Chapter XIII: A Rival for Edith (3)

"No matter," answered the first, "last year it did not rain till All Saints; and a better year, or another of the same piece, hasn't been seen since the creation. Laborers, farmers, and tenants all got tired of gathering, and had more than enough--the barley, in particular, grew so thick that you couldn't set a spade between the blades."

"The month of January is the key of the year. If the sky does not open in January, there will be no harvest."

"Hola! Uncle Bartolo!" all exclaimed, as a small, vigorous old man entered the apartment. "Where do you hail from? where have you been ever since we missed you from here?"

Uncle Bartolo, after offering to the mourner the usual condolences, seated himself, and, turning toward his interrogators, replied:

"Where do I come from? The district of Doñana, without varying from the most direct line. Since the French war ended, and I took the road, I have been water-carrier[163] to the _You Sirs_.[164] They have them there in Doñana of all complexions--legitimate, grafted, cross-breed, and supposititious, even English. _Caballeros!_ Deliver us; but those Swiss of the French are the ones! Stout fellows; very white; very ruddy; very fair-haired, and very puffy. But as to spirit, they have no more than they drink; and grace, they have not any. They carry their arms like the sleeves of a capote, and set their feet down like pestles. Whenever I saw those feet that resembled _jabeques_,[165] I used to say to myself,

'A good foot and good ear
Signs of a good beast are.'

For talking, they make use of a kind of jargon that, in my opinion, they themselves don't understand. These parleys that I don't comprehend displease me, for I never know whether I am being bought or sold.

"There was one--the size of a tunny-fish--they called Don 'Turo.[166] He fell to me. To see him blowing and sweating over those sands made one pity him, for a league finishes them; the sun offends them; the heat makes them weak, and dissolves them entirely. That platter face would persist in doing everything contrariwise, as they do it in his country. Once he took it into his head to use my clasp-knife to eat with, and cut himself. With that he got out a medicine-chest as big as a surgeon's. 'Go along!' said I to myself, 'a spider bit me, and I bound the wound up in a sheet.' He was as hard-headed as a corner. Another time he made up his mind that he ought to shoot a partridge, and, though I told him it was against the law to shoot partridges at that season, he fired, and would have fired if his father had stood before the mouth of his gun. He fired and killed an urraca.[167] 'Sir,' said I, 'what has your honor done?' Says he to me, 'Killed the partridge.' 'Why, sir, it isn't a partridge, it's an urraca.' 'It's all right,' said the big bungler, quite composedly. 'But it is not right,' answered I; 'the killing of urracas is prohibited.' 'And who prohibits it?' he asked, putting on his face of a lion. 'I have my license, that cost me three thousand reals.' 'But, sir, that is for large game--you understand? The urracas mustn't be killed. You comprehend?' Says he to me, 'In this country of _Santísima María_'--for, as I have told you already, he said everything reversed, as they do in his--'in this country there's no end of privileges, and do the very urracas have them?'

"That question was so foolish, or else meant to be ironical, that I didn't care to set him right; so I told him, 'Yes, privileges that were granted to them in very ancient times, by _Doña Urraca_ herself.' He took out a blank-book and wrote that down. 'Let the ball roll,' said I in my jacket, 'it isn't my business to stop it.'"

"But, Uncle Bartolo, why may they not kill urracas in the district?" asked a young man.

"Because they are the ones that planted the pine woods," answered Uncle Bartolo.

"Oh! none of that! you are not talking to platter-face," replied the youth.

"So I perceive, since his swallow for novelties was too big; and you--for a blockhead of those who believe only what they see--haven't any. Nevertheless, sir, that the urracas do plant the pines is a truth as evident as a house. They open the ripe cones, and pick out the seeds for food. Being very saving birds, they bury those that they can't eat; and, being very brainless ones, they forget all about it and never go back to look for them; and the seeds sprout. If it were not true, why would the dukes prohibit the killing of urracas, when they are thicker in the district than sparrows on a threshing-floor? Therefore, Alonso, no one may say, 'This camel can't enter the eye of my needle'; for, of two silly birds, the one that always keeps his bill shut is more silly than the one that has his always open. But you were a dunce from the beginning; and, as you grow older, you are gaining upon Blas, that ate horse-beans."

"And at night, uncle, what did those people do with themselves there in the province?" asked the listeners.

"The Englishmen ate and drank, for their honors are made hollow, in order that they may always be putting things into their mouths. That is the reason they are so fat and big. Platter-face told me one day--with an air as if God had just revealed it to him--that I was able to go so long without getting tired because I was lean; and that he would give a thousand dollars, or some such sum, to be as lean as I. I answered--shouting to make him understand better--'Your worship has only to eat _gazpacho_[168] to dry up your flesh, and raw onions and garlic to sharpen your senses."

"And the Spaniards--how did they pass the evenings, Uncle Bartolo?"

"The Spaniards? Talking through the very stitches of their garments; bawling till you would have thought they were echoes: and quarrelling about things of the government. For, nowadays, everybody wants to know everything himself, and to command: the very beetles set up their tails and complain of a cough. I tell you, sirs, there are no more such Spaniards as there were in the time of the French war. We were as one man then, and all of one mind. Now there are moderates and _extremists_. I, who am an _extremist_ only when it concerns my gun, my wife, and my children, could wish the devil would fly away with so much gab. It made me want to say to them: 'Gentlemen, where there is less tongue, count on more judgment,' and 'so much grass chokes the wheat.'"

"One night, one of the _You Sirs_ called me, and wanted to know if I was in the war against Napoleon. 'Yes, sir,' I answered, 'I was a guerilla.' 'Well, then,' said he, 'you just come here, for I am going to read you the will he made.'"

"What! did that man make a will, Uncle Bartolo?" asked some of the oldest of the listeners.

"Yes, and before he died, it is supposed.

"'But, your worship,' I asked, 'what had that kingdom-thief to give away? Did they not then make him throw up everything he had taken?'

"The _You Sir_ had an open book, and began to read. Gentlemen, that _soccarron_,[169] in his will, went on distributing everything, his goods, his arms, his body, and his heart. I was perplexed. 'Well, what do you think of it, uncle?' said his honor, when he had ended. 'Sir,' I answered, 'from what I can see, that unbeliever thought of everything; but neither in his life nor in his death did he remember his soul.'"

"Why did you join the guerillas, Uncle Bartolo?" asked one of the company.

"What a question!" exclaimed the guerilla, looking at the one who had asked it, and weaving himself backwards and forwards with much composure.

"'He that asks does not err,' Uncle Bartolo."

"Yes, but this is a case of 'He that asks does not err, and I ask if they bury the dead with the deceased?'"

"What I mean is, when did you leave your house, and how did you happen to fall in with the _partida_?"[170]

"Ya! those are other questions, Lopez. Some French horsemen came here--they call them _colaseros_ (cuirassiers)--my wife was more afraid of them than of a contagion, and every time she heard the clarionets, she would say to me, in a fright, 'They are sounding the charge.' 'No, wife,' I would tell her, 'they are sounding the _premonition_.' One day the cornet--they used to call him _Trompi_--came in tipsy, and insulted my wife. I, who was not afraid of any three that might come, and never stopped to think of consequences, said to him, 'Out of here, little soul of a pitcher, and Barabbas cut a slice from you!' With that he drew his sword, and would have cut me, but I snatched my knife, and finished him at once; and then, catching up mantle and blanket, took the wind for the mountains. I stopped in Benamahoma with the Padre Lovillo--and there you have it all."

"The Padre Lovillo was the captain of the partida?" questioned a youth.

"Yes, the Padre Lovillo. _Candela!_ That was a man you could call a man! No talker--not he; but the words he used were few and good. If any one wanted to brag of his doings, he would say, 'Let them be seen, not heard. You understand, cackler? Stabs with steel, not with the tongue; balls of lead, not of wind.' Sirs, that man was ready for everything, as you would have declared with two tongues if you had had them. When we were going to attack the French, he used to say, 'Listen, sons, our fathers died for their country, and we are not to be less than they.' Then, drawing his sword, he would shout, '_Now_ let us see who has pluck!' and charge like another Santiago,[171] and we after him, as if he had led us to Paris in France. We felt neither hunger nor weariness; it was a fight without drum or trumpet, but it made the Frenchmen shiver. They named us the '_Briganes_[172] of the Black Mountain,' and were more afraid of us than of the trained soldiery.

"Don 'Turo, who knew that I had been a _brigan_, called me into the parlor one evening, and, when he had squeezed himself into a chair, told me to sit down. I began to wonder where all these Masses were going to end.[173] Surely, I thought, he cannot want me to clean his gun! But I waited for the mountain to bring forth, and presently he asked me to explain the _trafica_[174] of guerilla fighting. When I saw him come out with that ladder, I got angry, and told him, 'No;' that my pronouncing was very bad, and his understanding worse. But all the others insisted, and, not to seem disobliging, I repeated a very good and well-versed poem, that was going the rounds then."

"And what was it about, Uncle Bartolo?"

"It relates a conversation between Malapart[175] and that Indian, _Munrá_, Duke of _Ver_."[176]

"Go on, uncle, say it," exclaimed all present.

The following romance, which the old guerilla recited, was very popular at that time among the people. It owes its humor to the fact that neither its unlettered composer, nor those who recited it, had any suspicion that they were giving a caricature. They considered it a simple and probable account of what would take place between Napoleon and Murat when they saw their last troops vanquished. Even the conclusion is in no way inconsistent with their ideas of the antecedents and characters of the personages:

_Nap._ How is this, friend _Munrá_!
Why are you here again?
Why have you left your capital?
What sent you out of Spain?
Speak on, and don't delay;
We have no time to spare;
Tell me, in terms exact,
What has happened there.

_Mur._ Easy, sir, if you please;
Sire, do not press me so;
Only let me get breath,
I'll tell you what I know.
But, first, send for a chair,
That some rest we may take
While I tell you the tale,
For, indeed, my legs ache.

_Nap._ Right, for you have grown fat,
And glad am I to see
Proof that the airs of Spain
So well with you agree.

_Mur._ Sire, you are mistaken;
But let the matter go,
For things of more account
Your majesty should know.
And, come to what must come,
Without any more ado--
For, believe me or not, sire,
All I tell you is true.

_Nap._ Why, what has happened now?
Good Heavens, man, speak out!
What have you seen in Spain
To put you so about?

_Mur._ Great Emperor of France,
Your force has been in vain;
Nor did flatteries avail--
You cannot conquer Spain.
No notice will they take
Of your promises of pay,
And peace, and rank to all,
And bull-fights every day.

_Nap._ But, my soldiers, do not they
In the mountains still remain?

_Mur._ Yes, captives they remain
With their general, _Dupon_,
And the eagles of France;
And every sword and gun
Might as well be a distaff,
For Castaños and his men
Have settled their account.

_Nap._ _Peste!_ Because you tell it,
The tale I must believe;
From another I would not
A word of it receive.
No doubt, in Zaragoza
Our cause has better speed,
In humbling them at last
We surely must succeed.

_Mur._ All your force is useless;
The knaves will not submit.
If you wish to lose France,
And make an end of it,
Send it to Zaragoza,
It will find a bloody tomb,
And remain there, buried,
Until the Day of Doom.

_Nap._ Can nothing, then, be done
With those troops of Arragon?

_Mur._ We have none that on them
Will venture to advance.

_Nap._ But Moncey's triumphant
In the kingdom of Valence?

_Mur._ Sire, he has dropped his ears,
And slunk away, ashamed;
Those Valencians have a way
Their enemies to tame.
They mount on swiftest steeds,
And, running a swift career,
Unhorse the astonished foe
Before he is aware.

_Nap._ It seems, then, that maxims,
And lying, and caution
Have failed in that country;
But who had a notion
That Spain would be equal
To France in a contest?
We now can do nothing
But send for Funest.[177]

_Mur._ And how can he get here,
When the Portuguese men,
With the Spaniards united,
Have him closely shut in,
With sentinels stationed?
No help can avail him,
For surrender he must,
When eatables fail him.
The best thing to do, is
To yield to their clamor,
And give back the king
That Spaniards all honor.
Perhaps, sire, if--with him
Appeased and delighted--
They will let our troops go,
Your throne may be righted;
For upset it they will
At the rate they are making,
And cut off your head,
And from me be taking
My fine dukedom of _Ver_;
Or, if we escape, sire,
The fate I am dreading.
We'll have to sweep chimneys
Again for a living.
I've forgotten the trade,
And lost my dexterity;
But you, who were master,
Would mount with celerity.

_Nap._ Only a pitiful knave
Such memories would renew.

_Mur._ Well, sire, if that don't suit,
I've another thing in view;
We'll seek a brighter sphere,
And a foreign city find,
Where through the streets we'll rove,
Crying "Sci-i-issors to gri-ind."

"And which did he do, uncle?" asked one--"sweep chimneys or grind scissors?"

"_He sweep chimneys!_" exclaimed Uncle Bartolo. "Such people always fall into feather-beds! They carried him to St. Helena--beyond Gibraltar--where he had it quite comfortable till he died raving, after the devil had helped him to make that will."

"Here comes Uncle Cohete," said a man who sat by the window.

"Make him a sign to come in," said the person nearest him, in a low tone.

Uncle Cohete was a simple, good old man, who acted the merry-andrew for the purpose of obtaining alms for a religious house of which he was _demandante_.[178] He could mimic to perfection the songs of all birds; the near and distant barking of the dog, the mewing of the cat; and so excelled in imitating the peculiar hiss and crackling of a kite in the air, as to have obtained the nickname of _cohete_ (kite), by which he was known. He had, besides, a stock of simple verses, ballads, riddles, and odd scraps of humor, which he would repeat with inimitable expression and drollery. The sources from which he drew his supplies could not be told. This, he had learned in a town on the Llanura; that, in a village of the Sierra; another at the fireside of the manse. But, in his mimicry of the birds, they themselves had been the teachers, aided by unusual flexibility of organs, and great patience and perseverance on the part of the disciple. For, in all branches--whether important or insignificant--perseverance yields great results.

It having been intimated to Uncle Cohete that the company wished him to tell something diverting, he began by saying _The Commandments of the Rich Man and the Poor Man_--a collection of ironical precepts, which enjoyed great popularity at that time--as follows:

"The commandments of the rich man, nowadays, are five,
namely:

"The first. Thou shalt have no end of money.

"The second. Thou shalt despise all the rest of the
world.

"The third. Thou shalt eat good beef and good mutton.

"The fourth. Thou shalt eat flesh on Good Friday.

"The fifth. Thou shalt drink both white wine and red.

"These commandments are included in two:
Let all be for me, and nothing for you.

"The commandments of the poor man are five, namely:

"The first. Thou shalt never have any money.

"The second. Thou shalt be despised by all the world.

"The third. Thou shalt eat neither beef nor mutton.

"The fourth. Thou shalt fast, even if it be not Good
Friday.

"The fifth. Thou shalt taste neither the white wine nor
the red.

"These commandments are included in two:
Scratch thyself, and bear everything for the love of God."

"Uncle, did not the son of _Roba-Santos_[179] who is heaping money, give you an alms?" asked one.

"No, he gave me nothing," answered Uncle Cohete.

"Like father, like son," said Uncle Bartolo.

"Next year, uncle, you will get a pile, for 'when the fields have, the saints have.'"

"Uncle Cohete, take these two coppers, and tell us _The Commandments of the New Law_," said the man who had called him in:

"The commandments of the new law are ten, namely:

"The first. Let there be no money in Spain.

"The second. Let the world turn upside-down.

"The third. Let every one play gentleman.

"The fourth. Let not a single copper come from America.

"The fifth. Let there be no end of drafting.

"The sixth. Let the new law come from abroad.

"The seventh. Let there be fewer people that are not
wanted.

"The eighth. Let them distribute biscuits in Navarra.

"The ninth. Let every one look out for himself.

"The tenth. Let all be at variance.

"These commandments are included in two:
Some say yes, and others say no."

"Tell us a riddle, uncle."

"Fifty ladies and five gallants: the fifty ask fowl; the five ask bread," said the old man, of whom nature, and the kind of life he led, had made the personification of ready and good-humored obedience.

"The Rosary! I knew that," said a little boy. "Tell another."

"The mantle of Lady Leonor
Sinks in the river, but covers the shore."

"We give it up, uncle."

"It is the snow, gentlemen."

At this moment they were interrupted by the ringing of the sunset bell, and, all rising, stood with uncovered heads.

"Will you recite the prayer, Uncle Bartolo," said the widower.

Uncle Bartolo repeated the Angelus, adding a Paternoster for the deceased. And now the grief of the sobbing child in the corner broke forth in bitter crying.

"Stop that, Lucas!" said his father. "You have been going on in that way, hic! hic! like an old woman, for two days. You ought to have gone into the women's room. Let me hear you crying again! You understand?"

"Let me tell _you_, Juan Garcia," said Uncle Bartolo, "that you are the first man I ever heard rebuke the tears of a son for his mother! You see me, with my years, my beard, and my guerilla life; well, I remember mine, and weep for her still!

"But, uncle, 'frown, and frown again, of a bad son makes a good one.' Lucas here is a regular _Marcia Fernandez_,[180] brought up in the folds of his mother's skirts. I must teach him that men resist, and do not allow themselves to be overcome by tribulations."

Uncle Bartolo shook his head. "Time and not ointment will cure the patient. If you had died, his mother would not have been the one to rebuke your son for the tears he shed over you."

* * * * *

Juan Garcia continued his former life, abandoning himself with more liberty to the wicked woman of whom the friends of his dead wife had spoken at the _condolement_. She was called _La Leona_ in allusion to her native island of Leon, where she had married a sergeant, who was afterward sent to serve in America. Like all bad women, _La Leona_ was much worse than men of the same class, inasmuch as, in the subtle organization of woman, the delicacy that is given to her for good turns into a refinement of evil, and her instinctive penetration into malignant sagacity. Not satisfied with having attracted to herself Juan Garcia, who possessed a small patrimony, _La Leona_, impelled by the bitter envy which a lost woman feels toward one who is honest, undertook to render him indifferent to his wife, and succeeded not only in this, but also in causing him to ill-treat and abandon her. Juan Garcia was a weak man, easily subjugated by those who knew how to obtain an influence over him, and, by way of compensating himself for this complaisance, very obstinate and overbearing in his treatment of others. By degrees, it came to pass that his mistress would not receive him with favor unless he brought her, as an offering, the relation of some act of coldness or cruelty to the victim whose only crime was that of affording, by her right, and by her silent and prudent endurance, the most patent condemnation of the conduct of these two, a condemnation all the more ignominious because of the great purity of manners which prevails in country places. And in order to gain our assertion credit with those who are disposed to accuse us of partiality for the country people, we hasten to say that this purity may naturally be attributed to the wholesome influence of labor, which, in putting indolence to flight, puts to flight with it the vices it generates, and to the blessed poverty, which, being without the means of satisfying them, hinders their birth. Having convinced utilitarians with these reasons, we will add to them others of our own; namely, the salutary ideas of morality and rooted principles of honor that many centuries of Catholicism have fixed in the hearts of these people--principles renewed, in each successive generation, by the unchanging zeal that is the property of religion, and that never wearies or grows lukewarm.

Like all other general rules, the above has its exceptions. Juan Garcia furnished one. His unkindness, united with the grief and shame his conduct caused her, had certainly hastened the death of poor Ana, whose last act of affection as a wife, and duty as a Christian, had been to forgive him. Alas! the soul of the husband was so deeply mired that even this saintly death could awaken in it neither pity nor remorse. Not that he was utterly perverse, but his eyes, like those of many another in this world of error, were covered by one of those veils which must fall on the day of God's judgment, when the light of truth will be the first punishment that awaits the willingly blind.

His boy and girl remained orphaned and neglected, and would have been entirely forsaken but for that active charity which makes women constitute themselves fervent protectors of the helpless and severe judges of the wrong-doer. The wives of Juan's neighbors took care of the children, and obliged him to feed and clothe them, freely casting in his face his evil conduct, while, with imperturbable coolness, they prescribed to him his obligations.

Ah charity!--some proclaim and others comprehend thee; some would guide thee, and thou guidest others! Why art thou not found in the palaces that philanthropy builds for thee? Why dost thou appear in all thy brightness in the dwellings of the poor, delighting thyself with the widow's farthing? It is because thou wilt be queen and not a slave!

The children could not be consoled for the death of their mother. Isolated as they were, all the sentiments of their hearts became converted into love for each other, and sorrow for their loss.

Lucas, however, who was five years older than his sister, did his best to enliven and distract her.

"Don't cry so, Lucia," he said to her one night, not long after the _condolement_. "Mother will not come back for crying, and you make me cry. What shall I do to amuse you?"

The child made no answer.

"Shall I sing you a romance?"

Lucia inclined her head in token of assent, and the boy sang in his clear, sweet voice the following ballad:

Holy Saviour of La Luz,
Teach a child's tongue how to tell
A thing that happened in Seville,
Right, and worthily, and well.
Of a mother who lived there,
And two daughters that she had;
One was humble, mild, and good,
The other one was proud and bad.
They marry with two brothers,
Who are brothers but in name--
Under the same roof nurtured,
But in nothing else the same.
The younger sells his portion,
And loses the whole in play;
The elder follows the plough,
And works in his field all day.
Then the younger dies, and leaves
His wife, all alone and poor;
Her children weep for bread,
And she seeks her sister's door,
Praying, "In God's name, sister,
And for his sweet Mother's sake,
Give my little children bread,
And his word in payment take."
"Go, Mary," cries the sister,
"Beggar, take yourself away!
Was my lot better than yours
Upon our wedding-day?"
Weeping and broken-hearted,
The poor mother turns again;
To know her cause of sorrow
The neighbors ask in vain.
Of the parlor of her house
She had made a room for prayer
To our Lady of the Beads:
And now she enters there,
And, with her little children,
Before the altar falls
Of our sweet princess Mary,
And on her name she calls.
Now, homeward in the evening
The good brother turns his feet;
Finds table spread and waiting,
And he sits him down to eat.
He takes a loaf and breaks it,
But throws it away again,
For blood runs out of the bread,
On his hand he sees the stain.
Then he takes and breaks another,
But still the red blood falls--
"Oh! what is this?" astonished,
To his trembling wife he calls.
"Tell me, I say! what is it?"
For to tell she is afraid:
"In vain to me, this morning.
For bread my sister prayed!"
"And she that, without pity,
To a sister refuses bread,
To God's Mother doth refuse it,"
Then the angry husband said.
Six loaves the young man gathered,
And in haste to the abode
Of his sister and her children
He straightway took the road.
The window-shutters were closed,
And locked were windows and doors;
But the gleam of many lights
Shone out through the apertures--
Shone on six angels of God,
All kneeling upon the floor
Round six bodies of mother and children
That would never hunger more.
"Farewell, my soul's dear sister,
And sweet nephews of my heart!
Though gold I have, and plenty,
I would gladly give my part
For yours in the blessed country
Where sorrow is all forgot,
And the labor of life exchanged
For the eternal better lot!"

"And did she let her sister starve to death?" asked the child, her eyes refilling from her already surcharged heart.

"Yes, yes; she was a good-for-nothing; but don't cry, Lucia, a story isn't a thing that ever happened."

"If it had never happened, they would not have put it in the romance," said the little girl.

"They made it up," replied Lucas. "Don't you believe it, dear. When I am a man and can earn, the least piece of bread I may have, I must divide with my heart's little sister. You know that before mother died she put you in my care, and I made her a promise never to forsake you."

"And will you keep it?"

"So may God give me his glory!"

"And if you ever forget it, I am to sing you this romance, to put you in mind of what you say now."

"That is so; you must learn it." And the boy set himself to teach his sister the romance.

TO BE CONTINUED.

FOOTNOTES:

[160] A house sometimes contains two or three suites of apartments for distinct families. Each one forms a habitation.

[161] 28th of August, St. Augustine; 4th of October, St. Francis.

[162] _La Leona_, the lioness.

[163] _Azacan_, water-carrier, said of a servant or very laborious person.

[164] _Los Usias_, the You Sirs. That is to say, grand folks that must be treated to the _Usted_ (you), instead of the _tu_ (thou) of common people.

[165] _Jabeque_, a clumsy three-masted vessel used in the Mediterranean.

[166] Arturo.

[167] Magpie.

[168] A common dish on the tables of the country people.

[169] Offscouring.

[170] Partisans, or party.

[171] The patron of Spain.

[172] Brigands.

[173] To have misgivings as to the result of anything.

[174] _Tactica_, tactics.

[175] _Mala_, bad; _parte_, part; name given by the Spanish soldiers to Bonaparte.

[176] Murat, Duke of Berg.

[177] _Funesto._ Nickname given by the Spanish soldiers to Junot.

[178] One who asks alms for charitable purposes.

[179] Rob the saints.

[180] A girl-boy.

THE GOOD GERARD OF COLOGNE.

BY RUDOLF OF EMS, VASSAL AT MONTFORT (THIRTEENTH CENTURY).

COMPILED AFTER THE GERMAN OF CARL SIMROCK.

I.

In the new cathedral at Magdeburg the bells were ringing for the first time. A large crowd gathered to witness the consecration of the church, founded and richly endowed by the Emperor Otto the Great. He went up the aisle before all the people, not, as was then the custom, to lay down gifts at the new altar of God, but, with erect brow, he stood, and thus he spoke: "There is no gift in my hand for thee, O Lord; but when I lift up my eyes, whatever I behold around me is my gift to thee! This church I built for the glory of thy name, and I endowed it and made it so great that the sons of kings think it an honor to bow to its prince-bishop, and serve him. The heathen that troubled thy people, see I conquered them with my strong arm--the Wends, the Sarbs, and the Hungarians, they bowed their heads to my sword, and their knees to thy glory; and I made thy name great in all the pagan lands, and erected churches and bishoprics to thy honor. And now show me to-day, O my Lord, that thou hast seen my foot going in thy path, thou, who wilt give glory from heaven to him who spreads thy glory on earth." Thus the emperor spoke before all the people. And lo! a voice sounded from heaven as the voice of an angel in anger, and it spoke with a voice like thunder rolling in the mountains: "Otto, king on earth, see, the King in heaven had put a chair by his side for thee to sit upon it, and thou hast despised it in thy vanity; he had prepared for thee a crown of glory, and thou hast taken the crown of pride that made angels fall. He has heard with little pleasure the thoughts of thy heart, that asks for the highest place. Know, that place is for him who most serves God in humility and purity of heart; that is, for the good Gerard, the merchant in Cologne, whose name is written in the book of life. And now go and learn from him what is agreeable to God, and then confess that thy glory is vain and thy doing but little. But know, that not readily will he speak to thee; well would he lay down his life rather than let the fame of his righteousness sound up to God by words from his own mouth." When Otto had heard this, he bowed his head in shame and was humbled. He mounted his good horse, and with three of his knights rode over to Cologne. Among the citizens who came to greet their emperor in the vast hall, Otto saw one, a tall man with a long white beard and the step of a youth; and when he asked the bishop who sat by his side who that man was, he received in answer: "That is the good Gerard, the richest merchant in Cologne." Then the emperor spoke to all the assembled people: "I came here to ask your advice, as I am in great need of it. But I was counselled, and even commanded, not to speak but to one of you, and for that one I choose thee, O Gerard! Thou seemest to me rich in wisdom and experience." And Gerard answered, bowing before the emperor: "Shall I go alone to give my advice, while there are so many worthier ones here?" But all the people said: "O king! thy choice is good; there is no one in this hall his equal in wisdom." So the emperor took Gerard by the hand, and led him to a chamber near by, and locked the door after him, and they sat down on one couch, Gerard by Otto's side. Then Otto said: "Gerard, it was to see thee that I came here; pray tell me, how did it happen that the name 'Good' was given to thee? I would fain like to know." "O great king!" answered Gerard, "I do not know myself what that means; there are so many Gerards here; people only gave me that name to distinguish me from them." "Gerard, thou art deceiving me!" the emperor called out; but Gerard answered: "Oh! no, great king, I should deceive thee if I spoke otherwise. Never did I merit that name, and it was often a burden to me; because, while the world called me 'the Good,' it reminded me how seldom I did what pleased God. Often do I send the poor man away with a mean gift, whilst God gives me riches; I give him sour beer and black bread, I give him an old gown, whilst many a new one I had, and would not have missed them. I always have liked to go to church where the service was shortest, and when I had once prayed with my whole soul, I thought that would do for half a year. Therefore, O king! do not ask me what I have done to deserve that high name." The emperor said: "Gerard, thou must give me a better answer, for I have sure knowledge that thou hast done a great deed for God's sake, and I came to hear the account of it from thy own mouth; therefore speak!" "Oh! spare me," called out the good man, "spare me, most gracious king!" But Otto replied: "No, no! thou only awakenest my impatience, and I tell thee thou must yield to me at the end, if even much against thy will!" Then prayed the good man in his heart: "O God! look at thy servant! My king is angry with me, and I cannot resist him any longer. So if I reckon with thee, O Lord! and praise myself for the little good I ever did, do not thou turn away thy grace from me, for what I say, I do it much against my will." And presently he threw himself at the emperor's feet, saying: "Ten thousand pounds of silver I have in my cellar, take it and spare me the answer!" "Gerard," said the rich emperor, "I thought thou wert wiser. Such a speech only excites my curiosity. And I will tell thee, thou canst reveal me everything, and it will be no sin to thee--so I swear before God." Then the good Gerard said, arising from his knees, and sitting down: "God knows my heart; he knows that, when I do now as my king commands me to do, my heart is full of grief, and vanity is far from it."

II.

THE GOOD GERARD'S STORY.

"When my father died, he left no small fortune to me, his only heir. But as I was a merchant, I thought to double and double again my possessions, and cause my son to be called 'the rich Gerard,' as his fathers had been called before him. So I left him such fortune as would be full enough for him, and took all the rest, fifty thousand pounds of silver, and carried it to my ship, together with food for three years' voyage. Experienced sailors were in my pay, and my clerk was with me, to write my accounts and read my prayers. So I went to Russia, where I found sables in profusion, and to Prussia's rich amber strand, and from there, by the Sea of the Middle, to the East, and there I took in exchange silk and woven goods from Damax and Ninive; and well I thought a threefold gain should be mine. Then my heart began to long for wife and child, and with great joy I told the mariners to turn the ship homeward. But a storm arose, and water and wind were fighting for twelve days and twelve nights, and threw my ship to an unknown land, where a beach gave us shelter. When the sun shone again, and the sky looked clear, I saw villages and hamlets and fertile fields as far as my eyes could reach, and near the sea a large city with pinnacles and high walls. We went to the port, and I found it full of merchandise, a rich and stately place, not unlike the old Cologne. I went on land, for I saw the governor of the city coming to view the goods in the port, and many a knight and vassal rode by his side; and I thought to go up to him and ask his protection. But when I came near him, he approached me with a quick step, and, greeting me with his hand, he thus spake: 'Welcome the first one who comes to my market! Thou art my guest, stranger! I see thou comest from far off, perhaps from the land of the Christians, who seldom come here, in false fear that I would harm them. But be of good cheer! I do not harm the merchant, nor need I covet his goods, for my land is rich, and all the gold and precious stones that it has in its mountains are mine, and the pearls in the sea, and many a rich vessel that the storm throws on our coast.' Well was I astonished at such a greeting; but I accepted gladly; and the governor, Stranamur by name, gave me the best house, and took care of me that nothing might harm me. Again and again did he show me his love, and soon friendship and confidence reigned between us. Presently, he wanted me to show him the treasures of my ship, and I let it be done readily. I saw him wonder at their splendor, and with good cheer he said: 'Gerard, I tell thee, thou hast brought riches to this land so great that nobody can buy them. But I will show thee my treasure now, and then, if it so please thee, we will exchange; for in this land my treasure is of no value, while in the land of the Christians it might bring thee at least a twentyfold gain.' And I answered: 'To seek gain is the merchant's duty. I did show thee my treasure; now let me see thine.' Then my host led me by the hand to a hall, and as I entered with a cheerful mind, hoping to behold the riches of India, gold and spices, I found the place all empty of joy and filled with but misery. Twelve young knights were lying here in chains so heavy that their weight pulled them down to the low couches, and, though grief and want had disfigured their beauty, I saw they were of noble blood and sons of high lords, born to govern the world. Then my host beckoned me to the next hall, where I found again twelve knights in chains, but old and pale, with venerable figure, and hair and beard silver-white. Then my host led me away by the hand to the third hall, and said: 'Behold my most precious goods!' Well, I found there goods great in riches and beauty, for fifteen lovely maidens were what he called the precious merchandise. And my heart pained me as I beheld them, for their loveliness and gentle mind shone amid the prison walls like stars in the night; and I saw one like their queen, a moon among the stars. But Stranamur led me away and said: 'Thou didst behold my goods; shall we exchange? Thou mayest easily get a rich ransom for each of them, more than one hundred thousand pounds of silver. In England they were born; William, their king, sent them over to Norway to bring him home his bride, King Reinemund's daughter, Irene, whom thou hast seen. Coming home, a storm threw them on my coast, and so they were mine by right, for after the custom of this land the strand is mine. And I offer these knights to thee, together with the fifteen maidens, that thou mayest give me the treasures I saw on thy ship.' I had good reason to be astonished at such an offer, for I saw clearly it would be giving my goods for mere blanks, and so I asked the governor to let me please consider till the next morning. And when I came to my house I sat down thinking, and though my heart told me to help the prisoners in their misery, there was a voice in my mind saying: 'Do not give away the earnings of thy life for a mere idea'; and well would I have passed that night without coming to an end, if God in his goodness and grace had not given his advice in my heart. For I fell asleep, and in my sleep I heard a voice of God's angel, who spoke to me these words: 'Awake, Gerard, God's anger is calling thee! Did he not say in his mercy, "What thou givest to the poorest of my brethren, thou givest unto me"? What thou givest to the needy ones, thou lendest to the Lord; and doubt in him is great sin to thee!' Then I awoke and fell on my knees, and thanked God that he had given me shame and repentance in my heart, and humbled me so as to save me from sin. The next morning my host met me at the gate, and with anxiety he asked what it was my wish to do. And I answered: 'I am willing to make exchange with thee, O Stranamur! if thou allowest me one thing: give back to the prisoners their ship and all they brought on it, and give them food and mariners, and whatever they need to go home.' And the governor answered: 'Dost thou think me a thief, O Gerard? I thought, friend, thou knewest me better. Not one penny's worth will I keep from the prisoners, and theirs shall be whatever is needed for a safe and speedy voyage.' After that he gave me his hand, and we changed thus mine and thine. Then the prisoners were told of what had happened, and they were clothed as became them, and refreshed, and when they beheld me, their thanks and tears were such that my eyes overflowed, even against my will. And I saw the women's great beauty, and Irene their queen, and though the earthly crown was taken from her, there was the crown of beauty and loveliness on her brow. Then my clerk read prayers, and we went to sea; the right wind blew in our sails, and bore us quickly outward. When we came near the coast of England, I spoke to the knights: 'Tell me, who of you were born in England, that they may go on their way home now.' And they answered: 'From Norway only came Queen Irene with two of her maidens; all the rest of us were born in England.' I said to the knights: 'Go home, then, with my blessings, noble lords! and if I did what pleased you, think of me with a friendly heart. Let King William know, and also Reinemund of Norway, that Queen Irene is in my house and under my protection, and that I am ready and willing to give her up whenever they claim her. When I send my messengers to you, pay them back, O knights! what I left for your sake in the strange land of the heathen, if it so is convenient to you. Then they thanked me so that I had to hide from their embraces; and we parted with many tears; and they went their way, I mine.