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Long ago, as I’ve heard tell, there dwelt at the temple of Morinji, in the Province of Kotsuke, a holy priest.

Now there were three things about this reverend man. First, he was wrapped up in meditations and observances and forms and doctrines. He was a great one for the Sacred Sutras, and knew strange and mystical things. Then he had a fine exquisite taste of his own, and nothing pleased him so much as the ancient tea ceremony of the Cha-no-yu; and for the third thing about him, he knew both sides of a copper coin well enough and loved a bargain.

None so pleased as he when he happened upon an ancient tea-kettle, lying rusty and dirty and half-forgotten in a corner of a poor shop in a back street of his town.

“An ugly bit of old metal,” says the holy man to the shopkeeper; “but it will do well enough to boil my humble drop of water of an evening. I’ll give you three rin for it.” This he did and took the kettle home, rejoicing; for it was of bronze, fine work, the very thing for the Cha-no-yu.

A novice cleaned and scoured the tea-kettle, and it came out as pretty as you please. The priest turned it this way and that, and upside down, looked into it, tapped it with his finger-nail. He smiled. “A bargain,” he cried, “a bargain!” and rubbed his hands. He set the kettle upon a box covered over with a purple cloth, and looked at it so long that first he was fain to rub his eyes many times, and then to close them altogether. His head dropped forward and he slept.

And then, believe me, the wonderful thing happened. The tea-kettle moved, though no hand was near it. A hairy head, with two bright eyes, looked out of the spout. The lid jumped up and down. Four brown and hairy paws appeared, and a fine bushy tail. In a minute the kettle was down from the box and going round and round looking at things.

“A very comfortable room, to be sure,” says the tea-kettle.

Pleased enough to find itself so well lodged, it soon began to dance and to caper nimbly and to sing at the top of its voice. Three or four novices were studying in the next room. “The old man is lively,” they said; “only hark to him. What can he be at?” And they laughed in their sleeves.

Heaven’s mercy, the noise that the tea-kettle made! Bang! bang! Thud! thud! thud!

The novices soon stopped laughing. One of them slid aside the kara-kami and peeped through.

“Arah, the devil and all’s in it!” he cried. “Here’s the master’s old tea-kettle turned into a sort of a badger. The gods protect us from witchcraft, or for certain we shall be lost!”

“And I scoured it not an hour since,” said another novice, and he fell to reciting the Holy Sutras on his knees.

A third laughed. “I’m for a nearer view of the hobgoblin,” he said.

So the lot of them left their books in a twinkling, and gave chase to the tea-kettle to catch it. But could they come up with the tea-kettle? Not a bit of it. It danced and it leapt and it flew up into the air. The novices rushed here and there, slipping upon the mats. They grew hot. They grew breathless.

“Ha, ha! Ha, ha!” laughed the tea-kettle; and “Catch me if you can!” laughed the wonderful tea-kettle.

Presently the priest awoke, all rosy, the holy man.

“And what’s the meaning of this racket,” he says, “disturbing me at my holy meditations and all?”

“Master, master,” cry the novices, panting and mopping their brows, “your tea-kettle is bewitched. It was a badger, no less. And the dance it has been giving us, you’d never believe!”

“Stuff and nonsense,” says the priest; “bewitched? Not a bit of it. There it rests on its box, good quiet thing, just where I put it.”

Sure enough, so it did, looking as hard and cold and innocent as you please. There was not a hair of a badger near it. It was the novices that looked foolish.

 

“A likely story indeed,” says the priest. “I have heard of the pestle that took wings to itself and flew away, parting company with the mortar. That is easily to be understood by any man. But a kettle that turned into a badger—no, no! To your books, my sons, and pray to be preserved from the perils of illusion.”

That very night the holy man filled the kettle with water from the spring and set it on the hibachi to boil for his cup of tea. When the water began to boil—

“Ai! Ai!” the kettle cried; “Ai! Ai! The heat of the Great Hell!” And it lost no time at all, but hopped off the fire as quick as you please.

“Sorcery!” cried the priest. “Black magic! A devil! A devil! A devil! Mercy on me! Help! Help! Help!” He was frightened out of his wits, the dear good man. All the novices came running to see what was the matter.

“The tea-kettle is bewitched,” he gasped; “it was a badger, assuredly it was a badger … it both speaks and leaps about the room.”

“Nay, master,” said a novice, “see where it rests upon its box, good quiet thing.”

And sure enough, so it did.

“Most reverend sir,” said the novice, “let us all pray to be preserved from the perils of illusion.”

The priest sold the tea-kettle to a tinker and got for it twenty copper coins.

“It’s a mighty fine bit of bronze,” says the priest. “Mind, I’m giving it away to you, I’m sure I cannot tell what for.” Ah, he was the one for a bargain! The tinker was a happy man and carried home the kettle. He turned it this way and that, and upside down, and looked into it.

“A pretty piece,” says the tinker; “a very good bargain.” And when he went to bed that night he put the kettle by him, to see it first thing in the morning.

 

He awoke at midnight and fell to looking at the kettle by the bright light of the moon.

Presently it moved, though there was no hand near it.

“Strange,” said the tinker; but he was a man who took things as they came.

A hairy head, with two bright eyes, looked out of the kettle’s spout. The lid jumped up and down. Four brown and hairy paws appeared, and a fine bushy tail. It came quite close to the tinker and laid a paw upon him.

“Well?” says the tinker.

“I am not wicked,” says the tea-kettle.

“No,” says the tinker.

“But I like to be well treated. I am a badger tea-kettle.”

“So it seems,” says the tinker.

“At the temple they called me names, and beat me and set me on the fire. I couldn’t stand it, you know.”

“I like your spirit,” says the tinker.

“I think I shall settle down with you.”

“Shall I keep you in a lacquer box?” says the tinker.

“Not a bit of it, keep me with you; let us have a talk now and again. I am very fond of a pipe. I like rice to eat, and beans and sweet things.”

“A cup of saké sometimes?” says the tinker.

“Well, yes, now you mention it.”

“I’m willing,” says the tinker.

“Thank you kindly,” says the tea-kettle; “and, as a beginning, would you object to my sharing your bed? The night has turned a little chilly.”

“Not the least in the world,” says the tinker.

The tinker and the tea-kettle became the best of friends. They ate and talked together. The kettle knew a thing or two and was very good company.

One day: “Are you poor?” says the kettle.

“Yes,” says the tinker, “middling poor.”

“Well, I have a happy thought. For a tea-kettle, I am out-of-the-way—really very accomplished.”

“I believe you,” says the tinker.

“My name is Bumbuku-Chagama; I am the very prince of Badger Tea-Kettles.”

“Your servant, my lord,” says the tinker.

“If you’ll take my advice,” says the tea-kettle, “you’ll carry me round as a show; I really am out-of-the-way, and it’s my opinion you’d make a mint of money.”

“That would be hard work for you, my dear Bumbuku,” says the tinker.

“Not at all; let us start forthwith,” says the tea-kettle.

So they did. The tinker bought hangings for a theatre, and he called the show Bumbuku-Chagama. How the people flocked to see the fun! For the wonderful and most accomplished tea-kettle danced and sang, and walked the tight rope as to the manner born. It played such tricks and had such droll ways that the people laughed till their sides ached. It was a treat to see the tea-kettle bow as gracefully as a lord and thank the people for their patience.

The Bumbuku-Chagama was the talk of the country-side, and all the gentry came to see it as well as the commonalty. As for the tinker, he waved a fan and took the money. You may believe that he grew fat and rich. He even went to Court, where the great ladies and the royal princesses made much of the wonderful tea-kettle.

At last the tinker retired from business, and to him the tea-kettle came with tears in its bright eyes.

“I’m much afraid it’s time to leave you,” it says.

“Now, don’t say that, Bumbuku, dear,” says the tinker. “We’ll be so happy together now we are rich.”

“I’ve come to the end of my time,” says the tea-kettle. “You’ll not see old Bumbuku any more; henceforth I shall be an ordinary kettle, nothing more or less.”

“Oh, my dear Bumbuku, what shall I do?” cried the poor tinker in tears.

“I think I should like to be given to the temple of Morinji, as a very sacred treasure,” says the tea-kettle.

It never spoke or moved again. So the tinker presented it as a very sacred treasure to the temple, and the half of his wealth with it.

And the tea-kettle was held in wondrous fame for many a long year. Some persons even worshipped it as a saint.

(selected from-

Japanese Fairy Tales_

Author: Grace James
Published: 1912
Publisher: Macmillan And Co., Limited, London

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In Yedo there dwelt a samurai called Hagiwara. He was a samurai of the hatamoto, which is of all the ranks of samurai the most honourable. He possessed a noble figure and a very beautiful face, and was beloved of many a lady of Yedo, both openly and in secret. For himself, being yet very young, his thoughts turned to pleasure rather than to love, and morning, noon and night he was wont to disport himself with the gay youth of the city. He was the prince and leader of joyous revels within doors and without, and would often parade the streets for long together with bands of his boon companions.

One bright and wintry day during the Festival of the New Year he found himself with a company of laughing youths and maidens playing at battledore and shuttlecock. He had wandered far away from his own quarter of the city, and was now in a suburb quite the other side of Yedo, where the streets were empty, more or less, and the quiet houses stood in gardens. Hagiwara wielded his heavy battledore with great skill and grace, catching the gilded shuttlecock and tossing it lightly into the air; but at length with a careless or an ill-judged stroke, he sent it flying over the heads of the players, and over the bamboo fence of a garden near by. Immediately he started after it. Then his companions cried, “Stay, Hagiwara; here we have more than a dozen shuttlecocks.”

“Nay,” he said, “but this was dove-coloured and gilded.”

“Foolish one!” answered his friends; “here we have six shuttlecocks all dove-coloured and gilded.”

But he paid them no heed, for he had become full of a very strange desire for the shuttlecock he had lost. He scaled the bamboo fence and dropped into the garden which was upon the farther side. Now he had marked the very spot where the shuttlecock should have fallen, but it was not there; so he searched along the foot of the bamboo fence—but no, he could not find it. Up and down he went, beating the bushes with his battledore, his eyes on the ground, drawing breath heavily as if he had lost his dearest treasure. His friends called him, but he did not come, and they grew tired and went to their own homes. The light of day began to fail. Hagiwara, the samurai, looked up and saw a girl standing a few yards away from him. She beckoned him with her right hand, and in her left she held a gilded shuttlecock with dove-coloured feathers.

The samurai shouted joyfully and ran forward. Then the girl drew away from him, still beckoning him with the right hand. The shuttlecock lured him, and he followed. So they went, the two of them, till they came to the house that was in the garden, and three stone steps that led up to it. Beside the lowest step there grew a plum tree in blossom, and upon the highest step there stood a fair and very young lady. She was most splendidly attired in robes of high festival. Her kimono was of water-blue silk, with sleeves of ceremony so long that they touched the ground; her under-dress was scarlet, and her great girdle of brocade was stiff and heavy with gold. In her hair were pins of gold and tortoiseshell and coral.

When Hagiwara saw the lady, he knelt down forthwith and made her due obeisance, till his forehead touched the ground.

Then the lady spoke, smiling with pleasure like a child. “Come into my house, Hagiwara Sama, samurai of the hatamoto. I am O’Tsuyu, the Lady of the Morning Dew. My dear handmaiden, O’Yoné, has brought you to me. Come in, Hagiwara Sama, samurai of the hatamoto; for indeed I am glad to see you, and happy is this hour.”

So the samurai went in, and they brought him to a room of ten mats, where they entertained him; for the Lady of the Morning Dew danced before him in the ancient manner, whilst O’Yoné, the handmaiden, beat upon a small scarlet-tasselled drum.

Afterwards they set food before him, the red rice of the festival and sweet warm wine, and he ate and drank of the food they gave him.

It was dark night when Hagiwara took his leave. “Come again, honourable lord, come again,” said O’Yoné the handmaiden.

“Yea, lord, you needs must come,” whispered the Lady of the Morning Dew.

The samurai laughed. “And if I do not come?” he said mockingly. “What if I do not come?”

The lady stiffened, and her child’s face grew grey, but she laid her hand upon Hagiwara’s shoulder.

“Then,” she said, “it will be death, lord. Death it will be for you and for me. There is no other way.” O’Yoné shuddered and hid her eyes with her sleeve.

The samurai went out into the night, being very much afraid.

Long, long he sought for his home and could not find it, wandering in the black darkness from end to end of the sleeping city. When at last he reached his familiar door the late dawn was almost come, and wearily he threw himself upon his bed. Then he laughed. “After all, I have left behind me my shuttlecock,” said Hagiwara the samurai.

The next day Hagiwara sat alone in his house from morning till evening. He had his hands before him; and he thought, but did nothing more. At the end of the time he said, “It is a joke that a couple of geisha have sought to play on me. Excellent, in faith, but they shall not have me!” So he dressed himself in his best and went forth to join his friends. For five or six days he was at joustings and junketings, the gayest of the gay. His wit was ready, his spirits were wild.

Then he said, “By the gods, I am deathly sick of this,” and took to walking the streets of Yedo alone. From end to end of the great city he went. He wandered by day and he wandered by night, by street and alley he went, by hill and moat and castle wall, but he found not what he sought. He could not come upon the garden where his shuttlecock was lost, nor yet upon the Lady of the Morning Dew. His spirit had no rest. He fell sick and took to his bed, where he neither ate nor slept, but grew spectre-thin. This was about the third month. In the sixth month, at the time of niubai, the hot and rainy season, he rose up, and, in spite of all his faithful servant could say or do to dissuade him, he wrapped a loose summer robe about him and at once went forth.

“Alack! Alack!” cried the servant, “the youth has the fever, or he is perchance mad.”

Hagiwara faltered not at all. He looked neither to the right nor to the left. Straight forward he went, for he said to himself, “All roads lead past my love’s house.” Soon he came to a quiet suburb, and to a certain house whose garden had a split bamboo fence. Hagiwara laughed softly and scaled the fence.

“The same, the very same shall be the manner of our meeting,” he said. He found the garden wild and overgrown. Moss covered the three stone steps. The plum tree that grew there fluttered its green leaves disconsolate. The house was still, its shutters were all closed, it was forlorn and deserted.

The samurai grew cold as he stood and wondered. A soaking rain fell.

There came an old man into the garden. He said to Hagiwara:

“Sir, what do you do here?”

“The white flower has fallen from the plum tree,” said the samurai. “Where is the Lady of the Morning Dew?”

“She is dead,” answered the old man; “dead these five or six moons, of a strange and sudden sickness. She lies in the graveyard on the hill, and O’Yoné, her handmaid, lies by her side. She could not suffer her mistress to wander alone through the long night of Yomi. For their sweet spirits’ sake I would still tend this garden, but I am old and it is little that I can do. Oh, sir, they are dead indeed. The grass grows on their graves.”

Hagiwara went to his own home. He took a slip of pure white wood and he wrote upon it, in large fair characters, the dear name of his lady. This he set up, and burned before it incense and sweet odours, and made every offering that was meet, and did due observance, and all for the welfare of her departed spirit.

Then drew near the Festival of Bon, the time of returning souls. The good folk of Yedo took lanterns and visited their graves. Bringing food and flowers, they cared for their beloved dead. On the thirteenth day of the seventh month, which, in the Bon, is the day of days, Hagiwara the samurai walked in his garden by night for the sake of the coolness. It was windless and dark. A cicada hidden in the heart of a pomegranate flower sang shrilly now and again. Now and again a carp leaped in the round pond. For the rest it was still, and never a leaf stirred.

About the hour of the Ox, Hagiwara heard the sound of footsteps in the lane that lay beyond his garden hedge. Nearer and nearer they came.

“Women’s geta,” said the samurai. He knew them by the hollow echoing noise. Looking over his rose hedge, he saw two slender women come out of the dimness hand in hand. One of them carried a lantern with a bunch of peony flowers tied to the handle. It was such a lantern as is used at the time of the Bon in the service of the dead. It swung as the two women walked, casting an uncertain light. As they came abreast of the samurai upon the other side of the hedge, they turned their faces to him. He knew them at once, and gave one great cry.

The girl with the peony lantern held it up so that the light fell upon him.

“Hagiwara Sama,” she cried, “by all that is most wonderful! Why, lord, we were told that you were dead. We have daily recited the Nembutsu for your soul these many moons!”

“Come in, come in, O’Yoné,” he said; “and is it indeed your mistress that you hold by the hand? Can it be my lady?… Oh, my love!”

O’Yoné answered, “Who else should it be?” and the two came in at the garden gate.

But the Lady of the Morning Dew held up her sleeve to hide her face.

“How was it I lost you?” said the samurai; “how was it I lost you, O’Yoné?”

“Lord,” she said, “we have moved to a little house, a very little house, in the quarter of the city which is called the Green Hill. We were suffered to take nothing with us there, and we are grown very poor. With grief and want my mistress is become pale.”

Then Hagiwara took his lady’s sleeve to draw it gently from her face.

“Lord,” she sobbed, “you will not love me, I am not fair.”

But when he looked upon her his love flamed up within him like a consuming fire, and shook him from head to foot. He said never a word.

She drooped. “Lord,” she murmured, “shall I go or stay?”

And he said, “Stay.”

A little before daybreak the samurai fell into a deep sleep, and awoke to find himself alone in the clear light of the morning. He lost not an instant, but rose and went forth, and immediately made his way through Yedo to the quarter of the city which is called the Green Hill. Here he inquired for the house of the Lady of the Morning Dew, but no one could direct him. High and low he searched fruitlessly. It seemed to him that for the second time he had lost his dear lady, and he turned homewards in bitter despair. His way led him through the grounds of a certain temple, and as he went he marked two graves that were side by side. One was little and obscure, but the other was marked by a fair monument, like the tomb of some great one. Before the monument there hung a lantern with a bunch of peony flowers tied to its handle. It was such a lantern as is used at the time of Bon in the service of the dead.

Long, long did the samurai stand as one in a dream. Then he smiled a little and said:

“‘We have moved to a little house … a very little house … upon the Green Hill … we were suffered to take nothing with us there and we are grown very poor … with grief and want my mistress is become pale….’ A little house, a dark house, yet you will make room for me, oh, my beloved, pale one of my desires. We have loved for the space of ten existences, leave me not now … my dear.” Then he went home.

His faithful servant met him and cried:

“Now what ails you, master?”

He said, “Why, nothing at all…. I was never merrier.”

But the servant departed weeping, and saying, “The mark of death is on his face … and I, whither shall I go that bore him as a child in these arms?”

Every night, for seven nights, the maidens with the peony lantern came to Hagiwara’s dwelling. Fair weather or foul was the same to them. They came at the hour of the Ox. There was mystic wooing. By the strong bond of illusion the living and the dead were bound together.

On the seventh night the servant of the samurai, wakeful with fear and sorrow, made bold to peer into his lord’s room through a crack in the wooden shutters. His hair stood on end and his blood ran cold to see Hagiwara in the arms of a fearful thing, smiling up at the horror that was its face, stroking its dank green robe with languid fingers. With daylight the servant made his way to a holy man of his acquaintance. When he had told his tale he asked, “Is there any hope for Hagiwara Sama?”

“Alack,” said the holy man, “who can withstand the power of Karma? Nevertheless, there is a little hope.” So he told the servant what he must do. Before nightfall, this one had set a sacred text above every door and window-place of his master’s house, and he had rolled in the silk of his master’s girdle a golden emblem of the Tathagata. When these things were done, Hagiwara being drawn two ways became himself as weak as water. And his servant took him in his arms, laid him upon his bed and covered him lightly, and saw him fall into a deep sleep.

At the hour of the Ox there was heard the sound of footsteps in the lane, without the garden hedge. Nearer and nearer they came. They grew slow and stopped.

“What means this, O’Yoné, O’Yoné?” said a piteous voice. “The house is asleep, and I do not see my lord.”

“Come home, sweet lady, Hagiwara’s heart is changed.”

“That I will not, O’Yoné, O’Yoné … you must find a way to bring me to my lord.”

“Lady, we cannot enter here. See the Holy Writing over every door and window-place … we may not enter here.”

There was a sound of bitter weeping and a long wail.

“Lord, I have loved thee through the space of ten existences.” Then the footsteps retreated and their echo died away.

The next night it was quite the same. Hagiwara slept in his weakness; his servant watched; the wraiths came and departed in sobbing despair.

The third day, when Hagiwara went to the bath, a thief stole the emblem, the golden emblem of the Tathagata, from his girdle. Hagiwara did not mark it. But that night he lay awake. It was his servant that slept, worn out with watching. Presently a great rain fell and Hagiwara, waking, heard the sound of it upon the roof. The heavens were opened and for hours the rain fell. And it tore the holy text from over the round window in Hagiwara’s chamber.

At the hour of the Ox there was heard the sound of footsteps in the lane without the garden hedge. Nearer and nearer they came. They grew slow and stopped.

“This is the last time, O’Yoné, O’Yoné, therefore bring me to my lord. Think of the love of ten existences. Great is the power of Karma. There must be a way….”

“Come, my beloved,” called Hagiwara with a great voice.

“Open, lord … open and I come.”

But Hagiwara could not move from his couch.

“Come, my beloved,” he called for the second time.

“I cannot come, though the separation wounds me like a sharp sword. Thus we suffer for the sins of a former life.” So the lady spoke and moaned like the lost soul that she was. But O’Yoné took her hand.

“See the round window,” she said.

Hand in hand the two rose lightly from the earth. Like vapour they passed through the unguarded window. The samurai called, “Come to me, beloved,” for the third time.

He was answered, “Lord, I come.”

In the grey morning Hagiwara’s servant found his master cold and dead. At his feet stood the peony lantern burning with a weird yellow flame. The servant shivered, took up the lantern and blew out the light; for “I cannot bear it,” he said.

(ack:world of tales.com)

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Moby Dick;

whale of story (twitter)

“Heavy going and unwieldy (Angler’s Pub).

“Ahab’s sea-legs lacked finesse (Prosthetics Journal)

Book would have gone well had the writer left Queequeg out; ditto with The race question of Ishamael (Jim Crow Notes-Georgia)

benny

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Der Blonde Eckbert  (Fair Eckbert)

In a region of the Hartz Mountains there lived a knight whom people generally called simply Fair Eckbert. He was about forty years old, scarcely of medium height, and short, very fair hair fell thick and straight over his pale sunken face. He lived very quietly unto himself, and was never implicated in the feuds of his neighbors; people saw him but rarely outside the encircling wall of his little castle. His wife loved solitude quite as much as he, and both seemed to love each other from the heart; only they were wont to complain because Heaven seemed unwilling to bless their marriage with children.

Very seldom was Eckbert visited by guests, and even when he was, almost no change on their account was made in the ordinary routine of his life. Frugality dwelt there, and Economy herself seemed to regulate everything. Eckbert was then cheerful and gay only when he was alone one noticed in him a certain reserve, a quiet distant melancholy.

Nobody came so often to the castle as did Philip Walther, a man to whom Eckbert had become greatly attached, because he found in him very much his own way of thinking. His home was really in Franconia, but he often spent more than half a year at a time in the vicinity of Eckbert’s castle, where he busied himself gathering herbs and stones and arranging them in order. He had a small income, and was therefore dependent upon no one. Eckbert often accompanied him on his lonely rambles, and thus a closer friendship developed between the two men with each succeeding year.

There are hours in which it worries a man to keep from a friend a secret, which hitherto he has often taken great pains to conceal. The soul then feels an irresistible impulse to impart itself completely, and reveal its innermost self to the friend, in order to make him so much the more a friend. At these moments delicate souls disclose themselves to each other, and it doubtless sometimes happens that the one shrinks back in fright from its acquaintance with the other.

One foggy evening in early autumn Eckbert was sitting with his friend and his wife, Bertha, around the hearthfire. The flames threw a bright glow out into the room and played on the ceiling above. The night looked in darkly through the windows, and the trees outside were shivering in the damp cold. Walther was lamenting that he had so far to go to get back home, and Eckbert proposed that he remain there and spend half the night in familiar talk, and then sleep until morning in one of the rooms of the castle. Walther accepted the proposal, whereupon wine and supper were brought in, the fire was replenished with wood, and the conversation of the two friends became more cheery and confidential.

After the dishes had been cleared off, and the servants had gone out, Eckbert took Walther’s hand and said: “Friend, you ought once to let my wife tell you the story of her youth, which is indeed strange enough.”

“Gladly,” replied Walther, and they all sat down again around the hearth. It was now exactly midnight, and the moon shone intermittently through the passing clouds.

“You must forgive me,” began Bertha, “but my husband says your thoughts are so noble that it is not right to conceal anything from you. Only you must not regard my story as a fairy-tale, no matter how strange it may sound.

“I was born in a village, my father was a poor shepherd. The household economy of my parents was on a humble plane – often they did not know where they were going to get their bread. But what grieved me far more than that was the fact that my father and mother often quarreled over their poverty, and cast bitter reproaches at each other. Furthermore I was constantly hearing about myself, that I was a simple, stupid child, who could not perform even the most trifling task. And I was indeed extremely awkward and clumsy; I let everything drop from my hands, I learned neither to sew nor to spin, I could do nothing to help about the house. The misery of my parents, however, I understood extremely well. I often used to sit in the corner and fill my head with notions – how I would help them if I should suddenly become rich, how I would shower them with gold and silver and take delight in their astonishment. Then I would see spirits come floating up, who would reveal subterranean treasures to me or give me pebbles which afterward turned into gems. In short, the most wonderful fantasies would occupy my mind, and when I had to get up to help or carry something, I would show myself far more awkward than ever, for the reason that my head would be giddy with all these strange notions.

“My father was always very cross with me, because I was such an absolutely useless burden on the household; so he often treated me with great cruelty, and I seldom heard him say a kind word to me. Thus it went along until I was about eight years old, when serious steps were taken to get me to do and to learn something. My father believed that it was sheer obstinacy and indolence on my part, so that I might spend my days in idleness. Enough – he threatened me unspeakably, and when this turned out to be of no avail, he chastised me most barbarously, adding that this punishment was to be repeated every day because I was an absolutely useless creature.

“All night long I cried bitterly – I felt so entirely forsaken, and I pitied myself so that I wanted to die.’ I dreaded the break of day, and did not know what to do. I longed for any possible kind of ability, and could not understand at all why I was more stupid than the other children of my acquaintance. I was on the verge of despair.

“When the day dawned, I got up, and, scarcely realizing what I was doing, opened the door of our little cabin. I found myself in the open field, soon afterward in a forest, into which the daylight had hardly yet shone. I ran on without looking back; I did not get tired, for I thought all the time that my father would surely overtake me and treat me even more cruelly on account of my running away.

“When I emerged from the forest again the sun was already fairly high, and I saw, lying ahead of me, something dark, over which a thick mist was resting. One moment I was obliged to scramble over hills, the next to follow a winding path between rocks. I now guessed that I must be in the neighboring mountains, and I began to feel afraid of the solitude. For, living in the plain, I had never seen any mountains, and the mere word mountains, whenever I heard them talked about, had an exceedingly terrible sound to my childish ear. I hadn’t the heart to turn back – it was indeed precisely my fear which drove me onwards. I often looked around me in terror when the wind rustled through the leaves above me, or when a distant sound of chopping rang out through the quiet morning. Finally, when I began to meet colliers and miners and heard a strange pronunciation, I nearly fainted with fright.

“I passed through several villages and begged, for I now felt hungry and thirsty. I helped myself along very well with the answers I gave to questions asked me. I had wandered along in this way for about four days, when I came to a small foot-path which led me farther from the highway. The rocks around me now assumed a different, far stranger shape. They were cliffs, and were piled up on one another in such a way that they looked as if the first gust of wind would hurl them all together into a heap. I did not know whether to go on or not. I had always slept over night either in out-of-the-way shepherds’ huts, or else in the open woods, for it was just then the most beautiful season of the year. Here I came across no human habitations whatever, nor could I expect to meet with any in this wilderness. The rocks became more and more terrible – I often had to pass close by dizzy precipices, and finally even the path under my feet came to an end. I was absolutely wretched; I wept and screamed, and my voice echoed horribly in the rocky glens. And now night set in; I sought out a mossy spot to lie down on, but I could not sleep. All night long I heard the most peculiar noises; first I thought it was wild beasts, then the wind moaning through the rocks, then again strange birds. I prayed, and not until toward morning did I fall asleep.

“I woke up when the daylight shone in my face. In front of me there was a rock. I climbed up on it, hoping to find a way out of the wilderness, and perhaps to see some houses or people. But when I reached the top, everything, as far as my eye could see, was like night about me – all overcast with a gloomy mist. The day was dark and dismal, and not a tree, not a meadow, not even a thicket could my eye discern, with the exception of a few bushes which, in solitary sadness, had shot up through the crevices in the rocks. It is impossible to describe the longing I felt merely to see a human being, even had it been the most strange looking person before whom I should inevitably have taken fright. At the same time I was ravenously hungry. I sat down and resolved to die. But after a while the desire to live came off victorious; I got up quickly and walked on all day long, occasionally crying out. At last I was scarcely conscious of what I was doing; I was tired and exhausted, had hardly any desire to live, and yet was afraid to die.

“Toward evening the region around me began to assume a somewhat more friendly aspect. My thoughts and wishes took new life, and the desire to live awakened in all my veins. I now thought I heard the swishing of a mill in the distance; I redoubled my steps, and how relieved, how joyous I felt when at last I actually reached the end of the dreary rocks! Woods and meadows and, far ahead, pleasant mountains lay before me again. I felt as if I had stepped out of hell into paradise; the solitude and my helplessness did not seem to me at all terrible now.

“Instead of the hoped-for mill, I came upon a water-fall, which, to be sure, considerably diminished my joy. I dished up some water from the river with my hand and drank. Suddenly I thought I heard a low cough a short distance away. Never have I experienced so pleasant a surprise as at that moment; I went nearer and saw, on the edge of the forest, an old woman, apparently resting. She was dressed almost entirely in black; a black hood covered her head and a large part of her face. In her hand she held a walking stick.

“I approached her and asked for help; she had me sit down beside her and gave me bread and some wine. While I was eating she sang a hymn in a shrill voice, and when she had finished she said that I might follow her.

“I was delighted with this proposal, strange as the voice and the personality of the old woman seemed to me. She walked rather fast with her cane, and at every step she distorted her face, which at first made me laugh. The wild rocks steadily receded behind us – we crossed a pleasant meadow, and then passed through a fairly long forest. When we emerged from this, the sun was just setting, and I shall never forget the view and the feelings of that evening. Everything was fused in the most delicate red and gold; the tree-tops stood forth in the red glow of evening, the charming light was spread out over the fields, the forest and the leaves of the trees were motionless, the clear sky looked like an open paradise, and the evening bells of the villages rang out with a strange mournfulness across the lea. My young soul now got its first presentment of the world and its events. I forgot myself and my guide; my spirit and my eyes were wandering among golden clouds.

“We now climbed a hill, which was planted with birch trees, and from its summit looked down into a little valley, likewise full of birches. In the midst of the trees stood a little hut. A lively barking came to our ears, and presently a spry little dog was dancing around the old woman and wagging his tall. Presently he came to me, examined me from all sides, and then returned with friendly actions to the old woman.

“When we were descending the hill I heard some wonderful singing, which seemed to come from the hut. It sounded like a bird, and ran:

O solitude Of lonely wood, Where none intrude, Thou bringest good For every mood, O solitude!

“These few words were repeated over and over; if I were to attempt to describe the effect, it was somewhat like the blended notes of a bugle and a shawm.

“My curiosity was strained to the utmost. Without waiting for the old woman’s invitation, I walked into the hut with her. Dusk had already set in. Everything was in proper order: a few goblets stood in a cupboard, some strange-looking vessels lay on a table, and a bird was hanging in a small, shiny cage by the window. And he, indeed, it was that I had heard singing. The old woman gasped and coughed, seemingly as if she would never get over it. Now she stroked the little dog, now talked to the bird, which answered her only with its usual words. Furthermore, she acted in no way as if I were present. While I was thus watching her, a series of shudders passed through my body; for her face was constantly twitching and her head shaking, as if with age, and in such a way that it was impossible for one to tell how she really looked.

“When she finally ceased coughing she lighted a candid, set a very small table, and laid the supper on it. Then she looked around at me and told me to take one of the woven cane chairs. I sat down directly opposite her, and the candle stood between us. She folded her bony hands and prayed aloud, all the time twitching her face in such a way that it almost made me laugh. I was very careful, however, not to do anything to make her angry.

“After supper she prayed again, and then showed me to a bed in a tiny little side-room – she herself slept in the main room. I did not stay awake long, for I was half dazed. I woke up several times during the night, however, and heard the old woman coughing and talking to the dog, and occasionally I heard the bird, which seemed to be dreaming and sang only a few isolated words of its song. These stray notes, united with the rustling of the birches directly in front of my window, and also with the song of the far-off nightingale, made such a strange combination that I felt all the time, not as if I were awake, but as if I were lapsing into another, still stranger, dream.

“In the morning the old woman woke me up and soon afterward gave me some work to do; I had, namely, to spin, and I soon learned how to do it; in addition I had to take care of the dog and the bird. I was not long in getting acquainted with the housekeeping, and came to know all the objects around. I now began to feel that everything was as it should be; I no longer thought that there was anything strange about the old woman, or romantic about the location of her home, or that the bird was in any way extraordinary. To be sure, I was all the time struck by his beauty; for his feathers displayed every possible color, varying from a most beautiful light blue to a glowing red, and when he sang he puffed himself out proudly, so that his feathers shone even more gorgeously.

“The old woman often went out and did not return until evening. Then I would go with the dog to meet her and she would call me child and daughter. Finally I came to like her heartily; for our minds, especially in childhood, quickly accustom themselves to everything. In the evening hours she taught me to read; I soon learned the art, and afterward it was a source of endless pleasure to me in my solitude? for she had a few old, handwritten books which contained wonderful stories.

“The memory of the life I led at that time still gives me a strange feeling even now. I was never visited by any human being, and felt at home only in that little family circle; for the dog and the bird made the same impression on me which ordinarily only old and intimate friends create. Often as I used it at that time, I have never been able to recall the dog’s strange name.

“In this way I had lived with the old woman for four years, and I must have been at any rate about twelve years old when she finally began to grow more confidential and revealed a secret to me. It was this: every day the bird laid one egg, and in this egg there was always a pearl or a gem. I had already noticed that she often did something in the cage secretly, but had never particularly concerned myself about it. She now charged me with the task of taking out these eggs during her absence, and of carefully preserving them in the vessels. She would leave food for me and stay away quite a long time – weeks and months. My little spinning-wheel hummed, the dog barked, the wonderful bird sang, and meanwhile everything was so quiet in the region round about that I cannot recall a single high wind or a thunder-storm during the entire time. Not a human being strayed thither, not a wild animal came near our habitation. I was happy, and sang and worked away! from one day to the next. Man would perhaps be right happy if he could thus spend his entire life, unseen by others.

“From the little reading that I did I formed quite wonderful impressions of the world and of mankind. They were all drawn from myself and the company I lived in; thus, if whimsical people were spoken of I could not imagine them other than the little dog, beautiful women always looked like the bird, and all old women were as my wonderful old friend. I had also read a little about love, and in my imagination I figured in strange tales. I formed a mental picture of the most beautiful knight in the world and adorned him with all sorts of excellences, without really knowing, after all my trouble, what he looked like. But I could feel genuine pity for myself if he did not return my love, and then I would make long, emotional speeches to him, sometimes aloud, in order to win him. You smile – we are all now past this period of youth.

“I now liked it rather better when I was alone, for I was then myself mistress of the house. The dog was very fond of me and did everything I wanted him to do, the bird answered all my questions with his song, my wheel was always spinning merrily, and so in the bottom of my heart I never felt any desire for a change. When the old woman returned from her wanderings she would praise my diligence, and say that her household was conducted in a much more orderly manner since I belonged to it. She was delighted with my development and my healthy look. In short, she treated me in every way as if I were a daughter.

“‘ You are a good child,’ she once said to me in a squeaky voice. ‘ If you continue thus, it will always go well with you. It never pays to swerve from the right course – the penalty is sure to follow, though it may be a long time coming. ‘ While she was saying this I did not give a great deal of heed to it, for I was very lively in all my movements. But in the night it occurred to me again, and I could not understand what she had meant by it. I thought her words over carefully – I had read about riches, and it finally dawned on me that her pearls and gems might perhaps be something valuable. This idea presently became still clearer to me – but what could she have meant by the right course? I was still unable to understand fully the meaning of her words.

“I was now fourteen years old. It is indeed a misfortune that human beings acquire reason, only to lose, in so doing, the innocence of their souls. In other words I now began to realize the fact that it depended only upon me to take the bird and the gems in the old woman’s absence, and go out into the world of which I had read. At the same time it was perhaps possible that I might meet my wonderfully beautiful knight, who still held a place in my imagination.

“At first this thought went no further than any other, but when I would sit there spinning so constantly, it always came back k against my will and I became so deeply absorbed in it that I already saw myself dressed up and surrounded by knights and princes. And whenever I would thus lose myself, I easily grew very sad when I glanced up and found myself in my little, narrow home. When I was about my business, the old woman paid no further attention to me.

“One day my hostess went away again and told me that she would be gone longer this time than usual – I should pay strict attention to everything, and not let the time- drag on my hands. I took leave of her with a certain uneasiness, for I somehow felt that I should never see her again. I looked after her for a long time, and did not myself know why I was so uneasy; it seemed almost as if my intention were already standing before me, without my being distinctly conscious of it.

“I had never taken such diligent care of the dog and the bird before – they lay closer to my heart than ever now. The old woman had been away several days when I arose with the firm purpose of abandoning the hut with the bird and going out into the so-called world. My mind was narrow and limited; I wanted again to remain there, and yet the thought was repugnant to me. A strange conflict took place in my soul – it was as if two contentious spirits were struggling within me. One moment the quiet solitude would seem so beautiful to me, and then again I would be charmed by the vision of a new world with its manifold wonders.

“I did not know what to do with myself. The dog was continually dancing around me with friendly advances, the sunlight was spread out cheerfully over the fields, and the green birch-trees shone brightly. I had a feeling as if I had something to do requiring haste. Accordingly, I caught the little dog, tied him fast in the room, and took the cage, with the bird in it, under my arm. The dog cringed and whined over this unusual treatment; he looked at me with imploring eyes but I was afraid to take him with me. I also took one of the vessels, which was filled with gems, and concealed it about me. The others I left there. The bird twisted its head around in a singular manner when I walked out of the door with him; the dog strained hard to follow me, but was obliged to remain behind.

“I avoided the road leading toward the wild rocks, and walked in the opposite direction. The dog continued to bark and whine, and I was deeply touched by it. Several times the bird started to sing, but, as he was being carried, it was necessarily rather difficult for him. As I walked along the barking grew fainter and fainter, and, finally, ceased altogether. I cried and was on the point of turning back, but the longing to see something new drove me on.

“I had already traversed mountains and several forests when evening came, and I was obliged to pass the night in a village. I was very timid when I entered the public-house; they showed me to a room and a bed, and I slept fairly well, except that I dreamt of the old woman, who was threatening me.

“My journey was rather monotonous; but the further I went the more the picture of the old woman and the little dog worried me. I thought how he would probably starve to death without my help, and in the forest I often thought I would suddenly meet the old woman. Thus, crying and sighing, I wandered along, and as often as I rested and put the cage on the ground, the bird sang its wonderful song, and reminded me vividly of the beautiful home I had deserted. As human nature is prone to forget, I now thought that the journey I had made as a child was not as dismal as the one I was now making, and I wished that I were back in the same situation.

“I had sold a few gems, and now, after wandering many days, I arrived in a village. Even as I was entering it, a strange feeling came over me – I was frightened and did not know why. But I soon discovered why – it was the very same village in which I was born. How astonished I was! How the tears of joy ran down my cheeks as a thousand strange memories came back to me! There were a great many changes; new houses had been built, others, which had then only recently been erected, were now in a state of dilapidation. I came across places where there had been a fire. Everything was a great deal smaller and more crowded than I had expected. I took infinite delight in the thought of seeing my parents again after so many years. I found the little house and the well-known threshold – the handle on the door was just as it used to be. I felt as if I had only yesterday left it ajar. My heart throbbed vehemently. I quickly opened the door – but faces entirely strange to me stared at me from around the room. I inquired after the shepherd, Martin, and was told that both he and his wife had died three years before. I hurried out and, crying aloud, left the village.

“I had looked forward with such pleasure to surprising them with my riches, and as a result of a remarkable accident the dream of my childhood had really come true. And now it was all in vain – they could no longer rejoice with me – the fondest hope of my life was lost to me forever.

“I rented a small house with a garden in a pleasant city, and engaged a waiting-maid. The world did not appear to be such a wonderful place as I had expected, but the old woman and my former home dropped more and more out of my memory, so that, upon the whole, I lived quite contentedly.

“The bird had not sung for a long time, so that I was not a little frightened one night when he suddenly began again The song he sang, however, was different was:

O solitude Of lonely wood, A vanished good In dreams pursued, In absence rued, O solitude!

“I could not sleep through the night; everything came back to my mind, and I felt more than ever that I had done wrong. When I got up the sight of the bird was positively repugnant to me; he was constantly staring at me, and his presence worried me. He never ceased singing now, and sang more loudly and shrilly than he used to. The more I looked at him the more uneasiness I felt. Finally, I opened the cage, stuck my hand in, seized him by the neck and squeezed my fingers together forcibly. He looked at me imploringly, and I relaxed my grip – but he was already dead. I buried him in the garden.

“And now I was often seized with fear of my waiting maid. My own past came back to me, and I thought that she too might rob me some day, or perhaps even murder me. For a long time I had known a young knight whom I liked very much – I gave him my hand, and with that, Mr. Walther, my story ends.”

“You should have seen her then,” broke in Eckbert quickly.” Her youth, her innocence, her beauty – and what an incomprehensible charm her solitary breeding had given her! To me she seemed like a wonder, and I loved her inexpressibly. I had no property, but with the help of her love I attained my present condition of comfortable prosperity. We moved to this place, and our union thus far has never brought us a single moment of remorse.”

“But while I have been chattering,” began Bertha again, “the night has grown late. Let us go to bed.”

She rose to go to her room. Walther kissed her hand and wished her a good-night, adding: “Noble woman, I thank you. I can readily imagine you with the strange bird, and how you fed the little Strohmi.”

Without answering she left the room. Walther also lay down to sleep, but Eckbert continued to walk up and down the room.

“Aren’t human beings fools? “he finally asked himself.” I myself induced my wife to tell her story, and now I regret this confidence! Will he not perhaps misuse it, Will he not impart it to others? Will he not perhaps – for it is human nature – come to feel a miserable longing for our gems and devise plans to get them and dissemble his nature ? ”

It occurred to him that Walther had not taken leave of him as cordially as would perhaps have been natural after so confidential a talk. When the soul is once led to suspect, it finds confirmations of its suspicions in every little thing. Then again Eckbert reproached himself for his ignoble distrust of his loyal friend, but he was unable to get the notion entirely out of his mind. All night long he tossed about with these thoughts and slept but little.

Bertha was sick and could not appear for breakfast. Walther seemed little concerned about it, and furthermore he left the knight in a rather indifferent manner. Eckbert could not understand his conduct. He went in to see his wife – she lay in a severe fever and said That her story the night before must have excited her in this manner.

After that evening Walther visited his friend’s castle but rarely, and even when he did come he went away again after a few trivial words. Eckbert was exceedingly troubled by this behavior; to be sure, he tried not to let either Bertha or Walther notice it, but both of them must surely have been aware of his inward uneasiness.

Bertha’s sickness grew worse and worse. The doctor shook his head – the color in her cheeks had disappeared, and her eyes became more and more brilliant.

One morning she summoned her husband to her bedside and told the maids to withdraw.

“Dear husband,” she began, “I must disclose to you something which has almost deprived me of my reason and has ruined my health, however trivial it may seem to be. Often as I have told my story to you, you will remember that I have never been able, despite all the efforts I have made, to recall the name of the little dog with which I lived so long. That evening when I told the story to Walther he suddenly said to me when we separated: ‘ I can readily imagine how you fed the little Strohmi.’ Was that an accident? Did he guess the name, or did he mention it designedly! And what, then, is this man’s connection with my lot? The idea has occurred to me now and then that I merely imagine this accident – but it is certain, only too certain. It sent a feeling of horror through me to have a strange person like that assist my memory. What do you say, Eckbert? ”

Eckbert looked at his suffering wife with deep tenderness. He kept silent, but was meditating. Then he said a few comforting words to her and left the room. In an isolated room he walked back and forth with indescribable restlessness – Walther for many years had been his sole male comrade, and yet this man was now the only person in the world whose-existence oppressed and harassed him. It seemed to him that his heart would be light and happy if only this one person might be put out of the way. He took down his cross-bow with a view to distracting his thoughts by going hunting.

It was a raw and stormy day in the winter; deep snow lay on the mountains and bent down the branches of the trees. He wandered about, with the sweat oozing from his forehead. He came across no game, and that increased his ill-humor. Suddenly he saw something move in the distance – it was Walther gathering moss from the trees. Without knowing what he was doing he took aim – Walther looked around and motioned to him with a threatening gesture. But as he did so the arrow sped, and Walther fell headlong.

Eckbert felt relieved and calm, and yet a feeling of horror drove him back to his castle. He had a long distance to go, for he had wandered far into the forest. When he arrived home, Bertha had already died – before her death she had spoken a great deal about Walther and the old woman.

For a long time Eckbert lived in greatest seclusion. He had always been somewhat melancholy because the strange story of his wife rather worried him; he had always lived in fear of an unfortunate event that might take place, but now he was completely at variance with himself. The murder of his friend stood constantly before his eyes – he spent his life reproaching himself.

In order to divert his thoughts, he occasionally betook himself to the nearest large city, where he attended parties and banquets. He wished to have a friend to fill the vacancy in his soul, and then again, when he thought of Walther, the very word friend made him shudder. He was convinced that he would necessarily be unhappy with all his friends. He had lived so long in beautiful harmony with Bertha, and Walther’s friendship had made him happy for so many years, and now both of them had been so suddenly taken from him that his life seemed at times more like a strange fairy-tale than an actual mortal existence.

A knight, Hugo von Wolfsberg, became attached to the quiet, melancholy Eckbert, and seemed to cherish a genuine fondness for him. Eckbert was strangely surprised; he met the knight’s friendly advances more quickly than the other expected. They were now frequently together, the stranger did Eckbert all sorts of favors, scarcely ever did either of them ride out without the other, they met each other at all the parties – in short, they seemed to be inseparable.

Eckbert was, nevertheless, happy only for short moments at a time, for he felt quite sure that Hugo love} him only by mistake – he did not know him, nor his history, and he felt the same impulse again to unfold his soul to him in order to ascertain for sure how staunch a friend Hugo was. Then again doubts and the fear of being detested restrained him. There were many hours in which he felt so convinced of his own unworthiness as to believe that no person, who knew him at all intimately, could hold him worthy of esteem. But he could not resist the impulse; in the course of a long walk he revealed his entire history to his friend, and asked him if he could possibly love a murderer. Hugo was touched and tried to comfort him. Eckbert followed him back to the city with a lighter heart.

However, it seemed to be his damnation that his suspicions should awaken just at the time when he grew confidential; for they had no more than entered the hall when the glow of the many lights revealed an expression in his friend’s features which he did not like. He thought he detected a malicious smile, and it seemed to him that he, Hugo, said very little to him, that he talked a great deal with the other people present, and seemed to pay absolutely no attention to him. There was an old knight in the company who had always shown himself as Eckbert’s rival, and had often inquired in a peculiar way about his riches and his wife. Hugo now approached this man, and they talked together a long time secretly, while every now and then they glanced toward Eckbert. He, Eckbert, saw in this a confirmation of his suspicions; he believed that he had been betrayed, and a terrible rage overcame him. As he continued to stare in that direction, he suddenly saw Walther’s head, all his features, and his entire figure, so familiar to him. Still looking, he became convinced that it was nobody but Walther himself who was talking with the old man. His terror was indescribable; completely beside himself, he rushed out, left the city that night, and, after losing his way many times, returned to his castle.

Like a restless spirit he hurried from room to room. No thought could he hold fast; the pictures in his mind grew more and more terrible, and he did not sleep a wink. The idea often occurred to him that he was crazy and that all these notions were merely the product of his own imagination. Then again he remembered Walther’s features, and it was all more puzzling to him than ever. He resolved to go on a journey in order to compose his thoughts; he had long since given up the idea of a friend and the wish for a companion.

Without any definite destination in view, he set out, nor did he pay much attention to the country that lay before him. After he had trotted along several days on his horse, he suddenly lost his way in a maze of rocks, from which he was unable to discover any egress. Finally he met an old peasant who showed him a way out, leading past a waterfall. He started to give him a few coins by way of thanks, but the peasant refused them.

“What can it mean? “he said to himself.” I could easily imagine that that man was no other than Walther.”

He looked back once more – it was indeed no one else but Walther!

Eckbert spurred on his horse as fast as it could run – through meadows and forests, until, completely exhausted, it collapsed beneath him. Unconcerned, he continued his journey on foot.

Dreamily he ascended a hill. There he seemed to hear a dog barking cheerily close by – birch trees rustled about him – he heard the notes of a wonderful song:

O solitude Of lonely wood, Thou chiefest good, Where thou cost brood Is joy renewed, O solitude!

Now it was all up with Eckbert’s consciousness and his senses; he could not solve the mystery whether he was now dreaming or had formerly dreamt of a woman Bertha. The most marvelous was confused with the most ordinary – the world around him was bewitched – no thought, no memory was under his control.

An old crook-backed woman with a cane came creeping up the hill, coughing.

“Are you bringing my bird, my pearls, my dog! “she cried out to him. “Look – wrong punishes itself. I and no other was your friend Walther, your Hugo.”

“God in Heaven! “said Eckbert softly to himself. “In what terrible solitude I have spent my life.”

“And Bertha was your sister.”

Eckbert fell to the ground.

“Why did she desert me so deceitfully! Otherwise everything would have ended beautifully – her probation time was already over. She was the daughter of a knight, who had a shepherd bring her up – the daughter of your father.”

“Why have I always had a presentiment of these facts? “cried Eckbert.

“Because in your early youth you heard your father tell of them. On his wife’s account he could not bring up this daughter himself, for she was the child of another woman.”

Eckbert was delirious as he breathed his last; dazed and confused he heard the old woman talking, the dog barking, and the bird repeating its song.

Translation by Paul B. Thomas

 

 

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The Sport of Destiny

A Fragment Borrowed from Fact

 

Friedrich Schiller(1759-1805)

Aloysius von G___ was the son of a commoner of some note in the *** Company’s service. He had great ability which was so well developed by an excellent education that, at an unusually early age, he entered the military service of his native Prince. Both were in the full glow of their youth and both were possessed of rash and enterprising natures, which soon endeared G____ to the Prince. Gifted with wit, charm and good humor, as well as information, G____ soon became an agreeable addition to every circle in which he moved, while the Prince had the good sense to appreciate his virtues. Added to these, he showed a great spirit of perseverance and all these qualities were heightened by a very pleasing figure, and an appearance of blooming health and power. He combined, in his demeanor, high spirits and natural dignity, relieved by a due share of modesty of manner. The Prince was charmed with both the inward and exterior qualities of his new associate, and the similarity of age, of inclination, and of character soon led to a great degree of intimacy between the two. G____ was advanced very rapidly, though to the Prince, even this rate of promotion seemed all too slow, so high was his opinion of his friend. When he was not yet twenty-two, G____ had reached heights which would have been envied by the most venerable statesmen at the close of their careers. But his active spirit was incapable of contentment or repose and while the Prince was engaged in the pursuit of pleasures, the young favorite would devote himself with unending assiduity to important affairs. He became, in time, so skillful and judicious that his talents were more and more constantly employed, so that, from the mere companion of his pleasures, he soon became counselor and Minister, and finally, the director of his Prince. In a short time, the only way to obtain the royal favor was through him. He had the disposal of all ranks and offices, as well as the distribution of all rewards and remunerations.

G____ , however, was far too young and inexperienced, and had risen by too rapid strides, to use his power with moderation. The respectful humility and attentions shown him by the first nobles of the land, who all surpassed him in birth, fortune and reputation, awoke the slumbering embers of his pride and tyranny, and he began to show a hardness of character which remained through all the vicissitudes of his fortunes. There was no service, however great, which his friends might not venture to solicit; but woe be to his enemies! He was less solicitous to enrich himself than a number of his creatures, but his choice of them was dictated by sheer whim rather than by justice. Yet, by exacting too much, by the haughtiness of his commands, and by his whole demeanor, he alienated from him even those who were most in his debt, while his rivals, and those who envied him were quickly converted into his deadliest enemies.

These men watching his every act with jealousy, were collecting materials for his future accusation and were slowly planning to undermine his greatness. Among them was a Piedmontese Count, named Joseph Martinenzo, belonging to the Prince’s suite. G____ himself had promoted him as a harmless, obedient creature, to his present post – that of attending the pleasures of his princely master, which he began to find too irksome now that he was engaged in more important occupations. Viewing this man merely as the work of his own hands, and thinking that he could at any time again reduce him to his original unimportance, he felt assured, through motives of fear and gratitude, of the fidelity of his creature. He thus fell into the same error as was committed by Richelieu in entrusting Louis the Thirteenth to the care of the young Le Grand. Lacking Richelieu’s ability of repairing so great a mistake, he had, further, to deal with a far bitterer enemy than the French Minister had to encounter. Instead of boasting of his good fortune, or allowing his patron to feel that he could dispense with his further patronage, Martinenzo was only the more cautious to maintain a show of dependence, and to bind himself constantly closer in the alliance with his benefactor. Meanwhile, he ignored no opportunity afforded him by his office to ingratiate himself with the Prince, until, from being useful, he became indispensable to him.

Discovering all the avenues to his confidence and favor, he gradually made himself master of the Prince’s mind. All those arts which pride and a natural elevation of character had taught the Minister to hold in contempt were brought into play by the Italian, who was utterly unscrupulous about the attainment of his object as well as about the means he employed. He was well aware that nothing is so conducive to unreserved confidence as participation in common vices and with this knowledge he proceeded to play upon the Prince, exciting passions hitherto dormant and directing them to the worst of purposes. By a train of the most seductive arts, he plunged him into excesses which admitted of no outside participation and no witnesses, and thus finally became the master of the most incriminating secrets. He then began to lay the foundation of his own fortunes upon the progressive degradation of the Prince’s character; the secrets which rendered him so formidable obtained him complete domination over the Prince’s feelings before G____ even suspected that he had a rival.

It may appear strange that so important a change should escape the attention of the Minister; but he had, unluckily, too high an opinion of his own worth to suspect that a man like Martinenzo would dare to become his opponent, while the latter was too cautious to commit the least error which might rouse his patron from his security. The same overweening confidence which had caused the downfall of so many of his predecessors from the summit of royal favor, was fast preparing the Minister’s ruin. The confidential terms upon which he saw Martinenzo with his master gave him no uneasiness; he was glad to resign a species of favor which he despised, and which left his ambition unsatisfied: it was only as it smoothed his path to power that he had ever valued the Prince’s friendship, and he foolishly threw down the ladder by which he had risen to his goal.

Martinenzo was not the man to play a subordinate part, At each step in the Prince’s favor, his hopes rose higher, and his ambition, growing in a friendly soil, began to strike deeper and stronger roots. The greater his reputation grew, the more his role of humility toward his benefactor irked him. On the other hand, the Minister’s deportment toward him, far from becoming more tactful as he rose in the Prince’s favor, aimed at humbling his pride by admonitions reminding him of his dependence. This tyranny finally grew so intolerable to Martinenzo that he boldly plotted the destruction of his rival at a single blow. Under an impenetrable veil of dissimulation, he brought his plan to completion, still not venturing to enter into open competition with his rival. Though the first glow of the Minister’s favor was at an end, the slightest circumstance could still have restored it, since the Prince showed the greatest respect for his mind and his advices and if he had once been dear to his master as a friend, he was now equally powerful as a Minister. Fully realizing the situation, the Italian knew that the blow which he was about to strike must succeed, or else prove fatal to himself.

The means by which he gained his object remained a secret with the few who aided him. It was reported that he had detected a secret correspondence of a treacherous nature, carried on by the Minister with a neighboring court; but whether his proposals had been listened to or rejected, remained a matter of doubt. The Prince felt that G____ was one of the most ungrateful and treacherous of men—that his delinquencies were fully proved and only awaited punishment. This was secretly arranged between the new favorite and his master; G____ was unconscious of the gathering storm, and continued wrapt in his fatal security until the final tragic moment, which precipitated him from the summit of princely honors into the depth of obloquy and contempt.

On the appointed day, G____ appeared as usual upon the parade. Not many years ago an ensign, he was now an officer of distinguished rank and even this was only meant as a screen for the exercise of his political power, which actually placed him above the foremost of the land. The parade was his stage here he indulged in all the pride of patronage; here he received the obsequious attentions of his creatures, thus rewarding himself for the exertions and labors of the day. His chief dependents, all men of rank, were seen gathering around him, eager to offer their obeisance, yet evidently anxious as to the kind of reception they might meet with. The Prince himself, as he passed by, beheld his chief Minister with a relenting eye; he felt how much more dangerous it well might be to dispense with the services of such a man than with the friendship of his rival. Yet this spot, where he was flattered and adored, almost like a god, was that which had been chosen for the scene of his tragic disgrace. The Prince rejoined the Italian, and the affair was suffered to proceed.

G____ mingled carelessly among his friends who, not suspecting any more than he, offered him their respects and awaited his commands. Suddenly, Martinenzo appeared, accompanied by some State officers. He was no longer the same meek, cringing, smiling courtier; the presumption and insolence of a lackey suddenly elevated into a master were visible in his haughty step and fiery eye. He marched straight up to the Prime Minister and confronted him, with his hat on, for some moments, without uttering a word; then in the Prince’s name, he demanded his sword. This was handed to him with an expression of terrific emotion; then, thrusting the naked point into the ground, he split it into shivers with his foot—the fragments lay at G ‘s feet. At this signal the two adjutants seized him; one strove to tear the order of the cross from his breast, the other pulled off the shoulder knots, the facings of his uniform, and even the plume of feathers from his hat.

During this cruel and humiliating proceeding, which took scarcely an instant, not a single voice was raised; a breathless silence reigned throughout the immense throng. The hundreds of nobles who were present, all stood motionless, with pale cheeks and beating hearts, an expression of pained surprise on every face. Throughout this trying ordeal, G____, though anguished, bore himself with fortitude and composure.

When this procedure was ended, he was conducted through many rows of spectators, to the very end of the parade ground, where a covered carriage was waiting for him. He was motioned to ascend, an escort of mounted hussars being ready to attend him. Meanwhile, the report of what had occurred was spread on all sides; windows were opened, the streets were filled with throngs of curious people pursuing the carriage—their cries of triumph, of scorn, or of indignation, echoing far and wide.

He escaped the frightful din at last, only to meet a more fearful trial. The carriage turned out of the high road into a narrow, unfrequented by-way, towards the place of judgment and then into a more public path. Exposed to the sultry summer heat, without hearing any accusation, without attendance or consolation, he passed seven hours of misery and affliction, before he arrived at his destination. Late in the evening the carriage stopped and G____, unconscious, his gigantic strength having yielded at last to twelve hours’ fast, was dragged from his seat.

When he regained consciousness, he found himself consigned to a subterranean dungeon, dimly lit by the rising moon whose rays entered through a few grated openings from a great height above. Near him he found a portion of coarse bread, with a bowl of water, and a heap of straw for his bed. He endured this plight without any interruption, until noon the following day, when he heard the sash of one of the iron windows in the center of the tower drawn aside; two hands were visible, lowering down a basket like that which had contained his food the day before. For the first time since his arrest he felt some inclination to inquire into the cause, and also into the nature of his future destiny. But he received no answer from above; the hands disappeared and the sash was closed.

Thus, without beholding the face, or hearing the voice of a fellow-creature; without having the least light thrown on his destiny, left in utter ignorance both as to the future and the past; never feeling the warmth of the sun nor the freshness of the air; he spent four hundred and ninety days of agony, only sustained by a small allowance of coarse bread. But this was not all, for he made a discovery one day which increased and intensified his wretchedness. He recognized the place; he had ordered it constructed only a short while ago, in a rage of vengeance against a worthy officer who had had the misfortune to displease him, and he had even suggested the manner in which it might be made more horrible and revolting. What added the last bitter sting to his punishment was that the same officer who had been destined to occupy it, had just succeeded the late commander of the fortress, and by a sort of retributive justice, was made the master of his enemy’s destiny. He was deprived of the last poor comfort, the right of commiserating with himself. He knew he did not deserve it; he felt himself an object of disgust and of the bitterest self-contempt; and, worst of all, dependent upon the magnanimity of a man to whom he had shown none.

His jailer was, fortunately for him, a man of noble feelings, who scorned to take a mean revenge. He felt sorry at the idea of fulfilling the part assigned to him; yet, as a faithful subject and an old soldier, he did not think himself justified in departing from the usual rules, and he feared to swerve from. his instructions. Still, he pitied him, and pointed him out to a benevolent assistant, the preacher of the prison, who, having been able to ascertain nothing against the prisoner beyond mere report, resolved, as far as possible, to mitigate his sufferings. This excellent man, whose name I willingly suppress, believed that he could best fulfill his pious charge by bestowing his spiritual support and consolations upon a being deprived of all other hopes of mercy.

As he could not obtain permission from the commandant himself to visit the prisoner, he proceeded to the capital to solicit the consent of the Prince. He fell at his feet, appealing for some mitigation of the prisoner’s sufferings. He insisted, in the name of his pious calling, on free admittance to the prisoner, whom he claimed as a penitent, and for whose soul he was responsible. His subject made him eloquent and he soon made some impression upon the Prince, who had at first refused his request. The result of his efforts won him, at last, full permission to visit the wretched prisoner and administer to his spiritual needs.

The first human face G____ saw, after a lapse of sixteen months, was that of his new benefactor and he was eloquent in his gratitude, for this was the only friend he had in the world; all his prosperity had never brought him one. The pastor was filled with horror and astonishment on entering the vault. His eyes sought a human form, but beheld, creeping towards him, a white and wild-looking living skeleton, whose couch resembled the den of a beast of prey rather than a human resting-place. All signs of life seemed absent from his countenance; on which despair and grief had traced deep furrows; his beard and nails had grown to a frightful length; his clothing was falling about him in tatters and, due to the lack of water and all means of cleanliness, the air was foul and contaminated. Almost terrified at the terrible state in which he found the prisoner, the pastor quickly hastened back to the Governor to solicit a second alleviation of his sufferings, since he feared that without it the first concession would be of little use. Since this, however, was in opposition to the strict letter of the Governor’s instructions, the pastor resolved on a second journey to the capital, in the hope of obtaining some further concessions from the Prince. He declared that he could not, without violating the sacred character of the sacrament, administer it to a wretch who had not even the semblance of a human being. He gained his object and from that day on, the prisoner’s lot was much ameliorated.

For many subsequent years, however, G____ continued to languish in captivity, though its trials were much less agonizing than those he had suffered previously; especially after the short reign of the new favorite was over and he was succeeded by others, who either were more humane or had no motive for revenge. Yet ten years passed, without any judicial investigation or any formal acquittal, before he was finally released. He was presented with his freedom as a sort of princely gift, but was requested at the same time, to banish himself from his native country.

Here, the oral traditions which I have been able to collect begin to fail and I find myself compelled to omit an intervening period of about twenty years. During this period, he took up his military career once more, this time in foreign service, and by combined skill and industry he achieved the same heights which he had formerly attained in his native land. Time, likewise, helped; the Prince’s days of pleasure and of passion were over; humanity gradually resumed its sway over him, and when his hair turned white, and he trembled at the brink of the grave, the friend of his youth appeared to him and constantly haunted his rest. He invited the banished man to revisit his native land, in order to repair, so far as possible, the injuries which had been done him. G____ of course, had long been anxious to return, but the meeting, though apparently warm and cordial, was extremely trying. The Prince gazed earnestly, as if trying to recall features so well known and yet so strange; he seemed to be numbering the deep furrows which he himself had traced there. But nowhere in that aged, grief-worn countenance could he recognize the features of his former companion and friend.

The welcome and the looks of confidence were quite evidently forced on both sides; mutual shame and dread had separated them irrevocably. A single look, which brought back to his soul the full sense of his guilt, hurt the Prince, while G____ felt that he could no longer have any regard for the author of his misfortune.

The Prince attempted to salve his conscience by reinstating him in all his old honors and authority, but he never succeeded in winning back the sincere good-will and fondness which had characterized their friendship. His failure so distressed him that he found his heart closed to all the enjoyments of life and ended his days in the shadow of unhappiness.

G____ , on his part, continued his troubled existence for nineteen years: neither time nor fate had quenched the fire of passion, nor wholly obscured the lively spirit of his character. In his seventieth year, he was still in pursuit of the shadow of a happiness which he had really possessed when he was only twenty. He died, finally, as the Governor of a fortress for the confinement of State prisoners. It was to be expected that he would behave with true humanity towards these unfortunates but, on the contrary, he treated them with the greatest harshness and ill-temper. If he remembered his own miseries as a prisoner, he gave not the slightest sign of it either by word or action. It was in one of his increasingly frequent fits of temper, in his eightieth year, that G____ collapsed and died without regaining consciousness, a victim, finally, to the passions that had wrecked his character and his career.

Translation by Marian Klopfer

 

 

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In that one-dog town the locals noticed Mulla Nasruddin and they were concerned. Each day he sat there a picture of woe.  Rumor mill went into overdrive and there were many theories as to his depression.  One lady consulted the local marriage broker and set her to work. In the coffee house local worthies were also as involved in helping the mulla. One day the populace descended on Mulla Nasruddin each one sporting a woebegone expression. They sat with him and for hours they showed their concern by such sad expression. After a couple of hours they were astounded  to see mulla laughing so loud. One said rather sternly,”what bad manners to display?” Another took up,”we are crying and,- we came with great trouble to ourselves to share your sorrow. Yet you laugh,making a mockery of our feelings!”

Mulla replied,”Be reasoable,friends! How can I cry with so many friends about?”

  1. Ignorance is a matter for crying but knowledge makes you laugh out.

Benny

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