Chapter II: Weeks passed (2)

An hour was a long time for a King who was in love to wait. The evening was hot. An odor of heat arose from the earth. There was no breeze and the Nile was smooth as a mirror. A conceited bee swam boldly upon a rose leaf, without fear of shipwreck. The King looked long at the enticing water, until a desire arose in him. And what a King desires-- He seated himself beside some shrubbery near Rogus and took off the yellow shoes with the golden spurs. He laid aside his purple cloak and the gold colored vest with the diamond buttons. He took the silver whistle from his neck, and then took off all his costly royal clothes, and placed them upon the soft grass. The mighty ruler looked about. No one was to be seen. Who indeed would dare to intrude upon this forbidden shore of the sacred Nile!

The mirroring water alone was shameless enough to look at him and reflect him. Morus jumped into the water which kissed flatteringly his heated body. He enjoyed himself greatly. The trees covered with trailing vines built a fragrant sheltering wall and he walked upon shining pebbles which tickled his feet.

When he had bathed long enough and the hour of the love tryst drew near, he came out of the water and hastened to the place where he had left his clothes. But evidently he had mistaken the piece of shrubbery and hastened to the next one. He went back. There was no trace of the royal garments. He walked--his teeth chattering--from bush to bush. He ran up and down the shore, looking behind all the bushes.

“Where are my clothes? Who has stolen them? It could not have been a man. Do you hear, Earth? If you have swallowed them, I will tear up all the trees and grass in my realm.”

He threw himself upon the ground and began to sob. Then he jumped up and began to revile the moon.

“Shine better, you miserable old night-light! If you don’t I’ll smash your temple.”

But the moon did not seem to hear. The moon acted like a timid girl and hid behind a veil of cloud. It began to rain. The dirt and water from the trees disfigured his face. In despair he determined to return to the palace and procure fresh clothes. The great disgrace of being seen by the watchmen was unavoidable, but he knew how to get even. He would have their heads chopped off. He would make it impossible for them to laugh about it.

He hastened to the secret gate. The gate was locked. Then he remembered he had left the key in it. There was nothing to do but to walk along the shore to the south gate, and from there through many streets to the palace. What ridiculous songs they would write about him--his subjects, when they saw him like this. But fortunately no one saw him. The streets through which he went were empty. There was only a beggar sleeping by the door of a temple. The King awoke him. “Give me that sack that covers you,” he commanded. The frightened beggar struck at him with his cane.

“Get out! If you don’t I’ll knock you down.”

The King saw that he was the weaker and hurried on. A pack of hungry dogs began to follow him howling. The watchman was sleeping at the gate when someone slapped him on the back.

“Oh! Oh! Who are you? What do you want?”

“Let me in--and give me your cloak.”

The watchman thought it was a joke. He made up a face and then laughed.

“Is that all you want? I’m sorry the imbecile asylum is so far away.”

“I command you to obey,” repeated the King in wrath.

“Get out!” pointing his spear at the ridiculous figure, with tousled hair and bleeding feet.

“Don’t you know me?”

“No.”

“I am the King.”

“Or a fool. Get out! You are lucky that I am not too sleepy to give you a good beating in the name of the King.”

King Morus then began to speak gently. He recalled that this was the way to get on with underlings.

“Listen--my noble Hero! To-night I bathed in the Nile. Some one stole my clothes. I swear to you that I am King Morus.”

“You fool,” declared the soldier.

Crawling along the wall, weak and dejected, he made his way to the palace of his adored one. He decided to knock and ask for clothes. He also made up his mind to reduce the entire city to ashes--just as soon--_just as soon_--as he procured clothes.

Clothes? Is this all there is to a King? Then he saw the beggar. The old good-for-nothing was up and awake and waiting for the wine shops to be opened.

“Give me that covering of yours,” said the King. The beggar threw him a look of scorn.

“You don’t feel quite so high and mighty, do you? Where did you pawn your clothes? It’s a shame the way the wine merchants carry on. If I were the King I’d hang them all.”

“That’s just what I’ll do,” whispered Morus--“if you’ll only give me your covering.”

“You’d like to trick me, would you, you rascal?”

“I’m the king.”

The beggar looked amazed.

“Haven’t you seen my face on the gold pieces?”

“I? I never had any gold pieces!” giving the king his covering.

Now he could go boldly to the castle of Rogus. Despite the early hour, there was a crowd waiting at the gate. They were whispering. The King recognized his servile courtiers. They avoided him. They did not want his dirty covering to touch their fine clothes. The King struck the door with his fist.

“Open! I command in the name of the King!”

The watchman by the door laughed. “Poor fool!” Morus began to implore. “Don’t you recognize me? My well beloved subjects, look at me! I am your ruler.”

Laughter was his answer.

“Kabul, you to whom last week I gave a fortune, why are you silent? And you--Niles--whom I lifted from poverty, can you deny me?”

Neither Kabul nor Niles knew the King.

“Ungrateful men!” he raged. “Where is the mistress? Where is Florilla? She will recognize me.”

At this moment the herald of the King came out. Upon his lifted spear he bore a head--the head of Florilla.

She could recognize him no more. She was silent forever. The golden hair fluttered about the beautiful head, and covered part of the long spear. The people shouted with joy. The King sorrowfully demanded who had done this. No one answered, but he soon found out. The herald read a proclamation, then nailed it to the door, so that all could see that it had the seal of the Minister. King Morus pressed his hands to his temples and murmured: “Perhaps I am not king Morus.”

The crowd increased. Knights and ladies came to see the beautiful head, which from now on could cause neither envy nor love. The beggar came, too. The only one who spoke to the King was the beggar who gave him the covering.

“Get out of here! The great lords will beat you and take away the covering I gave you.” The beggar took him by the hand and led him away. He felt limp and weak and had no will of his own.

On the great square his eyes again brightened. He saw Narciz. The Minister was hurrying to the royal presence, a package under his arm. He ran after him. He fell upon his neck.

“Narciz! Narciz! You dear old man! Lucky for me to find you!”

The Minister, in anger, freed himself.

“What sort of shameless creature are you?”

“Don’t you recognize me? I am the King.”

“Of course not!” replied the Minister, laughing. “You resemble him a little, if you were not so hoarse.” He tapped him gently on the back with the gold headed cane which the King had given him on his fiftieth birthday.

In the merriest mood the Minister entered the royal dwelling. Servants ran ahead to open doors for him, until he came to the room of the royal presence--where the King--Rogus--awaited him.

Rogus told the story to him; how he had overheard the conversation between Florilla and the King, how he had put on the King’s clothes, and written Florilla’s name upon the empty death sentence. What happened after this chroniclers relate, to be sure, but I am not going to repeat it to you, because I do not believe the ending of the affair myself.

FOOTNOTES:

[5] I published this story some fifteen years ago in a magazine devoted to translations. It was, I believe, the first appearance by Mikszáth in English.--E. W. Underwood.

WHEN THE BRIGHT NIGHTS WERE

By PETRI ROSEGGER

ROSEGGER

Petri Kettenfeier Rosegger (born in 1843 Alpel, Steiermark) is a popular and prolific writer of Austria. His father and mother were both charcoal burners in the great forest which he has pictured so often, and his youthful surroundings were most meager. His mother was a woman of talent; she was one of nature’s poets and from her came his mental ability. At seventeen he was apprenticed to a tailor, and in the few years that followed, he worked in sixty-seven different families.

In this way he learned the life of the peasants of his country and at the same time sketched the idea of _Waldheimat_ (Forest Home), his first important work--which has now become a classic--and from which this story is taken.

Later Dr. Svoboda, editor of a paper in Graz, heard of him, and with the aid and coöperation of friends, helped him to an education. His descriptions of the wooded country where he was born, and of peasant life in the Alps, are among the finest in the language.

WHEN THE BRIGHT NIGHTS WERE

The summer had been hot. The moss in the forest was faded and dry, and between the sparse blades of grass one could see the grey ground. Beside the piles of dried pine needles on the floor of the forest, lay dead ants and beetles. The stones in the bed of the river were dry and white as ivory. Fish and frogs were dying in the little round pools that were occasionally visible between the stones.

The air was heavy, and the mountains--even the near ones--were blue. When the sun arose it was as red as the autumn leaf of a beech tree, then, later, pallid and dull, so that one could look straight at it. It crawled lifelessly across the grey desert of the sky; the people began to hope for rain, but a little breeze sprang up, and when morning came, the clouds had disappeared and even the dew was not to be seen.

Down in the village they appointed a day of prayer for rain. From all the forest the people came in crowds. Only old Markus and I remained at home in the empty house, and the old servant said to me; “If fine weather comes, it will rain--so of what use is the day of prayer? If the Lord God made us and put us here, he hasn’t the foolish head to forget us. And if he hasn’t any head at all but just made the world with his hands and feet, then he hasn’t any ears, has he? So what’s the use of all this howling in the village! Don’t you agree with me yourself, Boy?”

What all do not people say! Old Markus breaks his head thinking over things he knows nothing about, is what they say.

Just then a shepherd from the Riegelberg jumped into the door. He was so excited he could hardly speak. He pointed through the window with both forefingers, toward the crest of the Filnbaum Forest. The old servant followed the direction and clasped his hands in fear. There, behind the summit, whirled upward a circling column of red smoke, which spread out and blackened the sky.

“That may be very serious,” declared Markus. He seized an axe and hurried away. The smoke rose thicker and thicker, and spread out faster and faster. I began to cry. Old Markus paid no attention to me; he had other work to do.

On the sunny slopes of the Filnbaum Forest it had begun, where there was a space overgrown with withered briars and bushes. Near the growth of dry larch trees the fire began, no one knows how. First it skipped along lightly from twig to twig, then upward from great bough to bough, with wide fluttering wings. Soon the conflagration unchained its wild powers, and set floating its red, victorious banners. Here the forest becomes thicker and loftier; long braids of moss swing from the branches, and the great trees which were wounded by a hail storm some years ago, are bare and resinous to the summit. With what relish the fiery tongues lick these great trunks, and then flare up into space! And down upon the ground a brood of little red serpents begin to crawl in all directions, and to develop a hideous life. The few wood choppers run around and around in confusion, and come and cry for help. But the great forest and all its huts are empty.

The people have gone to the village to pray for rain. When, hours later, they start to return, the great forest is in flames. There is a feverish trembling in the air, a cracking and rattling; twigs break, trunks crash down and send up a multitude of sparks, and waves of smoke. Fresh breaths of burning air float over the woodland; the flames give birth to a storm-wind which they ride.

Men worked and worked; some, half burned, had to be carried out. The servant, Markus, saw the heart-breaking result, but he did not complain nor was he discouraged, he worked quietly and persistently. His clothing began to catch fire. He ran down to the river bed and rolled in the sand until it clung to and covered his rough clothing. Now he owned a coat of mail. He hewed off branches; he cut down trees, but that did not help. The glowing river rolled on; dead trees, bare branches waited eagerly for the devouring flame, and burned at the first breath.

Now the workmen tried to get ahead of the fire by cutting down great spaces of trees, and thus by making a clearing, set a limit to its power. Then the conflagration divided itself and spread out resplendent arms in other directions. When evening came the wind rose; it tore into shreds the gorgeous and triumphant flame-banners, and scattered the fragments’ over the forest land. There was a monotonous and uncanny moaning in the heavens, and a marvelous, unnatural light flung far and wide over all the darkly wooded country.

Exhausted and helpless, the workmen rested; the women carried their belongings out of their cottages without knowing what to do with them.

In the deep valleys there was peace and quiet. There one heard only the whispering of the tall pine trees. But the night sky was rose-colored, and occasionally a fire-dragon sped overhead. Sometimes twittering birds came, and homeless animals. The deer came up to the dwellings of men.

“Our fate will be that of the deer,” complained the old women. “There is no hope of saving the forest now. It will all be burned! Oh! Holy Savior--this is the Last Judgment.”

For days the conflagration lasted.

From our house--high among the woodlands--we could look down upon the trees of the Filnbaum Forest, and watch the flames climb up. The land was covered with a sad veil, and smoke choked us. Above, in the sky, hung a huge, tragic, red wheel which the smoke whirled about but could not destroy. That was the sun. We watched the flames draw nearer and nearer to us. They swept over the heights, down into the valleys, and at length climbed the hillside toward our house. We needed no burning pine cones in the evenings, we had light enough, because ten minutes walk from our door the beautiful forest was flaming. Long ago we had driven the cattle to the Alm Meadow and carried the furniture out into the field. People came running by who were half mad. Old Martin kept his senses better than the rest, although his hut was burned, he picked cranberries at midnight by the light of the flames. My father went upon the roof of our cottage, carrying a pole on the end of which was a rag which was wet. With this he put out the falling sparks. On the fifth night, when we were sleeping in a corner of our empty rooms, we were awakened by a great roaring. Old Markus, who was keeping watch upon the roof, called to us. “_That’s good! That’s good!_”

A storm had arisen and now it was raging over the burning woodland, with a power that was splendid and terrifying. It roared and thundered like a cataract turned loose among the trees. The fire was turned away from our direction, and that was what caused the words of old Markus. The flames were in wild flight. They leaped over entire stretches of forest and set fire to fresh woodlands far away.

“It is over! We are saved!” exclaimed the helpless people in surprise. Some, indeed, when the smoke cleared away and they saw the bald mountain sides, regained their normal mind and said: “Surely there is going to be a great festival for the mountains have shaved themselves.”

When the storm was over, the rain came. For days the rain fell and the heavy clouds hung low. At last the fire was extinguished. Over the forest spread a frosty fog, for fall had come.

The burning of the forests was so huge a thing that it could be painted only by a powerful imagination. Such an imagination is not mine, therefore there was nothing left for me to do but to sketch it roughly with the worn pencil of memory.

After the cold mists of autumn came the snow. That winter from our windows we saw more white spaces than black. When spring came, then we realized what the great fire had done. Every where black ground, rust hued stones, roots that looked like coals, and tall, black trunks towering over all.

Workmen came. They plowed the blackened soil. They sowed grain. The early fall brought splendor. No one in all our forest land had ever seen such a magnificent harvest as covered the mountain sides. I recall what the village pastor said: “The Lord God strikes wounds, but he sends the balsam that heals. Praised be His name!”

From the Filnbaum Forest to our very door were fields, and for thirty years the burned woodland gave our people bread. Since then our people are scattered; they have moved away, and a fresh, new, forest is beginning to grow upon the mountain sides.

THE POINT OF VIEW

By ALEXANDER L. KIELLAND

KIELLAND

Alexander L. Kielland is the Norwegian writer of whom it has been said that he has given to his northern tongue the flexibility and the grace of the French tongue. He is _par excellence_ a writer of the short story and is renowned for the skill of his technique.

One volume of his stories has been published in America. The story we give--_The Point of View_, is new, however, to American readers.

THE POINT OF VIEW

In front of the garden gate of the villa of Lawyer Abel a small, elegant trap drew up, to which two handsome, well groomed horses were attached.

Upon the harness was neither silver nor any shining metal; it was dull black, and even the buckles were covered with leather. The shining wood of the trap showed just a trace of dark green in its color. The upholstery was a dark and modest grey, and only when one examined it closely, did one discover that it was made of heavy silk. The coachman was as correct as an English coachman; all in black, the coat tightly buttoned, showing a space of white at the neck.

Mrs. Warden, who sat alone in the trap, bent forward and placed her hand upon the ivory handle. Slowly she got out, her long gown trailing behind her, and carefully closed the door of the trap.

Mrs. Warden walked through the little garden, and entered. She looked through the open door into the adjoining room, and saw the lady of the house standing beside a table littered with bright colored cloth, and with several copies of “The Bazaar.”

“Ah--you have come just in time--dear Emilie!” declared Mrs. Abel. “I am in despair about my seamstress. She can not design anything new, so here I sit turning the leaves of “The Bazaar.” Take off your wraps and help me. I am trying to design a street dress.”

“I am not capable of helping you when it is a question of dress,” replied Mrs. Warden.

Mrs. Abel stared at her in astonishment. There was something unusual in the tone of voice, and she had great respect for the opinion of her wealthy friend.

“Don’t you remember that I told you that just a little while ago Mr. Warden insisted upon my buying a new silk gown?”

“Yes--yes--of Madame Labiche. Of course I remember,” interrupted Mrs. Abel. “And now I suppose you are on the way to purchase it. Take me with you! That will be pleasant.”

“I am not going to see Madame Labiche,” replied Mrs. Warden with solemn dignity.

“For goodness sake, why not?” questioned her friend, opening her pretty brown eyes with astonishment.

“Well--I will tell you,” replied Mrs. Warden. “I am convinced that we can not spend so much money and keep a good conscience--when we know how much poverty there is in this city in which we live. There are hundreds of families who are suffering--the direst need!”

“Yes--but--,” objected Mrs. Abel, casting a deprecating glance toward the table. “It is so everywhere. There can not help but be inequality--”

“We must be careful not to increase the inequality. We must do everything in our power to lessen it,” insisted Mrs. Warden. Mrs. Abel felt that her friend gave a glance of disapproval at the table covered with cloth, where the copies of “The Bazaar” lay.

“It is only alpaca,” she ventured timidly.

“Don’t think, dear Caroline, that I reproach you. Things of this kind depend wholly upon the individual. Every one must act as he thinks he is answerable to his own conscience.”

The conversation continued in this manner, and Mrs. Warden explained that she was now on her way to visit one of the poorest quarters of the city, in order to see conditions with her own eyes, and to convince herself of the way in which the poor really live.

A few days before, she had read the yearly statement of a private institution for the poor, of whose board of managers her husband was a member. She had purposely avoided asking the police, or the Superintendent of the Poor, for statements, because it was her intention to see for herself, and to form her own opinion. The good-by of the friends was a little cooler than usual. Both were in serious mood. Mrs. Abel remained in the garden room. She did not feel inclined to proceed further with the design for the street dress, although the material was unusually attractive. She heard the sound of the wagon wheels upon the level roadway of the residence quarter as it rolled away.

“What a good heart Emilie has!” she sighed.

Nothing was further from this young woman’s disposition than envy and ill will, and yet it was with a feeling akin to this that to-day she watched the trap drive away. Whether it was the good heart or the elegant trap it would be hard to say.

The coachman had taken his orders without a change of expression. He drove farther and farther along the strange streets of the poor quarter, just as if he were going to a court ball.

At last he received command to stop, and it was high time. The streets became narrower and narrower, it was almost as if the well fed horses and the elegant trap would be caught like a stopper in the neck of a bottle.

The correct coachman gave no sign of anxiety although the situation was really becoming acute. An impudent voice called from a garret window and advised him to kill the horses because they would never get out alive.

Mrs. Warden climbed down and turned into a still narrower street. She had made up her mind to see the worst. In a door stood a half grown girl. “Do poor people live in this house?”

The girl laughed and answered something then darted ahead of her through the door. Mrs. Warden did not catch the words, but she had the feeling that she said something insulting.

She entered the first room she came to. The air was so thick it made her dizzy, and she was glad to find a place to sit down by the stove. In the gesture with which the woman swept the clothing from the seat to the floor, and in the smile with which she greeted the elegant lady, there was something that offended her. She received likewise the impression that the woman had seen better days, although her manner was rather bold than gentle, and the smile certainly was not pleasant. The long train of the pale, grey street dress floated out over the dirty floor, and when she seated herself she could not help remembering a witticism of Heine’s: “You look like a bon-bon that has been lying in the sun.”

The conversation began and progressed as is the custom with such conversations. If each of these women had kept to the usual tone of her conversation, neither would have understood a word of what the other said.

But since the poor know the rich so much better than the rich know the poor, they hit upon a form of speech, which experience had taught, and which is so far successful that the rich are at once put in mood to give. Better than this they can not know each other.

This speech the poor woman understood to perfection, and soon Mrs. Warden began to comprehend their miserable life. She had two children, one a boy of four or five who lay on the floor, and a baby.

Mrs. Warden looked attentively at the little colorless creatures and could not believe that the baby was thirteen months old. She had a baby at home of seven months who was twice as large.

“You ought to feed the baby something strengthening,” she said. Then she said something that floated through her head about prepared foods. At the words “_something strengthening_,” an unkempt head rose from the straw bed. It was the pale, hollow-eyed face of a man, with a cloth tied tightly about his forehead.

Mrs. Warden was afraid. “Your husband?” she inquired.

“Yes,” was the reply. “He did not go back to work to-day because he had the toothache.”

Mrs. Warden had had toothache. She knew how painful it was. She at once said something sympathetic. The man murmured something and fell back upon the straw. At this moment Mrs. Warden discovered another person whom she had not seen before--a young girl, who sat in the opposite corner by the stove. She stared at the elegant lady a moment, and then turned her back upon her. Mrs. Warden thought the young girl had some sort of work in her lap which she wished to conceal. Perhaps it was an old dress which she was trying to mend.

“Why does the boy lie there on the floor?” she inquired.

“He is lame,” answered the mother. Now followed a pitiful tale and a description of what had happened after the scarlet fever.

“You should buy him a wheeled chair,” Mrs. Warden was on the point of remarking, when it occurred to her it would be better for her to buy it. It is not wise to give poor people money, she remembered. But she would give the poor woman something, of course. She felt in her pocket for her purse. It was not there. She must have left it in the trap. Just as she was about to explain to the poor woman what had happened, a well dressed man opened the door and entered. His face was round and of a peculiar dry pallor.

“Mrs. Warden, I believe,” said the stranger. “I saw your trap up here in the street, and I suppose this is your pocket book which I am bringing you.”

It belonged to her. Upon the smooth ivory was E.W. engraved in black.

“Just as I turned the corner, I saw it in the hands of a girl--one of the worst in the quarter. I am Superintendent of the Poor for this district.”

Mrs. Warden thanked him. When she turned toward the occupants of the room again, she was terrified at the change that had taken place. The man was sitting up in bed and staring at the stranger. The woman’s face wore a hateful expression, and the lame child on the floor, propped up upon its arms, bristled like a wild animal. In all the eyes lay the same hate, the same warlike defiance.

“What a sight you are to-day, Martin!” declared the stranger. “I thought to myself that you were one of them last night. I was right you see. They’ll come after you this afternoon. You’ll get at least two months in prison.”

Then the deluge descended upon them. The man and woman shrieked at each other. The girl came from behind the stove and joined them. No one could distinguish words they were so busy with hands and eyes. It seemed as if the little stuffy room must explode with the pressure of unchained passions.

Mrs. Warden turned pale and arose. The stranger opened the door and they went out. In the corridor she heard the frightful laughter of the woman. And the woman who laughed like that was the same woman who had spoken so gently and pitifully of the sick children. Almost unwillingly she followed the man who had brought about this amazing change. At first she listened to him with a proud indifferent air. Gradually, however, her attitude changed, there was so much truth in his words. He was glad to meet a woman like Mrs. Warden who had heart for the poor who suffered. Although--usually--the best intentioned help fell in the wrong place. Good heartedness was something praiseworthy anyway.

“But does not this family need help? I received the impression that the woman had seen better days. Perhaps she could be helped out of this life.”

“I am sorry to tell you, Madam, that she has been a very bad--public character.”

Mrs. Warden trembled.

She had spoken with a woman like that!--_about children_.

“And the young girl?” she asked timidly.

“Did you not look at her Madam, and observe her condition?”

“No--you mean--?”

The Superintendent of the Poor murmured a few words. Mrs. Warden shuddered “--and that man? _The man of the house!_”

“Yes, Madam. I am sorry to tell you this,” and he whispered again.

This was too much for the elegant lady. She became faint and dizzy. They were walking toward her trap, which was somewhat farther on than the place where she had left it.

The correct coachman had played a trick upon the street urchins. After he had sat for a time as straight and impassive as a taper of wax, he guided the fat horses, step by step, to a wider place in the street which could not have been noticed by any one except the trained eye of the correct coachman. A crowd of ragged gamins surrounded him and tried to frighten the fat horses, but the spirit of the correct coachman had become their spirit.

After he had sat there calmly for a while, he saw a little irregular space, made by two opposing stair-ways. Slowly he guided the horses here and made a turn, so sharp, so crisp, that it seemed as if the frail trap must be crushed between the masonry, but so accurately, that scarcely an inch intervened on either side. Now he was sitting again as straight as a taper of wax. But he was treasuring in his mind the number of the policeman, who had seen him make the turn, so he could have some one to refer to when he told the incident at home in the stable.

The Superintendent helped Mrs. Warden into the trap. She begged him to call the next day.

“Lawyer Abel,” she called to the coachman, and the carriage rolled on. The farther she went from the poor quarter, the smoother and swifter the carriage moved. When they entered the residence section, the fat horses lifted their heads gladly to breathe the good air, that came across the gardens. And the correct coachman, without any visible reason cracked his whip three times.

How could one expect that such degenerate people could ever rise to any height of intelligence! What condition must exist in their miserable conscience--how could they be expected to withstand the temptations of life! She herself knew what temptation was. Did she not have to fight against one all the time--against wealth! She shuddered to think what these beasts of men, and these wretched women would do, if wealth were suddenly given to them. Wealth was no slight test of character. Just day before yesterday her husband had led her into temptation. He insisted upon hiring an English groom. And she had resisted the temptation and replied:

“No--it is not right. I will have no groom upon the box. Perhaps we are rich enough, but we must guard against pride. I can get out and in without help, thank God.”

Mrs. Abel, who was clearing the table of the cloth and the copies of “The Bazaar,” was glad to see her.

“You are back so soon, Emilie? I have just told the seamstress to go. What you said to me took away all desire for the new dress,” declared kind, little Mrs. Abel.

“Every one must follow his own conscience,” answered Mrs. Warden gently.

Mrs. Abel looked up. She had not expected this answer.

“Let me tell you what I have experienced,” continued Mrs. Warden. She repeated what the Superintendent of the Poor had told her. When she had finished describing the condition of the young girl, Mrs. Abel became so ill, the maid had to bring her a glass of port wine. When the costly, cut crystal decanter and glasses were brought in, Mrs. Abel whispered to her.

“What--all in one bed? You can’t mean it!” exclaimed Mrs. Abel clasping her hands tragically.

“I would not have believed it an hour ago,” replied Mrs. Warden.

“How lucky you were to get safely out of the place, Emilie!”

“Yes--and when we consider,” continued Mrs. Warden, “that not even the heathen--who have nothing--not even an excuse to keep them from wrong--nor any conscience--”

“This surely speaks loudly for all who listen to the teachings of the church,” interrupted Mrs. Abel sympathetically.

“Yes--God knows that--who does it,” replied Mrs. Warden, looking straight ahead, a smile upon her lips. The two friends separated after embracing each other warmly.

Mrs. Warden took hold of the ivory handle and stepped into the trap, the long, grey, train floating behind her. She closed the trap door carefully, without making any noise.

“To Madame Labiche!” she directed. She looked toward Mrs. Abel and said: “Now, Heaven be praised, I can order that silk dress with a clear conscience.”

“Yes, indeed, you can!” was the answer.

Then she hastened into the house.

MY TRAVELING COMPANION

By PIETARI PÄIVÄRINTA

PÄIVÄRINTA

Päivärinta--who belongs to the new school of Finnish writers--although he was born much earlier--is the prose poet of the peasant and one of his strongest equipments for this aesthetic role which he was to play so well, is the greatness of his heart--a sort of tragic pity--which is found in everything he writes. He sees with his heart and nothing escapes this seeing. Sometimes it lifts him to just such dramatic heights as the “Homeric laughter” of Gógol, which, by the way, too, was full of tears. It is an x-ray vision that lays bare the soul. He lived the life of a peasant, so he knows at first hand the things of which he writes. He left the plowshare after he was forty to picture the humble companions among whom he had spent his days. Like Burns, he did manual labor with one hand while he held a book in the other. The date of his birth--1827--seems long ago for him to be of that new school of story tellers of Finnland, among whom are Frosterus, Pakkala, Raijonen, Aho. His parents were poor, day laborers. He was brought up to work, and to the observance of stern discipline. There were a number of other children. Pietari was the eldest. The parents fell ill, and he was obliged to go out begging as a child in order to procure bread enough for the others. When he was scarcely out of his teens he married a poor peasant girl and bought himself a little piece of forest land. Unable to make a living by farming he traveled from parish to parish and sang; he had a voice of great beauty and power which won him his first fame. At length he settled down as clerk of a parish. Later he represented his peasant community in the Finnish Parliament. His first book was _Episodes of the Great War_, and it was published with success the year he wrote it. This was followed by others among which was an account of his own life. The subjects were always the same, pictures of peasant life. Päivärinta is a Joseph Israel of the pen.

MY TRAVELING COMPANION

It was the last of March. The weather was fair and here and there one could see signs of approaching Spring. Birds were beginning to twitter in the branches. Sleighing, if not completely broken up, was bad; the roads were rough and muddy, and in several places the bare ground showed through. Brooks and rivers were filled with floating snow and ice and dirt, and only the sharp freezing at night kept them from overflowing their banks. In favored places many a little brook had burst through to freedom and was joyfully leaping down the declivities, and rushing noisily away to the breast of its mother--the ancient sea.

Such was the season and condition of traveling, when business forced me to take a journey outside my own parish.

Early that morning I came across a man, who like myself was forced to travel on business. He had one emaciated old horse and a heavy sleigh; indeed he went on foot and pushed the sleigh. When I overtook him I jumped out and trudged along beside him.

“Good morning, old man,” I began, as I reached his side.

“Good morning,” was the reply, without looking in my direction.

I had now opportunity to observe my companion at close range. His horse was really little more than a skeleton, and the load was two barrels of tar. In the sleigh I saw reeds and swamp-grass, evidently the horse’s food, and very likely for the same purpose was a sack filled with straw, which was placed on top of the tar barrels and stuck out over the front. In addition, in the sleigh, there was a small birch-bark basket which probably held food for the man. He wore an old and ragged coat, which was held tight at the hips by a worn leather strap. The coat had no buttons, and it was not provided with any means of fastening at the top. The strap about his hips had no effect upon holding the old coat together at the neck, so the man’s chest was bare.

His shoes were likewise old and they had been mended time and again. Now they were torn and wisps of straw which he had used to try to stuff the holes, stuck through. On his hands he wore tattered, often mended mittens, and on his head an ancient sheep skin cap.

As I said, the old man was trudging along behind the sleigh. He did not seem to have planned upon riding, because the two barrels of tar and the food for the old mare filled it completely.

When he came to a place in the road where the snow was gone, the old man pushed the sleigh with all his strength, in attempt to help the feeble horse. Holes in the road, and furrows cut by sleighs, were filled with water, and this ice water went in through the holes in the old man’s shoes.

“Where are you going?” I inquired, in order to begin a conversation, after making the above observations.

“To the city!” was the curt and melancholy reply.

“You have chosen a bad time for your journey, because now sleighing is uncertain.”

He answered: “True; the road is bad but I couldn’t wait for a better one.”

“What could force you to make the journey now when it is so difficult to get along?”

“Threat of execution for debt. That doesn’t wait for weather,” said the old man sadly, looking up at me for the first time, with shy, grief-shadowed eyes.

This was my first glimpse of his face. It was wrinkled, and eaten out by misfortune, and made old before years had done so. Both his body and his manner indicated fewer years than his face.

“Who is such a cruel creditor as to drive you to the city in weather like this?”

“The parson!” said the old man sharply.

“The parson? You owe him so much then?” I inquired in astonishment.

“Only last year’s interest.”

“Only last year’s interest? Haven’t you been to him and asked him to wait?”

“Yes--several times.”

“Well, what does he say?”

“He was very angry and exclaimed: You’re stealing from me--you vagabond. He didn’t have any pity when I begged him with tears in my eyes.”

“I must say that you have a hard hearted parson. It wouldn’t hurt him to wait a little--anyway until the roads are dry,” I explained in ill temper, without knowing why I was so agitated.

“That’s just what I think--that he could wait. But I’m so ignorant I don’t suppose I know anything about such things--of course the pastor knows better than I do. He has great responsibility for all our souls, and I suppose that’s why he has to look after his interest. He’s a good preacher--though--does everything just right. Of course, I don’t like to blame the pastor--but I wouldn’t steal however much good it would do me. Some say the pastor is _tight_ and thinks only of his share. But how could he carry such great responsibility--looking after our souls--if he didn’t get all that was coming to him?” observed the old man innocently.

This simplicity threw light upon the old man’s nature. Surely he had been tried severely by the hardships of life--far more than the pastor--about whose material welfare he was so concerned. All his life he had struggled with want, with suffering--with the bitter climate of our Finnland. And still he felt it his duty to give to others what was coming to them, no matter whether or not he had anything to live upon. The only thing that grieved him was his inability to meet his obligations punctually.

“I don’t think it was right for the pastor to call me a thief. I wouldn’t steal--but still I can’t pay,” continued the old man.

This utterance came from a heart that was honest--if worn out in the struggle.

“If I can haul these two barrels of tar to the city I can pay the pastor--and then there’ll be no danger of the execution,” he went on. He seemed to become more confidential. I was interested to know something more about the life of the old man, and observed indifferently:

“That mare of yours is pretty thin. How can you expect her to haul those two barrels of tar to the city?”

“Yes, true it is. The mare is lean. But how could the poor creature be fat, when fed upon swamp-grass and water?” confessed the old man.

“But the creature ought to be provided for first,” I suggested.

“So anyone would say, who observed from a distance and did not know. But when the cold has killed everything, you’d take what little you could get and put into the pot, to keep the family from starving. There’s very little difference between what we get to eat and the old mare. I guess you’d find the old mare fares just as well as we do,” the old man explained, looking up in surprise at my way of judging.

“At least you should have had these boots of yours mended. Your feet are wet.”

“Anyone would say so--who didn’t know. But if you had six hungry, naked children, and a wife, you wouldn’t have time to think about mending shoes. Besides, these shoes have been mended and mended--and now they can’t be mended any more. Of course I’d like to wear respectable clothes--but there’s no way,”--declared the old man with a peculiar intonation of melancholy.

“Where’s your home?”

“Just outside a village on the edge of this parish.”

“What’s your name?”

“Svältbacka Matti--they call me, and I’ve suffered hunger all my life on my “hunger field.””

“How’s that?”

“Well it’s true anyway. My hut is at the far end of a lonely village, between swamps on one side and marsh land on the other. I live there because it is not good enough for anyone else. My father built the place, but now every year the cold starves us out.”

“Can’t you get away from such a place? You could earn a better living somewhere else.”

“It is not so easy to get away as you think. If we tried to get away no one would buy the place, so how could we buy another? We’ve got to stay there. And it’s better there than tramping--and begging. If I could only get away from these payments!”

“Is it last year’s tar you are taking to the city?”

“No. How could I keep that so long? Everything goes from hand to mouth. That was used up long ago. Hardly was it in the barrels before away it went to the city.”

While we talked on we reached a farm, which at the same time was a rest-house, and the old man said he would stop and feed his horse. This was my intention, too, I had traveled so far that my horse needed food and rest. The sleigh of the old man began to grate on the harsh, bare ground in front of the farm, and the two of us then helped the old mare as best we could.

When we had unharnessed the horses and given them fodder, we took our food bags and started toward the house. We, too, felt need of breakfast. The old man picked up the little birch basket, took something from it and sat down upon a bench in the corner near the stove. I wanted to know what he had to eat and made believe that I had business in the same corner. Poor and needy was his lunch. It was only black bread and salt.

I turned away and took up my food box. I tried to appear calm and indifferent, although my heart was moved by strange emotions. When, outwardly, I had regained composure, I said to him:

“Come over here and eat with me!” The old man looked up in my face and did not answer. He did not seem to comprehend. Perhaps he did not hear or perhaps he wished to hold out on what he had to eat.

“Come! Come over and eat with me,” I asked again.

“Why should you be so good to me?” replied the old fellow, carefully packing away again his own food in the birch basket. He came across with slow steps, giving a hasty, searching glance at my face, in order to convince himself that the offer was genuine.

“We know each other so well now that we ought to be good to each other,” I answered.

“Sit down now and eat.”

* * * * *

Our roads separated. The old man went on toward the city. And while I jogged on again alone, I could not get the poor old fellow out of my mind. His lean mare, his scanty food, his ragged insufficient clothes, and his face which had grown old before its time, were constantly in my mind. And I kept on hearing his words: “Anyone would think so if he didn’t know!”

I travelled on one day, two days. Ahead now I saw a good sized, well built village and a church. The village extended considerable distance and the fields that stretched between the buildings, were extensive, too. This was no new village, the work of pioneers. The farms were old and well developed. Upon this land many struggles for existence had taken place, many a life had been sacrificed. Upon these unpromising fields even in ancient times the same struggle had been going on, for generations and generations, in order that people of today might enjoy the result. They who lived here now were reaping reward from the suffering, the tears, the want, the oppression of them who had struggled and died. Perhaps none of these who had died had paid their interest to the pastor.

The prosperous looking church stood upon a hill, on a thread of land, bordering a long, indented arm of the sea. Pine woods shadowed it on all sides. A little farther ahead, upon a piece of land projecting into the water stood the elegant home of the pastor, in the midst of a park. My business led me to call upon the pastor. He was a stately figure. And in his home there was every luxury that modern civilization can provide.

The pastor was sitting in an expensive, richly upholstered chair. He was tall, well built. No one could say that he had grown old before his time. He was pastor of the parish to which Matti’s “hunger-field” belonged, and it was because of him that Matti was trying to get to the city with two barrels of tar.

When I arrived the pastor was having a set-to with the clerk.

“You act like an honest man according to your own reckoning, and you have never once told me how many cows each person owns, and I know perfectly well that you have the number on most of the farms,” declared the pastor.

“Who? I?” answered the clerk.

“Of course--you,” was the reply, looking sharply at the clerk.

“How could I know just how many cows each one has?” objected the clerk. He seemed to wish to escape a violent attack of temper on the part of the pastor.

“You know well enough; and I know you do. But you try to conceal it from me. The wretches are all stealing from me--and who shields them shares the sin. Do you know clerk, what the punishment for theft is?” shrieked the pastor in a rage.

Red, of indignation and wounded honor dyed his cheeks, and he replied to this accusation, which according to my opinion had gone too far.

“I don’t think it my duty to run about the village, and count the cows, in order to report to the pastor. Neither do I think it my duty--to God or man--to report cows that do not exist. To be sure, upon earth there are two kinds of people; they who make their incomes as large as possible, and they who make it as small as possible. Who has visited the homes of the poor--and had dealings with them--he knows the conditions. The pastor--according to my opinion, has said things he has no right to say.”

Now it was the pastor’s turn to become red. Then he let all his anger loose upon the clerk.

“Do you know, clerk, whom you address?”

“I know very well. I speak with my lord, the pastor, but not with a gracious lord.”

With these words he went away. They did not take leave of each other. I now had opportunity to introduce my own business. The pastor was in a bad temper. The just reproach of the clerk had done its work.

“This ignorant clown is loud mouthed, and doesn’t know better than to attack his superiors. He has always been obstinate and self-willed. Many a pastor has said to me: ‘If I had him, I’d send him going.’”

I had no answer to make to this, because it seemed to me the pastor had been the cause of what happened. I politely brought my own business to his attention. The pastor thought he understood the peasants and their customs better than anyone else. He cherished the belief, and gave expression of it to everyone, that the peasants did not show any gratitude toward their benefactors. He did not happen to mention just who their benefactors were, but he let it be understood that he, himself, was the most prominent among them. This speech of his sounded to me very like a preachment upon the subject of martyrdom.