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SAFFORD</div> +<div class="docImprint">F. TENNYSON NEELY<br> +PUBLISHER<br> +<span class="sc">114 Fifth Avenue, New York</span><br> +1896</div> +</div> +<p></p> +<div class="div1 copyright"><span class="pageNum">[<a title="Go to the table of contents" href="#toc">Contents</a>]</span><div class="divBody"> +<p class="first center small"><span class="sc">Copyright, 1896<br> +By F. Tennyson Neely</span> +<span class="pageNum" id="pb3">[<a href="#pb3">iii</a>]</span></p> +</div> +</div> +<div id="toc" class="div1 last-child contents"><span class="pageNum">[<a title="Go to the table of contents" href="#toc">Contents</a>]</span><div class="divHead"> +<h2 class="main">INDEX TO STORIES.</h2> +<table class="tocList"> +<tr> +<td class="tocDivNum"></td> +<td class="tocDivTitle"> </td> +<td class="tocPageNum xs">PAGE</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tocDivNum"></td> +<td class="tocDivTitle"><a href="#s1" id="xd33e157">CANT AND HUMBUG</a>. A story of English selfishness and American thriftiness. </td> +<td class="tocPageNum">5</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tocDivNum"></td> +<td class="tocDivTitle"><a href="#s2" id="xd33e163">WIFE <span class="asc">VERSUS</span> NATIVE LAND</a>. This story shows how a man may quit smoking for spite, but not for love. </td> +<td class="tocPageNum">38</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tocDivNum"></td> +<td class="tocDivTitle"><a href="#s3.1" id="xd33e172">ALI HADJI EFFENDI</a>. The adventures of a wandering fanatic of Islam. </td> +<td class="tocPageNum">59</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tocDivNum"></td> +<td class="tocDivTitle"><a href="#s3.2" id="xd33e178">THE CROSS AT THE CORNER</a>. A story of the religious devotion of an aged Hungarian. </td> +<td class="tocPageNum">80</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tocDivNum"></td> +<td class="tocDivTitle"><a href="#s3.3" id="xd33e184">THE ALTAR PAINTING</a>. The love tragedy of an Italian artist. </td> +<td class="tocPageNum">100</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tocDivNum"></td> +<td class="tocDivTitle"><a href="#s4" id="xd33e190">A CHRISTMAS EVE IN PARIS</a>. A pathetic incident of suffering in the Franco-Prussian War, during the siege of +Paris. <span class="pageNum" id="pb4">[<a href="#pb4">iv</a>]</span></td> +<td class="tocPageNum">120</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tocDivNum"></td> +<td class="tocDivTitle"><a href="#s5" id="xd33e197">THE STEPMOTHER</a>. An ingenious discussion of that much-abused matron. </td> +<td class="tocPageNum">139</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tocDivNum"></td> +<td class="tocDivTitle"><a href="#s6" id="xd33e203">PAS DE CHANCE (No Chance)</a>. The story of a girl found in a morgue. </td> +<td class="tocPageNum">158</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tocDivNum"></td> +<td class="tocDivTitle"><a href="#s7" id="xd33e209">HOW THE FOX HUNTER FARED IN ENGLAND</a>. A tragic and humorous <i>denouement</i>, turning upon the Englishman’s code of fox hunting. </td> +<td class="tocPageNum">186</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tocDivNum"></td> +<td class="tocDivTitle"><a href="#s8" id="xd33e217">WITHIN AN INCH OF ETERNITY</a>. This relates how a prison physician’s hair turned white in a night, from horror +inflicted on him by two escaped prisoners. </td> +<td class="tocPageNum">213</td> +</tr> +</table> +<p><span class="pageNum" id="pb5">[<a href="#pb5">5</a>]</span></p> +</div> +</div> +</div> +<div class="body"> +<div id="s1" class="div1 story"><span class="pageNum">[<a title="Go to the table of contents" href="#xd33e157">Contents</a>]</span><div class="divHead"> +<h2 class="main">CANT AND HUMBUG.</h2> +</div> +<div class="divBody"> +<p class="first">Our train had pulled out of Ostend a few minutes before. The carriage in which I had +my seat contained its regular complement of six passengers, all of whom, with the +exception of myself, belonged to the Anglo-Saxon race. We had scarcely left the station +when tongues were loosed, and an animated general conversation began, which enabled +me to recognize my companions by their shrill, loud tones and somewhat <span class="pageNum" id="pb6">[<a href="#pb6">6</a>]</span>nasal accents, as Americans. The only person who took no share in the talk was a portly +gentleman dressed in a traveling suit of conspicuous style, who had placed his numerous +articles of baggage in the net with small regard for the effects of his fellow mortals, +then settled himself comfortably in a corner by the window and, after a swift, searching +glance at the other inmates of the railway carriage, began to scan the somewhat monotonous +landscape. Remarks which were indirectly addressed to him were so utterly ignored +that it would have been supposed he did not understand English, had he not said—when +one of the Americans was preparing to light a <span class="pageNum" id="pb7">[<a href="#pb7">7</a>]</span>cigar—in unmistakable English and very emphatically: +</p> +<p>“I object to your smoking, sir; I am not aware that this is a smoking carriage.” +</p> +<p>The Englishman’s bluntness and reserve evidently did not suit the taste of the Americans, +for they began to exchange pointed remarks about the inhospitable social customs of +the “Britishers,” their awkwardness in their intercourse with others, and their punctilious +formality in social, political and religious matters, of which, however, the Englishman +took no more notice than he had formerly done of the indirect attempts to draw him +into the conversation. +</p> +<p>“I heard a story in London <span class="pageNum" id="pb8">[<a href="#pb8">8</a>]</span>which describes the Britisher better than a whole library could do,” exclaimed one +of the Yankees who had been among the loudest talkers. +</p> +<p>“Out with it! Hear! Hear!” cried the others in chorus, casting scornful glances at +the Englishman. The latter did not appear to notice it, he was gazing very intently +at a windmill, whose bizarre outline was relieved against the horizon. +</p> +<p>“I must premise that the story is true, and that I met one of the heroes only yesterday +evening in London—my friend, Mr. Brown, from whom I had it. This Mr. Brown was obliged, +two years ago, to take a business journey to <span class="sic">Chili</span>. He secured passage on <span class="pageNum" id="pb9">[<a href="#pb9">9</a>]</span>one of the boats of the Pacific Steam Navigation Co., and arrived without incident +at Montevideo, where several more passengers came on board. Beyond Punta Arenas a +terrible storm suddenly burst upon them, which first broke the helm, then swept the +smokestack from the deck, and finally shattered the screw. The vessel was now a total +wreck, the sport of the wind and waves, and, after drifting aimlessly in the storm +for several hours, it was at last flung upon a reef, where it stuck fast. The captain, +who had not lost his calmness and presence of mind for a moment, ordered the lifeboats +to be lowered, and remained on board until the last <span class="pageNum" id="pb10">[<a href="#pb10">10</a>]</span>passenger and the last sailor had left the ship. The boats vainly endeavored to make +their way through the surges thundering upon the reef. One after another was caught +beneath the combing surf and overturned, a cry of despair was heard above the howling +of the tempest, then the boat, keel uppermost, drifted in one direction, while in +another faces distorted by fear and hands clenched convulsively appeared above the +foam-flecked water only to vanish speedily. The boat Mr. Brown entered shared the +fate of the rest, but when it upset<span id="xd33e247">,</span> my friend and another passenger clung to the edge and, with tremendous effort, climbed +up so that they sat astride of the sharp <span class="pageNum" id="pb11">[<a href="#pb11">11</a>]</span>keel. In this horrible situation, one behind the other, they remained for several +hours till the waves, whose violence had now somewhat subsided, at last flung them +on the flat, sandy shore of a small island. The immediate peril of death was now over, +but Mr. Brown considered his situation a very melancholy one. He had no taste for +literary renown, and did not find the slightest consolation for the financial loss +which he must inevitably meet if he did not reach Valparaiso at a certain time, in +the thought that he would eventually be celebrated as another Robinson Crusoe. However, +he tried to accommodate himself to the situation as well as he could. After resting +<span class="pageNum" id="pb12">[<a href="#pb12">12</a>]</span>a short time and drying his clothes in the sun, he went on an investigating tour through +the island, which was not more than a league in circumference. He discovered without +difficulty that it was uninhabited, but contained a sufficient quantity of fruit trees, +birds’ nests, shells, springs and caves to sustain the life of a shipwrecked person. +So he immediately prepared a sort of nest for himself of moss and leaves at the foot +of a large tree, and calmly accommodated himself to the necessity of living here until +some lucky accident should deliver him from his unpleasant position. His companion +in misfortune had pursued precisely the same course as Mr. Brown. He, <span class="pageNum" id="pb13">[<a href="#pb13">13</a>]</span>too, after a tour of investigation had found a tolerably habitable grotto, in which +he made himself at home.” +</p> +<p>“But it would have been far more natural for them to live together,” remarked one +of the listeners. +</p> +<p>“It’s evident, Brother Josh, that you have lived in Europe only a week and don’t understand +English customs. How could Mr. Brown speak to the other shipwrecked passenger, associate +with him, or live in the same cave, when they had not been introduced to each other?” +</p> +<p>The Americans laughed, while the Englishman appeared to be more than ever absorbed +in gazing at the landscape. +<span class="pageNum" id="pb14">[<a href="#pb14">14</a>]</span></p> +<p>“Several weeks,” the speaker continued, “elapsed in cheerless monotony. Every morning +the two shipwrecked men left their beds of moss and washed at the only large spring +in the island, during which they looked coldly at each other, then they went in search +of a few eggs, shells and roots for breakfast, after which, of course, without taking +the slightest notice of each other, they met on the narrow top of a high rock which +projected into the sea and sat there silently for hours, scanning the horizon with +anxious eyes, always hoping to discover a distant sail. For a long time this hope +was unfulfilled. At last, after they had spent nearly two months and a half on the +island, Mr. <span class="pageNum" id="pb15">[<a href="#pb15">15</a>]</span>Brown had scarcely stationed himself at his usual post of observation when he thought +he saw, at the farthest verge of the horizon, a dark, moving spot. Starting up, as +if he had received an electric shock, he shaded his eyes with his hand and gazed until +he could no longer doubt that what he beheld was the trail of smoke from a steamer. +His companion, whose attention had been attracted by Mr. Brown’s vehement movements, +followed the direction of his eyes, and a faint ‘Oh!’ which he suddenly uttered revealed +that he, too, had discovered the ship. Both now transformed all their garments, coats, +vests, shirts, flannel jackets, into flags, which they waved frantically with both +hands. <span class="pageNum" id="pb16">[<a href="#pb16">16</a>]</span>But it needed no special exertions to bring the steamer which was in sight to the +island. As they learned afterward, some of the men shipwrecked on their own vessel +had succeeded in righting one of the overturned boats, getting into it, and, after +unspeakable hardships, reaching the mainland, where they brought tidings of the catastrophe. +A ship was sent to the scene of the disaster as quickly as possible to search for +any survivors of the wreck, and it was this vessel which Mr. Brown and his companion +had discovered on the morning described. After two hours of excitement and anxiety, +the rescuing steamer came so near that a boat put off for the two involuntary <span class="pageNum" id="pb17">[<a href="#pb17">17</a>]</span>islanders. They rushed down to the flat, sandy tongue of land where the boat had touched, +and a few minutes later, comfortably seated in it, were on their way to the steamer. +The captain stood near the man-rope, waiting for them, greeted them with a silent +bow and a clasp of the hand, and requested them to accompany him to his cabin. Here +he placed a register before them and asked them to write their names and residences. +The stranger who had been Mr. Brown’s companion on the island was the first to comply +with the request, as he happened to be standing nearer to the table. After making +the desired entries he yielded the pen to my friend Brown, who, before beginning to +<span class="pageNum" id="pb18">[<a href="#pb18">18</a>]</span>write himself, glanced mechanically at the lines which had just been inscribed in +the book. Scarcely had he read them when a strange emotion suddenly overpowered him. +‘Mr. William Lloyd Jones, Valparaiso!’ he exclaimed aloud in a tremulous voice, then, +turning to the gentleman who stood beside him, he added: ‘Are you Mr. W. L. Jones?’ +‘Yes,’ replied the other curtly, looking at him with surprise and disapproval. ‘Oh, +in that case,’—and Mr. Brown thrust his hand into the breast pocket of his coat, whence +he drew out a letter,—‘in that case I have a letter of introduction to you from our +mutual friend, Mr. Smith, in London.’ While speaking, Mr. Brown handed Mr. Jones his +‘introduction,’ <span class="pageNum" id="pb19">[<a href="#pb19">19</a>]</span>whose address, it is true, was somewhat effaced by the sea-water, but was still perfectly +legible. Mr. Jones methodically unfolded the paper, read it through attentively, and +when he had reached his friend Smith’s signature his hitherto stern face suddenly +brightened, he turned to Brown with overwhelming cordiality, shook him vigorously +by both hands, and exclaimed again and again: ‘Very happy to make your acquaintance, +really very happy!’ Brown struck himself on the forehead: ‘To think that I could not +give you my introduction on the island!’ ‘It is a pity, certainly,’ observed Jones; +‘we might have spent some very pleasant hours together.’ The captain—also an <span class="pageNum" id="pb20">[<a href="#pb20">20</a>]</span>Englishman—who had listened all the time in silence, guessed the connection of affairs +without difficulty, and, after this little scene, was perfectly convinced that he +was dealing with thorough gentlemen. Brown and Jones became the best possible friends, +and even now, though one is living in London and the other in Valparaiso, maintain +a very active correspondence.” +</p> +<p>During the last few sentences of the story the American listeners gave way to noisy +mirth, which lasted several minutes after the speaker stopped. When the outburst of +hilarity was at last followed by silence, we saw the Englishman—who until then had +sat in his corner with an expression <span class="pageNum" id="pb21">[<a href="#pb21">21</a>]</span>of the utmost indifference on his immovable face—suddenly smile and bow slightly to +the narrator of the anecdote. “Sir,” he said, “you have told a very interesting story, +and I congratulate you upon your acquaintance with the admirable Mr. Brown. But perhaps +you will now permit me also to relate an anecdote which, though less entertaining, +is also true, and whose scene is the United States.” +</p> +<p>Another “Hear! Hear!” even more eager than the former one, echoed from all sides, +and the Englishman began: +</p> +<p>“The French captain of cuirassiers, Monsieur Durand, one of my most intimate friends +in Paris, was sent to America by <span class="pageNum" id="pb22">[<a href="#pb22">22</a>]</span>his government during the last war between France and Germany, to buy horses for the +army. Late in October in the year 1870 he found himself in a little town in Texas, +which was famed only for a roughly built, very spacious circus, where, shortly before, +Mexican bull-fighters had given several performances. Monsieur Durand, who had arrived +in the afternoon and gone to the only hotel in the place, was sitting in the drawing-room +that evening before an open fire which was extremely comfortable, and had beside him +a little table holding a bottle of claret and a glass. As he stretched out his limbs, +wearied by the long railway journey, and gazed thoughtfully into <span class="pageNum" id="pb23">[<a href="#pb23">23</a>]</span>the fire, the door opened and a second guest entered the room. This was Mr. Jonathan +Oilking, one of the most prominent personages in the place, a man who had the reputation +of possessing great wealth and rare urbanity. Oilking, without a word of greeting, +or even touching his soft, broad-brimmed felt hat, went straight to the fireside, +pushed the chair occupied by the captain a little aside, and, leaning against the +mantelpiece with his back to the fire, directly opposite to Durand, stared him directly +in the face. +</p> +<p>“The Frenchman was strongly tempted to spring at the newcomer’s throat, but thought, +‘custom of the country,’ and contented <span class="pageNum" id="pb24">[<a href="#pb24">24</a>]</span>himself with shrugging his shoulders and gazing at the ceiling instead of the flames. +Oilking warmed himself for some time with great satisfaction, and then perceived the +wine standing on the little table beside the captain. With the greatest composure +he seized the bottle, filled a glass from it, and emptied it at a single gulp, after +which he replaced it, smacking his lips. Durand’s blood boiled, but he still controlled +himself and continued to scan the ceiling and walls with increased attention. Oilking +now remained motionless for a time, and only occasional expectorations, which he performed +noisily, always aiming at a certain point, which he hit with great <span class="pageNum" id="pb25">[<a href="#pb25">25</a>]</span>accuracy, proved that life existed in his long, thin body. At last he interrupted +the silence by turning to Durand, with the question, ‘Stranger, are you the French +officer who has come here to buy horses?’ The Frenchman pretended not to hear and +gazed through the window at the woodland landscape outside. Oilking laid his hand +on the captain’s shoulder, repeating his question. But the measure was now full to +overflowing. Starting up, he roared, in very doubtful English, ‘You are a boor, do +you understand me?’ Jonathan straightened himself and answered gently: ‘Stranger, +don’t repeat that, or I shall throw you out of the window.’ ‘You must <span class="pageNum" id="pb26">[<a href="#pb26">26</a>]</span>answer to me for this,’ raved Durand, ‘you shall give me satisfaction for all the +impertinences which you have already committed this evening.’ ‘If that’s all,’ observed +Oilking, still very calmly, ‘you can be accommodated at once. Here is a bowie knife +and here is a revolver’—he drew both articles from his belt as he spoke—‘if you also +have weapons at hand, I’ll leave the choice to you whether I shall make a buttonhole +in your skin or rip a seam in your body. The room is convenient, there is nothing +to prevent our settling the matter at once.’ Durand had become somewhat calmer and +said to Oilking: ‘It is not the custom in my country for people to kill <span class="pageNum" id="pb27">[<a href="#pb27">27</a>]</span>themselves in closed rooms without witnesses. I will try to find two seconds and send +them to you. They will arrange the conditions of the duel with you, and when that +is done you will find me at your disposal.’ With these words he left the room and +went directly to the landlord, to whom he related what had happened and proposed that +he should act as a witness and provide another second. The landlord said that witnesses +were a superfluous luxury in a duel; but if the captain insisted upon his wish he +would willingly serve him; the head-waiter could act as a second witness; he would +merely add five dollars to the bill for this extra. Durand, who had already become +<span class="pageNum" id="pb28">[<a href="#pb28">28</a>]</span>somewhat accustomed to American peculiarities, took no offense at this latter remark +of the landlord, but requested him to go with the waiter at once to Oilking and settle +the affair with him. Returning to his room, Durand awaited the result of the interview. +At the end of an hour the landlord returned, and hastily informed him that the duel +could not take place until the morning of the day after to-morrow<span id="xd33e301">;</span> the weapon which Oilking, as the challenged party, had chosen was the revolver; as +to the place, he, the landlord, would conduct Mr. Durand to it at the proper time. +He had scarcely uttered the last word of his hastily delivered message when <span class="pageNum" id="pb29">[<a href="#pb29">29</a>]</span>he, too, vanished without awaiting an answer from the captain. +</p> +<p>“Durand went quietly to rest and slept well all night. The next day he spent in his +room, wrote letters to his relatives and friends in France and directions concerning +his wishes in case he should be killed or severely wounded. Toward noon he wanted +to speak to the landlord, but the latter could not be found; the captain was told +that his second had left town the evening before and would not return until that evening. +About twilight he did appear, and with him a number of guests, who filled the hotel +from attic to cellar with noisy life. The streets which, hitherto, had been very <span class="pageNum" id="pb30">[<a href="#pb30">30</a>]</span>quiet, were now full of bustle, and our captain, who did not sleep as well as on the +preceding night, could hear the rattle of wheels, the sound of horses’ hoofs, and +loud voices from the street beneath. +</p> +<p>“At last the fateful morning dawned. Durand dressed carefully and awaited what was +to come. Toward nine o’clock the landlord and head-waiter entered unceremoniously, +asking, ‘Are you ready, Captain?’. ‘Yes.’ ‘Then come.’ Both led the way at a rapid +pace, he followed. They took him through the principal street and several side ones +to a large open square, in whose center stood the circus building previously mentioned. +The second <span class="pageNum" id="pb31">[<a href="#pb31">31</a>]</span>went to a little door, opened it, and entered a dark, narrow passage, into which Durand +followed them with some little hesitation. They evidently noticed his reluctance, +for they seized the astonished captain by the arms, hurried him swiftly along for +several paces, opened another little door, and ere the captain could prevent it they +were standing in the ring of the circus, which was packed from top to bottom with +a crowd numbering many hundreds of human beings, who, at the appearance of Durand +and his seconds, burst into a thunder of applause and exultant cheers. +</p> +<p>“Durand stood as if a thunderbolt had struck him, not <span class="pageNum" id="pb32">[<a href="#pb32">32</a>]</span>knowing what to make of all this. ‘What does this ridiculous farce mean?’ he stammered, +turning to the landlord; but the latter did not hear, he was motioning with both hands +to the spectators to keep silence and, when the tumult had partly subsided, he shouted +with all the strength of his lungs: ‘Gentlemen, I have the honor to introduce the +brave and famous French captain of cuirassiers, Monsieur Durand, the sole survivor +of the glorious cuirassier charge at Reichshoffen. He will have the honor of exchanging +shots in your presence with an esteemed citizen of this town, Mr. Jonathan Oilking.’ +Again the audience began to applaud and cheer and, at the same <span class="pageNum" id="pb33">[<a href="#pb33">33</a>]</span>moment, a little door opposite to the one through which Durand had entered, opened, +and in came Jonathan in a fantastic Indian costume, accompanied by two friends. +</p> +<p>“Durand now guessed what was in store. Half stifled with rage and excitement, he dealt +the landlord, who was standing by his side, a violent blow in the breast and darted +with the speed of lightning to the little door, through which, an instant after, he +vanished. +</p> +<p>“You can guess, gentlemen, what had happened. The appearance of the landlord whom +Durand sent to him gave Oilking a brilliant idea. He agreed with him to make the duel +a business <span class="pageNum" id="pb34">[<a href="#pb34">34</a>]</span>matter. That very evening they sent several workmen to the circus, who, by torchlight, +repaired the somewhat dilapidated building and mended the rows of seats. They themselves +went at once to the neighboring town, called Rome or Paris, I don’t remember which, +ordered placards to be printed, in which the public was offered on the following day, +for a payment of two dollars, the spectacle of a public duel ‘with the brave and famous +Captain Durand, of Paris, the sole survivor of the charge of the cuirassiers at Reichshoffen,’ +inserted advertisements in the two local papers, induced one to publish a leading +article upon the battle of Reichshoffen, the other an account of the heroic <span class="pageNum" id="pb35">[<a href="#pb35">35</a>]</span>deeds of Captain Durand in this battle, personally diffused the expectation that Durand +would appear in the uniform worn on the day of Reichshoffen, and by all these expedients +achieved so great a success that in the evening a special train left Rome—or Paris—to +convey the curious spectators, and the next morning, an hour before the time appointed +on the placards, every seat in the circus was sold at two dollars. +</p> +<p>“Durand made his way out of the place as speedily as possible, and after this adventure +gave up his plan of buying horses in Texas. As for Oilking and the landlord, they +had some very unpleasant minutes to experience after Durand’s departure from the <span class="pageNum" id="pb36">[<a href="#pb36">36</a>]</span>ring. Part of the audience laughed, others grumbled, some demanded the return of their +money, others wanted to have a duel at any rate, and said that they would be satisfied +with one between the landlord and Oilking; in short, there was a great uproar, and +I have been told that the special correspondents who had hastened here from the neighboring +cities did not return without having to report the exchange of several bullets and +blows.” +</p> +<p>The Englishman paused. At the same moment the train stopped and the guard shouted +loudly: “Brussels!” The Americans, who had listened to the speaker with great amusement, +left the carriage, <span class="pageNum" id="pb37">[<a href="#pb37">37</a>]</span>but not without first shaking hands with the Englishman, exclaiming merrily: “Well +parried, Cousin Britisher!” +<span class="pageNum" id="pb38">[<a href="#pb38">38</a>]</span></p> +</div> +</div> +<div id="s2" class="div1 story"><span class="pageNum">[<a title="Go to the table of contents" href="#xd33e163">Contents</a>]</span><div class="divHead"> +<h2 class="main">WIFE VERSUS NATIVE LAND.</h2> +<h2 class="sub">A STORY FOR SMOKERS.</h2> +</div> +<div class="divBody"> +<p class="first">The L. drawing-room is not large, but it is uncommonly pleasant. The tastefully furnished +apartment, heated by a tall white porcelain stove, is very comfortable. A pretty hanging +lamp of antique form diffuses a subdued light, which is far more adapted to promote +innocent chat than a strong, brilliant illumination. +</p> +<p>Eight or ten of us formed a merry party in this drawing-room, <span class="pageNum" id="pb39">[<a href="#pb39">39</a>]</span>as we leaned comfortably back in the velvet armchairs, while tea, in Chinese cups, +sent forth its fragrance before us. The round table consisted principally of ladies, +and the time was just after the first fashionable balls, yet our conversation did +not turn upon the carnival and its pleasures. It is almost incredible that a tea party +in the carnival season could occupy itself with so abstract a question, but we were +actually discussing which would probably be the stronger, love or patriotism? Since +there was not a single blue-stocking in the group, it is still perfectly incomprehensible +how we could have reached this serious subject; but the fact is that, without perceiving +how the <span class="pageNum" id="pb40">[<a href="#pb40">40</a>]</span>topic came on the carpet, we suddenly found ourselves in the midst of the most animated +interchange of thought. +</p> +<p>Opinions were greatly divided. Some ascribed larger powers and more mighty influence +over the human mind to patriotism, others to love. +</p> +<p>“Oh,” murmured a slender girl with fair hair and pale blue eyes, the happy bride of +a fortnight, “I am firmly convinced that love is a stronger feeling than patriotism, +nay, that no other can equal it in might. How many more human beings love has inspired +to heroic deeds, nay, to self-sacrifice, than patriotism!” While thus declaiming in +a sentimental tone, she cast at her husband, who <span class="pageNum" id="pb41">[<a href="#pb41">41</a>]</span>was sitting by her side, a tender, languishing glance, which was probably intended +to be an eloquent commentary on her words. +</p> +<p>The enviable bridegroom did not entirely agree with the being of his choice, but thought +that in youth love, in mature years, on the contrary, patriotism would exert the greater +power. +</p> +<p>“As for me,” quoth the doctor, a somewhat pedantic man, who, even at tea parties, +can neither think nor speak except according to Aristotelian categories, “I think +that here national and race characteristics have the strongest influence. The cold +Northerner can be roused to more intense enthusiasm by the abstract idea of the native +land <span class="pageNum" id="pb42">[<a href="#pb42">42</a>]</span>than the hot-blooded Southron, who would be fired more speedily by a creature of flesh +and blood. The German stock of the Swiss Alemanni could produce a Winkelried, but +the Indian who, for love of the invalid daughter of the Spanish governor, betrayed +the secret of the chinchona tree, known only to the native, and thereby broke the +power of the fever, which was on the point of ridding America of the foreign oppressor, +was a Southerner, and more accessible to the suggestions of love than to those of +patriotism. A Swede or an Englishman may be able to sacrifice more for his native +land than for the woman whom he loves, but I doubt if this is <span class="pageNum" id="pb43">[<a href="#pb43">43</a>]</span>true of a Spaniard or an Italian.” +</p> +<p>The most noticeable woman in our circle was Frau von G. She was a somewhat stout but +remarkably well-preserved person, whose forty years would scarcely be noticed even +by an eye which did not look through the glasses of gallantry. Shining black hair +framed a face of noble mould; sparkling black eyes, a classically moulded nose, a +delicately curved upper lip, slightly shaded by an almost imperceptible velvety down, +and a full, firm, round chin, combined with a delicate brunette complexion to produce +a countenance whose Southern type was unmistakable. Had not her appearance and manner +betrayed it, <span class="pageNum" id="pb44">[<a href="#pb44">44</a>]</span>her accent would have revealed that she was a foreigner. +</p> +<p>Frau von G. had listened silently and attentively, but the doctor’s last remark called +a smile to her lips, and induced her to mingle in the conversation. +</p> +<p>“I cannot fully assent to what you have just said of the Spaniards and Italians, Doctor,” +she remarked. “If you will allow me, I’ll relate a little episode from my own life +which will prove that, under certain circumstances, patriotism can influence even +an Italian more powerfully than love.” +</p> +<p>The interest with which every face turned toward the fair speaker contained the most +flattering invitation to tell her story. +<span class="pageNum" id="pb45">[<a href="#pb45">45</a>]</span></p> +<p>“You know that I am a native of Milan, and did not leave my birthplace until ten years +ago, when my husband’s business summoned him here. I was a girl of eighteen when the +insurrection in Lombardy was quelled. Marshal Radetzky entered Milan at the head of +a victorious army, the ‘sword of Italy’ was broken, and every patriot, with bleeding +heart, was forced to renounce the hopes which he had seen on the verge of realization. +Oh, you who have not experienced those days can have no idea of their sorrow and discouragement. +The state of siege, to which city and country were condemned, exerted a disturbing +influence upon every detail of our daily lives. We <span class="pageNum" id="pb46">[<a href="#pb46">46</a>]</span>avoided the Scala, for there we beheld the hateful spectacle of two soldiers, standing +with their guns in the proscenium at the right and left of the stage, and constantly +reminding us of the humiliation and misfortune of our native land; we omitted our +usual walks on the Corso, for there we were continually insulted by Austrian officers. +Every family was restricted to its own circle. We lived within our own four walls, +and you can scarcely imagine how much weariness and melancholy this means to us Italians. +</p> +<p>“During this terrible period I made the acquaintance of Albert v. G., who afterwards +became my husband. He was my brother’s classmate at college, and afterward, <span class="pageNum" id="pb47">[<a href="#pb47">47</a>]</span>like him, became an engineer. Albert was handsome and agreeable, and his visits were +doubly welcome in that dull, wearisome time. That I was not indifferent to him, I +soon discovered. At first he came with my brother, and left the house with him. Later +he came alone, but soon went away if he was not at home. Finally, he became our daily +guest, and as my parents, too, did not object to his visits, he remained longer and +longer with me, and at last entertained me for hours with his clever, pleasant chat. +</p> +<p>“We were very well acquainted and already on familiar terms, when one day—he had been +sitting all the morning reading aloud <span class="pageNum" id="pb48">[<a href="#pb48">48</a>]</span>to me—he suddenly asked permission to light a cigar. +</p> +<p>“ ‘What,’ I exclaimed, almost terrified, ‘are you a smoker, Albert?’ +</p> +<p>“You must know that at that time I had a great aversion to men who smoked. I could +not praise my brother enough for not having acquired the unpleasant habit, and declared +a hundred times that I would rather endure anything than to kiss a man who sullied +his lips with the disagreeable weed. +</p> +<p>“Until then I had not known that Albert was a smoker, for, of course, there was no +smoking in my drawing-room, and I had no opportunity to discover his vice elsewhere. +<span class="pageNum" id="pb49">[<a href="#pb49">49</a>]</span></p> +<p>“The vehemence of my question confused him. +</p> +<p>“ ‘Yes, I smoke,’ he answered hesitatingly, ‘but what is there extraordinary about +that?’ +</p> +<p>“ ‘True,’ I cried, ‘unfortunately there is nothing extraordinary about it, but I will +tell you this that I will never marry a man who takes a cigar into his mouth. I cannot +endure such a person, he is utterly detestable in my eyes.’ +</p> +<p>“Albert looked at me in surprise, but said nothing and merely slipped the cigar he +had already taken out back into his pocket. Then he remained with me a short time +in a depressed, silent mood, and soon took his leave. +</p> +<p>“The next day he came again and tried to assume a cheerful, <span class="pageNum" id="pb50">[<a href="#pb50">50</a>]</span>unembarrassed manner. Without any introduction he seized the first opportunity to +turn the conversation upon smoking, and said jestingly that yesterday he had been +fairly frightened out of his wits, probably I did not mean what I said so seriously, +he hoped I should become accustomed to his habit, etc. But I understood no jesting +on this subject, and again, with the utmost earnestness, protested that I could not +endure a man who smoked and never would accustom myself to the habit. On the contrary, +I expected that a man who loved me would make the sacrifice of renouncing the unpleasant +vice. +</p> +<p>“My avowal threw Albert into <span class="pageNum" id="pb51">[<a href="#pb51">51</a>]</span>a state of melancholy, which would now seem to me very comical, but then grieved me +to the heart. He was very sorrowful, and left me with the air of a most miserable +man. From that time his cheerfulness deserted him, he sighed constantly in the most +heartrending manner, and his eyes always had a sorrowful expression. This mood lasted +about a week and caused me much suffering, but I could not and would not change it; +Albert must give up smoking, or we would separate. +</p> +<p>“One day my brother came to me, and took me to task for my folly. Albert was stealing +about like a shadow, and no longer dared to visit me; I ought not <span class="pageNum" id="pb52">[<a href="#pb52">52</a>]</span>to torment him any longer with my foolish obstinacy, but, in Heaven’s name, let him +have his cigar; he had already made the attempt to give up smoking, but the habit +was stronger than his will, and he would really fall sick from it. Here I could no +longer refrain from interrupting him bitterly: ‘So I am to have a husband who is not +strong enough to give up a ridiculous habit? If he loves me he must do it for my sake; +now I really insist upon it, for I shall see in it a test of his love.’ +</p> +<p>“My brother scolded and raged, but all was useless, and I clung to my resolve. I should +weary you if I were to tell you all the details of this quarrel, whose memory <span class="pageNum" id="pb53">[<a href="#pb53">53</a>]</span>has a peculiar charm for me. Suffice it to say that at last Albert came to me, and, +with tears in his eyes, begged me not to be cruel any longer, and, as usually happens, +I wept, too, and said: ‘Very well, I will show you that my love is stronger than yours. +You would not give up your habit for my sake, I will try, for yours, to conquer my +repugnance.’ +</p> +<p>“Shortly after we were married Alfred smoked as before. In spite of his cigars I felt +very, very happy with him, and had entirely forgotten the sorrowful weeks of sulking, +when I was reminded of it in a very peculiar way. +</p> +<p>“We had been wedded about six months when I noticed, one evening, that Albert did +not light a <span class="pageNum" id="pb54">[<a href="#pb54">54</a>]</span>cigar after supper, as usual. I secretly wondered, but thought it mere accident. The +next day there was the same abstinence, which I remarked, and which engaged my attention +completely. When, on the third evening, it was repeated, I was extremely curious and +much excited. ‘What,’ I thought, ‘is Albert voluntarily making the sacrifice for the +wife which he would not yield to the entreaties of the betrothed bride?’ My heart +exulted over this proof of love, and I considered myself—don’t laugh—the happiest +of mortals. I set about a careful inspection and made the most delightful discoveries. +The cigar box on Albert’s desk was empty; his beautiful amber mouthpiece, which he +usually <span class="pageNum" id="pb55">[<a href="#pb55">55</a>]</span>had with him, lay on some papers as a paper-weight—there was no doubt of it, Albert +had given up smoking. +</p> +<p>“I could no longer help expressing my joy. ‘Albert,’ I said one evening, ‘you are +an angel, you not only relinquish smoking for my sake, but you are too delicate to +say a single word about it, or to betray, by the slightest sign, what a painful effort +it costs you.’ While speaking, I embraced and kissed him with genuine enthusiasm. +</p> +<p>“But, to my great astonishment, this outburst of tenderness embarrassed him. He escaped +from my arms and lowered his eyes before my questioning gaze. After a sorrowful pause, +he said <span class="pageNum" id="pb56">[<a href="#pb56">56</a>]</span>at last, in a hesitating, uncertain voice: ‘My sweet, little wife, I might play the +part of being generous and self-sacrificing, but I think it is more manly to confess +the truth. So learn that I have not given up my cigar for your sake, but—for that +of my native land! You know that the <i>tobacco monopoly</i> has been introduced by the Austrian government; we have now agreed that every patriot +will give up smoking, in order, so far as lies in his power, to lessen the receipts +of the treasury. This may seem to you trivial, but we must deal the foe needle-pricks, +if we cannot attack him with the sword.’ +</p> +<p>“To tell you the truth, I sulked for several days; but at last I <span class="pageNum" id="pb57">[<a href="#pb57">57</a>]</span>considered the matter, and resolved to show that an Italian woman can be no less patriotic +than an Italian man. I forgave my husband, and even praised him for his resolution, +which I could not help thinking heroic. ‘The idea that you love anything better than +you do me,’ I said to him, ‘becomes endurable only by remembering that this something +is—our native land.’ +</p> +<p>“So you see,” added Frau von G., as she concluded her story, turning to the doctor +with a smile, “that, even in an Italian, patriotism is more powerful than love, and +the hot-blooded Italian sacrificed to the abstract idea of his native land the cigar +which he had not been willing to give up <span class="pageNum" id="pb58">[<a href="#pb58">58</a>]</span>for the sake of a creature of flesh and blood.” +</p> +<p></p> +<div class="figure p058width"><img src="images/p058.png" alt="" data-role="presentation" width="104" height="103"></div><p> +<span class="pageNum" id="pb59">[<a href="#pb59">59</a>]</span></p> +</div> +</div> +<div class="div1 story"><span class="pageNum">[<a title="Go to the table of contents" href="#toc">Contents</a>]</span><div class="divHead"> +<h2 class="main">MEMORIES OF HUNGARY.</h2> +</div> +<div class="divBody"> +<div id="s3.1" class="div2 section"><span class="pageNum">[<a title="Go to the table of contents" href="#xd33e172">Contents</a>]</span><div class="divHead"> +<h3 class="label">I.</h3> +<h3 class="main">ALT HADJI EFFENDI.</h3> +</div> +<div class="divBody"> +<p class="first">The inhabitants of Pesth are very ungrateful people. Venice bestowed a thousand ducats +upon a poet who glorified the splendor of the city of the Doges in two mediocre distiches; +Rome gladdened her historian, Gregorovius, with the offer of publishing his work at +her own expense; even Belgrade knew how to honor Laboulaye, because he <span class="pageNum" id="pb60">[<a href="#pb60">60</a>]</span>had written a few friendly essays about the metropolis of Servia; the people of Pesth +alone did nothing for a writer who had striven unweariedly to bring the beauties of +the Hungarian capital near the distant East in the most musical Persian ghasels and +quatrains. He lived in their midst, the enthusiastic bard of their renown, but no +one troubled himself about poor Ali Hadji Effendi, and the only attention which the +authorities showed him consisted in having him occasionally locked up by the policemen +for unauthorized peddling. +</p> +<p>Worthy Ali Hadji Effendi was not blessed with worldly goods; for reasons which Schiller +has explained in his “Division of <span class="pageNum" id="pb61">[<a href="#pb61">61</a>]</span>the Earth,” he had not succeeded in obtaining a place in the temple service of the +golden calf, and since, in consequence of the defective school system of Hungary, +the Persian language is still far too little diffused among the people of Pesth for +him to hope to be able to maintain himself respectably by the sale of his poems, he +had determined to carry on a little retail business, whose flourishing development +was often checked by an act of official rigor. +</p> +<p>He was an interesting figure, this slender, black-bearded, dreamy-eyed, sunburnt Oriental, +who, years ago, established his perambulating wares, sometimes on one street corner +of Pesth, <span class="pageNum" id="pb62">[<a href="#pb62">62</a>]</span>sometimes on another and with quiet satisfaction awaited purchasers behind them. A +dense throng of school children, maid-servants, and apprentices constantly surrounded +him, eyeing with great interest the treasures he displayed. Real glass diamonds glittered +in polished brass rings, Turkish and Christian rosaries of amber and coral lay side +by side in a tolerance worthy of imitation, small knives, toothpicks, and needle-books +completed the stock of wares, with the exception of one evidently unpurchasable show-piece, +an exquisitely wrought halberd—which he had to show. Customers were allowed to rummage +among the articles at will, and only when <span class="pageNum" id="pb63">[<a href="#pb63">63</a>]</span>some boy, with insolvency written upon his—nose, created too much disorder, did Ali +raise his voice, ordering him, in deep, guttural tones, to desist from his mischief. +He could support his Persian words with such expressive gestures of the hands that +even the most ignorant cobbler’s apprentice instantly understood them. +</p> +<p>How had Ali Hadji Effendi come to Pesth? The question is not difficult to answer. +In the Mohammedan world there is an order of dervishes whose members have all taken +upon themselves the vow of a life of constant wandering. The adherents of this order +are called Hadjis. The Hadji has no home, or rather his home is the great world of +Islam. <span class="pageNum" id="pb64">[<a href="#pb64">64</a>]</span>And Islam never gives up a province which it has once possessed. So, as kings bear +the title of provinces which their forefathers lost centuries ago, Islam regards as +its own countries where, for a long time, no mosque has raised its slender minaret +and airy dome toward the sky. As the seas of former geological periods have everywhere +left their shell fish, which are now found on lofty mountain peaks in the midst of +continents, the Turkish flood which submerged Europe a century and a half ago has +also, after subsiding, everywhere left a trace, the grave of a Mohammedan saint. Ofen +cherishes the resting-place of such a saint; Gül Baba, the Father of <span class="pageNum" id="pb65">[<a href="#pb65">65</a>]</span>Roses, sleeps his eternal sleep there, and an ancient, half ruined mosque, which rises +above his grave, is the last monument in this neighborhood of the former greatness +and power of the Turkish Empire. From the frontiers of China, from India to the Ofner +Mountains, stretches an unbroken chain of the graves of saints, and many formerly +in Mohammedan soil are now surrounded by unbelievers. But an army of Hadjis is constantly +in motion, passing from one saint’s grave to another, and there is no resting-place +of a pious Moslem so remote, or so hidden, that some Hadjis do not annually visit +it, to throw themselves upon their faces, murmur proverbs from the <span class="pageNum" id="pb66">[<a href="#pb66">66</a>]</span>Koran, humbly praise the goodness and wisdom of Allah, and then continue their aimless +pilgrimage<span id="xd33e462">.</span> The Orientals have the devout belief that the dead whose graves are now in the land +of the infidels would throw themselves over the bridge of hell, in sheer anguish, +if they should learn that the crescent had been driven from these regions. Therefore, +from time to time, Moslems must visit these graves, in order to maintain their belief +that everything remained as it was during their lives, and that the crescent still +shone with undimmed radiance. +</p> +<p>The Hadjis do not beg; in the sunny lands of the East, where the sky and the earth +provide <span class="pageNum" id="pb67">[<a href="#pb67">67</a>]</span>for the poor as loving parents care for their infant children, where the shade of +the roof above a well, or of a mosque, affords hospitable shelter, and the fig tree +by the wayside sweet food, they can spend the whole day in pious, contemplative idleness, +but when they enter the inhospitable country of the Giaours, where the sky is as harsh +as the manners of the people, and the prison is the only place which affords shelter +gratis, they carry on a trade in all sorts of trifles, and thus obtain the means to +satisfy their few needs. +</p> +<p>Ali Hadji Effendi was one of these wandering dervishes; he had seen many lands and +peoples; had washed the dust of the roads <span class="pageNum" id="pb68">[<a href="#pb68">68</a>]</span>from his feet in the rivers of three-quarters of the globe; he had listened to the +dashing of the Ganges, the Euphrates, the Nile, and the Danube, and was versed in +the languages of all the nations that dwell in the wide region between the Himalaya +and the Caucasus. In his Persian home he had been renowned as a poet, and the street +singers still chant his love songs in the squares of Bagdad. One spring, in his journeying, +he came to Pesth, where he instantly sought out several well-known Orientalists—Vámbéry, +Goldziher, and others—and asked them to write in Persian characters the Hungarian +words which would be indispensable for daily use, for instance, <span class="pageNum" id="pb69">[<a href="#pb69">69</a>]</span>reckoning, the names of coins, of his goods, etc. +</p> +<p>It would scarcely be believed that the Persian dervish knew the Pesth Orientalists, +yet it was so. Somewhere in Roumelia, at the foot of the Balkans, or still farther +away in Anatolia, a Hadji journeying westward meets such men on their way to the East. +They sit silently side by side on the divan or the rush-mat, their fingers play with +the beads of the rosary, and their lips softly murmur passages from the Koran. Suddenly +one raises his voice and says: “Brother! You are going toward the West, to the land +of the unbelievers. If you reach the city of the Magyars, Pesth, go to the great palace +on the bank of <span class="pageNum" id="pb70">[<a href="#pb70">70</a>]</span>the Danube. It is called the Academy. Mention the names of Vámbéry and Goldziher Effendi, +and you will be taken to men who fear God and are kind to strangers.” The other answers: +“Brother, you are directing your steps eastward and will reach Benares. Walk through +the bazaar there, and where you see the shop of a dealer in weapons, between two silk +merchants, enter and greet him; you will be well treated.” So the Hadjis bear the +fame of hospitable men to distant quarters of the world, and wherever they meet one +another they exchange addresses. +</p> +<p>Ali Hadji Effendi was soon at home in Pesth. What great trouble was necessary for +the purpose? <span class="pageNum" id="pb71">[<a href="#pb71">71</a>]</span>His patrons obtained from the authorities permission for him to remain, and he could +pursue his business. Every morning he came from his night quarters with his wares, +and wandered through the streets. Wherever he found shade and a clean spot he unfolded +his rug, sat down with crossed legs, arranged his goods, and, with Oriental patience, +awaited customers. Nothing could disturb his equanimity. If the children teased him, +he smilingly shook his finger at them. To a boy who once thrust a pin through his +turban from behind, he addressed a very edifying and moral lecture in the Persian +language, summing up the instruction at the close in the two words “<span lang="hu">Nem szip</span>” (not <span class="pageNum" id="pb72">[<a href="#pb72">72</a>]</span>right), which he uttered with a grave shake of the head. He could not be roused to +anger; it was impossible to irritate him. +</p> +<p>If a soldier came, who wanted to give his sweetheart, usually one of the Slavonic +race, a surprise, and wished to buy a brass ring with glass, or even a silver one, +set with turquoise, Ali waited quietly till he had selected something, and then named +the price, about twenty-three kreuzers. The purchaser, usually in a shout, as if the +Persian could understand German better if spoken in a loud than in a low tone, made +his offer, but Ali did not say another word and would not have accepted twenty-two +kreuzers and a half for the ring. Not until the sum <span class="pageNum" id="pb73">[<a href="#pb73">73</a>]</span>which he had named was paid in full did he deliver the article and receive the money, +which, without counting, he thrust into his belt. He never allowed any haggling, this +was a principle of his business, and it may readily be supposed that, under such circumstances, +his receipts were not large from customers who mainly belonged to the servant class. +</p> +<p>If he thought he had made enough, or if the time seemed long, he spread an old piece +of sack cloth over his wares and lay down on his carpet to sleep. He had no fear of +thieves, and the kindness and honesty of the public had never disappointed him. Often, +too, the poetic inspiration seized him, and then he drew <span class="pageNum" id="pb74">[<a href="#pb74">74</a>]</span>from his girdle a small yellow book and wrote Persian verses in it. If, at such a +time, customers attempted to interrupt him, he waved them off with a gesture of the +hand, and remained for hours utterly oblivious of his surroundings. When the poem +was finally finished, he beckoned to the bystanders until they formed a dense circle +around him, and declaimed his verse in a half song. His ears feasted on the melody +of his own creation. In the zeal of reading aloud he rose, his eyes flashed, his voice +trembled, he explained single verses, described to his listeners the beauty of an +image, the wit of a turn of speech, and when he had finished and his glance wandered +over the spectators, who <span class="pageNum" id="pb75">[<a href="#pb75">75</a>]</span>were staring at him in astonishment, he smilingly protested, “<span lang="hu">Szip, szip!</span><span id="xd33e500">”</span> (Fine, fine!), pointing to the little book with his finger. +</p> +<p>On the very first day of his sojourn in Pesth he composed a ghasel of four lines, +a literal translation of which would run as follows: +</p> +<div class="lgouter"> +<p class="line">“O city on the Danube, home of men with open hand, +</p> +<p class="line">Thy loins the river girdles like unto a silver band, +</p> +<p class="line">Thy head the mountains, diadem of emerald green, doth grace, +</p> +<p class="line">Alas, that the crescent from thee must now avert its face.”</p> +</div> +<p class="first">One day a hard-hearted policeman arrested him and drove him to the town-hall. There +he cleared himself and was released <span class="pageNum" id="pb76">[<a href="#pb76">76</a>]</span>in a few hours. He avenged himself on the rude fellow with the following sarcastic +ghasel: +</p> +<div class="lgouter"> +<p class="line">“As the laden camel through the streets of Samarcand men drive, +</p> +<p class="line">So here, mistaking a command, to urge me on they strive. +</p> +<p class="line">The armed policeman, swearing, doth press me toward the gaol, +</p> +<p class="line">Yet he, too, is also driven: for folly drives his soul.”</p> +</div> +<p class="first">Daily he composed a song in praise of the city of Pesth and of Hungary. He described +the beauty of the Ofner Mountains, the majesty of the giant river, the splendor of +the palatial buildings, the proud men, the fair women; and when he had a series of +ghasels he went to his patrons and read them aloud to them. Often, too, he carried +his <span class="pageNum" id="pb77">[<a href="#pb77">77</a>]</span>goods home at midday and paid a visit to Vámbéry or Goldziher. Removing his slippers +outside the door, he silently entered the room, mutely greeted the occupant by touching +his brow, lips, and breast with his hand, then went to the book-case, took from the +place he knew so well the heroic verse of Firdusi, the divine poems of Hâfiz, or the +mocking ones of Omar Khayyám, sat down on the floor with crossed legs, read the Persian +writers for an hour, then closed the volume, restored it to its place and, with another +silent greeting, went away. +</p> +<p>Thus one whole summer passed, autumn came, the leaves began to fall from the trees, +and the swallows <span class="pageNum" id="pb78">[<a href="#pb78">78</a>]</span>were preparing to depart. Our Hadji Ali Effendi soon felt too cold in his blue calico +caftan, and one day he was no longer seen in the streets of Pesth. +</p> +<p>He had drawn his girdle closer, wound his turban anew, taken in his hand the knotted +staff which had been his companion from Küenlün to the Blocksberg, and set forth again +on his pilgrimage. Outside the city he had paused, raised his hand to his brow, his +lips, and his breast, and then silently continued his way eastward without another +backward glance. +</p> +<p>But perhaps, years later, some beautiful almeh will sing in the bazaar of Bassora, +to the music of the mandolin, the song which the traveling dervish composed in <span class="pageNum" id="pb79">[<a href="#pb79">79</a>]</span>praise of the hospitable city in the distant West, and the visitors to the market, +seated in a circle around, will nod their heads approvingly to the rhythm of the verse: +</p> +<div class="lgouter"> +<p class="line">“O city on the Danube, home of men with open hand, +</p> +<p class="line">Thy loins the river girdles like unto a silver band, +</p> +<p class="line">Thy head the mountains, diadem of emerald green, doth grace, +</p> +<p class="line">Alas, that the crescent from thee must now avert its face.”</p> +</div> +<p><span class="pageNum" id="pb80">[<a href="#pb80">80</a>]</span></p> +</div> +</div> +<div id="s3.2" class="div2 section"><span class="pageNum">[<a title="Go to the table of contents" href="#xd33e178">Contents</a>]</span><div class="divHead"> +<h3 class="super">MEMORIES OF HUNGARY.</h3> +<h3 class="label">II.</h3> +<h3 class="main">THE CROSS AT THE CORNER.</h3> +</div> +<div class="divBody"> +<p class="first">For years my way led me, several times a day, through Tabakgasse in Pesth, and I was +therefore obliged to pass a crucifix erected at the corner where Kreuzgasse opens +into Tabakgasse. It was a weather-beaten, insignificant affair, such as is rarely +seen in the cities, but more frequently met with on country roads and in poor villages, +and <span class="pageNum" id="pb81">[<a href="#pb81">81</a>]</span>was evidently as old as the quarter of the city in whose midst it stood; Kreuzgasse +undoubtedly took its name from it. A century and a half before, when the “inner city” +became too small for the population, and a few bold colonists built the first houses +outside the wall upon the loose sand of the Rákos, the founders of the Theresienstadt +erected at the same time this crucifix, probably to place the new quarter of the city +under the special protection of the Crucified One. +</p> +<p>The artless piety of these people required no external stimulation by works of art. +Their religious feeling did not demand a beautiful and monumental form <span class="pageNum" id="pb82">[<a href="#pb82">82</a>]</span>for the object of their reverence, and was sufficiently intense to be satisfied even +with a badly-colored image, a shapeless wooden cross. The crucifix just mentioned +was a proof of that touching power of faith, which understands how to transfigure +even the rude and ugly with the nimbus of reverence. It is difficult to imagine a +less beautiful and imposing structure than this crucifix. Two rough beams, fastened +into the form of a cross, on which was nailed a piece of iron shaped into the outlines +of a human figure, that was all. The hand of some Beotian, doubtless very devout, +but totally ignorant of the beauty of oak blackened by age, had smeared the cross +with a coat of the <span class="pageNum" id="pb83">[<a href="#pb83">83</a>]</span>most hideous shade of brick-red, and painted on the iron, with much goodwill, but +very little art, the image of the Saviour. +</p> +<p>A hundred and fifty years do not pass over so primitive a work of art without some +trace. In many spots on the iron, now half corroded with rust, the color had come +off entirely; the Redeemer’s image lacked an eye, only a small portion of the crown +of thorns remained, the legs showed especially comprehensive damages, the face and +breast were covered with rust stains, which looked like dried drops of blood and produced +effects which the “artist” certainly had not intended. Even the wood had not been +left untouched by the tooth of time; <span class="pageNum" id="pb84">[<a href="#pb84">84</a>]</span>countless cracks and crevices intersected the entire length of the beams; one could +not expect them to continue to oppose the invincible tenacity and defiance of the +oak to the attacks of the drenching autumn rains, the parching heat of summer, and +the fierce blasts of the tempest. When, at a late hour of the silent night, I walked +through the empty street and passed the cross, I heard distinctly the monotonous tapping +of the wood-beetle, whose jaws vied with decay and disintegration to accomplish the +destruction of the crucifix. +</p> +<p>This description has probably convinced everyone that the cross in itself was neither +remarkable nor valuable; yet the sight of it <span class="pageNum" id="pb85">[<a href="#pb85">85</a>]</span>always made me thoughtful, nay filled me with a certain emotion. Poor, iron Saviour! +There he stood, deserted by God and man. No one prayed to Him, no one offered vows, +He was in everyone’s way. The generation that placed Him here, the other generations, +whose hearts He had filled with devotion, had died long ago; in this age and environment +He was alien and desolate. Most people passed the crucifix without vouchsafing it +a single glance. True, in rainy weather it attracted a certain degree of attention, +but this was wholly profane. As it stood exactly in the center of the narrow sidewalk, +no one carrying an open umbrella could pass between it and the <span class="pageNum" id="pb86">[<a href="#pb86">86</a>]</span>wall, so there was only the choice of shutting the umbrella and walking several paces +under the streaming eaves, or keeping it open and leaving the sidewalk, that is, wading +several paces through mire a foot deep. Both equally aroused the wrath of pedestrians +against the obstacle in their path, and they complained that the magistrates allowed +such hindrances to traffic. +</p> +<p>A crucifix degraded to be a hindrance to traffic! Could it fail to lose its sanctity +in the eyes of the populace? No one raised his hat, no one made the sign of the cross +in passing. Only plain peasants still knelt devoutly before it, and the birds used +it as a welcome resting-place. <span class="pageNum" id="pb87">[<a href="#pb87">87</a>]</span>The swallow, seeking food for her nestlings, wearied by the busy exercise of her maternal +duties, perched for a moment’s rest on the Saviour’s outstretched arm and, at the +foot of the crucifix, an old beggar woman frequently crouched, letting the worn, distorted +features of the Crucified One plead for sympathy and alms for herself. +</p> +<p>At a certain time a momentous change suddenly occurred. Workmen began to demolish +the corner-house, whose faithful Eckart the crucifix had been for a century. And in +fact it was not too soon. The low structure, built of unbaked bricks, which looked +as if it had sunk to its knees in the earth, its windowless <span class="pageNum" id="pb88">[<a href="#pb88">88</a>]</span>wall facing the street, its mouldering, moss-grown shingle roof, and horribly dirty +courtyard, no longer suited the modern city with its fashionable boulevards. As at +that time I expected to be obliged to pass through this street for a considerable +time longer, I followed every change for the better in its physiognomy with very natural +interest. I watched with satisfaction the rise of lofty scaffoldings, which indicated +the erection of a new building several stories high, the piles of brick, heaps of +sand and building stones, and the throngs of masons and hod-carriers. Only when, one +morning, I again passed by and noticed the rapid progress of the demolition, <span class="pageNum" id="pb89">[<a href="#pb89">89</a>]</span>I suddenly observed that the crucifix was missing. It had been there the evening before, +now it had vanished. It had been torn from the ground in the night, a rude hand had +hacked the wood and broken the iron, the cross at the corner no longer existed. +</p> +<p>I will not deny that its disappearance grieved me. I was so accustomed to see it several +times a day as I hurried by. A beggar at the corner, a swallow’s nest under the cornice, +a flower seller in front of the door, may gain importance in a man’s habits of life; +why not also a crucifix at the crossing of two streets? The thought that I should +never again see that shabby <span class="pageNum" id="pb90">[<a href="#pb90">90</a>]</span>old iron image, the rude red cross, filled me with regret. I involuntarily asked myself +whether anybody in the world would miss the poor old crucifix. Hardly. And yet, forgotten +and forsaken as it was, it must still have had one faithful friend. Traces of a care-taking +hand were often visible on the cross; many signs showed that now and then some one +still remembered it. The thick layers of dust and dirt which usually darkened the +Saviour’s painted face were often carefully washed off, though the wind soon renewed +them; on many feast days a modest wreath, a little bunch of flowers, adorned the cross, +and on the great festivals of the Catholic Church an <span class="pageNum" id="pb91">[<a href="#pb91">91</a>]</span>ancient lantern, behind whose red panes glimmered a dim little light, hung before +it. +</p> +<p>While still thinking of the unknown person who had addressed me through the attentions +lavished upon the ancient crucifix, a new figure that appeared on the scene aroused +my interest. An old woman, shabbily but neatly dressed, came up the street and suddenly +stopped, as if rooted to the earth, when she noticed the absence of the cross. With +an emotion which she was unable to subdue, she clasped her hands and gazed fixedly +at the hole in the ground where, for a century and a half, the cross had been set. +Several minutes passed ere she recovered herself and hastily approached <span class="pageNum" id="pb92">[<a href="#pb92">92</a>]</span>a man who was giving the workmen directions—he was evidently the overseer of the building +operations. +</p> +<p>“Sir,” she said in a trembling voice, “the cross has been taken away. Could you tell +me what has been done with it?” +</p> +<p>The person addressed stared at her a moment, then, with a rude laugh, answered: “What +has been done with the cross? Why, what should be done with it? Somebody used it to +cook his supper!” +</p> +<p>With these words he turned from the old woman and continued his orders to the workmen. +</p> +<p>I approached the aged dame and asked sympathizingly why she had inquired about the +fate of the cross? At first she did not <span class="pageNum" id="pb93">[<a href="#pb93">93</a>]</span>reply, then, after a short pause, she said in an agitated tone: +</p> +<p>“If I should tell you, perhaps you would laugh, like yonder fellow.” +</p> +<p>I assured her of the contrary, and my expression probably confirmed the truth of my +words, for she allowed herself to be persuaded to open her heart to me. +</p> +<p>“You see,” she began, “I am an old woman—seventy-five years—and I have no relatives +left in the world. All my kindred, all the friends of my youth are dead, and this +old cross was the sole object which reminded me of the happy days of my childhood. +What do I say—object? It was a friend, a living being that could speak to me. I was +born <span class="pageNum" id="pb94">[<a href="#pb94">94</a>]</span>in the house which they are tearing down. I played at the foot of the crucifix when +I was a little child. Later, when I grew older and began to go to school, my mother +told me to kiss the cross whenever I passed it, because then God would help me and +I should repeat my lessons well at school. +</p> +<p>“In those days the cross was not so old and unsightly as it became afterward. The +image of the Christ was kept freshly painted, and had a beautiful gilt halo around +its head. And the people showed great reverence for it. You know,” she added, glancing +with a peculiar expression upward to the steeples of the neighboring synagogue, “at +<span class="pageNum" id="pb95">[<a href="#pb95">95</a>]</span>that time this neighborhood was almost exclusively Catholic, and not one of these +men would have passed without at least lifting his hat and crossing himself. The crucifix +was always adorned with flowers, images of the saints, and wreaths, and the master +of the house kept a light burning before it. Corpus Christi Day was the most beautiful +holiday in the year to the girls in the house. Then the procession passed, and we +adorned the cross with flowers, leaves and ribbons. It was our task, and we performed +it so gladly. +</p> +<p>“Don’t laugh at me, but from my earliest childhood I regarded ‘our’ crucifix as my +friend and patron. If, when a little girl, I <span class="pageNum" id="pb96">[<a href="#pb96">96</a>]</span>wished for anything, I slipped out of the door, late at night, when there was no one +in the street, went to the cross, clasped my arms around it, and said softly: ‘Dear +Jesus, I pray Thee, give me this or that!’ If I received it, I went out again and +thanked the crucifix for it. +</p> +<p>“I grew up and people said that I was a pretty girl. Then I made the acquaintance +of a young student, who visited me two years—and afterward married me,” she added +hastily. “He always spent the evening with me, and, when he went away, I accompanied +him first to the gate, where we lingered a while, and then to the corner, where we +paused again. If he wanted to kiss me when we <span class="pageNum" id="pb97">[<a href="#pb97">97</a>]</span>parted I would not permit it—the presence of the crucifix shamed me.” +</p> +<p>“But not always!” I interrupted, smiling. +</p> +<p>The old dame pretended not to hear my remark and hurriedly continued: “My lover obtained +an appointment in the city and married me. On my wedding day my girl friends adorned +the crucifix as beautifully as if the Corpus Christi procession was to pass. A year +later a son was born, a beautiful child, fair, blue-eyed and chubby; when I went out, +carrying him in my arms, people stopped, took him from me, and never wearied of kissing +him. He grew finely and learned to walk and to talk, <span class="pageNum" id="pb98">[<a href="#pb98">98</a>]</span>then he suddenly fell sick and the doctors said he would die. +</p> +<p>“One night”—the old woman’s eyes filled with tears at the memory—“I was watching beside +his little bed. The physician had told me that he would scarcely live until the next +morning. I thought my heart would break, and I should go mad. Toward midnight the +child grew quieter and fell asleep. An irresistible yearning, to which I could not +help yielding, seized upon me. I lived near; opening the door, I rushed hither through +the darkness and did as I had always done. Weeping, I embraced the cross and prayed: +‘Dear Jesus, I beseech Thee, save my child!’ I returned home greatly relieved—<span class="pageNum" id="pb99">[<a href="#pb99">99</a>]</span>the child was still asleep, it slept until the morning, grew better, and in a fortnight +was well. +</p> +<p>“I have already detained you a long time with my talk—to be brief, I was destined +to survive my parents, my husband, my only son, all my relatives and friends; the +single remaining friend of my childhood was the cross at the corner, and now that, +too, is gone——” +</p> +<p>I understood the old woman’s feelings, and, deeply moved, bowed and silently left +her. +<span class="pageNum" id="pb100">[<a href="#pb100">100</a>]</span></p> +</div> +</div> +<div id="s3.3" class="div2 last-child section"><span class="pageNum">[<a title="Go to the table of contents" href="#xd33e184">Contents</a>]</span><div class="divHead"> +<h3 class="super">MEMORIES OF HUNGARY.</h3> +<h3 class="label">III.</h3> +<h3 class="main">THE ALTAR PAINTING.</h3> +</div> +<div class="divBody"> +<p class="first">Who among my readers has ever heard the name of Péteri? Very few, certainly, and it +is no wonder, for one may be a good geographer without knowing that Péteri is a pleasant +little village, four miles from Pesth, secluded from all intercourse with the world, +in the midst of a charming plain, still untrodden by the iron steed which imposes +upon <span class="pageNum" id="pb101">[<a href="#pb101">101</a>]</span>the earth, wherever he directs his victorious course, fetters which are very willingly +endured. +</p> +<p>This quiet hamlet was the goal of an excursion, which I took with a small party the +first of October in the year 1867. +</p> +<p>We had started early and were rolling over the boundless Rákos plain. The landscape +presented a marvelously beautiful aspect. In the background rose the Ofner Mountains, +covered with a gray hood of mist; here and there a single peak was illumined by the +rising sun, displaying a peculiar blending of shades of purple and violet, which produced +the most magnificent effect. The course of the Danube was marked by a broad mass of +vapor, hovering <span class="pageNum" id="pb102">[<a href="#pb102">102</a>]</span>over the stream, as if the spirits of the ancient Ister, shrouded in clouds, were +floating above their watery domain. Before us the sun was just rising, revealing the +historic plain of Rákos, with its undulating sand-hills, meadows, and stubble fields, +sparsely scattered with solitary, straw-thatched houses, a few groups of trees, and +clattering mills. On both sides of the dusty high road cows were grazing, which stared +at us with scarcely less curiosity than the little barefooted boy who tramped after +them. The tinkling of the cow-bells blended musically with the notes of the matin-bells, +borne in low, subdued tones by the keen morning air. +</p> +<p>Our horses moved so swiftly <span class="pageNum" id="pb103">[<a href="#pb103">103</a>]</span>that the tall clumps of straw, and the still taller poles of the wells in the pastures +flitted past us like ghosts, and after a drive of barely an hour we reached Keresstur, +where we breakfasted in a tavern which, considering its proximity to the capital, +was incredibly primitive. The hamlet has no remarkable sights except an old castle +where the Emperor Joseph II. once spent the night, and a little tavern-keeper with +an enormous beard. After a short rest we set out on our journey again. If the road +had formerly been uncomfortable, it now began to be actually bad. The surrounding +country still retained the monotonous character of a plain, but the road supplied +a tolerable <span class="pageNum" id="pb104">[<a href="#pb104">104</a>]</span>alternation of mountain and valley; cliffs and lakes, owing to the limited space, +were represented by huge stones and deep puddles, between which obstacles the driver +zig-zagged with marvelous skill. It was about nine o’clock when we saw, in the distance, +the little houses and slender, beautiful church-spire of Péteri. +</p> +<p>Péteri, the goal of our excursion, is a very small village, inhabited by Slovaks, +which consists of two parallel streets and a few dozen insignificant peasant houses, +all built with the gable in front. A stranger must be a very rare spectacle in its +streets, for great was the excitement which we awakened among the inhabitants. Accompanied +by the barking of <span class="pageNum" id="pb105">[<a href="#pb105">105</a>]</span>dogs and the cries of children, we drove slowly on between the straw-thatched huts, +and stopped before the house of the Protestant pastor, whom we found engaged in the +patriarchal occupation of whipping a large, shaggy black dog, which had been accused +by his wife of the crime of killing chickens. +</p> +<p>When the man of God saw us, he let the dog go, and, casting an embarrassed glance +at his coat, which bore numerous traces of rural labor, he conducted us into his room, +which was destitute of a floor. After exchanging a few civil speeches, we told him +that we had come to see the village church, which, we had heard, was the handsomest +in the neighborhood. <span class="pageNum" id="pb106">[<a href="#pb106">106</a>]</span>The pastor looked astonished, but at once expressed his readiness to open the sacred +edifice, if we were really interested in it. Clanking several huge keys, he led the +way and we followed. A large open square, with a fountain in the center, surrounded +by several majestic oaks, occupied the space in front of it. Several steps led to +the entrance of this house of God, which, judging from the exterior, was tolerably +plain. The upper one afforded a view of the entire length of the two streets of which +Péteri consists. +</p> +<p>The doors creaked on their hinges. We entered, walked directly to the communion table, +which was totally devoid of ornament, <span class="pageNum" id="pb107">[<a href="#pb107">107</a>]</span>and at the first glance we were irresistibly attracted by a picture hung above the +pulpit between two pillars. The brilliant coloring of the painting contrasted strangely +with the bare, austere appearance of the spacious interior, which threw it into still +stronger relief. +</p> +<p>The picture represented the Sermon on the Mount. Christ, attired in flowing robes, +with an ample mantle draped over them, stands upon a boulder, his indescribably beautiful +face illumined by divine enthusiasm, his radiant eyes most expressively proclaim to +us the words of love and divine wisdom which are flowing from his half-parted lips. +Around him, extending to the distant background, <span class="pageNum" id="pb108">[<a href="#pb108">108</a>]</span>we see a throng of people in picturesque groups, evidently hanging on the Saviour’s +lips; but only a few figures, immediately surrounding the rock, are executed in detail. +Behind the divine preacher we behold an ascetic, clad in a garment of skins, his brows +contracted in a gloomy frown, and his bearded chin propped on his hand, evidently +pondering over the words he has heard. Beside him stands a youth, with his arms folded +across his breast, uplifting his clear brow and dark eyes to Christ with fervent devotion, +unheeding the words of a third figure, a doubter, who stands by his side, and, with +the mocking expression of a Mephistopheles, appears to be whispering something <span class="pageNum" id="pb109">[<a href="#pb109">109</a>]</span>into his ear, while his hand secretly points to the Saviour. In the foreground two +female figures rivet our attention; one, a large, voluptuous woman, is lying at the +feet of the divine preacher, her face, drenched with tears, expresses infinite suffering +and the deepest contrition; the other, a most wonderful contrast, possessing supernatural +beauty, as with divine calmness she raises her beaming eyes and, with clasped hands, +her whole figure breathing angelic innocence, listens to the sermon of the Son of +God. The picture is completed by two lovely naked children, who, with their little +round faces turned toward the spectator, are carelessly playing with a shell which +they have <span class="pageNum" id="pb110">[<a href="#pb110">110</a>]</span>found. It is the most magnificent and yet the most charming scene imaginable. The +divine, glorified form of the inspired preacher; the gloomy ascetic, examining ere +he believes; the devout youth, who hears revelations in every word; the doubter, who +has come to listen and to scoff; the sinful woman, whose heart is shaken and crushed +to its depths by every word of mercy and heavenly love; the chaste, pure angel, with +the gloriously beautiful face, to whom Christ speaks a kindred language—and, in contrast +with all this, the unsuspecting, ignorant children who, unconcerned about the great +events, the mighty passions and overmastering emotions astir around them, play quietly +<span class="pageNum" id="pb111">[<a href="#pb111">111</a>]</span>with their shell—the impression which this poetic composition, glowing with the vivid +colors of a Titian, produced upon us is not easily described. We stood a long time +before the painting, unable to express in words our admiration of the masterpiece. +</p> +<p>At last I asked the pastor, who had remained modestly at the back of the church, busying +himself with various trifles, if he could not tell us the name of the artist who had +created this beautiful work. +</p> +<p>“I really cannot give you his name, I know only that he was a young Italian. But I +see that the painting has deeply impressed you, so you will probably be interested +in hearing some particulars <span class="pageNum" id="pb112">[<a href="#pb112">112</a>]</span>of its origin.” Accepting the kind clergyman’s invitation, we went back with him to +his house, and, over a glass of wine, he related the following story: +</p> +<p>“Péteri formerly belonged to an old count, the last scion of an ancient noble family, +who died, childless, about thirty years ago. His estates went to a distant relative +and, in this way, our village passed into the possession of a young married couple, +who came here soon after the death of the old lord, to make it their permanent residence. +Herr von F., our new lord, had been an officer for several years, but after his marriage +had retired to private life. His wife was young, bright, gracious, and possessed beauty +unrivaled <span class="pageNum" id="pb113">[<a href="#pb113">113</a>]</span>far or near. They had scarcely moved here before Frau von F. noticed the dilapidated +condition of the little church, and determined to have a new and handsome building +erected at her own expense. The fact that she was a Catholic, while the parish was +Protestant, did not disturb her in the least. +</p> +<p>“It happened about this time that a carriage passing through the village was overturned, +and the traveler within had his foot severely injured. Herr von F., who had heard +of the accident, went himself to the injured man and invited him to be his guest until +he was able to continue his journey. The offer was gratefully accepted, and the gentleman +was <span class="pageNum" id="pb114">[<a href="#pb114">114</a>]</span>carried to the castle. He introduced himself to his hostess as an Italian artist, +on the way to visit his friend, the owner of an estate a few miles away, but who had +been prevented from carrying out his plan by the upsetting of his carriage and the +wounds received. The artist probably found his stay here very pleasant, for, though +at the end of a few days he could walk without assistance, he made no preparations +for departure. Under the pretext that he wished to express his gratitude in this way, +he begged his charming hostess to allow him to paint her; he wished to leave the portrait +in the castle as a memento. After some little reluctance, the proposal <span class="pageNum" id="pb115">[<a href="#pb115">115</a>]</span>was accepted, and the young artist now had an opportunity to gaze into the lovely +woman’s eyes an hour a day. She was, as has been said, a rare beauty, he was young +and ardent—what marvel that he became passionately in love with her? +</p> +<p>“The farther he progressed toward recovery, the more his depression increased; this, +and the numerous sittings, aroused Herr von F.’s suspicions and one day he entered +unexpectedly when the artist and his wife were alone together. He saw the youth on +his knees before her, weeping bitterly, while she, bending over him, was trying to +comfort him. The scene which followed was brief but terrible. <span class="pageNum" id="pb116">[<a href="#pb116">116</a>]</span>F. rushed upon the Italian and dealt him a blow in the face. The insulted youth seized +a rapier hanging on the wall, pressed furiously upon his host, and would have killed +him if the unhappy wife had not thrown herself between them. At the noise servants +rushed in, who seized the raging artist, thrust him into the traveling carriage into +which the horses had been hastily harnessed, and advised his coachman to drive to +his destination, wherever that might be. +</p> +<p>“The affair caused great excitement at the time; Herr von F. refused to accept a challenge +sent to him from Pesth, and his wife, for a long period, sought refuge on a secluded +estate. +<span class="pageNum" id="pb117">[<a href="#pb117">117</a>]</span></p> +<p>“About five months after the scene just described, a box arrived containing the altar +painting and a letter, in which the artist entreated Frau von F. to think often of +him as an unfortunate man, who had seen the sun of his life rise once for a moment +only to lose it forever. He also asked that the picture might be placed in the newly-built +church, which, after much opposition from the owner of the estate, was done. The beautiful +woman whom you saw in the foreground of the picture is Frau von F., the youth with +the folded arms is the artist himself. +</p> +<p>“Heaven knows that the young couple did not have a single happy hour afterward. A +dark <span class="pageNum" id="pb118">[<a href="#pb118">118</a>]</span>suspicion, though a wholly groundless one, rested on the husband’s heart, and this, +with the gossip of the people, made the poor, beautiful wife utterly wretched. When, +after a few years, she became a widow—I came here just at that time—I often saw her, +when the church was empty, kneel before the picture for hours, shedding burning tears. +She did not remain here long, but withdrew to her lonely estate, whence she often +comes to the village, and never neglects to visit the church. +</p> +<p>“Nothing more was heard from the artist himself, who disappeared without leaving a +trace, only some of the owners of the neighboring estates, who knew him, said that +<span class="pageNum" id="pb119">[<a href="#pb119">119</a>]</span>he had gone to Africa as a missionary and vanished there.” +</p> +<p>We thanked the pastor for his story and set out on our way home. +</p> +<p class="center">END. +</p> +<p></p> +<div class="figure p119width"><img src="images/p119.png" alt="" data-role="presentation" width="137" height="106"></div><p> +<span class="pageNum" id="pb120">[<a href="#pb120">120</a>]</span></p> +</div> +</div> +</div> +</div> +<div id="s4" class="div1 story"><span class="pageNum">[<a title="Go to the table of contents" href="#xd33e190">Contents</a>]</span><div class="divHead"> +<h2 class="main">A CHRISTMAS EVE IN PARIS.</h2> +</div> +<div class="divBody"> +<p class="first">It was Christmas Eve of the year 1874. We were slowly pressed forward by the human +tide constantly surging to and fro upon the broad pavement of the <span lang="fr">Boulevard des Italiens</span>. Often it was scarcely possible to pause a moment in front of the brilliantly-lighted +show windows of a shop, to admire, here the diamonds, yonder the bronzes and ivory +carvings displayed within. But one exhibit attracted us too strongly to pass it with +a hasty <span class="pageNum" id="pb121">[<a href="#pb121">121</a>]</span>glance. We checked our steps, which produced the same effect as when a drifting log +suddenly grounds across a stream. First there was a violent shock, then an angry murmur, +an excited chattering, and the stream gradually turns aside and flows in a slight +bend around the obstacle which cannot be swept away. +</p> +<p>The articles in this show window, which belonged to a fashionable confectioner, were +far too tempting. A Christmas Fair, a veritable paradise for children: miniature Hussar +boots, cradles, tiny champagne bottles, bomb-shells, burning logs, a poodle dressed +as a waiter, with a napkin at his neck, all made of sugar and executed with Parisian +daintiness, <span class="pageNum" id="pb122">[<a href="#pb122">122</a>]</span>and in the midst of this French fiddle-faddle stood the sturdy, simple German pine +tree. +</p> +<p>“Is the Christmas tree much used in French families?” I asked my companion, Monsieur +G., a Paris architect, who has recently won much renown. +</p> +<p>“I think not,” he replied, “but I have always had my <i lang="fr">arbre de <span class="corr" id="xd33e725" title="Source: hoël">noël</span></i> in my own house, and it is the central point of one of my most sorrowful memories.” +</p> +<p>A mournful expression shadowed his mobile features as he spoke, and a heavy sigh escaped +his lips. We went on and, a few steps beyond, turned into the “<span lang="fr">Rue du 4 Septembre</span>.” I did not wish to interrupt my friend’s deep reverie by obtrusive, curious questions, +so <span class="pageNum" id="pb123">[<a href="#pb123">123</a>]</span>for a short time we walked silently side by side. It was he who interrupted this pause +by voluntarily telling his sad story. +</p> +<p>“Four years,” he began, “have passed since that terrible winter, but everything is +still as vividly impressed upon my mind as though it had happened only yesterday. +The Prussians had forged their iron ring around the city, and we breathed more and +more heavily. The whole world knows the epic of that siege, from its commencement +to its close. In the beginning ‘useless mouths’ were banished, and the assurance was +given that those who remained need have no anxiety about suffering want; first we +ate pork, then horse-flesh, and at the end of six <span class="pageNum" id="pb124">[<a href="#pb124">124</a>]</span>weeks the most incredible things supplied us with food. In addition, the winter was +one of those severe seasons which we do not have once in a decade. The Seine froze, +and loaded carts could cross the lake in the Bois de Boulogne. Our foes were warmly +<span class="corr" id="xd33e739" title="Source: esconced">ensconced</span> in our country-houses, they cut down our groves and the trees in our parks to keep +the flames on the hearths burning, and fed their camp-fires with our grand pianos +and carved furniture. We had no woods to fell, and naturally were less ready to use +our pianos for fire-wood than our enemies. The lack of fuel was really less keenly +felt than the lack of food. All the wood and coal remaining in Paris was <span class="pageNum" id="pb125">[<a href="#pb125">125</a>]</span>purchased by the rich at fabulous prices, and the poor, nay, even the well-to-do classes +had to shift for themselves. The proletarians succeeded in doing so without much difficulty. +Our stock of absinthe was inexhaustible, unfortunately it was the only thing with +which we were supplied for months or years; ‘<span lang="fr">Une goutte</span>’ will fully compensate the Paris workman for the fire on the hearth or the warmth +of the stove—but what was to become of our women, our children, who do not drink absinthe? +</p> +<p>“It was comparatively easy for us men. We were all soldiers, we were daily occupied +either in drilling within the city or in digging and building at the out-works; <span class="pageNum" id="pb126">[<a href="#pb126">126</a>]</span>and that keeps one tolerably warm, I can assure you. But when we came home in the +evening, we found a room cold and dismal as a vault, a black, fireless hearth, the +children huddled under the bed-clothes, the wife muffled in cloak and shawls. We clasped +cold hands and kissed cold lips, which had forgotten how to smile. +</p> +<p>“So the Christmas festival approached. Did I say festival? Suffering and want had +reached their height, and our eyes constantly saw too much blood flow to have the +red hue in the calendar attract our attention. The poor children! The siege cut off +even their pure, innocent pleasures; there was no Christmas for <span class="pageNum" id="pb127">[<a href="#pb127">127</a>]</span>them that year. The first week in December my little Louise asked me if the naughty +Prussians would let St. Nicholas into the city, and a few days before Christmas she +anxiously asked the same question about the Christ child. Both times I answered that +I was afraid this year neither St. Nicholas nor the little Christ-child could get +through to the children who expected them, but next year they would doubtless make +ample amends for it. Louise looked very sorrowful and was not easily comforted; it +was so long since the last Christmas festival, and the next one would probably come +no earlier than usual! But I could not help her; neither I <span class="pageNum" id="pb128">[<a href="#pb128">128</a>]</span>nor my wife were in the mood to prepare Christmas pleasures for the poor child. +</p> +<p>“Nor was Louise in a condition to enjoy such pleasures. She had been ailing all the +Winter and on Christmas Eve the illness broke out with alarming violence. She was +tortured by attacks of convulsive coughing and in a high fever. We put the child to +bed and sent at once for our physician. My wife was greatly alarmed, and I, too, awaited +the doctor’s verdict with much anxiety. He came; we silently exchanged greetings, +and he approached the little one’s sick bed. My wife and I in trembling suspense watched +every line of his face, every expression of his eyes; <span class="pageNum" id="pb129">[<a href="#pb129">129</a>]</span>we scarcely dared to breathe. The doctor was an old and dear friend, and Louise was +very fond of playing with him; this time, however, she did not recognize him, and +thrust him back with her little hand as he stroked the hair away from her flushed +face and felt her throbbing pulse. +</p> +<p>“ ‘It is a long time since I have been here but, as you know, the numerous wounded +men, the crowded hospitals,’ he said apologetically, as he watched the little sufferer. +</p> +<p>“ ‘Of course, of course, but what do you think of our Louise?’ +</p> +<p>“The doctor forced a smile. +</p> +<p>“ ‘It would not be difficult to give good advice,’ he said in a <span class="pageNum" id="pb130">[<a href="#pb130">130</a>]</span>tone whose lightness was evidently assumed. ‘Louise has grown excessively thin since +I last saw her; she must be better nourished. Under different circumstances I should +say: give her chicken broth, eggs, do not let her go out of a moderately warm room, +but now’—his eyes rested on a piece of bread which lay on the table, the bread furnished +by the government, of which a clumsy wit said that it contained every possible ingredient, +among others <i>even</i> grain. ‘However,’ he added after a painful pause, ‘there will be time enough to nourish +her better after the siege, which cannot last forever. What is immediately necessary +is a cup of hot <span class="pageNum" id="pb131">[<a href="#pb131">131</a>]</span>tea, which must be repeated in two hours.’ +</p> +<p>“My wife cast a despairing glance at me, whispering with quivering lips, ‘I have neither +wood nor coal in the house.’ A deathlike stillness pervaded the room, interrupted +only by the gasping breath and an attack of coughing from the child. I cannot describe +now what I felt at that moment, I only know that I would infinitely rather have been +dead than alive. The doctor was the first to break the silence. He looked very grave +as he said: ‘The hot tea is indispensable; if you have no wood, no coal—not even any +alcohol?’ My wife shook her head mournfully. ‘Has not some neighbor—?’ (The <span class="pageNum" id="pb132">[<a href="#pb132">132</a>]</span>same answer.) ‘Well, then you must sacrifice some piece of furniture at once, for +much depends upon this tea.’ +</p> +<p>“I instantly rushed into the kitchen, which no longer contained anything combustible, +seized the ax, and was on the point of dealing a blow on the piano, my wife’s favorite +instrument, but the only large article in the room, except an armoire, which contained +little wood. During the last fortnight we had been obliged to use our furniture to +supply the fuel for cooking, there was no attempt at heating! I was already lifting +the ax, when my wife suddenly uttered a faint cry, seized my arm, and directly after +rushed out of the <span class="pageNum" id="pb133">[<a href="#pb133">133</a>]</span>room, exclaiming: ‘I have something!’ +</p> +<p>“Was any neighbor fortunate enough to have some wood? Did she expect to find a coal +dealer’s shop open at this hour and procure fuel there? I was not to remain in uncertainty +long. Five minutes after, the door opened and my wife, her face radiant with joy, +while tears of gratitude sparkled in her eyes, entered, carrying with both hands—last +year’s huge Christmas tree which, since the festival, had remained unnoticed in a +corner of the attic. +</p> +<p>“The whole terrible contrast between the present and the past suddenly rose before +me as if sharply illumined by a flash of <span class="pageNum" id="pb134">[<a href="#pb134">134</a>]</span>lightning. There was the slender, beautiful pine, which twelve short months ago, so +brief a span of time, a mere moment, looking back upon it, had formed the center of +a lovely picture of family happiness! It was in that very room, a bright fire was +blazing on the hearth, merry children were dancing and bounding around the table, +a happy father and mother were smiling at the delight of the little ones; there was +Louise, looking like an angel in her white dress, with a blue ribbon in her fair curls, +her arms round, her cheeks plump, her dark eyes sparkling with joy, and, with her, +two little playmates whom she had invited to the festival. They laughed and shouted +<span class="pageNum" id="pb135">[<a href="#pb135">135</a>]</span>as if fifty invisible angels were laughing and clapping their hands with the children +to fill the room to the utmost with mirth and childish glee. On the table had stood +the magnificent Christmas tree, with tiny candles, gilded fruits, and tin soldiers +glittering among its green boughs, soldiers in French, English, and Prussian uniforms. +We jested and played and made merry until after midnight, till the children fell asleep +from sheer happiness with dolls and soldiers from the Christmas tree clasped in both +hands. +</p> +<p>“Now, here was the same Christmas tree, withered, dry and dusty, its needles yellow, +many of its boughs broken and drooping, others, instead of golden apples and <span class="pageNum" id="pb136">[<a href="#pb136">136</a>]</span>bonbons, bearing long trailing cobwebs, the room was cold, the fire dead, and Louise +lay on her bed, her little arms emaciated, her little face thin and flushed by fever, +racked by that torturing cough. +</p> +<p>“Her mother’s entrance had attracted her attention, and she partially recovered her +consciousness. Noticing the Christmas tree, she clapped her little hands joyfully. +‘Oh, the Christmas tree, the pretty Christmas tree!’ she exclaimed in a faint voice. +Then, in touching words, she begged her mamma to light the pretty candles and hang +the gold apples and the soldiers, only no Prussian ones, and to send for Mimi and +Lolotte, they had been <span class="pageNum" id="pb137">[<a href="#pb137">137</a>]</span>good, and she, too, would be good in future, very good. +</p> +<p>“I was on the point of doing a cowardly act; I longed to go out into the darkness, +into the streets, the outposts, in order not to be obliged to witness this sorrowful +scene; I wished that a shell might enter the house and put an end to everything. But, +no, shells were not fired on the night when the foe was also celebrating the Christmas +festival. I regained my composure with difficulty, and while my wife sat on the edge +of the bed, with one arm round the child, softly singing songs, stroking and soothing +her, I chopped the Christmas tree with trembling hands and lighted a fire. +<span class="pageNum" id="pb138">[<a href="#pb138">138</a>]</span></p> +<p>“The dry needles crackled and snapped, blazing high aloft, a sweet, heavy aroma of +resin pervaded the room, and the water in the pot began to sing and boil. The doctor +had gone out, my wife was still whispering loving words and promises to the sick child, +and while watching the flames, and preparing the tea, I thought: ‘I thank thee, I +thank thee, thou blessed tree, which once made my child happy, and will now make her +well!’ +</p> +<p>“The Christmas tree did not make Louise well. And since that time I have not needed +one—she was my only child.” +<span class="pageNum" id="pb139">[<a href="#pb139">139</a>]</span></p> +</div> +</div> +<div id="s5" class="div1 story"><span class="pageNum">[<a title="Go to the table of contents" href="#xd33e197">Contents</a>]</span><div class="divHead"> +<h2 class="main">THE STEPMOTHER.</h2> +<h2 class="sub">AN OPEN LETTER TO FRAU I. H.</h2> +</div> +<div class="divBody"> +<p class="first">There are ideas which affect the mind, as the touch of a spider feels on the finger. +They awaken horror, loathing, lasting discomfort. I fear that the conception “stepmother” +is one of them. The word is uttered in our presence, and awakes in our souls a series +of images, some painful, some repulsive; on the one hand is the poor motherless child +in the care of strangers, <span class="pageNum" id="pb140">[<a href="#pb140">140</a>]</span>meanly clad, ill-fed, scolded, beaten, burdened with impossible tasks, who secretly +steals out on Winter nights to its mother’s grave, and there, with heart-rending sobs, +calls to the snow-clad mound the reproachful question why she did not take her child +with her, why she had left it alone in the world; on the other hand is the wicked +woman, toothless, blear-eyed, with hooked chin and nose, which almost meet, fingers +as bony as a skeleton’s, who is happy only when she has devised some new torture, +some new humiliation for her foster-child. How have these images entered our sphere +of thought? Perhaps from fairy tales, perhaps from poems and stories, I don’t know +<span class="pageNum" id="pb141">[<a href="#pb141">141</a>]</span>myself. Not from experience, that is certain. Most of us have probably no knowledge +of stepmothers, and those with whom we are acquainted do not bear the remotest resemblance +to the idea which dwells in our minds. Yet the contradiction between preconceived +opinions and the reality does not impress us, and we do not think of correcting the +former by the latter. +</p> +<p>The letter which you, madame, addressed to me a few days ago, for a definite purpose +and in which, with noble excitement, you demanded justice for the stepmother, first +led me to reflect, and I have now become aware of my prejudices, my cruel injustice +toward one of the most <span class="pageNum" id="pb142">[<a href="#pb142">142</a>]</span>meritorious classes of the human race. You are right, the stepmother is a martyr. +She is a sufferer, but no one pities her, a martyr who never receives the reward of +canonization, a tragic heroine who never finds her poet. She has married a widower +and enters her new home, where she meets a beautiful, sorrowful orphaned child. Her +heart is overflowing with the noblest feelings. She will be a loving mother to the +poor orphan, will kiss away the shadow of premature grief from the young brow! Fate +was less kind to her than to her companions, who, during the first months after marriage, +saw only the bright side of wedded life; pleasant wedding journeys, inexhaustible +<span class="pageNum" id="pb143">[<a href="#pb143">143</a>]</span>proofs of tenderness, endless love tokens. She is obliged to learn, with the pleasant +side of married life, its hardest duties, for which nature has given to others of +her sex long months of preparation; she has become at the same time wife and mother. +But what of that? With the enthusiasm of a young soul, in whom love for the child +and the pleasure of acting a mother’s part are a heritage of the female sex, she assumes +her sublime task; she surrounds the child with solicitude and tenderness; she kisses +it awake in the morning and sings it to sleep at night; she talks to it, plays with +it, never loses sight of it. Under this warmth of affection the child instantly begins +<span class="pageNum" id="pb144">[<a href="#pb144">144</a>]</span>to flourish, as the earth responds to the heat of the sun. It has the coquettish beauty +of a wax-doll, its cheeks grow rosy, its eyes bright, its little arms round and plump, +but no love beams in the eyes, the arms do not learn to clasp the neck of the stepmother, +and the little mouth does not smile. +</p> +<p>The stepmother is puzzled, and begins to reflect. Before her mind rises the scene +when her husband first brought her to their future home and introduced her to the +child with the words: “Baby, here is your new mamma; be good and obedient, and she +will love you very, very dearly. There, now, give mamma a pretty kiss!” She had bent +<span class="pageNum" id="pb145">[<a href="#pb145">145</a>]</span>over the child, and while pressing it warmly to her heart a tear fell on its little +fair head. The child had stood motionless, with its eyes fixed on its toes; it had +submitted to everything, but without a word of affection or even a kiss in response. +This had chilled the young mother like an icy breath; the husband noticed or felt +it, and said: “You know how children are; the poor thing is shy, she is so unaccustomed +to see strange faces. But she will soon love you as you deserve.” This had satisfied +her, and she believed it. But now a year, two years had passed; the child must have +become accustomed to the “strange face,” it must have felt long <span class="pageNum" id="pb146">[<a href="#pb146">146</a>]</span>ago that the “new mamma” loved it very, very dearly! Yet it is as cold, as distant, +as reserved, as on the first day. The stepmother looks tenderly at it, it lowers its +eyes; she kisses it, it obediently offers its lips, but they are motionless; she speaks +pleasantly to it, it maintains a sullen silence<span id="xd33e828">.</span> The stepmother goes out with the child, everybody turns, admires its beauty, envies +the woman who has such a treasure. Alas, this angel has a joyous glance for all except +the stepmother, a gay, childlike laugh for every one save her. The beautiful child +is only lively in the street, out of the house; at home it is sulky. Every act of +kindness from a stranger is <span class="pageNum" id="pb147">[<a href="#pb147">147</a>]</span>eagerly and enthusiastically acknowledged, but the loving words of the foster-mother +find no echo; they die away with no more effect than if they had been flung into the +sea. +</p> +<p>The stepmother, with deep sorrow, asks herself the cause of all this, and can find +no answer. Poor woman! Busily, untiringly you weave your web of love around the heart +of the child confided to you, and do not know that behind your back an evil Penelope +sits, raveling at night what you have done during the day! First, there are the first +wife’s relatives; from devotion to the dead they are wicked to the living; whenever +the child visits them it hears itself pitied; <span class="pageNum" id="pb148">[<a href="#pb148">148</a>]</span>it is told of its mamma, not the new one, for she is not its mother, but the old one, +how differently she would have loved it, how differently she would have treated it; +it is questioned about the stranger’s acts, and whether she treats it kindly. Then +there are servants, governesses, foolish strangers, who, partly to win the child’s +affection, partly from wretched sentimentality, which considers it noble and kindhearted +to roll up the eyes and express pity where there is no cause for compassion—sing the +same song to the little one from morning till night. It never hears itself called +anything but “poor child! poor orphan!” It learns that it tells an untruth whenever +it calls <span class="pageNum" id="pb149">[<a href="#pb149">149</a>]</span>its stepmother “mamma”; it is taught to play the spy, to suspect, to dissimulate; +it is robbed of the frankness and guilelessness of childhood and accustomed to seek +beneath its stepmother’s words different thoughts, beneath her acts hostile motives. +Poor child, in whose mind distrust is roused ere the judgment is formed! The mother +denies it an apple because it has already eaten too many, and it feels sure that it +is her malice which prompts her to refuse it the most innocent pleasure; the mother +will not permit it to visit a friend because it has taken cold, and the weather is +stormy, and it no longer doubts the enmity of this woman, of whom everybody tells +it so much <span class="pageNum" id="pb150">[<a href="#pb150">150</a>]</span>evil. And now come Christmas gifts of fairy tales, which describe the wicked stepmother +who thrice poisoned Snow-White, and the other one who killed her stepson and served +him to the father on the dinner table, and if the child has previously doubted, it +is now confident, for the book, printed, bound, and filled with pictures, cannot deceive! +So it learns to hate at an age when it is our fairest privilege to love, and to doubt +at a time whose happiness is implicit faith. +</p> +<p>Can this criminal poisoning of the child’s soul remain without influence upon the +stepmother? I deny it. What can you expect? Even the noblest woman is mortal, and +she has a still keener sensitiveness <span class="pageNum" id="pb151">[<a href="#pb151">151</a>]</span>to the return, or the failure to return her feelings than the rest of us. Categorical +necessity was not created for women, it is hard enough for men. To fill a bottomless +cask was rightfully considered by the subtle Greek the most terrible punishment which +could be devised for women. In the bitter conflict with constant ingratitude, even +the strongest sense of duty, the most self-sacrificing nobility, must finally succumb. +We can give love only when, in some degree, we receive love in return. One-sidedness +here leads finally to impoverishment, and at last the stepmother really feels for +the child indifference, possibly aversion, or even hate. +</p> +<p>When we have once reached <span class="pageNum" id="pb152">[<a href="#pb152">152</a>]</span>this point what a tragic picture unrolls before our eyes! When the stepmother married +she made herself the priestess, who was to erect a new statue in a deserted temple, +kindle a fresh flame amid the dead embers of a cold altar; she set herself the noble +task of becoming a mother to the orphan, creating a pleasant home for a lonely man, +bringing happiness and joy into a sorrowful family circle. And now, after years of +humble, but heroic labor and exertion, amid which the bloom of her life has withered, +here is the result; a cold-hearted child, whose soul is filled with hate and who is +unspeakably poor and pitiable because she lacks the treasure of sunny memories of +childhood, on <span class="pageNum" id="pb153">[<a href="#pb153">153</a>]</span>which we happier mortals can draw during a long life; a husband, whose home is distasteful +because he cannot endure the silent reproach in the sad eyes of his child, and she +herself, the wife, tortured by the most painful sting, bitter grief for a marred life, +an object of aversion to her husband, her foster-child, the whole careless world! +Who is to blame for such mournful results? The mother? The child? The father? Neither +of the three. It is the fault of the senselessness and malice of prejudiced people. +</p> +<p>This is the way in which the stepmother’s life presented itself to me, and I wish +that the whole world could see it with my eyes. Only how is the evil, when recognized, +<span class="pageNum" id="pb154">[<a href="#pb154">154</a>]</span>to be remedied? You, madame, would fain see the books of fairy tales, with their Snow-Whites +and wicked stepmothers abolished, or rather you would like to have these stories omitted +from the volume. That would be desirable and useful, but I fear it is impracticable. +Man is weak and irrational, and I confess that, notwithstanding its baneful tendencies, +which I admit, I would not for the world see Snow-White torn from my own childish +memories. I am afraid that it will not do to throw away, for the sake of stepchildren, +some of the most precious pearls in the treasury of fairy tales. The wisdom and tact +of the father, and the absolute sincerity of the stepmother can do more for the child. +<span class="pageNum" id="pb155">[<a href="#pb155">155</a>]</span></p> +<p>One thing is especially necessary: the woman who resolves to undertake the thankless +office of a stepmother must fully realize the magnitude of the task and the measure +of strength which she can bring to the fulfillment of her arduous duty. She is to +conquer a child’s heart, which is defended by a strong garrison of hostile insinuations, +and by constant watchfulness guard it against continual attacks; she must daily wage +a fierce warfare against the stupid, the thoughtless and the wicked people, in which +she will continually receive aching wounds; she must struggle and bleed for years, +alone and unaided, but at last victory will be hers, for in the battle against evil +and injustice <span class="pageNum" id="pb156">[<a href="#pb156">156</a>]</span>love always triumphs because it is the strongest of the three. If the future wife +feels that her powers will not be equal to this conflict, then let her remain away +from the house where children await a foster-mother; she would render it a hell for +them and for herself. But if the goal seems to her attainable and the road not too +rough, let her confidently take up the cross, for her reward will be rich and enviable. +She will work miracles such as can be wrought by love alone. The children will gradually +see the living image of the stepmother merge into the fading one of the dead mother, +and will no longer be able to separate the <span class="pageNum" id="pb157">[<a href="#pb157">157</a>]</span>one from the other. They will always hold the stepmother in grateful remembrance as +the angel whom God sent to the languishing Ishmael, when poor Hagar could no longer +obtain water for her child. Perhaps, in later years, when the second mother has followed +the first, foolish people will speak in the customary way of stepmothers, in the presence +of the children, whose heads already have the snow of years. Then they will—and, judging +from your letter, madame, I think you, too, would do the same—then they will look +upward with tearful eyes to the portrait of the dead stepmother, whispering: “Forgive +them, for they know not what they do!” +<span class="pageNum" id="pb158">[<a href="#pb158">158</a>]</span></p> +</div> +</div> +<div id="s6" class="div1 story"><span class="pageNum">[<a title="Go to the table of contents" href="#xd33e203">Contents</a>]</span><div class="divHead"> +<h2 class="main">“PAS DE CHANCE!”</h2> +</div> +<div class="divBody"> +<p class="first">The dissecting room in the old Hôtel Dieu, in Paris, which was torn down in the year +1877, was a strange and gruesome place. To reach it, one was obliged to go upstairs +and down, past the wards occupied by the sick, through spacious, lofty vestibules, +echoing corridors paved with tiles, turning now to the right, now to the left, and +across covered wooden bridges, spanning the little arm of the Seine which flowed between +the two buildings <span class="pageNum" id="pb159">[<a href="#pb159">159</a>]</span>of the hospital, and, after a walk of many minutes, finally descend into the spacious +subterranean chambers, which were the most ancient portion of a structure erected +many centuries ago, and dating from the early part of the Middle Ages. On reaching +the foot of the worn stone steps leading to the dissecting room, one found one’s self +in a narrow, unpaved outer cellar, lighted by a grated window above, and containing +at one end a low, rusty iron door as broad as it was high. A person familiar with +the place opened this door by turning a rude handle in the center, which moved a heavy, +creaking double-bolt inside, and entered a low vaulted chamber about fifteen <span class="pageNum" id="pb160">[<a href="#pb160">160</a>]</span>paces long and ten wide, which was very insufficiently lighted by two square grated +windows, which pierced the thick wall directly under the vaulted ceiling, and which +could be opened only when the Seine was low. The cellars of the Hôtel Dieu were below +the surface of the river, from which it was separated by its strong walls, overgrown +with moss and blackened by age, and when it rose ever so little, one could look from +the lower portions of the windows of the dissecting-room several inches into the turbid +waves of the river. Usually several gaslights burned here, filling the place with +a bright glare, in which human beings and all objects assumed unpleasantly <span class="pageNum" id="pb161">[<a href="#pb161">161</a>]</span>sharp outlines and a livid, disagreeable color, while dark shadows, like silhouettes, +were thrown upon the floor and walls. But it was a fitting illumination of the place +and its contents. The blackish-gray walls were always covered with a clammy moisture, +which, on the side facing the river, gathered here and there into thick drops, that +slowly, gradually trickled down on the slippery, dirty marble floor, and suggested, +even to the observer least susceptible to sentimental fancies, the sorrowful impression +of tears, held back by a strong will, yet slowly oozing forth. On the windowless side +of the room was a wash basin set in the wall, supplied with a faucet <span class="pageNum" id="pb162">[<a href="#pb162">162</a>]</span>and waste pipe. Several pieces of soap lay on it, and, upon a nail at the side, hung +towels of doubtful cleanliness, and a dilapidated yellow tablet which contained, in +faded letters, the rules of the dissecting room. On the opposite side six tables were +ranged in a row, above each of which a gas jet descended from the ceiling; the first, +of the usual shape, held a pair of scales and a number of rusty weights. The brass +balances, soiled with horrible fat and blood stains, showed the purpose for which +they were used—the weighing of diseased portions of the human body. The form of the +other five was peculiar. The top was long, narrow, slightly concave, like a trough +covered <span class="pageNum" id="pb163">[<a href="#pb163">163</a>]</span>with tin, a little inclined, wider at the upper end than at the lower, where it was +perforated by a hole leading into a metal pipe, which discharged its contents into +a tin pail standing under the narrow end of the table. These were the dissecting tables, +“Morgagni’s tables,” as we used to call them in our technical jargon. Upon them, surrounded +by knives, scissors, chisels and hammers of singular form, lay cold, rigid human forms, +in which the disciples of science searched with sacred curiosity to surprise, in the +mysterious depths of the organs, the secret of life. On the wall at the head of each +table hung a little blackboard, on which was fastened a label bearing the name, age, +and <span class="pageNum" id="pb164">[<a href="#pb164">164</a>]</span>date of death of the body beneath. At the back of the dissecting room was a glass +door, opening into an adjoining chamber, much smaller and lighted only by a single +window. Two laths, painted black, formed a cross extending from the floor to the ceiling +on the side wall, and several roughly-made coffins stood on the floor, which was thickly +covered with aromatic pine shavings. This was the death chamber. After dissection +the bodies were brought here, wrapped in a linen sheet supplied by the hospital, and +laid in the coffin to await burial. If within the next twelve hours relatives came +to claim the body, it was delivered to them; if not, it was conveyed the following +morning <span class="pageNum" id="pb165">[<a href="#pb165">165</a>]</span>in the hearse to the overseer of the poor, and buried in the paupers’ ground in the +cemetery of <span id="xd33e881">Père</span> la Chaise. The only living creature in these uncanny rooms, during the time when +no dissections were being made, was a beautiful white cat, which sprang gaily to meet +every one who entered and, mewing and purring, pressed and twisted around him, and +the master of the affectionate creature, a little, thin, one-eyed old man, who coughed +continually and had lived here thirty years, yet in the midst of the scene of constant +sorrow and destruction, in which he worked, maintained so cheerful a spirit that he +was always humming a gay little song while preparing the bodies for dissection, <span class="pageNum" id="pb166">[<a href="#pb166">166</a>]</span>or washing, sewing them up, and wrapping them in sheets after it. He assumed a serious, +nay, even melancholy mien, only when the relatives of any corpse came to carry away +their dead, for during the many years of his sorrowful occupation, the worthy man +had retained sufficient courtesy and consideration not to wound the feelings of the +mourners by displaying a face of business-like indifference or of cheerfulness. +</p> +<p>Most of the physicians and students who visited the Hôtel Dieu were in the habit, +at the close of the morning call, of going down to the dissecting room to see “what +there was new.” In the same way the habitué <span class="pageNum" id="pb167">[<a href="#pb167">167</a>]</span>of the theater, after witnessing the performance, goes on the stage to cast a glance +behind the scenes. One morning in May, 1877, following this custom, I entered the +subterranean chamber just described. The cat was sitting in the corner, washing her +fur, old Jean was busy with some empty coffins in the death chamber, one of the dissecting +tables was empty, while on the other four lay subjects. Around the first body, that +of a strong old man, who had died of a brain disease, stood a group of young people, +some with white aprons and blood-stained hands, others with hats on their heads, gloved +hands, and cigars in their mouths, eagerly discussing the ravages which the <span class="pageNum" id="pb168">[<a href="#pb168">168</a>]</span>knife had just disclosed, and the phenomena caused during the progress of the illness. +At the second and third tables the work was already done. A hasty glance at the cruelly +emaciated bodies and the organs on the table sufficed to reveal the cause of death. +“Consumption!” It is so common a disease, the ravages it produces in the organism +are so often seen, that people do not linger over it. So I passed on without delay +to the fifth table, the last in the row, and perceived that it contained a corpse +still undisturbed, the sight of which instantly filled me with sympathy. It was the +body of a woman, very young, and of remarkable beauty, whom death must <span class="pageNum" id="pb169">[<a href="#pb169">169</a>]</span>have snatched away in the midst of health. No long sickness could have preceded it, +for the outlines of the form were full, round, almost sensuous; illness had had no +time to caricature the noble lines of the figure by the ugly angles of emaciation. +The skin, in spite of the horrible chill which it sent through the whole frame to +the heart at the lightest touch of the finger-tips, was as smooth and fine as velvet, +and the hue so dazzlingly white that it had the iridescent tints of mother-of-pearl. +The features of the oval face had assumed, in the last agony, an expression of suffering +which death had stereotyped. The lips were slightly parted, revealing teeth which +resembled transparent <span class="pageNum" id="pb170">[<a href="#pb170">170</a>]</span>white enamel. The dark eyes were wide open, and the dull, glassy pupils gazed at me +with the leaden stare of a corpse. The shining black hair was gathered at the back +of the head into a knot held by several pins, which were half slipping out, and a +few waving locks still rested lightly on the smooth brow, as an unsuspecting little +child plays happily around its dead mother. The shadows of death shrouding the beautiful +form had not wholly effaced the bloom of youth. As it lay in its chaste, pure, classic +loveliness, one might believe that he had before him a Greek statue carved from Parian +marble. To examine the body on all sides I walked <span class="pageNum" id="pb171">[<a href="#pb171">171</a>]</span>around the table and, in doing so, made a discovery which increased the interest already +awakened by the mute, rigid form. The right arm of the corpse bore on the upper surface +several tattooed inscriptions. I read in one line: “Marie Balok,” below the date “1876,” +and below this, in a third line, the words: “<i lang="fr">Pas de chance!</i>” (No chance.) +</p> +<p>“<i lang="fr">Pas de chance!</i>” It seemed as if these words contained the sorrowful index of the hapless human life, +which a few hours before had found its pitiful end in a hospital bed. The label at +the head of the table informed me that “Marie Balok” had been the name of the body +and that she was not more than seventeen. <span class="pageNum" id="pb172">[<a href="#pb172">172</a>]</span>Old Jean, in reply to my questions, could tell me that the beautiful Marie had been +brought to the hospital the night before and had died a few minutes after. She was +at a dancing hall in the outer boulevards, and, from jealousy, made a furious scene +with a young man; in the midst of the outburst of her rage she suddenly sank fainting; +when they were unable to revive her by dashing cold water on her and using scent bottles, +two of her women friends put her into a carriage and brought her to the hospital, +where they gave the physician on duty the explanation Jean repeated. The girl had +died without recovering her consciousness, and early in the morning she had been <span class="pageNum" id="pb173">[<a href="#pb173">173</a>]</span>brought down to the dissecting room. +</p> +<p>This much the label and old Jean could tell me. But far more than either was revealed +by the words tattooed on the girl’s arm: “<i lang="fr">Pas de chance!</i>” I had before me the title of a biographical romance, and, with little difficulty, +read in the dim eyes, on the pale lips and snow-white form of the corpse the romance +itself from the first to the last chapter. Marie Balok, her name proved it, was the +child of foreigners, who had come to Paris as ten thousand other foreigners do every +year to seek a more favorable place for the battle of life. Her father was a workman +in Belleville, or on the slopes of Montmartre. Marie <span class="pageNum" id="pb174">[<a href="#pb174">174</a>]</span>had grown up in dirt and poverty, played during the day in the dust and the gutters +of the streets of the suburb, and at night went home to find a crust of bread and +a pallet in the corner of the room with her parents. She was ten or eleven years old +when the insurrection of the Commune occurred. Her father put on the uniform of the +insurgents, her mother followed the battalion as a vivandière or a nurse. Eight or +nine weeks passed like a whirlwind, and ended with her mother’s leaning against a +wall one beautiful May morning and being shot as a petroleuse, and her father’s first +being driven to Versailles with blows from the butt ends of muskets, and then sent +to New Caledonia. +<span class="pageNum" id="pb175">[<a href="#pb175">175</a>]</span></p> +<p>Marie was left alone in the world, without relatives or acquaintances, like a young +swallow thrust from the nest, which must perish miserably in the dust unless Heaven +works a miracle in its behalf. The beginning of this miracle was apparently wrested +from iron-hearted fate. Marie neither starved to death in summer, nor froze during +the following winter. A family of work people, poor and wretched themselves, received +the still poorer and more wretched child, and gave it a seat at the scantily spread +table and a place on the floor of the bare room. It learned to do something, sewing, +embroidery, or flower-making, and soon earned so much that it was no longer compelled +to accept <span class="pageNum" id="pb176">[<a href="#pb176">176</a>]</span>the favors of the kindhearted neighbors as alms. Thus Marie spent several years until +she had become a blooming, beautiful girl of fifteen. People cannot be beautiful, +young, and poor in Paris, unpunished. A temptation sprang from every stone in the +pavement, and the finger of evil beckoned to her at every street corner. Soon she +no longer went to her work alone, nor returned home without a companion. She found +it inconvenient to live with her benefactors, and one day left them to go to a garret +room in a shabby house in Montmartre, with a lover in blouse and silk cap. Now, scarcely +beyond childhood, she began to lead the life of a solitary <span class="pageNum" id="pb177">[<a href="#pb177">177</a>]</span>Parisian working girl. Toil during the day, in the evening a ball, the cancan till +midnight, blows from the friend, hunger, rags, misery, singing and merriment, and +withal, total forgetfulness of the past and the future. If a friend carried palpable +jealousy too far, she dismissed him unceremoniously with a scornful shrug of the shoulders, +and sought another, with whom she remained until the vague, burning longing for happiness +and contentment, which filled her heart, urged her once more into new and unknown +paths. +</p> +<p>It was in the summer of the year 1876 when, one Sunday, she went on an excursion to +St. Germain with the friend whom she <span class="pageNum" id="pb178">[<a href="#pb178">178</a>]</span>was making happy by her affection. These summer Sunday excursions to the charming +places near the city are the object of longing to all Parisian work-women, who go +fairly crazy with joy when they have the prospect of skipping about on the grass during +a whole warm, sunny day, gathering flowers, catching butterflies, and singing sentimental +songs in the arbor of a country tavern over a bottle of wine. Marie had been gay to +the verge of recklessness all day long, had laughed and chattered and sung till she +was hoarse and thirsty; in the evening she found herself, with her friend, in a restaurant +of St. Germain; they were alone in the tavern, and emptied one glass <span class="pageNum" id="pb179">[<a href="#pb179">179</a>]</span>after another of the cheap wine of the neighborhood. The friend, who had taken off +his coat and rolled up his shirt sleeves to cool himself, was tattooed on the arm +like most Paris workmen. There, in various colors, was a flaming heart, two hearts +transfixed by a huge arrow as if on a spit, and several names, dates, and inscriptions, +such as “Ever Thine!” or “Faithful unto Death!” Marie saw these signs and figures, +and a reckless thought darted through her mind. “Tattoo my arm, too!” she cried, and +the workman, bursting into a loud laugh, asked what he should tattoo. “First, my name; +so that I can try whether it hurts.” +</p> +<p>No sooner said than done. <span class="pageNum" id="pb180">[<a href="#pb180">180</a>]</span>Some indigo was quickly obtained, Marie had a needle, and the workman went to work +at once. At every prick Marie uttered a faint cry and shrank away a little, but in +the pauses she laughed and drank, and the workman did not stop until in large, distinct +letters appeared the name: “Marie Balok.” +</p> +<p>“Shall I tattoo anything else?” +</p> +<p>“Yes, the date.” +</p> +<p>Five minutes after the date, “1876,” was inscribed beneath the name. While the workman +was rubbing indigo into the little wounds, from each of which a tiny drop of blood +was oozing, the landlord brought in a fresh bottle of wine, and Marie soothed the +slight pain of the operation <span class="pageNum" id="pb181">[<a href="#pb181">181</a>]</span>with another drink. The man eyed his work approvingly, and then asked: +</p> +<p>“Are you satisfied?” +</p> +<p>“Yes, my dear fellow.” +</p> +<p>“Don’t you want to add something to it? A name and a date—that’s silly. We’ll make +it more amusing. Shall I draw an emblem?” +</p> +<p>“No.” +</p> +<p>“Or a motto?” +</p> +<p>“Stop, you’re right. A motto—that’s it. But what shall it be? Let me think.” +</p> +<p>The workman proposed some of the usual amorous phrases, but Marie would not accept +them. The usual relapse had followed the exuberant mirthfulness of the day, and she +now sank into a melancholy <span class="pageNum" id="pb182">[<a href="#pb182">182</a>]</span>reverie. Perhaps, for the first time in her life, she looked back upon her past and +found it miserable beyond measure. A wicked fairy seemed to have sat beside her cradle. +Every phase of her existence appeared to be under the influence of a curse. Born in +poverty, orphaned, growing up in penury, living in shame, vegetating without a future, +without a purpose, without pleasure,—this was her past, her present, her future destiny, +and her eyes involuntarily filled with tears, as she examined this dark, hideous picture, +destitute of light and beauty. And when her friend roused her from her sorrowful reverie +with the exclamation: “Then find a motto yourself, if you don’t like <span class="pageNum" id="pb183">[<a href="#pb183">183</a>]</span>mine!” She condensed the substance of her life, as it presented itself to her mental +vision, into a phrase which, in this application, lost its triviality, and charged +itself with profound desolation as if with electricity, as with a sorrowful smile +she said to the workman: “Tattoo <i lang="fr">Pas de chance</i>! That is the real motto of my life.” +</p> +<p>No chance! It was not only the motto of her life, it was also a prophecy. Poor Marie +was to have no happiness to the end. Barely seventeen, in the dawn of her young life, +only a few months after she had had the sorrowful, resigned motto inscribed upon her +arm, she died in a hospital bed. This was the story of beautiful Marie, as, standing +beside her lifeless <span class="pageNum" id="pb184">[<a href="#pb184">184</a>]</span>body, I imagined it. Was it really her history? I cannot warrant it, but it is probable. +But it is certain that the lovely young girl lay dead before me on the table, and +that on the pearly skin of her plump, nobly-moulded arm, as if written in blue, phosphorescent +characters by the finger of a malicious demon, were the words: “<i lang="fr">Pas de chance!</i>” +</p> +<p>The dissection showed that Marie had suffered from a defect in the valvular action +of the heart. This explained her sudden death in a moment of passionate excitement. +I waited until all was over, the other physicians had left the room, and old Jean +came forward with his big needle and coarse woolen thread to attend <span class="pageNum" id="pb185">[<a href="#pb185">185</a>]</span>to the body. Now I closed the beautiful Marie’s open eyes, still staring at me with +a strange, vacant glance, and slowly withdrew. As I closed the heavy iron door of +the dissecting room behind me, it seemed as if, from the last table at the end of +the hall, a faint, ghostly voice whispered in my ears: “<i lang="fr">Pas de chance!</i>” +</p> +<p></p> +<div class="figure p185width"><img src="images/p185.png" alt="" data-role="presentation" width="105" height="75"></div><p> +<span class="pageNum" id="pb186">[<a href="#pb186">186</a>]</span></p> +</div> +</div> +<div id="s7" class="div1 story"><span class="pageNum">[<a title="Go to the table of contents" href="#xd33e209">Contents</a>]</span><div class="divHead"> +<h2 class="main">HOW THE FOX HUNTER FARED IN ENGLAND.</h2> +</div> +<div class="divBody"> +<p class="first">Baron K. is one of the pleasantest young fellows I ever met. In fact, he possesses +the rarest combination of all the qualities which cannot fail to make a man the favorite +of every circle. He captivates women by his twenty-five years, a handsome, slender +figure, expressive dark eyes, and a coquettish little moustache; men he wins by the +chivalrous frankness of his nature, and his heartfelt and therefore contagious <span class="pageNum" id="pb187">[<a href="#pb187">187</a>]</span>cheerfulness. He speaks several languages with great fluency, is an admirable conversationalist, +who would appear to advantage in any Parisian drawing-room; he dances admirably, sings +well in a fine baritone voice, plays excellently on the piano, and does not easily +find a rival as a horseman, fencer or shot. Aristocratic birth and a fortune which, +according to Continental ideas, is considerable, placed him from early youth in a +position which enabled him to develop his social talents and put his light into a +suitable candlestick. +</p> +<p>I made his acquaintance in London, in the spring of the year 1874. He had apparently +given himself up completely to <span class="pageNum" id="pb188">[<a href="#pb188">188</a>]</span>the swelling flood-tide of the “season,” and let it bear him unresistingly away. His +days and nights were spent at the clubs, in Hyde Park, at dinners, theaters, and evening +parties. He was rarely in any costume except a dress suit and a white cravat, and +if any one wished to be sure of finding him in his elegant lodgings in Bruton street, +he was obliged to go there between five and eleven o’clock in the morning and feel +no hesitation about rousing him from his sleep. An introduction from his ambassador, +Count B., secured him admittance to the best circles, and there were few of the most +prominent families where he could not be found at least once a fortnight, singing +<span class="pageNum" id="pb189">[<a href="#pb189">189</a>]</span>Hungarian folk songs, playing the czardas, and awakening universal enthusiasm. The +“nice Hungarian” often formed the subject of very animated conversations between young +and older ladies, and once, when contrary to English custom, he appeared in the drawing-room +of Alderman Sir Frederick Fr. in the rich, gold-embroidered uniform of a Honved Hussar +lieutenant, he created the greatest sensation, and even a young Tamil prince who was +present, attired in a gay silk caftan, with a girdle of gold brocade and a cachemire +shawl turban, in which blazed a magnificent ruby, could not divert the attention of +the company from our baron<span id="xd33e988">.</span> Though the favorite <span class="pageNum" id="pb190">[<a href="#pb190">190</a>]</span>of so many circles, received everywhere with open arms, and loaded with half a dozen +invitations for every evening, Baron K. showed a very marked preference for the home +of Mr. George F. +</p> +<p>The master of the house, a member of Parliament for one of the central counties of +England, is one of the most eminent sportsmen in the country; he has broken all his +limbs, and once very nearly his neck, in fox-hunting, won the Queen’s cup at Wimbledon, +was one of the champions of his county versus the neighboring one, at cricket, fifteen +years ago, and if he did not conquer, it was only because he had the misfortune of +being <span class="pageNum" id="pb191">[<a href="#pb191">191</a>]</span>pitted against the champion of the United Kingdom; but to succumb with honor to such +an antagonist is more glorious than to conquer a Mr. Nobody. Mr. F.’s library contains +all the numbers of the <i>Field</i> bound in handsome volumes; he has a copy of the first edition of Isaak Walton’s superb +book on angling, obtained at an auction of Christie, Mason & Co.’s for 115 guineas, +and in his private reception room, besides a fine collection of dog and horse whips +and pretty models of saddles of every form, the eyes are specially attracted by a +large number of fox brushes tastefully arranged, the most precious trophies of as +many hunting seasons, in which he took <span class="pageNum" id="pb192">[<a href="#pb192">192</a>]</span>part as one of the most esteemed sportsmen. +</p> +<p>It is apparent that Mr. George F. is a sufficiently interesting person for it to be +perfectly natural that Baron K. should prefer him to many others, but I do not believe +that it was the master of the house who attracted our friend so often to the elegant +residence on Albion street. Mr. F. has a daughter, a charming creature of nineteen, +slender and pliant as a reed, with the roseate complexion which Nature bestows on +English women in their cradles as an enviable gift and a national inheritance, and +sparkling blue eyes, into which one cannot look without instantly feeling the most +intense poetic sentiments. <span class="pageNum" id="pb193">[<a href="#pb193">193</a>]</span>There are satisfactory reasons for the assertion that Miss Bridget, not her papa, +was the great magnet of the F. household for our friend. The relation between Baron +K. and the F. family soon became one of great intimacy. The young Hungarian and the +beautiful Bridget F. rode together alone in Hyde Park; in Drury Lane<span id="xd33e1004">;</span> and at Her Majesty’s Theater they were always in the same box<span id="xd33e1007">;</span> in going to Ascot Baron K. did not fail to accompany the F. family; in short, no +one could doubt that their intercourse meant something more than the mere acquaintanceship +of fashionable society. In fact, Baron K. had already made Bridget a formal declaration +of love; she had asked <span class="pageNum" id="pb194">[<a href="#pb194">194</a>]</span>him, in the usual way, to speak to mamma, at the same time assuring him, with a lovely +blush, that she would not fail to support his wishes, and papa had already taken one +step: he had closely questioned certain persons, to whom Baron K. introduced him, +about his family and his position at home. Fortune played no part in the affair, for +Miss Bridget, according to the statements of well-informed people, was “worth 18,000 +a year”—ten times as much as the baron possessed. +</p> +<p>The happy suitor now withdrew more and more from general society, in order to devote +himself exclusively to Bridget, he could already venture to say <i>his</i> Bridget. <span class="pageNum" id="pb195">[<a href="#pb195">195</a>]</span>He spent all his evenings with her, and went to entertainments only when he knew that +she would be present also. +</p> +<p>One evening, as had so often happened of late, he was taking tea with the F. family. +No one was in the drawing-room except the father, mother, and daughter, and our friend. +The conversation turned upon sporting matters, and Mr. F. asked if there was any fox-hunting +in Hungary. +</p> +<p>“I should think so!” exclaimed Baron K. eagerly. “Foxes are as numerous in some parts +of our country as hares are here! I myself shot five specimens of Mr. Charley in a +single day.” +</p> +<p>“What?” cried Mr. and Mrs. F. in the same breath, the former <span class="pageNum" id="pb196">[<a href="#pb196">196</a>]</span>starting from his rocking chair, the latter dropping her tea-cup, while Bridget could +not repress a low cry of terror. +</p> +<p>Baron K. was silenced by bewilderment, and a brief, painful pause followed. He could +not imagine what there had been in his words to produce so startling an effect upon +his hearers, and hit upon the luckless idea that they perhaps suspected him of exaggeration. +So, after a few minutes, he added somewhat timidly: “You may believe me, I have shot +five foxes in a day and, in a battue, even more!” +</p> +<p>“Oh!” said Mr. F, and made no farther comment. Bridget cast imploring glances at the +speaker, which caused him still greater <span class="pageNum" id="pb197">[<a href="#pb197">197</a>]</span>embarrassment, because he did not understand in the least, and Mrs. F. rang for the +servant to remove the fragments of the cup. Poor Baron K. did not know what to think. +He ventured to ask Mrs. F. what had startled her so, but received only the reply, +accompanied by an icy glance. “Oh, nothing, a little nervousness, but it’s over now.” +Mr. F. suddenly remembered that he must read the long parliamentary report which had +been sent to him that day, and even Bridget remarked that she had a headache. It was +impossible not to understand. So Baron K. bade them good evening, and retired, but +was not a little perplexed when he saw that Mr. <span class="pageNum" id="pb198">[<a href="#pb198">198</a>]</span>F. did not shake hands with him, and the lady of the house did not, as usual, invite +him to come again soon. +</p> +<p>The young man set out on his walk home with a heavy heart and a whirling brain. He +was in no mood to seek other society, though it was only eleven o’clock. So he strolled +about the park for an hour, pondering with the utmost earnestness, with all his penetration, +over the incidents of the evening, yet without being able to obtain the least clue +to the mystery. It was barely midnight when he sought his couch, but he tossed about +in his spacious bed, which was almost as large as a bedroom of moderate size on the +Continent, <span class="pageNum" id="pb199">[<a href="#pb199">199</a>]</span>until morning dawned, without finding sleep. +</p> +<p>The next day he reached a decision. He would go to Mr. F. and ask openly, frankly, +and without circumlocution, for an explanation of the scene of the previous evening. +He waited in feverish impatience until one o’clock, and the hour had scarcely struck +when, though not without hesitation, he let the “knocker” fall on the metal plate +of the well-known door in Albion street. The footman opened it. His face wore a peculiar +expression as he said that—no one was at home. “Not Mrs. F.?” “No one.” “Nor Miss +F.?” “No one, sir. I’ve already said so twice.” “And <span class="pageNum" id="pb200">[<a href="#pb200">200</a>]</span>when will they return?” “Oh, that’s hard to tell. Not to-day, nor to-morrow. Who knows.” +</p> +<p>Baron K. cast a contemptuous glance at the lackey, and went away. But he could not +help feeling the bang with which the footman closed the door as an insult. What was +to be done now? He must have a clear understanding at any cost<span id="xd33e1042">.</span> Entering a stationer’s shop at the corner of Oxford street and Park lane, he wrote +a few hasty lines to Mr. F. The London mail is prompt and punctual. An hour and a +half after, the postman’s familiar double knock echoed on Baron K.’s door; the housekeeper +brought in a letter, which he snatched from her hand in the utmost excitement, <span class="pageNum" id="pb201">[<a href="#pb201">201</a>]</span>only to drop it the next moment, fairly stupefied. It was his own note, on whose back +Mr. F. himself had written: “Not accepted. Return to Baron K.” +</p> +<p>An hour after the poor young fellow was seated in the elegant reading room of the +Army and Navy Club, into which a friend had introduced him as a guest for several +weeks; he held in his hand the last number of the <i>Echo</i>, but, instead of reading, he was gazing into vacancy. His frank countenance showed +mental agitation which even a dull eye could not fail to notice. At this hour he was +almost alone in the spacious apartments of the aristocratic club, and, consequently, +almost unobserved. But he did <span class="pageNum" id="pb202">[<a href="#pb202">202</a>]</span>not remain solitary long. One of his most intimate friends, Captain W., entered, looked +around in search of acquaintances, and as soon as he saw Baron K. came up to him, +shook hands, and exclaimed loudly: “What brings you here at so unusual an hour, old +fellow?” But, glancing keenly at him, he instantly added in an altered tone: “How +you look! Are you ill? Is anything wrong?” +</p> +<p>The other burst into a peal of angry laughter as he replied: “Not ill, but crazy. +If, perhaps, I am not already, I soon shall be! But Heaven sends you to me; perhaps +you can give me some explanation. Listen. Yesterday evening I was at Mr. F.’s.” +<span class="pageNum" id="pb203">[<a href="#pb203">203</a>]</span></p> +<p>“I know,” interrupted the captain, with a significant smile. +</p> +<p>“Well, I was at Mr. F.’s. We were talking together in the pleasantest manner about +various matters; I told him that, in Hungary, I had shot five foxes and even more +in a single day—” +</p> +<p>“What?” exclaimed the captain, sharply. “You mean killed!” +</p> +<p>“Why yes, killed, shot dead.” +</p> +<p>“Oh! I see,” answered the captain, in a voice whose chill fairly froze the marrow +in K.’s bones, and, without another syllable, he turned on his heel, went to the next +table, took up a magazine, and walked slowly to an armchair. +</p> +<p>K. looked after him a moment with dilated eyes and open <span class="pageNum" id="pb204">[<a href="#pb204">204</a>]</span>mouth, then, reaching his side at a single bound, he grasped his shoulder with a trembling +hand and fairly roared into, his ears: +</p> +<p>“You too! This is an actual conspiracy! But you must give me an explanation, you shall +not escape.” +</p> +<p>The captain looked at the excited young man before him with the cold apathy of the +Englishman, shrugged his shoulders, and answered very calmly: +</p> +<p>“I don’t wish to have anything to do with you, sir.” +</p> +<p>The two or three men who were in the room began to turn their heads toward the pair +and, when K. continued to demand explanations from Captain W. in vehement tones, the +latter quietly <span class="pageNum" id="pb205">[<a href="#pb205">205</a>]</span>left the apartment, while the poor baron remained a prey to the most conflicting emotions. +He let himself drop into an armchair, buried his face in his hands, and thought of +nothing at all. But he was not to retain this position long undisturbed. Scarcely +ten minutes had passed ere a servant entered, stopped before K., and, with a courteous +bow, offered him a note on a silver tray. +</p> +<p>Baron K. opened it; it contained only the following words, very hurriedly written: +</p> +<p>“Upon an oral report made by Captain W., the secretary of the Army and Navy Club begs +to inform Baron K. that he shall not be considered any longer the guest of our club.” +<span class="pageNum" id="pb206">[<a href="#pb206">206</a>]</span></p> +<p>Baron K. did not utter a word, but convulsively crushed the note, thrust it into his +pocket and left the room. +</p> +<p>He went directly to the embassy, where he found a young friend, whom he entreated +to aid him in an affair of honor. But the other, shrugging his shoulders, said that +he could not serve if the person to be challenged was an Englishman. Besides, he must +be on his guard, for the authorities here understood no jesting in these matters. +</p> +<p>Baron K. went out with his wrath unappeased; he had only one thought—vengeance. Captain +W. was an officer and a member of the Horse Guards, he could not avoid giving him +satisfaction. <span class="pageNum" id="pb207">[<a href="#pb207">207</a>]</span>Without troubling himself any farther about seconds, he went home and wrote a letter, +in which he challenged him to meet him with arms in his hands unless he desired to +be declared a miserable coward and chastised in the public streets. The letter was +posted, and Baron K. felt somewhat calmer. He spent this evening at home, for he had +a secret hope that Captain W. would answer at once. But half-past nine o’clock came, +the last double knocks echoed and died away in the street, but this time none sounded +at his door. The next morning also the expected reply did not arrive, but, late in +the afternoon, he received an official document, summoning him <span class="pageNum" id="pb208">[<a href="#pb208">208</a>]</span>to appear the next morning at eleven o’clock before the Westminster Police Court, +on pain of legal penalties, etc., etc. +</p> +<p>Baron K. went from one state of astonishment to another; he no longer knew what to +think of himself, the English, the world, and began to feel really ill. Under such +circumstances the hours passed slowly enough, he naturally felt no inclination for +society, and it seemed as if, in the last two days, he had lived ten years, when, +punctually at eleven o’clock the next morning, he appeared before the alderman who +acted as judge in the Westminster Police Court. He had not long to wait. First a cabman +was condemned to pay <span class="pageNum" id="pb209">[<a href="#pb209">209</a>]</span>four shillings and sixpence because he had charged a passenger three pence too much, +then Baron K. heard his own name called. Advancing to the judge, he asked what was +wanted. The judge showed him the letter which he had written to Captain W. and asked +if he knew the epistle. K assented. Did he acknowledge that he was its author? Another +affirmative answer. Was it a jest, or had he been serious in the challenge and threats +which the letter contained? Very serious, K. answered. +</p> +<p>The judge then raised his voice, saying impressively: +</p> +<p>“I ought to condemn you, for disturbance of the peace and dangerous <span class="pageNum" id="pb210">[<a href="#pb210">210</a>]</span>threats, to three months imprisonment with hard labor, but in consideration of the +fact that you are a young, ignorant, foolish foreigner, unfamiliar with the laws of +the country, you need only pay a fine of fifty pounds sterling. You must, however, +find two persons who will give bail that you will keep the peace for six months, and +you must also keep in mind that if you utter even the slightest threat you will be +sentenced to hard labor!” +</p> +<p>A few days after the incidents related, I chanced to meet Baron K. in the Zoological +Gardens, where, with a friend—an author who had traveled extensively and possessed +much experience of the world—I was inspecting some animals <span class="pageNum" id="pb211">[<a href="#pb211">211</a>]</span>which had just arrived. I thought that K. was greatly altered and told him so. He +laughed bitterly, and answered: +</p> +<p><span id="xd33e1099">“</span>Pray don’t ask me to tell you the reason, otherwise the same thing might happen which +has already befallen me twice.” +</p> +<p>But as I urged him, he at last resolved to gratify my wishes. When I had heard the +story as I have just related it, I stood still and stared at him in astonishment, +as much bewildered as Baron K. himself. The English author who was in our company +smiled in amusement and, after looking at the luckless young fellow a while, he said: +</p> +<p>“Then you do not know that to shoot a fox, or to kill it in <span class="pageNum" id="pb212">[<a href="#pb212">212</a>]</span>any way except with a pack of hounds, horses, etc., is a far baser crime, in the eyes +of the majority of my countrymen, than to steal a purse? You do not know that there +is scarcely a gentleman in England who would give his hand to a man who had killed +a fox with a bullet?” +</p> +<p>We certainly had not known it, but it was true. Baron K. was now a wiser, but a sadder +man. He left England soon after, and I shall not be surprised to hear that he does +not express the kindest opinions of the island kingdom and its inhabitants. +<span class="pageNum" id="pb213">[<a href="#pb213">213</a>]</span></p> +</div> +</div> +<div id="s8" class="div1 last-child story"><span class="pageNum">[<a title="Go to the table of contents" href="#xd33e217">Contents</a>]</span><div class="divHead"> +<h2 class="main">WITHIN AN INCH OF ETERNITY.</h2> +</div> +<div class="divBody"> +<p class="first">The windows of the restaurant were open, and the cool, fragrant air of the spring +night was struggling with the smoke-laden atmosphere of the room. A glance out of +doors showed the azure sky and the brilliant full moon, whose glimmering bluish rays +shone through the young leafage of the blossoming trees, which swayed gently to and +fro before the windows in the light breeze. But nothing was more remote <span class="pageNum" id="pb214">[<a href="#pb214">214</a>]</span>from the minds of our circle, which met every evening at a certain table for social +intercourse, than poetical ideas. The club, of which I was one, consisted principally +of worthy citizens, who had a far greater liking for bright gaslight than for dim +moonlight, and who appreciated the charms of a good supper much more than the spell +of the loveliest spring night. The topic of our conversation was prosaic town gossip, +which, as usual, gradually merged into foolish talk about politics or discussions +concerning the Government, the theater, high taxes, and similar subjects. By a connection +of ideas which I do not now recall, the question had arisen whether it was credible +<span class="pageNum" id="pb215">[<a href="#pb215">215</a>]</span>that a person’s hair could suddenly turn gray from violent mental excitement. Part +of the company received the anecdotes current about such cases with slight doubts, +while others most pitilessly derided persons who were simple enough to believe such +nursery tales. +</p> +<p>Just as the conversation became most animated, a man of unusual height and herculean +frame, whom he had not previously noticed, rose from a side table and approached us. +His intelligent features, which bore the stamp of resolution, seemed spiritualized +by the large, kindly blue eyes. But the most striking peculiarity in his appearance +was the snow white hair and the gray beard framing <span class="pageNum" id="pb216">[<a href="#pb216">216</a>]</span>his face, which, at the utmost, indicated an age of only thirty-five years. +</p> +<p>“Pardon me if I enter into your conversation,” he said, bowing courteously. “You are +speaking of a subject which greatly interests me. I myself am a living proof that +terrible mental agitation really does exert the physical influence which you all doubt.” +</p> +<p>His words awakened the utmost interest. We made room for him at our table, and, after +he had taken his seat, unanimously urged him to tell us what had caused the whiteness +of his hair. +</p> +<p>The stranger feigned no undue modesty, but yielded to our entreaties and related the +following story: +<span class="pageNum" id="pb217">[<a href="#pb217">217</a>]</span></p> +<p>“If you have ever paid any attention to American affairs, the name of Auburn cannot +be unfamiliar; it has about the same significance in the United States as Spielberg +has in Austria. You must not imagine Auburn as an immense gloomy prison, a single +large building, but rather a whole colony of criminals, a metropolis of the miserable +outcasts of society. Inclosed by enormous walls, which rise menacingly to a considerable +height above the plain, are a great number of single structures, houses which contain +the cells of the prisoners, the residences of the wardens, barracks, hospitals, and +workshops, all desolate and dreary, with here and there a bit of turf, a row of <span class="pageNum" id="pb218">[<a href="#pb218">218</a>]</span>trees, a bed of flowers, like an innocent memory of childhood among the evil thoughts +of a criminal. +</p> +<p>“Circumstances which I will not weary you by recounting had led me, after completing +my education in my native city, Hamburg, to America, and after a brief time in New +York I found myself prison surgeon in Auburn, which, as perhaps you know, is in the +State of New York. +</p> +<p>“I had charge of a part of the prison which contained the worst criminals, men, or, +rather, human hyenas, to whom blood had ceased to be a very special liquid, as Mephistopheles +terms it. Two, who were condemned to lifelong imprisonment in the institution, <span class="pageNum" id="pb219">[<a href="#pb219">219</a>]</span>and were distinguished among the others by great bodily strength, craftiness, and +intelligence, had, in consequence of repeated bold and cunning attempts to escape, +been placed under more rigid oversight than the rest. I had incurred their special +hate because I had once caused the discovery of several iron tools, which—heaven knows +how obtained—they had concealed under their clothing, and on another occasion discovered +that they were shamming when, on the plea of illness, they desired to be placed in +the hospital, probably because they hoped to find the conditions there more favorable +for their plans of escape. The scoundrels were separated and heavily chained, but +nevertheless <span class="pageNum" id="pb220">[<a href="#pb220">220</a>]</span>one morning one and, a few days later, the other vanished, chains and all, without +leaving a trace. About a fortnight afterward I went to Cayuga Bridge on some private +business. +</p> +<p>“It was noon when I reached the end of my ride, and I gazed with delight at the sunlit +landscape before my eyes. Cayuga Lake, one of those which, with Lake Erie, form the +network of inland lakes, lay before me in its peculiar loveliness. Between rugged, +rocky shores, confronting each other like sullen foes, the long, narrow sheet of silver +extended its clear surface as if striving to reconcile the two enemies who had stared +defiantly at each other for centuries. Across <span class="pageNum" id="pb221">[<a href="#pb221">221</a>]</span>the lake, which is about forty miles long, and, at this point, a mile wide, the railway +trains run on an immense wooden bridge, a marvel of American enterprise, which has +a station at Cayuga Bridge, an insignificant village. +</p> +<p>“My business was soon completed, and toward evening I set out on my way home. Are +you familiar with the pleasure of a ride on a summer evening? Cayuga Bridge is surrounded +by extensive oak forests, through which I had to ride a considerable distance. The +huge, lofty trunks cast long shadows and the tops rustled so softly that one rather +felt than heard them. As I passed beneath these woodland giants, sweet <span class="pageNum" id="pb222">[<a href="#pb222">222</a>]</span>memories of my far-off home stole into my heart. Absorbed in thought, I loosened the +bridle of my horse, which trotted slowly forward. I admired the bewitching blending +of colors produced by the rays of the setting sun, as they shone through the dense, +dark green foliage and seemed to kindle the edges of the leaves. Suddenly I was roused +from my dreams by a rustling in the underbrush on both sides of the road. I seized +my pistol and turned quickly, but at the same moment received a terrible blow, which +deprived me of my senses. True, I opened my eyes once more and fancied I saw indistinctly, +as if in a dream, one of the escaped criminals bending <span class="pageNum" id="pb223">[<a href="#pb223">223</a>]</span>over me, then darkness shrouded my mind. +</p> +<p>“It must have been late at night when consciousness returned. I opened my eyes and +saw above me in the deep blue sky a radiant full moon. A dull, heavy sensation in +the back of my head made me try to put my hand on the aching spot, but I discovered +that I was bound hand and foot. Gradually I collected my thoughts, remembered the +attack by highwaymen, and a terrible foreboding, which made my heart stop beating, +darted through my brain. I felt that I was laid across two sharp parallel projections, +which pressed against me most painfully and, listening intently, I heard, far below +me, a faint splashing noise. <span class="pageNum" id="pb224">[<a href="#pb224">224</a>]</span>There was no doubt—I was lying across the rails of the Cayuga Bridge, bound, unable +to move, with the terribly certain prospect of being cut into three pieces by the +next train. +</p> +<p>“I almost lost consciousness again. But I soon recovered my composure. Then I tugged +desperately at my bonds till they almost cut my muscles, shrieked, and at last wept +like a child. I tried to roll myself into a different position, and remembered that +an incautious movement would hurl me into the silent waves of the Cayuga—bound hand +and foot, motionless as a stone. +</p> +<p>“I shuddered and lay still. But not long. The light of the large, to me, fearfully +brilliant moon, <span class="pageNum" id="pb225">[<a href="#pb225">225</a>]</span>the plashing of the water below, the wind blowing softly, then the deathlike silence +again, rarely interrupted even by the distant note of a bird—all became unendurable +and inspired me with unspeakable terror. And the rails! The rails! My senses tortured +me. I could not escape them. The wooden beams of the bridge trembled almost imperceptibly +from the washing of the water. I imagined I felt the approach of the train and my +hair bristled; the wind sighed a little louder, I fancied I heard the dull panting +of the engine and my heart stood still, only to throb the next instant with such dreadful +speed that the pulsations were almost audible. +<span class="pageNum" id="pb226">[<a href="#pb226">226</a>]</span></p> +<p>“There are some things, gentlemen, which are totally incomprehensible to me; one of +them is how I survived that night. One thought stood distinctly before my mind. I +must endeavor to work myself into another position—if possible, get into the space +between the rails—if I was not, perhaps the next moment, to become the victim of the +most agonizing death. +</p> +<p>“And I succeeded! I strained every muscle, every sinew to the point of breaking. I +writhed, I twisted, I panted, my head seemed bursting, and, after tremendous exertion, +which appeared to me to last an eternity, though perhaps it was only moments, I found +myself in the hollow between the rails. +<span class="pageNum" id="pb227">[<a href="#pb227">227</a>]</span></p> +<p>“Was I safe? I had not time to consider or rejoice in my new hope, for all my vital +powers were concentrated in the single sense of hearing. In the far distance I distinguished, +at first vaguely, then more and more distinctly, the regular, monotonous, dull noise +which is produced by the engine of a moving locomotive. The awful silence of the night +merged minute by minute into the still more awful, confused jarring sounds, the rattling +and groaning, rumbling and panting of a locomotive, which was rushing forward at the +mad speed of American trains. A thousand feet more, five hundred—all the terrors of +the infernal regions assailed me, but not a muscle <span class="pageNum" id="pb228">[<a href="#pb228">228</a>]</span>moved; I lay as if turned to stone. I tried to shriek, but did not even hear my own +voice; how should it reach those on the train? +</p> +<p>“Now, for an infinitely brief space of time, I fancied that I saw a bright light, +a blast of hot air fanned me, then suddenly darkness shrouded me, I heard a thundering +roar as though the very heavens were falling. +</p> +<p>“Close, very close, barely an inch above, the monster dashed over me—I was safe. Still +half unconscious, I heard a deafening rumbling and clattering, and saw shadowy masses +flit by; there was another moment of mortal dread—the hook of a chain which hung lower +than the rest caught <span class="pageNum" id="pb229">[<a href="#pb229">229</a>]</span>me, dragged me along a few feet and finally tore a large piece from the breast of +my coat, releasing me—then every object danced around me, the moon, the bridge, and +the high bank whirled in a giddy maze above and below me, and my senses failed. +</p> +<p>“When I regained my consciousness I found myself in my bed, with familiar faces around +me. To make the story short, I had been picked up the morning after that terrible +night by a signal man, recognized, and taken to Auburn. A violent fever kept me for +a fortnight within the shadow of death, but my strong constitution conquered. When, +after my recovery, I looked in the glass for the first time, I saw <span class="pageNum" id="pb230">[<a href="#pb230">230</a>]</span>what traces those moments had left upon me.” +</p> +<p>The physician paused. His pallid face, the expression of horror in his eyes, the perspiration +which stood in large drops upon his brow, showed how vivid must be his remembrances +of the scene, and how greatly the narration had exhausted him. +</p> +<p>Gradually the breathless anxiety with which we had listened to the story related with +such graphic power passed away, and cheerfulness returned. +</p> +<p>Then we paced to and fro for a long time in the moonlight, in the garden behind the +tavern, listening to the doctor’s tales of less harrowing experiences in the young +land of liberty, wonders, and adventure. +</p> +</div> +</div> +</div> +<div class="back"> +<div class="div1 cover"><span class="pageNum">[<a title="Go to the table of contents" href="#toc">Contents</a>]</span><div class="divBody"> +<p class="first"> +</p> +</div> +</div> +<div class="transcriberNote"> +<h2 class="main">Colophon</h2> +<h3 class="main">Revision History</h3> +<ul> +<li>2026-01-23 Started. +</li> +</ul> +<h3 class="main">Corrections</h3> +<p>The following 13 corrections have been applied to the text:</p> +<table class="correctionTable"> +<tr> +<th>Page</th> +<th>Source</th> +<th>Correction</th> +<th>Edit distance</th> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="width20"><a class="pageref" href="#xd33e247">10</a></td> +<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en"> +[<i>Not in source</i>] +</td> +<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en">,</td> +<td class="bottom">1</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="width20"><a class="pageref" href="#xd33e301">28</a>, <a class="pageref" href="#xd33e1004">193</a>, <a class="pageref" href="#xd33e1007">193</a></td> +<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en">,</td> +<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en">;</td> +<td class="bottom">1</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="width20"><a class="pageref" href="#xd33e462">66</a>, <a class="pageref" href="#xd33e828">146</a>, <a class="pageref" href="#xd33e988">189</a>, <a class="pageref" href="#xd33e1042">200</a></td> +<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en"> +[<i>Not in source</i>] +</td> +<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en">.</td> +<td class="bottom">1</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="width20"><a class="pageref" href="#xd33e500">75</a></td> +<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en">’</td> +<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en">”</td> +<td class="bottom">1</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="width20"><a class="pageref" href="#xd33e725">122</a></td> +<td class="width40 bottom" lang="fr">hoël</td> +<td class="width40 bottom" lang="fr">noël</td> +<td class="bottom">1</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="width20"><a class="pageref" href="#xd33e739">124</a></td> +<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en">esconced</td> +<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en">ensconced</td> +<td class="bottom">1</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="width20"><a class="pageref" href="#xd33e881">165</a></td> +<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en">Pére</td> +<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en">Père</td> +<td class="bottom">1 / 0</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="width20"><a class="pageref" href="#xd33e1099">211</a></td> +<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en">‘</td> +<td class="width40 bottom" lang="en">“</td> +<td class="bottom">1</td> +</tr> +</table> +</div> +</div> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 77764 ***</div> +</body> +</html> diff --git a/77764-h/images/front.jpg b/77764-h/images/front.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..6dad551 --- /dev/null +++ b/77764-h/images/front.jpg diff --git a/77764-h/images/p058.png b/77764-h/images/p058.png Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..a8c6d35 --- /dev/null +++ b/77764-h/images/p058.png diff --git a/77764-h/images/p119.png b/77764-h/images/p119.png Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..f178d85 --- /dev/null +++ b/77764-h/images/p119.png diff --git a/77764-h/images/p185.png b/77764-h/images/p185.png Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..f2d7b9b --- /dev/null +++ b/77764-h/images/p185.png diff --git a/77764-h/images/titlepage.png b/77764-h/images/titlepage.png Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..1e1a810 --- /dev/null +++ b/77764-h/images/titlepage.png |
