Fairy Tales of Hans Christian Andersen

[أرب جمـال]

THE SNOW QUEEN


THIRD STORY
THE FLOWER GARDEN OF THE WOMAN
WHO COULD CONJURE

But how fared little Gerda during Kay's absence? What had
become of him, no one knew, nor could any one give the
slightest information, excepting the boys, who said that he
had tied his sledge to another very large one, which had
driven through the street, and out at the town gate. Nobody
knew where it went; many tears were shed for him, and little
Gerda wept bitterly for a long time. She said she knew he must
be dead; that he was drowned in the river which flowed close
by the school. Oh, indeed those long winter days were very
dreary. But at last spring came, with warm sunshine. "Kay is
dead and gone," said little Gerda.

"I don't believe it," said the sunshine.

"He is dead and gone," she said to the sparrows.

"We don't believe it," they replied; and at last little
Gerda began to doubt it herself. "I will put on my new red
shoes," she said one morning, "those that Kay has never seen,
and then I will go down to the river, and ask for him." It was
quite early when she kissed her old grandmother, who was still
asleep; then she put on her red shoes, and went quite alone
out of the town gates toward the river. "Is it true that you
have taken my little playmate away from me?" said she to the
river. "I will give you my red shoes if you will give him back
to me." And it seemed as if the waves nodded to her in a
strange manner. Then she took off her red shoes, which she
liked better than anything else, and threw them both into the
river, but they fell near the bank, and the little waves
carried them back to the land, just as if the river would not
take from her what she loved best, because they could not give
her back little Kay. But she thought the shoes had not been
thrown out far enough. Then she crept into a boat that lay
among the reeds, and threw the shoes again from the farther
end of the boat into the water, but it was not fastened. And
her movement sent it gliding away from the land. When she saw
this she hastened to reach the end of the boat, but before she
could so it was more than a yard from the bank, and drifting
away faster than ever. Then little Gerda was very much
frightened, and began to cry, but no one heard her except the
sparrows, and they could not carry her to land, but they flew
along by the shore, and sang, as if to comfort her, "Here we
are! Here we are!" The boat floated with the stream; little
Gerda sat quite still with only her stockings on her feet; the
red shoes floated after her, but she could not reach them
because the boat kept so much in advance. The banks on each
side of the river were very pretty. There were beautiful
flowers, old trees, sloping fields, in which cows and sheep
were grazing, but not a man to be seen. Perhaps the river will
carry me to little Kay, thought Gerda, and then she became
more cheerful, and raised her head, and looked at the
beautiful green banks; and so the boat sailed on for hours. At
length she came to a large cherry orchard, in which stood a
small red house with strange red and blue windows. It had also
a thatched roof, and outside were two wooden soldiers, that
presented arms to her as she sailed past. Gerda called out to
them, for she thought they were alive, but of course they did
not answer; and as the boat drifted nearer to the shore, she
saw what they really were. Then Gerda called still louder, and
there came a very old woman out of the house, leaning on a
crutch. She wore a large hat to shade her from the sun, and on
it were painted all sorts of pretty flowers. "You poor little
child," said the old woman, "how did you manage to come all
this distance into the wide world on such a rapid rolling
stream?" And then the old woman walked in the water, seized
the boat with her crutch, drew it to land, and lifted Gerda
out. And Gerda was glad to feel herself on dry ground,
although she was rather afraid of the strange old woman. "Come
and tell me who you are," said she, "and how came you here."

Then Gerda told her everything, while the old woman shook
her head, and said, "Hem-hem;" and when she had finished,
Gerda asked if she had not seen little Kay, and the old woman
told her he had not passed by that way, but he very likely
would come. So she told Gerda not to be sorrowful, but to
taste the cherries and look at the flowers; they were better
than any picture-book, for each of them could tell a story.
Then she took Gerda by the hand and led her into the little
house, and the old woman closed the door. The windows were
very high, and as the panes were red, blue, and yellow, the
daylight shone through them in all sorts of singular colors.
On the table stood beautiful cherries, and Gerda had
permission to eat as many as she would. While she was eating
them the old woman combed out her long flaxen ringlets with a
golden comb, and the glossy curls hung down on each side of
the little round pleasant face, which looked fresh and
blooming as a rose. "I have long been wishing for a dear
little maiden like you," said the old woman, "and now you must
stay with me, and see how happily we shall live together." And
while she went on combing little Gerda's hair, she thought
less and less about her adopted brother Kay, for the old woman
could conjure, although she was not a wicked witch; she
conjured only a little for her own amusement, and now, because
she wanted to keep Gerda. Therefore she went into the garden,
and stretched out her crutch towards all the rose-trees,
beautiful though they were; and they immediately sunk into the
dark earth, so that no one could tell where they had once
stood. The old woman was afraid that if little Gerda saw roses
she would think of those at home, and then remember little
Kay, and run away. Then she took Gerda into the flower-garden.
How fragrant and beautiful it was! Every flower that could be
thought of for every season of the year was here in full
bloom; no picture-book could have more beautiful colors. Gerda
jumped for joy, and played till the sun went down behind the
tall cherry-trees; then she slept in an elegant bed with red
silk pillows, embroidered with colored violets; and then she
dreamed as pleasantly as a queen on her wedding day. The next
day, and for many days after, Gerda played with the flowers in
the warm sunshine. She knew every flower, and yet, although
there were so many of them, it seemed as if one were missing,
but which it was she could not tell. One day, however, as she
sat looking at the old woman's hat with the painted flowers on
it, she saw that the prettiest of them all was a rose. The old
woman had forgotten to take it from her hat when she made all
the roses sink into the earth. But it is difficult to keep the
thoughts together in everything; one little mistake upsets all
our arrangements.

"What, are there no roses here?" cried Gerda; and she ran
out into the garden, and examined all the beds, and searched
and searched. There was not one to be found. Then she sat down
and wept, and her tears fell just on the place where one of
the rose-trees had sunk down. The warm tears moistened the
earth, and the rose-tree sprouted up at once, as blooming as
when it had sunk; and Gerda embraced it and kissed the roses,
and thought of the beautiful roses at home, and, with them, of
little Kay.

"Oh, how I have been detained!" said the little maiden, "I
wanted to seek for little Kay. Do you know where he is?" she
asked the roses; "do you think he is dead?"

And the roses answered, "No, he is not dead. We have been
in the ground where all the dead lie; but Kay is not there."

"Thank you," said little Gerda, and then she went to the
other flowers, and looked into their little cups, and asked,
"Do you know where little Kay is?" But each flower, as it
stood in the sunshine, dreamed only of its own little fairy
tale of history. Not one knew anything of Kay. Gerda heard
many stories from the flowers, as she asked them one after
another about him.

And what, said the tiger-lily? "Hark, do you hear the
drum? - 'turn, turn,'- there are only two notes, always,
'turn, turn.' Listen to the women's song of mourning! Hear the
cry of the priest! In her long red robe stands the Hindoo
widow by the funeral pile. The flames rise around her as she
places herself on the dead body of her husband; but the Hindoo
woman is thinking of the living one in that circle; of him,
her son, who lighted those flames. Those shining eyes trouble
her heart more painfully than the flames which will soon
consume her body to ashes. Can the fire of the heart be
extinguished in the flames of the funeral pile?"

"I don't understand that at all," said little Gerda.

"That is my story," said the tiger-lily.

What, says the convolvulus? "Near yonder narrow road
stands an old knight's castle; thick ivy creeps over the old
ruined walls, leaf over leaf, even to the balcony, in which
stands a beautiful maiden. She bends over the balustrades, and
looks up the road. No rose on its stem is fresher than she; no
apple-blossom, wafted by the wind, floats more lightly than
she moves. Her rich silk rustles as she bends over and
exclaims, 'Will he not come?'

"Is it Kay you mean?" asked Gerda.

"I am only speaking of a story of my dream," replied the
flower.

What, said the little snow-drop? "Between two trees a rope
is hanging; there is a piece of board upon it; it is a swing.
Two pretty little girls, in dresses white as snow, and with
long green ribbons fluttering from their hats, are sitting
upon it swinging. Their brother who is taller than they are,
stands in the swing; he has one arm round the rope, to steady
himself; in one hand he holds a little bowl, and in the other
a clay pipe; he is blowing bubbles. As the swing goes on, the
bubbles fly upward, reflecting the most beautiful varying
colors. The last still hangs from the bowl of the pipe, and
sways in the wind. On goes the swing; and then a little black
dog comes running up. He is almost as light as the bubble, and
he raises himself on his hind legs, and wants to be taken into
the swing; but it does not stop, and the dog falls; then he
barks and gets angry. The children stoop towards him, and the
bubble bursts. A swinging plank, a light sparkling foam
picture,- that is my story."

"It may be all very pretty what you are telling me," said
little Gerda, "but you speak so mournfully, and you do not
mention little Kay at all."

What do the hyacinths say? "There were three beautiful
sisters, fair and delicate. The dress of one was red, of the
second blue, and of the third pure white. Hand in hand they
danced in the bright moonlight, by the calm lake; but they
were human beings, not fairy elves. The sweet fragrance
attracted them, and they disappeared in the wood; here the
fragrance became stronger. Three coffins, in which lay the
three beautiful maidens, glided from the thickest part of the
forest across the lake. The fire-flies flew lightly over them,
like little floating torches. Do the dancing maidens sleep, or
are they dead? The scent of the flower says that they are
corpses. The evening bell tolls their knell."

"You make me quite sorrowful," said little Gerda; "your
perfume is so strong, you make me think of the dead maidens.
Ah! is little Kay really dead then? The roses have been in the
earth, and they say no."

"Cling, clang," tolled the hyacinth bells. "We are not
tolling for little Kay; we do not know him. We sing our song,
the only one we know."

Then Gerda went to the buttercups that were glittering
amongst the bright green leaves.

"You are little bright suns," said Gerda; "tell me if you
know where I can find my play-fellow."

And the buttercups sparkled gayly, and looked again at
Gerda. What song could the buttercups sing? It was not about
Kay.

"The bright warm sun shone on a little court, on the first
warm day of spring. His bright beams rested on the white walls
of the neighboring house; and close by bloomed the first
yellow flower of the season, glittering like gold in the sun's
warm ray. An old woman sat in her arm chair at the house door,
and her granddaughter, a poor and pretty servant-maid came to
see her for a short visit. When she kissed her grandmother
there was gold everywhere: the gold of the heart in that holy
kiss; it was a golden morning; there was gold in the beaming
sunlight, gold in the leaves of the lowly flower, and on the
lips of the maiden. There, that is my story," said the
buttercup.

"My poor old grandmother!" sighed Gerda; "she is longing
to see me, and grieving for me as she did for little Kay; but
I shall soon go home now, and take little Kay with me. It is
no use asking the flowers; they know only their own songs, and
can give me no information."

And then she tucked up her little dress, that she might
run faster, but the narcissus caught her by the leg as she was
jumping over it; so she stopped and looked at the tall yellow
flower, and said, "Perhaps you may know something."

Then she stooped down quite close to the flower, and
listened; and what did he say?

"I can see myself, I can see myself," said the narcissus.
"Oh, how sweet is my perfume! Up in a little room with a bow
window, stands a little dancing girl, half undressed; she
stands sometimes on one leg, and sometimes on both, and looks
as if she would tread the whole world under her feet. She is
nothing but a delusion. She is pouring water out of a tea-pot
on a piece of stuff which she holds in her hand; it is her
bodice. 'Cleanliness is a good thing,' she says. Her white
dress hangs on a peg; it has also been washed in the tea-pot,
and dried on the roof. She puts it on, and ties a
saffron-colored handkerchief round her neck, which makes the
dress look whiter. See how she stretches out her legs, as if
she were showing off on a stem. I can see myself, I can see
myself."

"What do I care for all that," said Gerda, "you need not
tell me such stuff." And then she ran to the other end of the
garden. The door was fastened, but she pressed against the
rusty latch, and it gave way. The door sprang open, and little
Gerda ran out with bare feet into the wide world. She looked
back three times, but no one seemed to be following her. At
last she could run no longer, so she sat down to rest on a
great stone, and when she looked round she saw that the summer
was over, and autumn very far advanced. She had known nothing
of this in the beautiful garden, where the sun shone and the
flowers grew all the year round.

"Oh, how I have wasted my time?" said little Gerda; "it is
autumn. I must not rest any longer," and she rose up to go on.
But her little feet were wounded and sore, and everything
around her looked so cold and bleak. The long willow-leaves
were quite yellow. The dew-drops fell like water, leaf after
leaf dropped from the trees, the sloe-thorn alone still bore
fruit, but the sloes were sour, and set the teeth on edge. Oh,
how dark and weary the whole world appeared!

FOURTH STORY
THE PRINCE AND PRINCESS

Gerda was obliged to rest again, and just opposite the
place where she sat, she saw a great crow come hopping across
the snow toward her. He stood looking at her for some time,
and then he wagged his head and said, "Caw, caw; good-day,
good-day." He pronounced the words as plainly as he could,
because he meant to be kind to the little girl; and then he
asked her where she was going all alone in the wide world.

The word alone Gerda understood very well, and knew how
much it expressed. So then she told the crow the whole story
of her life and adventures, and asked him if he had seen
little Kay.

The crow nodded his head very gravely, and said, "Perhaps
I have- it may be."

"No! Do you think you have?" cried little Gerda, and she
kissed the crow, and hugged him almost to death with joy.

"Gently, gently," said the crow. "I believe I know. I
think it may be little Kay; but he has certainly forgotten you
by this time for the princess."

"Does he live with a princess?" asked Gerda.

"Yes, listen," replied the crow, "but it is so difficult
to speak your language. If you understand the crows' language
then I can explain it better. Do you?"

"No, I have never learnt it," said Gerda, but my
grandmother understands it, and used to speak it to me. I wish
I had learnt it."

"It does not matter," answered the crow; "I will explain
as well as I can, although it will be very badly done;" and he
told her what he had heard. "In this kingdom where we now
are," said he, "there lives a princess, who is so wonderfully
clever that she has read all the newspapers in the world, and
forgotten them too, although she is so clever. A short time
ago, as she was sitting on her throne, which people say is not
such an agreeable seat as is often supposed, she began to sing
a song which commences in these words:

'Why should I not be married?'

'Why not indeed?' said she, and so she determined to marry if
she could find a husband who knew what to say when he was
spoken to, and not one who could only look grand, for that was
so tiresome. Then she assembled all her court ladies together
at the beat of the drum, and when they heard of her intentions
they were very much pleased. 'We are so glad to hear it,' said
they, we were talking about it ourselves the other day.' You
may believe that every word I tell you is true," said the
crow, "for I have a tame sweetheart who goes freely about the
palace, and she told me all this."

Of course his sweetheart was a crow, for "birds of a
feather flock together," and one crow always chooses another
crow.

"Newspapers were published immediately, with a border of
hearts, and the initials of the princess among them. They gave
notice that every young man who was handsome was free to visit
the castle and speak with the princess; and those who could
reply loud enough to be heard when spoken to, were to make
themselves quite at home at the palace; but the one who spoke
best would be chosen as a husband for the princess. Yes, yes,
you may believe me, it is all as true as I sit here," said the
crow. "The people came in crowds. There was a great deal of
crushing and running about, but no one succeeded either on the
first or second day. They could all speak very well while they
were outside in the streets, but when they entered the palace
gates, and saw the guards in silver uniforms, and the footmen
in their golden livery on the staircase, and the great halls
lighted up, they became quite confused. And when they stood
before the throne on which the princess sat, they could do
nothing but repeat the last words she had said; and she had no
particular wish to hear her own words over again. It was just
as if they had all taken something to make them sleepy while
they were in the palace, for they did not recover themselves
nor speak till they got back again into the street. There was
quite a long line of them reaching from the town-gate to the
palace. I went myself to see them," said the crow. "They were
hungry and thirsty, for at the palace they did not get even a
glass of water. Some of the wisest had taken a few slices of
bread and butter with them, but they did not share it with
their neighbors; they thought if they went in to the princess
looking hungry, there would be a better chance for
themselves."

"But Kay! tell me about little Kay!" said Gerda, "was he
amongst the crowd?"

"Stop a bit, we are just coming to him. It was on the
third day, there came marching cheerfully along to the palace
a little personage, without horses or carriage, his eyes
sparkling like yours; he had beautiful long hair, but his
clothes were very poor."

"That was Kay!" said Gerda joyfully. "Oh, then I have
found him;" and she clapped her hands.

"He had a little knapsack on his back," added the crow.

"No, it must have been his sledge," said Gerda; "for he
went away with it."

"It may have been so," said the crow; "I did not look at
it very closely. But I know from my tame sweetheart that he
passed through the palace gates, saw the guards in their
silver uniform, and the servants in their liveries of gold on
the stairs, but he was not in the least embarrassed. 'It must
be very tiresome to stand on the stairs,' he said. 'I prefer
to go in." The rooms were blazing with light. Councillors and
ambassadors walked about with bare feet, carrying golden
vessels; it was enough to make any one feel serious. His boots
creaked loudly as he walked, and yet he was not at all
uneasy."

"It must be Kay," said Gerda, "I know he had new boots on,
I have heard them creak in grandmother's room."

"They really did creak," said the crow, "yet he went
boldly up to the princess herself, who was sitting on a pearl
as large as a spinning wheel, and all the ladies of the court
were present with their maids, and all the cavaliers with
their servants; and each of the maids had another maid to wait
upon her, and the cavaliers' servants had their own servants,
as well as a page each. They all stood in circles round the
princess, and the nearer they stood to the door, the prouder
they looked. The servants' pages, who always wore slippers,
could hardly be looked at, they held themselves up so proudly
by the door."

"It must be quite awful," said little Gerda, "but did Kay
win the princess?"

"If I had not been a crow," said he, "I would have married
her myself, although I am engaged. He spoke just as well as I
do, when I speak the crows' language, so I heard from my tame
sweetheart. He was quite free and agreeable and said he had
not come to woo the princess, but to hear her wisdom; and he
was as pleased with her as she was with him."

"Oh, certainly that was Kay," said Gerda, "he was so
clever; he could work mental arithmetic and fractions. Oh,
will you take me to the palace?"

"It is very easy to ask that," replied the crow, "but how
are we to manage it? However, I will speak about it to my tame
sweetheart, and ask her advice; for I must tell you it will be
very difficult to gain permission for a little girl like you
to enter the palace."

"Oh, yes; but I shall gain permission easily," said Gerda,
"for when Kay hears that I am here, he will come out and fetch
me in immediately."

"Wait for me here by the palings," said the crow, wagging
his head as he flew away.

It was late in the evening before the crow returned. "Caw,
caw," he said, she sends you greeting, and here is a little
roll which she took from the kitchen for you; there is plenty
of bread there, and she thinks you must be hungry. It is not
possible for you to enter the palace by the front entrance.
The guards in silver uniform and the servants in gold livery
would not allow it. But do not cry, we will manage to get you
in; my sweetheart knows a little back-staircase that leads to
the sleeping apartments, and she knows where to find the key."

Then they went into the garden through the great avenue,
where the leaves were falling one after another, and they
could see the light in the palace being put out in the same
manner. And the crow led little Gerda to the back door, which
stood ajar. Oh! how little Gerda's heart beat with anxiety and
longing; it was just as if she were going to do something
wrong, and yet she only wanted to know where little Kay was.
"It must be he," she thought, "with those clear eyes, and that
long hair." She could fancy she saw him smiling at her, as he
used to at home, when they sat among the roses. He would
certainly be glad to see her, and to hear what a long distance
she had come for his sake, and to know how sorry they had been
at home because he did not come back. Oh what joy and yet fear
she felt! They were now on the stairs, and in a small closet
at the top a lamp was burning. In the middle of the floor
stood the tame crow, turning her head from side to side, and
gazing at Gerda, who curtseyed as her grandmother had taught
her to do.

"My betrothed has spoken so very highly of you, my little
lady," said the tame crow, "your life-history, Vita, as it may
be called, is very touching. If you will take the lamp I will
walk before you. We will go straight along this way, then we
shall meet no one."

"It seems to me as if somebody were behind us," said
Gerda, as something rushed by her like a shadow on the wall,
and then horses with flying manes and thin legs, hunters,
ladies and gentlemen on horseback, glided by her, like shadows
on the wall.

"They are only dreams," said the crow, "they are coming to
fetch the thoughts of the great people out hunting."

"All the better, for we shall be able to look at them in
their beds more safely. I hope that when you rise to honor and
favor, you will show a grateful heart."

"You may be quite sure of that," said the crow from the
forest.

They now came into the first hall, the walls of which were
hung with rose-colored satin, embroidered with artificial
flowers. Here the dreams again flitted by them but so quickly
that Gerda could not distinguish the royal persons. Each hall
appeared more splendid than the last, it was enought to
bewilder any one. At length they reached a bedroom. The
ceiling was like a great palm-tree, with glass leaves of the
most costly crystal, and over the centre of the floor two
beds, each resembling a lily, hung from a stem of gold. One,
in which the princess lay, was white, the other was red; and
in this Gerda had to seek for little Kay. She pushed one of
the red leaves aside, and saw a little brown neck. Oh, that
must be Kay! She called his name out quite loud, and held the
lamp over him. The dreams rushed back into the room on
horseback. He woke, and turned his head round, it was not
little Kay! The prince was only like him in the neck, still he
was young and pretty. Then the princess peeped out of her
white-lily bed, and asked what was the matter. Then little
Gerda wept and told her story, and all that the crows had done
to help her.

"You poor child," said the prince and princess; then they
praised the crows, and said they were not angry for what they
had done, but that it must not happen again, and this time
they should be rewarded.

"Would you like to have your freedom?" asked the princess,
"or would you prefer to be raised to the position of court
crows, with all that is left in the kitchen for yourselves?"

Then both the crows bowed, and begged to have a fixed
appointment, for they thought of their old age, and said it
would be so comfortable to feel that they had provision for
their old days, as they called it. And then the prince got out
of his bed, and gave it up to Gerda,- he could do no more; and
she lay down. She folded her little hands, and thought, "How
good everyone is to me, men and animals too;" then she closed
her eyes and fell into a sweet sleep. All the dreams came
flying back again to her, and they looked like angels, and one
of them drew a little sledge, on which sat Kay, and nodded to
her. But all this was only a dream, and vanished as soon as
she awoke.

The following day she was dressed from head to foot in
silk and velvet, and they invited her to stay at the palace
for a few days, and enjoy herself, but she only begged for a
pair of boots, and a little carriage, and a horse to draw it,
so that she might go into the wide world to seek for Kay. And
she obtained, not only boots, but also a muff, and she was
neatly dressed; and when she was ready to go, there, at the
door, she found a coach made of pure gold, with the
coat-of-arms of the prince and princess shining upon it like a
star, and the coachman, footman, and outriders all wearing
golden crowns on their heads. The prince and princess
themselves helped her into the coach, and wished her success.
The forest crow, who was now married, accompanied her for the
first three miles; he sat by Gerda's side, as he could not
bear riding backwards. The tame crow stood in the door-way
flapping her wings. She could not go with them, because she
had been suffering from headache ever since the new
appointment, no doubt from eating too much. The coach was well
stored with sweet cakes, and under the seat were fruit and
gingerbread nuts. "Farewell, farewell," cried the prince and
princess, and little Gerda wept, and the crow wept; and then,
after a few miles, the crow also said "Farewell," and this was
the saddest parting. However, he flew to a tree, and stood
flapping his black wings as long as he could see the coach,
which glittered in the bright sunshine.

<<<<<

[أرب جمـال]

THE SNOW QUEEN


FIFTH STORY
LITTLE ROBBER-GIRL

The coach drove on through a thick forest, where it
lighted up the way like a torch, and dazzled the eyes of some
robbers, who could not bear to let it pass them unmolested.

"It is gold! it is gold!" cried they, rushing forward, and
seizing the horses. Then they struck the little jockeys, the
coachman, and the footman dead, and pulled little Gerda out of
the carriage.

"She is fat and pretty, and she has been fed with the
kernels of nuts," said the old robber-woman, who had a long
beard and eyebrows that hung over her eyes. "She is as good as
a little lamb; how nice she will taste!" and as she said this,
she drew forth a shining knife, that glittered horribly. "Oh!"
screamed the old woman the same moment; for her own daughter,
who held her back, had bitten her in the ear. She was a wild
and naughty girl, and the mother called her an ugly thing, and
had not time to kill Gerda.

"She shall play with me," said the little robber-girl;
"she shall give me her muff and her pretty dress, and sleep
with me in my bed." And then she bit her mother again, and
made her spring in the air, and jump about; and all the
robbers laughed, and said, "See how she is dancing with her
young cub."

"I will have a ride in the coach," said the little
robber-girl; and she would have her own way; for she was so
self-willed and obstinate.

She and Gerda seated themselves in the coach, and drove
away, over stumps and stones, into the depths of the forest.
The little robber-girl was about the same size as Gerda, but
stronger; she had broader shoulders and a darker skin; her
eyes were quite black, and she had a mournful look. She
clasped little Gerda round the waist, and said,-

"They shall not kill you as long as you don't make us
vexed with you. I suppose you are a princess."

"No," said Gerda; and then she told her all her history,
and how fond she was of little Kay.

The robber-girl looked earnestly at her, nodded her head
slightly, and said, "They sha'nt kill you, even if I do get
angry with you; for I will do it myself." And then she wiped
Gerda's eyes, and stuck her own hands in the beautiful muff
which was so soft and warm.

The coach stopped in the courtyard of a robber's castle,
the walls of which were cracked from top to bottom. Ravens and
crows flew in and out of the holes and crevices, while great
bulldogs, either of which looked as if it could swallow a man,
were jumping about; but they were not allowed to bark. In the
large and smoky hall a bright fire was burning on the stone
floor. There was no chimney; so the smoke went up to the
ceiling, and found a way out for itself. Soup was boiling in a
large cauldron, and hares and rabbits were roasting on the
spit.

"You shall sleep with me and all my little animals
to-night," said the robber-girl, after they had had something
to eat and drink. So she took Gerda to a corner of the hall,
where some straw and carpets were laid down. Above them, on
laths and perches, were more than a hundred pigeons, who all
seemed to be asleep, although they moved slightly when the two
little girls came near them. "These all belong to me," said
the robber-girl; and she seized the nearest to her, held it by
the feet, and shook it till it flapped its wings. "Kiss it,"
cried she, flapping it in Gerda's face. "There sit the
wood-pigeons," continued she, pointing to a number of laths
and a cage which had been fixed into the walls, near one of
the openings. "Both rascals would fly away directly, if they
were not closely locked up. And here is my old sweetheart
'Ba;' and she dragged out a reindeer by the horn; he wore a
bright copper ring round his neck, and was tied up. "We are
obliged to hold him tight too, or else he would run away from
us also. I tickle his neck every evening with my sharp knife,
which frightens him very much." And then the robber-girl drew
a long knife from a chink in the wall, and let it slide gently
over the reindeer's neck. The poor animal began to kick, and
the little robber-girl laughed, and pulled down Gerda into bed
with her.

"Will you have that knife with you while you are asleep?"
asked Gerda, looking at it in great fright.

"I always sleep with the knife by me," said the
robber-girl. "No one knows what may happen. But now tell me
again all about little Kay, and why you went out into the
world."

Then Gerda repeated her story over again, while the
wood-pigeons in the cage over her cooed, and the other pigeons
slept. The little robber-girl put one arm across Gerda's neck,
and held the knife in the other, and was soon fast asleep and
snoring. But Gerda could not close her eyes at all; she knew
not whether she was to live or die. The robbers sat round the
fire, singing and drinking, and the old woman stumbled about.
It was a terrible sight for a little girl to witness.

Then the wood-pigeons said, "Coo, coo; we have seen little
Kay. A white fowl carried his sledge, and he sat in the
carriage of the Snow Queen, which drove through the wood while
we were lying in our nest. She blew upon us, and all the young
ones died excepting us two. Coo, coo."

"What are you saying up there?" cried Gerda. "Where was
the Snow Queen going? Do you know anything about it?"

"She was most likely travelling to Lapland, where there is
always snow and ice. Ask the reindeer that is fastened up
there with a rope."

"Yes, there is always snow and ice," said the reindeer;
"and it is a glorious place; you can leap and run about freely
on the sparkling ice plains. The Snow Queen has her summer
tent there, but her strong castle is at the North Pole, on an
island called Spitzbergen."

"Oh, Kay, little Kay!" sighed Gerda.

"Lie still," said the robber-girl, "or I shall run my
knife into your body."

In the morning Gerda told her all that the wood-pigeons
had said; and the little robber-girl looked quite serious, and
nodded her head, and said, "That is all talk, that is all
talk. Do you know where Lapland is?" she asked the reindeer.

"Who should know better than I do?" said the animal, while
his eyes sparkled. "I was born and brought up there, and used
to run about the snow-covered plains."

"Now listen," said the robber-girl; "all our men are gone
away,- only mother is here, and here she will stay; but at
noon she always drinks out of a great bottle, and afterwards
sleeps for a little while; and then, I'll do something for
you." Then she jumped out of bed, clasped her mother round the
neck, and pulled her by the beard, crying, "My own little
nanny goat, good morning." Then her mother filliped her nose
till it was quite red; yet she did it all for love.

When the mother had drunk out of the bottle, and was gone
to sleep, the little robber-maiden went to the reindeer, and
said, "I should like very much to tickle your neck a few times
more with my knife, for it makes you look so funny; but never
mind,- I will untie your cord, and set you free, so that you
may run away to Lapland; but you must make good use of your
legs, and carry this little maiden to the castle of the Snow
Queen, where her play-fellow is. You have heard what she told
me, for she spoke loud enough, and you were listening."

Then the reindeer jumped for joy; and the little
robber-girl lifted Gerda on his back, and had the forethought
to tie her on, and even to give her her own little cushion to
sit on.

"Here are your fur boots for you," said she; "for it will
be very cold; but I must keep the muff; it is so pretty.
However, you shall not be frozen for the want of it; here are
my mother's large warm mittens; they will reach up to your
elbows. Let me put them on. There, now your hands look just
like my mother's."

But Gerda wept for joy.

"I don't like to see you fret," said the little
robber-girl; "you ought to look quite happy now; and here are
two loaves and a ham, so that you need not starve." These were
fastened on the reindeer, and then the little robber-maiden
opened the door, coaxed in all the great dogs, and then cut
the string with which the reindeer was fastened, with her
sharp knife, and said, "Now run, but mind you take good care
of the little girl." And then Gerda stretched out her hand,
with the great mitten on it, towards the little robber-girl,
and said, "Farewell," and away flew the reindeer, over stumps
and stones, through the great forest, over marshes and plains,
as quickly as he could. The wolves howled, and the ravens
screamed; while up in the sky quivered red lights like flames
of fire. "There are my old northern lights," said the
reindeer; "see how they flash." And he ran on day and night
still faster and faster, but the loaves and the ham were all
eaten by the time they reached Lapland.

SIXTH STORY
THE LAPLAND WOMAN AND
THE FINLAND WOMAN

They stopped at a little hut; it was very mean looking;
the roof sloped nearly down to the ground, and the door was so
low that the family had to creep in on their hands and knees,
when they went in and out. There was no one at home but an old
Lapland woman, who was cooking fish by the light of a
train-oil lamp. The reindeer told her all about Gerda's story,
after having first told his own, which seemed to him the most
important, but Gerda was so pinched with the cold that she
could not speak. "Oh, you poor things," said the Lapland
woman, "you have a long way to go yet. You must travel more
than a hundred miles farther, to Finland. The Snow Queen lives
there now, and she burns Bengal lights every evening. I will
write a few words on a dried stock-fish, for I have no paper,
and you can take it from me to the Finland woman who lives
there; she can give you better information than I can." So
when Gerda was warmed, and had taken something to eat and
drink, the woman wrote a few words on the dried fish, and told
Gerda to take great care of it. Then she tied her again on the
reindeer, and he set off at full speed. Flash, flash, went the
beautiful blue northern lights in the air the whole night
long. And at length they reached Finland, and knocked at the
chimney of the Finland woman's hut, for it had no door above
the ground. They crept in, but it was so terribly hot inside
that that woman wore scarcely any clothes; she was small and
very dirty looking. She loosened little Gerda's dress, and
took off the fur boots and the mittens, or Gerda would have
been unable to bear the heat; and then she placed a piece of
ice on the reindeer's head, and read what was written on the
dried fish. After she had read it three times, she knew it by
heart, so she popped the fish into the soup saucepan, as she
knew it was good to eat, and she never wasted anything. The
reindeer told his own story first, and then little Gerda's,
and the Finlander twinkled with her clever eyes, but she said
nothing. "You are so clever," said the reindeer; "I know you
can tie all the winds of the world with a piece of twine. If a
sailor unties one knot, he has a fair wind; when he unties the
second, it blows hard; but if the third and fourth are
loosened, then comes a storm, which will root up whole
forests. Cannot you give this little maiden something which
will make her as strong as twelve men, to overcome the Snow
Queen?"

"The Power of twelve men!" said the Finland woman; "that
would be of very little use." But she went to a shelf and took
down and unrolled a large skin, on which were inscribed
wonderful characters, and she read till the perspiration ran
down from her forehead. But the reindeer begged so hard for
little Gerda, and Gerda looked at the Finland woman with such
beseeching tearful eyes, that her own eyes began to twinkle
again; so she drew the reindeer into a corner, and whispered
to him while she laid a fresh piece of ice on his head,
"Little Kay is really with the Snow Queen, but he finds
everything there so much to his taste and his liking, that he
believes it is the finest place in the world; but this is
because he has a piece of broken glass in his heart, and a
little piece of glass in his eye. These must be taken out, or
he will never be a human being again, and the Snow Queen will
retain her power over him."

"But can you not give little Gerda something to help her
to conquer this power?"

"I can give her no greater power than she has already,"
said the woman; "don't you see how strong that is? How men and
animals are obliged to serve her, and how well she has got
through the world, barefooted as she is. She cannot receive
any power from me greater than she now has, which consists in
her own purity and innocence of heart. If she cannot herself
obtain access to the Snow Queen, and remove the glass
fragments from little Kay, we can do nothing to help her. Two
miles from here the Snow Queen's garden begins; you can carry
the little girl so far, and set her down by the large bush
which stands in the snow, covered with red berries. Do not
stay gossiping, but come back here as quickly as you can."
Then the Finland woman lifted little Gerda upon the reindeer,
and he ran away with her as quickly as he could.

"Oh, I have forgotten my boots and my mittens," cried
little Gerda, as soon as she felt the cutting cold, but the
reindeer dared not stop, so he ran on till he reached the bush
with the red berries; here he set Gerda down, and he kissed
her, and the great bright tears trickled over the animal's
cheeks; then he left her and ran back as fast as he could.

There stood poor Gerda, without shoes, without gloves, in
the midst of cold, dreary, ice-bound Finland. She ran forwards
as quickly as she could, when a whole regiment of snow-flakes
came round her; they did not, however, fall from the sky,
which was quite clear and glittering with the northern lights.
The snow-flakes ran along the ground, and the nearer they came
to her, the larger they appeared. Gerda remembered how large
and beautiful they looked through the burning-glass. But these
were really larger, and much more terrible, for they were
alive, and were the guards of the Snow Queen, and had the
strangest shapes. Some were like great porcupines, others like
twisted serpents with their heads stretching out, and some few
were like little fat bears with their hair bristled; but all
were dazzlingly white, and all were living snow-flakes. Then
little Gerda repeated the Lord's Prayer, and the cold was so
great that she could see her own breath come out of her mouth
like steam as she uttered the words. The steam appeared to
increase, as she continued her prayer, till it took the shape
of little angels who grew larger the moment they touched the
earth. They all wore helmets on their heads, and carried
spears and shields. Their number continued to increase more
and more; and by the time Gerda had finished her prayers, a
whole legion stood round her. They thrust their spears into
the terrible snow-flakes, so that they shivered into a hundred
pieces, and little Gerda could go forward with courage and
safety. The angels stroked her hands and feet, so that she
felt the cold less, and she hastened on to the Snow Queen's
castle.

But now we must see what Kay is doing. In truth he thought
not of little Gerda, and never supposed she could be standing
in the front of the palace.

SEVENTH STORY
OF THE PALACE OF THE SNOW QUEEN
AND WHAT HAPPENED THERE AT LAST

The walls of the palace were formed of drifted snow, and
the windows and doors of the cutting winds. There were more
than a hundred rooms in it, all as if they had been formed
with snow blown together. The largest of them extended for
several miles; they were all lighted up by the vivid light of
the aurora, and they were so large and empty, so icy cold and
glittering! There were no amusements here, not even a little
bear's ball, when the storm might have been the music, and the
bears could have danced on their hind legs, and shown their
good manners. There were no pleasant games of snap-dragon, or
touch, or even a gossip over the tea-table, for the young-lady
foxes. Empty, vast, and cold were the halls of the Snow Queen.
The flickering flame of the northern lights could be plainly
seen, whether they rose high or low in the heavens, from every
part of the castle. In the midst of its empty, endless hall of
snow was a frozen lake, broken on its surface into a thousand
forms; each piece resembled another, from being in itself
perfect as a work of art, and in the centre of this lake sat
the Snow Queen, when she was at home. She called the lake "The
Mirror of Reason," and said that it was the best, and indeed
the only one in the world.

Little Kay was quite blue with cold, indeed almost black,
but he did not feel it; for the Snow Queen had kissed away the
icy shiverings, and his heart was already a lump of ice. He
dragged some sharp, flat pieces of ice to and fro, and placed
them together in all kinds of positions, as if he wished to
make something out of them; just as we try to form various
figures with little tablets of wood which we call "a Chinese
puzzle." Kay's fingers were very artistic; it was the icy game
of reason at which he played, and in his eyes the figures were
very remarkable, and of the highest importance; this opinion
was owing to the piece of glass still sticking in his eye. He
composed many complete figures, forming different words, but
there was one word he never could manage to form, although he
wished it very much. It was the word "Eternity." The Snow
Queen had said to him, "When you can find out this, you shall
be your own master, and I will give you the whole world and a
new pair of skates." But he could not accomplish it.

"Now I must hasten away to warmer countries," said the
Snow Queen. "I will go and look into the black craters of the
tops of the burning mountains, Etna and Vesuvius, as they are
called,- I shall make them look white, which will be good for
them, and for the lemons and the grapes." And away flew the
Snow Queen, leaving little Kay quite alone in the great hall
which was so many miles in length; so he sat and looked at his
pieces of ice, and was thinking so deeply, and sat so still,
that any one might have supposed he was frozen.

Just at this moment it happened that little Gerda came
through the great door of the castle. Cutting winds were
raging around her, but she offered up a prayer and the winds
sank down as if they were going to sleep; and she went on till
she came to the large empty hall, and caught sight of Kay; she
knew him directly; she flew to him and threw her arms round
his neck, and held him fast, while she exclaimed, "Kay, dear
little Kay, I have found you at last."

But he sat quite still, stiff and cold.

Then little Gerda wept hot tears, which fell on his
breast, and penetrated into his heart, and thawed the lump of
ice, and washed away the little piece of glass which had stuck
there. Then he looked at her, and she sang-

"Roses bloom and cease to be,
But we shall the Christ-child see."

Then Kay burst into tears, and he wept so that the
splinter of glass swam out of his eye. Then he recognized
Gerda, and said, joyfully, "Gerda, dear little Gerda, where
have you been all this time, and where have I been?" And he
looked all around him, and said, "How cold it is, and how
large and empty it all looks," and he clung to Gerda, and she
laughed and wept for joy. It was so pleasing to see them that
the pieces of ice even danced about; and when they were tired
and went to lie down, they formed themselves into the letters
of the word which the Snow Queen had said he must find out
before he could be his own master, and have the whole world
and a pair of new skates. Then Gerda kissed his cheeks, and
they became blooming; and she kissed his eyes, and they shone
like her own; she kissed his hands and his feet, and then he
became quite healthy and cheerful. The Snow Queen might come
home now when she pleased, for there stood his certainty of
freedom, in the word she wanted, written in shining letters of
ice.

Then they took each other by the hand, and went forth from
the great palace of ice. They spoke of the grandmother, and of
the roses on the roof, and as they went on the winds were at
rest, and the sun burst forth. When they arrived at the bush
with red berries, there stood the reindeer waiting for them,
and he had brought another young reindeer with him, whose
udders were full, and the children drank her warm milk and
kissed her on the mouth. Then they carried Kay and Gerda first
to the Finland woman, where they warmed themselves thoroughly
in the hot room, and she gave them directions about their
journey home. Next they went to the Lapland woman, who had
made some new clothes for them, and put their sleighs in
order. Both the reindeer ran by their side, and followed them
as far as the boundaries of the country, where the first green
leaves were budding. And here they took leave of the two
reindeer and the Lapland woman, and all said- Farewell. Then
the birds began to twitter, and the forest too was full of
green young leaves; and out of it came a beautiful horse,
which Gerda remembered, for it was one which had drawn the
golden coach. A young girl was riding upon it, with a shining
red cap on her head, and pistols in her belt. It was the
little robber-maiden, who had got tired of staying at home;
she was going first to the north, and if that did not suit
her, she meant to try some other part of the world. She knew
Gerda directly, and Gerda remembered her: it was a joyful
meeting.

"You are a fine fellow to go gadding about in this way,"
said she to little Kay, "I should like to know whether you
deserve that any one should go to the end of the world to find
you."

But Gerda patted her cheeks, and asked after the prince
and princess.

"They are gone to foreign countries," said the
robber-girl.

"And the crow?" asked Gerda.

"Oh, the crow is dead," she replied; "his tame sweetheart
is now a widow, and wears a bit of black worsted round her
leg. She mourns very pitifully, but it is all stuff. But now
tell me how you managed to get him back."

Then Gerda and Kay told her all about it.

"Snip, snap, snare! it's all right at last," said the
robber-girl.

Then she took both their hands, and promised that if ever
she should pass through the town, she would call and pay them
a visit. And then she rode away into the wide world. But Gerda
and Kay went hand-in-hand towards home; and as they advanced,
spring appeared more lovely with its green verdure and its
beautiful flowers. Very soon they recognized the large town
where they lived, and the tall steeples of the churches, in
which the sweet bells were ringing a merry peal as they
entered it, and found their way to their grandmother's door.
They went upstairs into the little room, where all looked just
as it used to do. The old clock was going "tick, tick," and
the hands pointed to the time of day, but as they passed
through the door into the room they perceived that they were
both grown up, and become a man and woman. The roses out on
the roof were in full bloom, and peeped in at the window; and
there stood the little chairs, on which they had sat when
children; and Kay and Gerda seated themselves each on their
own chair, and held each other by the hand, while the cold
empty grandeur of the Snow Queen's palace vanished from their
memories like a painful dream. The grandmother sat in God's
bright sunshine, and she read aloud from the Bible, "Except ye
become as little children, ye shall in no wise enter into the
kingdom of God." And Kay and Gerda looked into each other's
eyes, and all at once understood the words of the old song,

"Roses bloom and cease to be,
But we shall the Christ-child see."

And they both sat there, grown up, yet children at heart; and
it was summer,- warm, beautiful summer.


THE END

[أرب جمـال]

THE SNAIL AND THE ROSE-TREE


ROUND about the garden ran a hedge of hazel-bushes; beyond
the hedge were fields and meadows with cows and sheep; but in
the middle of the garden stood a Rose-tree in bloom, under
which sat a Snail, whose shell contained a great deal- that
is, himself.

"Only wait till my time comes," he said; "I shall do more
than grow roses, bear nuts, or give milk, like the hazel-bush,
the cows and the sheep."

"I expect a great deal from you," said the rose-tree. "May
I ask when it will appear?"

"I take my time," said the snail. "You're always in such a
hurry. That does not excite expectation."

The following year the snail lay in almost the same spot,
in the sunshine under the rose-tree, which was again budding
and bearing roses as fresh and beautiful as ever. The snail
crept half out of his shell, stretched out his horns, and drew
them in again.

"Everything is just as it was last year! No progress at
all; the rose-tree sticks to its roses and gets no farther."

The summer and the autumn passed; the rose-tree bore roses
and buds till the snow fell and the weather became raw and
wet; then it bent down its head, and the snail crept into the
ground.

A new year began; the roses made their appearance, and the
snail made his too.

"You are an old rose-tree now," said the snail. "You must
make haste and die. You have given the world all that you had
in you; whether it was of much importance is a question that I
have not had time to think about. But this much is clear and
plain, that you have not done the least for your inner
development, or you would have produced something else. Have
you anything to say in defence? You will now soon be nothing
but a stick. Do you understand what I say?"

"You frighten me," said the rose- tree. "I have never
thought of that."

"No, you have never taken the trouble to think at all.
Have you ever given yourself an account why you bloomed, and
how your blooming comes about- why just in that way and in no
other?"

"No," said the rose-tree. "I bloom in gladness, because I
cannot do otherwise. The sun shone and warmed me, and the air
refreshed me; I drank the clear dew and the invigorating rain.
I breathed and I lived! Out of the earth there arose a power
within me, whilst from above I also received strength; I felt
an ever-renewed and ever-increasing happiness, and therefore I
was obliged to go on blooming. That was my life; I could not
do otherwise."

"You have led a very easy life," remarked the snail.

"Certainly. Everything was given me," said the rose-tree.
"But still more was given to you. Yours is one of those
deep-thinking natures, one of those highly gifted minds that
astonishes the world."

"I have not the slightest intention of doing so," said the
snail. "The world is nothing to me. What have I to do with the
world? I have enough to do with myself, and enough in myself"

"But must we not all here on earth give up our best parts
to others, and offer as much as lies in our power? It is true,
I have only given roses. But you- you who are so richly
endowed- what have you given to the world? What will you give
it?"

"What have I given? What am I going to give? I spit at it;
it's good for nothing, and does not concern me. For my part,
you may go on bearing roses; you cannot do anything else. Let
the hazel bush bear nuts, and the cows and sheep give milk;
they have each their public. I have mine in myself. I retire
within myself and there I stop. The world is nothing to me."

With this the snail withdrew into his house and blocked up
the entrance.

"That's very sad," said the rose tree. "I cannot creep
into myself, however much I might wish to do so; I have to go
on bearing roses. Then they drop their leaves, which are blown
away by the wind. But I once saw how a rose was laid in the
mistress's hymn-book, and how one of my roses found a place in
the bosom of a young beautiful girl, and how another was
kissed by the lips of a child in the glad joy of life. That
did me good; it was a real blessing. Those are my
recollections, my life."

And the rose tree went on blooming in innocence, while the
snail lay idling in his house- the world was nothing to him.

Years passed by.

The snail had turned to earth in the earth, and the rose
tree too. Even the souvenir rose in the hymn-book was faded,
but in the garden there were other rose trees and other
snails. The latter crept into their houses and spat at the
world, for it did not concern them.

Shall we read the story all over again? It will be just
the same.


THE END

[أرب جمـال]

THE SHIRT-COLLAR


THERE was once a fine gentleman who possessed among other
things a boot-jack and a hair-brush; but he had also the
finest shirt-collar in the world, and of this collar we are
about to hear a story. The collar had become so old that he
began to think about getting married; and one day he happened
to find himself in the same washing-tub as a garter. "Upon my
word," said the shirt-collar, "I have never seen anything so
slim and delicate, so neat and soft before. May I venture to
ask your name?"

"I shall not tell you," replied the garter.

"Where do you reside when you are at home?" asked the
shirt-collar. But the garter was naturally shy, and did not
know how to answer such a question.

"I presume you are a girdle," said the shirt-collar, "a
sort of under girdle. I see that you are useful, as well as
ornamental, my little lady."

"You must not speak to me," said the garter; "I do not
think I have given you any encouragement to do so."

"Oh, when any one is as beautiful as you are," said the
shirt-collar, "is not that encouragement enough?"

"Get away; don't come so near me," said the garter, "you
appear to me quite like a man."

"I am a fine gentleman certainly," said the shirt-collar,
"I possess a boot-jack and a hair-brush." This was not true,
for these things belonged to his master; but he was a boaster.

"Don't come so near me," said the garter; "I am not
accustomed to it."

"Affectation!" said the shirt-collar.

Then they were taken out of the wash-tub, starched, and
hung over a chair in the sunshine, and then laid on the
ironing-board. And now came the glowing iron. "Mistress
widow," said the shirt-collar, "little mistress widow, I feel
quite warm. I am changing, I am losing all my creases. You are
burning a hole in me. Ugh! I propose to you."

"You old rag," said the flat-iron, driving proudly over
the collar, for she fancied herself a steam-engine, which
rolls over the railway and draws carriages. "You old rag!"
said she.

The edges of the shirt-collar were a little frayed, so the
scissors were brought to cut them smooth. "Oh!" exclaimed the
shirt-collar, "what a first-rate dancer you would make; you
can stretch out your leg so well. I never saw anything so
charming; I am sure no human being could do the same."

"I should think not," replied the scissors.

"You ought to be a countess," said the shirt collar; "but
all I possess consists of a fine gentleman, a boot-jack, and a
comb. I wish I had an estate for your sake."

"What! is he going to propose to me?" said the scissors,
and she became so angry that she cut too sharply into the
shirt collar, and it was obliged to be thrown by as useless.

"I shall be obliged to propose to the hair-brush," thought
the shirt collar; so he remarked one day, "It is wonderful
what beautiful hair you have, my little lady. Have you never
thought of being engaged?"

"You might know I should think of it," answered the hair
brush; "I am engaged to the boot-jack."

"Engaged!" cried the shirt collar, "now there is no one
left to propose to;" and then he pretended to despise all
love-making.

A long time passed, and the shirt collar was taken in a
bag to the paper-mill. Here was a large company of rags, the
fine ones lying by themselves, separated from the coarser, as
it ought to be. They had all many things to relate, especially
the shirt collar, who was a terrible boaster. "I have had an
immense number of love affairs," said the shirt collar, "no
one left me any peace. It is true I was a very fine gentleman;
quite stuck up. I had a boot-jack and a brush that I never
used. You should have seen me then, when I was turned down. I
shall never forget my first love; she was a girdle, so
charming, and fine, and soft, and she threw herself into a
washing tub for my sake. There was a widow too, who was warmly
in love with me, but I left her alone, and she became quite
black. The next was a first-rate dancer; she gave me the wound
from which I still suffer, she was so passionate. Even my own
hair-brush was in love with me, and lost all her hair through
neglected love. Yes, I have had great experience of this kind,
but my greatest grief was for the garter- the girdle I meant
to say- that jumped into the wash-tub. I have a great deal on
my conscience, and it is really time I should be turned into
white paper."

And the shirt collar came to this at last. All the rags
were made into white paper, and the shirt collar became the
very identical piece of paper which we now see, and on which
this story is printed. It happened as a punishment to him, for
having boasted so shockingly of things which were not true.
And this is a warning to us, to be careful how we act, for we
may some day find ourselves in the rag-bag, to be turned into
white paper, on which our whole history may be written, even
its most secret actions. And it would not be pleasant to have
to run about the world in the form of a piece of paper,
telling everything we have done, like the boasting shirt
collar.


THE END

[أرب جمـال]

THE SHEPHERD'S STORY OF THE BOND OF FRIENDSHIP


THE little dwelling in which we lived was of clay, but the
door-posts were columns of fluted marble, found near the spot
on which it stood. The roof sloped nearly to the ground. It
was at this time dark, brown, and ugly, but had originally
been formed of blooming olive and laurel branches, brought
from beyond the mountains. The house was situated in a narrow
gorge, whose rocky walls rose to a perpendicular height, naked
and black, while round their summits clouds often hung,
looking like white living figures. Not a singing bird was ever
heard there, neither did men dance to the sound of the pipe.
The spot was one sacred to olden times; even its name recalled
a memory of the days when it was called "Delphi." Then the
summits of the dark, sacred mountains were covered with snow,
and the highest, mount Parnassus, glowed longest in the red
evening light. The brook which rolled from it near our house,
was also sacred. How well I can remember every spot in that
deep, sacred solitude! A fire had been kindled in the midst of
the hut, and while the hot ashes lay there red and glowing,
the bread was baked in them. At times the snow would be piled
so high around our hut as almost to hide it, and then my
mother appeared most cheerful. She would hold my head between
her hands, and sing the songs she never sang at other times,
for the Turks, our masters, would not allow it. She sang,-

"On the summit of mount Olympus, in a forest of dwarf
firs, lay an old stag. His eyes were heavy with tears, and
glittering with colors like dewdrops; and there came by a
roebuck, and said, 'What ailest thee, that thou weepest blue
and red tears?' And the stag answered, 'The Turk has come to
our city; he has wild dogs for the chase, a goodly pack.' 'I
will drive them away across the islands!' cried the young
roebuck; 'I will drive them away across the islands into the
deep sea.' But before evening the roebuck was slain, and
before night the hunted stag was dead."

And when my mother sang thus, her eyes would become moist;
and on the long eyelashes were tears, but she concealed them
and watched the black bread baking in the ashes. Then I would
clench my fist, and cry, "We will kill these Turks!" But she
repeated the words of the song, "I will drive them across the
islands to the deep sea; but before evening came the roebuck
was slain, and before the night the hunted stag was dead."

We had been lonely in our hut for several days and nights
when my father came home. I knew he would bring me some shells
from the gulf of Lepanto, or perhaps a knife with a shining
blade. This time he brought, under his sheep-skin cloak, a
little child, a little half-naked girl. She was wrapped in a
fur; but when this was taken off, and she lay in my mother's
lap, three silver coins were found fastened in her dark hair;
they were all her possessions. My father told us that the
child's parents had been killed by the Turks, and he talked so
much about them that I dreamed of Turks all night. He himself
had been wounded, and my mother bound up his arm. It was a
deep wound, and the thick sheep-skin cloak was stiff with
congealed blood. The little maiden was to be my sister. How
pretty and bright she looked: even my mother's eyes were not
more gentle than hers. Anastasia, as she was called, was to be
my sister, because her father had been united to mine by an
old custom, which we still follow. They had sworn brotherhood
in their youth, and the most beautiful and virtuous maiden in
the neighborhood was chosen to perform the act of consecration
upon this bond of friendship. So now this little girl was my
sister. She sat in my lap, and I brought her flowers, and
feathers from the birds of the mountain. We drank together of
the waters of Parnassus, and dwelt for many years beneath the
laurel roof of the hut, while, winter after winter, my mother
sang her song of the stag who shed red tears. But as yet I did
not understand that the sorrows of my own countrymen were
mirrored in those tears.

One day there came to our hut Franks, men from a far
country, whose dress was different to ours. They had tents and
beds with them, carried by horses; and they were accompanied
by more than twenty Turks, all armed with swords and muskets.
These Franks were friends of the Pacha, and had letters from
him, commanding an escort for them. They only came to see our
mountain, to ascend Parnassus amid the snow and clouds, and to
look at the strange black rocks which raised their steep sides
near our hut. They could not find room in the hut, nor endure
the smoke that rolled along the ceiling till it found its way
out at the low door; so they pitched their tents on a small
space outside our dwelling. Roasted lambs and birds were
brought forth, and strong, sweet wine, of which the Turks are
forbidden to partake.

When they departed, I accompanied them for some distance,
carrying my little sister Anastasia, wrapped in a goat-skin,
on my back. One of the Frankish gentlemen made me stand in
front of a rock, and drew us both as we stood there, so that
we looked like one creature. I did not think of it then, but
Anastasia and I were really one. She was always sitting on my
lap, or riding in the goat-skin on my back; and in my dreams
she always appeared to me.

Two nights after this, other men, armed with knives and
muskets, came into our tent. They were Albanians, brave men,
my mother told me. They only stayed a short time. My sister
Anastasia sat on the knee of one of them; and when they were
gone, she had not three, but two silver coins in her hair- one
had disappeared. They wrapped tobacco in strips of paper, and
smoked it; and I remember they were uncertain as to the road
they ought to take. But they were obliged to go at last, and
my father went with them. Soon after, we heard the sound of
firing. The noise continued, and presently soldiers rushed
into our hut, and took my mother and myself and Anastasia
prisoners. They declared that we had entertained robbers, and
that my father had acted as their guide, and therefore we must
now go with them. The corpses of the robbers, and my father's
corpse, were brought into the hut. I saw my poor dead father,
and cried till I fell asleep. When I awoke, I found myself in
a prison; but the room was not worse than our own in the hut.
They gave me onions and musty wine from a tarred cask; but we
were not accustomed to much better fare at home. How long we
were kept in prison, I do not know; but many days and nights
passed by. We were set free about Easter-time. I carried
Anastasia on my back, and we walked very slowly; for my mother
was very weak, and it is a long way to the sea, to the Gulf of
Lepanto.

On our arrival, we entered a church, in which there were
beautiful pictures in golden frames. They were pictures of
angels, fair and bright; and yet our little Anastasia looked
equally beautiful, as it seemed to me. In the centre of the
floor stood a coffin filled with roses. My mother told me it
was the Lord Jesus Christ who was represented by these roses.
Then the priest announced, "Christ is risen," and all the
people greeted each other. Each one carried a burning taper in
his hand, and one was given to me, as well as to little
Anastasia. The music sounded, and the people left the church
hand-in-hand, with joy and gladness. Outside, the women were
roasting the paschal lamb. We were invited to partake; and as
I sat by the fire, a boy, older than myself, put his arms
round my neck, and kissed me, and said, "Christ is risen." And
thus it was that for the first time I met Aphtanides.

My mother could make fishermen's nets, for which there was
a great demand here in the bay; and we lived a long time by
the side of the sea, the beautiful sea, that had a taste like
tears, and in its colors reminded me of the stag that wept red
tears; for sometimes its waters were red, and sometimes green
or blue. Aphtanides knew how to manage our boat, and I often
sat in it, with my little Anastasia, while it glided on
through the water, swift as a bird flying through the air.
Then, when the sun set, how beautifully, deeply blue, would be
the tint on the mountains, one rising above the other in the
far distance, and the summit of mount Parnassus rising above
them all like a glorious crown. Its top glittered in the
evening rays like molten gold, and it seemed as if the light
came from within it; for long after the sun had sunk beneath
the horizon, the mountain-top would glow in the clear, blue
sky. The white aquatic birds skimmed the surface of the water
in their flight, and all was calm and still as amid the black
rocks at Delphi. I lay on my back in the boat, Anastasia
leaned against me, while the stars above us glittered more
brightly than the lamps in our church. They were the same
stars, and in the same position over me as when I used to sit
in front of our hut at Delphi, and I had almost begun to fancy
I was still there, when suddenly there was a splash in the
water- Anastasia had fallen in; but in a moment Aphtanides has
sprung in after her, and was now holding her up to me. We
dried her clothes as well as we were able, and remained on the
water till they were dry; for we did not wish it to be known
what a fright we had had, nor the danger which our little
adopted sister had incurred, in whose life Aphtanides had now
a part.

The summer came, and the burning heat of the sun tinted
the leaves of the trees with lines of gold. I thought of our
cool mountain-home, and the fresh water that flowed near it;
my mother, too, longed for if, and one evening we wandered
towards home. How peaceful and silent it was as we walked on
through the thick, wild thyme, still fragrant, though the sun
had scorched the leaves. Not a single herdsman did we meet,
not a solitary hut did we pass; everything appeared lonely and
deserted- only a shooting star showed that in the heavens
there was yet life. I know not whether the clear, blue
atmosphere gleamed with its own light, or if the radiance came
from the stars; but we could distinguish quite plainly the
outline of the mountains. My mother lighted a fire, and
roasted some roots she had brought with her, and I and my
little sister slept among the bushes, without fear of the ugly
smidraki, from whose throat issues fire, or of the wolf and
the jackal; for my mother sat by us, and I considered her
presence sufficient protection.

We reached our old home; but the cottage was in ruins, and
we had to build a new one. With the aid of some neighbors,
chiefly women, the walls were in a few days erected, and very
soon covered with a roof of olive-branches. My mother obtained
a living by making bottle-cases of bark and skins, and I kept
the sheep belonging to the priests, who were sometimes
peasants, while I had for my playfellows Anastasia and the
turtles.

Once our beloved Aphtanides paid us a visit. He said he
had been longing to see us so much; and he remained with us
two whole happy days. A month afterwards he came again to wish
us good-bye, and brought with him a large fish for my mother.
He told us he was going in a ship to Corfu and Patras, and
could relate a great many stories, not only about the
fishermen who lived near the gulf of Lepanto, but also of
kings and heroes who had once possessed Greece, just as the
Turks possess it now.

I have seen a bud on a rose-bush gradually, in the course
of a few weeks, unfold its leaves till it became a rose in all
its beauty; and, before I was aware of it, I beheld it
blooming in rosy loveliness. The same thing had happened to
Anastasia. Unnoticed by me, she had gradually become a
beautiful maiden, and I was now also a stout, strong youth.
The wolf-skins that covered the bed in which my mother and
Anastasia slept, had been taken from wolves which I had myself
shot.

Years had gone by when, one evening, Aphtanides came in.
He had grown tall and slender as a reed, with strong limbs,
and a dark, brown skin. He kissed us all, and had so much to
tell of what he had seen of the great ocean, of the
fortifications at Malta, and of the marvellous sepulchres of
Egypt, that I looked up to him with a kind of veneration. His
stories were as strange as the legends of the priests of olden
times.

"How much you know!" I exclaimed, "and what wonders you
can relate?"

"I think what you once told me, the finest of all," he
replied; "you told me of a thing that has never been out of my
thoughts- of the good old custom of 'the bond of friendship,'-
a custom I should like to follow. Brother, let you and I go to
church, as your father and Anastasia's father once did. Your
sister Anastasia is the most beautiful and most innocent of
maidens, and she shall consecrate the deed. No people have
such grand old customs as we Greeks."

Anastasia blushed like a young rose, and my mother kissed
Aphtanides.

At about two miles from our cottage, where the earth on
the hill is sheltered by a few scattered trees, stood the
little church, with a silver lamp hanging before the altar. I
put on my best clothes, and the white tunic fell in graceful
folds over my hips. The red jacket fitted tight and close, the
tassel on my Fez cap was of silver, and in my girdle glittered
a knife and my pistols. Aphtanides was clad in the blue dress
worn by the Greek sailors; on his breast hung a silver medal
with the figure of the Virgin Mary, and his scarf was as
costly as those worn by rich lords. Every one could see that
we were about to perform a solemn ceremony. When we entered
the little, unpretending church, the evening sunlight streamed
through the open door on the burning lamp, and glittered on
the golden picture frames. We knelt down together on the altar
steps, and Anastasia drew near and stood beside us. A long,
white garment fell in graceful folds over her delicate form,
and on her white neck and bosom hung a chain entwined with old
and new coins, forming a kind of collar. Her black hair was
fastened into a knot, and confined by a headdress formed of
gold and silver coins which had been found in an ancient
temple. No Greek girl had more beautiful ornaments than these.
Her countenance glowed, and her eyes were like two stars. We
all three offered a silent prayer, and then she said to us,
"Will you be friends in life and in death?"

"Yes," we replied.

"Will you each remember to say, whatever may happen, 'My
brother is a part of myself; his secret is my secret, my
happiness is his; self-sacrifice, patience, everything belongs
to me as they do to him?'"

And we again answered, "Yes." Then she joined out hands
and kissed us on the forehead, and we again prayed silently.
After this a priest came through a door near the altar, and
blessed us all three. Then a song was sung by other holy men
behind the altar-screen, and the bond of eternal friendship
was confirmed. When we arose, I saw my mother standing by the
church door, weeping.

How cheerful everything seemed now in our little cottage
by the Delphian springs! On the evening before his departure,
Aphtanides sat thoughtfully beside me on the slopes of the
mountain. His arm was flung around me, and mine was round his
neck. We spoke of the sorrows of Greece, and of the men of the
country who could be trusted. Every thought of our souls lay
clear before us. Presently I seized his hand: "Aphtanides," I
exclaimed, "there is one thing still that you must know,- one
thing that till now has been a secret between myself and
Heaven. My whole soul is filled with love,- with a love
stronger than the love I bear to my mother and to thee.

"And whom do you love?" asked Aphtanides. And his face and
neck grew red as fire.

"I love Anastasia," I replied.

Then his hand trembled in mine, and he became pale as a
corpse. I saw it, I understood the cause, and I believe my
hand trembled too. I bent towards him, I kissed his forehead,
and whispered, "I have never spoken of this to her, and
perhaps she does not love me. Brother, think of this; I have
seen her daily, she has grown up beside me, and has become a
part of my soul."

"And she shall be thine," he exclaimed; "thine! I may not
wrong thee, nor will I do so. I also love her, but tomorrow I
depart. In a year we will see each other again, but then you
will be married; shall it not be so? I have a little gold of
my own, it shall be yours. You must and shall take it."

We wandered silently homeward across the mountains. It was
late in the evening when we reached my mother's door.
Anastasia held the lamp as we entered; my mother was not
there. She looked at Aphtanides with a sweet but mournful
expression on her face. "To-morrow you are going to leave us,"
she said. "I am very sorry."

"Sorry!" he exclaimed, and his voice was troubled with a
grief as deep as my own. I could not speak; but he seized her
hand and said, "Our brother yonder loves you, and is he not
dear to you? His very silence now proves his affection."

Anastasia trembled, and burst into tears. Then I saw no
one, thought of none, but her. I threw my arms round her, and
pressed my lips to hers. As she flung her arms round my neck,
the lamp fell to the ground, and we were in darkness, dark as
the heart of poor Aphtanides.

Before daybreak he rose, kissed us all, and said
"Farewell," and went away. He had given all his money to my
mother for us. Anastasia was betrothed to me, and in a few
days afterwards she became my wife.


THE END

[أرب جمـال]

THE SHADOW


IN very hot climates, where the heat of the sun has great
power, people are usually as brown as mahogany; and in the
hottest countries they are negroes, with black skins. A
learned man once travelled into one of these warm climates,
from the cold regions of the north, and thought he would roam
about as he did at home; but he soon had to change his
opinion. He found that, like all sensible people, he must
remain in the house during the whole day, with every window
and door closed, so that it looked as if all in the house were
asleep or absent. The houses of the narrow street in which he
lived were so lofty that the sun shone upon them from morning
till evening, and it became quite unbearable. This learned man
from the cold regions was young as well as clever; but it
seemed to him as if he were sitting in an oven, and he became
quite exhausted and weak, and grew so thin that his shadow
shrivelled up, and became much smaller than it had been at
home. The sun took away even what was left of it, and he saw
nothing of it till the evening, after sunset. It was really a
pleasure, as soon as the lights were brought into the room, to
see the shadow stretch itself against the wall, even to the
ceiling, so tall was it; and it really wanted a good stretch
to recover its strength. The learned man would sometimes go
out into the balcony to stretch himself also; and as soon as
the stars came forth in the clear, beautiful sky, he felt
revived. People at this hour began to make their appearance in
all the balconies in the street; for in warm climates every
window has a balcony, in which they can breathe the fresh
evening air, which is very necessary, even to those who are
used to a heat that makes them as brown as mahogany; so that
the street presented a very lively appearance. Here were
shoemakers, and tailors, and all sorts of people sitting. In
the street beneath, they brought out tables and chairs,
lighted candles by hundreds, talked and sang, and were very
merry. There were people walking, carriages driving, and mules
trotting along, with their bells on the harness, "tingle,
tingle," as they went. Then the dead were carried to the grave
with the sound of solemn music, and the tolling of the church
bells. It was indeed a scene of varied life in the street. One
house only, which was just opposite to the one in which the
foreign learned man lived, formed a contrast to all this, for
it was quite still; and yet somebody dwelt there, for flowers
stood in the balcony, blooming beautifully in the hot sun; and
this could not have been unless they had been watered
carefully. Therefore some one must be in the house to do this.
The doors leading to the balcony were half opened in the
evening; and although in the front room all was dark, music
could be heard from the interior of the house. The foreign
learned man considered this music very delightful; but perhaps
he fancied it; for everything in these warm countries pleased
him, excepting the heat of the sun. The foreign landlord said
he did not know who had taken the opposite house- nobody was
to be seen there; and as to the music, he thought it seemed
very tedious, to him most uncommonly so.

"It is just as if some one was practising a piece that he
could not manage; it is always the same piece. He thinks, I
suppose, that he will be able to manage it at last; but I do
not think so, however long he may play it."

Once the foreigner woke in the night. He slept with the
door open which led to the balcony; the wind had raised the
curtain before it, and there appeared a wonderful brightness
over all in the balcony of the opposite house. The flowers
seemed like flames of the most gorgeous colors, and among the
flowers stood a beautiful slender maiden. It was to him as if
light streamed from her, and dazzled his eyes; but then he had
only just opened them, as he awoke from his sleep. With one
spring he was out of bed, and crept softly behind the curtain.
But she was gone- the brightness had disappeared; the flowers
no longer appeared like flames, although still as beautiful as
ever. The door stood ajar, and from an inner room sounded
music so sweet and so lovely, that it produced the most
enchanting thoughts, and acted on the senses with magic power.
Who could live there? Where was the real entrance? for, both
in the street and in the lane at the side, the whole ground
floor was a continuation of shops; and people could not always
be passing through them.

One evening the foreigner sat in the balcony. A light was
burning in his own room, just behind him. It was quite
natural, therefore, that his shadow should fall on the wall of
the opposite house; so that, as he sat amongst the flowers on
his balcony, when he moved, his shadow moved also.

"I think my shadow is the only living thing to be seen
opposite," said the learned man; "see how pleasantly it sits
among the flowers. The door is only ajar; the shadow ought to
be clever enough to step in and look about him, and then to
come back and tell me what he has seen. You could make
yourself useful in this way," said he, jokingly; "be so good
as to step in now, will you?" and then he nodded to the
shadow, and the shadow nodded in return. "Now go, but don't
stay away altogether."

Then the foreigner stood up, and the shadow on the
opposite balcony stood up also; the foreigner turned round,
the shadow turned; and if any one had observed, they might
have seen it go straight into the half-opened door of the
opposite balcony, as the learned man re-entered his own room,
and let the curtain fall. The next morning he went out to take
his coffee and read the newspapers.

"How is this?" he exclaimed, as he stood in the sunshine.
"I have lost my shadow. So it really did go away yesterday
evening, and it has not returned. This is very annoying."

And it certainly did vex him, not so much because the
shadow was gone, but because he knew there was a story of a
man without a shadow. All the people at home, in his country,
knew this story; and when he returned, and related his own
adventures, they would say it was only an imitation; and he
had no desire for such things to be said of him. So he decided
not to speak of it at all, which was a very sensible
determination.

In the evening he went out again on his balcony, taking
care to place the light behind him; for he knew that a shadow
always wants his master for a screen; but he could not entice
him out. He made himself little, and he made himself tall; but
there was no shadow, and no shadow came. He said, "Hem,
a-hem;" but it was all useless. That was very vexatious; but
in warm countries everything grows very quickly; and, after a
week had passed, he saw, to his great joy, that a new shadow
was growing from his feet, when he walked in the sunshine; so
that the root must have remained. After three weeks, he had
quite a respectable shadow, which, during his return journey
to northern lands, continued to grow, and became at last so
large that he might very well have spared half of it. When
this learned man arrived at home, he wrote books about the
true, the good, and the beautiful, which are to be found in
this world; and so days and years passed- many, many years.

One evening, as he sat in his study, a very gentle tap was
heard at the door. "Come in," said he; but no one came. He
opened the door, and there stood before him a man so
remarkably thin that he felt seriously troubled at his
appearance. He was, however, very well dressed, and looked
like a gentleman. "To whom have I the honor of speaking?" said
he.

"Ah, I hoped you would recognize me," said the elegant
stranger; "I have gained so much that I have a body of flesh,
and clothes to wear. You never expected to see me in such a
condition. Do you not recognize your old shadow? Ah, you never
expected that I should return to you again. All has been
prosperous with me since I was with you last; I have become
rich in every way, and, were I inclined to purchase my freedom
from service, I could easily do so." And as he spoke he
rattled between his fingers a number of costly trinkets which
hung to a thick gold watch-chain he wore round his neck.
Diamond rings sparkled on his fingers, and it was all real.

"I cannot recover from my astonishment," said the learned
man. "What does all this mean?"

"Something rather unusual," said the shadow; "but you are
yourself an uncommon man, and you know very well that I have
followed in your footsteps ever since your childhood. As soon
as you found that I have travelled enough to be trusted alone,
I went my own way, and I am now in the most brilliant
circumstances. But I felt a kind of longing to see you once
more before you die, and I wanted to see this place again, for
there is always a clinging to the land of one's birth. I know
that you have now another shadow; do I owe you anything? If
so, have the goodness to say what it is."

"No! Is it really you?" said the learned man. "Well, this
is most remarkable; I never supposed it possible that a man's
old shadow could become a human being."

"Just tell me what I owe you," said the shadow, "for I do
not like to be in debt to any man."

"How can you talk in that manner?" said the learned man.
"What question of debt can there be between us? You are as
free as any one. I rejoice exceedingly to hear of your good
fortune. Sit down, old friend, and tell me a little of how it
happened, and what you saw in the house opposite to me while
we were in those hot climates."

"Yes, I will tell you all about it," said the shadow,
sitting down; "but then you must promise me never to tell in
this city, wherever you may meet me, that I have been your
shadow. I am thinking of being married, for I have more than
sufficient to support a family."

"Make yourself quite easy," said the learned man; "I will
tell no one who you really are. Here is my hand,- I promise,
and a word is sufficient between man and man."

"Between man and a shadow," said the shadow; for he could
not help saying so.

It was really most remarkable how very much he had become
a man in appearance. He was dressed in a suit of the very
finest black cloth, polished boots, and an opera crush hat,
which could be folded together so that nothing could be seen
but the crown and the rim, besides the trinkets, the gold
chain, and the diamond rings already spoken of. The shadow
was, in fact, very well dressed, and this made a man of him.
"Now I will relate to you what you wish to know," said the
shadow, placing his foot with the polished leather boot as
firmly as possible on the arm of the new shadow of the learned
man, which lay at his feet like a poodle dog. This was done,
it might be from pride, or perhaps that the new shadow might
cling to him, but the prostrate shadow remained quite quiet
and at rest, in order that it might listen, for it wanted to
know how a shadow could be sent away by its master, and become
a man itself. "Do you know," said the shadow, "that in the
house opposite to you lived the most glorious creature in the
world? It was poetry. I remained there three weeks, and it was
more like three thousand years, for I read all that has ever
been written in poetry or prose; and I may say, in truth, that
I saw and learnt everything."

"Poetry!" exclaimed the learned man. "Yes, she lives as a
hermit in great cities. Poetry! Well, I saw her once for a
very short moment, while sleep weighed down my eyelids. She
flashed upon me from the balcony like the radiant aurora
borealis, surrounded with flowers like flames of fire. Tell
me, you were on the balcony that evening; you went through the
door, and what did you see?"

"I found myself in an ante-room," said the shadow. "You
still sat opposite to me, looking into the room. There was no
light, or at least it seemed in partial darkness, for the door
of a whole suite of rooms stood open, and they were
brilliantly lighted. The blaze of light would have killed me,
had I approached too near the maiden myself, but I was
cautious, and took time, which is what every one ought to do."

"And what didst thou see?" asked the learned man.

"I saw everything, as you shall hear. But- it really is
not pride on my part, as a free man and possessing the
knowledge that I do, besides my position, not to speak of my
wealth- I wish you would say you to me instead of thou."

"I beg your pardon," said the learned man; "it is an old
habit, which it is difficult to break. You are quite right; I
will try to think of it. But now tell me everything that you
saw."

"Everything," said the shadow; "for I saw and know
everything."

"What was the appearance of the inner rooms?" asked the
scholar. "Was it there like a cool grove, or like a holy
temple? Were the chambers like a starry sky seen from the top
of a high mountain?"

"It was all that you describe," said the shadow; "but I
did not go quite in- I remained in the twilight of the
ante-room- but I was in a very good position,- I could see and
hear all that was going on in the court of poetry."

"But what did you see? Did the gods of ancient times pass
through the rooms? Did old heroes fight their battles over
again? Were there lovely children at play, who related their
dreams?"

"I tell you I have been there, and therefore you may be
sure that I saw everything that was to be seen. If you had
gone there, you would not have remained a human being, whereas
I became one; and at the same moment I became aware of my
inner being, my inborn affinity to the nature of poetry. It is
true I did not think much about it while I was with you, but
you will remember that I was always much larger at sunrise and
sunset, and in the moonlight even more visible than yourself,
but I did not then understand my inner existence. In the
ante-room it was revealed to me. I became a man; I came out in
full maturity. But you had left the warm countries. As a man,
I felt ashamed to go about without boots or clothes, and that
exterior finish by which man is known. So I went my own way; I
can tell you, for you will not put it in a book. I hid myself
under the cloak of a cake woman, but she little thought who
she concealed. It was not till evening that I ventured out. I
ran about the streets in the moonlight. I drew myself up to my
full height upon the walls, which tickled my back very
pleasantly. I ran here and there, looked through the highest
windows into the rooms, and over the roofs. I looked in, and
saw what nobody else could see, or indeed ought to see; in
fact, it is a bad world, and I would not care to be a man, but
that men are of some importance. I saw the most miserable
things going on between husbands and wives, parents and
children,- sweet, incomparable children. I have seen what no
human being has the power of knowing, although they would all
be very glad to know- the evil conduct of their neighbors. Had
I written a newspaper, how eagerly it would have been read!
Instead of which, I wrote directly to the persons themselves,
and great alarm arose in all the town I visited. They had so
much fear of me, and yet how dearly they loved me. The
professor made me a professor. The tailor gave me new clothes;
I am well provided for in that way. The overseer of the mint
struck coins for me. The women declared that I was handsome,
and so I became the man you now see me. And now I must say
adieu. Here is my card. I live on the sunny side of the
street, and always stay at home in rainy weather." And the
shadow departed.

"This is all very remarkable," said the learned man.

Years passed, days and years went by, and the shadow came
again. "How are you going on now?" he asked.

"Ah!" said the learned man; "I am writing about the true,
the beautiful, and the good; but no one cares to hear anything
about it. I am quite in despair, for I take it to heart very
much."

"That is what I never do," said the shadow; "I am growing
quite fat and stout, which every one ought to be. You do not
understand the world; you will make yourself ill about it; you
ought to travel; I am going on a journey in the summer, will
you go with me? I should like a travelling companion; will you
travel with me as my shadow? It would give me great pleasure,
and I will pay all expenses."

"Are you going to travel far?" asked the learned man.

"That is a matter of opinion," replied the shadow. "At all
events, a journey will do you good, and if you will be my
shadow, then all your journey shall be paid."

"It appears to me very absurd," said the learned man.

"But it is the way of the world," replied the shadow, "and
always will be." Then he went away.

Everything went wrong with the learned man. Sorrow and
trouble pursued him, and what he said about the good, the
beautiful, and the true, was of as much value to most people
as a nutmeg would be to a cow. At length he fell ill. "You
really look like a shadow," people said to him, and then a
cold shudder would pass over him, for he had his own thoughts
on the subject.

"You really ought to go to some watering-place," said the
shadow on his next visit. "There is no other chance for you. I
will take you with me, for the sake of old acquaintance. I
will pay the expenses of your journey, and you shall write a
description of it to amuse us by the way. I should like to go
to a watering-place; my beard does not grow as it ought, which
is from weakness, and I must have a beard. Now do be sensible
and accept my proposal; we shall travel as intimate friends."

And at last they started together. The shadow was master
now, and the master became the shadow. They drove together,
and rode and walked in company with each other, side by side,
or one in front and the other behind, according to the
position of the sun. The shadow always knew when to take the
place of honor, but the learned man took no notice of it, for
he had a good heart, and was exceedingly mild and friendly.

One day the master said to the shadow, "We have grown up
together from our childhood, and now that we have become
travelling companions, shall we not drink to our good
fellowship, and say thee and thou to each other?"

"What you say is very straightforward and kindly meant,"
said the shadow, who was now really master. "I will be equally
kind and straightforward. You are a learned man, and know how
wonderful human nature is. There are some men who cannot
endure the smell of brown paper; it makes them ill. Others
will feel a shuddering sensation to their very marrow, if a
nail is scratched on a pane of glass. I myself have a similar
kind of feeling when I hear any one say thou to me. I feel
crushed by it, as I used to feel in my former position with
you. You will perceive that this is a matter of feeling, not
pride. I cannot allow you to say thou to me; I will gladly say
it to you, and therefore your wish will be half fulfilled."
Then the shadow addressed his former master as thou.

"It is going rather too far," said the latter, "that I am
to say you when I speak to him, and he is to say thou to me."
However, he was obliged to submit.

They arrived at length at the baths, where there were many
strangers, and among them a beautiful princess, whose real
disease consisted in being too sharp-sighted, which made every
one very uneasy. She saw at once that the new comer was very
different to every one else. "They say he is here to make his
beard grow," she thought; "but I know the real cause, he is
unable to cast a shadow." Then she became very curious on the
matter, and one day, while on the promenade, she entered into
conversation with the strange gentleman. Being a princess, she
was not obliged to stand upon much ceremony, so she said to
him without hesitation, "Your illness consists in not being
able to cast a shadow."

"Your royal highness must be on the high road to recovery
from your illness," said he. "I know your complaint arose from
being too sharp-sighted, and in this case it has entirely
failed. I happen to have a most unusual shadow. Have you not
seen a person who is always at my side? Persons often give
their servants finer cloth for their liveries than for their
own clothes, and so I have dressed out my shadow like a man;
nay, you may observe that I have even given him a shadow of
his own; it is rather expensive, but I like to have things
about me that are peculiar."

"How is this?" thought the princess; "am I really cured?
This must be the best watering-place in existence. Water in
our times has certainly wonderful power. But I will not leave
this place yet, just as it begins to be amusing. This foreign
prince- for he must be a prince- pleases me above all things.
I only hope his beard won't grow, or he will leave at once."

In the evening, the princess and the shadow danced
together in the large assembly rooms. She was light, but he
was lighter still; she had never seen such a dancer before.
She told him from what country she had come, and found he knew
it and had been there, but not while she was at home. He had
looked into the windows of her father's palace, both the upper
and the lower windows; he had seen many things, and could
therefore answer the princess, and make allusions which quite
astonished her. She thought he must be the cleverest man in
all the world, and felt the greatest respect for his
knowledge. When she danced with him again she fell in love
with him, which the shadow quickly discovered, for she had
with her eyes looked him through and through. They danced once
more, and she was nearly telling him, but she had some
discretion; she thought of her country, her kingdom, and the
number of people over whom she would one day have to rule. "He
is a clever man," she thought to herself, "which is a good
thing, and he dances admirably, which is also good. But has he
well-grounded knowledge? that is an important question, and I
must try him." Then she asked him a most difficult question,
she herself could not have answered it, and the shadow made a
most unaccountable grimace.

"You cannot answer that," said the princess.

"I learnt something about it in my childhood," he replied;
"and believe that even my very shadow, standing over there by
the door, could answer it."

"Your shadow," said the princess; "indeed that would be
very remarkable."

"I do not say so positively," observed the shadow; "but I
am inclined to believe that he can do so. He has followed me
for so many years, and has heard so much from me, that I think
it is very likely. But your royal highness must allow me to
observe, that he is very proud of being considered a man, and
to put him in a good humor, so that he may answer correctly,
he must be treated as a man."

"I shall be very pleased to do so," said the princess. So
she walked up to the learned man, who stood in the doorway,
and spoke to him of the sun, and the moon, of the green
forests, and of people near home and far off; and the learned
man conversed with her pleasantly and sensibly.

"What a wonderful man he must be, to have such a clever
shadow!" thought she. "If I were to choose him it would be a
real blessing to my country and my subjects, and I will do
it." So the princess and the shadow were soon engaged to each
other, but no one was to be told a word about it, till she
returned to her kingdom.

"No one shall know," said the shadow; "not even my own
shadow;" and he had very particular reasons for saying so.

After a time, the princess returned to the land over which
she reigned, and the shadow accompanied her.

"Listen my friend," said the shadow to the learned man;
"now that I am as fortunate and as powerful as any man can be,
I will do something unusually good for you. You shall live in
my palace, drive with me in the royal carriage, and have a
hundred thousand dollars a year; but you must allow every one
to call you a shadow, and never venture to say that you have
been a man. And once a year, when I sit in my balcony in the
sunshine, you must lie at my feet as becomes a shadow to do;
for I must tell you I am going to marry the princess, and our
wedding will take place this evening."

"Now, really, this is too ridiculous," said the learned
man. "I cannot, and will not, submit to such folly. It would
be cheating the whole country, and the princess also. I will
disclose everything, and say that I am the man, and that you
are only a shadow dressed up in men's clothes."

"No one would believe you," said the shadow; "be
reasonable, now, or I will call the guards."

"I will go straight to the princess," said the learned
man.

"But I shall be there first," replied the shadow, "and you
will be sent to prison." And so it turned out, for the guards
readily obeyed him, as they knew he was going to marry the
king's daughter.

"You tremble," said the princess, when the shadow appeared
before her. "Has anything happened? You must not be ill
to-day, for this evening our wedding will take place."

"I have gone through the most terrible affair that could
possibly happen," said the shadow; "only imagine, my shadow
has gone mad; I suppose such a poor, shallow brain, could not
bear much; he fancies that he has become a real man, and that
I am his shadow."

"How very terrible," cried the princess; "is he locked
up?"

"Oh yes, certainly; for I fear he will never recover."

"Poor shadow!" said the princess; "it is very unfortunate
for him; it would really be a good deed to free him from his
frail existence; and, indeed, when I think how often people
take the part of the lower class against the higher, in these
days, it would be policy to put him out of the way quietly."

"It is certainly rather hard upon him, for he was a
faithful servant," said the shadow; and he pretended to sigh.

"Yours is a noble character," said the princess, and bowed
herself before him.

In the evening the whole town was illuminated, and cannons
fired "boom," and the soldiers presented arms. It was indeed a
grand wedding. The princess and the shadow stepped out on the
balcony to show themselves, and to receive one cheer more. But
the learned man heard nothing of all these festivities, for he
had already been
executed.


THE END

[أرب جمـال]

A ROSE FROM HOMER'S GRAVE


ALL the songs of the east speak of the love of the
nightingale for the rose in the silent starlight night. The
winged songster serenades the fragrant flowers.

Not far from Smyrna, where the merchant drives his loaded
camels, proudly arching their long necks as they journey
beneath the lofty pines over holy ground, I saw a hedge of
roses. The turtle-dove flew among the branches of the tall
trees, and as the sunbeams fell upon her wings, they glistened
as if they were mother-of-pearl. On the rose-bush grew a
flower, more beautiful than them all, and to her the
nightingale sung of his woes; but the rose remained silent,
not even a dewdrop lay like a tear of sympathy on her leaves.
At last she bowed her head over a heap of stones, and said,
"Here rests the greatest singer in the world; over his tomb
will I spread my fragrance, and on it I will let my leaves
fall when the storm scatters them. He who sung of Troy became
earth, and from that earth I have sprung. I, a rose from the
grave of Homer, am too lofty to bloom for a nightingale." Then
the nightingale sung himself to death. A camel-driver came by,
with his loaded camels and his black slaves; his little son
found the dead bird, and buried the lovely songster in the
grave of the great Homer, while the rose trembled in the wind.

The evening came, and the rose wrapped her leaves more
closely round her, and dreamed: and this was her dream.

It was a fair sunshiny day; a crowd of strangers drew near
who had undertaken a pilgrimage to the grave of Homer. Among
the strangers was a minstrel from the north, the home of the
clouds and the brilliant lights of the aurora borealis. He
plucked the rose and placed it in a book, and carried it away
into a distant part of the world, his fatherland. The rose
faded with grief, and lay between the leaves of the book,
which he opened in his own home, saying, "Here is a rose from
the grave of Homer."

Then the flower awoke from her dream, and trembled in the
wind. A drop of dew fell from the leaves upon the singer's
grave. The sun rose, and the flower bloomed more beautiful
than ever. The day was hot, and she was still in her own warm
Asia. Then footsteps approached, strangers, such as the rose
had seen in her dream, came by, and among them was a poet from
the north; he plucked the rose, pressed a kiss upon her fresh
mouth, and carried her away to the home of the clouds and the
northern lights. Like a mummy, the flower now rests in his
"Iliad," and, as in her dream, she hears him say, as he opens
the book, "Here is a rose from the grave of Homer."


THE END

[أرب جمـال]

THE RACES


A PRIZE, or rather two prizes, a great one and a small
one, had been awarded for the greatest swiftness in running,-
not in a single race, but for the whole year.

"I obtained the first prize," said the hare. "Justice must
still be carried out, even when one has relations and good
friends among the prize committee; but that the snail should
have received the second prize, I consider almost an insult to
myself"

"No," said the fence-rail, who had been a witness at the
distribution of prizes; "there should be some consideration
for industry and perseverance. I have heard many respectable
people say so, and I can quite understand it. The snail
certainly took half a year to get over the threshold of the
door; but he injured himself, and broke his collar-bone by the
haste he made. He gave himself up entirely to the race, and
ran with his house on his back, which was all, of course, very
praiseworthy; and therefore he obtained the second prize."

"I think I ought to have had some consideration too," said
the swallow. "I should imagine no one can be swifter in
soaring and flight than I am; and how far I have been! far,
far away."

"Yes, that is your misfortune," said the fence-rail; "you
are so fickle, so unsettled; you must always be travelling
about into foreign lands when the cold commences here. You
have no love of fatherland in you. There can be no
consideration for you."

"But now, if I have been lying the whole winter in the
moor," said the swallow, "and suppose I slept the whole time,
would that be taken into account?"

"Bring a certificate from the old moor-hen," said he,
"that you have slept away half your time in fatherland; then
you will be treated with some consideration."

"I deserved the first prize, and not the second," said the
snail. "I know so much, at least, that the hare only ran from
cowardice, and because he thought there was danger in delay.
I, on the other hand, made running the business of my life,
and have become a cripple in the service. If any one had a
first prize, it ought to have been myself. But I do not
understand chattering and boasting; on the contrary, I despise
it." And the snail spat at them with contempt.

"I am able to affirm with word of oath, that each prize-
at least, those for which I voted- was given with just and
proper consideration," said the old boundary post in the wood,
who was a member of the committee of judges. "I always act
with due order, consideration, and calculation. Seven times
have I already had the honor to be present at the distribution
of the prizes, and to vote; but to-day is the first time I
have been able to carry out my will. I always reckon the first
prize by going through the alphabet from the beginning, and
the second by going through from the end. Be so kind as to
give me your attention, and I will explain to you how I reckon
from the beginning. The eighth letter from A is H, and there
we have H for hare; therefore I awarded to the hare the first
prize. The eighth letter from the end of the alphabet is S,
and therefore the snail received the second prize. Next year,
the letter I will have its turn for the first prize, and the
letter R for the second."

"I should really have voted for myself," said the mule,
"if I had not been one of the judges on the committee. Not
only the rapidity with which advance is made, but every other
quality should have due consideration; as, for instance, how
much weight a candidate is able to draw; but I have not
brought this quality forward now, nor the sagacity of the hare
in his flight, nor the cunning with which he suddenly springs
aside and doubles, to lead people on a false track, thinking
he has concealed himself. No; there is something else on which
more stress should be laid, and which ought not be left
unnoticed. I mean that which mankind call the beautiful. It is
on the beautiful that I particularly fix my eyes. I observed
the well-grown ears of the hare; it is a pleasure to me to
observe how long they are. It seemed as if I saw myself again
in the days of my childhood; and so I voted for the hare."

"Buz," said the fly; "there, I'm not going to make a long
speech; but I wish to say something about hares. I have really
overtaken more than one hare, when I have been seated on the
engine in front of a railway train. I often do so. One can
then so easily judge of one's own swiftness. Not long ago, I
crushed the hind legs of a young hare. He had been running a
long time before the engine; he had no idea that I was
travelling there. At last he had to stop in his career, and
the engine ran over his hind legs, and crushed them; for I set
upon it. I left him lying there, and rode on farther. I call
that conquering him; but I do not want the prize."

"It really seems to me," thought the wild rose, though she
did not express her opinion aloud- it is not in her nature to
do so,- though it would have been quite as well if she had;
"it certainly seems to me that the sunbeam ought to have had
the honor of receiving the first prize. The sunbeam flies in a
few minutes along the immeasurable path from the sun to us. It
arrives in such strength, that all nature awakes to loveliness
and beauty; we roses blush and exhale fragrance in its
presence. Our worshipful judges don't appear to have noticed
this at all. Were I the sunbeam, I would give each one of them
a sun stroke; but that would only make them mad, and they are
mad enough already. I only hope," continued the rose, "that
peace may reign in the wood. It is glorious to bloom, to be
fragrant, and to live; to live in story and in song. The
sunbeam will outlive us all."

"What is the first prize?" asked the earthworm, who had
overslept the time, and only now came up.

"It contains a free admission to a cabbage-garden,"
replied the mule. "I proposed that as one of the prizes. The
hare most decidedly must have it; and I, as an active and
thoughtful member of the committee, took especial care that
the prize should be one of advantage to him; so now he is
provided for. The snail can now sit on the fence, and lick up
moss and sunshine. He has also been appointed one of the first
judges of swiftness in racing. It is worth much to know that
one of the numbers is a man of talent in the thing men call a
'committee.' I must say I expect much in the future; we have
already made such a good beginning."


THE END

[أرب جمـال]

THE PSYCHE


IN the fresh morning dawn, in the rosy air gleams a great
Star, the brightest Star of the morning. His rays tremble on
the white wall, as if he wished to write down on it what he
can tell, what he has seen there and elsewhere during
thousands of years in our rolling world. Let us hear one of
his stories.

"A short time ago"- the Star's "short time ago" is called
among men "centuries ago"- "my rays followed a young artist.
It was in the city of the Popes, in the world-city, Rome. Much
has been changed there in the course of time, but the changes
have not come so quickly as the change from youth to old age.
Then already the palace of the Caesars was a ruin, as it is
now; fig trees and laurels grew among the fallen marble
columns, and in the desolate bathing-halls, where the gilding
still clings to the wall; the Coliseum was a gigantic ruin;
the church bells sounded, the incense sent up its fragrant
cloud, and through the streets marched processions with
flaming tapers and glowing canopies. Holy Church was there,
and art was held as a high and holy thing. In Rome lived the
greatest painter in the world, Raphael; there also dwelt the
first of sculptors, Michael Angelo. Even the Pope paid homage
to these two, and honored them with a visit. Art was
recognized and honored, and was rewarded also. But, for all
that, everything great and splendid was not seen and known.

"In a narrow lane stood an old house. Once it had been a
temple; a young sculptor now dwelt there. He was young and
quite unknown. He certainly had friends, young artists, like
himself, young in spirit, young in hopes and thoughts; they
told him he was rich in talent, and an artist, but that he was
foolish for having no faith in his own power; for he always
broke what he had fashioned out of clay, and never completed
anything; and a work must be completed if it is to be seen and
to bring money.

"'You are a dreamer,' they went on to say to him, 'and
that's your misfortune. But the reason of this is, that you
have never lived, you have never tasted life, you have never
enjoyed it in great wholesome draughts, as it ought to be
enjoyed. In youth one must mingle one's own personality with
life, that they may become one. Look at the great master
Raphael, whom the Pope honors and the world admires. He's no
despiser of wine and bread.'

"'And he even appreciates the baker's daughter, the pretty
Fornarina,' added Angelo, one of the merriest of the young
friends.

"Yes, they said a good many things of the kind, according
to their age and their reason. They wanted to draw the young
artist out with them into the merry wild life, the mad life as
it might also be called; and at certain times he felt an
inclination for it. He had warm blood, a strong imagination,
and could take part in the merry chat, and laugh aloud with
the rest; but what they called 'Raphael's merry life'
disappeared before him like a vapor when he saw the divine
radiance that beamed forth from the pictures of the great
master; and when he stood in the Vatican, before the forms of
beauty which the masters had hewn out of marble thousands of
years since, his breast swelled, and he felt within himself
something high, something holy, something elevating, great and
good, and he wished that he could produce similar forms from
the blocks of marble. He wished to make a picture of that
which was within him, stirring upward from his heart to the
realms of the Infinite; but how, and in what form? The soft
clay was fashioned under his fingers into forms of beauty, but
the next day he broke what he had fashioned, according to his
wont.

"One day he walked past one of those rich palaces of which
Rome has many to show. He stopped before the great open
portal, and beheld a garden surrounded by cloistered walks.
The garden bloomed with a goodly show of the fairest roses.
Great white lilies with green juicy leaves shot upward from
the marble basin in which the clear water was splashing; and a
form glided past, the daughter of the princely house,
graceful, delicate, and wonderfully fair. Such a form of
female loveliness he had never before beheld- yet stay: he had
seen it, painted by Raphael, painted as a Psyche, in one of
the Roman palaces. Yes, there it had been painted; but here it
passed by him in living reality.

"The remembrance lived in his thoughts, in his heart. He
went home to his humble room, and modelled a Psyche of clay.
It was the rich young Roman girl, the noble maiden; and for
the first time he looked at his work with satisfaction. It had
a meaning for him, for it was she. And the friends who saw his
work shouted aloud for joy; they declared that this work was a
manifestation of his artistic power, of which they had long
been aware, and that now the world should be made aware of it
too.

"The clay figure was lifelike and beautiful, but it had
not the whiteness or the durability of marble. So they
declared that the Psyche must henceforth live in marble. He
already possessed a costly block of that stone. It had been
lying for years, the property of his parents, in the
courtyard. Fragments of glass, climbing weeds, and remains of
artichokes had gathered about it and sullied its purity; but
under the surface the block was as white as the mountain snow;
and from this block the Psyche was to arise."

Now, it happened one morning- the bright Star tells
nothing about this, but we know it occurred- that a noble
Roman company came into the narrow lane. The carriage stopped
at the top of the lane, and the company proceeded on foot
towards the house, to inspect the young sculptor's work, for
they had heard him spoken of by chance. And who were these
distinguished guests? Poor young man! or fortunate young man
he might be called. The noble young lady stood in the room and
smiled radiantly when her father said to her, "It is your
living image." That smile could not be copied, any more than
the look could be reproduced, the wonderful look which she
cast upon the young artist. It was a fiery look, that seemed
at once to elevate and to crush him.

"The Psyche must be executed in marble," said the wealthy
patrician. And those were words of life for the dead clay and
the heavy block of marble, and words of life likewise for the
deeply-moved artist. "When the work is finished I will
purchase it," continued the rich noble.

A new era seemed to have arisen in the poor studio. Life
and cheerfulness gleamed there, and busy industry plied its
work. The beaming Morning Star beheld how the work progressed.
The clay itself seemed inspired since she had been there, and
moulded itself, in heightened beauty, to a likeness of the
well-known features.

"Now I know what life is," cried the artist rejoicingly;
"it is Love! It is the lofty abandonment of self for the
dawning of the beautiful in the soul! What my friends call
life and enjoyment is a passing shadow; it is like bubbles
among seething dregs, not the pure heavenly wine that
consecrates us to life."

The marble block was reared in its place. The chisel
struck great fragments from it; the measurements were taken,
points and lines were made, the mechanical part was executed,
till gradually the stone assumed a human female form, a shape
of beauty, and became converted into the Psyche, fair and
glorious- a divine being in human shape. The heavy stone
appeared as a gliding, dancing, airy Psyche, with the heavenly
innocent smile- the smile that had mirrored itself in the soul
of the young artist.

The Star of the roseate dawn beheld and understood what
was stirring within the young man, and could read the meaning
of the changing color of his cheek, of the light that flashed
from his eye, as he stood busily working, reproducing what had
been put into his soul from above.

"Thou art a master like those masters among the ancient
Greeks," exclaimed his delighted friends; "soon shall the
whole world admire thy Psyche."

"My Psyche!" he repeated. "Yes, mine. She must be mine. I,
too, am an artist, like those great men who are gone.
Providence has granted me the boon, and has made me the equal
of that lady of noble birth."

And he knelt down and breathed a prayer of thankfulnesss
to Heaven, and then he forgot Heaven for her sake- for the
sake of her picture in stone- for her Psyche which stood there
as if formed of snow, blushing in the morning dawn.

He was to see her in reality, the living, graceful Psyche,
whose words sounded like music in his ears. He could now carry
the news into the rich palace that the marble Psyche was
finished. He betook himself thither, strode through the open
courtyard where the waters ran splashing from the dolphin's
jaws into the marble basins, where the snowy lilies and the
fresh roses bloomed in abundance. He stepped into the great
lofty hall, whose walls and ceilings shone with gilding and
bright colors and heraldic devices. Gayly-dressed serving-men,
adorned with trappings like sleigh horses, walked to and fro,
and some reclined at their ease upon the carved oak seats, as
if they were the masters of the house. He told them what had
brought him to the palace, and was conducted up the shining
marble staircase, covered with soft carpets and adorned with
many a statue. Then he went on through richly-furnished
chambers, over mosaic floors, amid gorgeous pictures. All this
pomp and luxury seemed to weary him; but soon he felt
relieved, for the princely old master of the house received
him most graciously,, almost heartily; and when he took his
leave he was requested to step into the Signora's apartment,
for she, too, wished to see him. The servants led him through
more luxurious halls and chambers into her room, where she
appeared the chief and leading ornament.

She spoke to him. No hymn of supplication, no holy chant,
could melt his soul like the sound of her voice. He took her
hand and lifted it to his lips. No rose was softer, but a fire
thrilled through him from this rose- a feeling of power came
upon him, and words poured from his tongue- he knew not what
he said. Does the crater of the volcano know that the glowing
lava is pouring from it? He confessed what he felt for her.
She stood before him astonished, offended, proud, with
contempt in her face, an expression of disgust, as if she had
suddenly touched a cold unclean reptile. Her cheeks reddened,
her lips grew white, and her eyes flashed fire, though they
were dark as the blackness of night.

"Madman!" she cried, "away! begone!"

And she turned her back upon him. Her beautiful face wore
an expression like that of the stony countenance with the
snaky locks.

Like a stricken, fainting man, he tottered down the
staircase and out into the street. Like a man walking in his
sleep, he found his way back to his dwelling. Then he woke up
to madness and agony, and seized his hammer, swung it high in
the air, and rushed forward to shatter the beautiful marble
image. But, in his pain, he had not noticed that his friend
Angelo stood beside him; and Angelo held back his arm with a
strong grasp, crying,

"Are you mad? What are you about?"

They struggled together. Angelo was the stronger; and,
with a deep sigh of exhaustion, the young artist threw himself
into a chair.

"What has happened?" asked Angelo. "Command yourself.
Speak!"

But what could he say? How could he explain? And as Angelo
could make no sense of his friend's incoherent words, he
forbore to question him further, and merely said,

"Your blood grows thick from your eternal dreaming. Be a
man, as all others are, and don't go on living in ideals, for
that is what drives men crazy. A jovial feast will make you
sleep quietly and happily. Believe me, the time will come when
you will be old, and your sinews will shrink, and then, on
some fine sunshiny day, when everything is laughing and
rejoicing, you will lie there a faded plant, that will grow no
more. I do not live in dreams, but in reality. Come with me.
Be a man!"

And he drew the artist away with him. At this moment he
was able to do so, for a fire ran in the blood of the young
sculptor; a change had taken place in his soul; he felt a
longing to tear from the old, the accustomed- to forget, if
possible, his own individuality; and therefore it was that he
followed Angelo.

In an out-of-the-way suburb of Rome lay a tavern much
visited by artists. It was built on the ruins of some ancient
baths. The great yellow citrons hung down among the dark
shining leaves, and covered a part of the old reddish-yellow
walls. The tavern consisted of a vaulted chamber, almost like
a cavern, in the ruins. A lamp burned there before the picture
of the Madonna. A great fire gleamed on the hearth, and
roasting and boiling was going on there; without, under the
citron trees and laurels, stood a few covered tables.

The two artists were received by their friends with shouts
of welcome. Little was eaten, but much was drunk, and the
spirits of the company rose. Songs were sung and ditties were
played on the guitar; presently the Salterello sounded, and
the merry dance began. Two young Roman girls, who sat as
models to the artists, took part in the dance and in the
festivity. Two charming Bacchantes were they; certainly not
Psyches- not delicate, beautiful roses, but fresh, hearty,
glowing carnations.

How hot it was on that day! Even after sundown it was hot.
There was fire in the blood, fire in every glance, fire
everywhere. The air gleamed with gold and roses, and life
seemed like gold and roses.

"At last you have joined us, for once," said his friends.
"Now let yourself be carried by the waves within and around
you."

"Never yet have I felt so well, so merry!" cried the young
artist. "You are right- you are all of you right. I was a
fool- a dreamer. Man belongs to reality, and not to fancy."

With songs and with sounding guitars the young people
returned that evening from the tavern, through the narrow
streets; the two glowing carnations, daughters of the
Campagna, went with them.

In Angelo's room, among a litter of colored sketches
(studies) and glowing pictures, the voices sounded mellower,
but not less merrily. On the ground lay many a sketch that
resembled the daughters of the Campagna, in their fresh,
hearty comeliness, but the two originals were far handsomer
than their portraits. All the burners of the six-armed lamp
flared and flamed; and the human flamed up from within, and
appeared in the glare as if it were divine.

"Apollo! Jupiter! I feel myself raised to our heaven- to
your glory! I feel as if the blossom of life were unfolding
itself in my veins at this moment!"

Yes, the blossom unfolded itself, and then burst and fell,
and an evil vapor arose from it, blinding the sight, leading
astray the fancy; the firework of the senses went out, and it
became dark.

He was again in his own room. There he sat down on his bed
and collected his thoughts.

"Fie on thee!" these were the words that sounded out of
his mouth from the depths of his heart. "Wretched man, go,
begone!" And a deep painful sigh burst from his bosom.

"Away! begone!" These, her words, the words of the living
Psyche, echoed through his heart, escaped from his lips. He
buried his head in the pillows, his thoughts grew confused,
and he fell asleep.

<<<<<<<<<<<

[أرب جمـال]

In the morning dawn he started up, and collected his
thoughts anew. What had happened? Had all the past been a
dream? The visit to her, the feast at the tavern, the evening
with the purple carnations of the Campagna? No, it was all
real- a reality he had never before experienced.

In the purple air gleamed the bright Star, and its beams
fell upon him and upon the marble Psyche. He trembled as he
looked at that picture of immortality, and his glance seemed
impure to him. He threw the cloth over the statue, and then
touched it once more to unveil the form- but he was not able
to look again at his own work.

Gloomy, quiet, absorbed in his own thoughts, he sat there
through the long day; he heard nothing of what was going on
around him, and no man guessed what was passing in this human
soul.

And days and weeks went by, but the nights passed more
slowly than the days. The flashing Star beheld him one morning
as he rose, pale and trembling with fever, from his sad couch;
then he stepped towards the statue, threw back the covering,
took one long, sorrowful gaze at his work, and then, almost
sinking beneath the burden, he dragged the statue out into the
garden. In that place was an old dry well, now nothing but a
hole. Into this he cast the Psyche, threw earth in above her,
and covered up the spot with twigs and nettles.

"Away! begone!" Such was the short epitaph he spoke.

The Star beheld all this from the pink morning sky, and
its beam trembled upon two great tears upon the pale feverish
cheeks of the young man; and soon it was said that he was sick
unto death, and he lay stretched upon a bed of pain.

The convent Brother Ignatius visited him as a physician
and a friend, and brought him words of comfort, of religion,
and spoke to him of the peace and happiness of the church, of
the sinfulness of man, of rest and mercy to be found in
heaven.

And the words fell like warm sunbeams upon a teeming soil.
The soil smoked and sent up clouds of mist, fantastic
pictures, pictures in which there was reality; and from these
floating islands he looked across at human life. He found it
vanity and delusion- and vanity and delusion it had been to
him. They told him that art was a sorcerer, betraying us to
vanity and to earthly lusts; that we are false to ourselves,
unfaithful to our friends, unfaithful towards Heaven; and that
the serpent was always repeating within us, "Eat, and thou
shalt become as God."

And it appeared to him as if now, for the first time, he
knew himself, and had found the way that leads to truth and to
peace. In the church was the light and the brightness of God-
in the monk's cell he should find the rest through which the
tree of human life might grow on into eternity.

Brother Ignatius strengthened his longings, and the
determination became firm within him. A child of the world
became a servant of the church- the young artist renounced the
world, and retired into the cloister.

The brothers came forward affectionately to welcome him,
and his inauguration was as a Sunday feast. Heaven seemed to
him to dwell in the sunshine of the church, and to beam upon
him from the holy pictures and from the cross. And when, in
the evening, at the sunset hour, he stood in his little cell,
and, opening the window, looked out upon old Rome, upon the
desolated temples, and the great dead Coliseum- when he saw
all this in its spring garb, when the acacias bloomed, and the
ivy was fresh, and roses burst forth everywhere, and the
citron and orange were in the height of their beauty, and the
palm trees waved their branches- then he felt a deeper emotion
than had ever yet thrilled through him. The quiet open
Campagna spread itself forth towards the blue snow-covered
mountains, which seemed to be painted in the air; all the
outlines melting into each other, breathing peace and beauty,
floating, dreaming- and all appearing like a dream!

Yes, this world was a dream, and the dream lasts for
hours, and may return for hours; but convent life is a life of
years- long years, and many years.

From within comes much that renders men sinful and impure.
He fully realized the truth of this. What flames arose up in
him at times! What a source of evil, of that which we would
not, welled up continually! He mortified his body, but the
evil came from within.


One day, after the lapse of many years, he met Angelo, who
recognized him.

"Man!" exclaimed Angelo. "Yes, it is thou! Art thou happy
now? Thou hast sinned against God, and cast away His boon from
thee- hast neglected thy mission in this world! Read the
parable of the intrusted talent! The MASTER, who spoke that
parable, spoke the truth! What hast thou gained? What hast
thou found? Dost thou not fashion for thyself a religion and a
dreamy life after thine own idea, as almost all do? Suppose
all this is a dream, a fair delusion!"

"Get thee away from me, Satan!" said the monk; and he
quitted Angelo.

"There is a devil, a personal devil! This day I have seen
him!" said the monk to himself. "Once I extended a finger to
him, and he took my whole hand. But now," he sighed, "the evil
is within me, and it is in yonder man; but it does not bow him
down; he goes abroad with head erect, and enjoys his comfort;
and I grasped at comfort in the consolations of religion. If
it were nothing but a consolation? Supposing everything here
were, like the world I have quitted, only a beautiful fancy, a
delusion like the beauty of the evening clouds, like the misty
blue of the distant hills!- when you approach them, they are
very different! O eternity! Thou actest like the great calm
ocean, that beckons us, and fills us with expectation- and
when we embark upon thee, we sink, disappear, and cease to be.
Delusion! away with it! begone!"

And tearless, but sunk in bitter reflection, he sat upon
his hard couch, and then knelt down- before whom? Before the
stone cross fastened to the wall? No, it was only habit that
made him take this position.

The more deeply he looked into his own heart, the blacker
did the darkness seem. -"Nothing within, nothing without- this
life squanderied and cast away!" And this thought rolled and
grew like a snowball, until it seemed to crush him.

"I can confide my griefs to none. I may speak to none of
the gnawing worm within. My secret is my prisoner; if I let
the captive escape, I shall be his!"

And the godlike power that dwelt within him suffered and
strove.

"O Lord, my Lord!" he cried, in his despair, "be merciful
and grant me faith. I threw away the gift thou hadst
vouchsafed to me, I left my mission unfulfilled. I lacked
strength, and strength thou didst not give me. Immortality-
the Psyche in my breast- away with it!- it shall be buried
like that Psyche, the best gleam of my life; never will it
arise out of its grave!"

The Star glowed in the roseate air, the Star that shall
surely be extinguished and pass away while the soul still
lives on; its trembling beam fell upon the white wall, but it
wrote nothing there upon being made perfect in God, nothing of
the hope of mercy, of the reliance on the divine love that
thrills through the heart of the believer.

"The Psyche within can never die. Shall it live in
consciousness? Can the incomprehensible happen? Yes, yes. My
being is incomprehensible. Thou art unfathomable, O Lord. Thy
whole world is incomprehensible- a wonder-work of power, of
glory and of love."

His eyes gleamed, and then closed in death. The tolling of
the church bell was the last sound that echoed above him,
above the dead man; and they buried him, covering him with
earth that had been brought from Jerusalem, and in which was
mingled the dust of many of the pious dead.

When years had gone by his skeleton was dug up, as the
skeletons of the monks who had died before him had been; it
was clad in a brown frock, a rosary was put into the bony
hand, and the form was placed among the ranks of other
skeletons in the cloisters of the convent. And the sun shone
without, while within the censers were waved and the Mass was
celebrated.


And years rolled by.

The bones fell asunder and became mingled with others.
Skulls were piled up till they formed an outer wall around the
church; and there lay also his head in the burning sun, for
many dead were there, and no one knew their names, and his
name was forgotten also. And see, something was moving in the
sunshine, in the sightless cavernous eyes! What might that be?
A sparkling lizard moved about in the skull, gliding in and
out through the sightless holes. The lizard now represented
all the life left in that head, in which once great thoughts,
bright dreams, the love of art and of the glorious, had
arisen, whence hot tears had rolled down, where hope and
immortality had had their being. The lizard sprang away and
disappeared, and the skull itself crumbled to pieces and
became dust among dust.

Centuries passed away. The bright Star gleamed unaltered,
radiant and large, as it had gleamed for thousands of years,
and the air glowed red with tints fresh as roses, crimson like
blood.

There, where once had stood the narrow lane containing the
ruins of the temple, a nunnery was now built. A grave was
being dug in the convent garden for a young nun who had died,
and was to be laid in the earth this morning. The spade struck
against a hard substance; it was a stone, that shone dazzling
white. A block of marble soon appeared, a rounded shoulder was
laid bare; and now the spade was plied with a more careful
hand, and presently a female head was seen, and butterflies'
wings. Out of the grave in which the young nun was to be laid
they lifted, in the rosy morning, a wonderful statue of a
Psyche carved in white marble.

"How beautiful, how perfect it is!" cried the spectators.
"A relic of the best period of art."

And who could the sculptor have been? No one knew; no one
remembered him, except the bright star that had gleamed for
thousands of years. The star had seen the course of that life
on earth, and knew of the man's trials, of his weakness- in
fact, that he had been but human. The man's life had passed
away, his dust had been scattered abroad as dust is destined
to be; but the result of his noblest striving, the glorious
work that gave token of the divine element within him- the
Psyche that never dies, that lives beyond posterity- the
brightness even of this earthly Psyche remained here after
him, and was seen and acknowledged and appreciated.

The bright Morning Star in the roseate air threw its
glancing ray downward upon the Psyche, and upon the radiant
countenances of the admiring spectators, who here beheld the
image of the soul portrayed in marble.

What is earthly will pass away and be forgotten, and the
Star in the vast firmament knows it. What is heavenly will
shine brightly through posterity; and when the ages of
posterity are past, the Psyche- the soul- will still live on!


THE END