward them, and striking into
the conversation, he immediately retired. This
was the beginning of a separate series of ap-
pearances, confined to that long room in which
we were confined. Whenever a knot of my
brother jurymen laid their heads together, I
saw the head of the murdered man among theirs.
Whenever their comparison of notes was going
against him, he would solemnly and irresistibly
beckon to me.
It will be borne in mind that down to the
production of the miniature, on the fifth day
of the trial, I had never seen the appearance
in court. Three changes occurred now that
we entered on the case for the defence. Two
of them I will mention together, first. The
figure was now in court continually, and it
never there addressed itself to me, but always
to the person who was speaking at the time.
For instance: the throat of the murdered man
had been cut straight across. In the opening
speech for the defence, it was suggested that
14
Trial for Murder
the deceased might have cut his own throat. At
that very moment, the figure, with its throat in
the dreadful condition referred to (this it had
concealed before), stood at the speaker’s elbow,
motioning across and across its windpipe, now
with the right hand, now with the left, vigorously
suggesting to the speaker himself the impossi-
bility of such a wound having been self-inflicted
by either hand. For another instance: a witness
to character, a woman, deposed to the prisoner’s
being the most amiable of mankind. The figure
at that.instant stood on the floor before her,
looking her full in the face, and pointing out the
prisoner’s evil countenance with an extended
arm and an outstretched finger.
The third change now to be added impressed
me strongly as the most marked and striking
of all. I do not theorise upon it; I accurately
state it, and there leave it., Although the
appearance was not itself perceived by those
whom it addressed, its coming close to such
persons was invariably attended by some
trepidation or disturbance on their part. It
seemed to me as if it were prevented, by laws
to which I was not amenable, from fully revealing
itself to others, and yet as if it could invisibly,
dumbly, and darkly overshadow their minds.
When the leading counsel for the defence sug-
gested that hypothesis of suicide, and the
figure stood at the learned gentleman’s elbow,
frightfully sawing at its severed throat, it is
undeniable that the counsel faltered in his
T5
Masterpieces of Fiction
speech, lost for a few seconds the thread of his
ingenious discourse, wiped his forehead with
his handkerchief, and turned extremely pale.
When the witness to character was confronted
by the appearance, her eyes most certainly
did follow the direction of its pointed finger, and
rest in great hesitation and trouble upon the
prisoner’s face. Two additional illustrations.
will suffice. On the eighth day of the trial, after
the pause which was every day made early in
the afternoon for a few minutes’ rest and re-
freshment, I came back into court with the rest
of the jury some little time before the return of
the judges. Standing up in the box and looking
about me, I thought the figure was not there,
until, chancing to raise my eyes to the gallery, I
saw it bending forward, and leaning over a very
decent woman, as if to assure itself whether the
judges had resumed their seats or not. Im-
mediately afterward that woman screamed,
fainted, and was carried out. So with the
venerable, sagacious, and patient judge who
conducted the trial. When the case was over,
and he settled himself and his papers to sum up,
the murdered man, entering by the judges’
door, advanced to his Lordship’s desk, and
‘looked eagerly over his shoulder at the pages of
‘his notes which he was turning. A change
' came over his Lordship’s face; his hand stopped;
_the peculiar shiver that I knew so well passed
over him; he faltered; ‘Excuse me, gentlemen,
.for a few moments. I am somewhat oppressed
16
Trial for Murder
\ by the vitiated air.’”” And he did not recover
Heke he had drunk a i of water.
| Through all the monotony of six of those
‘interminable ten days—the same judges and
others on the bench, the same murderer in the
dock, the same lawyers at the table, the same
| tones of question and answer rising to the roof
| of the court, the same scratching of the judge’s
pen, the same ushers going in and out, the same
| lights kindled at the same hour when there had
, been any natural light of day, the same foggy
\curtain outside the great windows when it was
foggy, the same rain pattering and dripping
when it was rainy, the same foot-marks of
turnkeys and prisoner day after day on the
same sawdust, the same keys locking and un-
locking the same heavy doors—through all the
' wearisome monotony which made me feel as
if I had been foreman of the jury for a vast
period of time, and Piccadilly had flourished
coevally with Babylon, the murdered man
never lost one trace of his distinctness in my
eyes, nor was he at any moment less distinct
than anybody else. I must not omit, as a
matter of fact, that I never once saw the ap-
pearance which I call by the name of the mur-
dered man look at the murderer. Again and
again I wondered, ‘‘Why does he not?” But
he never did.
Nor did he look at me, after the production of
the miniature, until the last closing minutes
of the trial arrived. We retired to consider, at
17
Masterpieces of Fiction
seven minutes before ten at night. The idiotic
vestryman and his two parochial parasites
gave us so much trouble that we twice returned
into court to beg to have certain extracts from
the judge’s notes re-read. Nine of us, had not
the smallest doubt about those passages, neither,
I believe, had anyone in the court. The dunder-
headed triumvirate, however, having no idea
but obstruction, disputed them for that very
reason. At length we prevailed, and finally
the jury returned into court at ten minutes past
twelve. |
The murdered man at that time stood directly
opposite the jury-box, on the other side of the
court. As I took my place, his eyes rested on
me with great attention. He seemed satisfied,
and slowly shook a great gray veil, which he
carried on his arm for the first time, over his
head and whole form. As I gave in our verdict,
“Guilty,” the veil collapsed, all was gone, and
his place was empty.
The murderer, being asked by the judge,
according to usage, whether he had anything
to say before sentence of death should be passed
upon him, indistinctly muttered something
which was described in the leading newspapers
of the following day as ‘‘a few rambling, in-
coherent, and half-audible words, in which he
was understood to complain that he had not
had a fair trial, because the foreman of the
jury was prepossessed against him.’ The
remarkable declaration that he really made was
18
Trial for Murder
this: ‘‘My Lord, I knew I was a doomed man
when the foreman of my jury came into the
box. My Lord, I knew he would never let me
off, because, before I was taken, he somehow
got to my bedside in the night, woke me, and
put a rope round my neck.”
19
THE NECKLACE
BY
Henri RENE ALBERT Guy DE MAUPASSANT ~
SHE was one of those pretty, charming girls
who are sometimes, as if through the irony of |
fate, born into a family of clerks. She was
without dowry or expectations, and. had no
means of becoming known, appreciated, loved,
wedded, by any rich or influential man; so she
allowed herself to be married to a small clerk
belonging to the Ministry of Public Instruction.
She dressed plainly because she could not afford
to dress well, and was unhappy because she felt
she had dropped from her proper station, which
for women is a matter of attractiveness, beauty,
and grace, rather than of family descent. Good
manners, an intuitive knowledge of what is ele-
gant, nimbleness of wit, are the only require-
ments necessary to place a woman of the people
on an equality with one of the aristocracy.
She fretted constantly, feeling all things
delicate and luxurious to be her birthright.
She suffered on account of the meagreness of her
surroundings, the bareness of the walls, the
tarnished furniture, the ugly curtains; defi-
ciencies which would have left any other woman
of her class untouched, irritated and tormented
20
The Necklace
her. The sight of the little Breton peasant who
did her humble housework engendered hopeless
regrets followed by fantastic dreams. She
thought of a noiseless, hallowed ante-room, with
Oriental carpets, lighted with tall branching
candlesticks of bronze and of two big, knee-
breeched footmen, drowsy from the _ stove-
heated air, dozing in great arm-chairs. She
thought of a long drawing-room hung with
ancient brocade, of a beautiful cabinet holding
priceless curios, of an alluring, scented boudoir
intended for five-o’clock chats with intimates,
with men famous and courted, and whose
acquaintance is longed for by all women.
When she sat down to dinner, at the round
table spread with a cloth three days old, opposite
her husband who uncovered the tureen, and
exclaimed with ecstasy, ‘‘Ah, I like a good
stew! I know nothing to beat this!’”’ she thought
of dainty dinners, of shining plate, of tapestry
which peopled the walls with human shapes, and
with strange birds flying among fairy trees.
And then she thought of delicious viands served
in costly dishes, and of murmured gallantries
which you listen to with a comfortable smile
while you are eating the rose-tinted flesh of a
trout or the wing of a quail.
She had no handsome gowns, no jewels—noth-
ing, though these were her whole life; it was these
that meant existence to her. She would so have
liked to please, to be thought fascinating, to be
envied, to be sought out. She had a friend, a
2I
Masterpieces of Fiction
former schoolmate at the convent, who was
rich, but whom she did not like to go to see any
more because she would come home jealous,
covetous.
But one evening her husband returned home
jubilant, holding a large envelope in his hand.
‘“Here is something for, you,” he said.
She tore open the cover sharply, and drew
out a printed card bearing these words: ‘‘The
Minister of Public Instruction and Mme. Georges
Ramponneau request the honour of M. and
Mme. Loisel’s company at the palace of the
Ministry on Monday evening, January 18th.”
Instead of being delighted as her husband
expected, she threw the invitation on the table ~
with disgust, muttering, ‘‘What do you think I
can do with that?”’
“But, my dear, I thought you would be
pleased. You never go anywhere, and this is
such a rare opportunity. I had hard work to
getit. Every one is wild to go; it is very select,
and invitations to clerks are scarce. The whole
official world will be there.”
She looked at him with a scornful eye, as
she said petulantly, ‘“And what have I to
put on my back?” He had not thought
of that. He stammered, “‘Why, the dress
you wear to the theatre; it looks all right to
mei;
He stopped in despair, seeing his wife was
crying. Two big tears rolled down from the
corners of her eyes to the corners of her mouth.
22
The Necklace
““What’s the matter? What’s the matter?”
he faltered. $
With great effort, she controlled herself, and
replied coldly, while she dried her wet cheeks:
‘“‘Nothing, except that I have'no dress, and,
for that reason, cannot go to the ball. Give
your invitation to some fellow-clerk whose wife
is better provided than I am.”
He was dumfounded, but replied:
““Come, Mathilde, let us see now—how much
would a suitable dress cost; one you could wear
at other times—something quite simple?”
She pondered several moments, calculating,
and guessing too, how much she could safely ask
for without an instant refusal or bringing down
upon her head a volley of objections from her
frugal husband. .
At length she said hesitatingly, ‘‘I can’t say
exactly, but I think I could do with four hundred
francs.”
He changed colour because he was laying aside
just that sum to buy a gun and treat himself to
a little shooting next summer on the plain of
Nanterre, with several friends, who went down
there on Sundays to shoot larks. Nevertheless,
he said: ‘‘Very well, I will give you four
hundred francs. Get a pretty dress.”’
The day of the ball drew near, and Mme.
Loisel seemed despondent, nervous, upset,
though her dress was all ready. One evening
her husband observed: ‘I say, what is the
23
Masterpieces of Fiction
matter, Mathilde? You have been very queer
lately.’”’ And she replied, “It exasperates me
not to have a single ornament of any kind to
put on. I shall look like a fright—I would
almost rather. stay at home.’ He answered:
‘‘Why not wear flowers? They are very fash-
ionable at this time of the year. You can get
a handful of fine roses for ten francs.”
But she was not persuaded. ‘“‘No, it’s so
mortifying to look poverty-stricken among
women who are rich.”’
Then her husband exclaimed: ‘‘How slow
you are! Go and see your friend, Mme. Fores-
tier, and ask her to lend you some jewels. You
know her well enough to do that.” .
She gave an exclamation of delight: “‘True!
I never thought of that!”’
Next day she went to her friend and poured
out her woes. Mme. Forestier went to a closet
with a glass door, took out a large jewel-box,
brought it back, opened it, and said to Mme.
Loisel, ‘‘Here, take your choice, my dear.”
She looked at some bracelets, then at a pearl
necklace, and then at a Venetian cross curiously
wrought of gold and precious stones. She tried
on the ornaments before the mirror, hesitated,
was loath to take them off and return them.
She kept inquiring, ‘‘Have you any more?”’
‘“‘Certainly, look for yourself. I don’t know
what you want.”
Suddenly Mathilde discovered, in a black satin
box, a magnificent necklace of diamonds, and
24
The Necklace
her heart began to beat with excitement. With
trembling hands she took -the necklace and
fastened it round her neck outside her dress,
becoming lost in admiration of herself as she
looked in the glass. Tremulous with fear lest
she be refused, she asked, ‘‘Will you lend me
this—only this?”
“Yes, of course I will.”
Mathilde fell upon her friend’s neck, kissed
her passionately, and rushed off with her
treasure. ?
The day of the ball arrived.
Mme. Loisel was a great success. She was
prettier than them all, lovely, gracious, smiling,
and wild with delight. All the men looked at
her, inquired her name, tried to be introduced;
all the officials of the Ministry wanted a waltz
—even the minister himself noticed her. She
danced with abandon, with ecstasy, intoxicated
with joy, forgetting everything in the triumph
of her beauty, in the radiance of her success, in
a kind of mirage of bliss made up of all this
worship, this adulation, of all these stirring
impulses, and of that realisation of perfect sur-
render, so sweet to the soul of woman.
She left about four in the morning.
Since midnight her husband had been sleeping
in a little deserted anteroom with three other
‘men whose wives were enjoying themselves.
He threw over her shoulders the wraps he
had brought, ordinary, everyday garments, con-
25
Masterpieces of Fiction
trasting sorrily with her elegant ball dress. She
felt this, and wanted to get away so as not to be
seen by the other women, who were putting on
costly furs.
Loisel detained her: ‘‘Wait a little; you
will catch cold outside; I will go and call a
cab.
But she would not listen to him, and hurried
down-stairs. When they reached the street
they could not find a carriage, and they began
to look for one, shouting to the cabmen who
were passing by. They went down toward the
fiver in desperation, shivering with cold. At
last they found on the quays one of those
antiquated, all-night broughams, which, in
Paris, wait till after dark before venturing to
display their dilapidation. It took them to their
door in the Rue des Martyrs, and once more,
wearily, they climbed the stairs. .
Now all was over for her; as for him, he
remembered that he must be at his office at ten
o’clock. She threw off her cloak before the glass,
that she might behold herself once more in all
her magnificence. Suddenly she uttered a cry
of dismay—the necklace was gone!
Her husband, already half-undressed, called
out, ‘‘Anything wrong?”
She turned wildly toward him: “I have—I
have—I’ve lost Mme. Forestier’s necklace!”’
He stood, aghast: ‘‘Where? When? You -
haven’t!”’
They looked in the folds of her dress, in the
26.
|
{
¥
The Necklace
folds of her cloak, in her pocket, everywhere.
They could not find it. ©
‘‘Are you sure,” he said, ‘‘that you had it on
when you left the ball?”
“Yes; I felt it in the corridor of the palace.”
“But if you had lost it in the street, we
should have heard it fall. It must be in the
cab.”
“‘No doubt. Did you take his number?”
“No. And didn’t you notice it either?”
“No.”
They looked at each other, terror-stricken.
At last Loisel put on his clothes.
**T shall go back on foot,’’ he said, ‘‘over the
whole route we came by, to see if I can’t find it.”
He went out, and she sat waiting in her ball
dress, too dazed to go to bed, cold, crushed,’
lifeless, unable to think. Her husband came
back at seven o’clock. He had found nothing.
He went to Police Headquarters, to the news-
paper office—where he advertised a reward. He
went to the cab companies—to every place, in
fact, that seemed at all hopeful.
She waited all day in the same awful state of
mind at this terrible misfortune.
Loisel returned at night with a wam, white
face. He had found nothing.
‘‘Write immediately to your friend,” said he,
“that you have broken the clasp of her necklace,
and that you have taken it to be mended.
That will give us time to turn about.”
She wrote as he told her.
27
Masterpieces of Fiction
By the end of the week they had given up all
hope. Loisel, who looked five years older, said,
““We must plan how we can replace the neck-
lace.”’
The next day they took the black satin box
to the jeweller whose name was found inside.
He referred to his books.
““You did not buy that necklace of me,
Madame. Ican only have supplied the case.”
They went from jeweller to jeweller, hunting
for a necklace like the lost one, trying to remem-
ber its appearance, heartsick with shame and
misery. Finally,in a shop at the Palais Royal,
they found a string of diamonds which looked
to them’ just like the: other. The price was
_forty thousand francs, but they could have it
for thirty-six thousand. They begged the
jeweller to keep it three days for them, and
made an agreement with him that he should
buy it back for thirty-four thousand francs if
they found the lost necklace before the last of
February.
Loisel had inherited eighteen thousand francs
from his father. He could borrow the remainder.
And he did borrow right and left, asking a
thousand francs of one, five hundred of another,
five louis here, three louis there. He gave notes,
assumed heavy obligations, trafficked with
money-lenders at usurious rates, and, putting
the rest of his life in pawn, pledged his signature
over and over again. Not knowing how he was
to make it all good, and terrified by the penalty
28 .
The Necklace
yet to come, by the dark destruction which hung
over him, by the certainty of incalculable
deprivations of body and tortures of soul, he
went to get the new bauble, throwing down upon
the jeweller’s counter the thirty-six thousand
francs.
When Mme. Loisel returned the necklace,
Mme. Forestier said to her coldly: ‘‘Why did you
not bring it back sooner? I might have wanted
i"
She did not open the case—to the great relief
of her friend.
Supposing she had! Would she have dis-
covered the substitution, and what would she
have said? Would she not have accused Mme.
Loisel of theft?
Mme. Loisel now knew what it was to be in
want, but she showed sudden and remarkable
courage. That awful debt must be paid, and
she would pay it.
They sent away their servant, and moved up
into a garret under the roof. She began to
find out what heavy housework and the fatiguing
drudgery of the kitchen meant. She washed the
dishes, scraping the greasy pots and pans with
her rosy nails. She washed the dirty linen, the
shirts and dish-towels, which dried upon the
line. She lugged slops and refuse down to the
street every morning, bringing back fresh water,
stopping on every landing, panting for breath.
With her basket on her arm, and dressed like
a woman of the people, she haggled with the
29
Masterpieces of Fiction
fruiterer, the grocer, and the butcher, often
insulted, but getting every sou’s worth that
belonged to her.
Each month notes had to be met, others
renewed, extensions of time procured. Her
husband worked in the evenings, straightening
out tradesmen’s accounts; he sat up late at night,
copying manuscripts at five sous a page.
And this they did for ten years.
- At the end of that time they had paid up
everything, everything—with all the principal
and the accumulated compound interest.
Mme. Loisel looked old now. She had become
a domestic drudge, sinewy, rough-skinned,
coarse. With towsled hair, tucked-up skirts, and
red hands, she would talk loudly while mopping
the floor with great splashes of water. But
sometimes, when alone, she sat near the window,
and she thought of that gay evening long ago, of
the ball where she had been so beautiful, so
much admired. Supposing she had not lost the
necklace — what then? Who knows? Who
knows? Life is so strange and shifting. How
easy it is to be ruined or saved! _
But one Sunday, going for a walk in the
Champs Elysées to refresh herself after her
hard week’s work, she accidentally came upon a
familiar-looking woman with a child. It was
Mme. Forestier, still young, still lovely, still
charming.
Mme. Loisel became agitated. Should she
30
The Necklace
speak to her? Of course. Now that she had
paid, she would tell her all about it. Why not?
She went up to her. |
‘‘How do you do, Jeanne?’’
The other, astonished at the easy manner
toward her assumed by a plain housewife
whom she did not recognise, said:
‘‘But, Madame, you have made a mistake; I
do not know you.”’
“Why, I am Mathilde Loisel!”’
Her friend gave a start.
“‘Oh, my poor Mathilde,” she cried, ‘‘how you
have changed!”’
**Yes; I have seen hard days since last I
saw you; hard enough—and all because of
you.”
“Of me? And why?”
““You remember the diamond necklace you
loaned me to wear at the Ministry ball?”
coves lida. | What.ofitr”
“Well, I lost it!”
“But you brought it back—explain eonmeel. ee
““I bought one just like it, and it took us ten
years to pay forit. It was not easy for us who
had nothing, but it is all over now, and I am
glad.”’
Mme. Forestier stared.
“‘And you bought a necklace of diamonds to
replace mine?”
“Yes; and you never knew the difference,
they were so alike.’ And she smiled with
joyful pride at the success of it all.
at
Masterpieces of Fiction
Mme. Forestier, deeply moved, took both her
hands.
‘‘Oh, my poor Mathilde! My necklace was
paste. It was worth only about five hundred
francs!”
86
PETER SCHLEMIHL
BY
ADELBERT VON CHAMISSO
I
AFTER a prosperous, but to me very weari-
some, voyage we at last came into port. Im-
mediately on landing, I got together my few
effects, and, squeezing through the crowd, went
into the nearest and humblest inn which first
met my gaze. When I requested a room, the
waiter scanned me from head to foot, and con-
ducted me to one. I asked for some cold water,
and for the correct address of Mr. Thomas John,
which was described as being ‘‘by the north gate,
the first country-house to the right, a large new
house of red and white marble, with many pil-
lars.””’ This was enough. As the day was not
yet far advanced, I untied my bundle, took out
my newly turned black coat, dressed myself in
my best clothes, and, with my letter of recom-
mendation, set out for the man who was to assist
me in the attainment of my moderate wishes.
After proceeding up the north street, I reached
the gate, and saw the marble columns glittering
through the trees. Having wiped the dust from
my shoes with my pocket-handkerchief, and re-
33
Masterpieces of Fiction
adjusted my cravat, I rang the bell—offering up
at the same time a silent prayer. The door flew
open, and the porter sent in my name. I soon
had the honour to be invited into the park, where
Mr. John was walking with a few friends. I
recognised him at once by his corpulency and
self-complacent air. He received me very well
—just as a rich man receives a poor devil; and
turning to me, took my letter. ‘‘Oh, from my
brother! it is a long time since I heard from him:
is he well? Yonder,’ he went on—turning to
the company, and pointing to a distant hill—
“‘yonder is the site of the new building.” He
broke the seal without discontinuing the con-
versation, which turned upon riches. ‘“‘The
man,” he said, ‘‘who does not possess at least a
million is a poor wretch.”’” ‘‘Oh, how true!” I
exclaimed, in the fulness of my heart. He
seemed pleased at this, and replied with a smile,
‘Stop here, my dear friend; afterward I shall,
perhaps, have time to tell you what I think of
this,’ pointing to the letter, which he then put
into his pocket, and, turning round to the com-
pany, offering his arm to a young lady: his ex-
ample was followed by the other gentlemen, each
politely escorting a lady; and the whole party
proceeded toward a little hill thickly planted
with blooming roses.
I followed without troubling any one, for none
took the least further notice of me. The party |
was in high spirits—lounging about and jesting
—speaking sometimes of trifling matters very
34
Peter Schlemihl
seriously, and of serious matters as triflingly—
and exercising their wit in particular to great
advantage on their absent friends and their af-
fairs. I was too ignorant of what they were
talking about to understand much of it, and too
anxious and absorbed in my own reflections to
occupy myself with the solution of such enigmas
as their conversation presented. —
By this time we had reached the thicket of
roses. The lovely Fanny, who seemed to be the
queen of the day, was obstinately bent on pluck-
ing a rose-branch for herself, and, in the attempt,
pricked her finger with a thorn. The crimson
stream, as if flowing from the dark-tinted rose,
tinged her fair hand with the purple current.
This circumstance set the whole company in
commotion; and court-plaster was called for.
A quiet, elderly man, tall and meagre-looking,
who was one of the company, but whom I had
not before observed, immediately put his hand
into the tight breast-pocket of his old-fashioned
coat of gray sarsenet, pulled out a small letter-
case, opened it, and, with a most respectful bow,
presented the lady with the wished-for article.
She received it without noticing the giver or
thanking him. The wound was bound up, and
the party proceeded along the hill toward the
back part, from which they enjoyed an extensive
view across the green labyrinth of the park to
the wide-spreading ocean. The view was truly
a magnificent one. A slight speck was observed
on the horizon, between the dark flood and the
35
Masterpieces of Fiction
azure sky. ‘‘A telescope!” called out Mr. John;
but before any of the servants could answer the
summons, the gray man, with a modest bow,
drew his hand from his pocket and presented a
beautiful Dollond’s telescope to Mr. John, who,
on looking through it, informed the company
that the speck in the distance was the ship which
had sailed yesterday, and which was detained
within sight of the haven by contrary winds.
The telescope passed from hand to hand, but was
not returned to the owner, whom I gazed at with
astonishment, since I could not conceive how-so
large an instrument could have proceeded from
so small a pocket. This, however, seemed to
excite surprise in no one; and the gray man ap-
peared to create as little interest as myself.
Refeshments were now brought forward, con-
sisting of the rarest fruits from all parts of the
world, served up in the most costly dishes. Mr.
John did the honours with unaffected grace, and
addressed me for the second time, saying, ‘‘ You
had better eat; you did not get such things at
sea.”’ I acknowledged his politeness with a bow,
which, however, he did not perceive, having
turned round to speak with some one else.
The party would willingly have stopped some
time here on the declivity of the hill, to enjoy the
extensive prospect before them, had they not
been apprehensive of the dampness of the grass.
‘“How delightful it would be,’”’ exclaimed some
one, “if we had a Turkey carpet to lay down
here!’’ The wish was scarcely expressed when
36
Peter Schlemihl
the man in the gray coat put his hand in his
pocket, and, with a modest and even humble air,
pulled out a rich Turkey carpet, embroidered in
gold. The servant received it as a matter of
course, and spread it out on the desired spot;
and, without any ceremony, the company seated
themselves on it. Confounded by what I saw,
I gazed again at the man, his pocket, and the car-
pet, which was more than twenty feet in length
and tenin breadth; I rubbed my eyes, not know-
ing what to think, particularly as no one ap-
peared to see anything extraordinary in the
matter.
I should gladly have made some inquiries re-
specting the man, and asked who he was, but
knew not to whom I should address myself, for
I felt almost more afraid of the servants than of
their master. At length I took courage, and,
stepping up to a young man who seemed of less
consequence than the others, and who was more
frequently standing by himself, I begged of him, .
in a low tone, to tell me who the obliging gentle-
man -in the gray cloak was. ‘‘That man who
looks like a piece of thread just escaped from a
tailor’s needle?’’ ‘‘Yes; he who is standing
alone yonder.”’ ‘‘I do not know,” was the reply;
and to avoid, as it seemed, any further conver-
sation with me, he turned away, and spoke of
some commonplace matters with a neighbour.
The sun’s rays now being stronger, the ladies
complained of feeling oppressed by the heat;
and the lovely Fanny, turning carelessly to the
37
Masterpieces of Fiction
gray man, to whom I had not yet observed that
any one had addressed the most trifling question, .
asked him if, perchance, he had not a tent about
him. He replied with a low bow, as if some un-
merited honour had been conferred upon him,
and, putting his hand in his pocket, drew from it
canvas, poles, cord, iron—in short, everything
belonging to the most splendid tent for a party
of pleasure. The young gentlemen assisted in
pitching it, and it covered the whole carpet; but
no one seemed to think that there was anything
extraordinary about the matter. .
I had long felt secretly uneasy—indeed, al-
most horrified; but how was this feeling in-
creased when, at the next wish expressed, I saw
him take from his pocket three horses! Yes,
Adelbert, three large beautiful steeds, with sad-
dles and bridles, out of the very pocket whence
had already issued a letter-case, a telescope, a
carpet twenty feet broad and ten in length, and
a pavilion of the same extent, with all its appur-
tenances! Did I not assure thee that my own
eyes had seen all this, thou wouldst certainly
disbelieve it.
This man, although he appeared so humble and
embarrassed in his air and manners, and passed
so unheeded, had inspired me with such a feeling
of horror by the unearthly paleness of his coun-
tenance, from which I could not avert my eyes, ©
that I was unable longer to endure it.
I determined, therefore, to steal away from
the company, which appeared no difficult mat-
38
Peter Schlemihl
ter, from the undistinguished part I acted in it.
I resolved to return to the town, and pay an-
other visit to Mr. John the following morning,
and, at the same time, make some inquiries of
him relative to the extraordinary man in gray,
provided I could command sufficient courage.
Would to Heaven that such good-fortune had
awaited me!
I had stolen safely down the hill, through the
thicket of roses, and now found myself on an
open plain; but, fearing lest I should be met out
of the proper path, crossing the grass, I cast an
inquisitive glance around, and started as I be-
held the man in the gray cloak advancing toward
me. He took off his hat, and made me a lower
bow than mortal had ever yet favoured me with.
It was evident that he wished to address me, and
I could not avoid encountering him without
seeming rude. I returned his salutation, there-
fore, and stood bareheaded in the sunshine as if
rooted to the ground. I gazed at him with the
utmost horror, and felt like a bird fascinated by
a serpent.
He affected an air of embarrassment. With
his eyes on the ground, he bowed several times,
drew nearer, and at last, without looking up,
addressed me in a low and hesitating voice, al-
most in the tone of a suppliant: ‘‘Will you, sir,
excuse my importunity in venturing to intrude
upon you in so unusual a manner? I have a
request to make—would you most graciously be
pleased to allow me ?” “Hold! for Heaven’s
39
Masterpieces of Fiction
sake!’’ I exclaimed. ‘‘What can I do for a man
who ’? [ stopped in some confusion, which he
seemed to share. After a moment’s pause, he
resumed: ‘‘During the short time I have had
the. pleasure to be in your company, I have—
permit me, sir, to say—been looking with in-
tense admiration at your most beautiful shadow,
and have remarked the air of noble indifference
with which you, at the same time, turn from the
glorious picture at your feet, as if disdaining to
vouchsafe it a glance. Excuse the boldness of
my proposal; but perhaps you would have no ob-
jection to selling me your shadow?”’ He stopped,
while my head turned round like a mill-wheel.
What was I to think of so extraordinary a pro-
posal? Sell my shadow! ‘‘He must be mad,”
thought I, and assuming a tone more in accord-
ance with the submissiveness of his own, I re-
plied: “‘My good friend, are you not content
with your own shadow? This would be a bar-
gain of a strange nature indeed!”’
‘‘T have in my pocket,” he said, “‘many things
which may possess some value in your eyes: for
that inestimable shadow, J should deem the high-
est price too little.”
A cold shudder came over me as I recol-
lected the pocket; and I could not conceive what
had induced me to style him ‘“‘good friend,”
which I took care not to repeat, endeavouring to
make up for it by a studied politeness.
I now resumed the conversation: ‘“‘But, sir—
excuse your humble servant—I am at a loss to
40
Peter Schlemihl
comprehend your meaning—my shadow ?—how
can ]— -?”
‘‘Permit me,’ he exclaimed, interrupting me,
““to gather up the noble image as it lies on the
ground, and to take it into my possession. -As
to the manner of accomplishment, leave that to
me. In return, and as an evidence of my grati-
tude, I will let you take your choice of all the
treasures I have in my pocket, among which are
a variety of charming articles, not exactly
adapted for you, who, I am sure, would pre-
fer the wishing-cap of Fortunatus, all made new
and sound again, and a lucky purse which also
belonged to him.”’
‘‘Fortunatus’s purse!’”’ cried I; for, great as
was my mental anguish, with that one word he
had penetrated the deepest recesses of my soul.
A feeling of giddiness came over me, and double
ducats glittered before my eyes.
“‘Be pleased, gracious sir, to examine this
purse, and make a trial of its contents.’’ He put
his hand in his pocket, and drew forth a large,
strongly stitched bag of stout Cordovan leather,
with a couple of strings to match, and presented
it tome. I seized it—took out ten gold pieces,
then ten more, and this I repeated again and
again. Instantly, I held out my hand to him.
‘‘Done,”’ said I; ‘‘the bargain is made: my
shadow for the purse.’”’ ‘‘ Agreed,” he answered;
and, immediately kneeling down, I beheld him,
with extraordinary dexterity, gently loosen my
shadow from the grass, lift it up, fold it together,
41
Masterpieces of Fiction
and, finally, put it in his pocket. He then rose,
bowed once more to me, and directed his steps
toward the rose-bushes. I fancied I heard him
quietly laughing to himself. However, I held
the purse fast by the two strings. The earth
was basking beneath the brightness of the sun—
but about that time I lost consciousness.
On recovering my senses, I hastened to quit a
place where I hoped there was nothing further
to detain me. I first filled my pockets with gold,
then fastened the strings of the purse round my
neck, and concealed it in my bosom. I passed
unnoticed out of the park, gained the high road,
and took the way to the town. As I was
thoughtfully approaching the gate, I heard some
one behind me exclaiming, ‘‘Young man! young
man! you have lost your shadow!’”’ I turned
and perceived an old woman calling after me.
“Thank you, my good woman,” said I, and
throwing her a piece of gold for her well-intended
information, I stepped under the trees. At the
gate, again, it was my fate to hear the sentry -
inquiring where the gentleman had left his
shadow, and immediately after I heard a couple
of women exclaiming, ‘‘Jesus Maria, the poor man
has no shadow!”’ All this began to depress me,
and I carefully avoided walking in the sun. But
this was not possible everywhere,. and in the
next broad street I had to cross, unfortunately
at the very hour when the boys were coming out
of school, a humpbacked lout of a fellow—I see
him yet—soon made the discovery that I was
42
Peter Schlemihl
without a shadow, and communicated the news,
with loud shouts, to a knot of young urchins.
The whole swarm immediately surrounded me
and pelted me with mud. ‘‘People,’’ cried they,
““generally take their shadows with them when
they walk in the sun!”’
In order to drive them away, I threw gold by
handfuls among them, and sprang into a hackney-
coach which some compassionate spectators sent
to my rescue.
As soon as I found myself alone in the rolling
vehicle, I began to weep bitterly. I had by this
time a misgiving that, in the same degree in
which gold in this world prevails over merit and
virtue, by so much one’s ‘shadow excels gold.
Now that I had sacrificed my conscience for
riches, and given my shadow in exchange for
mere gold, what on earth would become of me?
As the coach stopped at the door of my inn,
I felf much perplexed and not at all disposed to
enter so wretched an abode. I called for my
things, and received them with an air of con-
tempt, threw down a few gold pieces, and re-
quested to be driven to a first-rate hotel. This
house had a northern aspect, so that I had noth-
ing to fear from the sun. I dismissed the coach-
man with gold; asked to be conducted to the
best apartment, and locked myself up in it as
soon as possible.
Imagine, my friend, what I then did! Oh,
my dear Chamisso, I blush to mention it even to
thee!
43
Masterpieces of Fiction
I drew the ill-fated purse from my bosom, and,
in a sort of frenzy that raged like a self-fed fire
within me, I took out gold—gold—gold—more
and more, strewed it on the floor, trampled upon
it, and, feasting on its very sound and brilliancy,
added coin to coin, rolling and revelling on the
gorgeous bed, until I became exhausted.
Thus passed away that day and evening, and,
as my door remained locked, night found me
still lying on the gold, where, at last, sleep over-
powered me.
I awoke—it seemed yet early—my watch had
stopped. I felt thirsty, faint, and worn out; for
since the preceding morning I had not tasted
food. I now cast from me, with loathing and
disgust, the very gold with which but a short
time before I-had satiated my foolish heart.
Now I knew not where to put it—I dared not
leave it lying there. I examined my purse to
see if it would hold it—impossible! Neither of
my windows opened on the sea. I had no other
resource but, with toil and great fatigue, to drag
it to a huge chest which stood in a closet in my
room; where I put it all, with the exception of
a handful or two. As soon as possible I sent
for some refreshment and asked for the landlord.
I entered into some conversation with this
man respecting the arrangement of my future
establishment. He recommended for my per-
sonal attendant one Bendel, whose honest and
intelligent countenance immediately prepos-
sessed me in his favour. It is this individual
44
Peter Schlemihl
whose persevering attachment has consoled me
in all the miseries of my hfe, and enabled me to
bear up under my wretched lot. I was occu-
pied the whole day in my room with servants in
want of a situation, and tradesmen of every
description. I decided on my future plans, and
purchased various articles of vertu and splendid
jewels, in order to get rid of some of my gold;
but nothing seemed to diminish the inexhaus-
tible heap.
I now reflected on my situation with the ut-
most uneasiness. I dared not take a single step
beyond my own door; and in the evening I had
forty wax tapers lighted before I ventured to
leave the shade. I reflected with horror on the
frightful encounter with the school-boys; yet
I resolved, if I could command sufficient cour-
age, to put the public opinion to a second trial.
The nights were now moonlit. Late in the even-
ing I wrapped myself in a large cloak, pulled my
hat over my eyes, and, trembling like a criminal,
stole out of the house.
I did not venture to leave the friendly shadow
of the houses until I had reached a distant part
of the town; and then I emerged into. the
broad moonlight fully prepared to hear my fate
from the lips of the passers-by.
Spare me, my beloved friend, the painful re-
cital of all that I was doomed to endure. The
women often expressed the deepest sympathy
for me—a sympathy not less piercing to my soul
than the scoffs of the young people and the
45
Masterpieces of Fiction
proud contempt of the men, particularly of the
more corpulent who threw an ample shadow
before them. A fair and beauteous maiden,
apparently accompanied by her parents, who
gravely kept looking straight before them,
chanced to cast a beaming glance on me; but
was evidently startled at perceiving that I was
without a shadow, and, hiding her lovely face in
her veil, and holding down her head, passed
silently on.
This was past all endurance. Tears streamed
from my eyes; and, with a heart pierced through
and through, I once more took refuge in the
shade. I leaned against the houses for support,
and reached home at a late hour, worn out with
fatigue. ;
I passed a sleepless night. My first care the
following morning was to devise some means of
discovering the man in the gray cloak. Perhaps
I might succeed in finding him, and how fortu-
nate if he should be as ill satisfied with his bar-
gain as I was with mine!
I desired Bendel to be sent for, who seemed to
possess some tact and ability. I minutely de-
scribed to him the individual who possessed a
treasure without which life itself was rendered a
burden to me. I mentioned the time and the
place at which I had seen him, named all the
persons present, and gave him full particulars.
He departed, and returned late and melan-
choly. None of Mr. John’s servants, none of his
guests (and Bendel had spoken to them all), had
46
Tv
Peter Schlemthl
the slightest recollection of the man in the gray
cloak. The new telescope was still there, but
no one knew how it had come, and the tent and
Turkey carpet were still stretched out on the
hill. The servants boasted of their master’s
wealth; but no one seemed to know by what
means he had become possessed of these newly
acquired luxuries.
Such was the information I gained from Ben-
del’s account; but, in spite of this unsatisfac-
tory result, his zeal and prudence deserved and
received my commendation. Ina gloomy mood,
I made him a sign to withdraw.
‘I have, sir,’’ he said, ‘‘a message to deliver
which I received early this morning from a per-
son at the gate, as I was proceeding to execute
the commission in which I have so unfortunately
failed. The man’s words were these: ‘Tell your
master, Peter Schlemihl, he will not see me here
again. I am about to cross the sea; a favour-
able wind now calls all the passengers on board;
but, in a year and a day hence, I shall have the
honour of paying him a visit. Then, in all
probability, I shall have a proposal to make to
him of a very agreeable nature. Commend me
to him most respectfully, with many thanks.’
I asked his name, but he said you would remem-
ber him.”
‘‘What sort of a person was he?”’ cried I, in
great emotion; and Bendel described the man
in the gray coat, feature by feature, word for
word—in short, the very individual in search of
47
Masterpieces of Fiction
whom he had been sent. ‘‘How unfortunate!”’
cried I bitterly; ‘“‘it was the gray man himself!”
Scales, as it were, fell from Bendel’s eyes. ‘“‘Yes,
it was he,”’ cried he, ‘‘undoubtedly it was he; and
fool, madman, that I was, I did not recognise
him—I did not, and have betrayed my master!’’
He then broke out into a torrent of self-reproach;
and his distress really excited my compassion.
I endeavoured to console him, repeatedly as-
suring him that I entertained no doubt of his
fidelity, and I immediately despatched him to the
wharf, to discover, if possible, some trace of the
extraordinary being. But on that very morn-
ing many vessels which had been detained in
port by contrary winds had set sail, all bound to
different parts of the globe; and thus the gray
man had utterly disappeared.
II
SOLE depository of my fearful secret, I trem-
bled before the meanest of my attendants, whom,
at the same time, I envied; for he possessed a
shadow and could venture to go out in the day-
time, while I shut myself up in my room day
and night, and indulged in all the bitterness
of grief.
One individual, however, was daily piring
away before my eyes—my faithful Bendel, who |
was the victim of silent self-reproach, torment-
ing himself with the idea that he had betrayed
the confidence reposed in him by a good master,
48
Peter Schlemihl
in failing to recognise the individual in quest of
whom he had been sent, and with whom he had
been led to believe that my melancholy fate was
closely connected. Still, I had nothing to ac-
cuse him of, as I recognised in the occurrence the
mysterious character of the unknown.
In order to leave no means untried, I one day
despatched Bendel with a costly ring to the most
celebrated artist in the town, desiring him to
wait upon me. He came. Dismissing the at-
tendants, I secured the door, placing myself op-
posite to him, and, after extolling his art, with a
heavy heart came to the point, first enjoining the
strictest secrecy upon him.
“For a person,” said I, ‘‘who most unfortu-
nately has lost his shadow, could you paint a
false one?”’
““Do you speak of the natural shadow?”
mprecisely..so;'
“But,” he asked, ‘‘by what awkward negli-
gence can a man have lost his shadow?”
‘“How it occurred,’’ I answered, ‘‘is of no con-
sequence; but it was in this manner” (and here
I uttered an unblushing falsehood): ‘‘he was
travelling in Russia last winter, and one bitterly
cold day it froze so hard that his shadow re-
mained fixed to the ground.”’
“The false shadow that I might paint,” said
the artist, ‘‘would be liable to be lost on the
slightest movement, particularly in a person
who, from your account, cares so little about his
shadow. A person without a shadow should
49
Masterpieces of Fiction
keep out of the sun; that is the only safe and
rational plan.”
He rose and took his leave, casting so pene-
trating a look at me that I shrunk from it. I
sank back in my chair, and hid my face in my
hands.
My mode of life thenceforth became some-
what different. Itis incredible with what provi-
dent foresight Bendel contrived to conceal my
deficiency. Everywhere he was before me and
with me, providing against every contingency,
and, in cases of unlooked-for danger, flying to
shield me with his own shadow, for he was taller
and stouter than myself. Thus I once more
ventured among mankind, and began to take a
part in worldly affairs. I was compelled, in-
deed, to affect certain peculiarities and whims;
but in a rich man they seem only appropriate,,
and, so long as the truth was kept concealed, I
enjoyed all the honour and respect that gold could!
procure.
I now looked forward with more composure
to the promised visit of the mysterious unknown:
at the expiration of the year and a day.
Even the lovely Fanny, whom I again met in:
several places, without her seeming to recollect
that she had ever seen me before, bestowed some:
notice on me; for wit and understanding were
mine in abundance now. When I spoke, I was.
listened to; and I was at a loss to know how I
had so easily acquired the art of commanding
attention, and giving tone to the conversation.
50
Peter Schlemihl
The impression which I perceived I had made
upon this fair one completely turned my brain;
and this was just what she wished. After that,
I pursued her with infinite pains through every
obstacle. My vanity was only intent on exciting
hers to make a conquest of me; but although
the intoxication disturbed my head, it failed to
make the least impression on my heart.
One beautiful evening I had, according to my
usual custom, assembled a party in a garden,
and was walking arm-in-arm with Fanny at a
little distance from the rest of the company, and
pouring into her ear the usual well-turned
phrases, while she was demurely gazing on va-
cancy, and now and then gently returning the
pressure of my hand. The moon suddenly
emerged from behind a cloud at our back.
Fanny perceived only her own shadow before
us. She started, looked at me with terror, and
then again on the ground, in search of my
shadow. All that was passing in her mind was
so strangely depicted in her countenance that I
should have burst into a loud fit of laughter had
I not suddenly felt my blood run cold within me.
I suffered her to fall from my arm in a fainting
fit, shot with the rapidity of an arrow through
the astonished guests, reached the gate, threw
myself into the first conveyance I met with, and
returned to the town, where this time, unfortu-
nately, I had left the wary Bendel. He was
alarmed on seeing me; but one word explained
everything. Post-horses were immediately pro-
§1
Masterpieces of Fiction
cured. I took with me none of my servants,
one cunning knave only excepted, called Rascal,
who, by his adroitness, had become very useful
to me, and who at present knew nothing of what
had occurred. I travelled thirty leagues that
night, having left Bendel behind to discharge
my servants, pay my debts, and bring me all
that was necessary.
When he came up with me next day, I threw
myself into his arms, vowing to avoid such follies
and to be more careful for the future.
We pursued our journey uninterruptedly over
the mountainous frontier; and not until I had
placed this lofty barrier between myself and the
before-mentioned unlucky town was I per-
suaded to recruit myself, after my fatigues, in
a little-frequented watering-place.
In this watering-place I acted a heroic char-
acter, badly studied; and being a novice on
such a stage, I forgot my part before a pair of
lovely blue eyes.
All possible means were used by the infatuated
parents to conclude the match. Discovery put
an end to my usual artifices.
The powerful emotions which once swelled my
bosom seem now in the retrospect to be poor and
insipid—nay, even terrible to me.
Alas, Minna! as I wept for thee the day I lost
thee, so do I now weep that I can no longer re-
trace thine image in my soul.
Am I, then, so far advanced into the vale of
years? O fatal effects of maturity! would that
52 a
Peter Schlemihl
I could feel one throb, one emotion of former
days of enchantment—alas, not one! A soli-
tary being, tossed on the wild ocean of life, long
is it since I drained thine enchanted cup to the
dregs!
But to return to my narrative. I had sent
Bendel to the little town with plenty of money
to procure me a suitable habitation. He spent
my gold profusely; and, as he expressed him-
self rather reservedly concerning his distin-
guished master (for I did not wish to be named),
the good people began to form rather extraordi-
nary conjectures.
As soon as my house was ready for my recep-
tion, Bendel returned to conduct me toit. We
set out on our journey. About a league from
the town, on a sunny plain, we were stopped by
a crowd of people, arrayed in holiday attire for
some festival. The carriage stopped. Music,
bells, cannon, were heard; loud acclamations
rang through the air.
Before the carriage now appeared in white
dresses a chorus of maidens, all of extraordinary
beauty; but one of them shone in resplendent
loveliness, and eclipsed the rest as the sun eclipses
the stars of night. She advanced from the
midst of her companions, and, with a lofty yet
winning air, blushingly knelt before me, pre-
senting on a silken cushion a wreath composed
of laurel, olive, and roses, and saying something
respecting majesty, love, honour, and the like,
which I could not comprehend. But the sweet
53
Masterpieces of Fiction
and silvery magic of her tones: intoxicated my
senses and my whole, soul: .it seemed as if some
heavenly apparition were hovering over me.
The chorus now began to sing the praises of a
good sovereign and the happiness of his sub-
jects. All this, dear Chamisso, took place in
the sun: she was kneeling two steps from me,
and I, without a shadow, could not dart to her,.
nor fall on my knees before the angelic being.
Oh, what would I not now have given for a
shadow! To conceal my shame, agony, and de-
spair, I buried myself in the recesses of the car-
riage. Bendel at last thought of an expedient;
he jumped out of the carriage. I called him
back, and gave him out of the casket I had by
me a rich diamond coronet, which had been in-
tended for the lovely Fanny.
He stepped forward, and spoke in the name of
his master, who, he said, was overwhelmed by so
many demonstrations of respect, which he really
could not accept as an honour—there must be
some error; nevertheless, he begged to express
his thanks for the good-will of the worthy towns-
people. In the meantime, Bendel had taken the
wreath from the cushion, and laid the brilliant
crown in its place. He then respectfully raised
the lovely girl from the ground, and, at a sign,
the clergy, magistrates, and all the deputations.
withdrew. The crowd separated to allow the
horses to pass, and we pursued our way to the
town at full gallop, through arches ornamented
with flowers and branches of laurel. Salvos of
54
Peter Schlemihl
artillery again were heard. The carriage stopped
at my gate; I hastened through the crowd which
curiosity had attracted to witness my arrival.
Enthusiastic shouts resounded under my win-
dows, from whence I showered gold amidst the
people; and in the evening the whole town was
illuminated. Still all remained a mystery to
me, and J could not imagine for whom I had been
taken. I sent Rascal out to make inquiry; he
soon obtained intelligence that the good King
of Prussia was travelling through the country
under the name of some count; that my azde-
de-camp had been recognised, and that he had
divulged the secret; that, on acquiring the cer-
tainty that I would enter their town, the peo-
ple’s joy had known no bounds. However, as
they perceived I was determined on preserving
the strictest incognito, they felt how wrong they
had been in too importunately seeking to with-
draw the veil; but I had received them so con-
descendingly and so graciously that they were
sure I would forgive them. The whole affair
was such capital entertainment to the unprin-
cipled Rascal that he did his best to confirm
the good people in their belief, while affecting to
reprove them. He gave me a very comical
account of the matter, and, seeing that I was
amused by it, actually endeavoured to make a
virtue of his impudence.
Shall I own the truth? My vanity was flat-
tered by having been mistaken for our revered
sovereign. I ordered a banquet to be got ready
55
Masterpieces of Fiction
for the following evening, under the trees before
my house, and invited the whole town. The
mysterious power of my purse, Bendel’s exer-
tions, and Rascal’s ready invention, made the
shortness of the time seem as nothing.
The guests arrived, and were presented to
me. The word majesty was now dropped, but
with the deepest respect and humility I was
addressed as the count. What could I do? I
accepted the title, and from that moment I was
known as Count Peter. In the midst of all this
festivity, my soul pined for one individual. She
came late—she who was the empress of the
scene, and wore the emblem of sovereignty on
her brow.
She modestly accompanied her parents, and
seemed unconscious of her transcendent beauty.
The Ranger of the Forests, his wife and
daughter, were presented to me. I was at no
loss to make myself agreeable to the parents,
but before the daughter I stood like a guilty
schoolboy, incapable of speaking a _ single
word.
At length I hesitatingly entreated her to hon-
our my banquet by presiding at it—an office for
which her rare endowments pointed her out as
admirably fitted. With a blush and an expres-
sive glance, she entreated to be excused; but,
in still greater confusion than herself, I respect-
fully begged her to accept the homage of the
first and most devoted of her subjects; and one
glance of the count was the same as a command
56
Peter Schlemihl ©
to the guests, who vied with one another in
acting up to the spirit of the noble host.
In her person majesty, innocence, and grace,
in union with beauty, presided over this joyous
banquet. Minna’s happy parents were elated
by the honours conferred upon their child. As
for me, I abandoned myself to all the intoxica-
tion of delight: I sent for all the jewels, pearls,
and precious stones still left to me—the product
of my fatal wealth—and, filling two vases, I
placed them on the table, in the name of the
Queen of the banquet, to be divided among her
companions and the remainder of the ladies.
I ordered gold in the meantime to be showered
down without ceasing among the happy mul-
titude. ;
Next morning, Bendel told me in confidence
that the suspicions he had long entertained of
Rascal’s honesty were now reduced to a cer-
tainty; he had embezzled many bags of gold °
the day before.
“‘Never mind,” said I; ‘“‘let him enjoy his
paltry booty. J like to spend it; why should
not he? Yesterday he, and all the newly en-
gaged servants whom you had hired, served me
honourably, and cheerfully assisted me to enjoy
the banquet.”
No more was said on the subject. Rascal re-
mained at the head of my domestics. Bendel
was my friend and confidant; he had by this
time become accustomed to look upon my wealth
as inexhaustible, without seeking to inquire into
57
Masterpieces of Fiction
its source. He entered into all my schemes,
and effectually assisted me in devising methods
of spending my money.
The magnificence of my banquet, and my de-
portment on the occasion, had but strength-
ened the credulous townspeople in their previous
belief.
It appeared soon after, from accounts in the
newspapers, that the whole history of the King
of Prussia’s fictitious journey originated in mere
idle report. Buta king I was, anda king I must
remain by all means—and one of the richest and
most royal, although people were at a loss to
know where my country was situated. Mean-
while, however, I remained simply Count Peter.
In the midst of my really princely magnifi-
cence and profusion, which carried all before it,
my own style of living was very simple and re-
tired. I had made it a point to observe the
strictest precaution; and with the exception
of Bendel no one was permitted, on any pre-
tence whatever, to enter my private apartment.
As,long as the sun shone, I remained shut up
with him; the Count was then said to be deeply
occupied in his closet. The numerous couriers
whom I kept in constant attendance about mat-
ters of no importance were supposed to be the
bearers of my despatches. I received company
only in the evening under the trees of my gar-
den, or in my saloons, after Bendel’s assurance
of their being carefully lighted.
Minna was in truth an amiable and excellent
58
Peter Schlemihl °
maiden; her whole soul was wrapped up in me,
and in her lowly thoughts of herself she could
not imagine how she had deserved a single
thought from me. She returned love for love
with all the full and youthful fervour of an in-
nocent heart; her love was a true woman’s love,
with all the devotion and total absence of self-
ishness which is found only in woman; she lived
but in me, her whole soul being bound up in
mine, regardless of what her own fate might be.
At one moment I would resolve to confess all
to her; then I would determine to fly forever;
then I would break out into a flood of bitter tears,
and consult Bendel as to the means of meeting
her again in the forester’s garden.
At times I flattered myself with great hopes
from the approaching visit of the unknown, but
then wept again as I saw how it must end in dis-
appointment. I had made a calculation of the
day fixed on by the fearful being for our inter-
view; for he had said in a year and a day, and
I depended on his word.
The parents were worthy old people, devoted
to their only child; and our mutual affection
was a circumstance so overwhelming that they
knew not how to act. They had never dreamed
for a moment that the Count could bestow a
thought on their daughter; but such was the
case—he loved and was beloved. The pride of
the mother might not have led her to consider
such an alliance quite impossible, but so extrava-
gant an idea had never entered the contempla-
29
Masterpieces of Fiction
tion of the sounder judgment of the old man.
Both were satisfied of the sincerity of my love,
and could but send up prayers to Heaven for the
happiness of their child.
To her I declared that I was not what I seemed
—that although a rich, I was an unspeakably
miserable, man—that a curse was on me, which
must remain a secret, although the only one be-
tween us—yet that I was not without a hope of
its being removed—that this poisoned every
hour of my life—that I should plunge her with
me into the abyss—her, the light and joy, the
very soul of my existence. Then she wept be-
cause I was unhappy. Oh! Minna was all love
and tenderness. To save me one tear, she
would gladly have sacrificed her life. Yet she
was far from comprehending the full meaning
of my words. She still looked upon me as some
proscribed prince or illustrious exile; and her
vivid imagination had invested her lover with
every lofty attribute.
One day I said to her, ‘‘Minna, the last day of
next month will decide my fate, and perhaps
change it for the better; if not, I would sooner
die than render you miserable.”’
She laid her head on my shoulder to conceal
her tears. ‘‘Should thy fate be changed,” she
said, ‘‘L only wish to know that thou art happy;
if thy condition is an unhappy one, I will share
it with thee, and assist thee to support it.”
“Minna, Minna!” I exclaimed, ‘‘recall those
rash words—those mad words which have es-
60
Peter Schlemihl
caped thy lips! Didst thou know the misery
and curse—didst thou know who—what—thy
lover Seest thou not, my Minna, this
convulsive shuddering which thrills my whole
frame, and that there is a secret in my breast
which you cannot penetrate?”’ She sank sob-
bing at my feet, and renewed her vows.
Next evening I went again to the forester’s
garden. I had wrapped myself closely up in my
cloak, slouched my hat over my eyes, and ad-
vanced toward Minna. As she raised her head
and looked at me, she started involuntarily.
The apparition of that dreadful night in which
I had been seen without a shadow was now
standing distinctly before me—it was she her-
self. Had she recognised me? She was silent
and thoughtful. I felt an oppressive load at
my heart. I rose from my seat. She laid her
head on my shoulder, still silent andin tears. I
went away.
I now found her frequently weeping. I be-
came more and more melancholy. Her parents
were happy beyond expression. The eventful
day approached, threatening and heavy, like a
thundercloud. All the evening preceding it, I
could scarcely breathe. I had carefully filled
a large chest with gold, and sat down in sheer
despair to await the appointed time—the twelfth
hour.
It struck. I remained with my eyes fixed on
the hand of the clock, counting the seconds—the
minutes—which pierced my heart like daggers.
61
Masterpieces of Fiction
I started at every sound. Finally, daylight
appeared. The leaden hours went on. Morning
—evening—night came. Hope was fast fading
away as the hand advanced. It struck eleven
—no one appeared; the last minutes, at length,
the first and last stroke of the twelfth hour died
away. I sank back in my bed in an agony of
tears. In the morning I should, shadowless as
I was, claim the hand of my beloved Minna.
Toward daybreak a heavy sleep closed my
eyes.
III
It was yet early, when I was suddenly awak-
ened by voices in hot dispute in my antechamber.
I listened. Bendel was forbidding Rascal to
enter my room, but he swore he would receive
no orders from his equals, and insisted on forcing
his way. The faithful Bendel reminded him
that, if such words reached his master’s ears,
he would turn him out of an excellent place.
Rascal threatened to strike him if he persisted
in’ refusing his entrance.
By this time, having half dressed myself, I
angrily threw open the door, and addressing
myself to Rascal, inquired what he meant by
such disgraceful conduct. He drew back a
.couple of steps, and coolly answered: ‘‘Count
Peter, may I beg most respectfully that you will
‘favour me with a sight of your shadow? The
sun is now shining brightly in the court below.”
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Peter Schlemihl
I stood as if struck by a thunderbolt, and for
some time was unable to speak. At. last | asked
him how a servant could dare to behave so to-
ward his master. He interrupted me by saying,
quite coolly: ‘‘A servant may be a very hon-
ourable man, and unwilling to serve a shadow-
less master. I request my dismissal.”
I felt that I must adopt a softer tone, and re-
plied, ‘‘But, Rascal, my good fellow, who can
have put such strange ideas into your head?
How can you imagine CoN
He again interrupted me in the same tone—
‘“People say you have no shadow. In short, let
me see your shadow, or give me my dismissal.”’
Bendel, pale and trembling, but more collected
than myself, made a sign tome. I had recourse
to the all-powerful influence of gold. But even
gold had lost its power. Rascal threw it at my
feet. ‘‘From a shaddéwless man,” he said, ‘‘I
will take nothing.”
Turning his back upon me, and putting on his
hat, he then slowly left the room, whistling a
tune. I stood, with Bendel, as if petrified, gaz-
ing after him
With a deep sigh and a heavy heart, I now
prepared to keep my engagement, and to appear
in the forester’s garden like a criminal before his
judge. I entered by the shady arbour, which
had received the name of Count Peter’s arbour,
where we had appointed to meet. The mother
advanced with a cheerful air; Minna sat fair
and beautiful as the early snow of autumn
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&
reposing on the departing flowers, soon to be
dissolved and lost in the cold stream.
The ranger, with a written paper in his hand,
was walking up and down in an agitated man-
ner, and struggling to suppress his feelings—his
usually unmoved countenance being flushed one
moment, and the next perfectly pale. He came
forward as I entered, and in a faltering voice
requested an interview with me. The path by
which I followed him led to an open spot in the
garden, where the sun was shining. I sat down.
A long silence ensued, which even the good
mother herself did not venture to break. The
ranger, in an agitated manner, paced up and
down with unequal steps. At last he stood still,
and glancing over the paper he held in his hand,
he said, addressing me with a penetrating look,
‘Count Peter, do you know one Peter Schle-
mihl?” Iwas silent. ~
‘““A man,” he continued, ‘‘of excellent char-
acter and extraordinary endowments.”
He paused for an answer.
‘“‘And supposing I myself were that very
man?” I queried.
“You!” he exclaimed passionately; ‘‘he has
lost his shadow!”’
‘‘Oh, my suspicion is true!” cried Minna; “I
have long known it—he has no shadow!”’ And
she threw herself into her mother’s arms, who,
convulsively clasping her to her bosom, re-
proached her for having, to her hurt, so long
kept such a secret. But, like the fabled Are
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Peter Schlemihl
thusa, her tears, as from a fountain, flowed the
more abundantly, and her sobs increased at my
approach.
‘“‘And so,”’ said the ranger fiercely, ‘‘ you have
not scrupled, with unparalleled shamelessness,
to deceive both her and me. You pretended
to love her, forsooth!—her whom you have re-
duced to the state in which you now see her.
See how she weeps!—oh, shocking, shocking!”
By this time I had lost all presence of mind,
and answered confusedly, ‘‘After all, it is but a
shadow, a mere shadow, which a man can do
very well without; and, really, it is not worth
while to make all this fuss about such a trifle.”’
Feeling the groundlessness of what I was saying,
I ceased, and no one vouchsafed a reply. At
last I added, ‘‘ What is lost to-day may be found
to-morrow.”’
““Be pleased, sir,’ continued the ranger, in
great wrath—‘‘be pleased to explain how you
have lost your shadow.”
Here again an excuse was ready: ‘‘A boor of
a fellow,” said I, ‘‘one day trod so rudely on my
shadow that he tore a large hole init. I sent it
to be repaired—for gold can do wonders—and
yesterday I expected it home again.”
‘“Very well,’”” answered the ranger. “‘You
are a suitor for my daughter’s hand, and so are
others. As a father, I am bound to provide for
her. I will give you three days to seek your
shadow. Return to me in the course of that
time with a well-fitted shadow, and you shall re-
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ceive a hearty welcome; otherwise, on the fourth
day—remember, on the fourth day—my daugh-
ter becomes the wife of another.”
I attempted to say a word to Minna; but,
sobbing more violently, she clung still closer to
her mother, who made a sign for me to with-
draw. I obeyed—and now the world So ual
shut out from me forever.
Having escaped from the affectionmtn care of
Bendel, I wandered wildly through the neigh-
bouring woods and meadows. Drops of an-
guish fell from my brow; deep groans burst
from my bosom; frenzied despair raged within
me.
I knew not how long this had lasted, when I
felt myself seized by the sleeve on a sunny heath.
I stopped and, looking up, beheld the gray-
coated man, who appeared to have run himself
out of breath in pursuing me. He immediately
began: ‘“‘I had,” said he, ‘‘appointed this day;
but your impatience anticipated it. All, how-
ever, may yet be right. Take my advice—re-
deem your.shadow, which is at your command,
and return immediately to the ranger’s garden,
where you will be well received, and all the past
will seem a mere joke. As for Rascal—who has
betrayed you in order to pay his addresses to .
Minna—leave him to me; he is a fit subject
for me.”
I stood like one in a dream. “This day?”
I considered again. He was right—I had made
a mistake of a day. I felt in my bosom for the
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Peter Schlemihl
purse. He perceived my intention, and drew
back.
‘‘No, Count Peter, the purse is in good hands
—pray keep it.” I gazed at him with looks of
astonishment and inquiry. ‘“‘I beg only a trifle
as a token of remembrance. Be so good as to
sign this memorandum.” On the parchment,
which he held out to me, were these words: ‘‘By
virtue of these presents, to which I have ap-
pended my signature, I hereby bequeath my
soul to the holder, after its natural separation
from my body.”
I gazed in mute astonishment alternately at
the paper and at the gray unknown. In the
meantime, he had dipped a new pen in a drop of
blood which was issuing from a scratch in my
hand just made by a thorn. He presented it
to me. ‘‘Who are you?” at last I exclaimed.
““What can it signify?’’ he answered; “‘do you
not perceive who I am? A poor devil—a sort
of scholar and philosopher, who obtains but
poor thanks from his friends for his admirable
arts, and whose only amusement on earth
consists in his small experiments. But just
sign this; to the right, exactly below—Peter
Schlemihl.”’
I shook my head, and replied, ‘‘Excuse me,
sir; I cannot sign that.”
‘‘Cannot!’’ he exclaimed; ‘‘and why not?’’
‘Because it appears to me a hazardous thing
to exchange my soul for my shadow.”
‘‘Hazardous!’’ he exclaimed, bursting into a
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loud laugh. ‘‘And, pray, may I be allowed to
inquire what sort of a thing your soul is?—have
you ever seen it?—and what do you mean to do
with it after your death? You ought to think
yourself fortunate in meeting with a customer
who, during your life, in exchange for this in-
finitely minute quantity, this galvanic principle,
this polarised agency, or whatever other foolish
name you may give it, is willing to give you
something substantial—in a word, your own
identical shadow, by virtue of which you will
obtain your beloved Minna, and arrive at the
accomplishment of all your wishes.. Or do you
prefer giving up the poor young girl to the power
of that contemptible scoundrel, Rascal? Nay,
you shall behold her with your own eyes. Come
here, I will lend you a magic cap (he drew some-
thing out of his pocket), and we will enter the
ranger’s garden unseen.”
But I considered the past as irrevocable, my
own misery as inevitable, and, turning to the
gray man, I said: ‘‘I have exchanged my shadow
for this very extraordinary purse, and I have
sufficiently repented it. For Heaven’s sake, let
the transaction be declared null and void!”
He shook his head, while his countenance as-
sumed an expression of the most sinister cast.
I continued: ‘‘I will make no exchange what-
ever, even for the sake of my shadow, nor will I
sign the paper. As for the incognito visit you
propose, it would afford you far more entertain-
ment than it could possibly give me. Accept
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Peter Schlemihl
my excuses, therefore, and, since it must be so,
let us part.”’
‘‘T am sorry, Mr. Schlemihl, that you thus ob-
stinately persist in rejecting my friendly offer.
Perhaps another time I may be more fortu-
nate. Farewell! May we shortly meet again!
But, @ propos, allow me to show you that I do
not undervalue my purchase, but preserve it
carefully.”’
So saying, he drew my shadow out of his.
pocket. Shaking out its folds cleverly, he
stretched it out at his feet in the sun—so that
he stood between two obedient shadows, his
own and mine, which was compelled to follow
and comply with his every movement.
On again beholding my poor shadow after so
long a separation, and seeing it degraded to so
vile a bondage at the very time that I was so
terribly in want of it, my heart was ready to
burst, and I wept bitterly. The detested wretch
stood exulting over his prey, and unblushingly
renewed his proposal. ‘“‘One stroke of your pen,
and the unhappy Minna is rescued from the
clutches of the villain Rascal, and transferred
to the arms of the high-born Count Peter—
merely a stroke of your pen!”’
My tears broke out with renewed violence;
but I turned away from him, and made a sign
for him to be gone.
Alone on the wild heath, I disburdened my
heart of an insupportable load by giving free
vent to my tears. But I saw no bounds, no
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relief, to my surpassing wretchedness. Thus I
passed three melancholy days.
On the morning of the fourth I found myself
on a sandy plain, basking in the rays of the sun,
and sitting on a fragment of rock; for it was
sweet to enjoy the genial warmth of which I
had been so long deprived. Despair still preyed
on my heart. Suddenly a slight sound startled
me; I looked round, prepared to fly, but saw
noone. On the sunlit sand before me flitted the
shadow of a man not unlike my own; and,
wandering about alone, it seemed to have lost
its master. This sight powerfully excited me.
“*Shadow!”’ thought I, ‘‘art thou in search of
thy master? In me thou shalt find him.” And
I sprang forward to seize it, fancying that, could
I succeed in treading so exactly in its traces as
to step in its footmarks, it would attach itself
to me, and in time become accustomed to me,
and follow all my movements.
The shadow, as I moved, took to flight, and I
began a hot chase after the airy fugitive, ex-
cited solely by the hope of being delivered from
my present dreadful situation: the bare idea
inspired me with fresh strength and vigour.
The shadow fled toward a distant wood, among
_ whose shades I must necessarily have lost it.
Seeing this, my heart beat wild with fright; my
ardour increased, and lent wings to my speed.
I was evidently gaining on the shadow—I came
nearer and nearer—I was within reach of it,
when it suddenly stopped and turned toward
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Peter Schlemihl
me. Like a lion darting on its prey, I made a
powerful spring, and fell unexpectedly upon a
hard substance. Then followed, from an in-
visible hand, the most terrible blows in the ribs
that any one ever received. The effect of my
terror made me endeavour convulsively to strike
and grasp at the unseen object before me. The
rapidity of my motions brought me to the ground,
where I found myself lying stretched out with a
man under me, whom [I held tight, and who now
became visible.
The whdle affair was now manifest. The man
had undoubtedly possessed the bird’s nest which
communicates its charm of invisibility to its
possessor, though not equally so to his shadow;
and this nest he had thrown away. I looked all
round, and soon discovered the shadow of this
invisible nest. I sprang toward it, and was for-
tunate enough to seize the precious booty, and
immediately became invisible.
Ardently desiring to return to the ranger’s,
anxiety hastened my steps. Unseen, I met some
peasants coming from the town; they were talk-
ing of me, of Rascal, and of the ranger. I
would not stay to listen to their conversation,
but proceeded on. My bosom thrilled with ex-
pectation as I entered the ranger’s garden. At
this moment I heard something like a hollow
laugh which caused.me involuntarily to shudder.
Suddenly my head was, as it were, enveloped
in a mist. I looked up, and oh, horror! the
gray-coated man was at my side, peering into
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my face with a satanic grin. He had extended
over my head the magic cap that he wore. His
shadow and my own were lying together at his
feet in perfect amity. He kept twirling in his
hand the well-known parchment with an air of
indifference; and while the ranger, absorbed in
thought and intent upon his paper, paced up
and down the arbour, my tormentor confiden-
tially leaned toward me, and whispered: ‘‘So,
Mr. Schlemihl, you have at length accepted my
invitation; and here we sit, ‘two heads under
one hood,’ as the saying is. Well, well! all in
good time. But now you can return me my
bird’s. nest—you have no further use for it,
and I am sure you are too honourable a man to
withhold it from me. No need of thanks, I as-
sure you; I had infinite pleasure in lending it.
to you. I am still of opinion that you ought to
redeem your shadow and claim your bride (for
it is yet time); and as to Rascal, he shall dangle
at a rope’s end—no difficult matter, so long as
we can find a bit. As a mark of friendship, I
will give you my cap into the bargain.”
The mother now came out with Minna. Her
father took her hand, and addressed her in the
most affectionate manner:
““My own dear, good child—my Minna—will
act reasonably, and not afflict her poor old father,
who only wishes to make her happy. A suitor
has appeared for you in the person of a man who
does not fear the sun—an honourable man—
no prince indeed, but a man worth millions of
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Peter Schlemihl
ducats, a man, too, who will make my dear child
happy—nay, do not oppose me—be my own
good, dutiful child—allow your loving father to
provide for you; dry up those tears. Promise
to bestow your hand on Mr. Rascal. Speak, my
child; will you not?”
Minna could scarcely summon strength to
reply that she had now no longer any hopes or
desires on earth, and that she was entirely at
her father’s disposal. Rascal was, therefore, im-
mediately sent for, and entered with his usual
forwardness; but Minna in the meantime had
swooned away.
My detested companion looked at me indig-
nantly, and whispered, ‘‘Can you endure this?
Have you no blood in your veins?” He in-
stantly pricked my finger, which bled. ‘Yes,
positively,’ he exclaimed, ‘‘ you have some blood
left! Come, sign.” The parchment and pen
were in my hand——
IV
I KNOW not whether to ascribe it to excite-
ment of mind, exhaustion of physical strength
(for, during the last few days, I had scarcely
tasted anything), or the antipathy I felt to the
society of my fiendish companion, but, just as I
was about to sign the fatal paper, I fell into a
deep swoon, and remained for a long time as if
dead. The first sounds which greeted my ear
on recovering my consciousness were those of
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cursing and imprecation. I opened my eyes—
it was dusk; my hateful companion was over-
whelming me with reproaches: ‘‘Is not this be-
having like an old woman? Come, rise up, and
finish quickly what you were going to do. Or
perhaps you have changed your mind, and
prefer to lie there groaning?”’
He continued unceasingly in the same tone,
uttering constant sarcasms about gold and shad-
ows, till I was completely bewildered.
To fly from him was impossible. I wended
my way through the empty streets toward my
own house, which I could scarcely recognise—
the windows were broken to pieces, no light was
visible, the doors were shut, and the bustle of
domestics had ceased. My companion burst
into a loud laugh. “Yes, yes,” said he, ‘‘you
see the state of things: however, you will find
your friend Bendel at home. He will have a
fine story to tell! So I wish you a very good
night—may we shortly meet again!’’
I had repeatedly rung the bell, when at last
a light appeared, and Bendel inquired from
within who was there. The poor fellow could
scarcely contain himself at the sound of my
voice. The door flew open, and we were locked
in each other’s arms. I found him sadly
changed; he was looking ill and feeble. TI, too,
was altered; my hair had become quite gray.
He conducted me through the desolate apart-
ments to an inner room, which had escaped
the general wreck. After partaking of some
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Peter Schlemihl
refreshment, we seated ourselves. He then told
me how the mob, at Rascal’s instigation, had as-
sembled violently before the house, broken the
windows, and, by all sorts of excesses, com-
pletely satiated their fury. Thus had they
treated their benefactor. My servants had fled
in all directions. The police had banished me
from the town as a suspicious character, and
granted me an interval of twenty-four hours to
leave the district. Bendel added many par-
ticulars respecting Rascal’s wealth and mar-
riage. This villain, it seems—who was the author
of all the measures taken against me—became
possessed of my secret nearly from the beginning,
and, tempted by the love of,money, had sup-
plied himself with a key to my chest, and from
that time had been laying the foundation of his
present wealth. Bendel related all this with
many tears, and wept for joy that I was once
more safely restored to him, after all his fears
and anxieties for me. In me, however, such a
state of things only awoke despair.
My dreadful fate now stared me in the face
in all its gigantic and unchangeable horror.
The source of tears was exhausted within me;
no groans escaped my breast; but, with cool
indifference, I bared my unprotected head to
the blast. ‘‘Bendel,” said I, ‘‘you know my
fate; this heavy visitation is a punishment for
my early sins: but as for thee, my innocent
friend, I can no longer permit thee to share my
destiny. I will depart this very night—saddle
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me a horse—I will set out alone. Remain here,
Bendel—I insist upon it: there must be some
chests of gold still left in the house—take them;
they are thine. I shall be a restless and solitary
wanderer on the face of the earth; but, should
better days arise, and fortune once more smile
propitiously on me, then I will not forget thy
steady fidelity; for, in hours of deep distress,
thy faithful bosom has been the depository of
my sorrows.’ With a bursting heart, the
worthy Bendel prepared to obey this last com-
mand of his master; for I was deaf to all his ar-
guments and blind to his tears. My horse was
brought—I pressed my weeping friend to my
bosom—threw myself into the saddle, and, under
the friendly shades of night, quitted this sepul-
chre of my existence, indifferent which road my
horse should take. Henceforth, on this side the
grave, I had neither wishes, hopes, nor fears.
After a short time I was joined by a traveller
on foot, who, after walking for a while by the
side of my horse, observed that, as we both
seemed to be travelling the same road, he would
beg my permission to lay his cloak on the horse’s.
_back behind me, to which I silently assented.
He thanked me with easy politeness for this
trifling favour, praised my horse, and then took
occasion to extol the happiness and the power of
the rich, and fell, I scarcely know how, into a
sort of conversation with himself, in which I
merely acted the part of listener. He unfolded
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Peter Schlemihl
his views of human life and of the world, and,
touching on metaphysics, demanded an answer
from that cloudy science to the question of ques-
tions—the answer that should solve all mysteries.
He deduced one problem from another in a very
lucid manner, and then proceeded to their solu-
tion. I listened with pleasure to this eloquently
gifted man, who diverted my attention from my
own sorrows to the speaker; and he would have
secured my entire acquiescence if he had ap-
pealed to my heart as well as to my judgment.
In the meantime the hours had passed away,
and morning had already dawned imperceptibly
in the horizon. Looking up, I shuddered as I
beheld in the east all those splendid hues that
announce the rising sun. At this hour, when
all natural shadows are seen in their full propor-
tions, not a fence or a shelter of any kind could
I descry in this open country—and I was not
alone! I cast a glance at my companion, and
shuddered again—it was the man in the gray
coat himself! He laughed at my surprise, and,
without giving me time to speak, said, ‘* You see,
according to the fashion of this world, mutual
convenience binds us together for a time; there
is plenty of time to think of parting. The road
nere along the mountain, which perhaps has es-
caped your notice, is the only one that you can
prudently take; into the valley you dare not
descend—the path over the mountain would but
reconduct you to the town which you have left.
My road, too, lies this way. I perceive you
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change colour at the rising sun—I have no ob-
jection to letting you have the loan of your
shadow during our journey, and in return you.
may not be indisposed to tolerate my society.
You now have no Bendel, but I will act for him.
I regret that you are not over-fond of me; that
need not, however, prevent you from accepting
my poor services. The devil is not so black as
he is painted. Yesterday you provoked me, I
own; but now that is all forgotten, and you
must confess I have succeeded in beguiling the
wearisomeness of your journey. Come, take
your shadow, and make a trial of it.”
The sun had risen, and we were meeting with
passengers; so I reluctantly assented. With a
smile, he immediately let my shadow glide down
to the ground, and I beheld it take its place by
that of my horse and gaily trot along with me.
My feelings were anything but pleasant. I rode
through groups of country people, who respect-
fully made way for the well-mounted stranger.
Thus I proceeded, occasionally stealing a side-
long glance with a beating heart from my horse
at the shadow once more my own, but now, alas!
accepted as a loan from a‘ stranger, or rather'a
fiend. He moved on carelessly at my side,
whistling a song. He being on foot, and I on
horseback, the temptation to hazard a silly proj-
ect occurred to me; so, suddenly turning my
bridle, I set spurs to my horse, and at full gallop
struck into a by-path. My shadow, on the sud-
den movement of my horse, glided away, and
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Peter Schlemihl
stood on the road quietly awaiting the approach
of its legal owner. I was obliged to return
abashed toward the gray man; who very coolly
finished his song, and, with a laugh, set my
shadow to rights again, reminding me that it
was at my option to have it irrevocably fixed to
me, by purchasing it on just and equitable
terms. ‘‘I hold you,” said he, ‘‘by the shadow;
you seek in vain to get rid of me: A rich man
like you requires a shadow, unquestionably;
you only are to blame for not having seen this
sooner.”
I now continued my journey on the same
road; every convenience and even luxury of life
was mine; I moved about in peace and freedom,
for I possessed a shadow, though a borrowed
one; and all the respect due to wealth was
paid to me. But a deadly disease preyed on
my heart. My extraordinary companion never
stirred from my side, and tormented me with
constant assurances that a day would most cer-
tainly come, when, if it were only to get rid of
him, I should gladly comply with his terms, and
redeem my shadow. I stood in awe of him; I
had placed myself in his power. Since he had
effected my return to the pleasures of the world,
which I had resolved to shun, he had the perfect
mastery of me. His eloquence was irresistible,
and at times I almost thought he was in the
right. On one point, nevertheless, I was im-
movable: since I had sacrificed my love for
Minna, and thereby blighted the happiness of
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my whole life, I would not now, for all the shad-
ows in the universe, be induced to sign away my
soul to this being.
One day we were sitting by the entrance of a
cavern, much visited by strangers who ascended
the mountain: the rushing noise of a subter-
ranean torrent resounded from the fathomless
abyss, the depths of which exceeded all calcu-
lation. He was, according to his favourite cus-
tom, employing all the powers of his lavish
fancy, and all the charm of the most brilliant
colouring, to depict to me what I might effect
in the world by virtue of my purse, when once
I had. recovered my shadow.
“You seem to forget,’ said I, ‘‘that I toler-
ate your presence only on certain conditions,
and that I am to retain perfect freedom of
action.”’
‘You have but to command, and I depart,”
was all his reply. ;
The threat was familiar to me; I was silent.
He then began to fold up my shadow. I
turned pale, but allowed him to continue.
A long: silence ensued, which he was the
first to break:
““T will go. Only allow me to inform you how
you may at any time recall me whenever you
have a mind to see your most humble servant.
You have only to shake your purse; the sound
of the gold will bring me to you in an instant.
In this world, every one consults his own ad-
vantage; you see I have thought of yours, and
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Peter Schlemihl
clearly confer upon you a new power. Oh, this
purse! it would still prove a powerful bond
between us, had the moth begun to devour your
shadow.—But enough: you hold me by my
gold, and may command your servant at any
distance. You know that I can be very ser-
viceable to my friends; and that the rich are my
peculiar care—this you have observed. As to
your shadow, allow me to say you can redeem
it on only one condition.”
Recollections of former days came over me;
and I hastily asked him whether he had ever
obtained Mr. Thomas John’s signature.
He smiled, and said, ‘‘It was by no means
necessary from so excellent a friend.”
“Where is he? For God’s sake tell me! I
insist upon knowing!”’
With some hesitation, he put his hand into
his pocket, and drew out, by the hair of the head,
the altered and pallid form of Mr. John, whose
livid lips uttered the awful words, ‘‘ Justo ju-
dicio Det, gudicatus sum; justo judicio Dei, con-
demnatus sum’’—‘‘By the just judgment of
God, I am judged; by the just judgment of
God, I am condemned.’ I was horror-struck;
and, instantly hurling the jingling purse into the
abyss, I exclaimed: ‘‘Wretch! in the name of
Heaven, I conjure you to be gone! Away from
my sight! Never appear before me again!”
With a dark expression on his countenance, he
arose, and immediately vanished behind the
huge rocks which surrounded the place.
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V
I was now left alike without gold and without
a shadow; but a heavy load was taken from
my breast, and I felt cheerful. Had not my
Minna been irrecoverably lost to me, or even
had I been perfectly free from self-reproach
on her account, I felt that happiness might
yet have been mine. At present, I was lost
in doubt as to my future course. I examined
my pockets, and found I had a few gold
pieces still left, which I counted with feelings
of great satisfaction. I had left my horse at
the inn, and was ashamed to return, or, at all
events, I must wait till the sun had set, which
at present was high in the heavens. I laid
myself down under a shady tree, and fell into
a peaceful sleep.
When I opened my eyes the sun was visible in
the east: I must have slept the whole night.
I looked upon this as a warning not to return to
the inn, and, resigning myself to Providence, I
decided on taking a by-road that led through
the wooded declivity of the mountain. I never
once cast a glance behind me; nor did it ever
occur to me to return, as I might have done, to
Bendel, whom I had left in affluence. My pres-
ent garb was very humble—consisting of an old
black coat I had formerly worn at Berlin—and
which, by some chance, was the first I had put
my hand on before setting out on this journey—
a travelling-cap, and an old pair of boots. I
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Peter Schlemihl
cut down a knotted stick in memory of the spot,
and commenced my pilgrimage.
In the forest I met an aged peasant, who gave
me a friendly greeting, and with whom I en-
tered into conversation, requesting, as a trav-
eller desirous of information, some particulars
relative to the road, the country, and its inhabi-
tants, the productions of the mountain, and the
like. He replied to my various inquiries with
readiness and intelligence. At last we reached
the bed of a mountain-torrent, which had laid
waste a considerable tract of the forest; I in-
wardly shuddered at the idea of the open sun-
shine. I suffered the peasant to go before me.
In the middle of the very place which I dreaded
so much, he suddenly stopped, and turned back
to give me an account of this inundation. In-
stantly perceiving that I had no shadow, he
broke off abruptly, and exclaimed, {‘How is
this? You have no shadow!”
“‘Alas, alas!” said I, ‘‘in a long and serious
illness, I had the misfortune to lose my hair, my
nails, and my shadow. Look, good father, al-
though my hair has grown again, it is quite
white, and, at my age, my nails are still very
short, and my poor shadow seems to have left
me, never to return.”’
‘“Ah!”’ said the old man, shaking his head, ‘‘no
shadow! that was, indeed, a terrible illness, sir.”’
But he did not resume his narrative; and, at
the very first cross-road we came to, he left me
without uttering a syllable. Fresh tears flowed
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from my eyes, and my cheerfulness had fled.
With a heavy heart, I travelled on, avoiding all
society. I plunged into the deepest shades of
the forest; and often, to avoid a sunny tract of
country, I waited for hours till every human
being had left it, and I could pass it unobserved.
In the evenings I took shelter in the villages.
I bent my steps to a mine in the mountains,
where I hoped to meet with work underground;
for aside from the fact that my present situation
compelled me to provide for my own support, I
felt that only incessant and laborious occupia-
tion could divert my mind from dwelling on
painful subjects. A few rainy days assisted me
materially on my journey; but it was to the no
small detriment of my boots, the soles of which
were better suited to Count Peter than to the
poor foot-traveller. I was soon barefoot, and a
new purchase must be made. The following
morning I began an earnest search in a market-
place, where a fair was being held. I sawin one
of the booths new and second-hand boots set out
for sale. I was a long time selecting and bar-
gaining; I much wished to have a new pair, but
was frightened at the extravagant price, and so
was obliged to content myself with a second-
hand pair, still pretty good and strong, which
the beautiful fair-haired youth who kept the
booth handéd over to me with a cheerful smile,
as he wished me a prosperous journey. I went
on, and left the place immediately by the north-
ern gate.
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Peter Schlemihl
I was so lost in my own thoughts that I walked
along scarcely knowing how or where. I was
calculating the chances of my reaching the mine
by the evening, and considering how I should
introduce myself. I had not gone two hundred
paces when I perceived that I was not in the
right road. I looked around, and found myself
in a wild-looking forest of ancient firs, where,
apparently, the stroke of the axe had never been
heard. A few steps more brought me amid huge
rocks covered with moss and saxifragous plants,
between which whole fields of snow and ice were
extended. The air wasintensely cold. I looked
round, and the forest had disappeared behind
me; a few steps more, and there was the still-
ness of death itself. The icy plain on which I
stood stretched to an immeasurable distance,
and a thick cloud rested upon it; the sun was
of a red blood-colour at the verge of the horizon;
the cold was insupportable. I could not imag-
ine what had happened tome. The benumbing
frost made me quicken my pace. I heard a
distant sound of waters; and, at one step more,
I stood on the icy shore of some ocean. Innu-
merable droves of seals hurried past me, and
plunged into the waves. I continued my way
along this coast, and again met with rocks,
plains, birch and fir forests, and yet only a few
minutes had elapsed. It was now intensely hot.
‘I looked about, and suddenly found myself
amidst some fertile rice-fields and mulberry-
trees. Sitting down under their shade, I found
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by my watch that it was just a quarter of an
hour since I left the village market. I fancied
it was a dream; but no, I was indeed awake, as
I felt by the experiment of biting my tongue. I
closed my eyes in order to collect my scattered
thoughts. Presently I heard unintelligible words.
uttered in a nasal tone, and I beheld two Chi-
nese, whose Asiatic physiognomies were not to
be mistaken, even had their costume not be-
trayed their origin. They were addressing me
in the language and with the salutations of
their country. I arose and drew back a couple
of steps. They had disappeared; the landscape
was entirely changed; the rice-fields had given
place to trees and woods. JI examined some of
the trees and plants around me, and ascer-
tained such of them as I was acquainted with
to be productions of the southern part of Asia.
I made one step toward a particular tree, and
again all was changed. I now moved on like’ a
recruit at drill, taking slow and measured steps,
and gazing, with astonished eyes, at the wonder-
ful variety of regions, plains, meadows, moun-
tains, steppes, and sandy deserts which passed
in succession before me. I had now no doubt
that I had seven-league boots on my feet.
I fell on my knees in silent gratitude, shedding
tears of thankfulness, for I now saw clearly what
was to be my future condition. Shut out by
early sins from all human society, I was offered .
amends for the privation of Nature herself,
whom I had ever loved. The earth was granted
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Peter Schlemihl
me as a rich garden; the knowledge of her
operations was to be the study and object of my
life. Rising, I took a hasty survey of this new
field, where I hoped afterward to reap a rich
harvest.
I stood on the heights of Thibet: the sun I
had lately beheld in the east was now sinking in
the west. I traversed Asia from east to west
and thence passed into Africa, which I curiously
examined at repeated visits in all directions. As
I gazed on the ancient pyramids and temples
of Egypt I descried, in the sandy deserts near
Thebes of the hundred gates, the caves where
Christian hermits dwelt of old.
My determination was instantly fixed: here
should be my future dwelling. I chose one of
the most secluded, but roomy, comfortable, and
inaccessible to the jackals.
I stepped over from the pillars of Hercules to
Europe; and, having taken a survey of its
northern and southern countries, I passed by
the north of Asia, on the polar glaciers, to Green-
land and America, visiting both parts of this
continent; and the winter, which was already
at its height in the south, drove me quickly
back from Cape Horn to the north. I waited
_ till daylight had risen in the east of Asia, and
then, after a short rest, continued my pilgrimage.
I followed, in both the Americas, the vast chain
of the Andes, once considered the loftiest on
our globe. I stepped carefully and slowly from
one summit to anothcr, somctimes over snowy
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heights, sometimes over flaming volcanoes, often
breathless from fatigue. At last I reached St.
Elias’s mountain, and sprang over Behring’s
Straits into Asia; I followed the eastern coast -
in its various windings, carefully observing which
of the neighbouring isles was accessible to me.
From the peninsula of Malacca my boots carried
me to Sumatra, Java, Bal, and Lombok. I
made many attempts—often with danger, and
always unsuccessfully—to force my way over
the numerous little islands and rocks with which -
this sea is studded, wishing to find a northwest
passage to Borneo and other islands of the
Archipelago.
In making a visit to Europe, it was my care
to provide myself with the articles of which I
stood most in need. First of all a drag, to act on
my boots; for I had experienced the inconven-
ience of these whenever I wished to shorten my
steps and examine surrounding objects more
fully. A pair of slippers to go over the boots
served the purpose effectually; and from that
time I carried two pairs about me, because I
frequently cast them off from my feet in my
botanical investigations, without having time
to pick them up when threatened by the ap-
proach of lions, men, or hyenas. My excellent
watch, owing to.the short duration of my move-
ments, was also an admirable chronometer on
these occasions. I wanted, besides, a sextant,
a few philosophical instruments, and some books.
To purchase these things I made several un-
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Peter Schlemihl
willing journeys to London and Paris, choosing
a time when I could be hid by the favouring
clouds. As all my ill-gotten gold was exhausted,
I carried over from Africa some ivory, which is
. there so plentiful, in payment of my purchases
—taking care, however, to pick out the smallest
teeth, in order not to overburden myself. I
had thus soon provided myself with all that I
wanted, and now entered on a new mode of life
as a student—wandering over the globe—meas-
uring the height of the mountains, and the tem-
perature of the air and of the springs—observ-
ing the manners and habits of animals—inves-
tigating plants and flowers. From the equator
to the pole, and from the new world to the old,
I was constantly engaged in repeating and com-
paring my experiments.
One day, as I was gathering lichens and algz
on the northern coast, with the drag on my
boots, a bear suddenly made his appearance, and
was stealing toward me round the corner of a
rock. After kicking off my slippers, as I thought,
I attempted to step across to an island, by means
of a‘rock that projected from the waves in
the intermediate space, and that served as a
stepping-stone. I reached the rock safely with
one foot, but instantly fell into the sea with the
other, one of my slippers having inadvertently
remained on. The cold was intense, and I es-
-caped this imminent peril at the risk of my life.
On coming ashore, I hastened to the Libyan
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sands to dry myself in the sun, but the heat af-
fected my head so much, that, in a fit of illness,
I staggered back to the north. In vain I sought
relief by change of place—hurrying from east
to west, and from west to east—now in climes
of the south, now in those of the north; some-
times I rushed into daylight, sometimes into the
shades of night. I know not how long this
lasted. A burning fever raged in my veins;
with extreme anguish, I felt my senses leaving
me. Suddenly, by an unlucky accident, I trod
upon some one’s foot, and in return received a
blow that laid me senseless.
On recovering my senses I found myself lying
comfortably in a good bed, which, with many
other beds, stood in a spacious and handsome
apartment. Some one was watching by me;
people seemed to be walking from one bed to
another; they came to mine, and spoke of me
as Number Twelve. On the wall, at the foot of
my bed—it was no dream, for I distinctly read
it—on a black marble tablet was inscribed my
name, in large letters of gold:
PETER SCHLEMIHL
Underneath were two rows of letters in smaller
characters, which I was too feeble to connect to-
gether, and I closed my eyes again.
I now heard something read aloud, in which I
distinctly noted the words, ‘‘ Peter Schlemihl,”’
but could not gather the full meaning. I sawa
go
Peter Schlemihl
man of benevolent aspect, and a very beautiful
female dressed in black, standing near my bed;
their countenances were not unknown to me,
but in my weak state I could not remember
who they were. Some time elapsed, and I began
to regain my strength. I was called Number
Twelve, and, from my long beard, was supposed
to be a Jew, but was not the less carefully nursed
on that account. No one seemed to perceive
that I was destitute of a shadow. My boots, I
was assured, together with everything found
on me when I was brought here, were in safe
keeping, and would be given up to me on
my restoration to health. This place was
called the SCHLEMIHLIUM. The daily reci-
tation I had heard was an exhortation to
pray for Peter Schlemihl as the founder and
benefactor of this institution. The benevolent-
looking man whom I had seen by my bed-
side was Bendel; the beautiful lady in black
was Minna.
I had been enjoying the advantages of the
Schlemihliim without being recognised, learn-
ing, further, that I was in Bendel’s native town,
where he had employed a part of my once
unhallowed gold in founding a hospital in my
name, under his superintendence, and that its
unfortunate inmates daily pronounced blessings
on me. Minna had become a widow: an un-
happy lawsuit had deprived Rascal of his life,
and Minna of the greater part of her property.
Her parents were no more, and here she dwelt
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Masterpieces of Fiction
in widowed piety, wholly devoting herself to
works of mercy.
One day, as she stood by the side of Number
Twelve’s bed with Bendel, he said to her, ‘‘ Noble
lady, why expose yourself so frequently to this
unhealthy atmosphere? Has fate dealt so
harshly with you as to render you desirous of
death?”’
“By no means, Mr. Bendel,’ she replied;
‘“‘since I have wakened from my long dream, all
has gone well with me. I now neither wish for
death nor fear it, and think on the future and
on the past with equal serenity. Do you not
also feel an inward satisfaction in thus paying
a pious tribute of gratitude and love. to your old
master and friend?”’ ‘
‘‘Thanks be to God, I do, noble lady,” said
he. “‘Ah, how wonderfully has everything
fallen out! How thoughtlessly have we sipped
joys and sorrows from the full cup now drained
to the last drop; and we might fancy the past
a mere prelude to the real scene for which we
now wait armed,by experience. How different
has been the reality! Yet, let us not regret the
past, but rather rejoice that we have not lived
in vain. As respects our old friend also, I have
a firm hope that it is now better with him than
formerly.’
‘“‘I trust so, too,’’ answered Minna; and, so
saying, she passed by me, and they departed.
This conversation made a deep impression on
me, and I hesitated whether I should discover
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Peter Schlemihl
myself or depart unknown. At last I decided,
and, asking for pen and paper, wrote as follows:
“‘Matters are indeed better with your old
friend than formerly. He has repented, and
his repentance has led to forgiveness.”’
I was now able to rise, for I felt much stronger.
The keys of a little chest near my bed were given
me; in it I found all my effects. I put on my
clothes; fastened my botanical case round me
—wherein, with delight, I found my northern
lichens all safe—put on my boots, and leaving
my note on the table, left the gates, and was
speedily far advanced on the road to Thebes.
In my home I found everything exactly in
the order in which I had left it. I returned by
degrees, as my increasing strength allowed me,
to my old occupations and usual mode of life,
from which I had been kept back a whole year
by my fall into the Polar Ocean. And this, dear
Chamisso, is the life I am still leading.
So far as my boots would carry me, I have
observed and studied our globe and its conforma-
tion, its mountains and temperature, the atmos-
phere in its various changes, the influences of
the magnetic power; in fact, I have studied all
living creation—and most especially the king-
dom of plants—more profoundly than, any one
of our race. I have arranged all the facts in
proper order, to the best of my ability, in dif-
ferent works. The consequences deducible from
these facts, and my views respecting them, |
have succinctly recorded in various essays and
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Masterpieces of Fiction
dissertations. I have settled the geography of
the interior of Africa and of the Arctic regions,
of the interior of Asia and of its eastern coast.
My Historia stirpium plantarum utriusque orbis
is an extensive fragment of my Systema nature.
Besides increasing the number of our known
species by more than a third, I have also con-
tributed somewhat to the natural system of
plants and to a knowledge of their geography.
I am now deeply engaged on my Fauna,-and
shall take care to have my manuscripts sent to
the University of Berlin before my decease.
I have selected thee, my dear Chamisso, to be
the guardian of my wonderful history, thinking
that, when I have left this world, it may afford
valuable instruction to the living. As for thee,
Chamisso, if thou wouldst live amongst thy
fellow-creatures, learn to value thy shadow more
than gold; if thou wouldst only live to thyself
and thy nobler part—in this thou needest no
counsel.
94
THE MINISTER’S BLACK VEIL
BY
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE
THE sexton stood in the porch of Milford
meeting-house, pulling busily at the bell-rope.
The old people of the village came stooping
along the street. Children, with bright faces,
tripped merrily beside their parents, or mimicked
a graver gait, in the conscious dignity of their
Sunday clothes. Spruce bachelors looked side-
long at the pretty maidens, and fancied that
the Sabbath sunshine made them prettier than
on week days. When the throng had mostly
streamed into the porch, the sexton began to
ynll the bell, keeping his eye on the Reverend
Mr. Hooper’s door. The first glimpse of the
clergyman’s figure was the signal for the bell to
cease its summons.
“But what has good Parson Hooper got upon
his face?” cried the sexton in astonishment.
All within hearing immediately turned about,
and beheld the semblance of Mr. Hooper,
pacing slowly his meditative way toward the
meeting-house. With one accord they started,
expressing more wonder than if some strange
minister were coming to dust the cushions of
Mr. Hooper’s pulpit.
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‘‘Are you sure it. is our parson?” inquired
Goodman Gray of the sexton. )
‘“Of a certainty: it is goods Mig wiiigene:,,”
replied the sexton. ‘‘He was to have exchanged
pulpits with Parson Shute, of Westbury; but
Parson Shute sent to excuse himself yesterday,
having to preach a funeral sermon.”
The cause of so much amazement may appear
sufficiently slight. Mr. Hooper, a gentlemanly
person, of about thirty, though still a bachelor,
was dressed with due clerical neatness, as if a
careful wife had starched his band, and. brushed
the weekly dust from his Sunday’s garb.
There was but one thing remarkable in his ap-
pearance. Swathed about his forehead, and
hanging down over his face, so low as to be
shaken by his breath, Mr. Hooper had on a
black veil. On a nearer view it seemed to
consist of two folds of crape which entirely
concealed his features except the mouth and
chin, but probably did not intercept his sight
further than to give a darkened aspect to all
living and inanimate things. With this gloomy
shade before him, good Mr. Hooper walked on-
ward at a slow and quiet pace, stcoping some-
what and looking on the gryound, as is customary
with abstracted men, yet nodding kindly to
those of his parishioners who still waited on the
meeting-house steps. But so wonder-struck were
they that his greeting hardly met with a return.
‘‘T can’t really feel as if good Mr. Hooper’s face
was behind that piece of crape,”’ said the sexton.
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The Minister’s Black Veil
“*T don’t like it,’’ muttered an old woman, as
she hobbled into the meeting-house. ‘‘He has
changed himself into something awful, only
by hiding his face.”’
“Our parson has gone mad!’’ cried Goodman
Gray, following him across the threshold.
A rumour of some unaccountable phenomenon
had preceded Mr. Hooper into the meeting-
house, and set all the congregation astir. Few
_could refrain from twisting their heads toward
the door; many stood upright, and turned
directly about; while several little boys clam-
bered upon the seats, and came down again |
with a terrible racket. There was a general
bustle, a rustling of the women’s gowns and
shuffling of the men’s feet, greatly at variance
with that hushed repose which should attend
the entrance of the minister. But Mr. Hooper
appeared not to notice the perturbation of his
people. He entered with an almost noiseless
step, bent his head mildly to the pews on each
side, and bowed as he passed his oldest par-
ishioner, a white-haired great-grandsire, who
occupied an arm-chair in the centre of the aisle.
It was strange to observe how slowly this
venerable man became conscious of something
singular in the appearance of his pastor. He
seemed not fully to partake of the prevailing
wonder till Mr. Hooper had ascended the stairs,
and showed himself in the pulpit, face to face
with his congregation, except for the black
veil, That mysterious cmblem was never once
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withdrawn. It shook with his measured breath
as he gave out the psalm; it threw its obscurity
between him and the holy: page as he read the
Scriptures; and while he prayed, the veil lay
heavily on his uplifted countenance. Did
he seek to hide it from the dread Being whom
he was addressing?”’
Such was the effect of this simple piece of
crape, that more than one woman of delicate
nerves was forced to leave the meeting-house.
Yet perhaps the pale-faced congregation was
almost as fearful a sight to the minister, as his
black veil to them.
Mr. Hooper had the reputation of a good
preacher, but not an energetic one: he strove to
win his people heavenward by mild, persuasive
influences, rather than to drive them thither by
the thunders of the Word. The sermon which
he now delivered was marked by the same
characteristics of style and manner as the
general series of his pulpit oratory. But there
was something, either in the sentiment of the
discourse itself, or in the imagination of the
auditors, which made it greatly the most power-
ful effort that they had ever heard from their
pastor’s lips. It was tinged, rather more
darkly than usual, with the gentle gloom of
Mr. Hooper’s temperament. The subject had
reference to secret sin, and those sad mysteries
which we hide from our nearest and dearest, and
would fain conceal from our own consciousness,
even forgetting that the Omniscient can detect
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The Minister’s Black Veil
them. A subtle power was breathed into his
words. Each member of the congregation, the
most innocent girl, and the man of hardened
breast, felt as if the preacher had crept upon
them, behind his awful veil; and discovered their
hoarded iniquity of deed or thought. Many
spread their clasped hands on their bosoms.
There was nothing terrible in what Mr. Hooper
said—at least, no violence; and yet, with every
tremor of his melancholy voice, the hearers
quaked. An unsought pathos came hand in
hand with awe. So sensible were the audience
of some unwonted attribute in their minister
that they longed for a breath of wind to blow
aside the veil, almost believing that a stran-
ger’s visage would be discovered, though the
form, gesture, and voice were those of Mr.
Hooper.
At the close of the services, the people hurried
out with indecorous confusion, eager to com-
municate their pent-up amazement, and con-
scious of lighter spirits the moment they lost
sight of the black veil. Some gathered in little
circles, huddled closely together, with their
mouths all whispering in the centre; some went
‘homeward alone, wrapt in silent meditation;
some talked loudly, and profaned the Sabbath
day with ostentatious laughter. A few shook
their sagacious heads, intimating that they
could penetrate the mystery; while one or two
affirmed that there was no mystery at all, but
only that Mr, Hooper’s eyes were so weakened
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by the midnight lamp as to require a shade.
After a brief interval, forth came good Mr.
Hooper also, in the rear of his flock. Turning
his veiled face from one group to another, he
paid due reverence to the hoary heads, saluted
the middle-aged with kind dignity as their
friend and spiritual guide, greeted the young
with mingled authority and love, and laid his
hands on the little children’s heads to bless
them. Such was always his custom on the
Sabbath day. Strange and bewildered looks
repaid him for his courtesy. None, as on for-
mer occasions, aspired to the honour of walking
by their pastor’s side. Old Squire Saunders,
doubtless by an accidental lapse of memory,
neglected to invite Mr. Hooper to his table, where
the good clergyman had been wont to bless the
food, almost every Sunday since his settlement.
He returned, therefore, to the parsonage, and,
at the moment of closing the door, was observed
to look back upon the people, all of whom had
their eyes fixed upon the minister. A sad
smile gleamed faintly from beneath the black
veil, and flickered about his mouth, glimmering
as he disappeared.
‘‘How strange,” said a lady, ‘‘that a simple
black veil, such as any woman might wear on
her bonnet, should become such a terrible thing
on Mr. Hooper’s face!”’
‘‘Something must surely be amiss with Mr.
Hooper’s intellect,’’ observed her husband, the
physician of the village. ‘“‘But the strangest
I0oO
The Minister’s Black Veil
part of the affair is the effect of this vagary,
even on a sober-minded man like myself. The
black veil, though it covers only our pastor’s
face, throws its influence over his whole person,
and makes him ghostlike from head to foot.
Do you not feel it so?”’
“Truly do I,” replied the lady; ‘‘and I would
not be alone with him for the world. I wonder
he is not afraid to be alone with himself!”’
‘“‘Men sometimes are so,”’ said her husband.
The afternoon service was attended with
similar circumstances. At its conclusion, the
bell tolled for the funeral of a young ladv.
The relatives and friends were assembled in the
house, and the more distant acquaintances stood
about the door, speaking of the good qualities
of the deceased, when their talk was interrupted
by the appearance of Mr. Hooper, still covered
with his black veil. It was now an appropriate
emblem. The clergyman stepped into the
room where the corpse was laid, and bent over
the coffin, to take a last farewell of his deceased
parishioner. As he stooped, the veil hung
straight down from his forehead, so that, if her
eyelids had not been closed forever, the dead
maiden might have seen his face. Could Mr.
Hooper be fearful of her glance, that he so
hastily caught back the black veil? A person
who watched the interview between the dead
and living, scrupled not to affirm, that, at
the instant when the clergyman’s features were
disclosed, the corpse had slightly shuddered
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Masterpieces of Fiction
rustling the shroud and muslin cap, though
the countenance retained the composure of
death. A _ superstitious old woman was the
only witness of this prodigy. From the coffin
Mr. Hooper passed into the chamber of the
mourners, and thence to the head of the stair-,
case, to make the funeral prayer. It was a
tender and heart-dissolving prayer, full of
sorrow, yet so imbued with celestial hopes that
the music of a heavenly harp, swept by the
fingers of the dead, seemed faintly to be heard
among the saddest accents of the minister.
The people trembled, though they but darkly
understood him when he prayed that they, and
himself, and all of mortal race, might be ready,
as he trusted this young maiden had been, for
the dreadful hour that should snatch the veil
from their faces. The bearers went heavily
forth, and the mourners followed, saddening all
the street, with the dead before them, and Mr.
Hooper in his black veil behind.
‘““Why do you look back?’ said one in the
procession to his partner.
“Ll had) a fancy,” replied “shey "ita 4 ae
minister and the maiden’s spirit were walking
hand in hand.”
‘“‘And so had I, at the same moment,” said
the“other."i:
That night, the handsomest couple in Milford
village were to be joined in wedlock. Though
reckoned a melancholy man, Mr. Hooper had
a placid cheerfulness for such occasions, which
I02
The Minister’s Black Veil
often excited a sympathetic smile where livelier
merriment would have been thrown away.
There was no quality of his disposition which
made him more beloved than this. The com-
pany at the wedding awaited his arrival with
impatience, trusting that the strange awe,
which had gathered over him throughout the
-day, would now be dispelled. But such was
not the result. When Mr. Hooper came, the
first thing that their eyes rested on was the same
horrible black veil, which had added deeper gloom
to the funeral, and could portend nothing but
evil to the wedding. Such was its immediate
effect on the guests that a cloud seemed to
have rolled duskily from beneath the black
crape, and dimmed the light of the candles.
The bridal pair stood up before the minister.
But the bride’s cold fingers quivered in the
tremulous hand of the bridegroom, and her
deathlike paleness caused a whisper that the
maiden who had been buried a few hours before
was come from her grave to be married. If
ever another wedding were so dismal, it was
that famous one where they tolled the wedding
knell. After performing the ceremony, Mr.
Hooper raised a glass of wine to his lips, wishing
happiness to the new-married couple in a strain
of mild pleasantry that ought to have brightened
the features of the guests, like a cheerful gleam
from the hearth. At that instant, catching a
glimpse of his figure in the looking-glass, the
black veil involved his own spirit in the horror
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Masterpieces of Fiction —
with which it overwhelmed all others. His
frame shuddered, his lips grew white, he spilt
the untasted wine upon the carpet, and rushed
forth into the darkness. For the Earth, too,
had on her Black Veil.
The next day, the whole village A Milford
talked of little else than Parson MHooper’s
black veil. That, and the mystery concealed
behind it, supplied a topic for discussion between
acquaintances meeting in the street, and good
women gossiping at their open windows. It
was the first item of news that the tavern-
keeper told to his guests. The children babbled
of it on their way to school. One imitative
little imp covered his face with an old black
handkerchief, thereby so affrighting his play-
mates that the panic seized himself, and he well-
nigh lost his wits by his own waggery.
It was remarkable that of all the busybodies
and impertinent people in the parish, not one
ventured to put the plain question to Mr.
Hooper, wherefore he did this thing. Hitherto,
whenever there appeared the slightest call for
such interference, he had never lacked advisers,
nor shown himself averse to be guided by their
judgment. If he erred at all, it was by so
painful a degree of self-distrust, that even the
mildest censure would lead him to consider an
indifferent action as a crime. Yet, though so
well acquainted with this amiable weakness,
no individual among his parishioners chose to
make the black veil a subject of friendly re-
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The Minister’s Black Veil
monstrance. There was a feeling of dread, nci-
ther plainly confessed nor carefully conccaled,
which caused each to shift the responsibility upon
another, till at length it was found expedient to
send a deputation of the church, in order to
deal with Mr. Hooper about the mystery, before
it should grow into a scandal. Never did an
embassy so ill discharge its duties. The minister
received them with friendly courtesy, but
became silent after they were seated, leaving
to his visitors the whole burden of introducing
their important business. The topic, it might
be supposed, was obvious enough. There was
the black veil swathed round Mr. Hooper’s
forehead, and concealing every feature above
his placid mouth, on which, at times, they could
perceive the glimmering of a melancholy smile.
But that piece of crape, to their imagination,
seemed to hang down before his heart, the
symbol of a fearful secret between him and
them. Were the veil but cast aside, they
might speak freely of it, but not till then.
Thus they sat a considerable time, speechless,
confused, and shrinking uneasily from Mr.
Hooper’s eye, which they felt to be fixed upon
them with an invisible glance. Finally, the
deputies returned abashed to their constituents,
pronouncing the matter too weighty to be
handled, except by a council of the churches, if,
indeed, it might not require a general synod.
But there was one person in the village un-
appalled by the awe with which the black veil
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Masterpieces of Fiction
had impressed all besides herself. When the
deputies returned without an explanation, or
even venturing to demand one, she, with the
calm energy of her character, determined to
chase away the strange cloud that appeared to
be settling round Mr. Hooper, every moment
‘more darkly than before. As his plighted wife,
it should be her privilege to know what the black
veil concealed. At the minister’s first visit,
therefore, she entered upon the subject with a
direct simplicity, which made the task easier
both for him and her. After he had seated
himself, she fixed her eyes steadfastly upon the
veil, but could discern nothing of the dreadful
gloom that had so overawed the multitude: it
was but a double fold of crape, hanging down
from his forehead to his mouth, and slightly
stirring with his breath.
‘‘No,”’ said she aloud, and smiling, ‘‘there is
nothing terrible in this piece of crape, except
that it hides a face which I am always glad to
look upon. Come, good sir, let the sun shine
from behind the cloud. First lay aside your
black veil: then tell me why you put it on.”
Mr. Hooper’s smile glimmered faintly.
‘‘There is an hour to come,” said he,** when
all of us shall cast aside our veils. Take it not
amiss, beloved friend, if I wear this piece of
crape till then.’’
‘““Your words are a mystery, too,” returned
the young lady. ‘‘Take away the veil from
them, at least.’’
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The Minister’s Black Veil
“*Elizabeth, I will,’ said he, ‘‘so far as my
vow may suffer me. Know, then, this veil is
a type and a symbol, and I am bound to wear it
ever, both in light and darkness, in solitude and
before the gaze of multitudes, and as with
strangers, so with my familiar friends. No
mortal eye will see it withdrawn. This dismal
shade must separate me from the world: even
you, Elizabeth, can never come behind it!”’
‘What grievous affliction hath befallen you,”
she earnestly inquired, ‘‘that you should thus
darken your eyes forever?”
“If it be a sign of mourning,” replied Mr.
Hooper, ‘‘I, perhaps, like most other mortals,
have sorrows dark enough to be typified by a
black veil.”’
“But what if the world will not believe that
it is the type of an innocent sorrow?” urged
Elizabeth. ‘‘Beloved and respected as you are,
there may be whispers that you hide your face
under the consciousness of secret sin. For the
sake of your holy office, do away with this
scandal!”
The colour rose into her cheeks as she intimated
the nature of the rumours that were already
abroad in the village. But Mr. Hooper’s mildness
did not forsake him. He even smiled again—
that same sad smile, which always appeared like
a faint glimmering of light, proceeding from
the obscurity beneath the veil.
“If I hide my face for sorrow, there is cause
enough,’”’ he merely replied; ‘‘and if I cover it
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Masterpieces of Fiction
for secret sin, what mortal might not do the
same?’”’
And with this gentle, but unconquerable
obstinacy did he resist all her entreaties. At
length Elizabeth sat silent. For a few moments
she appeared lost in thought, considering,
probably, what new methods might be tried to
withdraw her lover from so dark a fantasy,
which, if it had no other meaning, was perhaps
a symptom of mental disease. Though of a
firmer character than his own, the tears rolled
down her cheeks. But in an instant, as it were,
a new feeling took the place of sorrow: her
eyes were fixed insensibly on the black veil,
when, like a sudden twilight in the air, its
terrors fell around her. She arose, and stood
trembling before him.
‘“‘And do you feel it then, at last?”’ said he
mournfully.
She made no reply, but covered her eyes with
her hand, and turned to leave the room. He
rushed forward and caught her arm.
‘““Have patience with me, Elizabeth!” cried
he, passionately. ‘‘Do not desert me, though
this veil must be between us here on earth. Be
mine, and hereafter there shall be no veil over
my face, no darkness between our souls! It
is but a mortal veil—it is not for eternity! O!
you know not how lonely I am, and how fright-
ened, to be alone behind my black veil. Do
not leave me in this miserable obscurity for-
ever!’
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The Minister’s Black Veil
“Lift the veil but once, and look me in the
face,’ said she. ;
‘‘Never! It cannot be!’’ replied Mr. Hooper.
““Then farewell!” said Elizabeth.
She withdrew her arm from his grasp, and
slowly departed, pausing at the door, to give one
long, shuddering gaze, that seemed almost to
penetrate the mystery of the black veil. But,
even amid his grief, Mr. Hooper smiled to think
that only a material emblem had separated him
from happiness, though the horrors, which it
shadowed forth, must be drawn darkly between
the fondest of lovers.
From that time no attempts were made to
remove Mr. Hooper’s black veil, or, by a direct
appeal, to discover the secret which it was sup-
posed to hide. By persons who claimed a
superiority to popular prejudice, it was reckoned
merely an eccentric whim, such as often mingles
with the sober actions of men otherwise rational,
and tinges them all with its own semblance of
insanity. But with the multitude, good Mr.
Hooper was irreparably a bugbear. He could
not walk the street with any peace of mind, so
conscious was he that the gentle and timid
would turn aside to avoid him, and that others
would make it a point of hardihood to throw
themselves in his way. The impertinence of
the latter class compelled him to give up his
customary walk at sunset to the burial-ground;
for when he leaned pensively over the gate,
there would always be faces behind the grave-
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Masterpieces of Fiction
stones, peeping at his black veil. <A fable went
the rounds that the stare of the dead people drove
him thence. It grieved him, to the very depth
of his kind heart, to observe how the children
fled from his approach, breaking up their merriest
sports, while his melancholy figure was yet afar
off. Their instinctive dread caused him to
feel more strongly than aught else that a preter-
natural horror was interwoven with the threads
of the black crape. In truth, his own antipathy
to the veil was known to be so great that he never
willingly passed before a mirror, nor stooped to
drink at a still fountain, lest, in its peaceful
bosom, he should be affrighted by himself.
This was what gave plausibility to the whispers
that Mr. Hooper’s conscience tortured him for.
some great crime too horrible to be entirely
concealed, or otherwise than so obscurely
intimated. Thus, from beneath the black veil,
there rolled a cloud into the sunshine, an am-
biguity of sin or sorrow, which enveloped the
poor minister, so that love or sympathy could
never reach him. It was said that ghost and
fiend consorted with him there. With self-
shudderings and outward terrors, he walked
continually in its shadow, groping darkly within
his own soul, or gazing through a medium that
saddened the whole world. Even the lawless
wind, it was believed, respected his dreadful
secret, and never blew aside the veil. But still
good Mr. Hooper sadly smiled at the pale visages
of the woridly throng as he passed by.
IIo
The Minister’s Black Veil
Among all it bad influences, the black veil had
the one desirable effect, of making its wearer
a very efficient clergyman. By the aid of his
mysterious emblem—for there was no other
apparent cause—he became a man of awful
power over souls that were in agony for sin.
His converts always regarded him with a dread
peculiar to themselves, affirming, though but
figuratively, that, before he brought them to
celestial light, they had been with him behind
the black veil. Its gloom, indeed, enabled him
to sympathise with all dark affections. Dying
sinners cried aloud for Mr. Hooper, and would
not yield their breath till he appeared; though
ever, as he stooped to whisper consolation, they
shuddered at the veiled face so near their own.
Such were the terrors of the black veil, even when
Death had bared his visage! Strangers came
long distances:to attend service at his church,
with the mere idle purpose of gazing at his
figure, because it was forbidden them to behold
his face. But many were made to quake ere
they departed! Once, during Governor Belcher’s
administration, Mr. Hooper was appointed to
preach the election sermon. Covered with his
black veil, he stood before the chief magistrate,
the council, and thé representatives, and wrought
so deep an impression that the legislative
measures of that year were characterised by
all the gloom and piety of our earliest ancestral
sway.
In this manner Mr. Hooper spent a long life,
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Masterpieces of Fiction
irreproachable in outward act, yet shrouded in
dismal suspicions; kind and loving, though un-
loved, and dimly feared; a man apart from men,
shunned in their health and joy, but ever
summoned to their aid in mortal anguish.
As years wore on, shedding their snows above his
sable veil, he acquired a name throughout the
New England churches, and they called him |
Father Hooper. Nearly all his parishioners,
who were of mature age when he was settled,
had been borne away by many a funeral: he
had one congregation in the church, and a more
crowded one in the churchyard; and having
wrought so late into the evening, and done his
work so well, it was now good Father Hooper’s
turn to rest. |
Several persons were visible by the shaded
candlelight, in the death chamber of the old
clergyman. Natural connections he had none.
But there was the decorously grave, though un-
moved physician, seeking only to mitigate the
last pangs of the patient whom he could not
save. There were the -deacons, and other
eminently pious members of his church. There,
also, was the Reverend Mr. Clark, of Westbury,
a young and zealous divine, who had ridden in
haste to pray by the bedside of the expiring
minister. There was the nurse, no hired hand-
maiden of death, but one whose calm affection
had endured thus long in secrecy, in solitude,
amid the chill of age, and would not perish,
even at the dying hour. Who, but Elizabeth!
Ii2
The Minister’s Black Veil
And there lay the hoary head of good Father
Hooper upon the death pillow, with the black
veil still swathed about his brow, and reaching
down over his face, so that each more difficult
gasp of his faint breath caused it to stir. All
through life that piece of crape had hung between
him and the world: it had separated him from
cheerful brotherhood and woman’s love, and
kept him in that saddest of all prisons, his own
heart; and still it lay upon his face, as if to
deepen the gloom of his darksome chamber, and
shade him from the sunshine of eternity.
For some time previous, his mind had been
confused, wavering doubtfully between the past
and the present, and hovering forward, as it
were, at intervals, into the indistinctness of the
world to come. There had been feverish turns,
which tossed him from side to side, and wore
away what little strength he had. But in his
most convulsive struggles, and in the wildest
vagaries of his intellect, when no other thought
retained its sober influence, he still showed an
awful solicitude lest the black veil should slip
aside. Even if his bewildered soul could have
forgotten, there was a faithful woman at his
pillow, who, with averted eyes, would have
covered that aged face, which she had last
beheld in the comeliness of manhood. At
length the death-stricken old man lay quietly in
the torpor of mental and bodily exhaustion,
with an imperceptible pulse, and breath that
grew fainter and fainter, except when a long,
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Masterpieces of Fiction
deep, and irregular inspiration seemed to prelude
the flight of his spirit.
The minister of Westbury approached the
bedside.
‘“Venerable Father Hooper,’ said he, ‘‘the
moment of your release is at hand. Are you
ready for the lifting of the veil that shuts in
time from eternity?”’
Father Hooper at first replied merely by a
feeble motion of his head; then, apprehensive,
perhaps, that his meaning might be doubtful,
he exerted himself to speak.
““Yea,’’ said he, in faint accents, *‘my soul
hath a patient weariness until that veil be
lifted.”
“‘And is it fitting,’’ resumed the Reverend Mr.
Clark, ‘‘that a man so given to prayer, of such a
blameless example, holy in deed and thought,
so far as mortal judgment may pronounce; is it
fitting that a father in the church should leave
.a shadow on his memory that may seem to
blacken a lifesopure? I pray you, my venerable
brother, let not this thing be! Suffer us to be
gladdened by your triumphant aspect as you
go to your reward. Before the veil of eternity
be lifted, let me cast aside this black veil from
your face!”’
And thus speaking, the Reverend Mr. Clark
bent forward to reveal the mystery of so many
years. But, exerting a sudden energy that made
all the beholders stand aghast, Father Hooper
snatched both his hands from beneath the bed-
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The Minister’s Black Veil
clothes, and pressed them strongly on the black
veil, resolute to struggle if the minister of
Westbury would contend with a dying man.
‘‘Never!’’ cried the veiled clergyman. ‘On
earth, never!”
‘“‘Dark old man!” exclaimed the affrighted
minister, ‘‘with what horrible crime upon your
soul are you now passing to the judgment?”’
Father Hooper’s breath heaved; it rattled in
his throat; but, with a mighty effort, grasping
forward with his hands, he caught hold of life,
and held it back till he should speak. He even
raised himself in bed; and there he sat, shivering
with the arms of death around him, while the
black veil hung down, awful, at that last moment,
in the gathered terrors of a lifetime. And yet
the faint, sad smile, so often there, now seemed
to glimmer from its obscurity, and linger on
Father Hooper’s lips.
‘“Why do you tremble at me alone?’’ cried
he, turning his veiled face round the circle of
pale spectators. ‘‘Tremble also at each other!
Have men avoided me, and women shown no
pity, and children screamed and fled, only for
my black veil? What, but the mystery which
it obscurely typifies, has made this piece of
crape so awful? When the friend shows his
inmost heart to his friend; the lover to his best
beloved; when man does not vainly shrink
from the eye of his Creator, loathsomely treasur-
ing up the secret of his sin—then deem me a
monster, for the symbol beneath which I have
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Masterpieces of Fiction
lived, and die! I look around me, and, lo! on
- every visage a Black Veil!”’
While his auditors shrank from one another in
mutual affright, Father Hooper fell back upon
his pillow, a veiled corpse, with a faint smile
lingering on the lips. Still veiled, they laid him
in his coffin, and a veiled corpse they bore him
to the grave. The grass of many years has
sprung up and withered on that grave, the
burial stone is moss-grown, and good Mr.
Hooper’s face is dust; but awful is still the
thought that.it mouldered beneath the Black
Veil!
116
THE SIEGE OF BERLIN
BY,
ALPHONSE DAUDET
As we went up the Champs Elysées with
Doctor V , we gleaned the story of Paris the
besieged from the walls shattered by shells and
the streets torn up by grapeshot. Just before
coming to the Place de VEtoile, the Doctor
paused to point out to me one of the imposing
group of mansions opposite the Arc de Triomphe.
““Do you see,” he said, “‘the four closed win-
dows up there on the balcony? At the begin-
ning of August—that awful month of August,
1870, so fraught with wreck and ruin—lI was
called upon to attend an apoplectic case there.
The stricken one was Colonel Jouve, a veteran
Cuirassier of the First_ Empire. Surcharged
with patriotic feeling and the glory of it, he had
taken a balconied apartment in the Champs
Elysées when the war broke out—and for what
reason, do you imagine? To witness. the tri-
umphal return of our troops! Poor old fellow!
Word of Wissembourg came as he got up from
the table. At seeing Napoleon’s name at the
bottom of that bulletin of defeat, he fell insen-
sible. I found the old Cuirassier prostrate upon
the floor. His face was bloody, and he was
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Masterpieces of Fiction
senseless—as if struck with a club. On his
feet, he would have been unusually tall; lying
prone, he seemed gigantic. With fine features,
splendid teeth, and curly hair, he carried his
eighty years as if they were sixty. His grand-
daughter knelt over him in tears. She bore
close. resemblance to him. Side by side, they
suggested to me two Greek medallions from the
same die, only one was antique, earth-marked,
its outlines slightly worn, while the other had
all the charm of clear and fresh beauty.
‘““The grief of this child moved me. A daugh-
ter and granddaughter of soldicrs—her father
was one of MacMahon’s staffi—the spectacle of
this old man laid out in front of her-brought to
her mind another vision not less fearful. I
tried my best to comfort her, though really I
had little or no hope. We had to deal with
hemoptysis, which at eighty is almost certainly
fatal. Three days the patient remained thus,
in a condition of, lifelessness and torpor. In
the interim, the news of Reichshofen came—
recollect how oddly? Until evening, .we all be-
lieved in a wonderful victory—twenty thousand
Prussians wiped out, and the Crown Prince a
prisoner.
‘“‘T shall never be able to determine by what
miracle or magnetic force an intimation of this
universal rejoicing could have reached our in-
valid. Heretofore, he had been deaf to every-
thing about him, but that evening, on coming
to his bedside, I beheld a new creature. His
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The Siege of Berlin
eye was bright, his speech easier, and he had
sufficient strength to smile and stammer:
‘““*Victory, victory.’
“Yes, Colonel, a great victory.’
‘And, as I related the details of MacMahon’s
glorious success, I saw his face soften and be-
come illumined.
‘“When I was about to go his granddaughter,
pale and sobbing, appealed to me.
“*But he is saved,’ I said, pressing both her
hands.
“The poor girl had hardly enough courage to
reply. The real Reichshofen had just been
announced: MacMahon a fugitive, the whole
army beaten. Our eyes met in a look of con-
sternation; she was full of concern for her
father, while I feared for the grandfather. This
new shock would be too much for him; but
what were we to do? Leave him to the enjoy-
ment of the delusion that had restored him to
consciousness? To do this, we must practice
duplicity. Hastily wiping away her tears, the
brave girl said, ‘Well then, I will deceive him,’
and returned to her grandfather’s room with a
cheerful face.
‘“What she had resolved to do was no light
task. At first, because of his weak head, the
old man believed everything told him with
childish credulity. But, as he gained strength,
his ideas became clearer.
“To keep in touch with the manoeuvring
of the army, despatches from the front were
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Masterpieces of Fiction
fabricated. Pitiable it was, indeed, to see that
charming girl poring day and night over her
map of Germany, studding it with little flags,
planning an entire, splendid campaign—Bazaine
on the way to Berlin, Frossard in Bavaria,
‘MacMahon on the Baltic Sea. In doing this
she asked for my advice, and I helped her as
much as I could, but in these feigned hostilities
the grandfather was of the greatest assistance.
During the First Empire, he had conquered
Germany so often. He knew all the tactics
they should employ: ‘Now they will do this.
They should go there.’ And he was proud to
have all his predictions fulfilled. We captured
towns, and won battles, but never fast enough
for the Colonel, who was insatiable. He greeted
me with a new stratagem every day.
‘““Mayence is taken, Doctor,’ said the young
girl, meeting me with a pitiful smile, and through
the door I heard the rapturous cry:
“““We are moving, we are moving! We shall
take Berlin in a week!’
“At that very moment the Prussians wanted
but a week to enter Paris. We considered mov-
ing to the provinces, but out there, where he
could see the havoc made in the country, he
would discover the truth, and I thought him
still too weak to bear it. We decided to stay
in town. On the first day of the siege, I called
upon my patient with misgivings, I recollect,
and with that heart-agony felt by all at the
thought that the gates of Paris were closed, that
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The Siege of Berlin
the war had reached our very walls, and that
our suburbs and frontiers were one.
““T found the old man elated. ‘Well, the
siege has begun,’ he said. I looked at him in
stupefaction.
“““Why, Colonel, how do you know?’”’
“His granddaughter glanced at me, and said,
‘Oh, yes, Doctor, it is glorious news—the siege
of Berlin has begun.’
“She quietly said this while plying her needle.
He was entirely without suspicion. The roar-
ing of the cannon he could not hear, nor could
he see Paris, the ill-fated, in dark demoralisa-
tion. What he did see from the watch-tower
of his bed helped to carry out the delusion.
With the Arc de Triomphe outside, there were
in the room many reminders of the First Empire.
Portraits of marshals, engravings of battles,
the son of Napoleon in his baby-clothes; the
austere brackets decked with brazen battle-
memorials, covered with Imperial relics, medals,
bronzes; a stone from St. Helena, under a glass _
shade; numerous miniatures of a_ light-eyed,
much - be-curled lady in ball dress (a yellow
gown with leg-of-mutton sleeves); and all these
—the brackets, Napoleon’s son, the medals, the
yellow ladies in the gaudy straightness of the
Empire gown, short-waisted and sashed under
the arms—it was this environment of victorious
warfare which made the siege of Berlin a fact
so real to the poor Colonel!
““Thereafter, our military movements were
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Masterpieces of Fiction
less involved, and the taking of Berlin was
merely a question of time. When the old man
grew impatient with waiting, we would read
him a letter from his son, fictitious of course, as
nothing entered Paris, and as, since Sedan, Mac-
Mahon’s aide-de-camp was in a German fortress.
“Imagine, if you can, the desperation of ©
the poor girl, with no news of her father, cer-
tain that he was in prison, necessitous, prob-
ably sick, and still pretending to make him
speak in hopeful letters, properly brief, of
course, as froma soldier on duty marching
through a subjugated country. Often, when
the invalid suffered from excessive weakness,
news would not come for weeks. But suddenly,
when he was worried and sleepless, a letter
would arrive from Germany, which she read
merrily at his bedside, choking back her tears.
The Colonel listened attentively, with an air of
smiling patronage, assenting, censuring, inter-
preting. But he outdid himself in his replies to
his son. ‘Always remember that you are a son
of France,’ he wrote; ‘be kind to those unfor-
tunate people. Make the invasion no harder
than they can bear.’ ;
‘‘His counsel was unceasing: instructive lec-
tures regarding the rights of others; the cour-
tesy due to ladies—in fact, a complete guide
to conquerors on the preservation of military
honour. Besides this were some thoughts on
diplomacy, and stipulations regarding the terms
of peace to be made with the defeated. Con-
I22
The Siege of Berlin
cerning the latter, he was most generous: ‘The
indemnity of the war, but no more. Of what
use is it to take provinces? Germany cannot
be changed into France!’
“While giving these directions his voice never
faltered, and his words evinced so much honesty
of purpose and love of country that we were
deeply moved. And all this time the siege
was in progress, but not the siege of Berlin, alas!
““The weather was at its coldest, and we were
suffering. the heaviest bombardment, and the
worst horrors of epidemic and famine. But
Owing to our care, and the unwearied tenderness
bestowed upon him, the old man’s comfort was
never disturbed for a moment. I was even
able to obtain white bread and fresh meat for
him to the very end, but only for him.
“Could anything have been more touching
than those breakfasts of the grandfather, so
guilelessly selfish, propped up in bed, bright and
smiling, a napkin tucked under his chin, by him
his granddaughter wan because of deprivation,
directing the movements of his hands, compell-
ing him to drink, urging him to eat the good
things procured with such difficulty? ‘Strength-
ened by a meal, and cheered by the warmth of
the room, the old Cuirassier was reminded, by
the snow which whirled past the window, to
speak of his northern campaigns, and would tell
us of that disastrous retreat from Russia, with
nothing to eat but frozen biscuit and horse-
flesh.
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‘**Can you imagine that, little one? We ate
horse-flesh.’
‘‘Of course she could imagine it, since, for
two months, she had eaten nothing else!
““As he grew convalescent, our difficulties
increased. The numbness passed from his
senses as well as from his limbs, which made it
all the harder for us to deceive him. On one
or two occasions the cannonading at the Porte
Maillot had made him start and listen like a
horse on the battle-field; we accounted for it
by telling him that Bazaine had just achieved a
wonderful victory before Berlin, and what he
had heard was the firing of salvos from the
Invalides in honour of it.
‘On the Thursday of Buzenval, we pushed
his bed to the window, from which he saw some
of the National Gyard massed upon the Avenue
de la Grande Armée.
‘““What soldiers are those?’ he inquired, and
we heard him muttering, ‘Badly drilled—badly
drilled.’
‘‘Nothing else was said, but we made up our
minds to show more caution in the future. (Only,
we did not show enough.
‘The child met me, one evening, in great
distress. ‘To-morrow they enter the city,’ she
said.
‘‘Was her grandfather’s door open then? In
reflecting upon that evening afterwards, I have
remembered that his face indicated great pen-
siveness. He may accidentally have heard what
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The Siege of Berlin
we said, thinking only of the French and their
long-looked-for return with victory perched on
their banners:. MacMahon coming down the
Avenue showered with flowers, and trumpets
blowing a flourish; beside the Marshal, his own
son; himself, on his balcony in the full uniform
of Liitzen, saluting the torn colours and powder-
blackened eagles !
‘“Poor Colonel Jouve! Probably he fancied
that we wished to keep him from participating
at the defile of our troops, fearing the excite-
ment would be too much for him, and so con-
- cealing it from him. But on the morrow, just
as the Prussian army crept into the long road
leading from the Porte Maillot to the Tuileries,
the Colonel, arrayed in the battle-stained but
glorious uniform of Milhaud’s Cuirassiers, with
helmet and sword, quietly raised the window,
and stepped out upon the balcony.
“It seemed as if every effort of a fast-failing
body and iron will had been summoned for this
supreme moment, that he might stand to order,
ready in harness.
“But what met his gaze as he stood at the
railing? Paris, a hospital; all shutters closed;
the broad Avenue silent; flags everywhere, but
all white, stained with the red cross of suffering,
and no one to meet our soldiers. He may have
thought it all a mistake for an instant.
“But no. From behind the Arc de Triomphe
comes the muffled sound of advancing troops,
stepping to the measured beat of the little
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Masterpieces of Fiction
drums of Jena, then the spikes of helmets catch
the sunlight, and, when the Place de 1’Etoile is
reached, the heavy tramp, tramp, of soldiers
to the strains of Schubert’s Triumphal March
force the shocking truth upon him.
‘‘An awful cry broke the sorrowful silence of
the streets—a terrible cry:
“*To arms! To arms! . The @Peussianst:
““The four lancers who were in the vanguard
might have looked up and seen a tall, old man
wave his arms, stagger, and fall.
“Colonel Jouve had died at his post.”’
420
THE PIT AND THE PENDULUM
BY
”
Epcar ALLAN PoE
I was sick—sick unto death with that long
agony; and when they at length unbound me,
and I was permitted to sit, I felt that my senses
were leaving me. The sentence—the dread
sentence of death—was the last of distinct
accentuation which reached my ears. After
that, the sound of the inquisitorial voices
seemed merged in one dreamy indeterminate
hum. It conveyed to my soul the idea of
revolution—perhaps from its association in
fancy with the burr of a mill-wheel. This,
only for a brief period; for presently I heard no
more. Yet, for a while, I saw; but with how
terrible an exaggeration! I saw the lips of the
black-robed judges. They appeared to me
white—whiter than the sheet upon which I
trace these words—and thin even to grotesque-
ness; thin with the intensity of their expression
of firmness—of immovable resolution—of stern
contempt of human torture. I saw that the
decrees of what to me was Fate were still issu-
ing from those lips. I saw them writhe with
a deadly locution. I saw them fashion the
syllables of my name; and I shuddered because
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Masterpieces of Fiction
no sotind succeeded. I saw, too, for a few
moments of delirious horrors, the soft and
nearly imperceptible waving of the sable dra-
peries which enwrapped the walls of the apart-
ment. And then my vision fell upon the seven
tall candles upon the table. At first they wore
the aspect of charity, and seemed white slender
angels. who would save me; but then, all at
once, there came a most deadly nausea over
my spirit, and I felt every fibre in’ my frame
thrill as if I had touched the wire of a galvanic
battery, while the angel forms became meaning-
less spectres with heads of flame, and I saw that
from them there would be no help. And then
there stole into my fancy, like a rich musical note,
the thought of what sweet rest there must be
in the grave. The thought came gently and
stealthily, and it seemed long before it attained
full appreciation; but, just as my spirit came
at length properly to feel and entertain it,
the figures of the judges vanished, as if magically,
from before me; the tall candles sank into
nothingness; their flames went out utterly; the
blackness of darkness supervened; all sensations
appeared swallowed up in a mad rushing descent
as of the soul into Hades. Then silence, and
stillness, and night were the universe.
I had swooned; but still will not say that all
of consciousness was lost. What of it there
remained, I will not attempt to define, or even
to describe; yet all was not lost. In the deepest
slumber—no! In delirium—no! In a swoon—
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The Pit and the Pendulum
no! In death—no! even in the grave all 1s not
lost. Else there is no immortality for man.
Arousing from the most profound of slumbers,
we break the gossamer web of some dream. Yet
in a second afterward (so frail may that web
have been), we remember not that wes have
dreamed. In the return to life from the*$woon,
there are two stages; first, that of the s@fise of
mental or spiritual; secondly, that of the sense
of physical, existence. It seems probable that
if, upon reaching the second stage, we could
recall the impressions of the first, we should
find these impressions eloquent in memories of
the gulf beyond. And that gulf is—what?
How at least shall we distinguish its shadows
from those of the tomb? But if the impressions
of what I have termed the first stage are not, at
will, recalled, yet, after long interval, do they
not come unbidden, while we marvel whence
they came? He who has never swooned is
not he who finds strange palaces and wildly
familiar faces in coals that glow; is not he who
beholds, floating in mid-air, the sad visions that
the many may not view; is not he who ponders
over the perfume of some novel flower—is not
he whose brain grows bewildered with the mean-
ing of some musical cadence which has never
before arrested his attention.
Amid frequent and thoughtful endeavours to
remember; amid earnest struggles to .regather
some token of the state of seeming nothingness
into which my soul had lapsed, there have been
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Masterpieces of Fiction
moments when I dreamed of success; there have
been brief, very brief, periods when I have con-
jured up remembrances which the lucid reason
of a later epoch assures me could have had
reference only to that condition of seeming
unconsciousness. These shadows of memory
tell, indistinctly, of tall figures that lifted and
bore me in silence down—down—still down—
till a hideous dizziness oppressed me at the
mere idea of the interminableness of the descent.
They tell, also, of a vague horror at my heart,
on account of that heart’s unnatural stillness.
Then comes a sense of sudden motionlessness
throughout ‘all things; as if those who bore me
(a ghastly train!) had outrun, in their descent, ©
the limits of the limitless, and paused from the
wearisomeness of their toil. After this I call
to mind flatness and dampness; and then all
is madness—the madness of a memory which
busies itself among forbidden things.
Very suddenly there came back to my soul
motion and sound—the tumultuous motion of
the heart, and, in my ears, the sound -of its
beating. Then a pause in which all is blank.
Then again sound, and motion,- and touch—a
tingling sensation pervading my frame. Then
the mere consciousness of existence, without
thought—a condition which lasted long. Then,
very suddenly, thought, and shuddering terror,
and earnest endeavour to comprehend my true
state. Then a strong desire to lapse into in-
sensibility. Then a rushing revival of soul and
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The Pit and the Pendulum
a successful effort to move. And now a full
memory of the trial, of the judges, of the sable
draperies, of the sentence, of the sickness, of the
swoon. Then entire forgetfulness of all that
followed; of all that a later day and much ear-
nestness of endeavour have enabled me vaguely
to recall.
So far, I had not opened my eyes. I felt
that I lay upon my back, unbound. I reached
out my hand, and it fell heavily upon something
damp and hard. There I suffered it to remain
for many minutes, while I strove to imagine
where and what I could be. I longed, yet dared
not to employ my vision. I dreaded the first
glance at objects around me. It was not that
I feared to look upon things horrible, but that I
grew aghast lest there should be nothing to see.
At length, with a wild desperation at heart, I
quickly unclosed my eyes. My worst thoughts,
then, were confirmed. The-bleckness-of—cternal—
night encompassed me. I struggled—fer-breath._
The intensity of the darkness seemed to oppress
and stifle me. The atmosphere was intolerably
close. I still lay quietly, and made effort to
‘exercise my reason. I brought to mind the
inquisitorial proceedings, and attempted from
that point to deduce my real condition. The
sentence had passed; and it appeared to me that
a very long interval of time had since elapsed.
Yet not for a moment did I suppose myself
actually dead. Such a supposition, notwith-
standing what we read in fiction, is altogether
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Masterpieces of Fiction
inconsistent with real existence—but where and
in what state was I? The condemned to death,
I knew, perished usually at the auto-da-fés, and
one of these had been held on the very night of
the day of my trial. Had I been remanded to
my dungeon, to await the next sacrifice, which
would not take place for many months? This,
I at once saw, could not be. Victims had been
in immediate demand. Moreover, my dungeon,
as well as all the condemned cells at Toledo,
had stone floors, and light was not altogether
excluded.
A fearful idea now ‘Suadeaee drove the blood
in torrents upon my heart, and, for a brief
period, I once more relapsed into insensibility.
Upon recovering, I at once started to my feet,
trembling convulsively in every fibre. I thrust
a
directions. einene pothines yet dreaded to move
a step, lest I should be impeded by the walls of
atomb. Perspiration burst from every pore, and
stood in cold, big beads upon my forehead.
The agony of suspense grew at length intolerable,
and I cautiously moved forward, with my arms
extended, and my eyes straining from their
sockets in the hope of catching some faint ray
of light. I proceeded for many paces; but still
all was blackness and vacancy. I breathed more
freely. It seemed evident that mine was not,
at least, the most hideous of fates.
And now,-as I still continued to step cautiously
onward, there came thronging upon my recollec-
Tze
The Pit and the Pendulum
tion a thousand vague rumours of the horrors
of Toledo. Of the dungeons there had been
strange things narrated—fables I had always
deemed them—but yet strange, and too ghastly
to repeat save in a whisper. Was I left to
perish of starvation in this subterranean world
of darkness; or what fate, perhaps even more
fearful, awaited me? That the result would be
death, and a death of more than customary
bitterness, I knew too well the character of my
judges to doubt. The mode and the hour were
all that occupied or distracted me.
My outstretched hands at length encountered
some solid obstruction. It was a wall, seemingly
of stone masonry—very smooth, slimy, and
cold. I followed it up; stepping with all the
careful distrust with which certain antique
narratives had inspired me. This process, how-
ever, afforded me no means of ascertaining the
dimensions of my dungeon, as I might make its
circuit and return to the point whence I set out
without being aware of the fact—so perfectly
uniform seemed the wall. I therefore sought
the knife, which had been in my pocket when
led into the inquisitorial chamber; but it was
gone; my clothes had been exchanged for a
wrapper of coarse serge. I had thought of
forcing the blade in some minute crevice of the
masonry, so as to identify my point of departure.
The difficulty, nevertheless, was but trivial;
although in the disorder of my fancy it seemed
at first insuperable. I tore a part of the hem
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Masterpieces of Fiction
from the robe, and placed the fragment at full
length, and at right angles to the wall. In
groping my way around the prison, I could not
fail to encounter this rag upon completing the
circuit. So, at least, I thought; but I had not
counted upon the extent of the dungeon, or upon
my own weakness. The ground was moist and
slippery. I staggered onward for some time,
when I stumbled and fell. My excessive fatigue
induced me to remain prostrate; and sleep soon
overtook me as I lay.
Upon awaking, and stretching forth an arm, I
found beside me a loaf and a pitcher of water.
I was too much exhausted to reflect upon this
circumstance, but ate and drank with avidity.
Shortly afterward I resumed my tour around
the prison, and, with much toil, came at last
upon the fragment of the serge. Up to the
period when I fell I had counted fifty-two
paces, and, upon resuming my walk, I had
counted forty-eight more—when I arrived at
the rag. There were in all, then, a hundred
paces; and, admitting two paces to the yard,
I presumed the dungeon to be fifty yards in
circuit. I had met; however, with many angles
in the wall, and thus I could form no guess at the
shape of the vault, for vault I could not help
supposing it to be.
I had little object—certainly no hope—in
these researches; but a vague curiosity prompted
me to continue them. Quitting the wall, I
resolved to cross the area of the enclosure.
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The Pit and the Pendulum
At first I proceeded with extreme caution, for
the floor, although seemingly of solid material,
was treacherous with slime. At length, how-
ever, I took courage, and did not hesitate to
step firmly—endeavouring to cross in as direct
a line as possible. I had advanced some ten
or twelve paces in this manner, when the rem-
nant of the torn hem of my robe became en-
tangled between my legs. I stepped on-it, and
fell violently on my face.
In the confusion attending my fall I did not
immediately apprehend a somewhat startling
circumstance which yet, in a few seconds after-
ward, and while I still lay prostrate, arrested
my attention. It was this: my chin rested upon
the floor of the prison, but my lips and the
upper portion of my head, although seemingly
at a less elevation than the chin, touched nothing.
At the same time my forehead seemed bathed
in a clammy vapour, and the peculiar smell of
decayed fungus arose to my nostrils. I put
forward my arm, and shuddered to find that I
had fallen at the very brink of a circular pit,
whose extent, of course, I had no means of
ascertaining at the moment. Groping about
the masonry just below the margin, I succeeded
in dislodging a small fragment, and let it fall
into the abyss. For many seconds I harkened
to its reverberations as it dashed against the
sides of the chasm in its descent: at length there
was a sudden plunge into water, succeeded by
loud echoes. At the same moment there came
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Masterpieces of Fiction
a sound resembling the quick opening, and as
rapid closing, of a door overhead, while a faint
gleam of light flashed suddenly through the
gloom, and as suddenly faded away.
I saw clearly the doom which had been
prepared for me, and congratulated myself
upon the timely accident by which I had escaped.
Another step before my fall, and the world had
seen me no more. And the death just avoided
was of that very character which I had regarded
as fabulous and frivolous in the tales respecting
the Inquisition. To the victims of its tyranny,
there was the choice of death with its direst
physical agonies, or death with its most hideous
moral horrors. I had been reserved for the
latter. By long suffering my nerves had been
unstrung, until I trembled at the sound of my
own voice, and had become in every respect a
fitting subject for the species of torture which
awaited me.
Shaking *‘n every limb, I groped my way
back to the wall—resolving there to perish
rather than risk the terror of the wells, of which
my imagination now pictured many in various
positions about the dungeon. In other condi-
tions of mind I might have had courage to end
my misery at once, by a plunge into one of these
abysses; but now I was the veriest of cowards.
Neither could I forget what I had read of these
pits—that the sudden extinction of life formed
no part of their most horrible plan.
Agitation of the spirit kept me awake for
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The Pit and the Pendulum
many long hours; but at length I again slum-
bered. Upon arousing I found by my side, as
before, a loaf and a pitcher of water. A burning
thirst consumed me, and I emptied the vessel at
a draught. It must have been drugged—for
scarcely had I drunk before I“e@ecame irresistibly
drowsy. A deep sleep fell upon me—a sleep
like that of death. How long it lasted of
course I know not; but when once again I
unclosed my eyes, the objects around me were
visible. By a _ wild, sulphurous lustre, the
origin of which I could not at first determine, I
was enabled to see the extent and aspect of the
prison.
In its size I had been greatly mistaken. The
whole circuit of its walls did not exceed twenty-
five yards. For some minutes this fact occa-
sioned me a world of vain trouble; vain indeed
—for what could be of less importance, under
the terrible circumstances which environed me,
than the mere dimensions of my dungeon!
But my soul took a wild interest in trifles, and
I busied myself in endeavouring to account for
the error I had committed in my measurement.
The truth at length flashed upon me. In my
first attempt at exploration I had counted
fifty-two paces up to the period when I fell: I
must then have been within a pace or two of the
fragment of serge; in fact, I had nearly per-
formed the circuit of the vault. I then slept—
and, upon awaking, I must have returned upon
my steps—thus supposing the circuit nearly
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Masterpieces of Fiction
double what it actually was. My confusion of
mind prevented me from observing that I
began my tour with -the wall to the left, and
ended it with the wall to the right.
I had been deceived, too, in respect to the
shape of the enclosure. In feeling my way I
had found many angles, and thus deduced an
idea of great irregularity; so potent is the effect
of total darkness upon one arousing from lethargy
or sleep! The angles were simply those of a few .
slight depressions, or niches, at odd intervals.
The general shape of the prison was square.
What I had taken for masonry seemed now
to be iron, or some other metal, in huge plates,
whose sutures or joints occasioned the depression.
The entire surface of this metallic enclosure
was rudely daubed in all the hideous and re-
pulsive devices to which the charnel superstition
of the monks had given rise. The figures of
fiends in aspects of menace, with skeleton forms,
and other more really fearful images, overspread
and disfigured the walls. I observed that the
outlines of these monstrosities were sufficiently
distinct, but that the colours seemed faded and
blurred, as if from the effects of a damp atmos-
phere. I now noticed the floor, too, which was
of stone. In the centre yawned the circular pit
from whose jaws I had escaped; but it was the
only one in the dungeon.
All this I saw indistinctly and by much effort
—for my personal condition had been greatly
changed during slumber. I now lay upon my
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The Pit and the Pendulum
-back, and at full length, on a species of low
framework of wood. To this I was securely
bound by a long strap resembling a surcingle.
It passed in many convolutions about my
limbs and body, leaving at liberty only my
head, and my left arm to such extent that I
could, by dint of much exertion, supply myself
with food from an earthern dish which lay by
my side on the floor. I saw, to my horror, that
the pitcher had been removed. I say to my
horror—for I was consumed with intolerable
thirst. This thirst.it appeared to be the design
of my persecutors to stimulate—for the food
in the dish was meat pungently seasoned.
Looking upward, I surveyed the ceiling of
my prison. It was some thirty or forty feet
overhead, and constructed much as the side
walls. In one of its panels a very singular
figure riveted my whole attention. It was the
painted figure of Time as he is commonly repre-
sented, save that, in lieu of a scythe, he held
what, at a casual glance, I supposed to be the
pictured image of a huge pendulum, such as we
see on antique clocks. There was something,
however, in the appearance of this machine
which caused me to regard it more attentively.
While I gazed directly upward at it (for its
position was immediately over my own), I
fancied that I saw it in motion. In an instant
afterwards the fancy was confirmed. Its sweep
was brief and, of course, slow. I watched it
for some minutes, somewhat in fear, but more
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Masterpieces of Fiction
in wonder. Wearied at length with observing
its dull movement, I turned my eyes upon the
other objects in the cell.
A slight noise attracted my notice, and,
looking to the floor, I saw several enormous rats.
traversing it. They had issued from the well,
which lay just within view to my right. Even
then, while I gazed, they came up in troops,.
hurriedly, with ravenous eyes, allured by the
scent of the meat. From this it required much
effort and attention to scare them away.
It might have been half. an hour, perhaps
even an hour (for I could take but imperfect note
of time), before I again cast my eyes upward.
What I then saw confounded and amazed me.
The sweep of the pendulum had increased in
extent by nearly a yard. As a natural con-
sequence, its velocity was also much greater.
But what mainly disturbed me was the idea
that it had perceptibly descended. I now
observed—with what horror it is needless to
say—that its nether extremity was formed
of a crescent of glittering steel, about a foot in
length from horn to horn; the horns upward, and
the under edge evidently as keen as that of a
razor. Like a razor also it seemed massy and
heavy, tapering from the edge into a solid and
broad structure above. It was appended to a
weighty rod of brass, and the whole hissed as it
swung through the air. .
I could no longer doubt the doom prepared
for me by monkish ingenuity in torture. My
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The Pit and the Pendulum
cognisance of the pit had become known to the
inquisitorial agents—the pit, whose horrors had
been destined for so bold a recusant as myself—
the pit, typical of hell and regarded by rumour
as the Ultima Thule of all.their punishments.
The plunge into this pit I had avoided by the
merest of accidents, and I knew that surprise, or
entrapment into torment, formed an important
portion of all the grotesquerie of these dungeon
deaths. Having failed to fall, it was no part of
the demon-plan to hurl me into the abyss; and
thus (there being no alternative) a different and
a milder destruction awaited me. Milder! I
half smiled in my agony as I thought of such
application of such a term.
What boots it to tell of the long, long hours of
horror more than mortal, during which I counted
the rushing oscillations of the steel! Inch by
inch—line by line—with a descent only appre-
ciable at intervals that seemed ages—down and
still down it came! Days passed—it might have
been that many days passed—ere it swept so
closely over me as to fan me with its acrid
breath. The odour of the sharp steel forced
itself into my nostrils. I prayed—I wearied
heaven with my prayer for its more speedy
descent. I grew frantically mad, and struggled
to force myself upward against the sweep of the
fearful scimitar. And then I fell suddenly
calm, and lay smiling at the glittering death,
as a child at some rare bauble.
There was another interval of utter insensi-
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Masterpieces of Fiction
bility; it was brief; for, upon again lapsing into
life, there had been no perceptible descent in the
pendulum. But it might have been long—for
I knew there were demons who took note of my
swoon, and who could have arrested the vibra-
tion at pleasure. Upon my recovery, too, I felt
very—oh, inexpressibly!—sick and weak, as if
through long inanition. Even amid the agonies
of that period, the human nature craved food.
With painful effort I outstretched my left arm
as far as my bonds permitted, and took possession
of the small remnant which had been spared me
by the rats. As I put a portion of it within my
lips, there rushed to my mind a half-formed
thought of joy—of hope. Yet what business had
I with hope? It was, as I say, a half-formed
thought—man has many such, which are never
completed. I felt that it was of joy—of hope;
but I felt also that it had perished in its forma-
tion. In vain I struggled to perfect—to regain
it. Long suffering’ had nearly annihilated all
my ordinary powers of mind. I was an imbecile
—an idiot.
The vibration of the pendulum was at right
angles to my length. I saw that the crescent
was designed to cross the region of the heart.
It would fray the serge of my robe—it would
return and repeat its operations—again—and
again. Notwithstanding its terrifically wide
sweep (some thirty feet or more), and the
hissing vigour of its descent, sufficient to sunder
these very walls of iron, still the fraying of my
‘ 142
The Pit and the Pendulum
robe would be all that, for several minutes, it
would accomplish. And at this thought I
paused. I dared not go farther than this
reflection. I dwelt upon it with a pertinacity
of attention—as if, in so dwelling, I could afrest
here the descent of the steel. I forced myself
to ponder upon the sound of the crescent as
it should pass across the’ garment—upon the
peculiar thrilling sensation which the friction
of cloth produces on the nerves. I pondered
upon all this frivolity until my teeth were on
edge.
Down—steadily down—it .crept. I took a
frenzied pleasure in contrasting its downward
with its lateral velocity. To the right—to the
left—far and wide—with the shriek of a damned
spirit! to my heart, with the stealthy pace of
the tiger! I alternately laughed and howled, as
the one or the other idea grew predominant.
Down—certainly, relentlessly down! It vi-
brated within three inches of my bosom! I
struggled violently—furiously—to free my left
arm. This was free only from the elbow to
the hand. I could reach the latter from the
platter beside me to my mouth, with great effort,
but no farther. Could I have broken the fasten-
ings above the elbow, I would have seized and
attempted to arrest the pendulum. I might as
well have attempted to arrest an avalanche!
Down—still unceasingly—still inevitably down.
I gasped and struggled at each vibration. I
shrank convulsively at its every sweep. My
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eyes followed its outward or upward whirls
with the eagerness of the most unmeaning
despair; they closed themselves spasmodically |
at the descent, although death would have been
a relief, oh, how unspeakable! Still I quivered
in every nerve to think how slight a sinking
of the machinery would precipitate that keen,
glistening axe upon my bosom. It was hope that
prompted the ‘nerve to quiver—the frame to
shrink. It was hope—the hope that triumphs.
on the rack—that whispers to the death-
condemned even in the dungeons of the Inqui-
sition.
I saw that some ten or twelve vibrations
would bring the steel in actual contact with my
robe—and, with this observation, there suddenly
came over my spirit all the keen, collected
calmness of despair. For the first time during
many hours—or perhaps days—I thought. It
now occurred to me that the bandage, or sur-
cingle, which enveloped me, was unique. I
was tied by no separate cord. The first stroke
of the razor-like crescent athwart any portion
of the band would so detach it that it might be
unwound from my person by means of my left
hand. But how fearful, in that case, the
proximity of the steel! The result of the slight-
est struggle, how deadly! Was it likely, more-
over, that the minions of the torturer had not
foreseen and provided for this possibility?
Was it probable that the bandage crossed my
bosom in the track of the pendulum? Dreading ©
144
The Pit and the Pendulum
to find my faint, and, as it seemed, my last,
hope frustrated, I so far elevated my head as
to obtain a distinct view of my breast. The
surcingle enveloped my limbs and body close
in all directions—save tn the path of the destroying
crescent.
Scarcely had I dropped my head back into its
original position, when there flashed upon my
mind what I cannot better describe than as the
unformed half of that idea of deliverance to
which I have previously alluded, and of which
a moiety only floated indeterminately through
my brain when I raised food to my burning lips.
The whole thought was now present—feeble,
scarcely sane, scarcely definite—but still entire.
I proceeded at once, with the nervous energy
of despair, to attempt its execution.
For many hours the immediate vicinity of
the low framework upon which I lay had been
literally swarming with rats. They were wild,
bold, ravenous—their red eyes glaring upon
me as if they waited but for motionlessness on
my part to make me their prey. ‘‘To what
food,’ I thought, ‘‘have they been accustomed
in the well?”
They had devoured, in spite of all my efforts
to prevent them, all but a small remnant of the
contents of the dish. I had fallen into an
habitual see-saw, or wave of the hand about
the platter; and at length the unconscious uni-
formity of the movement deprived it of effect.
In their voracity the vermin frequently fastened
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their sharp fangs in my fingers. With the
particles of the oily and spicy viand which now
remained I thoroughly rubbed the bandage
wherever I.could reach it; then, raising my
hand from the floor, I lay breathlessly still.
At first the ravenous animals were startled
and terrified at the change—at the cessation of
movement. They shrank alarmedly back; many
sought the well. But this was only fora moment.
I had not counted in vain upon their voracity.
Observing that I remained without motion, one
or two of the boldest leaped upon the frame-
work and smelt at the surcincle. This seemed
the signal for a general rush. Forth from the
well they hurried in fresh troops. They clung
to the wood—they overran it, and leaped in
hundreds upon my person. The measured
movement of the pendulum disturbed them not
at all. Avoiding its strokes, they busied them-
selves with the anointed bandage. They pressed
—they swarmed upon me in ever accumulating
heaps. They writhed upon my throat; their
cold lips sought my own; I was half stifled by
their thronging pressure; disgust for which the
world has no name swelled my bosom, and
chilled, with a heavy clamminess, my heart.
Yet one minute, and I felt that the struggle
would be over. Plainly I perceived the loosening
of the bandage. I knew that, in more than one
place, it must be already severed. With a
more than human resolution I lay stzll.
Nor had I erred in my calculations—nor had
146
The Pit and the Pendulum
I endured in vain. I at length felt that I was
free. The surcingle hung in ribbons from my
body. But the stroke of the pendulum already
pressed upon my bosom. It had divided the
serge of the robe. It had cut through the linen
beneath. Twice again it swung, and a sharp
sense of pain shot through every nerve. But
the moment of escape had arrived. At a wave
of my hand my deliverers hurried tumultuously
away. With a steady movement—cautious,
sidelong, shrinking, and slow—I slid from the
embrace of the bandage and beyond the reach
of the scimitar. For the moment, at least, J
was free.
Free!—and in the grasp of the Inquisition!
I had scarcely stepped from my wooden bed of
horror upon the stone floor of the prison when
the motion of the hellish machine ceased, and
I beheld it drawn up, by some invisible force,
through the ceiling. My every motion was
undoubtedly watched. Free!—I had but es-
caped death in one form of agony, to be delivered
unto worse than death in some other. With
that thought I rolled my eyes nervously around
on the barriers of iron that hemmed me in.
Something unusual—some change which, at
first, I could not appreciate distinctly—it was
obvious had taken place in the apartment. For
many minutes of a dreamy and _ trembling
abstraction I busied myself in vain, uncon-
nected conjecture. During this period I became
aware, for the first time, of the origin of the
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sulphurous light which illumined the cell. It
proceeded from a fissure, about half an inch in
width, extending entirely around the prison at
the base of the walls, which thus appeared, and
were, completely separated from the floor. I
endeavoured, but of course in vain, to look
through the aperture.
As I arose from the attempt the mystery of
the alteration in the chamber broke at once
upon my understanding. I have observed
that, although the outlines of the figures. upon
the walls were sufficiently distinct, yet the
colours seemed blurred and indefinite. These
colours had assumed, and were momentarily
assuming, a startling and most intense brilliancy,
that gave to the spectral and fiendish portraitures
an aspect that might have thrilled even firmer
nerves than my own.. Demon eyes, of a wild
and ghastly vivacity, glared upon me in a
thousand directions, where none had been
visible before, and gleamed with the lurid
lustre of a fire that I could not force my imagina- —
tion to regard as unreal.
Unreal!—Even while I breathed there came
to my nostrils the breath of the vapour of heated
iron! A suffocating odour pervaded the prison!
A deeper glow settled each moment in the eyes
that glared at my agonies! A richer tint of
crimson diffused itself over the pictured horrors
of blood. I panted! I gasped for breath! There
could be no doubt of the design of my tormentors
—oh! most unrelenting! oh! most demoniac of
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The Pit and the Pendulum
men! I shrank from the glowing metal to
the centre of the cell. Amid the thought of
the fiery destruction that impended, the idea
of the coolness of the well came over my soul
like balm. I rushed to its deadly brink. I
threw my straining vision belqw. The glare
from the enkindled roof illumined its inmost
recesses. Yet for a wild moment did my
spirit refuse to comprehend the meaning of
what I saw. At length it forced—it wrestled its
way into my soul—it burned itself in upon my
shuddering reason. Oh! for a voice to speak!—
oh! horror!—oh! any horror but this! With a
shriek I rushed from the margin, and buried my
face in my hands—weeping bitterly.
The heat rapidly increased, and once again I
looked up, shuddering as with a fit of the ague.
There had been a second change in the cell—
and now the change was obviously in the form.
As before, it was in vain that I at first endeav-
oured to appreciate or understand what was
taking place. But not long was I left in doubt.
The Inquisitorial vengeance had been hurried
by my two-fold escape, and there was to be no
more dallying with the King of Terrors. The
room had been square. I saw that two of its:
iron angles were now acute—two, consequently,
obtuse. The fearful difference quickly in-
creased with a low rumbling or moaning sound.
In an instant the apartment had shifted its
form into that of a lozenge. But the alteration
stopped not here—I neither hoped nor desired
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Masterpieces of Fiction
it would stop. I could have clasped the red
walls to my bosom as a garment of eternal peace.
‘“‘Death,”’ I said, ‘‘any death but that of the pit!’’
Fool! might I not have known that «nto the pit
it was the object of the burning iron to urge me?
Could I resist its glows? or if even that, could I
withstand its pressure? And now, flatter and
flatter grew the lozenge, with a rapidity that
left me no time for contemplation. Its centre,
and of course its greatest width, came just
over the yawning gulf. I shrank back—but the
closing walls pressed me resistlessly onward.
At length for my seared and writhing body there
was no longer an inch of foothold on the firm
floor of the prison. I struggled no more, but
the agony of my soul found vent in one loud,
long, and final scream of despair. gI felt that I
tottered upon the brink—I averted my eyes
There was a discordant hum of human voices!
There was a loud blast as of many trumpets!
There was a harsh grating as of a thousand
thunders! The fiery walls rushed back! An
outstretched arm caught my own as I fell,
fainting,into the abyss. It was that of General
Lasalle. The French army had entered Toledo.
‘The Inquisition was in the hands of its enemies!
150
REALITY
BY
CHARLES READE
Miss Sopuia JACKSON, in the State of Illinois,
was a beautiful girl, and had a devoted lover,
Ephraim Slade; a merchant’s clerk. Their at-
tachment was sullenly permitted by Miss Jack-
son’s parents, but not encouraged: they thought
she might look higher.
Sophia said, ‘‘Why, la! he is handsome and
good, and loves me, and is not that enough?”’
They said, “No; to marry Beauty, a man
ought to be rich.”
““Well,”’ said Sophy, ‘‘he is on the way to it:
he is in a merchant’s office.”
“‘It is a long road; for he is only a clerk.”
The above is a fair specimen of the dialogue,
and conveys as faint an idea of it as specimens
generally do.
All this did not prevent Ephraim and
Sophia from spending many happy hours
together.
But presently another figure came on the
scene—Mr. Jonathan Clarke. He took a fancy
to Miss Jackson, and told her parents so, and
that she was the wife for him, if she was dis-
engaged. They said, ‘Well, now, there was 2
Ess
Masterpieces of Fiction
young clerk after her, but the man was too
poor to marry her.”’
Now, Mr. Jonathan Clarke was a wealthy
speculator; so, on that information, he felt
superior, and courted her briskly.
She complained to Ephraim. “The idea
of their encouraging that fat fool to think of
me!’’ said she. She called him old, though he
was but thirty, and turned his person and
sentiments into ridicule, though, in the opinion
of sensible people, he was a comely man, full of
good sense and sagacity.
Mr. Clarke paid her compliments. Miss
Jackson laughed, and reported them to Slade in
a way to make him laugh too.
Mr. Clarke asked her to marry him. She
said no; she was too young to think of
that. She told Ephraim she had flatly re-
fused him.
Mr. Clarke made her presents. She refused
the first, and blushed, but was prevailed on to
accept. She accepted the second and the third,
- without first refusing them. :
She did not trouble Ephraim Slade with any
portion of this detail. She was afraid it might
_ give him pain.
Clarke wooed her so warmly that Ephraim
got jealous and unhappy. He remonstrated.
Sophia cried, and said it was all her parents’
fault—forcing the man upon her.
Clarke was there every day. Ephraim scolded.
Sophia was cross. They parted in anger.
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Reality
Sophia went home, and snubbed Clarke. Clarke
laughed, and said, ‘‘Take your time.”
He stuck there four hours. She came round,
and was very civil.
Matters progressed. Ephraim always un-
happy. Clark always jolly. Parents in the
same mind.
Clarke urged her to name the day.
*‘Never!”’
Urged her again.
“Next year.”
‘Urged her again before her parents. They
put in their word. ‘‘Sophy, don’t trifle any
longer. You are overdoing it.”
‘“‘There, there, do what you like with me,” said
the girl; ‘‘I am miserable!”’ and ran out crying.
Clarke and parents laughed, and stayed behind,
and settled the day.
When Sophy found they had settled the day,
she sent for Ephraim and told him, with many
tears: ‘“‘Oh!’’ said she, “‘you little know what
I have suffered this six months!”’
*“My poor girl,” said Ephraim, ‘‘let us elope
and end it.”
“What! My parents would curse me.”
“Oh, they would forgive us in time!”’
“Never. You don’t know them. No, my
poor Ephraim, we are unfortunate. We can
never be happy together. We must bow. I
should die if this went on much longer.”
“You are a fickle, faithless jade!’’ cried
Ephraim, in agony.
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*‘God forgive you, dear!’”’ said she, and wept
silently. |
Then he tried to comfort her. Then she
put her arm round his neck, and assured him
she yielded to constraint, but her heart could
never forget him; she was more unhappy than
he, and always Bhouls be.
They parted, with many tears on both sides,
and she married Clarke. At her earnest request,
Slade kept away from the ceremony. By that
means she was not compeiled to wear the air
of a victim, but could fling the cloak of illusory
happiness and gayety over her aching heart; and
she did it, too. She was as gay a bride as had
been seen for some years in those parts.
Ephraim Slade was very unhappy. However,
after a bit, he comprehended the character of
Sophia Clarke, wée Jackson, and even imitated
her. She had gone in for money, and so did he:
only on the square—a detail she had omitted.
Years went on: he became a partner in the
house, instead of a clerk. The girls set their
caps at him. But he did not marry. Mrs.
Clarke observed this, and secretly approved.
Say she had married, that was no reason why
he should. Justice des femmes!
Now you wiil observe that, by all the laws
of fiction, Mrs. Clarke ought to have learned, to
her cost, that money does not bring happiness,
and ought to have been miserable, especially
whenever she encountered the pale face of him
whose love she valued too late.
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Reality
Well, she broke all those laws, and went in
for Life as it is. She was happier than most
wives. Her husband was kind, but not doting;
a gentle master, but no slave. And she liked it.
She had two beautiful children, and they helped
fill her life. Her husband’s gold smoothed her
path, and his manly affection strewed it with
flowers. She was not passionately devoted to
‘him, but still, by the very laws of nature, the
wife was fonder of Jonathan than the maid
had ever been of Ephraim; not but what the
latter remaining unmarried tickled her vanity,
and so completed her content.
She passed six years in clover, and the clover
in full bloom all the time. Nevertheless, gilt
happiness is apt to get a rub sooner or later.
Clarke had losses one upon another, and at last
told her he was done for. He must go back to
California, and make another fortune. ‘‘Lucky
the old folks made me settle a good lump on
you,’ said he. ‘‘You are all right, and the
children.”’
Away went stout-hearted Clarke, and left
his wife behind. He knew the country, and
went at all in the ring, and began to remake
money fast. :
His letters were not very frequent, no
models of conjugal love, but they had good
qualities. One was their contents—a draft on
New York.
Some mischievous person reported that he
was often seen about with the same lady; but
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Masterpieces of Fiction
Mrs. Clarke did not believe polit the remittances
being regular.
But presently both letters and remittances
ceased. ‘Then she believed the worst, and sent
a bitter remonstrance.
She received no reply.
Then she wrote:a bitterer one, and, for the
first time since their union, cast Ephraim Slade
in histeeth. ‘There he is,” said she, ‘unmarried
to this day, for my sake.”
No reply even to this.
She went to her parents, and told them how
she was used.
They said they had foreseen it—that being
a lie some people think it necessary to deliver
themselves of before going seriously into any
question—and then, after a few pros and cons,
they bade her observe that her old lover, Ephraim
Slade, was a rich man, a man unmarried evidently
for her sake. If she was wise, she would look
that way, and get rid of a mock husband, who
was probably either dead or false, and, in any
case, had deserted her.
“But what am I to do?” said Mrs. Clarke,
affecting not to know what they were driving
at.
“Why, sue for a divorce.”’
‘‘Divorce Jonathan! Think of it! He is the
father of my children, and he was a good husband
to me all the time he was with me. It is all that
nasty California.’’ And she began to cry.
The old people told her she must take people
156
Reality
as they were, not as they had been; and it was
no fault of hers, nor California’s, if her husband
was a changed man.
In short, they pressed her hard to sue for a
divorce and let Slade know she was going to
do it.
But the woman was still handsome and under
thirty, and was not without a certain pride and
delicacy that grace her sex even when they lack
the more solid virtues. ‘‘No,’’ said she, “‘I will
never go begging to any man. I'll not let
Ephraim Slade think I divorced my husband
just to get him. I'll part with Jonathan, since
_ he has parted with me, and after that I will take
my chance. Ephraim Slade? He is not the
only man in the world with eyes in his head.”’
So she sued for a divorce, and got it’ quite
easily. Divorce is beautifully easy in the West.
When she was free, she had no longer any
scruple about Ephraim. He lived at a town
seven miles from her. She had a friend in that
town. She paid her a visit. She let the other
lady into her plans, and secured her co-operation.
Mrs. X set it abroad that Mrs. Clarke was
a widow; and, from one to another, Ephraim
Slade was given to understand that a visit
from him would be agreeable.
“Will it?”’ said Ephraim. ‘Then I'll go.”
He called on her, and was received with a
' sweet, pensive tenderness. ‘‘Sit down, Ephraim
—Mr. Slade,’ said she, softly and tremulously,
and left the room. She had scarcely cleared it
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when he heard her tell the female servant, with
a sharp, imperious tone, to admit no other
visitors. It did not seem. the, same voice.
She came back to him melodious. ‘“‘The sight
of you after so many years upset me,’’ said she.
Then, after a pause and a sigh, ‘‘ You look well.”
‘‘Oh, yes, I am all right! We are neither of
us quite so young as we were, you know.”’
‘‘No, indeed’’ (with another sigh). ‘Well,
dear friend, I suppose you have heard. I am
punished, you see, for my want of courage and
fidelity. I have always been punished. But
you could not know that. Perhaps, after all,
you have been the happier of the two. I am
sure I hope you have.”
“Well, I'll tell you, Mrs. Clarke,’’ said he, in
open, manly tones.
She stopped him. ‘Please don’t call me
Mrs. Clarke, when I have parted with the name
forever; (sotto voce) call me Sophia.”’
“Well, then, Sophia, I’ll tell you the truth.
When you jilted me——’”’
One
““And married Cl who shall I say? Well,
then, married another, because he had got more
money than I had——’”’
“No, no. Ephraim, it was all my parents.
But I will try and bear your reproaches. Go
on.”
“Well, then, of course I was awfully cut up. »
I was wild. I got a six-shooter to kill you and
—the other.”’
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Reality
“I wish you had,’ said she. She didn’t wish
anything of the kind. |
“I’m very glad I didn’t, then. I dropped
the six-shooter and took to the moping and
crying line.”’
““Poor Ephraim!”
“Oh, yes! I went through all the changes,
and ended as other men do.”
**And how is that?”’
“Why, by getting over it.”’
“What! you have got over it?”’
‘“‘Lord, yes! long ago.”
“‘Oh! in—deed!’’ said she, bitterly. Then,
with sly incredulity, ‘‘How is it you have never
married ?”’
“Well, Ill tell you. When I found that
money was everything with you girls, I calculated
to go in for money too. So I speculated, like—
the other, and made money. But, when I had
once begun to taste money-making, somehow
I left off troubling about women. And, besides,
I know a great many people, and I look coolly
on, and what I see in every house has set me
against marriage: Most of my married friends
envy me, and say so. I don’t envy any one of
them, and don’t pretend to. Marriage! It is a
bad institution! You have got clear of it, I
hear. All the better for you. I mean to take
a shorter road: I won’t ever get into it.”
This churl, then, who had drowned hot
passion in the waves of time, and, instead
of nursing a passion for her all his days, had
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Masterpieces of Fiction
been hugging celibacy as man’s choicest treasure,
asked her coolly if there was anything he could
do for her. Could he be of service in finding
out investments, etc., or could-he place either
of the boys in the road to wealth? Instead of
hating these poor children, like a man, he
seemed all the more inclined to serve them that
their absent parent had secured him the sweets
of celibacy.
She was bursting with ire, but had the self-
restraint to thank him, though very coldly, and
to postpone all discussion of that kind to a
future time. Then he shook hands. with her,
and left her.
She was wounded to the core. It would
have been very hard to wound her heart as
deeply as this interview wounded her pride.
She sat down, and shed tears of mortification.
She was aroused from that condition by a
letter in a well-known hand. She opened it,
all in a flutter:
‘““My Dear Sophy: You are a nice wife,
you are. Here I have been slaving my life
out for you, and shipwrecked, and nearly dead
with a fever, and coming home rich again, and
I asked you just to come from Chicago to New
York to meet me, that have come all the way
from China and San Francisco, and it is too
much trouble. Did you ever hear of Lunham’s
dog that was so lazy he leaned against the
wall to bark? It is very disheartening to a
poor fellow that has played a man’s part for
you and the children. Now, be a good girl, and
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Reality
meet me at Chicago to-morrow at6p.M._ For,
if you don’t, by thunder! I’ll take the chil-
dren and absquatulate with them to Paris, or
somewhere. I find the drafts on New York
I sent from China have never been presented.
Reckon by that, you never got them. Has that
raised your dander? Well, it is not my fault.
So put on your bonnet, and come and meet
“Your affectionate husband,
“ JONATHAN CLARKE.
““T sent my first letter to your father’ s house.
I send this to your friend, Mrs. X
Mrs. Clarke read this in such a tumult of
emotions that her mind could not settle a
moment on one thing. But when she had read it,
the blood in her beating veins began to run cold.
What on earth should she do? Fall to the
ground between two stools? No—that was a
‘man’s trick, and she was a woman, every inch.
She had not any time to lose; so she came to a
rapid conclusion. Her acts will explain better
than comments. She dressed, packed up one
box, drove to the branch station, and got to
Chicago. She bought an exquisite bonnet, took
private apartments at a hotel, and employed
an intelligent person to wait for her husband
at the station, and call out his name, and give
him a card, on which was written:
Mrs. JONATHAN CLARKE i
: “At the X—— Hotel ‘
eeeerseee ew ve eee ee es we we eee ese see ee ee
Masterpieces of Fiction
This done, she gave her mind entirely to the
decoration of her person.
The ancients, when they had done anything
wrong, and wanted to be forgiven, used to ap-
proach their judges with dishevelled hair and
shabby clothes—sordidis vestibus.
This poor shallow woman, unenlightened by
the wisdom of the ancients, thought the nicer a
woman looked, the likelier a man would be to
forgive her, no matter what. So she put on her
best silk dress, and her new French hat bought
on purpose, and made her hair very neat, and
gave her face a wash and a rub, that added
colour. She did not rouge, because she calcu-
lated she should have to cry before the end of
the play, and crying hard over rouge makes
channels. |
When she was as nice as could be, she sat
down to wait for her divorcé. She might be
compared to a fair spider which has spread her
web to catch a wasp, but is sorely afraid that,
when he does come, he will dash it all to ribbons.
The time came, and passed. An expected
character is always as slow to come as a watched
pot to boil.
At last there was a murmur on the stairs;
then a loud, hearty voice; then a blow at the
door—you could not call it a tap—and in burst
Jonathan Clarke, brown as a berry, beard a foot
long, genial and loud, open-hearted, Californian
manners.
At sight of her, he gave a hearty ‘“‘Ah!”’ and
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Reality
came at her with a rush to clasp her to his manly
bosom, and knocked over a little gilt cane chair.
The lady, quaking internally and trembling
from head to foot, received him like the awful
Siddons, with one hand nobly extended, for- —
bidding his profane advance. ‘‘A word first,
if you please, sir.”’
Then Clarke stood transfixed, with one foot
advanced and his arm in the air, like Ixion when
Juno turned cloud.
‘*You have ordered me to come here, sir, and
you have no longer any right to order me: but I
am come, you see, to tell you my mind. What,
do you really think a wife is to be deserted and
abandoned, most likely for some other woman,
and then be whistled back into her place like a
dog?. No man shall use me so.”
“Why, what is the row? Has a mad dog bit-
ten you, ye cantankerous critter?’’
“‘Not a letter for ten months, that is the mat-
ter!’’ cried Mrs. Clarke, loud and aggressive.
“That is not my fault.. I wrote three from
China, and sent you two drafts on New York.”’
“It is easy to say so: I don’t believe it.”
(Louder and aggressiver.)
CLARKE (bawling in his turn). ‘‘I don’t care
whether you believe it or not. Nobody but you
calls Jony Clarke a lar.”
Mrs. CLarRKE (competing in violence). ‘‘I
believe one thing—that you were seen all about
San Francisco with a lady. ’Twas to her you
directed my letters and drafts: that is how I lost
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them. It is always the husband that is in fault,
and not the post.’’ (Very amicably all of a sud-
den) : ‘‘How long were you in California after you
came back from China?”’
‘“Two months.”’
‘‘How often did you write in that time?”’
(Sharply.)
“Well, you see, I was always expecting to
start for home.”’’
“You never wrote once!’’ (Very loud.)
‘‘That was the reason.”’
“That and the lady!’’ (Screaming loud.)
‘‘Stuff! Give me a kiss, and no more non-
sense.”’
(Solemnly): ‘‘That I shall never do again.
Husbands must be taught not to trifle with their
wives’ affections in this cruel way.’”’ (Tenderly):
“Oh, Jonathan, how:could you abandon me?
What could youexpect? Iam not old; Iam not
ugly.” .
“Damn it all, if you have been playing any
games’’—-and he felt instinctively for a bowie-
knife.
“Sir!’’ said the lady, in an awful tone, that
subjugated the monster directly.
*‘Well, then,’ said he, sullenly, *‘don’t talk
nonsense. Please remember we are man and wife.”’
Mrs. CLARKE (very gravely). ‘Jonathan, we
are not.”
“If you are going into a passion, I won’t tell
you anything; I hate to be frightened. What
language the man has picked up—in California!’’
164
Reality
‘‘Well, that’s neither here nor there. You go
on.”
‘Well, Jonathan, you know I have always
been under the influence of my parents. It was
at their wish I married you.”
“That is not what you told me at the time.”
“Oh, yes, I did; only you have forgotten.
Well, when no word came from you for so many
months, my parents were indignant, and they
worked upon me so and pestered me so—that—
Jonathan, we are divorced.”
The actress thought this was a good point to
cry at, and cried accordingly.
Jonathan started at the announcement, swore
a heartful, and then walked the room in rage
and bitterness. ‘‘So, then,” said he, ‘‘ you leave
the woman you love, and the children whose
smiles are your heaven; you lead the life of a dog
for them, and, when you come back, by God! the
wife of your bosom has divorced you, just because
a letter or two miscarried! That outweighs all
you have done and suffered for her. Oh, you
are crying, are you? What, you have given up
facing it out, and laying the blame on me, have
you?”
“Yes, dear; I find you were not to blame: it
was—my parents.”
“Your parents! Why, you are not a child,
are you? You are the parent of my children,
you little idiot! Have you forgotten that?”’
‘‘No. Oh! oh! oh! I have acted hastily, and
very, very wrong.”
165
Masterpieces of Fiction
~ “Come, that is a good deal for a pretty woman
to own. There, dry your eyes, and let us order
dinner.” ae
‘What! dine with you?”
‘““‘Why, damn it, it is not the first time by a
few thousand.”’
‘“‘La, Jonathan! I should like; but I mustn't.”
“Why not?’
““T should be compromised.”’
“What, with me?”’
‘““Yes—with any gentleman. Do try and
realise the situation, dear. J amasinglewoman.”’
Good Mr. Clarke—from California—delivered
a string of curses so rapidly that they all ran into
what Sir Walter calls a ‘‘clishmaclaver,’’ even as
when the ringers clash and jangle the church bells.
Mrs. Clarke gave him time; but as soon as he
was in a state to listen quietly, compelled him
to realise her situation. ‘*‘ You see,’ said she, ‘‘I
am obliged to be very particular now. Delicacy
demands it. You remember poor Ephraim
Slade ?”’
“Your old sweetheart. Confound him! has
he been after you again?”’
“Why, Jonathan, ask yourself. He has
remained unmarried ever since, and, when he
heard I was free, of course he entertained hopes.
But I kept him at a distance, and so”’ (tenderly
and regretfully) ““I must you. J am a single
woman.”’
“Look me in the face, Sophy. You won't
dine with me?”
166
Reality ,
“I'd give the world, but I mustn’t, dear.”
“Not if I twist your neck round—darling—if
you don’t?”
““No, dear. You shall kill me, if you please.
But I am a respectable woman, and I will not
brave the world. But I know I have acted
rashly, foolishly, ungratefully, and deserve to be
killed. Kill me, dear—you’ll forgive me then!”’
With that, she knelt down at his feet, crossed her
hands over his knees, and looked up sweetly in
his face with brimming eyes, waiting, yea, even
requesting, to be killed.
He looked at her with glistening eyes. ‘‘You
cunning hussy,”’ said he, ‘‘you know I would not
hurt a hair of your head. What is to be done?
I tell you what it is, Sophy: I have lived three
years without a wife, and that isenough. I won’t
live any longer so—no, not a day. It shall be
you, or somebody else. Ah! what is that?—a
bell. Ill ring, and order one. I’ve got lots of
money. They are always to be had for that,
you know.”
“Oh, Jonathan! don’t talk so. It is scan-
dalous. How can you get a wife all in a minute
by ringing?”’
“Tf I can’t, then the town-crier can. I'll hire
him.”’
‘“‘For shame!”’
‘‘How is it to be, then? You that are so
smart at dividing couples, you don’t seem to be
very clever in bringing ’em together again.”’
“It was my parents, Jonathan, not me. Well,
167
Masterpieces of Fiction —
dear, I always think when people are in a diffi-.
culty, the best thing is to go to some very good
person for advice. Now, the best people are
the clergymen. There is one in this street,
number eighteen. Perhaps he could advise us.”’
Jonathan listened gravely for a little while,
before he saw what she was at, but the moment
he caught the idea so slyly conveyed he slapped
his thigh and shouted out, ‘‘ You are a sensible
girl—come on!’’ And he almost dragged her
to the clergyman. Not but what he found time
to order a good dinner in the hall as they went.
The clergyman was out, but soon found. He
remarried them, and they dined together man
and wife.
They never mentioned grievances that night,
and Jonathan said, afterward, his second bridal
was worth a dozen of his first. For, the first
time, she was a child, and had to be courted
up-hill, but the second time she was a woman,
and knew what to say to a fellow.
Next day Mr. and Mrs. Clarke went over
to They drove about in an open car-
riage for some hours, and did a heap of shopping.
They passed by Ephraim Slade’s place of busi-
ness much oftener than there was any need, and
slower. It was Mrs. Clarke who drove. Jon-
athan sat, and took it easy.
She drives to this day.
And Jonathan takes it easy.
168
THE
POCKET UNIVERSITY
ForTy-FIVE VOLUMES IN [TWENTY-SIX
VOLUME XLII
FICTION
EDITED BY
HAMILTON W. MABIE
VotumeE VI
THE MENTOR ASSOCIATION
AND NELSON DOUBLEDAY
NEW YORK
1917
Copyright. 1904, by
Doubleday, Page & Company —
CONTENTS
“The Man Who Would Be King,”
By: Rudyard siping... “saceneets ats
“The Piece of String,” |
By Henri René Albert Guy de Maupassant
‘The Spectre Bridegroom,”
By Washington Irving .
“A Fight for the Tsarina,”
By Maurus Jokai
** A Passion in the Desert,”
By Honoré de Balzac
“The Snowstorm,”
By Alexander Sergeivitch Pushkin .
152
Fem ee ee
er icaw OCT EE Ce FS x
2
THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING*
BY
RuDYARD ‘KIPLING
THE Law, as quoted, lays down a fair conduct
of life, and one not easy to follow. I have been
fellow to a beggar again and again under cir-
cumstances which prevented either of us finding
out whether the other was worthy. I have
still to be brother to a Prince, though I once
came near to kinship with what might have
been a veritable King and was promised the
reversion of a Kingdom —army, law-courts,
revenue and policy all complete. But, to-day,
I greatly fear that my King is dead, and if I
want a crown I must go and hunt it for myself.
The beginning of everything was in a railway
train upon the road to Mhow from Ajmir.
There had been a deficit in the Budget, which
necessitated travelling, not Second-class, which
is only half as dear as First-class, but by Inter-
mediate, which is very awful indeed. There are
no cushions in the Intermediate class, and the
population are either Intermediate, which is
Eurasian, or native, which for a long night
journey is nasty; or Loafer, which is amusing
though intoxicated. Intermediates do not pa-
tronise refreshment rooms. They carry their
*Copyright, 1895, by Macmillan & Company. Copyright
1899, by Rudyard Kipling. J
I
Masterpieces of Fiction
food in bundles and pots, and buy sweets from
the native sweetmeat-sellers, and drink the road-
side water. That is why in the hot weather
Intermediates are taken out of the carriages
dead, and in all weathers are most properly
looked down upon.
My particular Intermediate happened to
be empty till I reached Nasirabad, when a huge
gentleman in shirt-sleeves entered, and, follow-
ing the custom of Intermediates, passed the time:
of day.- He was a wanderer and a vagabond
like myself, but with an educated taste for
whisky. He told tales of things he had seen
and done, of out-of-the-way corners of the
Empire into which he had penetrated, and of
adventures in which he risked his life for a few
days’ food. “‘If India was filled with men like
you and me, not knowing more than the crows
where they’d get their next day’s rations, it
isn’t seventy millions of revenue the land would
be paying—it’s seven hundred million,” said
he; and as I looked at his mouth and chin I
was disposed to agree with him. We talked.
politics—the politics of Loaferdom that sees
things from the underside where the lath and
plaster is not smoothed off—and we talked postal
arrangements because my friend wanted to
send a telegram back from the next station to
Ajmir, which is the turning-off place from the
Bombay to the Mhow line as you travel westward.
My friend had no money beyond eight annas
which he wanted for dinner, and I had no money
2
The Man Who Would Be King
at all, owing to the hitch in the Budget before
mentioned. Further, I was going into a wilder-
ness where, though I should resume touch with
the Treasury, there were no telegraph offices.
I was, therefore, unable to help him in any
way.
‘““We might threaten a Station-master, and
make him send a wire on tick,” said my friend,
‘‘but that’d mean inquiries for you and for me,
and I’ve got my hands full these days. Did
you say you are travelling back along this line
within any days?”
‘Within ten,” I said.
‘““Can’t you make it eight?” said he. ‘Mine
is rather urgent business.”
‘IT can send your telegram within ten days if
that will serve you,” I said.
“TI couldn’t trust the wire to fetch him now
I think of it. It’s this way. He leaves Delhi
on the 23d for Bombay. That means he’ll be
running through Ajmir about the night of the
Bacay
“But I’m going into the Indian Desert,” I
explained.
‘Well and good,” said he. ‘‘You’ll be
changing at Marwar Junction to get into Jodh-
pore territory—you must do that—and he'll
be coming through Marwar Junction in the
early morning of the 24th by the Bombay
Mail. Can you be at Marwar Junction on that
time? ’Twon’t be inconveniencing you because
I know that there’s precious few pickings to be
3
Masterpieces of Fiction
got out of these Central India States—even
though you pretend to be correspondent of the
Backwoodsman.”’
‘‘Have you ever tried that trick?” I asked.
““Again and again, but the Residents find
you out, and then you get escorted to the Border
before you've time to get your knife into them.
But about my friend here. I must give him a
word o’ mouth to tell him what’s come to me
or else he won’t know where to go. I would take
it more than kind of you if you was to come out
of Central India in time to catch him at Marwar
Junction, and say to him—‘He has gone South
for the week.’ He'll know what that means.
He’s a big man with a red beard, and a great
swell he is. You'll find him sleeping like a
gentleman with all his luggage round him in a
second-class compartment. But don’t you be
afraid. Slip down the window, and say—‘He
has gone South for the week,’ and he’ll tumble.
It’s only cutting your time of stay in those parts
by two days. I ask you as a stranger—going to
the West,” he said with emphasis.
‘“Where have you come from?” said I.
‘‘From the East,” said he, ‘‘and I am hoping
that you will give him the message on the
Square—for the sake of my Mother as well as
your own.”
Englishmen are not usually softened by
appeals to the memory of their mothers, but
for certain reasons, which will be ie apparent,
I saw fit to agree.
4
The Man Who Would Be King
_ ‘It’s more than a little matter,” said he, ‘‘and
that’s why I ask you to do it—and now I know
that 1 can depend on you doing it. A second-
class carriage at Marwar Junction, and a red-
haired man asleep in it. You'll be sure to
remember. I get out at the next station, and I
must hold on there till he comes or sends me
what I want.”
‘‘T’ll give the message if I catch him,”’ I said,
“and for the sake of your Mother as well as
mine I'll give you a word of advice. Don’t
try to run the Central India States just now as
the correspondent of the Backwoodsman. There’s
a real one knocking about here, and it might
lead to trouble.”
“Thank you,’ said he simply, ‘‘and when
will the swine be gone? I can’t starve because
he’s ruining my work. I wanted to get hold
of the Degumber Rajah down here about his
father’s widow, and give him a jump.”
‘“What did he do to his father’s widow, then?’’
“Filled her up with red pepper and slippered
her to death as she hung from a beam. [
found that out myself and I’m the only man
that would dare going into the State to get hush-
money for it. They'll try to poison me, same
as they did in Chortumna when I went on the
loot there. But you'll give the man at Marwar
Junction my message ?”’
He got out at a little roadside station, and I
reflected. I had heard, more than once, of
men personating correspondents of newspapers
5
Masterpieces of Fiction
and bleeding small Native States with threats
of exposure, but I had never met any of the
caste before. They lead a hard life, and gener-
ally die with great suddenness. The Native
States have a wholesome horror of English
newspapers, which may throw light on their
peculiar methods of government, and do their
best to choke correspondents with champagne,
or drive them out of their mind with four-in-hand
barouches. They donot understand that nobody
cares a straw for the internal administration of
Native States so long as oppression and crime
are kept within decent limits, and the ruler is
not drugged, drunk, or diseased from one end
of the year to the other. Native States were
created by Providence in order to supply pic-
turesque scenery, tigers and tall-writing. They
are the dark places of the earth, full of unimagin-
able cruelty, touching the Railway and the
Telegraph on one side, and, on the other, the
days of Harun-al-Raschid. When I left the
train I did business with divers Kings, and in
eight days passed through many changes of
life. Sometimes I wore dress-clothes and con-
sorted with Princes and Politicals, drinking
from crystal and eating from silver. Sometimes
I lay out upon the ground and devoured what I
could get, from a plate made of a flapjack, and.
drank the running water, and slept under the
same rug as my servant. It was all in a day’s
work.
Then I headed for the Great Indian Desert
6
The Man Who Would Be King
upon the proper date, as I had promised, and
the night Mail set me down at Marwar Junction,
where a funny little, happy-go-lucky, native
managed railway runs to Jodhpore. The Bom-
bay Mail from Delhi makes a short halt at
Marwar. She arrived as I got in, and I had
just time to hurry to her platform and go down
the carriages. There was only one second-class
on the train. I slipped the window and looked
down upon a flaming red beard, half covered
by a railway rug. That was my man, fast
asleep, and I dug him gently in the ribs. He
woke with a grunt and I saw his face in the
light of the lamps. It was a great and shining
face.
‘*Tickets again?’’ said he.
“‘No,” said I. ‘I am to tell you that he is
gone South for the week. He is gone South
for the week!”
The train had begun to move out. The red
man rubbed his eyes. ‘‘He has gone South for
the week,” he repeated. ‘‘Now that’s just like
his impudence. Did he say that I was to give
you anything? ’Cause I won’t.”
‘‘He didn’t,” I said and dropped away, and
‘watched the red lights die out in the dark. It
was horribly cold because the wind was blowing
off the sands. I climbed into my own train—
not an Intermediate Carriage this time—and
‘went to sleep.
If the man with the beard had given me a
rupee I should have kept it as a memento of
7
Masterpieces of Fiction
a rather curious affair. But the consciousness
of having done my duty was my only reward.
Later on I reflected that two gentlemen like
my friends could not do any good if they fore-
gathered and personated correspondents of news- '
papers, and might, if they ‘‘stuck up” one of
the little rat-trap states of Central India or.
Southern Rajputana, get themselves into serious
difficulties. I therefore took some trouble to
describe them as accurately as’ I could remember
to people who would be interested in deporting
them; and succeeded, so I was later informed, in
having them headed back from the Degumber
borders.
Then I became respectable, and returned to
an Office where there were no Kings and no
incidents except the daily manufacture of a
newspaper. <A newspaper office seems to attract
every conceivable sort of person, to the prejudice
of discipline. Zenana-mission ladies arrive, and
beg that the Editor will instantly abandon all
his duties to describe a Christian prize-giving in
a back-slum of a perfectly inaccessible village;
Colonels who have been overpassed for commands
sit down and sketch the outline of a series of
ten, twelve, or twenty-four leading articles on
Seniority versus Selection; missionaries wish to
know why they have not been permitted to
escape from their regular vehicles of abuse and
swear at a brother-missionary under special
patronage of the editorial We; stranded theatrical
companies troop up to explain that they cannot
8
The Man Who Would Be King
pay for their advertisements, but on their
return from New Zealand or Tahiti will do so
with interest; inventors of patent punkah-pulling
machines, carriage couplings and unbreakable
swords and axle-trees call with specifications in
their pockets and hours at their disposal; tea-
companies enter and elaborate their prospectuses
with the office pens; secretaries of ball-committees
clamour to have the glories of their last dance
more fully expounded; strange ladies rustle in
and say:-—“‘I want a hundred lady’s cards
printed at once, please,’ which is manifestly part
of an Editor’s duty; and every dissolute ruffian
that ever tramped the Grand Trunk Road makes
it his business to ask for employment as a proof-
reader. And, all the time, the telephone-bell is
ringing madly, and Kings are being killed on the
Continent, and Empires are saying, ‘‘You’re
another,’ and Mister Gladstone is calling down
brimstone upon the British Dominions, and the
little black copy-boys are whining, ‘‘kaa-pz
chayha-yeh”’ (copy wanted) like tired bees, and
most of the paper is as blank as Modred’s shield.
But that is the amusing part of the year.
There are other six months wherein none ever
come to call, and the thermometer walks inch
by inch up to the top of the glass, and the office
is darkened to just above reading light, and the
. press machines are red-hot of touch, and nobody
writes anything but accounts of amusements in
the Hill-stations or obituary notices. Then the
telephone becomes a tinkling terror, because it
9
Masterpieces of Fiction
tells you of the sudden deaths of men and women
that you knew intimately, and the prickly-
heat covers you as with a garment, and you
sit down and write:—‘“ A slight increase of sick-
ness is reported from the Khuda Janta Khan
district. The outbreak is purely sporadic in
its nature, and, thanks to the energetic efforts.
of the District authorities, is now almost at an
end. It is, however, with deep regret we record
the death, etc.”
Then the sickness really breaks out, and the
less recording and reporting the better for the
peace of the subscribers. But the Empires and
the Kings ‘continue to divert themselves as
selfishly as before, and the foreman thinks that
a daily paper really ought to come out once in
twenty-four hours, and all the people at the Hill-
stations in the middle of their amusements say:
—‘Good gracious! Why can’t the paper be
sparkling? I’m sure there’s plenty going on
up * here.”
That is the dark half of the moon, and, as
the advertisements say, ‘must be experienced to.
be appreciated.”
It ‘was in that season, and a_ remarkably
evil season, that the paper began running the
last issue of the week on Saturday night, which
is to say Sunday morning, after the custom of
a London paper. This was a great convenience,
for immediately after the paper was put to bed,
the dawn would lower the thermometer from 96°
to almost 84° for almost half an hour, and in
IO
The Man Who Would Be King
that chill—you have no idea how cold is 84°
on the grass until you begin to pray for it—a
very tired man could set off to sleep ere the heat
roused him.
One Saturday night it was my pleasant duty
to put the paper to bed alone. A King or
courtier or a courtesan or a community was
going to die or get a new Constitution, or do
something that was important on the other side
of the world, and the paper was to be held open
till the latest possible minute in order to catch
the telegram. It was a pitchy black night, as
stifling as a June night can be, and the Joo, the
red-hot wind from the westward, was booming
among the tinder-dry trees and pretending that
the rain was on its heels. Now and again a
spot of almost boiling water would fall on the
dust with the flop of a frog, but all our weary
world knew that was only pretence. It was
a shade cooler in the press-room than the office,
so I sat there, while the type ticked and clicked
and the night-jars hooted at the windows, and
the all but naked compositors wiped the sweat
from their foreheads and called for water. The
thing that was keeping us back, whatever it was,
would not come off, though the Joo dropped and
the last type was set, and the whole round earth
stood still in the choking heat, with its finger
on its lip, to wait the event. I drowsed, and
wondered whether the telegraph was a blessing,
and whether this dying man, or struggling
people, was aware of the inconvenience the delay
II
Masterpieces of Fiction
was causing. There was no special reason
beyond the heat and worry to make tension,
but as the clock-hands crept up to three o’clock
and the machines spun their fly-wheels two and
three times to see that all was in order, before I
said the word that would set them off, I could
have shrieked aloud.
Then the roar and rattle of the wheels shivered
the quiet into little bits. . I rose to go away, but
two men in white clothes stood in front of me.
The: first one said: “It’s him!” "Thessecond
said: ‘‘So it is!” And they both laughed
almost as loudly as the machinery roared, and
mopped their foreheads. ‘‘We see there was a
light burning across the road and we were
sleeping in that ditch there for coolness, and I
- said to my friend here, ‘‘The office is open.
Let’s come along and speak to him as turned us
back from the Degumber State,’’ said the smaller
of the two. He was the man I had met in the
Mhow train, and his fellow was the red-bearded
man of Marwar Junction. There was no mis-
taking the eyebrows of the one or the beard of
the other.
I was not pleased, because I wished to go to
sleep, not to squabble with loafers. ‘“‘What do
you want?’’ I asked.
‘Half an hour’s talk with you cool and
comfortable, in the office,” said the red-bearded
man. ‘‘We’d like some drink—the Contrack
doesn’t begin yet, Peachey, so you needn't
look—but what we really want is advice. We
I2
The Man Who Would Be King
don’t want money. We ask you as a favour
because you did us a bad turn about Degumber.”
_I led from the press-room to the stifling
office with the maps on the walls, and the red-
haired man rubbed his hands. ‘“‘That’s some-
thing like,” said he. ‘‘This was the proper shop
to come to. Now, Sir, let me introduce to you
Brother Peachey Carnehan, that’s him, and
Brother Daniel Dravot, that is me, and the less
said about our professions the better, for we have
been most things in our time. Soldier, sailor,
compositor, photographer, proof-reader, street-
preacher, and correspondents of the Backwoods-
man when we thought the paper wanted one.
Carnehan is sober, andsoam I. Look at us first
and see that’s sure. It will save you cutting
into my talk. We'll take one of your cigars
apiece, and you shall see us light.”’
I watched the test. The men were absolutely
sober, so I gave them each a tepid peg.
‘Well and good,” said Carnehan of the eye-
brows, wiping the froth from his moustache.
“‘Let me talk now, Dan. We have been all over
India, mostly on foot. We have been boiler-
fitters, engine-drivers, petty contractors, and all
that, and we have decided that India isn’t big
enough for such as us.”’
They certainly were too big for the office.
Dravot’s beard seemed to fill half the room and
Carnehan’s shoulders the other half, as they
sat on the big table. Carnehan continued :—
““The country isn’t half worked out because
13
Masterpieces of Fiction
they that governs it won’t let you touch it.
They spend all their blessed time in governing it,
and you can’t lift a spade, nor chip a rock, nor
look for oil, nor anything like that without all
the Government saying—‘Leave it alone and
let us govern.’ Therefore, such as it is, we will
let it alone, and go away to some other place
where a man isn’t crowded and can come to
his own. We are not little-men, and there is
nothing that we are afraid of except Drink, and
we have signed a Contrack on that. Therefore,
Wwe are going away to be Kings.”
““Kings in our own right,’’ muttered Dravot.
‘Yes, of course,’ I said. ‘*You’ve been
tramping in the sun, and it’s a very warm night,
and hadn’t you better sleep over the notion?
Come to-morrow.”
‘Neither drunk nor sunstruck,” said Dravot.
‘“We have slept over the notion half a year, and
require to see Books and Atlases, and we have
decided that there is only one place now in the
world that two strong men can Sar-a-whack.
They call it Kafiristan. By my reckoning its
the top right-hand corner of Afghanistan, not
more than three hundred miles from Peshawar.
They have two and thirty heathen idols there,
and we'll be the thirty-third. It’s a mountainous
country, and the women of those parts are very
beautiful.”’
“But that is provided against in the Con-
track,” said Carnehan. ‘‘Neither Women nor
Liqu-or, Daniel.’’ :
iAa
The Man Who Would Be King
““And that’s all we know, except that no one
has gone there, and they fight, and in any place
where they fight a man who knows how to
drill men can always be a King. We shall go
to those parts and say to any King we find—
‘D’you want to vanquish your foes?’ and we
will show him how to drill men; for that we know
better than anything else. Then we will sub-
vert that King and seize his Throne and establish
a Dy-nasty.”
“You'll be cut to pieces before you're fifty
miles across the Border,’ I said. ‘‘You have
to travel through Afghanistan to get to that
country. It’s one mass of mountains and
peaks and glaciers, and no Englishman has been
through it. The people are utter brutes, and
even if you reached them you couldn’t do any-
thing.”
‘‘That’s more like,”’ said Carnehan. ‘‘If you
could think us a little more mad we would be
more pleased. We have come to you to know
about this country, to read a book about it, and
to be shown maps. We want you to tell us that
we are fools and to show us your books.” He
turned to the book-cases.
‘‘Are you at all in earnest?”’ I said.
“A little,’ said Dravot, sweetly. ‘“‘As big a
map as you have got, even if it’s all blank where
Kafiristan is, and any books you’ve got. We
can read, though we aren’t very educated.”
I uncased the big thirty two-miles-to-the-inch
map of India, and two smaller Frontier maps,
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hauled down volume INF-KAN of the Encyclo-
pedia Britannica, and the men consulted them.
‘See here!’’ said Dravot, his thumb on the
map. ‘‘Up to Jagdallak, Peachey and me
know the road. We was there with Roberts’s
Army. We'll have to turn off to the right at
Jagdallak through Laghmann territory. Then |
we get among the hills—fourteen thousand feet
—fifteen thousand—it will be cold work there,
but it don’t look very far on the map.”
I handed him Wood on the Sources of the
Oxus. Carnehan was deep in the Encyclopedia.
‘‘They’re a mixed lot,” said Dravot, re-
flectively; ‘‘and it won’t help us to know the
names of their tribes. The more tribes the more
they'll fight, and the better for us. From
Jagdallak to Ashang. H’mm!”’
“‘But all the information about the country
is as sketchy and inaccurate as can be,” I
protested. ‘‘No one knows anything about it
really. Here’s the file of the United Services’
Institute. Read what Bellew says.”
‘Blow Bellew!’’ said Carnehan. ‘‘Dan, they’re
an all-fired lot of heathens, but this book here
says they think they’re related to us English.”
I smoked while. the men pored over Raverty,
Wood, the maps and the Encyclopedia.
‘‘There is no use your waiting,’ said Dravot,
politely. ‘‘It’s about four. o’clock now. We'll
go before six o’clock if you want to sleep. and we
won't steal any of the papers. Don’t you sit up.
We’re two harmless lunatics, and if you come,
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The Man Who Would Be King
to-morrow evening, down to the Serai we'll say
good-by to you.”
‘““You are two fools,’ I answered. ‘‘ You'll
be turned back at the Frontier or cut up the
minute you set foot in Afghanistan. Do you
want any money or a recommendation down-
country? I can help you to the chance of work
next week.”
““Next week we shall be hard at werk our-
selves, thank you,” said Dravot. ‘“‘It isn’t so
easy being a King as it looks. When we've got
our Kingdom in going order we'll let you know,
and you can come up and help us to govern it.”
‘“Would two lunatics make a Contrack like
that?’ said Carnehan, with subdued pnide,
showing me a greasy half-sheet of note-paper on
which was written the following. I copied it,
then and there, as a curiosity :-—
This Contract between me and you persuing
witnesseth in the name of God—Amen and so
forth.
(One) That me and you will setile this matter
together: i.e., to be Kings of Kajiristan.
(Two) That you and me will not while this
matter is being settled, look at any
Liquor, nor any Woman black, white
or brown, so as to get mixed up with
one or the other harmful.
(Three) That we conduct ourselves with Dignity
and Discretion, and if one of us gets
into trouble the other will stay by him.
Signed by you and me this day.
Peachey Taliaferro Carnehan,
Daniel Dravot.
Both Gentlemen at Large.
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‘“There was no need for the last article,’ said
Carnehan, blushing modestly; “‘but it looks
regular. Now you know the sort of men that
loafers are—we are loafers, Dan, until we get out
of India—and do you think that we could sign
a Contrack like that unless we was in earnest?
We have kept away from the two things that
make life worth having.”
“You won’t enjoy your lives much longer
if you are going to try this idiotic adventure.
Don’t set the office on fire,” I said, ‘‘and go away
before nine o’clock.”’
I left them still poring over the maps and
making notes on the back of the ‘‘Contrack.”’
‘Be sure to come down to’ the Serai to-morrow,”’
were their parting words.
The Kumharsen Serai is the great four-
square sink of humanity where the strings of
camels and horses from the North load and
unload. All the nationalities of Central Asia
may be found there, and most of the folk of
India proper. Balkh and Bokhara there meet
Bengal and Bombay, and try to draw eye-teeth.
You can buy ponies, turquoises, Persian pussy-
cats, saddle-bags, fat-tailed sheep, and musk
in the Kumharsen Serai, and get many strange
things for nothing. In the afternoon I went
down there to see whether my friends intended
to keep their word or were lying about drunk.
A priest attired in fragments of ribbons and
rags stalked up to me, gravely twisting a child’s
paper whirligig. Behind him was his servant,
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The Man Who Would Be King
bending under the load of a crate of mud toys.
The two were loading up two camels, and the
inhabitants of the Serai watched them with
shrieks of laughter.
““The priest is mad,” said a horse-dealer to
me. ‘He is going up to Kabul to sell toys to
the Amir. He will either be raised to honour or
have his head cut off. He came in here this
morning and has been behaving madly ever
since.”
“The witless are under the protection of
God,” stammered a flat-cheeked Usbeg in
broken Hindi. ‘They foretell future events.”
“Would they could have foretold that my
caravan would have been ‘cut up by the Shin-
waris almost’ within shadow of the Pass!”’
grunted the Eusufzai agent of a Rajputana
trading-house whose goods had been feloniously
diverted into the hands of other robbers just
across the Border, and whose misfortunes were
the laughing-stock of the bazaar. ‘‘Ohé, priest,
whence come you and whither do you go?”
““From Roum have I come,’’ shouted the
priest, waving his whirligig; ‘‘from Roum, blown
by the breath of a hundred devils across the sea!
O thieves, robbers, liars, the blessing of Pir
Khan on pigs, dogs, and perjurers! Who will
take the Protected of God to the North to
sell charms that are never still to the Amir?
The camels shall not gall, the sons shall not fall
sick, and the wives shall remain faithful while
they are away, of the men who give me place in
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their caravan. Who will assist me to slipper
the King of the Roos with a golden slipper with
a silver heel? The protection of Pir Kahn be
upon his labours!’’ He spread out the skirts of
his gaberdine and pirouetted bewre the lines
of tethered horses.
‘There starts a caravan from Peshawar to
Kabul in twenty days, Huzrut,” said the Eusufzai
trader. ‘My camels go therewith. Do thou
also go and bring us good luck.”
‘““T will go even now!” shouted the priest.
“TI will depart upon my winged camels, and be
at Peshawar in a day! Ho! MHazar Muir
Khan.” he yelled to his servant, “ drive out the
camels, but let me first mount my own.”
He leaped on the back of his beast as it knelt,
and turning round to me, cried:—
‘‘Come thou also, Sahib, a little along the
road, and I will sell thee a charm—an amulet
that shall make thee King of Kafiristan.”
Then the light broke upon me, and I followed
the two camels out of the Serai till we reached
open road and the priest halted.
“What d’ you think o’ that?” said he in
English. ‘‘Carnehan can’t talk their patter, so
I've made him my servant. He makes a
handsome servant. ’Tisn’t for nothing that
I’ve been: knocking about the country for
fourteen years. Didn’t I do that talk neat?
We'll hitch on to a caravan at Peshawar till
we get to Jagdallak, and then we'll see if we
can get donkeys for our camels, and strike into
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The Man Who Would Be King
Kafiristan. Whirligigs for the Amir, O Lor!
Put your hand under the camel-bags and tell
me what you feel.”’ :
I felt the butt of a Martini, and another and
another.
“Twenty of ’em,” said Dravot, placidly.
“Twenty of ‘em, and ammunition to corre-
spond, under the whirligigs and the mud dolls.”
“Heaven help you if, you are caught with
those things!”’ I said. ‘‘ A Martini is worth her
weight in silver among the Pathans.”
“ Fifteen hundred rupees of capital—every
rupee we could beg, borrow, or steal—are invested
on these two camels,” said Dravot. ‘‘We won’t
get caught. We’re going through the Khaiber
with a regular caravan. Who'd touch a poor
mad priest?”’
“Have you got everything you want?” I
asked, overcome with astonishment.
“Not yet, but we shall soon. Give us a
momento of your kindness, Brother. You did
me a Service yesterday, and that time in Marwar.
Half my Kingdom shall you have, as the saying
is.’ I slipped a small charm compass from
my ‘watch-chain and handed it up to the priest.
‘‘Good-bye,” said Dravot, giving me his .
hand cautiously. “It’s the last time we'll
shake hands with an Englishman these many
days. Shake hands with him, Carnehan,” he
cried, as the second camel passed me. t
Carnehan looked down and shook hands.
Then the camels passed away along the dusty
’
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Masterpieces of Fiction
road, and I was left alone to wonder. My eye
could detect no failure in the disguises. The
scene in the Serai attested that they were
complete to the native mind. There was just
the chance, therefore, that Carnehan and Dravot
would be able to wander through Afghanistan
without detection. But, beyond, they would
find death, certain and awful death. .
Ten days later a native friend of mine, giving
me the news of the day from Peshawar, wound
up his letter with:—‘‘ There has been much
laughter here on account of a certain mad priest
who is going in his estimation to sell petty
gauds and insignificant trinkets which he
ascribes as great charms to H. H. the Amir of
Bokhara. He passed through Peshawar and
associated himself to the Second Summer
caravan that goes to Kabul. The merchants
are pleased because through superstition they
imagine that such mad fellows bring good-
fortune.”
‘The two then, were beyond the Border. I
would have prayed for them, but, that night, a
real King died in Europe, and demanded an
obituary notice. |
The wheel of the world swings through the
same phases again and again. Summer passed
and winter thereafter, and came and passed
again. The daily paper continued and I with it,
and upon the third summer there fell a hot night,
a night-issue, and a strained waiting for some-
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The Man Who Would Be King
thing to be telegraphed from the other side of
the world, exactly as had happened before. A
few great men had died in the past two years,
the machines worked with more clatter, and some
of the trees in the Office garden were a few feet
taller. But that was all the difference.
I passed over to the press-room, and went
through just such a scene as I have already
described. The nervous tension was stronger
than it had been two years before, and I felt
the heat more acutely. At three o’clock I
cried, ‘“‘Print off,’ and turned to go, when
there crept to my chair what was left of a man.
He was bent into a circle, his head was sunk
between his shoulders, and he moved his feet
one over the other like a bear. I could hardly
see whether he walked or crawled—this rag-
wrapped, whining cripple who addressed me by
name, crying that he was comeback. “Can you
give me a drink?” he whimpered. ‘‘For the
Lord’s sake, give me a drink!”’
I went back to the office, the man following
with groans of pain, and I turned up the lamp.
“Don’t you know me?” he gasped, dropping
into a chair, and he turned his drawn face, sur-
mounted by a shock of gray hair, to the light.
I looked at him intently. Once before had
I seen eyebrows that met over the nose in an
inch-broad black band, but for the life of me I
could not tell where.
“‘T don’t know you,” I said, handing him the
whisky. ‘‘What can I do for you?”
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Masterpieces of Fiction
He took a gulp of the spirit raw, and shivered
in spite of the suffocating heat.
‘‘T’ve come back,” he repeated; ‘“‘and I was
the King of Kafiristan—me and Dravot—
crowned Kings we was! In this office we settled
it—you setting there and giving us the books.
I am Peachey—Peachey Taliaferro Carnehan,
and you’ve been setting here ever since—
Lord!”’
I was more than a little astonished, and ex-.
pressed my feelings accordingly.
“It’s true,’ said Carnehan, with a dry cackle,
nursing his feet which were wrapped in rags.
““True as gospel. Kings we were, with crowns
upon our heads—me and Dravot—poor Dan—
oh, poor, poor Dan, that would never take
advice, not though I begged of him!”’
‘“Take the whisky,” I said, ‘‘and take your
own time. Tell me all you can recollect of
everything from beginning to end. You got
across the border on your camels, Dravot
dressed as a mad priest and you his servant.
Do you remember that?”
“TI ain’t mad—yet, but I will be that way
soon. Of course I remember. Keep looking
at me, or maybe my words will go all to pieces.
Keep looking at me in my eyes and don’t say
anything.”
I leaned forward and looked into his face
as steadily as I could. He dropped one hand
upon the table and I grasped it by the wrist.
It was twisted like a bird’s claw, and upon
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The Man Who Would Be King
the back was a ragged, red, diamond-shaped
scar.
‘“No, don’t look there. Look at me, said
Carnehan.
‘““That comes afterwards, but for the Lord’s
sake don’t distrack me. We left with that
caravan, me and Dravot, playing all sorts of
antics to amuse the people we were with. Dravot
used to make us laugh in the evenings when all
the people was cooking their dinners—-cooking
their) dinners,,” and)..." >! what’! did” ‘they
do then? They lit little fires with sparks that
went into Dravot’s beard, and we all laughed—
fit to die. Little red fires they was, going into
Dravot’s big red beard—so funny.”’ His eyes
left mine and he smiled foolishly.
“You went as far as Jagdallak with that
caravan,’ I said at a venture, ‘‘after you had
lit those fires. To Jagdallak, where you turned
_ off to try to get into Kafiristan.”’
‘‘No, we didn’t neither. What are you talking
about? We turned off before Jagdallak, because
we heard the roads was good. But they wasn’t
good enough for our two camels—mine and
Dravot’s. When we left the caravan, Dravot
took off all his clothes and mine too, and said
we would be heathen, because the Kafirs didn’t
allow Mohammedans to talk to them. So we
dressed betwixt and between, and such a sight
as Daniel Dravot I never saw yet nor expect to
see again. He burned half his beard, and slung
a sheep-skin over his shoulder, and shaved his
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Masterpieces of Fiction
head into patterns. He shaved mine, too, and
made me wear outrageous things to look like
a heathen. That was in a most mountainous
country, and our camels couldn’t go along any
more because of the mountains. They were
tall and black, and coming home I saw them
fight like wild goats—there are lots of goats in
Kafiristan. And these mountains, they never
keep still, no more than the goats. Always
fighting they are, and don’t let you sleep at night.
‘“Take. some more whisky,’ I said, very
slowly. ‘‘What did you and Daniel Dravot do
when the camels could go no farther because of
the rough roads that led into Kafiristan?”’
‘“What did which do?’ There was a party
called Peachey Taliaferro Carnehan that was
with Dravot. Shall I tell you about him? He
died out there in the cold. Slap from the bridge
fell old Peachey, turning and twisting in the air
like a penny whirligig that you can sell to the
Amir—No; they was two for three ha’pence,
those whirligigs, or I am much mistaken and
woful sore. And then these camels were no use,
and Peachey said to Dravot—‘For the Lord’s
sake, let’s get out of this before our heads are
chopped off,’ and with that they killed the
camels all among the mountains, not having
anything in particular to eat, but first they
took off the boxes with the guns and the am-
munition, till two men came along driving four
mules. Dravot up and dances in front of them,
singing, ‘Sell me four mules.’ Says the first man,
26
The Man Who Would Be King
‘If you are rich enough to buy, you are rich
enough to rob;’ but before ever he could put his
hand to his knife, Dravot breaks his neck over
his knee, and the other party runs away. So
Carnehan loaded the mules with the rifles that
was taken off the camels, and together we starts
forward into those bitter cold mountainous
parts, and never a road broader than the back
of your hand.”
He paused for a moment, while I asked him
if he could remember the nature of the country
through which he had journeyed.
“IT am telling you as straight as I can, but my
head isn’t as good as it might be. They drove
nails through it to make me hear better how
Dravot died. The country was mountainous
and the mules were most contrary, and the
inhabitants was dispersed and solitary. They
went up and up, and down and down, and that
other party Carnehan, was imploring of Dravot
not to sing and whistle so loud, for fear of
bringing down the tremenjus avalanches. : But
Dravot says that if a King couldn’t sing it wasn’t
worth being King, and whacked the mules over
the rump, and never took ne heed for ten cold
days. We came to a big level valley all among
the mountains, and the mules were near dead,
so we killed them, not having anything in
special for them or us to eat. We sat upon the
boxes, and played odd and even with the cart-
ridges that was jolted out.
“Then ten men with bows and arrows ran
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Masterpieces of Fiction
down that valley, chasing twenty men with
bows and arrows, and the row was tremenjus.
They was fair men—fairer than you or me—
with yellow hair and remarkable well built.
Says Dravot, unpacking the guns—‘This is
the beginning of the business. We'll fight for
the ten men,’ and with that he fires two rifles at
the twenty men, and drops one of them at two
hundred yards from the rock where we was
sitting. The other men began to run, but
Carnehan and Dravot sits on the boxes picking
them off at all ranges, up and down the valley.
Then we goes up to the ten men that had run
across the snow too, and they fires a footy little
arrow at us. Dravot he shoots above their
heads and they all falls down flat. Then he
walks over them and kicks them, and then he
lifts them up and: shakes hands all around to
make them friendly like. He calls them and
gives them the boxes to carry, and waves his
hand for all the world as though he was King
already. They takes the boxes and him across
the valley and up the hill into a pine wood on
the top, where there was half a dozen big stone
idols. Dravot he goes to the biggest—a fellow
they call Imbra—and lays a rifle and a cartridge
at his feet, rubbing his nose respectful with his
own nose, patting him on the head, and saluting
in front of it. He turns round to the men and
nods his head, and says:—‘That’s all right. [’m ©
in the know too, and these old jim-jams are my
friends.’ Then he opens his mouth and points
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The Man Who Would Be King
down it, and when the first man brings him food,
he says—‘ No’; and when the second man brings
him food, he says—‘No’; but when one of the
old priests and the boss of the village brings him
food, he says—‘Yes’; very haughty, and eats
it slow. That was how we came to our first
village, without any trouble, just as though we
had tumbled from the skies. But we tumbled
from one of those damned rope-bridges, you see,
and you couldn’t expect a man to laugh much
after that.”
‘‘Take some more’ whisky and go on,” I
said. ‘‘That was the first village you came
into. How did you get to be King?”’
“T wasn’t King,’ said Carnehan. ‘‘Dravot
he was the King, and a handsome man he looked
with the gold crown on his head and all. Him
and the other party stayed in that village, and
every morning Dravot sat by the side of old
Imbra, and the people came and worshipped.
That was Dravot’s order. Then a lot of men
came into the valley, and Carnehan and Dravot
picks them off with the rifles before they knew
where they was, and runs down into the valley
and up again the other side, and finds another
village, same as the first one, and the people all
falls down flat on their faces, and Dravot says:
—‘Now what is the trouble between you two
villages?’ and the people points to a woman,
as fair as you or me, that was carried off, and
Dravot takes her back to the first village and
counts up the dead—eight there was. For each
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Masterpieces of Fiction
dead man Dravot pours a little milk on the
ground and waves his arms like a whirligig and,
‘That’s) all. right,')./says)) he, sai he aapiesand
Carnehan takes the big boss of each village by
the arm and walks them down into the valley, and
shows them how to scratch a line with a spear
right down the valley, and gives each a sod of
turf from both sides o’ the line. Then all the
people comes down and shouts like the devil
and all, and Dravot says, ‘Go and dig the land,
and be fruitful and multiply,’ which they did,
though they didn’t understand. Then we
asks the names of things in their lngo—bread
and water and fire and idols and such, and
Dravot leads the priest of each village up to the
idol, and says he must sit there and judge the
people, and if anything goes wrong he is to be
shot.
‘‘Next week they was all turning up the land
in the valley as quiet as bees and much prettier,
and the priests heard all the complaints and told
Dravot in dumb show what it was about.
‘That’s just the beginning,’ says Dravot.
“They think we’re gods.’ He and Carnehan
picks out twenty good men and shows them how
to click off a rifle, and form fours, and advance
in line, and they was very pleased to do so, and
clever to see the hang of it. Then he takes out
his pipe and his baccy-pouch and leaves one at
one village, and one at the other, and off we two
goes to see what was to be done in the next
valley. That was all rock, and there was a
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The Man Who Would Be King
little village there, and Carnehan says, ‘Send
"em to the old valley to plant,’ and takes ’em
there and gives ’em some land that wasn’t took
before. They were a poor lot, and we blooded
’em with a kid before letting ’em into the new
Kingdom. That was to impress the people, and
then they settled down quiet, and Carnehan went
back to Dravot who had got into another
valley, all snow and ice and most mountainous.
There was no people there and the Army got
afraid, so Dravot shoots one of them, and goes on
till he finds some people in a village, and the
Army explains that unless the people wants to
be killed they had better not shoot their little
matchlocks, for they had matchlocks. We
makes friends with the priest, and I stays there
alone with two of the Army, teaching the men
how to drill, and a thundering big Chief comes
across the snow with kettledrums and horns
twanging, because he heard there was a new
god kicking about. Carnehan sights for the
brown of the men half a mile across the snow and
wings one of them. Then he sends a message
to the Chief that, unless he wished to be killed,
he must come and shake hands with me and
leave his arms behind. The Chief comes alone
first, and Carnehan shakes hands with him and
whirls his arms about, same as Dravot used, and
very much surprised that Chief was, and strokes
my eyebrows. Then Carnehan goes alone to
the Chief, and asks him in dumb show if he
had an enemy he hated. ‘I have,’ says the
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Masterpieces of Fiction
Chief. So Carnehan weeds out the pick of his
men, and sets the two of the Army to show
them drill and at the end of two weeks the men
can manceuvre about as well as Volunteers.
So he marches with the Chief to a great big
plain on the top of a mountain, and the Chief's
men rushes into a village and takes it; we three
Martinis firing into the brown of the enemy.
So we took that village too, and I gives the Chief
a rag from my coat and says, ‘Occupy till I
come’: which was scriptural. By way of a
reminder, when me and the Army was eighteen
hundred yards away, I drops a bullet near him
standing on the snow, and all the people falls
flat on their faces. Then I sends a letter to
Dravot, where he be by land or by sea.”’
At the risk of throwing the creature out of
train I interrupted, ‘‘How could you write a
letter up yonder?”’
‘‘The letter ?—-Oh!—The letter! Keep looking
at me between the eyes, please. It was a
string-talk letter, that we’d learned the way of
it from a blind beggar in the Punjab.”
I remember that there had once come to the
office a blind man with a knotted twig and a
piece of string which he wound round the twig
according to some cypher of hisown. He could,
after the lapse of days or hours, repeat the
sentence which he had reeled up. He had
reduced the alphabet to eleven primitive sounds;
and tried to teach me his method, but failed.
“‘I sent that letter to Dravot,” said Carnehan;
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The Man Who Would Be King
“and told him to come back because this
Kingdom was growing too big for me to handle,
and then I struck for the first valley, to see how
the priests were working. They called the
village we took along with the Chief, Bashkai,
and the first village we took, Er-Heb. The priest
at Er-Heb was doing all right, but they had a
lot of pending cases about land to show me, and
some men from another village had been firing
arrows at night. I went out and looked fcr
that village and fired four rounds at it from a
thousand yards. That used all the cartridges I
cared to spend, and I waited for Dravot, who
had been away two or three months, and I kept
my people quiet.
‘‘One morning I heard the devil’s own noise
of drums and horns, and Dan Dravot marche:
down the hill with his Army and a tail of hundreds
of men, and, which was the most amazing—a
great gold crown on his head. ‘My Gord,
Carnehan,’ says Daniel, ‘this is a tremenjus
business; and we’ve got the whole country as far
as it’s worth having. I am the son of Alexander
by Queen Semiramis, and you’re my younger
brother and a god too! It’s the biggest thing
we've ever seen. I’ve been marching and
fighting for six weeks with the Army, and every
footy little village for fifty miles has come in
rejoiceful; and more than that, I’ve got the key
of the whole show, as you'll see, and I’ve got a
crown for you! I told ’em to make two of ’em
at a place called Shu, where the gold lies in the
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rock like suet in mutton. Gold I’ve seen, and
turquoise I’ve kicked out of the cliffs, and
there’s garnets in the sands of the river, and
here’s a chunk of amber that a man brought me.
Call up all the priests and, here, take your crown.’
‘‘One of the men opens a black hair bag and
I slips the crown on. It was too small and too
heavy, but I wore it for the glory. Hammered
gold it was—five pound weight, like a hoop of a
barrel.
‘‘*Peachey,’ says Dravot, ‘we don’t want to
fight no more. The Craft’s the trick so help me!’
and he brings forward that same Chief that
I left at Bashkai—Billy Fish we called him
afterwards, because he was so like Billy Fish
that drove the big tank-engine at Mach on the
Bolan in the old days. ‘Shake hands with
him,’ says Dravot, and I shook hands and nearly
dropped, for Billy Fish gave me the Grip.
I said nothing, but tried him with the Fellow
Craft Grip. He answers, all right, and I tried
the Master’s Grip, but that was a slip. ‘A
Fellow Craft he is!’ I says to Dan. ‘Does he
know. the word?’ ‘He does,’ says Dan, ‘and
all the priests know. It’s a miracle! The
Chiefs and the priest can work a Fellow Craft
Lodge in a way that’s very like ours, and they’ve
cut the marks on the rocks, but they don’t
know the Third Degree, and they’ve come to
find out. It’s Gord’s Truth.. I’ve known these
long years that the Afghans knew up to the
Fellow Craft Degree, but this is a miracle
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The Man Who Would Be King
A god and a Grand-Master of the Craft am I, and
a Lodge in th® Third Degree I will open, and
we'll raise the head priests and the Chiefs of the
villages.’
““Tt’s against all the law,’ I says, ‘holding a
Lodge without warrant from any one; and we
never held office in any lodge.’
‘“““Tt’s a master-stroke of policy,’ says Dravot.
‘It means running the country as easy as a four-
wheeled bogy on a down grade. We can’t stop
to inquire now, or they'll turn against us. I’ve
forty Chiefs at my heel, and passed and raised
according to their merit they shall be. Billet
these men on the villages and see that we run up
a Lodge of some kind. The temple of Imbra
will do for the Lodge-room. The women
must make aprons as you show them. I'll
hold a levee of Chiefs to-night and Lodge to-
morrow.’
“IT was fair run off my legs, but I wasn’t
such a fool as not to see what a pull this Craft
business gave us. I showed the priests’ families
how to make aprons of the degrees, but for
Dravot’s apron the blue border and marks was
made of turquoise lumps on white hide, not
cloth. We took a great square stone in the
temple for the Master’s chair, and little stones
for the officers’ chairs, and painted the black
pavement with white squares, and did what we
could to make things regular.
‘“At the levee which was held that night on
the hillside with big bonfires, Dravot gives out
She
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Masterpieces of Fiction
that him and me were gods and sons of Alexander,
and Past Grand-Masters in the Craft, and was
come to make Kafiristan a country where every
man should eat in peace and drink in quiet, and
specially obey us. Then the Chiefs come round
to shake hands, and they was so hairy and white
and fair it was just shaking hands with old
friends. We gave them names according as
they was like men we had known in India—
Billy Fish, Holly Dilworth, Pikky Kergan that
was Bazaar-master when I was at Mhow, and
so on, and so on.
‘‘The most amazing miracle was at Lodge
next night. One of the old priests was watching
us continuous, and I felt uneasy, for I knew we'd.
have to fudge the Ritual, and I didn’t know
what the men knew. The old priest was a
stranger come in from beyond the village of
Bashkai. The minute Dravot puts on the
Master’s apron that the girls had made for him,
the priest fetches a whoop and a howl, and tries
to overturn the stone that Dravot was sitting on
‘It’s all up now,’ I says. ‘That comes of
meddling with the Craft without warrant!’
Dravot never winked an eye, not when ten
priests took and tilted over the Grand-Master’s
chair—which was to say the stone of Imbra.
The priest begins rubbing the bottom end of it
to clear away the black dirt, and presently he
shows all the other priests the Master’s Mark,
same as was on Dravot’s apron, cut into the
stone. Not even the priests of the temple of
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The Man Who Would Be King
Imbra knew it was there. The old chap falls
flat on his face at Dravot’s feet and kisses ’em.
‘Luck again,’ says Dravot, across the Lodge to
me, ‘they say it’s the missing Mark that no one
could understand the why of. We’re more
than safe now.’ Then he bangs the butt of his
gun fora gavel and says——‘By virtue of the
- authority vested in me by my own right hand
and the help of Peachey, I declare myself Grand-
Master of all Freemasonry in Kafiristan in this
the Mother Lodge o’ the country, and King of
Kafiristan equally -with Peachey!’ At that he
puts on his crown and I puts on mine—I was
doing Senior Warden—and we opens the Lodge
in most’ample form. It was a amazing miracle!
The priests moved in Lodge through the first
two degrees almost without telling, as if the
memory was coming back to them. After that,
Peachey and Dravot raised such as was worthy
—high priests and Chiefs of far-off villages.
Billy Fish was the first, and I can tell you we
scared the soul out of him. It was not in any
way according to Ritual, but it served our turn.
We didn’t raise more than ten of the biggest men
because we didn’t want to make the Degree
common. And they was clamouring to be
raised.
““In another six months,’ says Dravot,
‘we'll hold another Communication and see
how you are working. Then he asks them
about their villages, and learns that they was
fighting one against the other and were fair
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Masterpieces of Fiction
sick and tired of it. And when they wasn’t
doing that they was fighting with the Moham-
medans. ‘You can fight those when they come
into our country,’ says Dravot. ‘Tell off every
tenth man of your tribes for a Frontier guard,
and send two hundred at a time to this valley
to be drilled. Nobody is going to be shot or
speared any more so long as he does well, and I
know that you won’t cheat me because you’re
white people—sons of Alexander—and not like
common, black Mohammedans. You are my
people and by God,’ says he, running off into
English at the end—‘I’ll make a damned fine
Nation of you, or I'll die in the making!’
“I can’t tell all we did for the next six months
because Dravot did a lot I couldn’t see the
hang of, and he learned their lingo in a way I
never could. My work was to help the people
plough, and now and again to go out with some
of the Army and see what the other villages
were doing, and make ’em throw rope-bridges
across the ravines which cut up the country
horrid. Dravot was very kind to me, but when
he walked up and down in the pine wood pulling
that bloody red beard of his with both fists I
knew he was thinking plans I could not advise
him about, and I just waited for orders.
“But Dravot never showed me disrespect
before the people. They were afraid of me
and the Army, but they loved Dan. He was
the best of friends with the priests and the
Chiefs, but any one could come across the hills
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The Man Who Would Be King
with a complaint and Dravot would hear him
out fair, and call four priests together and say
what was to be done. He used to call in Billy
Fish from Bashkai, and Pikky Kergan from
Shu, and an old Chief we called Kafuzelum—it
was like enough to his real name—and hold
councils with ’em when there was any fighting
to be done in small villages. That was his
Council of War, and the four priests of Bashkai,
Shu, Khawak, and Madora was his Privy
Council. Between the lot of ’°em they sent me,
with forty men and twenty rifles, and sixty
men carrying turquoises, into the Ghorband
country to buy those hand-made Martini
rifles, that come out of the Amir’s workshops
at Kabul, from one of the Amir’s Herati regi-
ments that would have sold the very teeth out
of their mouths for turquoises.
“I stayed in Ghorband a month, and gave
the Governor the pick of my baskets for hush-
money, and bribed the colonel of the regiment
some more, and, between the two and the tribes-
people, we got more than a hundred hand-made
Martinis, a hundred good Kohat Jezails that’ll
throw to six hundred yards, and forty manloads
of very bad ammunition for the rifles. I came
back with what I had, and distributed ’em
among the men that the Chiefs sent in to me to
drill. Dravot was too busy to attend to those
things, but the old Army that we first made
helped me, and we turned out five hundred men
that could drill, and two hundred that knew
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Masterpieces of Fiction
how to hold arms pretty straight. Even those
cork-screwed, hand-made guns was a miracle
to them. Dravot talked big about powder-
shops and factories, walking up and down in the
pine wood when the winter was coming on.
“““T won’t make a Nation,’ says he. ‘Ill
make an Empire! These men aren’t niggers;
they’re English! Look at their eyes—look at
their mouths. Look at the way they stand up.
They sit on chairs in their own houses. They’re
the Lost Tribes, or something like it, and they’ve
grown to be English. Ill take a census in the
spring if the priests don’t get frightened. There -
must be a fair two million of ’em in these hills.
The villages are full o’ little children. Two
million people—two hundred and fifty thousand
fighting men—and all English! They only
want the rifles and a little drilling. Two
hundred and fifty thousand men, ready to
cut in on Russia’s right flank when she tries for
India! Peachey, man,’ he says, chewing his
beard in great hunks, ‘we shall be Emperors—
Emperors of the Earth! Rajah Brooke will be
a suckling to us. I’ll treat with the Viceroy on
equal terms. I'll ask him to send me twelve
picked English—twelve that I know of—to
help us governa bit. There’s Mackray, Sergeant-
pensioner at Segowli—many’s the good dinner
he’s given me, and his wife a pair of trousers.
There’s Donkin, the Warder of Tounghoo Jail;
there’s hundreds that I could lay my hand
on if I was in India. The Viceroy shall do it
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The Man Who Would Be King
for me. I'll send a man through in the spring
for those men, and I'll write for a dispensation
from the Grand Lodge for what I’ve done as
Grand-Master. That—and all the Sniders that'll
he thrown out when the native troops in India
take up the Martini. They’ll be worn smocth,
but they'll do for fighting in these hills. Twelve
English, a hundred thousand Sniders run through
the Amir’s country in driblets—I’d be content
with twenty thousand in one year—and we'd
be an Empire. When everything was ship-
shape, I’d hand over the crown—this crown
I’m wearing now—to Queen Victoria on my
knees, and she’d say—‘‘Rise up, Sir Daniel
Dravot.”’ Oh, it’s big! It’s big, I tell you!
But there’s so much to be done in every place—
Bashkai, Khawak, Shu, and everywhere else.’
“What is it?’ I says. ‘There are no more
men coming in to be drilled this autumn. Look
at those fat, black clouds. They’re bringing
the snow.’
““It isn’t that,’ says Daniel, putting his
hand very hard on my shoulder; ‘and I don’t
wish to say anything that’s against you, for no
other living man would have followed me and
made me what I am as you have done. You're
a first-class Commander-in-Chief, and the people
know you; but—it’s a big country, and some-
how you can’t help me, Peachey, in the way I
want to be helped.’
“““Go to your blasted priests, then!’ I said,
and I was sorry when. I made that remark,
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Masterpieces of Fiction
but it did hurt me sore to find Daniel talking
so superior when I'd drilled all the men, and
done all he told me.
“Don’t let’s quarrel, Peachey,’ says Daniel
without cursing. ‘You’re a King too, and the
half of this Kingdom is yours; but can’t you see,
Peachey, we want cleverer men than us now—
_ three or four of ’em that we can scatter about
for our Deputies? It’s a hugeous great State,
and I can’t always tell the right thing to do,
and I haven’t time for all I want to do, and
here’s the winter coming on and all.’ He put
half his beard into his mouth, and it was as red
as the gold of his crown.
““*Pm sorry, Daniel,’ says I. ‘I’ve done all I.
could. I’ve drilled the men, and shown the
people how to stack their oats better, and
I’ve brought in those tinware rifles from Ghor-
band—but I know what you’re driving at. I
take it Kings always feel oppressed that way.’
“““There’s- another thing too,’ says Dravot,
walking up and down. ‘The winter’s coming
and these people won’t be giving much trouble,
and if they do we can’t move about. I want a
wife.’
‘“““FRor Gord’s sake leave the women alone!’
I says. ‘We’ve both got all the work we can,
though I am a fool. Remember the Contrack,
and keep elear o’ women.’
“““The Contrack only lasted till such time as
- we was Kings; and Kings we have been these
months past,’ says Dravot, weighing his crown
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The Man Who Would Be King
in his hand. ‘You go get a wife too, Peachey—
a nice, strappin’, plump girl that’ll keep you
warm in the winter. They’re prettier than
English girls, and we can take the pick of ’em.
Boil ’em once or twice in hot water, and they’ll
come as fair as chicken and ham.’
““*Don’t tempt me!’ I says. ‘I will not have
any dealings with a woman not till we are a
dam’ side more settled than we are now. I’ve
been doing the work o’ two men, and you’ve
been doing the work o’ three. Let’s lie off a
bit, and see if we can get some better tobacco
from Afghan country and run in some good
liquor; but no women.’
“““Who’s talking o’ women?’ says Dravot.
‘I said wife—a Queen to breed a King’s son
for the King. A Queen out of the strongest
tribe, that’ll make them your blood-brothers,
and that’ll lie by your side and tell you all the
people thinks about you and their own affairs.
That’s what I want.’
““Do you remember that Bengali woman I
kept at Mogul Serai when I was plate-layer?’
says I. ‘A fat lot 0’ good she was to me. She
taught me the lingo and one or two other things;
but what happened? She ran away with the
Station Master’s servant and half my month’s
pay. Then she turned up at Dadur Junction in
tow of a half-caste, and had the impidence to
say I was her husband—all among the drivers
of the running-shed!’
‘*“We’'ve done with that,’ says Dravot. ‘These
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Masterpieces of Fiction
women are whiter than you or me, and a Queen
I will have for the winter months.’
‘“*For the last time o’ asking, Dan, do not,’
I says. ‘It'll only bring us harm. The Bible
says that Kings ain’t to waste their strength on
women, specially when they’ve got a new, raw
Kingdom to work over.
“““FRor the last time of answering, I will,’ said
Dravot, and he went away through the pine-
trees looking like a big red devil. The low sun
hit his crown and beard on one side, and the two
blazed like hot coals.
“But getting a wife was not as easy as Dan
thought. He put it before the Council, and
there was no answer till Billy Fish said that
he’d better ask the girls. Dravot damned
them all round. ‘What’s wrong with me?’
he shouts, standing by the idol Imbra. ‘Am
I a dog or am I not enough of a man for your
wenches? Haven’t I put the shadow of my
hand over this country? Who stopped the
last Afghan raid?’ It was me really, but
Dravot was too angry to remember. ‘Who
bought your guns? Who repaired the bridges?
Who’s the Grand-Master of the sign cut in the
stone?’ and he thumped his hand on the block
that he used to sit on in Lodge, and at Council,
which opened like Lodge always. Billy Fish
said nothing and no more did the others. “Keep
_your hair on, Dan,’ said I; ‘and ask the girls.
That’s how it’s done at home, and these people
are quite English.’ ,
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The Man Who Would Be King
““*The marriage of a King is a matter of
State,’ says Dan, in a white-hot rage, for he could
feel, I hope, that he was going against his better
mind. He walked out of the Council-room,
and the others sat still, looking at the ground.
‘**Billy Fish,’ says I to the Chief of Bashkai,
‘what’s the difficulty here? A straight answer
to a true friend.’ ‘You know,’ says Billy Fish.
‘How should a man tell you who know every-
thing? How can daughters of men marry gods
or devils? It’s not proper.’
““T remembered something like that in the
Bible; but if, after seeing us as long as they had,
they still believed we were gods, it wasn’t for
me to undeceive them.
““A god can do anything,’ says I. ‘If the
King is fond of a girl he’ll not let her die.’ ‘She'll
have to,’ said Billy Fish. ‘There are all sorts
of gods and devils in these mountains, and now
and again a girl marries one of them and isn’t
seen any more. Besides, you two know the
Mark cut in the stone. Only the gods know
that. We thought you were men till you showed
the sign of the Master.’
““*T wished then that we had explained about
the loss of the genuine secrets of a Master-
Mason at the first go-off; but I said nothing.
All that night there was a blowing of horns in a
little dark temple half-way down the hill, and
I heard a girl crying fit to die. One of the priests
told us that she was being prepared to marry the
King.
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““*T’ll have no nonsense of that kind,’ says
Dan. ‘I don’t want to interfere with your
customs, but I'll take my own wife.’ ‘The
girl’s a little bit afraid,’ says the priest. ‘She
thinks she’s going to die, and they are a-heartening
of her up down in the temple.’
‘‘*Hearten her very tenderjaitaen, jeeys
Dravot, ‘or I’ll hearten you with the butt of a
gun so that you'll never want to be heartened
again.’ He licked his lips, did Dan, and stayed
up walking about more than half the night,
thinking of the wife that he was going to get
in the morning. I wasn’t any means comfort-
able, for I knew that dealings with a woman in
foreign parts, though you was a crowned King
twenty times over, could not but be risky. I
got up very early in the morning while Dravot -
was asleep, and I saw the priests talking together
in whispers, and the Chiefs talking together
too, and they looked at me out of the corners
of their eyes.
‘“““What is up, Fish?’ I says to the Bashkai
man, who was wrapped up in his furs and
looking splendid to behold.
““T can’t rightly say,’ says he; ‘but if you
can induce the King to drop all this nonsense
about marriage, you'll be doing him and me
and yourself a great service.’
‘““*That I do believe,’ says I. ‘But sure, you
know, Billy, as well as me, having fought against.
and for us,.that the King and me are nothing
more than two of the finest men that God
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The Man Who Would Be King
Almighty ever made. Nothing more, I do as-
sure you.’
““That may be,’ says Billy Fish, ‘and yet
I should be sorry if it was.’ He sinks his head
upon his great fur cloak for a minute and thinks.
‘King’ says he, ‘be you man or god or devil,
I'll stick by you to-day. I have twenty of my
men with me, and they will follow me. We'll
go to Bashkai until the storm blows over.’
“A little snow had fallen in the night, and
everything was white except the greasy fat
clouds that blew down and down from the
north. Dravot came out with his crown on
his head, swinging his arms and stamping his
feet, and looking more pleased than Punch.
‘“““Por the last time, drop it, Dan,’ says I in
a whisper. ‘Billy Fish says that there will be
a row.’ pe
““A row among my people!’ says Dravot.
‘Not much. Peachey, you’re a fool not to get
a wife, too. Where’s the girl?’ says he with a
voice as loud as the braying of a jackass. ‘Call
up all the Chiefs and priests, and let the Emperor
See if his wife suits him.’
““There was no need to call any one. They
were all there leaning on their guns and spears.
-round the clearing in the centre of the pine
wood. A deputation of priests went down to
the little temple to bring up the girl, and the
horns blew up fit to wake the dead. Billy Fish
saunters round and gets as close to Daniel as he
could, and behind him stood his twenty men
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with matchlocks. Not a man of them under
six feet. I was next to Dravot, and behind me
was twenty men of the regular Army. Up
comes the girl, and a strapping wench she was,
covered with silver and turquoises but white as
death, and looking back every minute at the
priests.
‘“*She’ll do,’ said Dan, looking her over.
‘What’s to be afraid of, lass? Come and kiss
me. He puts his arm round her. She shuts
her eyes, gives a bit of a squeak, and down
goes her face in the side of Dan’s flaming red
beard.
‘“““The slut’s bitten me!’ says he, clapping his
hand to his neck, and, sure enough, his hand
was red with blood. Billy Fish and two of his
matchlock-men catches hold of Dan by the
shoulders and drags him into the Bashkai lot,
while the priests howls in their, lingo,—‘ Neither
god nor devil butaman!’ Iwas all taken aback,
for a priest cut at me in front, and the Army
behind began firing into the Bashkai men.
“God A-mighty!’ says Dan. ‘What is the
meaning o’ this?’
“““Come back! Come away!’ says Billy
Fish. ‘Ruin and Mutiny is the matter. We'll
break for Bashkai if we can.’
“I tried to give some sort of orders to my
men—the men o’ the regular Army—but it
was no use, so I fired into the brown of ‘em
with an English Martini and drilled three
beggars in a line. The valley was full of shout-
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The Man Who Would Be King
ing, howling creatures, and every soul was
shrieking, ‘Not a god nor a devil but only a
man!’ The Bashkai troops stuck to Billy Fish
all they were worth, but their matchlocks
wasn’t half as good as the Kabul breech-loaders,
and four of them dropped. Dan was bellowing
like a bull, for he was very wrathy; and Billy
Fish had a hard job to prevent him running
out at the crowd.
“““We can’t stand,’ says Billy Fish. ‘Make
a run for it down the valley! The whole place
is against us.’ The matchlock-men ran, and
we went down the valley in spite of Dravot’s
protestations. He was swearing horribly and
crying out that he was a King. The priests
rolled great stones on us, and the regular Army
fired hard, and there wasn’t more than six men,
not counting Dan, Billy Fish, and Me, that came
down to the bottom of the valley alive.
““Then they stopped firing and the horns in
the temple blew again. ‘Come away—for
Gord’s sake come away!’ says Billy Fish.
“They'll send runners out to all the villages
before ever we get to Bashkai. I can protect
you there, but I can’t do anything now.’
‘““My own notion is that Dan began to go
mad in his head that hour. He stared up and
down like a stuck pig. Then he was all for
walking back alone and killing the priests with
his bare hands; which he could have done.
‘An Emperor am I,’ says Daniel, ‘and next year
I shall be a Knight of the Queen.’
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*“fAll right, Dan,’ says I; ‘but come along
now while there’s time.’ 7
‘““Tt’s your fault,’ says he, ‘for not looking
after your Army better. There was mutiny in
the midst, and you didn’t know—you damned
engine-driving, plate-laying, missionary’s-pass-
hunting hound!’ He sat upon a rock and
called me every foul name he could lay tongue
to. I was too heartsick to care, though it was
all his foolishness that brought the smash.
““T’m sorry; Dan,’ says! 1,3 but ttpere cae
accounting for natives. This business is our
Fifty-Seven. Maybe we'll make something out
of it yet, when we’ve got to Bashkai.’
‘“*Let’s get to Bashkai, then} says. Dan;
‘and, by God, when I come back here again I’ll
sweep the valley so there isn’t a bug in a blanket
left?
‘We walked all that day, and all that night
Dan was stumping up and down on the snow,
chewing his beard and muttering to himself.
‘'“There’s: no hope o’ getting clear,’ said
Billy Fish. ‘The priests will have sent runners
to the villages to say that you are only men.
Why didn’t you stickeon as gods till things was
more settled? I’m a dead man,’ says Billy Fish,
and he throws himself down on the snow and
begins to pray to his gods.
““Next morning we was in a cruel baa country
—all up and down, no level ground at all, and
no food either. The six Bashkai men looked
at Billy Fish hungry-wise as if they wanted to
50
The Man Who Would Be King
ask something, but they said never a word. At
noon we came to the top of a flat mountain all
covered with snow, and when we climbed up
into it, behold, there was an army in position
waiting in the middle!
““The runners have been very quick,’ says
Billy Fish, with-a little bit of a laugh. ‘They
are waiting for us.’
‘“‘Three or four men began to fire from the
enemy’s side, and a chance shot took Daniel
in the calf of the leg. That brought him to his
senses. He looks across the snow at the Army,
and sees the rifles that we had brought into the
country.
. Were) “done ‘for,:says, ohe.. “They \ are
Englishmen, these people—and it’s my blasted
nonsense that has brought you to this. Get
back, Billy Fish, and take your men away; you’ve
done what you could, and now cut forit. Carne-
han,’ says he, ‘shake hands with me and go along
with Billy. Maybe they won’t kill you. I'll
go and meet ’em alone. It’s me that did it.
Me, the King!’
““Go!’ says I. ‘Go to Hell, Dan. I’m with
you here. Billy Fish, you clear out, and we two
will meet those folk.’
‘“““T’m a Chief,’ says Billy Fish, quite quiet.
‘I stay with you. My men can go.’
‘‘The Bashkai fellows didn’t wait for a second
word, but ran off, and Dan and Me and Billy
Fish walked across to where the drums were
drumming and the horns were horning. It was
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Masterpieces of Fictien
cold—awful cold. I’ve got that cold in the
back of my head now. There’s a lump of it
there.”’
The punkah-coolies had gone to sleep. Two
kerosene lamps were blazing in the office, and
the perspiration poured down my face and
splashed on the blotter as I-leaned forward.
Carnehan was shivering, and I feared that his
mind might go. I wiped my face, took a fresh
grip of the piteously mangled hands, and
said:—‘‘ What happened after that?”
The momentary shift of my eyes had broken
the clear current.
‘““What was you pleased to say?” whined
Carnehan. “They took them without any
sound. Not a little whisper ali along the snow,
not though the King knocked down the first
man that set hand on him—not though old
Peachey fired his last cartridge into the brown
of ’em. Not a single solitary sound did those
swines make. They just ‘closed up tight, and
I tell you their furs stunk. There was a man
called Billy Fish, a good friend of us all, and
they cut his throat, Sir, then and there, like
a pig; and the King kicks up the bloody snow
and says:—‘We’ve had a dashed fine run for
our money. What’s coming next?’ But
Peachey, Peachey Taliaferro, I tell you, Sir,
in confidence as betwixt two friends, he lost his
head, Sir. No, he didn’t neither. The King
lost his head, so he did, all along o’ one of those
cunning rope-bridges. Kindly let me have the
52
The Man Who Would Be King
paper-cutter, Sir. It tilted this way. They
marched him a mile across that snow to a rope-
bridge over a ravine with a river at the bottom.
You may have seen such. They prodded him
behind like an ox. ‘Damn your eyes!’ says
the King. ‘D’you suppose I can’t die like a
gentleman?’ He turns to Peachey—Peachey
that was crying like a child. ‘I’ve brought you
to this, Peachey,’ says he. ‘ Brought you out of
your happy life to be killed in Kafiristan, where
you was late Commander-in-Chief of the Em-
peror’s forces. Say you forgive me, Peachey.’
‘I do, says Peachey. ‘Fully and freely do I
forgive you, Dan. ‘Shake hands, Peachey,’
says he. ‘I’m. going now.’” Out he - goes,
looking neither right nor left, and when he
was plumb in the middle of those dizzy dancing
ropes, “Cut, yqu beggars,’ he shouts; and they
cut, and old Dan fell, turning round and round
and round, twenty thousand miles, for he took
half an hour to fall till he struck the water, and
I could see his body caught on a rock with the
gold crown close beside.
“But do you know what they did to Peachey
between two pine-trees? They crucified him,
sir, as Peachey’s hands will show. They used
wooden pegs for his hands and his feet; and he
didn’t die. He hung there and screamed, and
they took him down next day, and said it was a
miracle that he wasn’t dead. They took him
down—poor, old Peachey that hadn’t done them
. any harm—that hadn’t done them any.. .”
53
Masterpieces of Fiction
He rocked to and fro and wept bitterly,
wiping his eyes with the back of his scarred
hands and moaning like a child for some ten
minutes.
‘“They was cruel enough to feed him up in the
temple, because they said he was more of a god
than old Daniel that was a man. Then they
turned him out on the snow, and told him to go
home, and Peachey came home in about a year,
begging along the roads quite safe; for Daniel
Dravot he walked before and said:—‘Come
along, Peachey. It’s a big thing we’re doing.’
The mountains they danced at night, and the
mountains they tried to fall on Peachey’s head,
but Dan he held up his hand, and Peachey
came along bent double. He never let go of —
Dan’s hand, and he never let go of Dan’s
head. They gave it to him as a present in
the temple, to remind him not to come again,
and though the crown was pure gold, and
Peachey was starving, never would Peachey
sell the same. You knew Dravot, sir! You
knew Right Worshipful Brother Dravot! Look
at him now!”’ :
He fumbled in the mass of rags round his
bent. waist; brought out a black horsehair
bag embroidered with silver thread; and shook
therefrom on to my table—the dried, withered
head of Daniel Dravot! The morning sun that
had long been paling the lamps struck the red
beard and blind, sunken eyes; struck, too, a
heavy circlet of gold studded with raw turquoises,
54
The Man Whe Would Be King
that Carnehan placed tenderly on the battered
temples.
“You behold now,’ said Carnehan, ‘‘the
Emperor in his habit as he lived—the King
of Kafiristan with his crown upon his head.
Poor old Daniel that was a monarch once!”’
I shuddered, for, in spite of defacements mani-
fold, I recognised the head of the man of Marwar
Junction. Carnehan rose to go. I attempted
to stop him. He was not fit to walk abroad.
*‘Let me take away the whisky, and give me a
little money,” he gasped. ‘‘I was a King once.
I'll go to the Deputy Commissioner and ask to
set in the Poorhouse till I get my health. No,
thank you, I can’t wait till you get a carriage
for me. I’ve urgent pave affairs—in the
south—at Marwar.”’
He shambled out of the office and departed
in the direction of the Deputy Commissioner’s
house. That day at noon I had occasion to go
down the blinding hot Mall, and I saw a crooked
man crawling along the white dust of the road-
side, his hat in his hand, quavering dolorously
after the fashion of street-singers at Home.
There was not a soul in sight, and he was out
of all possible earshot of the houses. And he
sang through his nose, turning his head from
Tight to left:
‘““The Son of Man goes forth to war,
A golden crown to gain;
His blood-red banner streams afar—
Who follows in his train?” ~~
55
Masterpieces of Fiction
I waited to hear no more, but put the poor
wretch into my carriage and drove him off to
the nearest missionary for eventual transfer to
the Asylum. He repeated the hymn _ twice
while he was with me whom he did not in
the least recognise, and I left him singing to the
missionary.
Two days later I inquired after his welfare of
the Superintendent of the Asylum.
‘“He was admitted suffering from sunstroke.
He died early yesterday morning,’’ said the
Superintendent. ‘“‘Is it true that he was half
an hour bareheaded in the sun at midday?”’
‘““Yes,”’ said I, ‘‘but do you happen to know
if he had anything upon him by any chance
when he died?”’
‘Not to my knowledge,
tendent.
And there the matter rests.
9?
said the Superin-
?
TAB AE Cr Ors TrRING
BY
HENRI RENE ALBERT Guy DE MAUPASSANT
On all the roads leading to Goderville, the
peasants and their wives were coming to town
for market-day. The men shambled along at
an easy-going gait, with bodies bent forward.
Their long legs were deformed and twisted
through hard work—from the weight of the
plough, which at the same time throws the left
shoulder too high, and ruins the figure; from
mowing the grain, which effort causes the knees
to spread too far apart; and from all the other
slow and painful labours of country life. Their
blue: blouses, starched to a sheenlike varnish
and finished at collar and wristbands with lit-
tle designs in white stitching, stood from their
bony bodies like balloons ready for flight, with
a head, two arms, and two feet protruding.
Some of the men had a cow or calf in tow at
the end of a rope, while their wives followed
close behind the animal, switching it over the
haunches with a leafy branch to hasten its pace.
The women carried large baskets, out of which
stuck the heads of chickens and ducks. They
took much shorter and quicker steps than the
men. Their lanky, spare figures were decorated
57
Masterpieces of Fiction |
with mean little shawls pinned across their flat
breasts. Each head bore a white linen cover,
bound close to the hair and surmounted by a
cap.
Now and then, there went by a waggonette
drawn by a pony on a jerky trot, which jostled
the two men on the seat in a ludicrous manner,
and made the woman at the end of the cart hold
the sides firmly for ease from the rough jolting.
In the Goderville market-place was a great
crowd of men and animals. The horns of the
cattle, the high, long-napped hats of the well-
to-do peasants, and the head-dresses of women
bobbed above the level of that crowd. Noisy
voices, sharp and shrill, kept up a wild and
ceaseless clamour, only outdone now and then
by a great guffaw of laughter from the strong
lungs of a jolly bumpkin, or a prolonged moo
from a cow tied to the wall of some house.
Everywhere it smelled of stables, of milk
and manure, of hay and sweat. The air was
redolent with that sourish, disagreeable odour
savouring of man and beast which is peculiar
to the labourers of the fields. |
Master Hauchecorne, of Bréauté, had ‘just
arrived at Goderville, and was directing his steps
to the square when he observed on the ground
a little bit of string. Economical, like all true
Normans, Master Hauchecorne considered that
anything useful was worth picking up, and he
bent down painfully, for he suffered from rheu-
matism. He picked up the scrap of twine from —
58
The Piece of String
the ground, and was preparing to wind it up
carefully when he noticed Master Malandain,
the harness-maker, looking at him from his door-
way. Once they had a quarrel over a halter
and had kept angry ever since, both of them
holding spite. Master Hauchecorne was smit-
ten with a certain sense of shame at being seen
thus by his enemy searching in the dirt for a
mere bit of string. He hastily hid his find under
his blouse, then in the pocket of his breeches—-
after which he pretended to be still looking at
his feet for something which he had not yet
found. At length, he started toward the
market-place, his body almost bent double by
his chronic pains.
’ He lost himself at once in the slow, clamorous
throng, which was agitated by perpetual bick-
erings. The prospective buyers, after looking
the cows over, would go away only to return
perplexed; always fearing to be taken in; never
reaching a decision, but narrowly watching the
seller’s eyes, seeking in the end to detect the
deceit of the man and the defect in his animal.
The women, having put their big baskets at
their feet, had pulled out the poultry, which
lay on the ground With legs tied, with fright-
ened eyes and scarlet combs.
They listened to offers, maintaining their
prices with a sharp air and impassive face, or
else at a sweep accepting a reduced price, cry-
ing after the customer who left reluctantly,
‘‘Tt’s settled, Anthime; I’ll let you have them!”
59
Masterpieces of Fiction
Then, by degrees, the square emptied, and,
as the Angelus struck noon, those living at a
distance flocked to the inns.
At Jourdain’s, the dining-room was filled with
guests, as full as the great courtyard was with
vehicles of every description—carts, gigs, waggon-
ettes, tilburies, nondescript jaunting-cars, yel-
low with mud, misshapen, patched up, lifting
their shafts to heaven like two arms, or else in
a sorry plight with nose in the mud and back
in the air.
Right opposite to where the diners were at
table, the immense fireplace, all brightly aflame,
imparted a genial warmth to the backs of the
people ranged on the right. Three spits were
turning, loaded with chickens, with pigeons,
and with legs of mutton; and a delicious odour
of roast meat and of gravy gushing over
roast brown skin took wing from the hearth,
kindled good humour, and made mouths
water.
All the aristocracy of the plough were eating
there at Jourdain’s, the innkeeper who dealt in
horses—a shrewd fellow, who had a goodish
penny put by.
The dishes were passed and emptied, as were
likewise huge jugs of yellow cider. Every one
recounted his dealings—his buying and selling.
They gave news of the crops. The weather was
good for greens, but somewhat wet for wheat.
All at once, a drum rolled in the court before
the house. Almost everybody, save the too
60
The Piece of String
indifferent, immediately sprang to their feet
and ran to the door, or to the windows, with
mouth still full and napkin in hand.
After the public crier had stopped his racket,
he launched forth in a jerky voice, making his
pauses at the wrong time:
‘‘Be it known to the inhabitants of Goder-
ville, and in general to all persons present at the
market, that there was lost this morning on the
Beuzeville road, between nine and ten o'clock,
a black leather pocket-book containing five
hundred francs and business papers. You
are requested to return it to the mayor’s Office,
at once, or to Master Fortuné Houlbréque, of
Manneville. There will be twenty francs re-
ward.”’
Then the man went away. They heard once
more from afar the dull drum-beats and the
fading voice of the crier.
After that,, they began to discuss this event,
counting the chances Master Houlbréque yet
had of recovering or not recovering his pocket-
book.
And the meal went on.
They were finishing their coffee when the
corporal of police appeared on the threshold.
He asked:
‘*Master Hauchecorne, of Bréauté—is he here?”
Hauchecorne, seated at the other end of the
table, answered:
“Here I am.”
And the corporal resumed:
61
Masterpieces of Fiction
‘‘Master Hauchecorne, will you have the kind-
“mess to come with me to the mayor’s office?
The mayor would like to speak to you.”’
The peasant, surprised and disturbed, tossed ©
off his drink and arose, worse bent than in the
morning, because the first steps after a rest were
always especially difficult. He started off,
repeating:
‘‘Here I am; here I am.”
And he followed the corporal.
The mayor was awaiting him, seated in his
official chair. He was the notary of the place,
a large, grave man of pompous speech.
‘‘Master Hauchecorne,’”’ he said, ‘“‘you were
seen this morning, on the Beuzeville road, to
pick up the pocket-book lost by Master Houl- :
bréque, of Manneville.”
The countryman, confused, stared at the
mayor, already frightened by this suspicion
attaching to him—why he could not anal
stand.
“J—I—I bs SS) up that pocten inate
“Yes, you.’
‘On my word of honour, I didn’t even know
nothing about it.’
‘“You were seen.”
“They saw me—me? Who’s they what
saw me?”
‘Master Malandain, the harness-maker.”
Then the old man remembered, understood,
and reddened with anger.
‘‘Ah! he saw me, did he, the rascal? He saw
62
The Piece* of) String |
me pick up this here string. Look, your wor-
ship.”’
And, rummaging at the bottom of his pocket,
he pulled out the little piece of string.
But the incredulous mayor shook his head.
“You will not make me believe, Master
Hauchecorne, that Master Malandain, who is
a man worthy of all respect, has taken this bit
of cord for a pocket-book.”’ |
The peasant, furious, raised his hand, and
spit at his side to bear witness to his honour,
repeating,
‘““FP’r all that, it’s God’s truth, holy truth,
your worship. There! My soul and my sal-
vation knows it’s true!’’
The mayor resumed:
“After having picked the article up, you
even searched also a long while in the mud
to make sure if any money had fallen out
OLite
The good man choked with rage and terror.
‘““Tf them can say—if them can say—such lies
as that to take away an honest man’s name! If
them can say ey
However he might protest, he was not, be-
lieved.
He was confronted by Master Malandain, who
repeated and supported his statement. They
railed at each other for an hour. Master Hauche-
corne demanded that they search his pockets.
Nothing was found upon him.
Finally, the mayor, very much perplexed, let
63
_ Masterpieces of Fiction
him go with the warning that he would inform
the public prosecutor, and ask for orders.
The news had spread abroad. When le
came out of the mayor’s office, the old man
was the centre of curiosity and ques-
tioning, both serious and jeering, but into
which not the least resentment entered. And
he began recounting the long rigmarole of
the string. They did not believe him. They
grinned.
He went alon’, stopped by every one, or ac-
costing his acquaintances, going over and over
his story and his protestations, pointing to his
pockets turned inside out to prove he had
nothing. ‘
They said to him:
“‘Come now, you old rascal!”
And he became angry, exasperated, feverish,
disconsolate at being doubted, and forever tell-
ing his story. | |
Night fell. It became time to go home. He
started out with three of his neighbours, to
whom he pointed out the spot where he had
picked up the bit of string; and, all along the
road, he recited his adventure.
That evening, he made a round of the village
of Bréauté so as to tell everyone. He found
only unbelievers.
He was ill of it all through the night.
The next tay about one in the afternoon,
Marius Paumelle, a farm helper of Master Bre-
ton, the market-gapdener at Ymauville, re-
The Piece of String
turned the pocket-book and its contents to
Master Houlbréque of Manneville.
This man maintained he had found it on the
road, but, not knowing how to read, had carried
it home, and turned it over to his master.
The news spread to the suburbs. Master
Hauchecorne was informed. Immediately, he
set himself the task of going about relating his
story, capping it with this climax. He was
triumphant.
‘““What hurt me the mostest,’”’ he said, ‘‘was
not the thing itself, don’t you see, but the lies.
Nothing hurts so as when’s lies told about you.”
All day long he talked of his adventure. He
told it on the roads to the people passing, at
the tavern to people who were drinking, and
then to the people coming out of church the
next Sunday. He even stopped strangers to
tell them the tale. He felt relieved by this
time, yet something troubled him without his
knowing just what it was. People had a mock-
ing manner as they listened. They did not
appear convinced. He almost felt their tattle
behind his back.
Tuesday of the next week, he went to the
Goderville market, solely impelled by the need
of recounting his affair.
Malandain, standing in his doorway, began
to laugh as he saw him pass. For what?
He accosted a farmer of Criquetot who did
.not permit him to finish, but, landing him a
thump in the pit of the stomach, cried in his
65
Masterpieces of Fiction
face, ‘‘Get out, you great rogue!” Then he
turned on his heel.
Master Hauchecorne, altogether abashed, grew
more and more disturbed. Why had he been
dubbed ‘‘a great rogue’’?
When seated at table in Jourdain’s tavern,
he again began to explain the particulars.
A Montvilliers horse-dealer yelled at him:
“Don’t tell me, you old fox! I know your
piece of string yarn!” :
Hauchecorne stammered, ‘‘B—b—but it’s
found, the pocket-book!”’
To which the other retorted:
“That'll do, daddy!. There’s one who finds
and another who gives aipeet _ Neither is no one
the wiser” Maumee se: "ial
The peasant was choked off. At last, he
understood. They accused him of having had
the pocket-book returned by a crony—by an
accomplice.
He tried to protest. The whole table started
to laugh.
He could not finish his meal, and took his
leave amidst their mocking and derision.
He returned to his home, ashamed and in-
dignant, stifled with rage, with confusion; all
the more dejected because, with his Norman
cunning, he was capable of having done what
_they accused him of, and even of bragging of
it as a good trick. His innocence vaguely
appeared to him as impossible to prove; his,
roguery was too well known. And he felt
66
The Piece of String
struck to the heart by the injustice of the
suspicion.
Again he commenced to tell of his adventure;
every day its recital lengthened, each time
containing new proofs, more energetic pro-
testations, and more solemn oaths which he
prepared in his solitary hours. His mind was .
altogether occupied by the story of the piece
of string. He was believed all the less as his
defence grew more complicated and his argu-
ments more artful.
“‘Now, those are the proofs of a liar,” they
said behind his back.
He felt this. It consumed his strength. He
exhausted himself in useless efforts.
He went into a visible decline.
The jokers now made him detail the story of
“‘The Piece of String’? to amuse them, just as
you persuade a soldier who has come through
a campaign to tell his version of a battle. At
last, his mind began to give way.
Near the end of December he took to his bed.
He died the first week in January, and, in
the delirium of the throes of death, he protested
his innocence, repeating, “‘A little piece of string
—little piece of string—see, here it is, your
worship.”
67
THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM
BY
WASHINGTON IRVING
On the summit of one of the heights of the
Odenwald, a wild and romantic tract of upper
Germany that lies not far from the confluence of
the Main and the Rhine, there stood many, many
vears since the castle of the Baron von Landshort.
It is now quite fallen to decay, and almost buried
among beech trees and dark firs; above which,
however, its old watch-tower may still be seen
struggling, like the feudal possessor I have men-
tioned, to carry a high head and look down upon
the neighbouring country.
The baron was a dry branch of the great
family of Katzenellenbogen, and inherited the
relics of the property and all the pride of his
ancestors. Though the warlike disposition of
his predecessors had much impaired the family
possessions, yet the baron still endeavoured to
keep up some show of former state. The times
were peaceable, and the German nobles in general
had abandoned their inconvenient old castles,
perched like eagles’ nests among the mountains,
and had built more convenient residences in the
valleys; still, the baron remained proudly drawn
up in his little fortress, cherishing with hereditary
68
The Spectre Bridegroom
inveteracy all the old family feuds, so that he
was on ill terms with some of his nearest neigh-
bours, on account of disputes that had happened
between their great-great-grandfathers,
The baron had but one child, a daughter, but
Nature, when she grants but one child, always
compensates by making it a prodigy; and so it
was with the daughter of the baron. All the
nurses, gossips, and country cousins assured her
father that she had not her equal for beauty in
all Germany; and who should know better than
they? She had, moreover, been brought up with
great care under the superintendence of two
maiden aunts, who had spent some years of their
early life at one of the little German courts, and
were skilled in all the branches of knowledge
necessary to the education of a finelady. Under
their instructions, she became a miracle of accom-
plishments. By the time she was eighteen, she
could embroider to admiration, and had worked
whole histories of the saints in tapestry with
such strength of expression in their countenances
that they looked like so many souls in purgatory.
She could read without great difficulty, and had
spelled her way through several Church legends
and almost all the chivalric wonders of the Hel-
denbuch. She had even made considerable
proficiency in writing; could sign her own name
without missing a letter, and so legibly that her
aunts could read it without spectacles. She
excelled in making little elegant, good-for-nothing
ladylike nicknacks of all kinds, was versed in the
69
Masterpieces of Fiction
most abstruse dancing of. the day, played a
number of airs on the harp and guitar, and
knew all the tender ballads of the Minnelieder
by heart. . .
Her aunts, too, having been great flirts and
coquettes in their younger days, were admirably
calculated to be vigilant guardians and strict
censors of the conduct of their niece; for there is
no duenna so rigidly prudent and inexorably
decorous as a superannuated coquette. She was
rarely suffered out of their sight; never went
beyond the domains of the castle unless well at-
tended, or, rather, well watched; had continual
lectures read to her about strict decorum and
implicit obedience; and, as to the men—pah!—
she was taught to hold them at such a distance
andin such absolute distrust that, unless properly
authorised, she would not have cast a glance upon
the handsomest cavalier in the world—no, not if
he were even dying at her feet.
The good effects of this system were wonder-
fully apparent. The young lady was a pattern
of docility and correctness. While others were
wasting their sweetness in the glare of the world,
and liable to be plucked and thrown aside by
every hand, she was coyly blooming into fresh
and lovely womanhood under the protection of
those immaculate spinsters, like a rosebud blush-
ing forth among guardian thorns. Her aunts
looked upon her with pride and exultation, and
vaunted that, though all the other young ladies
in the world might go astray, yet, thank Heaven,
7°
The Spectre Bridegroom
nothing of the kind could happen to the heiress of
Katzenellenbogen.
But, however scantily the Baron von Lands-
hort might be provided with children, his house-
hold was by no means a small one; for Providence
had enriched him with abundance of poor rela-
tions. They, one and all, possessed the affec-
tionate disposition common to humble relatives—
were wonderfully attached to the baron, and took
every possible occasion to come in swarms and
mliven the castle. All family festivals were
commemorated by these good people at the
baron’s expense; and, when they were filled with
zood cheer, they would declare’ that there was
nothing on earth so delightful as these family
meetings, these jubilees of the heart.
The baron, though a small man, had a large
soul, and it swelled with satisfaction at the con-
sciousness of being the greatest man in the little
world about him. He loved to tell long stories
about the stark old warriors whose portraits
looked grimly down from the walls around, and
he found no listeners equal to those who fed at his
expense. He was much given to the marvellous,
and a firm believer in all those supernatural tales
with which every mountain and valley in Ger-
many abounds. The faith of his guests exceeded
even his own: they listened to every tale of won-
der with open eyes and mouth, and never failed
to be astonished, even though repeated for the
hundredth time. Thus lived the Baron von
Landshort, the oracle of his table, the absolute
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Masterpieces of Fiction
monarch of his little territory, and happy, above
all things, in the persuasion that he was the
wisest man of the age.
At the time of which my siory treats, there
was a great family gathering at the castle on an
affair of the utmost importance: it was to receive
the destined bridegroom of the baron’s daughter.
A negotiation had been carried on between the
father and an old nobleman of Bavaria to unite
the dignity of their houses by the marriage of
their children. The preliminaries had been con-
ducted with proper punctilio. The young peo-
ple were betrothed without seeing each other,
and the time was appointed for the marriage
ceremony. The young Count von Altenburg had
been recalled from the army for the purpose, and
was actually on his way to the baron’s to receive
his bride. Missives had even been received from
Wirtzburg, where he was accidently detained,
mentioning the day and hour when he might
be expected to arrive. |
The castle was in a tumult of preparation to
give him a suitable welcome. The fair bride had
been decked out with uncommon care. The two
aunts had superintended her toilet, and quar-
relled the whole morning about every article of
her dress. The young lady had taken advantage
of their contest to follow the bent of her own
taste; and, fortunately, it was a good one. She
looked as lovely as youthful bridegroom could
desire, and the flutter of expectation heightened
the lustre of her charms.
72
The Spectre Bridegroom
The suffusions that mantled her face and neck,
the gentle heaving of the bosom, the eye now and
then lost in reverie, ali betrayed the soft tumult
that was going on in her little heart. The aunts
were continually hovering around her, for maiden
aunts are apt to take great interest in affairs of
this nature. They were giving her a world of
staid counsel how to deport herself, what to say,
andin what manner to receive the expected lover.
The baron was no less busied in preparations.
He had, in truth, nothing exactly to do; but he
was naturally a fuming, bustling little man, and
could not remain passive when all the world was
in a hurry. He worried from top to bottom of
the castle with an air of infinite anxiety; he con-
tinually called the servants from their work to
exhort them to be diligent; and buzzed about
every hall and chamber, as idly restless and
importunate as a blue-bottle fly on a warm
surnmer’s day.
In the meantime, the fatted calf had been
killed; the forests had rung with the clamour of
the huntsmen; the kitchen was crowded with
good cheer; the cellars had yielded up whole
oceans of Rheinwein and Iernewein; and even
the great Heidelberg tun had been laid under
contribution. Everything was ready to receive
the distinguished guest with Saus und Braus in
the true spirit of German hospitality; but the
guest delayed to make his appearance. Hour
rolled after hour. The sun, that had poured his
downward rays upon the rich forest of the Oden-
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wald, now just gleamed along the summits of the
mountains. The baron mounted the highest
tower, and strained his eyes in hopes of catching
a distant sight of the count and his attendants.
Once he thought he beheld them; the sound of
horns came floating from the°valley, prolonged
by the mountain echoes. A number of horse-
men were seen far below slowly advancing along
the road; but, when they had nearly reached the
foot of the mountain, they suddenly struck off in
a different direction. The last ray of sunshine
departed, the bats began to flit by in the twilight,
the road grew dimmer and dimmer to the view,
and nothing appeared stirring in it but now and:
then a peasant lagging homeward from his labour.
While the old castle of Landshort was in this
state of perplexity a very interesting scene was
transacting in a different part of the Odenwald.
The young Count von Altenburg was tranquilly
pursuing his route in that sober, jog-trot way in
which a man travels toward matrimony when his
friends have taken all the trouble and uncer-
tainty of courtship off his hands, and a bride is
waiting as certainly as a dinner at the end of his
journey. He had encountered at Wiirtzburg a
youthful companion-in-arms with whom he had
seen some service on the frontiers—Hermann von
Starkenfaust, one of the stoutest hands and
worthiest hearts of German chivalry—who was
now returning from the army. His father’s
castle was not far distant from the old fortress of
Landshort, although a hereditary feud rendered
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The Spectre Bridegroom
the families hostile and strangers to each
other.
In the warm-hearted moment of recognition,
the young friends related all their past adventures
and fortunes, and the count gave the whole his-
tory of his intended nuptials with a young lady
whom he had never seen, but of whose charms
he had received the most enrapturing descrip-
tions.
As the route of the friends lay in the same
-direction, they agreed to perform the rest of their
journey together, and, that they might do it the
more leisurely, set off from Wiurtzburg at an early
hour, the count having given directions for his
retinue to follow and overtake him.
They beguiled their wayfaring with recollec-
tions of their military scenes and adventures;
but the count was apt to be a little tedious now
and then about the reputed charms of his bride
and the felicity that awaited him.
In this way they had entered among the moun-
tains of the Odenwald, and were traversing one
of its most lonely and thickly wooded passes. It
is well known that the forests of Germany have
always been as much infested by robbers as its
castles by spectres; and at this time the former
were particularly numerous, from the hordes of
disbanded soldiers wandering about the country.
It will not appear extraordinary, therefore, that
the cavaliers were attacked by a gang of these
stragglers in the midst of the forest. They de-
fended themselves with bravery, but were nearly
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overpowered when the count’s retinue arrived
to. their assistance. At sight of them, the rob-
bers fled, but not until the count had received a
mortal wound. He was slowly and carefully
conveyed back to the city of Wurtzburg, and a
friar summoned from aneighbouring convent who
was famous for his skill in administering to
both soul and body; but half of his skill was
superfluous: the moments of the unfortunate
count were numbered.
With his dying breath, he entreated his friend
to repair instantly to the castle of Landshort and
explain the fatal cause of his not keeping: his
appointment with his bride. Though not the
most ardent of lovers, he was one of the most
punctilious of men, and appeared earnestly
solicitous that his mission should be speedily
and courteously executed. ‘‘Unless this is done,”
said he, ‘‘I shall not sleep quietly in my grave.”
He repeated these last words with peculiar
solemnity. A request at a moment so impres-
sive admitted no hesitation. Starkenfaust en-
deavoured to soothe him to calmness, promised
faithfully to execute his wish, and gave him his
hand in solemn pledge. The dying man pressed
it in acknowledgment, but soon lapsed into
delirium—raved about his bride, his engage-
ments, his plighted word—ordered his horse,
that he might ride to the castle of Landshort,
and expired in the fancied act of vaulting into
the saddle.
Starkenfaust bestowed a sigh and a soldier’s
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The Spectre Bridegroom
tear on the untimely fate of his comrade, and
then pondered on the awkward mission he had
undertaken. His heart was heavy, and his head
perplexed; for he was to present himself an un-
bidden guest among hostile people, and to damp
their festivity with tidings fatal to their hopes.
Still, there were certain whisperings of curiosity
in his bosom to see this far-famed beauty of
Katzenellenbogen, so cautiously shut up from
the world; for he was a passionate admirer of the
sex, and there was a dash of eccentricity and
enterprise in his character that made him fond
of all singular adventure.
Previous to his departure, he made all due
arrangements with the holy fraternity of the con-
vent for the funeral solemnities of his friend, who
was to be buried in the cathedral of Wuirtzburg
near some of his illustrious relatives, and the
mourning retinue of the count took charge of
his remains.
It is now high time that we should return to the
ancient family of Katzenellenbogen, who were
impatient for their guest, and still more for their
dinner, and to the worthy little baron, whom we
left airing himself on the watch-tower.
Night closed in, but stillno guest arrived. The
baron descended from the tower in despair.
The banquet, which had been delayed from hour
to hour, could no longer be postponed. The meats
were already overdone, the cook in an agony,
and the whole household had the look of a gar-
rison that had been reduced by famine. The
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baron was obliged reluctantly to give orders for
the feast without the presence of the guest. All
were seated at table, and just on the point of com-
mencing, when the sound of a horn from without
the gate gave notice of the approach of a stranger.
Another long blast filled the old courts of the
castle with its echoes, and was answered by the
warder from the walls. The baron hastened to
receive his future son-in-law.
The drawbridge had been let down, and the
stranger was before the gate. He was a tall,
gallant cavalier, mounted on a black steed. His
countenance was pale, but he had a beaming,
romantic eye and an air of stately melancholy.
The baron was a little mortified that he should
have come in this simple, solitary style. His
dignity for a moment was ruffled, and he felt dis-
posed to consider it a want of proper respect for.
the important occasion and the important family
with which he was to be connected. He pacified
himself, however, with the conclusion that it
must have been youthful impatience which had
induced him thus to spur on sooner than his
attendants. |
“I am sorry,
upon you thus unseasonably
Here the baron interrupted him with a world
of compliments and greetings, for, to tell the.
truth, he prided himself upon his courtesy and
eloquence. The stranger attempted once or
twice to stem the torrent of words, but in vain;
so he bowed his head, and suffered it to flow on
78
said the stranger, ‘‘to break in -
”?
%?
The Spectre Bridegroom
By the time the baron had come to a pause, they
had reached the inner court of the castle, and the
stranger was again about to speak, when he was
once more interrupted by the appearance of the
female part of the family leading forth the
shrinking and blushing bride. He gazed on her
for a moment as one entranced; it seemed as if
his whole soul beamed forth in the gaze, and
rested upon that lovely form. One of the maiden
aunts whispered something in her ear; she made
an effort to speak; her moist blue eye was timidly
raised, gave a shy glance of inquiry on the
stranger, and was cast again to the ground. The
words died away, but there was a sweet smile
playing about her lips, and a soft dimpling of the
cheek that showed her glance had not been un-
satisfactory. It was impossible for a girl of the
fond age of eighteen, highly predisposed for love
and matrimony, not to be pleased with so gallant
a cavalier.
The late hour at which the guest had arrived
left no time for parley. The baron was per-
emptory, and deferred all particular conversa-
tion until the morning, and led the way to the
untasted banquet.
It was served up in the great hall of the castle.
Around the walls hung the hard-favoured por-
traits of the heroes of the house of Katzenellen-
bogen, and the trophies which they had gained
in the field and in the chase. Hacked corslets,
splintered jousting-spears, and tattered banners
were mingled with the spoils of sylvan warfare;
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the jaws of the wolf and the tusks of the boar
grinned horribly among cross-bows and battle-
axes, and a huge pair of antlers branched imme-
diately over the head of the youthful bridegroom.
The cavalier took but little notice of the com-
pany or the entertainment: He scarcely tasted
the banquet, but seemed absorbed in admiration
of his bride. He conversed in a low tone that
could not be overheard, for the language of love
is never loud; but where is the female ear so dull
that it cannot catch the softest whisper of the
lover? There was a mingled tenderness and.
gravity in his manner that appeared to have a
powerful effect upon the young lady. Her
colour came and went as she listened with deep
attention. Now and then she made some blush-
ing reply, and, when his eye was turned away,
she would steal a sidelong glance at his romantic
countenance, and heave a gentle sigh of tender
happiness. It was evident that the young couple
were completely enamoured. The aunts, who
were deeply versed in the mysteries of the heart,
declared that they had fallen in love with each
other at first sight.
The feast went on merrily, or at least noisily,
for the guests were all blessed with those keen
appetites that attend upon light purses and
mountain air. The baron told his best and
longest stories, and never had he told them so
well or with such great effect. If there was any-
thing marvellous, his auditors were lost in aston-
ishment; and if anything facetious, they were
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The Spectre Bridegroom
sure to laugh exactly in the right place. The
baron, it is true, like most great men, was too
dignified to utter any joke but a dull one; it was
always enforced, however, by a bumper of excel-
lent Hochheimer, and even a dull joke at one’s
own table, served up with jolly old wine, is irre-
sistible. Many good things were said by poorer
and keener wits that would not bear repeating,
except on similar occasions; many sly speeches
whispered in ladies’ ears that almost convulsed
them with suppressed laughter; and a song or
two roared out by a poor but merry and broad-
faced cousin of the baron that absolutely made
the maiden aunts hold up their fans.
Amidst all this revelry, the stranger guest
maintained a most singular and unseasonable
gravity. His countenance assumed a deeper
cast of dejection as the evening advanced, and,
strange as it may appear, even the baron’s jokes
seemed only to render him the more melancholy.
At times he was lost in thought, and at times
there was a perturbed and restless wandering of
the eye that bespoke a mind but ill at ease. His
conversations with the bride became more and
more earnest and mysterious. Lowering clouds
began to steal over the fair serenity of her brow,
and tremors to run through her tender frame.
All this could not escape the notice of the com-
pany. Their gayety was chilled by the unac-
countable gloom of the bridegroom; their spirits
were infected; whispers and glances were inter-
changed, accompanied by shrugs and dubious
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shakes of the head. The song and the laugh
grew less and less frequent; there were dreary
pauses in the conversation, which were at length
succeeded by wild tales and supernatural legends.
One dismal story produced another still more
dismal, and the baron nearly frightened some of
the ladies into hysterics with the history of the
goblin horseman that carried away the fair
Leonora—a dreadful story which has since been
put into excellent verse, and is read and believed
by all the world.
The bridegroom listened to this tale with pro-
found attention. He kept his eyes steadily fixed
on the baron, and, as the story drew to a close,
began gradually to rise from his seat, growing
taller and taller, until, in the baron’s entranced
eye, he seemed almost to tower into a giant.
The moment the tale was finished, he heaved a
deep sigh, and took a solemn farewell of the com-
pany. They were all amazement. The baron
was perfectly thunderstruck.
‘‘What! going to leave the castle at midnight?
Why, everything was prepared for his reception;
@ chamber was ready for him if he wished to
retire.”
The stranger shook his head mournfully and
mysteriously: ‘‘I must lay my head in a different
chamber to-night.”
There was something in this reply and ie tone
in which it was uttered that made the baron’s
heart misgive him; but he rallied his forces, and
repeated his hospitable entreaties.
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The Spectre Bridegroom
The stranger shook his head silently, but
positively, at every offer, and, waving his fare-
well to the company, stalked slowly out of the
hall. The maiden aunts were absolutely petri-
fied; the bride hung her head, and a tear stole to
Herseye:
The baron followed the stranger to the great
court of the castle, where the black charger stood
pawing the earth and snorting with impatience.
When they had reached the portal, whose deep
archway was dimly lighted by a cresset, the
stranger paused, and addressed the baron in a
hollow tone of voice, which the vaulted roof
rendered still more sepulchral.
‘‘Now that we are alone,” said he, ‘“‘I will
impart to you the reason of my going. I have
a solemn, an indispensable engagement %
“Why,” said the baron, ‘‘cannot you send
some one in your place?”’
“Tt admits of no substitute—I must attend it
in person; I must away to Wutrtzburg cathe-
dral "
“Ay,” said the baron, plucking up spirit, “‘but
not until to-morrow—to-morrow you shall take
your bride there.”
‘“‘No! no!” replied the stranger, with tenfold
solemnity, ‘‘my engagement is with no bride—
the worms! the worms expect me! I ama dead
man—I have been slain by robbers—my body
lies at Wurtzburg—at midnight I am to be buried
—the grave is waiting for me—I must keep my
appointment!”’
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He sprang on his black charger, dashed over
the drawbridge, and the clattering of his horse’s
hoofs was lost in the whistling of the night-blast.
The baron returned to the hall in the utmost
consternation, and related what had passed.
Two ladies fainted outright ; others sickened at
the idea of having banqueted with a spectre. It
was the opinion of some that this might be the
Wild Huntsman, famous in German legend.
Some talked of mountain-sprites, of wood-
demons, and of other supernatural beings with
which the good people of Germany have been so
grievously harassed since time immemorial.
One of the poor relations ventured to suggest
that it might be some sportive evasion of the
young cavalier, and that the very gloominess of
the caprice seemed to accord with so melancholy
a personage. This, however, drew on him the
indignation of the whole company, and especially
of the baron, who looked upon him as little bet-
ter than an infidel; so that he was fain to abjure
his heresy as speedily as possible, and come into
the faith of the true believers. .
But, whatever may have been the doubts enter-
tained, they were completely put to an end by
the arrival next day of regular missives con-
firming the intelligence of the young count’s
murder and his interment in Witirtzburg cathe-
dral.
The dismay at the castle may well be imagined.
The baron shut himself up in his chamber. The
guests, who had come to rejoice with him, could
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The Spectre Bridegroom
not think of abandoning him in his distress.
They wandered about the courts or collected in
groups in the hall, shaking their heads and
shrugging their shoulders at the troubles of so
good a man, and sat longer than ever at the
table, and ate and drank more stoutly than ever,
by way of keeping up their spirits. But the
situation of the widowed bride was the most
pitiable. To have lost a husband before she
had even embraced him—and such a husband!
If the very spectre could be so gracious and noble,
what must have been the living man? She filled
the house with lamentations. .
On the night of the second day of her widow-
hood, she had retired to her chamber, accom-
panied by one of her aunts, who insisted on
sleeping with her. The aunt, who was one of
the best tellers of ghost-stories in all Germany,
had just been recounting one of her longest, and
had fallen asleep in the very midst of it. The
chamber was remote, and overlooked a small
garden. The niece lay pensively gazing at the
beams of the rising moon as they trembled on the
leaves of an aspen tree before the lattice. The
castle clock had just tolled midnight, when a
soft strain of music stole up from the garden.
She rose hastily from her bed and stepped lightly
to the window. A tall figure stood among the
shadows of' the trees. As it raised its head, a
beam of .moonlight fell upon the countenance.
Heaven and earth! she beheld the Spectre Bride-
groom! A loud shriek at that moment burst
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upon her ear, and her aunt, who had been
awakened by the music, and had followed her
silently to the window, fell into her arms. When
she looked again, the spectre had disappeared.
Of the two females, the aunt now required the
most soothing, for she was perfectly beside her-
self with terror. As to the young lady, there was
something even in the spectre of her lover that
seemed endearing. There was still the sem-
blance of manly beauty, and, though the shadow
of a man is but little calculated to satisfy the
affections of a lovesick girl, yet, where the sub-
stance is not to be had, even that is consoling.
The aunt declared she would never sleep in that
chamber again; the niece, for once, was refrac-
tory, and declared as strongly that she would
sleep in no other in the castle; the consequence
was that she had to sleep in it alone; but she
drew a promise from her aunt not to relate the
story of the spectre, lest she should be denied the
only melancholy pleasure left her on earth—that
of inhabiting the chamber over which the guard-
ian shade of her lover kept its nightly vigils.
How long the good old lady would have ob-
served this promise is uncertain, for she dearly
loved to talk of the marvellous, and there is a
triumph in being the first to tell a frightful story;
it is, however, still quoted in the neighbourhood
as a memorable instance of female secrecy that
she kept it to herself for a whole week, when she
was suddenly absolved from all further restraint
by intelligence brought to the breakfast-table one
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The Spectre Bridegroom
morning that the young lady was not to be found.
Her room was empty—the bed had not been slept
in—the window was open, and the bird had flown!
The astonishment and concern with which the
intelligence was received can be imagined only by
those who have witnessed the agitation which the
mishaps of a great man cause among his friends.
Even the poor relations paused for a moment
from the indefatigable labours of the trencher,
wher the aunt, who had at first been struck
speechless, wrung her hands and shrieked out,
‘The goblin! the goblin! she’s carried away by the
goblin!”’
In a few words, she related the fearful scene of
the garden, and concluded that the spectre must
have carried off his bride. Two of the domestics
corroborated the opinion, for they had heard the
clattering of a horse’s hoofs down the mountain
about midnight, and had no doubt that it was the
spectre on his black charger bearing her away to.
the tomb. All present were struck with the dire-
ful probability, for: events of the kind are ex-
tremely common in Germany, as many well-
authenticated histories bear witness.
What a lamentable situation was that of the
poor baron! What a heartrending dilemma for
a fond father and a member of the great family of
Katzenellenbogen! His only daughter had either
been rapt away to the grave, or he was to have
some wood-demon for a son-in-law, and per-
chance a troop of goblin grandchildren. As
usual, he was completely bewildered, and all the
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castle in an uproar. The men were ordered to
take horse, and scour every road and path and
glen of the Odenwald. The baron himself had
just drawn on his jack-boots, girded on his sword,
and was about to mount his steed to sally forth
on the doubtful quest, when he was brought to a
pause by a new apparition. A lady was seen
approaching the castle mounted on a palfrey, at-
tended by a cavalier on horseback. She galloped
up to the gate, sprang from her horse, and, falling
at the baron’s feet, embraced his knees. It was
his lost daughter, and her companion—the Spec-
tre Bridegroom! The baron was astounded.
He looked at his daughter, then at the spectre,
and almost doubted the evidence of his senses.
The latter, too, was wonderfully improved in his
appearance since his visit to the world of spirits.
His dress was splendid, and set off a noble figure
of manly symmetry. He was no longer pale
and melancholy. His fine countenance was
flushed with the glow of fou and joy rioted in
his large dark eye.
The mystery was soon cleared up. The
cavalier (for, in truth, as you must have known
all the while, he was no goblin) announced him-
self as Sir Hermann von Starkenfaust. He
related his adventure with the young count.
He told how he had hastened to the castle to
deliver the unwelcome tidings, but that the elo-
quence of the baron had interrupted him in every
attempt to tell his tale; how the sight of the
bride had completely captivated him; and that,
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The Spectre Bridegroom
to pass a few hours near her, he had tacitly suf-
fered the mistake to continue. How he had
been sorely perplexed in what way to make a
decent retreat, until the baron’s goblin stories had
suggested his eccentric exit. How, fearing the
feudal hostility of the family, he had repeated his
visits by stealth—had haunted the garden be-
neath the young lady’s window—had wooed—
had won—had borne away in triumph—and, in
a word, had wedded the fair.
Under any other circumstances, the baron
would have been irfflexible, for he was tenacious
of paternal authority and devoutly obstinate in
all family feuds; but he loved his daughter; he
had lamented her as lost; he rejoiced to find her
still alive; and, though her husband’ was of a
hostile house, yet, thank Heaven! he was not a
goblin. There was something, it must be acknowl-
edged, that did not exactly accord with his
notions of strict veracity in the joke the knight
had passed upon him of his being a dead man; but
several old friends present, who had served in the
wars, assured him that every stratagem was
excusable in love, and that the cavalier was
entitled to especial privilege, having lately served
as a trooper.
Matters, therefore, were happily arranged.
The baron pardoned the young couple on the
spot. The revels at the castle were resumed.
The poor relations overwhelmed this new mem-
ber of the family with loving kindness; he was so
gallant, so generous—and so rich. The aunts.
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it is true, were somewhat scandalised that their
system of strict seclusion and passive obedience
should be so badly exemplified, but attributed it
all to their negligence in not having the windows
grated. One of them was particularly mortified
at having her marvellous story marred, and that
the only spectre she had ever seen should turn
out a counterfeit; but the niece seemed perfectly
happy at having found him substantial flesh
and blood. And so the story ends.
S
go
A FIGHT FOR THE TSARINA
BY
Mavrus JOKAI
In the reign of the Tsar Peter III., there
existed at St. Petersburg a secret society which
was known as ‘‘The Nameless.’ Its members
were accustomed to meet at the house of a
Russian nobleman, Yelagin by name, who
alone knew the identity of his visitors, most of
whom were strangers to each other. Distin-
guished personages of every walk of life, including
priests, court ladies, officers of the Guard,
Cossacks, young business men, musicians, street-
singers, actors and actresses, scientists, clergy-
men, and statesmen, used to gather there.
The only qualifications needed for entrance into
the Society, the members of which were chosen
by Yelagin, were beauty and wit. The only
forms of address used were ‘‘thee’”’ and ‘‘thou,”’
and by Christian name, such as Anne, Alex-
andra, Katherine, Olga, Peter, Alexis, and Ivan.
Their purpose in thus assembling was solely to
amuse themselves at their ease. All met here
on equal terms; even those who, under the
conventions of caste and rank, occupied the
relative positions of master and slave, broke the
chains of prejudice for the moment. It is not
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Masterpieces of Fiction
unlikely that he with whom the grenadier
private is now playing chess is a general who
might order him a hundred lashes to-morrow
should he take a false step on parade! Yet now
he strives with him to make a queen out of a
pawn. It is possible, too, that) thewprerty
woman who is singing sprightly French songs to
the accompaniment of an instrument which she
plays with her left hand is a lady in the court
of the Tsarina, who probably is much more
accustomed to throwing coins from her carriage
to street players! Perhaps she is a princess,
possibly the wife of the Lord Chamberlain, or
perhaps of even higher rank than this?
Russian society of every class, high and low,
met in Yelagin’s castle, and there enjoyed
fraternity in the broadest sense of the word.
Curious phenomenon, that this should happen in
Russia of all countries, where so much is thought
of aristocracy, officiatdom, and pomp; where an
inferior must dismount from his horse when
meeting a superior, where non-commissioned
officers take off their coats in token of salute
when they meet those of higher rank, and where
generals kiss priests’ hands, and the noblest in
the land fall on their faces before the Tsar!
Here they laugh, and dance, and are familiar
together, ridicule the Government, and gossip
about the high dignitaries of the church—all
without fear or the stiffness of society. Was
merely love of amusement and novelty at the
bottom of this? The existence of the secret
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A Fight for the Tsarina
society was frequently made known to the
police, who certainly could not be reproached
for not having attempted to quash it; but, when
proceedings were begun, they usually came to
nothing. The investigating official either never
discovered anything suspicious, or, if he did, the
case was postponed. Those who were arrested
in connection with the matter were set at liberty,
all papers concerning the case were either
destroyed or disappeared, and countless reams
of writing were converted into plain white paper.
If some influential official saw fit to conduct the
prosecution of ‘‘The Nameless” energetically,
he usually soon found himself journeying to
some foreign country on an important mission,
from which he was unlikely to return for a con-
siderable period. ‘‘The Nameless Society’’ was
evidently under the protection of powerful
influences.
At the close of one of these entertainments, a
young Cossack officer remained behind the other
guests, and, when quite alone with his host, he
said to him,
““Yelagin, did you see the pretty woman with
whom I danced the mazurka to-night ?”’
“Yes, I saw her. Have you fallen in love
with her, as the others have done?”’
‘‘T must make that woman my wife.”
Yelagin clapped the Cossack on the shoulders
and looked into his eyes.
“That you will not do! That woman will
never be your wife, friend Yemelyan.”’
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Yelagin clapped the Cossack on the shoulders.’
‘‘T will marry her—I have determined to do
so.”
“You will not marry her, for she will not
accept you.”
‘‘If she does not come with me; I shall carry
her off by force.”
“You cannot marry her, because she has a
husband.”
‘‘Then I shall carry off her husband with her.’’
“You cannot carry her off, for she lives in a
palace, guarded by many soldiers, and, when
she drives, her carriage is accompanied by
many outriders.”’
‘I shall take her away with her palace, her
soldiers, and her carriage. By St. Gregory, I
swear it!”’
Yelagin laughed scornfully.
‘“‘My good Yemelyan, go home and sleep it
off. That pretty woman is the Tsarina!”’
The Cossack turned pale, and his breath came
in gasps; but, the next moment, his eyes flashed,
and he said to Yelagin:
‘Nevertheless, what I have said, I have
said.”
Yelagin ceremoniously bowed out his guest.
But, unlikely as it may appear, Yemelyan was
not intoxicated, unless, indeed, it were with
the wine of a woman’s eyes.
Several years passed. The society of ‘‘The
Nameless’’ was broken up and scattered. The
Tsar had been assassinated, and Katherine, his
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A Fight for the Tsarina
wife, had ascended the throne. Some people
alleged that she had brought about his death;
others defended her. It was stated that she
had known what was going to happen, but had
been unable to prevent it; that she had pretended,
after a struggle with her conscience, to know
nothing of the poison administered to her
husband. Moreover, it was even asserted that
she had done weil, and that the fate which had
overtaken the Tsar was a just one, as he was a
wicked man; and, finally, the whole matter was
denied, and it was said that Tsar Peter had not
been assassinated at all, but had died a natural
death from acute inflammation of the stomach.
According to the immortal Voltaire, he was too
much addicted to brandy. However, the
Tsar was buried; but, for the Tsarina Katherine,
he belonged to that army of the dead who do
not sleep in peace, who rise from their graves, and,
stretching out clammy hands from their shrouds,
lay gruesome touch on those who have forgotten
them. And, when they turn over in their
graves, the earth seems to tremble under the
feet of those that walk over them!
Among the many diverse rumours that
circulated, one difficult to believe, but which was
generally credited among the populace, and
which caused much loss of life before it faded
from memory, was to the effect that Tsar Peter
had neither died a natural death nor had been
assassinated, but that he still lived. It was said
that a common soldier, resembling the Tsar even
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to his pock-marked face, had been shown to the
public on the Tsar’s death-bed in St. Petersburg,
and that the Tsar himself had escaped from
prison in the soldier’s clothes, and would return
to recapture his throne, subdue his wife, and
destroy his enemies! Five pretenders rose,
one after the other, in all parts of the Russian
Empire, the rallying-cry of each being ‘‘Revenge
on the faithless!” The usurpers conquered
sometimes a northern, sometimes a southern
province, assembled an army, captured toWns,
and generally conducted themselves in such a
manner that it was necessary to despatch forces
to defeat them. No sooner was one of these
pretenders driven into the northern deserts, or
captured and hanged, than another Tsar Peter
would rise up and instigate another rebellion,
interrupting the enjoyment of the Court circle
until it seemed as if these things would never
end. The murdered husband remained un-
buried, for, at any moment, he might rise up in
some part of the country, exclaiming, “‘I am
still alive!’’ He seemed to have a hundred
lives, for, no matter how many times he was
killed, he would again appear with the statement
that he still lived. After five of these pretenders
of Peter had followed the real Tsar to the grave,
a sixth made his appearance. The name of
this usurper, who was the most daring and the
most feared of all, will be inscribed for all time
in the history of the Russian people as a horrible
example to all who swerve from the paths of
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rectitude. His name was Yemelyan Pugascheff.
Born and bred a Cossack in the province of the
Don, he took part in the Prussian campaign,
first as a soldier of Prussia, later as a follower
of the Tsar. At the siege of Bender, he had
become a Cossack hetman. On account of his
superb physical strength, and his natural
shrewdness and adaptability, he soon became
a leader among men; but his advancement was
cut short by the peace which was proclaimed.
He was sent, with many other discharged
soldiers, back to the Don province, where there
was nothing else to do but to attend to farming
matters. Pugascheff, however, had no idea of
devoting the rest of his life to the making of
cheese, which had been his original occupation.
He hated the Tsarina—and adored her. He
hated the proud woman who dared to place her
yoke upon the Russian people, and he adored
the woman sair enough to ensnare the heart of
every Russian! He became obsessed with the
mad thought that he must fold that woman in
his arms, even if he had to wrest her from her
throne to do so. To this end, he prepared his
plans. He journeyed to the Volga, to the land
of the Roskolniks—the descendants of the
persecuted fanatics who, in past days, had been
executed by hanging, on trees or on scaffolds,
for the sole reason that they crossed themselves
downwards, and not upwards, as one does in
Moscow. The Roskolniks were always ready
for an uprising, and required only a leader.
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Pugascheff tried to work his purpose with these,
but his plans miscarried, and he fell into the
hands of the police, and was thrown into prison
at Kazan.
And so he might dream on! He dreamed one
night that he freed his limbs from their chains,
cut his way through the prison wall, swam
across the surrounding trench, which was
filled with sharp spikes, and, finally, reached
the desert plains of the Ural Sorodok, without
food and with his clothing in rags! The Yakics
Cossacks, the most dreaded people in Russia,
inhabit the plain of Uralsk, one of those border —
countries of which only the outline is seen on
the map. This tribe has no intercourse with
the neighbouring peoples, and changes its
location from year to year. One winter, a
Cossack band will make a raid in the land of the
Kirghese, and burn down their huts; next year,
the Kirghese will retaliate on the Cossacks!
Fighting is good sport in the winter. In the
summer, however, one sleeps in the open, and
there are no houses to destroy! These Cossacks
. are Roskolniks by faith. Not long since, they
had amused themselves by putting to death
the Russian Commissioner-General Traubenberg,
together with his followers, who had come to
make regulations in regard to the fishing rights
in the River Yaik; and, by this act, they con-
sidered as demonstrated the fact that the
Government had nothing to say about their
fish. At the time that Pugascheff arrived there,
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A Fight for the Tsarina
they had just finished dividing the weapons
of the Russian soldiers among themselves, and
were planning as to what they should next do.
One beautiful autumn night, the escaped prisoner,
having lost himself in the valley of Yeremina
Kuriza, situated in the most lonely part of the
Ural Mountains, reached the tumbledown
village of Yaicskoi, and knocked at the door of
the first house he saw, saying that he was a
refugee, and requesting admittance. He was
received with open arms, and was given supper.
The owner of the house was himself poor, the
Kirghese having stolen his sheep. One of
his sons, a Roskolnik priest, had been forced to
work in the lead mines; another had been
taken to serve as a soldier, and had subsequently
died; the third had been involved in a rebellion
and been hanged. The old man remained at
home alone. Pugascheff listened to the lament
of his host, and said,
‘*These things can be alleviated.”’
‘“Who can raise my dead sons to life again?”’
said the old man bitterly.
‘‘He who himself rose in order that he might
slay.”
‘““Of whom do you speak?”
+ Of thet Psar:"’
‘‘What! the murdered Tsar!’’ exclaimed the
old soldier, with astonishment.
‘“‘He has already been killed six times, yet
still he lives. Such people as I met on my
journey here all asked me, ‘Is it true that the
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Tsar is alive, and that he has escaped his captors?”
I answered them that it was true, that he was
on his way here, and that, before long, he would
show himself to them.”’
““That is all very well, but how can the Tsar
get here?”
‘He is already here.”
‘“Where is he?”
aim hed,
‘“Well,. well!”’ replied Kocsenikoff. ‘‘Now I
understand what you wish me to do. I shall
be ready whenever you say the word. It is all
the same to me, so that I have a leader. But
who is to believe that you are the Tsar? Hun-
dreds of people have seen him face to face.
The face of the Tsar was horribly pockmarked
as everyone knows, while yours is smooth.”
““We can soon arrange that. Has there not —
recently been a death from the black-pox in
this neighbourhood ?”’ |
‘“We have such a death every day. My last
labourer died two days ago.”
‘“Very well; I shall sleep in his bed, and I
shall leave it like Tsar Peter.”
He kept his word. He lay on the infected
couch. Two days later, he was down with the
black-pox, and, six weeks afterward, he rose
with the pale and afflicted countenance of the
unhappy Tsar. |
Kocsenikoff felt that a man who could so
carelessly set his life at stake was one to be
counted on. In this region, nine out of every
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A Fight for the Tsarina
ten men have some hidden plan of personal
revenge, for the consummation of which they
await only a suitable opportunity. Among the
first ten people to whom Kocsenikoff confided
the scheme, he found nine who were willing to
take part in the daring undertaking, even to the
extent of their heads; but the tenth was a
traitor. He betrayed the plot to Colonel Simon-
off, the commander of the Yaicskoi, who at once
put Kocsenikoff under arrest. Pugascheff, how-
ever, succeeded in escaping on the very horse
which had been sent with the Cossack who was
assigned to arrest him—even carrying off the
Cossack himself!
For the enlightenment of future generations,
the name of the Cossack whom Pugascheff
carried off is chronicled in the history of the
nation. Czika was the name of this faint-
hearted individual. The event took place on
September 15th. When, two days later, Puga-
scheff approached the town of Yaicskoi, he was
arrayed in a scarlet, fur-trimmed tunic, and
had three hundred bold troopers at his back.
As he neared the town, he ordered that trumpets
be blown, and demanded that Colonel Simonoff
surrender, and kiss the hand of his lord and
master, Tsar Peter III. Simonoff opposed him
with 5,800 troops, of whom 800 were regular
Russian soldiers, and they soon succeeded in
surrounding Pugascheff. At a moment when
all seemed lost, he extracted a letter from his
bosom, and read out to the troops that con-
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fronted him a proclamation in which he besought
the Cossacks faithful to Peter III. to assist
him to regain his crown and to oust pretenders,
threatening with death those who might dispute
his authority. This spread consternation among
the Cossacks, and the cry was echoed from lip
to lip; “The! Tsar ‘lives! >This as @ney tease
The officers tried to preserve order, but to no
purpose. They began to fight among themselves,
and the struggle went on until far into the night.
The end of the matter was that, instead of
Simonoff’s capturing Pugascheff, the latter made
prisoners of eleven of his officers; and, when he
retired from the scene, his three hundred men
had been increased to eight hundred. Only with
great difficulty was Colonel Simonoff able tec
retain command over the remainder of his men.
Pugascheff encamped on the outskirts of the
town, in the grounds of a Russian nobleman,
and on the wide-spreading trees he hung the
eleven captured officers. His adversary feared
to attack him, but entrenched himself under the
shelter of cannon, awaiting attack in his turn.
But our bold ‘friend was not quite such a fool as
to give him battle. He must first gain more
adherents, more guns, and win more important
battles. He turned his attention to the small
towns that had been built by the Government
along the Yaik. The Roskolniks greeted the
pseudo-Tsar with wild enthusiasm. They be-
lieved that he had risen from his grave to
punish the arrogance of the Moscow clergy, and
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A Fight for the Tsarina
that he intended to substitute their own perse-
cuted faith for the Court religion. By the
third day, 3,000 men had flocked to his standards.
The fortress of Ilecska was his first stopping-
place. It is distant about seventy versts from
Yaicskoi. The gates were opened for him, and
he was received with enthusiasm, the town-guard
joining his troops. The arms and ammunition
he secured at Ilecska enabled him to extend his
campaign. The stronghold of Kazizna, to
which he next turned his attention, did not,
however, give up so easily, and Pugascheff was
forced to lay siege to it. In the heat of. battle,
Pugascheff’s Cossacks called out to those within
the town, whereupon the latter immediately
turned their guns upon their own officers. All
who opposed them were summarily executed,
and the Colonel himself was taken prisoner by
Pugascheff, who had an aversion to any one who
wore his hair long, as was then the fashion
among the Russian officers. For this reason,
the Colonel was hanged. Then, well furnished
with implements of war, Pugascheff marched to
the fortress of Nisnaya Osfernaya, which he
also captured after a short siege. All those who
would not take up his cause, he killed.
Pugascheff now commanded 4,oo0 men, and
was therefore in a position to attack the
stronghold of Talitseva, the defenders of which
were led by two brave men, Bilof and Yelagin by
name. The Russians entrenched themselves well
in face of the rebels, and; in all probability,
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would have been victorious if their stores of
hay had not been burned up. The light of this
fire was of much assistance to the rebels. Bilof
and Yelagin were driven out of the gates, and
killed. When the pseudo-Tsar entered the
town, a wonderfully beautiful woman came to
him in the market-place, and fell at his feet,
crying for mercy. The woman was very fair,
and the grief and excitement under which she
was labouring made her still more attractive.
‘“For whom do you ask pardon?”’
‘For my husband, who was wounded while
fighting against you.”
‘“What is your husband’s name?”
‘“‘Captain Chaloff, the commander of the fort.”
A noble-hearted man would undoubtedly
have made both husband and wife happy by the
gift of their freedom. A profligate would have
killed the husband and taken the wife for him-
self. Pugascheff hanged them both. He knew
perfectly well that there were many still living
who remembered that Peter III. was not a lover .
of women, and he acted his part consistently
to the end.
The rebels seemed to move on wings. The
taking of Talicseva was followed by the capture
of Czernoyecinskaya. The commander of the
latter place fled at the approach of the rebel
leader, and gave over the defence of the fortress
to Captain Nilsayeff, who surrendered out of
hand. Pugascheff, who did’ not approve of
officers who deserted to the enemy, hanged him
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without saying ‘‘Thank you.” The soldiers of
the rank and file he spared, but he had their hair
clipped, so that if, by any chance, they should
escape, he would know them again. Finally,
the last fortress in the district, Presistenska,
situated not far from the capital, Orenburg,
surrendered to the rebels, and in the evening of
the same day Pugascheff encamped outside the
walls of Orenburg with thirty cannon and a
well-disciplined army. These things all hap-
pened within a fortnight. In that time, he had
captured six forts, cut a whole regiment to
pieces, and created one of his own, with which
he now attacked the capital of the province. —
The Russian Empire is a land of great distances,
and Pugascheff might have conquered half of it
before anything could be done at St. Petersburg.
He was nicknamed ‘‘the Marquis” by Katherine,
who often in the Court circles laughed heartily
about her extraordinary husband, on the way
to reconquer his wife, the Tsarina. The gallows
was to be his nuptial bed when he arrived.
On the announcement of Pugascheff’s ap-
proach, Reinsburg, the Governor of Orenburg,
despatched a part of his army to attack the
rebel. Colonel Biloff was in command, but he
fared no better than many other hunters after
big game do. His quarry was too much for
him, and he never returned to Orenburg;
instead, Pugascheff’s army appeared before its
walls. Reinsburg then sent his most formidable
regiment, under the command of Major Naumoff,
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Masterpieces of Fiction
to the attack. The pseudo-Tsar did not oppose
it until it neared the mountains outside Oren-
burg, when, with masked guns, he opened
such a destructive fire upon the Russians
that they were utterly defeated and forced to
retire under cover of the town. Pugascheff then
left his position in the mountains, and encamped
on the plain before the walls of the fortress.
The idea of both armies was to tire each other
out by procrastination. Although it was but
October, the plains on which Pugascheff had
pitched his camp were covered .with snow, so
that, instead of tents, he had huts made of oak
branches. Each army had an ally of nature—
the one, frost, and the other, hunger. Hunger
eventually proved the stronger, Naumoff
marched out of the fort, and made for the
mountains which had shortly before been the ~
camping-ground of his opponent. His infantry
charged upon the rebel troops, but Pugascheff
suddenly changed his tactics, and flung his
Cossacks upon the enemy’s flank, compelling
him to seek safety in flight. Naumoff himself
cut his way, at the head of his artillery, sword
in hand, through the Cossack lines. Then
Pugascheff besieged the town. With his forty-
eight guns, he commenced a bombardment which
lasted until November 9th, when he attempted
to take the town by assault. The attack was
repulsed, however, the Russians making a
stubborn defence. Pugascheff decided, there-
fore, to starve his enemy into submission. The
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A Fight for the Tsarina
face of the country shone white with snow, the
trees of the forests were silvered with icicles, and,
throughout the long nights, the desert was
transformed by the cold radiance of the. moon
into an enchanting background for Pugascheff’s
dream. For Pugascheff dreamed that one day
he should be the spouse of Katherine, the Tsarina
of All the Russias.
Katherine II. was an inveterate player of
tarok, and was especially fond of that species
of the game which afterward ‘took its name
from a famous Russian general, ‘‘Paskevics.”’
This game required four players. One evening,
the quartet was made up of the Tsarina,
Princess Dashkoff, Prince Orloff, and General
Karr. The last-named was (prospectively) a
celebrated soldier, and as a tarok-player he
was without a rival. He rose from the table
always victorious. No one ever had seen him
lose money, and, for that reason, he fell into
the good graces of the Tsarina. She was re-
ported to have said that, if she could only once
succeed in winning a rouble from Karr, she
would wear it on a chain suspended from her
neck. It is not unlikely -that General Karr’s
success depended as much upon the errors of
his opponents as upon his own skill. The atten-
tion of the ladies was divided between the game
and Orloff’s beautiful eyes, while Orloff’s success
with the fair sex was so great that he could
hardly be expected to have equal luck at cards.
At one point of the game, while the cards were
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Masterpieces of Fiction
being shuffled, the remark was made that it
was disgraceful that an escaped Cossack like
Pugascheff should be able to sukdue a fourth
part of European Russia, to defeat the flower
of the Russian troops times without number, to
execute Russian officers like criminals, and,
finally, to make terms tor the surrender of
Orenburg like a prince of the blood.
“T know the fellow very well,’’ said Karr.
‘“While His Majesty was living, I used to play
cards with Pugascheff at Oranienbaum. But
he was a dull-witted chap. Whenever I called
for carreau, he would give me ceur.”’
‘“‘His play has evidently not improved much
since then,’ said the Tsarina; ‘‘for now he
throws pique after ceur.”’
It was at that time the custom at the Russian
court to interlard conversation with French
phrases. The French word ceur means heart,
and piquer to prick or annoy.
‘‘No wonder, when our generals are so in- |
competent. Now, if I were only there!”
‘Perhaps you will do us the favour of going?”
said Orloff, with a smile. .
“IT am at Her Majesty’s service,’’ replied
General Karr.
‘“But what would become of our tarok parties
if you were not here,’ laughingly put in the
Tsarina.
“Well, your Majesty might console yourself
with a hunting party now and then at Peterhof.”
The suggestion found favour with Katherine,
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A Fight for the Tsarina
for it was at Peterhof that she had become
acquainted with Orloff, and she had passed many
pleasant hours there. She smilingly nodded to
the General.
“Very well, then, but you must be back in a
fortnight.”
‘*A fortnight is, indeed, a short time,” returned
Karr; ‘‘but if your Majesty wishes, I shall take
sledge within the hour, and on the third day
shall be in Bugulminska. On the fourth day, I
shall arrange my cards, and, on the fifth, I
shall send word to this feilow that I challenge
him to a game. On the sixth day, I shall defeat
him at every point, and, on the seventh and
eighth days, by playing my last trick, I shall
take him prisoner, and bring him in chains to
your Majesty’s feet.”
The odd way in which the card-playing
general expressed himself was too much for
Katherine’s gravity, but she instructed Orloff
to take the necessary steps to see that Karr was
furnished with everything he required. An
imperial ukase was issued by which Karr was
entrusted with the command of the South
Russian troops. The forces under him com-
prised 20,000 infantry and 2,000 cavalry under
General Freyman at Bugulminska, 15,000
troops under Colonel Czernicseff, Governor of
Zinbirsk, and two detachments of the Life Guard
under Colonel Naumann, the latter being
generally considered the flower of the Russian
army.
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General Karr left that night for the scene of
action. Although he prided himself on the.
celerity of his movements, he omitted to take
into consideration one important point in such
tactics. His illustrious models, Alexander the
Great, Frederick the Great, Hannibal, etc., were
also in the habit of moving quickly, but they
took their troops with them, while Karr thought
it more expedient to travel alone. But, even
so, he did not go fast enough. A Cossack
horseman who left St. Petersburg at the same
time as he did arrived a day and a half ahead
of him, informed Pugascheff of his coming, and
acquainted him with the disposition of General
Karr’s troops. Pugascheff at once sent a
body of Cossacks to attack the General’s rear,
and thus prevent his meeting with the Life
Guard.
General Karr did not allow any one at Bugul-
minska to interfere with his plans. They were
absolutely settled, and nothing that his colleague
Freyman might suggest could alter them. He
said it was not so much a matter of war. as of
the chase. This wild animal must be captured
alive, if possible. Czernicseff, with 1,200 troop-
ers and twelve guns, must already be near
at hand, as he had been instructed by Karr to
cross the river Szakmara and oppose Pugascheff’s
retreat. In the meantime, Karr himself, with
picked men, would attack himin the van. Thus,
Pugascheff would be caught between two fires. °
Czernicseff hardly thought his superior ignorant
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A Fight for the Tsarina
enough to allow him to be attacked by the
overwhelming force of his antagonist, nor did he
think that Pugascheff would show such a lack of
tactical knowledge as to bring all his troops to
bear on a small detachment, while before him
lay a powerful army. But, in point of fact,
both these things happened. Pugascheff calmly
allowed the enemy to cross the frozen river, and
then attacked him on both flanks, taking the
precaution to break the ice in his rear. The
entire force was destroyed, and twelve guns
captured. Czernicseff and thirty-five officers
who were taken prisoners were hanged on trees
along the roadside. Then Pugascheff, intoxi-
cated with his success, hurled his entire army
against Karr. The two forces met at a Cossack
village about thirty-six miles from Bugulminska.
To General Karr’s astonishment, instead of
meeting an undisciplined mob, he had to contend
with a veteran army, well furnished with cannon.
Freyman advised him, now that he was de-
prived of the services of Czernicseff’s squadron,
not to begin operations with the cavalry, but to
entrench himself in the village and await the
enemy’s attack. A series of surprises then
befell Karr. He saw the supposed mob ad-
vancing with drawn swords; saw that they did
not flinch before the hottest fire. He blanched
at the intrepid bravery with which they: charged
the position he had fancied secure. These men
that he had considered bandits were heroes.
But what irritated him most of all was that
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these Cossacks knew how to serve their guns.
In St. Petersburg, Cossacks are not enlisted in
the artillery, in order that they may not learn,
how to use cannon Yet here the guns, but
recently captured, were served as if their gunners
had been a lifetime at the work, and their
balls had already set the village on fire in several
places. General Karr ordered his entire force
to the charge, while, with his reserves, he at-
tacked the enemy’s flank, -driving it) im =But,
among the 1,500 horsemen under his command,
300 were Cossacks, and these took advantage
of the thick of the battle to desert to the enemy.
When General Karr saw this, his consternation
was so great that he wavered, and fled. Throw-
ing disciptine to the winds, his soldiers abandoned
their comrades at the firing line, and retreated
in disorder.
Pugascheff’s Cossacks pursued the Russians
for a distance of thirty miles, but did not succeed
in capturing the General, whose fear had lent
him wings. When he arrived at Bugulminska,
he learned that Czernicseff’s cavalry had been
cut to pieces, that the Life Guard had been taken
prisoners, and that twenty-one guns had fallen
into the hands of the rebels. These untoward
tidings gave him such a bad cold in the head
that he was sent back to St. Petersburg, where
the tdrok party awaited him. That very
evening he was «anlucky enough to lose his
twenty-first card, which caused the Tsarina to
remark that it was not the first loss of a similar
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A Fight for the Tsarina
number (referring to the twenty-one guns)
that he had incurred, an observation which
provoked much laughter at the Russian court.
This victory marked the zenith of Pugascheff’s
‘success. Perhaps he might have gone on
further still, had he remained true to the two
tremendous passions which had been the. cause
of his rapid rise—the one being to marry the
Tsarina, the other to grind the nobility under
his feet. Which of these two purposes was the
bolder? From their realisation, he was pre-
vented only by the merest circumstance. The
defeat of General Karr had given him an open
path to Moscow, where 100,000 serfs were only
awaiting his coming to revolt against the tyranny
of the aristocracy and to form a new Russian
Empire. Forty million slaves awaited their
liberator in the person of the Cossack pretender.
But he suddenly lost the firmness, the ideals
and the ambitions that had theretofore possessed
him—and all through a pair of beautiful eyes.
The victory of Bugulminska was the signal
for the coming of a number of envoys from the
Bashkirs with promises of allegiance. One of
these envoys brought him a young girl to be his
wife. The name of this girl was Uliyanka, and,
from the moment that Pugascheff set eyes on
her, his heart no longer belonged to the Tsarina.
The Cossack now had such faith in the virtue
of his star that ‘ie did not act with his usual
strictness. Uliyanka became his favourite, and
he appointed Salavke, her father, to be ruler of
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Masterpieces of Fiction
the Bashkirs. Then he gathered about his
person all manner of pomp and ceremony. He
clothed himself in the finest court costumes, and
decorated his companions with medals taken
from the bodies of the Russian officers he had
slain. He created them _ generals, colonels,
counts, and princes. The Cossack Czika, his
prime adherent, was appointed generalissimo,
and to this man he gave over the command of
half his army. He made an issue of roubles
bearing his portrait under the title of Tsar
Peter III., and published a circular with the
words, ‘‘Redivivus et ultor.”’” Having no silver
mines, he ordered the coins to be struck from
copper, which was plentiful. This example, by
the way, was also followed by the Russians, who
issued copper roubles by the million, and made
generous use of them in the payment of debts.
Pugascheff now substituted for the comedy
of a rebellion the farce of a reign. Instead of
marching against the unprotected cities of the
Empire, he besieged its fortresses, and, for-
getting the fair ideal of his dreams, he consoled
himself with the sordidness of a woman of the
people. :
Czika, the generalissimo, was ordered to take
. the fortress of Ufa with the troops under his
command. It was now the month of January
1774, and the winter was the coldest ever known
in the country’s history. »The forest trees split
with a noise like thunder, and the birds of the
air were frozen as they flew. To engage in
II4
A Fight for the Tsarina
siege operations under such conditions was
impossible. The. earth hardened to such a
depth that trenches could not be dug, and it
was almost impossible to live in tents on the
open plain.
The neighbouring towns had already been
occupied by the rebel leaders, who thus cut off
all supplies from the Russians. In Orenburg,
they had already eaten the garrison horses, and
the commissary, Kicshoff by name, was seized ©
with the idea of boiling the skins of the slaugh-
tered animals,.cutting them into slices, and mix-
ing them with paste. This food, so-called, was
given out to the soldiers, and caused the ravage
of a disease among the garrison that incapaci-
tated half the troops. On January 13th,
Colonel Vallenstiern endeavoured to cut his
way through the enemy’s lines. He took with
him 2,500 men, but returned with less than
seventy. The remainder were left on the field.
Certainly, they required no more food. <A few
hundred hussars, however, succeeded in breaking
through, and these men carried to St. Petersburg
the news of what Tsar Peter III. (who was now
enjoying his seventh resurrection) was doing.
The Tsarina began to tire of the homage of her
admirers, so she called together her generals,
and asked which of them was willing to head an
expedition, in the depth of winter, into the
wilderness of snows. This meant no game at
war; it meant attempting the subjection of a
powerful force, which, if not checked, would soon
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Masterpieces of Fiction
be a match for the most efficient troops of Europe. —
Four men replied that in Russia nothing was
impossible. The names of these four men were
Prince Galiczin, General Bibikoff, Colonel Larion-
off, and Michelson, a Swedish officer. But
their number was soon reduced to two. The
first battle of Bozal proved too much for Larion-
off, who returned home, defeated. The hardships
of the campaign spelt the end of Bibikoff’s
usefulness, for he died on the snow-swept plain.
Only Galiczin and Michelson were left. The
Swede had already become famous by reason of
his prowess in the Turkish wars, but, when he
marched from the fortress of Bozal against the
rebels, his troops consisted of no more than 400
cavalry and 600 infantry, with four guns.
With this small force, he attempted the relief
of the fortress of Ufa. But, though his move-
ments were speedy, those of Czika’s spies were
speedier still, and the rebel chieftain was ap-
prised not only of the approach of the enemy,
but also of their numerical weakness. He
anticipated that they merely intended to rein-
force the garrison of Ufa, so he despatched
against them only 3,000 men, with nine guns,
ordering them to hold the mountain passes which
blocked the way to Ufa. But Michelson chose
another route. His men travelled on sledges,
and so fast did they proceed that, when they
reached Czika’s camp and attacked his vanguard,
nobody opposed them. The panic-stricken
rebels fled, leaving two guns in Michelson’s
116
A Fight for the Tsarina —
possession. The Swede knew well that the
sound of the guns would act as a signal for the
arrival of the enemy’s 3,000 men who occupied
the passes, and that he was in danger of being
caught between two fires; so he hurriedly
entrenched 200 of his men beneath their sledges,
while, with the remainder of his troops, he
advanced to the town of Czernakuka, the desti-
nation of Czika’s fleeing forces. Losing no
time, Michelson threw himself in the forefront
of his hussars, and charged the main body of
the enemy. This bold and unexpected attack
was demoralising in its effect; the centre of the
camp broke, and, in a few moments, Michelson
found himself in possession of a battery of
cannon. He then directed his attention to the
right and left wings. The result of the surprise
was that Czika’s troops were utterly routed,
leaving behind them fifty-six guns. The victor
then retraced his steps to the spot where he had
left his 200 men entrenched beneath their
sledges, and, with this addition to his forces,
entirely surrounded the enemy, who surrendered
after leaving many dead on the field. The
conquering Swede notified the commander of
the Ufa garrison that the road was clear, and that
he would soon receive the cannon captured
from the enemy. When about a hundred and
twenty versts distant from Ufa, he came up
with Czika, who, with forty-two of his officers,
was endeavouring to escape. Michelson cap-
tured them all, and that they were not all
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Masterpieces of Fiction
hanged was due only to the fact that ae plain
was destitute of trees.
Prince Galiczin, in the meantime, was pur-
suing Pugascheff. The Russian general had
with him 6,o0o0 men, but he did not catch up
with the pretender until the first days of March.
Pugascheff awaited his enemy at Taticseva.
This so-called fortress, which was surrounded by
wooden walls, may have been sufficient to
protect sheep from robbers, but it was certainly
not fit for warlike defence. The rebel leader,
however, did not lose his head, and proved him-
self no mean opponent. He covered the fences
surrounding the fort with snow, on which he
poured water, rendering them almost as solid as
stone, and at the same time so slippery that no
one could surmount them. Here he awaited
Galiczin with a part of his army, the main
body of which occupied Orenburg. The Russian
general approached cautiously. The fog was
so thick that the opposing bodies perceived each
other only when they were within firing distance.
A fierce hand-to-hand combat followed. Puga-
scheff, at the head of the flower of his troops, was
always to be found where danger threatened,
but his efforts were fruitless. The Russians
finally succeeded in crossing the ice walls,
capturing his cannon, and driving him out of the
stronghold. The victory was complete, but it
was attained at the cost of the lives of a thousand
Russians. Pugascheff retreated with 4,000 men
and seven guns, but with the loss of his prestige
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A Fight for the Tsarina
and of his belief in his star. The Tsar, who but
yesterday had proclaimed his campaign of
revenge, was now compelled to go back to the
desert, which did not receive him kindly. Only
now did the real terrors of the campaign begin.
It was a war such as can be carried on only in
Russia, where, in the thousands and thousands
of acres of desert, bands of wild marauders
wander, all haters of the Empire and all eager
for revenge. Pugascheff took refuge among
these tribes. Again he attacked Galiczin at
Kargozki, and again he was defeated, this
time losing his last gun. Here Uliyanka, his
favourite, was captured, if, indeed, she did not
betray him to the enemy. He himself managed
to escape only by fording the river Myaes on
horseback.
This is the border of Asia, and it is here that.
Russia ends and Siberia begins. There are no
longer any villages, but only military outposts, a
day’s march distant from each other, and, along
the ranges of the Ural Mountains, the so-called
‘‘factories.”” The Wozkrezenzki factory, which is
situated at a point about a day’s march from the
mountains, is separated from the Zimski factory
by virgin forests. In both of these factories,
cinnamon and paints are made. Near at hand
are the powder factory of Uzizka and the bomb
factory of Zatkin, whose labourers are Russian
convicts. At the junction of the rivers are
several small towns, guarded by native Cossacks,
while other towns are occupied by regular
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Masterpieces of Fiction
Russian detachments that have fallen into
disgrace. To this region came Pugascheff with
what was left of his army. Galiczin followed
him for some time, but finally decided that, ina
country whose roads are marked only by trenches,
the pursuit of an enemy whose only object was to
get away as fast and as far as possible was hope-
less. Pugascheff reinforced his meagre army
from the tribes of the Ural district, who
deserted their huts, and rallied to his standard.
Suddenly the winter came to an end, and was
followed by those soft, mellow April days which
are seen only in Siberia, when at night the
temperature sinks below the freezing point,
while in the daytime the melting snow covers
everything with water, every brook becomes a
tiver, and every fiver a vast /oceanseaune
pursued might still make progress in his sledge,
but the pursuer would have a hard task con-
fronting him in the wilderness of fathomless
morasses. Yet the intrepid Michelson dared
to follow Pugascheff under these almost hopeless
conditions. Even as the Siberian wolf who has
tasted the blood of his victim never leaves his
track until he has run him down, so this bold
Swede held to the pursuit of his opponent. All
told, cavalry, gunners, and infantry, his forces
consisted of no more than a thousand men.
Each man had to carry provisions for a fortnight
and i100 cartridges. The cavalry had guns as
well as sabres, so that they would be in a position
to fight on foot, and the gunners added axes to
I20
A Fight for the Tsarina
their equipment, so that they might also do duty
as sappers. All were prepared to swim if the
occasion arose. With this force, Michelson
pursued Pugascheff through innumerable hostile
tribes, people who knew no mercy and whose
language he did not understand. Yet he
faced the danger intrepidly, even as the sailor
smiles at the terrors of the deep. On May 7th,
he was attacked near the Zimski factory by the
father of the girl, Uliyanka, who was leading
2,000 Bashkirs to Pugascheff’s support. Michel-
son defeated them, and captured their cannon.
From one of his prisoners, he learned that
Beloborodoff, one of the dukes created by
Pugascheff, was in the neighbourhood with a
large force of Russian soldiers who had deserted
from the regular ranks. Michelson surprised
them near the river Yeresen, and forced them to
take refuge in the Zatkin factory. He rode
along to the walls of the factory, and, when he
was so near that his voice could be distinctly
heard, he began to rebuke them for their deser-
tion, and urged them to return to their old
allegiance. More than two thousand shots were
directed at him from the windows of the factory,
but, when the soldiers saw that he remained
unharmed, they believed him to be invulnerable,
threw open the gates, and joined his army.
From these men, Michelson learned Pugascheff’s
plans—that he had captured three fortresses,
Magitnaya, Stepnaya, and Petroluskaya, and
was at that moment laying siege to Troiczka.
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Masterpieces of Fiction
But Michelson arrived too late to save the last-
named stronghold. When he arrived there, he
found nothing but ruins, dead bodies, and the
remains of Russian officers hanging from trees.
Pugascheff, who had heard of his opponent’s.
approach, laid a cunning trap to capture his
pursuer. He decked out some of his own
soldiers in the uniforms of the dead Russians,
and sent them as messengers to Michelson —
conveying word that Colonel Colon would meet
him near Varlamora. It was not until he was
_attacked, and two of his guns captured, that
Michelson perceived the ruse by which he had
been deceived. But, although surrounded on
all sides, he at once charged Pugascheff’s centre,
cut his opponent’s forces in two, and turned
seeming defeat into victory. Pugascheff fled
with only a few hundred followers, and escaped
into the interior of Siberia. |
But Michelson’s troubles were not yet over.
He suddenly found Zalavatka in his rear with
a Bashkir force, he having already reduced the
Zatkin factory and slaughtered all its inmates,
including women and children. The Bashkirs
held a strong position near the river Aie. They
had destroyed the bridges, and confidently
awaited Michelson’s advance. At dawn, Michel-
son ordered forty of his cavalry, each man
taking besides a rifleman behind him, to swim
the river and hold the opposite bank until the
rest of the troops joined them. In this way,
the Russians crossed the river without a bridge,
I22
A Fight for the Tsarina
dragging after them their cannon tied to trees.
The Bashkirs fled, but, while Michelson was
chasing them with his cavalry, his artillery
was attacked by a fresh force, and-he was
compelled to return to their help. It was
Pugascheff himself who, backed by well-equipped
troops, was his new opponent. The fight went
on for many hours, but late at night the rebels
retreated, and marched, under cover of darkness,
to the fortress of Ufa. But Michelson learned
their destination, cut his way through the forest,
and again met Pugascheff before the walls of
Ufa. Michelson again won the battle, but his
soldiers were in a lamentable condition. Hardly
a whole piece of clothing or an intact boot
could be found among them, and their ammuni-
tion had declined to two charges’ apiece. So
he retreated to Ufa to replenish his equipment.
After Michelson had driven Pugascheff away
from Ufa, the pretender utterly routed the
Russian leaders who had been sent against him
from other directions. The forces of London,
Melgunoff, Duve, and Jacubovics melted before
him, and, in their very presence, he set fire to
the town of Birsk. He reduced the fortress of
Ossa, where he found guns and ammunition, and
then advanced with remarkable speed upon
Kazan. Kazan is the seat of an archbishop, and
there is kept the crown used by the Tsars at
coronation. If Pugascheff could get the Arch-
bishop of Kazan to place this crown on his head,
who could deny that he was the Tsar of All the
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Masterpieces of Fiction
Russias? The defenders of Kazan consisted of
only 1,500 riflemen, under Generals Brand and
Banner, but the citizens of the town rallied
vigorously to the walls. The day before the
siege began, General Potemkin, accompanied by
General Larionoff, arrived at Kazan. The
Russian camp was overrun with generals, but,
nevertheless, the rebel troops carried the place.
Pugascheff himself was the first to scale the
walls. Larinoff fled to Nijni Novgorod, and
the other generals took refuge in the citadel.
Pugascheff gave up the town to the tender
mercy of his soldiers. The Archbishop of
Kazan received him at the cathedral, and made
him a gift of half a million roubles in gold. The
crown had been carried off to the citadel, but
the archbishop promised to crown him with it as
soon as it was obtainable. Pugascheff set fire
to all quarters of the town, hoping thereby to
instil terror into the hearts of those in the
citadel. But Michelson was still to be reckoned
with. He was now on his way to Kazan, hardly
allowing his troops time to sleep en route. He
sent no news, but where he marched he left his
mark. At Burnova, he dispersed a force of
rebels who attacked him. At Brayevana, he
defeated another detachment. At the fortress
of Ossa, he learned that Pugascheff had crossed
the river Kuma. Then he knew that he would
find the pseudo-Tsar at Kazan. He found no
boats on the river Kuma, so he swam it. Two
other rivers were crossed in the same way.
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A Fight for the Tsarina
When he arrived at Arkz, he heard the noise of
cannon in the direction of Kazan. Giving his
men time for only one hour’s sleep, he marched
through the night, and at dawn he saw by the
smoke on the horizon that Kazan was in flames.
When Pugascheff’s outposts sent word to their
leader that Michelson was approaching, he
cursed. Was this man a devil, that he should
be at his very walls when he believed him to be
300 miles away? He decided at all cost to keep
the news from the garrison in the citadel. He
stationed a portion of his men in the town of
Tazicsin, seven miles out of Kazan, to obstruct
the onward march of his hated foe.
He then proclaimed himself Tsar Peter III.
But, in the middle of the ceremony, which was
held in the market-place of Tazicsin, a haggard
woman rushed to his feet and covered him with
kisses. It was Tugascheff’s wife, who had
thought her husband long since dead. They
had married very young, and Pugascheff himself
believed her in her grave; but the poor woman
recognised him by his voice. Pugascheff re-
mained calm. He lifted the woman to her feet,
and said to an officer standing by: ‘This
woman’s husband was a dear and valued friend
of mine. See that she is cared for.’’ But every
one suspected that he himself was the husband
of Marianka, and the incident made a profound
impression on the rebel forces. The next
morning, Michelson sent word into the town
that he was coming, and requested the assistance
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Masterpieces of Fiction
of all loyal troops. Pugascheff attacked him
with fury, and for a time it seemed as if fortune
had again favoured him. On the third day of
the conflict, when Michelson was entirely sur-
rounded, he put himself at the head of his small
force, and charged Pugascheff’s army with the
impetuosity born of despair. The rebels’ line
was broken, and they fled, leaving 3,000 dead on
the field, and 5,000 men taken prisoners.
Kazan was free, but Russia was still in danger.
After his defeat at Kazan, Pugascheff fled, but
not toward Siberia. This time, he marched
straight toward Moscow, the heart of the Russian
Empire. As soon as he had crossed the Volga,
the people began to join his standard, and the
old revolt of the peasantry against the nobility
was enflamed into new vigour. ‘One after
another, the towns opened their gates to Puga-
scheff, and every castle within a radius of one
hundred miles was burned to the ground. The
farther he advanced, the larger his army became.
Forts were occupied, towns burned and looted,
and the troops which gave the rebels battle
routed. In the battle of Zariczin, every Russian
officer was killed, and the entire force captured.
Pugascheff now had under his command 25,000
men and a large number of cannon, and the way
to Moscow would have been open to him if the
dreaded Michelson had not been in his rear.
This remarkable man feared no enemy, however
formidable, and he actually drove before him
Pugascheff’s large force, as the tiger chases a
126
A Fight for the Tsarina
herd of boars. The pretender felt that this man
was his evil star. Just beyond the town of
Sarepta, he found a convenient battle-ground,
and there he disposed his army. It was on a
hill which is divided by a steep foot-path, this
path being intersected by another. Pugascheff
stationed his best men on the ascending path
while the remainder he sent to cover his flanks.
if Michelson used his ordinary method of attack,
he would advance up the little path leading to
the steeper one, and, if he then succeeded, his
opponents could advance from both ends of the
intersecting road, and so cut him to pieces. But
Michelson was not to be caught so easily. While
he bombarded the position with his artillery, he
himself, with Colonel Melin, attacked both
flanks of the enemy. Pugascheff saw that he
was spitted on his own toasting-fork. His
retreating flanks were harried by the fire intended
for his opponent’s troops, and, in order to escape,
he had to cut his way through the ranks of his own
men. He fled with only sixty men, crossed the
Volga, and secreted himself in the forests. His
last battle had been fought.
The Russian troops surrounded the forest in
which Pugascheff and his men were hiding.
Yet his dreams were still of glory. In the
wilderness, he pictured the shining dome of the
Kremlin, and the Tsarina reclining at his feet.
For days and nights, his food consisted of horse-
flesh, eaten with meadow-grass instead of salt.
One night, as he was preparing his frugal meal
I27
Masterpieces of Fiction
before the fire, one of the three Cossacks who
were all his remaining army, said to him, “‘ Your
comedy is played out, Pugascheff!’’ The pre-
tender leaped to his feet with the words, ‘‘ Fool,
I am your Tsar!’’ At the same time, he cut
the speaker to the ground. The two others
rushed at him, bound him hand and foot, tied him
to the back of a horse, took him to Ural Sorodok,
and gave him up to General Zuvaroff. This
was the very Ural Sorodok from which he had
set out on his self-appointed mission. He was
taken to Moscow, where he was condemned to be
sliced in pieces while still alive. The sentence
was confirmed by the Tsarina, although her
beautiful eyes were the cause of the adventurer’s
terrible end. But the executioner was more
merciful. There was no clause in the sentence
stating where the process of slicing should begin,
so be began with the head—for which bit of
tenderness he was exiled to Siberia. It was just
about this time that Katherine changed her
favourite. Potemkin, quite a handsome man,
took Orloff’s place.
128
A PASSION IN THE DESERT
BY
HonorE DE Bauzac
‘““Wuat a frightful exhibition !’’ she exclaimed,
as we were leaving the menagerie of M. Martin,
where she had just been watching that intrepid
performer—to use the expression of the adver-
tisement—‘‘working’’ with his hyena.
““By what means,” she continued, ‘‘can he
have trained his animals so well that he is
sufficiently certain of their affection to fa
‘“Why,” I interrupted, ‘‘what seems such an
enigma to you is really very natural.”
“‘Oh!”” she exclaimed with an incredulous
smile.
‘““Do you consider beasts entirely without
passions?”’ I asked. ‘“‘If so, let me assure you
it is in our power to teach them all the vices
‘which belong to our own state of civilisation.”’
She looked at me in astonishment.
‘‘However,’ I resumed, ‘‘when’ I saw M.
Martin for the first time, I confess that I, like
you, uttered an exclamation of surprise. I
was standing at the time beside an old soldier
who had come in with me, and whose appearance
I found very interesting. His right leg had
been amputated; his head, with its fearless poise,
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Masterpieces of Fiction
was marked with the scars of war, and told
of Napoleon’s battles. There was a certain
frankness and good humour: about this old
veteran which prejudiced me at once in his
favour. No doubt, he was one of those troopers
whom nothing can surprise; who find something
amusing even in the dying spasms of a comrade,
and shroud him or strip him with equal want
of compunction; who are proof against bullets,
quick to reach conclusions, and who hold
fellowship with the Devil. He had watched the
proprietor of the. menagerie very attentively,
and, as the latter was leaving the cage, my
companion’s face assumed an expression of
‘mocking disdain such as the wise assume to
distinguish themselves from ordinary fools.
‘“When I made a remark about the courage
of M. Martin, he smiled in a knowing way, and
answered with a toss of his head:
“**Oh, that is a well-known trick.’
““*How is that? I should be much obliged,
indeed, to have you explain the secret of it,’
I rejoined.
" After a few’ minutes:spent aa getting ac-
quainted, we went to dine at the first restaurant
we found. A bottle of champagne with the
dessert brought back past events to the mind of
this curious old soldier with wonderful clearness,
and he told me his story. I understood then
why he could say ‘a well-known trick.’”’
When we reached her home, she coaxed me
so much, and made so many promises, that I
130
A Passion in the Desert
consented to write the tale of the old soldier, and
the next day she received the following episode
from an epic which might properly be entitled,
“The French in Egypt.”
At the time of the explorating tour of General
Desaix into upper Egypt, a Provencal soldier
had fallen into the hands of the Maugrabins,
and was carried off by these Arabs into the desert
beyond the Falls of the Nile. In order to puta
safe distance between themselves and the
French army, the Maugrabins proceeded by
forced marches, and did not stop until evening.
They pitched their camp about a well, sur-
rounded by a fringe of palm-trees, near which
they had previously buried some provisions.
As they suspected no plans of escape on the
part of their prisoner, they contented them-
selves with tying his hands, and, after having
eaten some dried dates and given fodder to the
horses, they went to sleep.
However, when the brave fellow saw that his
enemies. were no longer watching him, he
secured a scimetar with the aid of his teeth, and,
holding the blade between his knees, he cut the
cords depriving him of the use of his hands, and
was free. He lost no-time in taking possession
of arifleanda dagger, and providing himself with
a hatchet, a supply of dried dates, a small sack
of fodder, some powder and balls, he mounted a
horse and spurred away in the direction of the
French camp. His horse, however, was weary
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Masterpieces of Fiction
from the day’s travel, and, as the Frenchman
was anxious to be once more safe in camp, he
urged the poor animal on until, with its flanks
torn by the spurs, it fell dead from exhaustion,
leaving its rider in the midst of the desert.
For some time he proceeded on foot through
the sand with all the desperation of a galley
slave seeking freedom, but was obliged to stop
as darkness vas coming on, and notwithstanding
the splendour of the oriental heavens at night,
he was too tired to go on. Fortunately, he had
been able to reach a hillock at the summit of
which grew a number of palms, the foliage of
which had been visible a long way off, and. had
awakened in the heart of the weary traveller the
most pleasant anticipations. His exhaustion
was so great that he threw himself down on a
stone, shaped by capricious nature into the form
of a camp-bed, and went to sieep without pre-
cautions of any kind for self-defence. He had
risked his life, but his last thought was one of
regret. He already repented of leaving the
Maugrabins, whose wandering life began to
appeal to him, now that he was helpless ana
far away from them.
He was awakened by the sun, its rays falling ~
perpendicularly on the stone and heating it to
anintolerable degree. Unfortunately, the soldier
had taken his position on the side of the palms
opposite to that on which the shadow of the
foliage fell. He looked at those solitary trees,
and was struck by their familiar appearance:
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A Passion in the Desert
they recalled to his mind the elegant shafts and
crowns, the long leaves, characteristic of the
cathedral of Arles.
Having counted the trees,.he began to look
about him, and the deepest despondency took
possession of his soul. He saw before him a
boundless ocean. In every direction, as far
as the eye could reach, the sands of the desert
glittered like the blade of a lance in a strong
light. He could not teil whether it was a sea of
glass, or a thousand lakes smooth like a mirror.
Carried along in waves, a fiery vapour whirled
over the shifting sand. The oriental sky shone
in its hopeless brazenness; nothing was left for
- the imagination to supply. Heaven and earth
were on fire.
The silence was fearful in its weird and
terrible majesty. The infinity and boundless-
ness of the whole oppressed the soul on every
side. Not a cloud in the sky; not a breath in
the air; not an incident to break the monotony
on the wide expanse of those still, rippled sands.
The horizon, like that of the open sea in fair
weather, was marked by a line of light as straight
and thin as if cut with the blade of a sword.
The soldier embraced the trunk of one of the
palms as if it were the body of a friend.
Then, in the shelter of the straight, slender
shadow which the tree cast upon the rock, he
wept. Thus he remained for a time, looking
with deep sadness upon the inexorable scene
presented to his view. He called aloud as if to
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sound the solitude, but his voice, almost lost.
in the hollows of the hillock, came back with:
hardly an echo. The echo was in his own heart.
The man was only twenty years old, yet he
loaded his rifle
‘“There is always time enough for that,’ he
said to himself, as he replaced the weapon of
deliverance on the ground beside him.
Looking about, now at the dusky earth and
now at the blue sky, the soldier began to dream:
of France. He recalled with almost a sense of
pleasure the ill-smelling gutters of Paris; he
Saw again the towns through which they had
passed, the faces of his comrades, and the most.
trifling incidents of his life.
His southern imagination represented to him
the stones of his beloved Provence in the waves
of heat, undulating over what seemed to be a
cloth spread in the desert. Fearing the dangers
of a mirage to his reason, he descended the
hillock upon the side opposite the one he had
climbed the evening before. Here he made a
discovery which made him rejoice. It was a
sort of cave, formed by nature among the
immense fragments of rock composing the
hillock. The remnants of a mat told that this
place of refuge had been made use of at some
time. Furthermore, he perceived some date-
palms, loaded with fruit, only a short distance
away. Then the instinct which causes a human
being to cling to life began to assert itself.
He found himself hoping that he would live
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4
A Passion in the Desert
muntil some band of Maugrabins should pass that ..
way, or perhaps he would hear the roar of
cannon, for at that very hour Napoleon was on
his march through Egypt.
Cheered by this thought, the Frenchman pro-
ceeded to bring down some of the clusters of
ripe fruit under the weight of which the date-
palms seemed to bend. The flavour of this
anhoped-for manna convinced him that the
former occupant of the cave had cultivated the
palms, the fresh, luscious. pulp proclaiming
his predecessor’s skill.
The Frenchman’s state of mind was suddenly
changed from abject despair to almost silly joy
He once more climbed the hill, and, during the
remainder of the day, busied himself with
cutting down one of the sterile trees which had
afforded him shelter the night before. A
vague reminiscence brought to his mind the
thought of wild beasts of the desert, and, sur-
mising the probability of their coming to drink
from the spring which issued from the rock on
which he lived, but which was soon swallowed
up by the desert sand, he determined to insure
himself against their visits by placing a barrier
across the entrance to his hermitage. In spite
of his industry, however, and the strength which
fear of being devoured by wild animals, during
sleep, gave him, he found it impossible to cut
the tree into several pieces that day; but he did
succeed in felling it. When, toward evening,
this king of the sand tumbled down, the noise
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of its fall resounded in the distance, and the
very solitude seemed to groan. The soldier
trembled as if he had heard a voice pronouncing
a curse upon him, but, like the heir who does not
long mourn the death of a relative, he cut away
from the splendid tree the great, green fronds
which are its picturesque ornament, and made
use of them in repairing the mat upon which he
intended to spend the night. Fatigued by the
heat and labour of the day, he was soon sleeping
soundly beneath the reddish ceiling of the damp
cave.
In the middle of the night, his sleep was broken
by a peculiar sound. He sat upright, and the
profound stillness enabled him to recognise the
sound of breathing—but too deep and powerful
to come from the chest of a human being.
Profound fear, further augmented by the
darkness, the silence and the working of his
imagination, chilled his heart. He felt his hair
stand on end. By straining his eyes until they
almost started from their sockets, he perceived
in the darkness two faint yellow lights. At
first, he attributed these to the reflection of the
fruit he had gathered, but soon the remarkable
brilliancy of the night aided him by degrees to
distinguish the objects about him in the cave,
and he saw an enormous animal, lying on the
ground a couple of feet away.
Was it a lion—a tiger—a crocodile?
The Frenchman’s education was not sufficient
to help him determine to what species his enemy
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belonged, but his fear was only the greater as
his ignorance allowed him to imagine all kinds
of combined evils. He endured the torture of
listening to the breath of the animal coming and
going, not losing a sound, and not daring to
make the least movement.
An odour like that of a fox, only much more
penetrating, heavier so to speak, filled the cave,
and, when the Frenchman had blown it from his
nostrils, his terror was supreme, for he could then
no longer question the reality of that terrible
companion’s presence, in whose royal dwelling
he had encamped. Soon the reflection of the
light, breaking in the east, illuminated the den,
and produced an almost imperceptible lustre on
the resplendent and spotted skin of a pan-
ther. This specimen of the Egyptian lion slept
rolled up like a great dog occupying a com-
fortable berth at the door of his master’s
house. Its face was turned toward the French-
idan; its eyes opened for a. moment, then
closed again. ©
A thousand confused thoughts passed through
the mind of the panther’s prisoner. First, he
wanted to kill it with a shot from his rifle, but
he saw that there was not enough space between
them to enable him to use this means, as the
muzzle of the gun would reach beyond the
animal. Andifitshouldawaken! That thought
rendered him motionless.
He could hear the beating of his heart in the
midst of the silence, and cursed the pulsation
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caused by the rush of blood through his veins,
dreading to disturb the sleep which afforded
him an opportunity to plan an escape. He
put both his hands on the scimetar with the idea.
of severing the head of his enemy, put the
difficulty of cutting that tough skin, covered
with dense hair, led him to give up the idea.
To attempt flight would be certain death, he
thought.
He preferred the chances of a fight, and
decided to wait until daylight. He did not
have long to wait. The Frenchman was now
able to examine the panther more closely, and
noticed that its muzzle was covered with blood.
‘‘She has just eaten,” he thought, not taking
the pains to consider whether the feast had
been human flesh or not. . “She won pe
hungry when she wakes.”’
It was a female. The fur on her belly and
thighs was glistening white, and several velvet-
like spots formed pretty bracelets about her
paws. The muscular tail was of the same
whiteness, but had a series of black rings en-
circling the end. The upper skin, yellow like
unburnished gold, and very sleek and soft, bore
the characteristic spots, shaded in the form of
rosettes, which distinguish the panther from
other branches of the cat family.
His calm, formidable hostess was snoring:
away as contentedly as a household puss asleep:
on an ottoman. Her bloody paws, sinewy
and well armed, were stretched out in front of
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A Passion in the Desert
her, and her head, with its straight parted beard
like threads of gold, rested upon them.
If she had appeared thus in a cage, the French-
man would certainly have admired the grace of
the brute and the marked contrast of pro-
nounced colours, which gave a royal splendour
to her robe; but at that moment his appreciation
of these points was marred by the threatening
prospect. 7
At the presence of the panther, even though
she slept, he experienced the effect which the
magnetic eyes of a serpent are said to produce
upon a nightingale.
The soldier’s courage failed him before this
peril, though it would doubtless have been
roused by cannon belching forth fire and shell.
After all, a single courageous idea filled his
mind, and dried the cold perspiration rolling down
his’ forehead. As in the case of men whom
misfortune drives to a point where they defy
death, he saw, without being conscious of it, a
tragedy in this adventure, and determined to
play his rdle with horfour to the end.
‘““The day before yesterday, the Arabs might
have killed me,” he soliloquised, and, considering
himself as dead, he awaited bravely, but with
lively curiosity, the awakening of his enemy.
When the sun rose, the panther suddenly
opened her eyes, stretched out her legs as if to
dissipate the cramp, and yawned—by this last
operation displaying a formidable set of teeth
and a grooved, rasp-like tongue.
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‘“Why, she acts like a coquette,” thought the
Frenchman, as he watched her rolling about,
performing the prettiest and daintiest move-
ments imaginable. She licked the blood-stains
from her paws and muzzie, and stroked her head
several times very gently. 7
‘“Well, I suppose I might make my toilet,
too,’ said the Frenchman to himself, as his
reviving courage somewhat restored his sense
of humour. ‘‘We are going to wish each other
good morning.”’ With this remark, he possessed
himself of the dagger stolen from the Mau-
grabins.
At this moment, the panther turned her
head toward the Frenchman, and looked at.
him steadily. The fixedness of “those™ steety,
eyes and their almost intolerable glare made
the man shudder the more so as the animal
began to approach him. But he looked at her
affectionately, and, fixing his eyes upon her, as.
if he wished to mesmerise her, he permitted her
to come very close; then he passed his hand
along her body from head to tail, stroking her
as gently and lovingly as if he were caressing a
beautiful woman. He could feel the projections
which marked the vertebre of her supple spine;
the animal raised her tail at the agreeable
sensation, and the expression of her eyes became
more gentle. When the Frenchman repeated.
this interesting blandishment for the third time,
she began to purr as our cats do when expressing,
pleasure. But the sound coming from the
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A Passion in the Desert
throat of this animal was so deep and strong
that it reverberated through the cave like the
low notes of a church organ. The soldier,
understanding the value of his caresses, re-
doubled them in his efforts to intoxicate this
exacting courtesan. '
When he felt sure of having allayed the
ferocity of his capricious companion, whose
hunger had so fortunately been satisfied the
night before, he arose and left the cave. The
panther permitted his departure, to be sure, but,
when he had climbed the hill, she bounded after
him with the lightness of a sparrow hopping
from branch to branch, and rubbed herself
against his legs, at the same time curving her
back like a cat. She looked at her visitor with
a much less savage expression, and uttered that
peculiar sound which naturalists compare to the
grating of a saw. ‘‘She certainly is exacting,”
thought the Frenchman, with a smile.
He tried playing with her ears, stroked her
belly, and scratched her head briskly with his
nails, and, perceiving his success, even pricked
her skull with the point of his dagger, intending
to kill her at once. But the hardness of the
bone caused him to doubt.the success of such
an attempt.
This sultana of the desert gave evidence of
her appreciation of the efforts of her slave by
raising her head and stretching her neck, giving
further proof of her pleasure by the contented
attitude she assumed. It suddenly occurred
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to the Frenchman that, in order to slay this
savage princess with a single blow, he must
stab her in the throat, and he raised his arm
accordingly. Then the panther, doubtless sa-
tiated with his caresses, laid herself gently at
his feet, giving him a glance now and then
which, in spite of her natural ferocity of ex-
pression, bore a certain amount of good-will.
The poor fellow ate his dates, leaning against a
tree, looking,now across the desert in search of
a deliverer, and then again at the panther to
assure himself of her uncertain clemency.
The panther looked suspiciously at the ground
where the date stones fell, as he dropped them
one by one. She watched the movements of
the Frenchman with businesslike care. The
conclusion reached as the result of her observa-
tion of him must have been favourable. When
he had finished his meal, she began licking his
shoes, completely removing the dust caked in
the wrinkles of the leather, with her long, rough
tongue.
‘‘Ah, but when she gets hungry!” thought the
soldier. In spite of the uneasiness which this
thought gave him, he became absorbed in .
measuring the proportions of the panther with
his eyes. She was certainly one of the finest
specimens of her class, being not less than three
feet in height and five in length, not counting
her tail. This powerful member was fully
three feet long, and rounded like a cudgel.
Her head, as large as that of a lioness, gave
Ta2
A Passion in the Desert
indications of gteat shrewdness, and, although
the cold cruelty characteristic of the tiger
family dominated its expression, there was
in the effect of it something which made him
think of aclever woman. The whole appearance
of this solitary queen suggested the gayety of
a drunken Nero. She had quenched her thirst
with blood, and now wished to be amused.
The soldier tried walking back and forth,
which the panther allowed, contenting herself
with following him with her eyes. She seemed
less like a faithful dog, however, than a great
angora, suspicious of everything, even her
master’s movements. In looking about, he
saw the carcass of his horse beside the spring,
whither the panther had dragged it. About
two-thirds of it was eaten. This discovery
somewhat reassured the Frenchman; it was no
trouble now to explain the absence of the panther
on the evening before and the respect she had
shown for him during his sleep.
Fortune having so far favoured him, he
resolved to take his chances for the future.
His purpose was to remain peaceably with the
panther for the rest of the day, neglecting no
opportunity of taming her and winning her
favour.
Having decided upon his plan, he returned to
her, and had the great satisfaction of seeing her
wag her tail slightly. He sat down beside
her, and began to play with her, holding her
paws and her muzzle, turning back her ears,
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Masterpieces of Fiction
rolling her over on her back, ‘and rubbing her
soft, warm sides. She evidently enjoyed these
attentions, and, when he stroked the fur on
her paws, she carefully drew in her curved claws.
The Frenchman, who throughout this. per-
formance had kept one hand on his dagger, still
thought of plunging it into the side of the over-
confident panther, but feared being killed by
her during her death-struggle. On the other
hand, he was conscious of a touch of pity moving
him to spare such a harmless creature.
It seemed as though he had found a friend in
‘that boundless desert. He thought of his first
mistress, whom he had called ‘‘Mignon,” by
way of antithesis, for she was of such an atro-
ciously jealous disposition that, during all the
time that their passion lasted, he had lived in
constant fear of the knife with which she threat-
ened him. This reminiscence of his youth
suggested the idea of naming the panther whose
agility, grace, and gentleness he admired in
proportion as his fear decreased.
By evening, he had become accustomed to
his perilous position, and almost liked the
danger of it. The education of his companion
meanwhile had so far progressed that she would
look at him when he called ‘‘Mignon’’ in a
falsetto voice. At sunset, Mignon uttered a
strangely melancholy cry, which she repeated
several times.
‘‘She has been well brought up,” thought the
soldier. ‘‘She is saying her prayers.” This
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A Passion in the Desert
mental pleasantry, however, only occurred to
him at the sight of the peaceful attitude his
companion had resumed.
‘‘Come now, my little blonde, I am going to
let you retire first,’ said he, trusting to the
nimbleness of his legs to get as far away as
possible and to seek another place of shelter
when she should be asleep.
Impatientiy he awaited the time for flight,
and, when it came, he ran away rapidly in the
direction of the Nile. But he had not gone
half a mile before he heard the panther bounding
along behind him, giving forth that saw-like
cry already described, which seemed even more
fearful than the sound of her feet.
**Ah!” he said, ‘‘she’s in love with me. She
never met any one before, and it is most flatter-
ing to be her first love.”’
At that moment, the Frenchman struck one
of those treacherous quicksands so dangerous
to travellers, and from which it is impossible to
escape. Upon finding himself trapped, he
cried out in terror, but the panther seized him
by the collar, and, quickly leaping backward,
she pulled him out of the sandy whirlpool as if
by magic.
‘‘Ah, Mignon,” cried the soldier, caressing the
panther enthusiastically, ‘‘we will stick together
now, come what will, and no more tricks.”’
From that time forth, the desert seemed in-
habited. It held a being to which the French-
man could speak, whose ferocity he had quelled,
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yet not knowing the secret of its strange affection
for him. However great his desire to remain
awake and on his guard, sleep soon overcame
him, and held him until morning.
When he awoke, Mignon was gone. He
climbed the hill, and saw her in the distance,
bounding along in the characteristic manner of
animals whose extremely supple vertebral
column prevents their running in the usual
way. ,Mignon camie up with her mouth covered
with blood. She received the caresses of her
companion with supreme satisfaction, betrayed
by her deep purring. Her eyes were quite
softened now as she turned them with even more
gentleness than on the preceding evening to
the Frenchman; and he spoke to her as if she
were a domestic animal.
‘“‘Aha, young lady, you really are a fine
girl, aren’t you, now? Are you not ashamed
of yourself? Have you eaten some poor Mau-
grabin this morning? Well, never mind; they
are only brutes like yourself. But you are not
going to eat up the French? If you do, I shall
not love you any more.”
She played with him just as a puppy plays
with its master, allowing him to roll her over,
to beat her or pat her in turn; and she even
solicited his attention by putting out her paw
to him.
Several days passed thus. The character of
his associate permitted the Frenchman to
admire the stiblime beauties of the desert
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A Passion in the Desert
without interruption. Here he had experienced
hours of trouble as well as hours of rest, had
found food and a creature to think about, and
the variety of his impressions called forth con-
flicting emotions. He discovered beauties, un-
known to the world at large, in the rising and
setting of the sun. He knew the thrill experi-
enced at the whir produced by the wings of a
passing bird—though such visitors were rare.
He had watched the beauty ‘of the colours
blending in the clouds which at rare intervals
passed over his place of refuge. At night, he
studied the effect of the moonlight on the sand,
as the simoon made undulating, rapidly changing
waves. He admired the wonderful brilliancy
of the oriental day, yet, after witnessing the
terrible sight of a hurricane upon those wide
plains where the shifting sands formed dry
mists and fatal storms, he hailed with delight the
advent of the evening and the refreshing softness
of the starlight. Solitude led him to open the
storehouses of dreams. He spent whole hours
thinking of mere nothings, or comparing his
past mode of life with the present. He became
very fond of the panther, as his nature demanded
some object upon which to lavish his affection.
Whether the influence of the rational mind
through the effort of his will had subdued the
savage nature of his associate, or whether she
found plenty of victims in the desert to satisfy
her hunger, she respected the life of the French-
man, whose suspicions of her waned as she
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of his became tamer. He spent the greater part
of the time sleeping, but*was obliged to keep a
lookout, like a spider watching her web, lest he
should allow any opportunity of deliverance
to pass by. He utilised his shirt as a flag of
distress, hoisting it to the top of a palm-tree
stripped of its foliage; but he was obliged
to stretch it by means’ of "sticks? ar siea.
the breeze might not be sufficiently strong to
unfurl it when a traveller should look in his
direction.
During the long hours when hope deserted
him, he amused himself with the panther. He
learned to understand the inflections of her
voice and to interpret the significance of her
glance. He studied the curiously designed
spots which covered her skin and gave it the
appearance of rippling gold. Mignon no longer
even growled when he took the end of her tail
in his hand to count the black and white rings
which surrounded it, and which appeared at a
distance like an ornament of precious stones.
It gave him pleasure to watch the graceful
lines of her form, the snowy whiteness of her
belly, and the handsomely shaped head. But
he was especially fond of following her motions
when she was at play, ever surprised at the
ease and youthfulness of her movements. He
admired the supple grace with which she bounded,
squatted, rolled, crawled along, and suddenly
leaped as though attacking an enemy. Yet, no
matter how great her speed or how slippery the
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A Passion in the Desert
block of granite underfoot, she would stop
short at the call of ‘‘Mignon.”’
One day, a great bird was circling about in
the sunlight overhead. When the soldier left
his panther to examine this new guest, the
deserted sultana voiced her displeasure in a
low growl.
iChew-deuce! Il.believe, she is jealous,”
thought the Frenchman, as he saw her eyes
become fixed and glaring. ‘‘Certainly, the
soul of Virginia might have passed into that
body.”
The eagle disappeared in the ether, while the
soldier stood admiring the crouchin~ figure of .
the panther. How much grace and youth
there was in every line of her body! She
was as beautiful as a woman. The light
yellow of her fur gradually paled on each
side until, on the inner surface of her thighs,
it was blended into a dull white, and the
sunlight falling full upon her changed the
brown rosettes to a golden hue infinitely beauti-
ful in effect.
The man and the panther exchanged a look
which seemed to be one of mutual understand-
ing. The coquette trembled with delight when
she felt the nails of her lover scratching her
head. Her eyes became luminous, and then
closed.
“IT believe she has a soul, after all,’’ said the
soldier, studying the calmness of this queen of
the desert, the colour of whose yellow and white
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sands she wore, whose intense heat and solitude
she personified.
‘““Well,’’ she told me, ‘‘I have read your plea
in favour of animals. Those two seemed to
understand each other so well; how did their
friendship end?”’
“Like all great passions—in a misunder-
standing. One suspects the other. One is too
proud to ask for an explanation, and the other
too stubborn to offer it.’
‘“‘And to think sometimes a mere look or
exclamation at the proper time is sufficient.
' But finish your story.”
‘It is exceedingly difficult, but I will tell it
as the old warrior told it to me, When he had
finished the bottle of champagne, he exclaimed:
‘““*T don’t know what I had done, but she
turned about as if enraged, and with her sharp
teeth scratched my thigh, very slightly to be
sure; but I, thinking she was about to devour
me, plunged my dagger into her throat. She |
rolled over with a cry which froze my very
heart. In her death-struggle, she turned her
eyes toward me. They showed no trace of
anger. I would have given the world at that
moment, had it been mine, or my cross, which
I did not yet possess, to restore her to life. I
felt as if I had murdered a human being—a
friend. The soldiers who had seen my flag of
distress, and had come to my rescue, found me
in tears.
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A Passion in the Desert
***Well,’ he continued, after a moment’s
silence, ‘I have fought in Germany, Spain,
Russia, and France, and have seen a great deal
of the world, but nothing like the desert. Ah!
that is beautiful—beyond compare!’
***Could you be contented there?’
“Oh! that doesn’t follow, young man. I
do not always mourn the loss of my group of
palms and my panther, but I must think of
them at times, and‘ thinking makes me sad.
You see, in the desert there is everything and
. nothing.’
““*What do you mean?’
***Well,’ he answered, with an impatient
gesture, ‘God is there—man is not.’”
THE SNOWSTORM >
BY
ALEXANDER SERGEIVITCH PUSHKIN
TowArD the end of the year 1811, a memorable
period for us, the good Gavril Gavrilovitch R
was living on his domain of Nenaradova. He
was celebrated throughout the district for his
hospitality and kind-heartedness. The neigh-
bours were constantly visiting him: some to eat
and drink; some to play at five copeck ‘‘ Boston”
with his wife, Praskovia Petrovna; and some to
look at their daughter, Maria Gavrilovna, a pale,
slender girl of seventeen. She was considered
a wealthy match, and many desired her for them-
selves or for their sons.
Maria Gavrilovna had been brought up on
French novels, and, consequently, was in love.
The object of her choice was a poor sublieutenant
in the army, who was then on leave of absence
in his village. It need scarcely be mentioned
that the young man returned her passion with
equal ardour, and that the parents of his beloved
one, observing their mutual inclination, forbade
their daughter to think of him, and received him
worse than a discharged assessor.
Our lovers corresponded with each other, and,
in the little pine wood or near the old chapel,
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The Snowstorm
daily saw each other alone. There they ex-
changed vows of eternal love, lamented their
cruel fate, and formed various plans. Corre-
sponding and conversing in this way, they arrived
quite naturally at the following conclusion:
If we cannot exist without each other, and the
will of hard-hearted parents stands in the way of
our happiness, why cannot we do without them?
Needless to mention that this happy idea
originated in the mind of the young man, and
that it was very congenial to the romantic imagi-
nation of Maria Gavrilovna.
The winter came and put a stop to their meet-
ings, but their correspondence became al] the
more active. Vladimir Nikolaievitch in every
letter implored her to give herself up to him, to
get married secretly, to hide for some time, and
then throw themselves at the feet of their par-
ents, who would, without any doubt, be touched
at last by the heroic constancy and unhappiness
of the lovers, and would infallibly say to them,
“Children, come to our arms!”
Maria Gavrilovna hesitated for a long time,
and several plans for a flight were rejected. At
last, she consented: on the appointed day, she
was not to take supper, but was to retire to her
room under the pretext of a headache. Her maid
was in the plot; they were both to go into the
garden by the back stairs, and, behind the gar-
den, they would find ready a sledge, into which
they were to get, and then drive straight to the
church of Jadrino, a village about five versts from
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Masterpieces of Fiction
Nenaradova, where Vladimir would be waiting
for them.
On the eve of the decisive day, Maria Gavri-
lovna did not sleep the whole night; she packed
and tied up her linen and other articles of apparel,
wrote a long letter to a sentimental young lady,
a friend of hers, and another to her parents. She
took leave of them in the most touching terms,
urged the invincible strength of passion as an
excuse for the step she was taking, and wound up
with the assurance that she should consider it the
happiest moment of her life when she should be
allowed to throw herself at the feet of her dear
parents.
After having sealed both letters with a Toula
seal, upon which were engraved two flaming
hearts with a suitable inscription, she threw her-
self upon her bed just before daybreak, and dozed
off; but, even then, she was constantly being
awakened by terrible dreams. First, it seemed
to her that, at the very moment when she seated
herself in the sledge, in order to go and get mar-
ried, her father stopped her, dragged her over the
snow with fearful rapidity, and threw her into a
dark, bottomless abyss, down which she fell head-
long with an indescribable sinking of the heart.
Then she saw Vladimir lying on the grass, pale
and blood-stained. With his dying breath, he
implored her in a piercing voice to make haste and
marry him. Other wild and fantastic visions
floated before her, one after another. At last,
she arose, paler than usual, and with a genuine
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The Snowstorm
headache. Her father and mother observed her
uneasiness; their tender solicitude and incessant
inquiries, ‘‘ What is the matter with you, Masha?
Are you ill, Masha?”’ cut her to the heart. She
tried to reassure them and co appear cheerful;
but in vain.
The evening came. The thought that this
was the last day she would pass in the bosom of
her family weighed' upon her heart. She was
more dead than alive. In secret she took leave
of everybody, of all the objects that surrounded
her.
Supper was served; her heart began to beat
violently. In a trembling voice, she declared
that she did not want any supper, and then took
leave of her father and mother. They kissed
her and blessed heras usual, and she could hardly
restrain herself from weeping.
On reaching her own room, she threw herself
into a chair and burst into tears. Her maid
urged her to be calm and to take courage. Every-
thing was ready. In half an hour, Masha would
leave forever her parents’ house, her room, and
her peaceful girlish life.
Out in the courtyard, the snow was falling
heavily; the wind howled, the shutters shook and
rattled, and everything seemed to her to portend
misfortune.
Soon all was quiet in the house: every one was
asleep. Masha wrapped herself in a shawl, put
on a warm cloak, took her small box in her hand,
and went down the back ‘staircase. Her maid
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were beating their breasts like miserable sinners.
But these things did not interest me, who had
sins of my own to account for.
Soon I reached some who were running toward
the fountain. You should have heard their
groans. All recognised the comet, and I saw
that it had doubled in size.
The crowd stood in the dark, and wailed:
“Tt is all over! Oh, Lord, it is all over, and
we are lost!”’
And the women invoked St. Joseph, and St.
Christopher, and St. Nicholas—in short, all the
saints in the calendar.
At this moment, I passed in review all the
sins I had committed since coming to years of
discretion, and I felt horrified at myself. I
grew cold under my tongue, thinking that we
were all going to be burned up, and, as the old
beggar Balthazar was standing near me, leaning
on his crutch, I embraced him, saying,
“Balthazar, when you rest in Abraham’s
bosom, you will take pity on me, won’t you?”’
Then he replied, sobbing:
““T am a great sinner, Monsieur Christian.
These thirty years I have deceived the com-
munity from my love of idleness; for I am not
nearly so lame as I seem.”’
‘‘And I, Balthazar,’ lamented I, ‘‘I am the
greatest sinner in Hunebourg!”’
We wept on each other’s necks.
You see, that is how people will be at the
judgment; kings with boot-blacks, good citizens
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The Snowstorm
captain of police, a lad of sixteen years of age,
who had recently entered the lancers. They not
only accepted Vladimir’s proposal, but even
vowed that they were ready to sacrifice their
lives for him. Vladimir embraced them with
rapture, and returned home to get everything
ready.
It had been dark for some time. He des-
patched his faithful Tereshka to Nenaradova with
his sledge and with detailed instructions, and
ordered for himself the small sledge. with one
horse, and set out alone, without any coachman,
for Jadrino, where Maria Gavrilovna ought to
arrive in about a couple of hours. He knew the
road ‘well, and the journey would only occupy
about twenty minutes altogether.
But scarcely had Vladimir issued from the
paddock into the open field, when the wind rose,
and such a snowstorm came on that he could see
nothing. In one minute the road was com-
pletely hidden; all surrounding objects disap-
peared in a thick yellow fog, through which fell
the white flakes of snow; earth and sky became
confounded. Vladimir found himsclf in the mid-
dle of the field, and tried in vain to find the road
again. His horse went on at random, and at
every moment kept either stepping into a snow-
drift or stumbling into a hole, so that the sledge
was constantly being overturned. Vladimir
endeavoured not to lose the right direction. But
it seemed to him that more than half an hour had
already passed, and he had not yet reached the
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Masterpieces of Fiction
Jadrino wood. Another ten minutes elapsed—
still no wood was to be seen. Vladimir drove
across a field intersected by deep ditches. The
snowstorm did not abate; the sky did not
become any clearer. The horse began to grow
tired, and the perspiration rolled from him in
great drops, in spite of the fact that he was con-
stantly being half-buried in the snow.
At last, Vladimir perceived that he was going
in the wrong direction. He stopped, began to
think, to recollect, and compare, and he felt con-
vinced that he ought to have turned to the right.
He turned to the right now. His horse could
scarcely move forward. He had now been on
the road for more than an hour. Jadrino could
not be far off. But on and on he went, and still
no end'to the field—nothing but snowdrifts and
ditches. The sledge was constantly being over-
turned, and as constantly being set right again.
The time was passing: Vladimir began to grow
seriously uneasy.
At last, something dark appeared in the dis-
tance. Vladimir directed his course toward it.
On drawing near, he perceived that it was a
wood.
‘“Thank Heaven!” he thought, ‘‘I am not far
off now.”
He drove along by the edge of the wood, hoping
by-and-by to fall upon the well-known road or to
pass round the wood: Jadrino was situated just
behind it. He soon found the road, and plunged
into the darkness of the wood, now denuded of
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The Snowstorm
leaves by the winter. The wind could not rage
here; the road was smooth; the horse recovered
courage, and Vladimir felt reassured.
But he drove on and on, and Jadrino was not
to be seen; there was no end tothe wood. Vladi-
mir discovered with horror that he had entered
an unknown forest. Despair took possession of
him. He whipped the horse; the poor animal
broke into a trot, but it soon slackened its
pace, and in about a quarter of an hour it
was scarcely able to drag one leg after the other,
in spite of all the exertions of the unfortunate
Vladimir.
Gradually the trees began to’ get sparser, and
Viadimir emerged from the forest; but Jadrino
was not to be seen. It must now have been about
midnight. Tears gushed from his eyes; he drove
on at random. Meanwhile, the storm had sub-
sided, the clouds dispersed, and before him lay a
~ level plain covered with a white, undulating car-
pet. The night was tolerably clear. He saw,
not far off, a little village, consisting of four or
five houses. Vladimir drove towardit. At the first
cottage, he jumped out of the sledge, ran to the
window, and began to knock. After a few min-
utes the wooden shutter was raised and an old
man thrust out his grey beard.
‘“What do you want?”’
’ “Ts Jadrino far from here?”’
‘Is Jadrino far from here?”’
* Yesyeves!));Is.tsfar?’’
‘“‘Not far; about ten versts.”’
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At this reply, Vladimir grasped his hair, and:
stood motionless like a man condemned to death.
‘Where do you come from?”’ continued the old.
man.
Vladimir had not the courage to answer the
question.
‘“‘Listen, old man,” said he; ‘‘can you procure
me horses to take me to Jadrino?”’
‘‘How should we have such things as horses?’’
replied the peasant.
‘‘Can I obtain a guide? I will pay him what-
ever he pleases.”
‘*Wait,’’ said the old man, closing the shutter;
“‘T will send my son out to you; he will guide
yous wy}
<¢ Niadimir waited. But a minute had scarcely
* Alapsed when he began knocking again. The
shutter was raised, and the beard again appeared.
‘“What do you want?”’
‘“What about your son?”’
‘“‘He’ll be out presently; he is putting on his
boots. Are you cold? Comein and warm your-
Sel’ .
‘“‘Thank you; send your son out quickly.”
The door creaked: a lad came out with a cudgel
and went on in front, at one time pointing out the
road, at another searching for it man the
drifted snow.
‘“‘What is the time?” Vladimir ween him.
“It will soon be daylight,’ replied the young
peasant. Vladimir spoke not another word.
The cocks were crowing and it was already
a
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The Snowstorm
light when they reached Jadrino. The church
was closed. Vladimir paid the guide, and drove
into the priest’s courtyard. His sledge was not
there. What news awaited him!
But let us return to the worthy proprietors of
Nenaradova, and see what is happening there.
Nothing.
The old people awoke, and went into the
parlour, Gavril Gavrilovitch in a night-cap and
flannel doublet, Praskovia Petrovna in a wadded
dressing-gown. The tea-urn was brought in,
and Gavril Gavrilovitch sent a servant to ask
Maria Gavrilovna how she was and how she had
passed the night. The servant returned, saying
that the young lady had not slept very well, but
that she felt better now, and that she would come
down presently into the parlour. And, indeed,
the door opened, and Maria Gavrilovna entered
the room, and wished her father and mother
good morning.
‘“‘How is your head, Masha?” asked Gavril
‘Gavrilovitch.
““Better, papa,’’ replied Masha.
“Very likely you inhaled the fumes from the
‘charcoal yesterday,’ said Praskovia Petrovna.
“Very likely, mamma,” replied Masha.
The day passed happily enough, but in the
night Masha was taken ill. A doctor was sent
for from the town. He arrived in the evening,
and found the sick girl delirious. A violent fever
ensued, and for two weeks the poor patient
hovered on the brink of the grave.
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Nobody in the house knew anything about her
flight. The letters written by her the evening
before had been burnt; and her maid, dreading
the wrath of her master, had not whispered a
word about it to anybody. . The priest, the
retired cornet, the moustached surveyor, and the
little lancer were discreet, and not without reason.
Tereshka, the coachman, never uttered one word
too much about it, even when he was drunk.
Thus the secret was kept by more than half-a-
dozen conspirators.
But Maria Gavrilovna herself divulged her
secret during her delirious ravings. But her
words were so disconnected that her mother, who
never left her bedside, could understand from
them only that her daughter was deeply in love
with Vladimir Nikolaievitch, and that, probably,
love was the cause of her illness. She consulted
her husband and some of her neighbours, and at
last it was unanimously decided that such was
evidently Maria Gavrilovna’s fate, that a woman
cannot ride away from the man who is destined
to be her husband, that poverty is not a crime,
that one does not marry wealth, but a man, etc.
Moral proverbs are wonderfully useful in those
cases where we can invent little in our own justi-
fication.
In the meantime, the young lady began to
recover. Vladimir had not been seen for a long
time in the house of Gavril Gavrilovitch. He
was afraid of the usual reception. It was re-
solved to send and announce to him an unex-
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The Snowstorm
pected piece of good news: the consent of Maria’s
parents to his marriage with their daughter.
But what was the astonishment of the proprietor
of Nenaradova, when, in reply to their invitation,
they received from him a half-insane letter. He
informed them that he would never set foot in
their house again, and begged them to forget an
unhappy creature whose only hope was in death.
A few days afterward they heard that Vladimir
had joined the army again. This wasin the year
1812. é
For a long time, they did not dare to announce
this to Masha, who was now convalescent. She
never mentioned the name of Vladimir. Some
months afterward, finding his name in the list of
those who had distinguished themselves and been
severely wounded at Borodino, she fainted away,
and it was feared that she would have another
attack of fever. But, Heaven be thanked! the
fainting fit had no serious consequences.
-. Another misfortune fell upon her: Gavril
Gavrilovitch died, leaving her the heiress to all
his property. But the inheritance did not con-
sole her; she shared sincerely the grief of poor
Praskovia Petrovna, vowing that she would never
leave her. They both quitted Nenaradova, the
scene of so many sad recollections, and went to
live on another estate.
Suitors crowded round the young and wealthy
heiress, but she gave not the slightest hope to any
of them. Her mother sometimes exhorted her
to make a choice; but Maria Gavrilovna sheok
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her head, and became pensive. Vladimir no
longer existed: he had died in Moscow on the eve
of the entry of the French. His memory seemed
to be held sacred by Masha; at least, she treas-
ured up everything that could remind her of him
—books that he had once read, his drawings, his
notes and verses of poetry that he had cop‘ed out
for her. The neighbours, hearing of all this, were
astonished at her constancy, and awaited with
curiosity the hero who should at last triumph
over the melancholy fidelity of this virgin
Artemisia.
Meanwhile, the war had ended gloriously.
Our regiments returned from abroad, and the
people went out to meet them. The bands
played the conquering song, ‘‘Vive Henri-
Quatre,’ Tyrolese waltzes, and airs from ** Jo-
conde.’ Officers, who had set cut for the war
almost mere lads, returned grown men, with
martial air, and breasts decorated with crosses.
The soldiers chatted gayly among themselves,
constantly mingling French and German words
in their speech. Time never to be forgotten!
Time of glory and enthusiasm! How throbbed
the Russian heart at the word ‘‘Fatherland!”’
How sweet were the tears of meeting! With
what unanimity did we commingle feelings of
national pride with love for the Czar! And for
him—what a moment!
The women, the Russian women, were then
incomparable. Their usual coldness disappeared.
Their enthusiasm was truly intoxicating,
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The Cueeeeort
when, welcoming the conquerors, they cried
etiutranls
What officer of that time does not confess that,
to the Russian women, he was indebted for his
best and most precious reward?
At this brilliant period, Maria Gavrilovna was
living with her mother in the province of
and did not see how both capitals celebrated the
return of the troops. But, in the districts and
villages, the general enthusiasm was, if possible,
even still greater. The appearance of an officer
in those places was for him a veritable triumph,
and the lover in a plain coat felt very ill at ease
in his vicinity.
We have already said that, in spite of her cold-
ness, Maria Gavrilovna was, as before, surrounded
by suitors. But al] had to retire into the back-
ground when the wounded Colonel Bourmin of
the hussars, with the order of St. George in his
button-hole, and with an ‘‘interesting pallor,”
as the young ladies of the neighbourhood ob-
served, appeared at the castle. He was about
twenty-six years of age. He had obtained leave
of absence to visit his estate, which was con-
tiguous to that of Maria Gavrilovna. Maria
bestowed special attention upon him. In his
presence, her habitual pensiveness disappeared.
It cannot be said that she coquetted with him,
but a poet, observing her behaviour, would have
said:
‘Se amor non e, che dunque ?”’
Bourmin was indeed a very charming young
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Masterpieces of Fiction
man. He possessed that spirit which is emi-
nently pleasing to women: a spirit of decorum
and observation, without any pretensions, and
yet not without a slight tendency toward careless
satire. His behaviour toward Maria Gavrilovna
was simple and frank, but whatever she said or
did, his soul and eyes followed her. He seemed
to be of a quiet and modest disposition, though
report said that he had once been a terrible rake
but this did not injure him in the opinion of
Maria Gavrilovna, who—like all young ladies in
general—excused with pleasure follies that gave
indication of boldness and ardour of tempera-
ment. :
But more than everything else—more than his
tenderness, more than his agreeable conversation,
more than his interesting pallor, more than his
arm in a sling—the silence of the young hussar
excited her curiosity and imagination. She could
not but confess that he pleased her very much;
probably he, too, with his perception and experi-
ence, had already observed that she made a dis-
tinction between him’and others; how was it then
that she had not yet seen him at her feet or heard
his declaration? What restrained him? Was it
timidity, inseparable from true love, or pride, or
the coquetry of a crafty wooer? It was an
enigma to her. After long reflection, she came
to the conclusion that timidity alone was the
cause of it, and she resolved to encourage him by
greater attention and, if circumstances should
render it necessary, even by an exhibition of
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The Snowstorm
tenderness. She prepared a most unexpected
dénouement, and waited with impatience for the
moment of the romantic explanation A secret
of whatever nature it may be always presses
heavily upon the female heart. Her stratagem
had the desired success; at least, Bourmin fell
into such a reverie, and his black eyes rested with
such fire upon her, that the decisive moment
seemed close at hand. The neighbours spoke
about the marriage as if it were a matter already
decided upon, and good Praskovia Petrovna
rejoiced that her daughter had at last found a
lover worthy of her.
On one occasion, the old lady was sitting alone
in the parlour, amusing herself with a pack of
cards, when Bourmin entered the room, and
immediately inquired for Maria Gavrilovna.
‘She is in the garden,’’ replied the old lady;
‘*go out to her, and I will wait here for you.”
Bourmin went, and the old lady made the sign
of the cross and thought, ‘‘ Perhaps the business
will be settled to-day!”
Bourmin found Maria Gavrilovna near the
pond, under a willow tree, with a book in her
hands, and in white dress—a veritable heroine
of romance. After the first few questions and
observations, Maria Gavrilovna purposely al-
lowed the conversation to drop, thereby increas-
ing their mutual embarrassment, from which
there was no possible way of escape except only
by a sudden and decisive declaration.
And this is what happened: Bourmin, feeling
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Masterpieces of Fiction
the difficulty of his position, declared that he had
long sought for an opportunity to open his heart
to her, and requested a moment’s attention.
Maria Gavrilovna closed her book and cast
down her eyes, as a sign of compliance with his
request.
“‘T love you,” said Bourmin : ‘‘I love you
passionately.”
Maria Gavrilovna blushed, and lowered her
head still more. ‘‘I have acted imprudently in
accustoming myself to the sweet pleasure of
seeing and hearing you daily,’—Maria Gavrilovna
recalled to mind the first letter of St. Preux—
*‘but it is now too late to resist my fate; the
remembrance of you, your dear incomparable
{mage, will henceforth be the torment and the
consolation of my life, but there still remains a
grave duty for me to perform—to reveal to you
a terrible secret which will place between us an
insurmountable barrier.”’ -
‘“‘That barrier has always existed,’ inter-
rupted Maria Gavrilovna hastily: ‘‘I could never
be your wife.” .
“‘T know,” replied he calmly, ‘“‘I shite that
you once loved, but death and three years of
mourning Dear, kind Maria Gavrilovna,
do not try to deprive me of my last consolation:
the thought that you mere have consented to
make me happy if
‘‘Don’t speak, for Heaven’s sake, don’t speak.
You torture me.”’
“Yes, I know, I feel that you would have been
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mine, but—I am the most miserable creature
under the sun—I am already married!”’
Maria Gavrilovna looked at him in astonish-
ment.
*‘T am already married,” continued Bourmin;
‘‘IT have been married four years, but I do not
know who is my wife, or where she is, or whether
I shall ever see her again!”
‘What do you say?” exclaimed Maria Gavri-
lovna. ‘‘How very strange! Continue: I will
relate to you afterward But continue, I
beg of you.”
“At the beginning of the year 1812,” said
Bourmin, ‘‘I was hastening to Vilna, where my
regiment was stationed. Arriving late one eve-
ning at one of the post-stations, I ordered the
horses to be got ready as quickly as possible,
when suddenly a terrible snowstorm came on,
and the postmaster and drivers advised me to
wait till it had passed over. I followed their
advice, but an unaccountable uneasiness took
possession of me: it seemed as if some one were
pushing me forward. Meanwhile, the snow-
storm did not subside; I’could endure it no
longer, and again ordering out the horses, I
started off in the midst of the storm. The driver
conceived the idea of following the course of the
Tiver, which would shorten our journey by three
versts. The banks were covered with snow: the
driver drove past the place where we should
‘have come out upon the road, and so we found
ourselves in an unknown part of the country.
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Masterpieces of Fiction
The storm did not cease; I saw a light in the dis-
tance, and I ordered the driver to proceed toward
it. We reached a village; in the wooden church,
there was a light. The church was apen. Out-
side the railings stood several siedges, and people
were passing in and out through the porch.
‘“*This way! this way!’ cried several voices.
‘I ordered the driver to proceed.
““In the name of Heaven, where have you
been loitering?’ said somebody to me. ‘The |
bride has fainted away; the pope does not know
what to do, and we were just getting ready to go
back. Get out as quickly as you can.’
‘“‘T got out of the sledge without saying a word,
and went into the church, which was feebly lit up
by two or three tapers. A young girl was sitting
on a bench in a dark corner of the church; an-
other girl was rubbing her temples.
‘“*“Thank God!’ said the latter, ‘you have come
at last. You have almost killed the young lady.’
‘‘The old priest advanced toward me, and said,
***Do you wish me to begin?’ :
“Begin, begin, father,’ replied I, absently.
‘“The young girl was raised up. She seemed
to me not at all bad-looking. Impelled by an
incomprehensible, unpardonable levity, I placed
myself by her side in front of the pulpit; the
priest hurried on; three men and a chambermaid
supported the bride, and occupied themselves
only with her. We were married.
‘“ Kiss each other!’ said the witness to us.
“‘My wife turned her pale face toward me. I!
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The Snowstorm
was about to kiss her, when she exclaimed: ‘Oh!
it is not he! it is not he!’ and fell senseless.
‘“‘The witnesses gazed at meinalarm. I turned
round, and left the church without the least hin-
drance, flung myself into the kzbitka, and cried,
‘Drive off!’ ”’ |
‘““My God!” exclaimed Maria Gavrilovna.
*‘And you do not know what became of your poor
wife ?”’
“T do not know,” replied Bourmin; ‘‘neither
do I know the name of the village where I was
married, nor the post-station where I set out
from. At that time; I attached so little impor-
tance to my wicked prank that, on leaving the
church, I fell asleep, and did not awake till the
next morning, after reaching the third station.
The servant who was then with me died during
the campaign, so that I have no hope of ever
discovering the woman upon whom I played such
a cruel joke, and who is now so cruelly avenged.”’
““My God! my God!”’ cried Maria Gavrilovna,
seizing him by the hand: ‘‘then it was you!
And you do not recognise me?”
Bourmin turned pale—and threw himself at
her feet.
eB
COUNTRY LIFE PRESS
GARDEN CITY, N.Y.
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