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CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 THE 
 
 Joseph Whitmore Barry 
 dramatic library 
 
 THB GIFT OF 
 TWO FRIENDS 
 
 OF Cornell University 
 
 1934 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PN 6019.H49 1882 
 
 Epitome of modern European literature / 
 
 3 1924 027 480 056 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of this book is in 
 the Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924027480056 
 
AN EPITOME 
 
 OF 
 
 Modem European Literature. 
 
 BY 
 
 MRS. PRANCES C. HENDERSON. 
 
 SECOND EDITION. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA: 
 
 J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO. 
 
 18 83. 
 
^MM\ 
 
 Copyright, 1882, by Erakoes C. Hehdebson. 
 
TO 
 
 A. S. B., 
 
 THB "COUSIN ANNA" 'WHO CAN VOTTCH FOR THB ACCtTRACY OF 
 PKISCILLA'S rORTKAIT, 
 
 THIS BOOK 
 
 IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED 
 
 BY HER AXTNT, 
 
 F. 0. H. 
 
PEEFAOE. 
 
 Mr object in publishing this unpretending volume is simply 
 to place a sort of bird's-eye view of modern European literature 
 within the reach even of those who have but little time to 
 devote to reading. I would also gladly share with others the 
 pleasure I have myself derived from following the divers 
 trains of thought pursued by writers born in various climes, 
 schooled in languages of such varied idiomatic construction, 
 and growing up under dissimilar social habits. In the lan- 
 guages which are but little known I have been able to select 
 those authors who stand as leaders in the foremost rank, — 
 such as Kisfaludy for Hungarian, Pushkin for Eussian, etc. 
 In German and French, which everybody knows, it was 
 much harder to choose. Nobody would thank me for giving 
 one of Kacine's tragedies or one of Molifere's comedies, as 
 these already have a place in every library ; neither could one 
 reasonably expect me to crowd one of George Sand's or Victor 
 Hugo's three-volume novels into the seventeenth part of a 
 twelvemo. Even there, however, I have been able to select 
 works which had never been translated, and which are in 
 some degree characteristic of the country to which each 
 belongs. 
 
 I would gladly have given specimens of Bulgarian and 
 Wendish and some of the Bomanese and Bouman, but I was 
 not able to find anything but some ballads, already translated. 
 Turkey is not represented, for two excellent reasons : one is 
 
 5 
 
6 PREFACE. 
 
 that I do not understand Turkish, and the other that Turkey 
 is connected with Europe solely by her geographical position, 
 — her literature belongs to the East. Greece has also been 
 left out, as it seems almost a sacrilege to give specimens of 
 the modern literature of a country whose classical works are 
 household words in every land. 
 
 In conclusion, I would say to any one who thinks I ought 
 to have done more that it would have been pleasanter to write 
 two volumes (or four) if I had thought any one would be 
 willing to buy a work of such dimensions. 
 
 If it be objected that the specimen of English literature 
 was not even written by an Englishman, I would reply that 
 it is, nevertheless, more characteristic of England than any- 
 thing I could have selected. England has always identified 
 herself with the slavery question in one way or another. 
 A&ei forcing it upon her colonies she was the first to preach 
 a, crusade against it, and still combats it wherever it exists. 
 She also set the world the noble example of emancipation. 
 
 F. C. H. 
 
oo]:f}"TEi:ffTS. 
 
 NO. PAGE 
 
 I. PnisoiLLA Baker, the Feeedwoman 9 
 
 II. The Double Wedding at Dundehtiksboeg. From the 
 
 Swedish 31 
 
 III. Thbee at Once. From the Hungarian .... 89i* 
 
 IV. Salaedo. From the Italian 115 
 
 v. The Snow-Stoem. From the Russian .... 126^ 
 
 VI. Friendship at the Haevest-Feast. From the Slovaclc . 137 
 
 VII. Black Eyes. From the Spanish 175 
 
 VIII. No Happiness without Virtue. From the Dutch (Hol- 
 
 landish) 187- 
 
 IX. Taxes. From the Polish . 219* 
 
 X. Cards foe Four. From the German .... 243 
 XI. Revenge. From the Bohemian (Czeok) .... 269 
 XII. Rue des Pieeees, No. 60. From the Flemish . . . 277.* 
 XIII. Twelve Portuguese Legends. From the Portuguese . 305 
 XIV. Theodore, Oonte de la vie Littbkaire. From the 
 
 French 317 
 
 XV. Amanda. From the Croatian 335- 
 
 XVI. The Storm-Beide. From the Danish .... 351 
 XVII. LekA; oe. Reminiscences of a Physician. From the 
 
 Serbian 355 
 
 XVIII. RozA. From the Slavonian 371- 
 
 XIX. The Gabden of the Pabsonage. From the Norwegian . 387 
 XX. Alexander Lapushna. From the Rouman . . . 402 
 
I. 
 PRISCILLA BAKER, THE FREEDWOMAN. 
 
 BY MRS. FRANCES C. HENDERSON. 
 
 It was in the autumn of A.d. 1869 that I first saw Priscilla 
 Baker. Madison she should have been, but she was a widow 
 when she married Phil, and, having changed her maiden 
 name for that of Baker, she deemed it unseemly to change 
 it again, and Baker she remained to the end of her life. 
 
 Priscilla was worthy to have found a " Boz" to chronicle 
 her sayings and doings, but, as no abler pen has undertaken 
 to transmit her name to posterity, I must assume the task. 
 But first let me assure my readers that I am portraying no 
 imaginary characters, and that every word put into the mouth 
 of a negro was uttered, not only by sovie negro, but by the 
 very one to whom it is ascribed. I shall make no attempt 
 to weave them in consistent patterns, and not even imitate the 
 immortal Plutarch, who, putting speeches into the mouths of 
 the great men he delineates, has given us heroes without 
 blemish and without weaknesses ; but, as a painter, giving 
 us a picture of " an Alpine cow drinking," puts in for a back- 
 ground a few mountains and a glacier or two, so must I, in 
 order to word-paint Priscilla accurately, make a background 
 of "the white folks" she loved so well, and throw in my 
 humble self, my husband, and my dear little girl. 
 
 It was as a bride that t went to my lovely Louisiana home, 
 and that I first saw " freedmen." I am Southern born, but t 
 had lived inland, and in a cotton-growing region, and knew 
 nothing of negroes fed as " pickaninnies" upon sugar-cane and 
 syrup, or of the life on a sugar plantation. Ours was on the 
 
10 PEISCILLA BAKER, 
 
 " C6te Joyeuse," so called on account of the joyous hospi- 
 tality reigning there before the war. That has now passed 
 away, and the dancing and frolicking have ceased, but nature 
 remains the same. 
 
 It was with wonder and delight that I saw in our own 
 park oranges, the size of small cantaloupes, hanging in clus- 
 ters, Uke cherries, on the trees, and a small plantation of 
 banana-trees displaying their mellow fruit. Everywhere the 
 luxuriant sugar-cane waved its broad blades in the wind with 
 truly tropical nonchalance, and seemed to invite the knife of 
 the cane-cutter, but the private cotton-patches of the negroes 
 surrounded the sugar-house, and looked very pretty with the 
 red, blue, and yellow flowers on the same stalk with the ripe 
 bolls, out of which the cotton had burst with the brilliant 
 purity of freshly fallen snow. It was sundown when we 
 arrived, and the negroes, having stopped work, were standing 
 at the doors of the neat, whitewashed cabins in " the street," 
 as they call the rows of cabins. A number of little negroes, 
 having stripped their own pecan-trees, had invaded the park, 
 to gather the nuts lying on the ground there. The last rays 
 of the setting sun still lingered on the fence, which was 
 brilliant with the deep yellow of the Bois d'Arc, or bitter 
 orange, intermingled with the large white flower of the 
 Cherokee rose. This fruit is so bitter that no animal will 
 touch it, and it hangs on the trees till late in the spring. 
 Near the house were stately camellia-bushes, covered with a 
 profusion of flowers, and scarlet pomegranates. 
 
 I never tired of watching from my boudoir window the 
 broad waters of the Mississippi, where steamboat followed 
 steamboat, the black smoke being seen behind the bends of 
 the river long before and long after the boat itself was visible. 
 The steamboat whistle was a constant amusement, and when 
 the triple sound was heard, announcing that the boat meant 
 to land, there was a general move, to our landing-place, which 
 was just in front of the park gate. Sometimes freight was to 
 be put off for us, sometimes the boat clerk had been asked 
 to leave a letter, which we should thus receive more promptly 
 than through the post-office, and sometimes a party of vis- 
 itors from New Orleans or Donaldsonville, or some other 
 place on the river, would step off the landing-bridge and tell 
 Moses to bring up their bags. 
 
THE FREEDWOMAN. 11 
 
 On such occasions Priscilla Baker was sure to come sneak- 
 ing round to ask if there was not some job of extra work for 
 her to do. She had never been one of the house-servants, and, 
 in fact, had never done anything. When she was a young 
 girl, she was walking on the levee on a Sunday afternoon 
 with some of her young friends, when her first husband, who 
 was then courting her, calkd to them to wait for him. They 
 ran off and the lover ran after them, and, overtaking them, 
 caught his lady dark by the leg, and held on so tightly that he 
 pulled her hip out of joint. Inflammation set in, and, in spite 
 of care and medical skill, Priscilla remained lame, always walk- 
 ing as if one leg were shorter than the other, and so delicate 
 that she was never asked to do anything. After emancipation 
 her husband found out she could work, as he said " he was 
 not going to have any niggers playing'possum (pretending to 
 be ill) round him, and if she wanted to eat she must work." 
 
 " The house" was the great attraction to Priscilla, and she 
 was constantly coming round to ask if I would not give her a 
 pound of coffee, or a couple of pounds of sugar, or some tea, 
 as she had the toothache, and Aunt Judy says " she ain't got 
 none to spare." 
 
 Aunt Judy was my head-cook. She had in her youth been 
 cook at President Monroe's, and had the quiet dignity of 
 manner she had then admired in the President of the great 
 republic. It must have been her account of the grandeurs of 
 the White House (delivered to the under-cook, Ann Taylor) 
 which so impressed Ann's husband Nat. It had worked upon 
 his imagination till he firmly believed he was destined to be 
 President himself some day. He was a lazy, trifling fellow, 
 and began his political career by-haranguing his fellow-servants 
 and trying to make them discontented with their position, and 
 to keep them from working. A favorite expression of his 
 was, " The best of us can make mistakes." He had made 
 quite a serious one-himself. as it was strongly suspected that, 
 having found a flat-boat moored to the bank, under the charge 
 of a small boy, he had thrown the boy into the river, and a 
 log on top of him to help him to swim. At any rate, the boy 
 was drowned, and a gun which had been taken from the boat, 
 was found buried under the floor of Nat's cabin. Nat swore 
 he had found the gun lying on the bank, and nothing could 
 be proved against him. 
 
12 PRISCILLA BAKER, 
 
 But to return to Aunt Judy. She was a splendid cook and 
 a sort of patriarch on the plantation, as ten of her sons were 
 among the field-hands. Alfred Gant was the leader of the 
 whole force (under the white overseer), and Edmund Gant was 
 the leader of the hoes. Judy fell ill and had to give up 
 work ; she was wasting away. One day Priscilla came to me 
 and asked if I would lend her a |f de-saddle, which was kept 
 for the use of the house-servants, as she wanted to ride " to 
 Aunt Judy's fiineral." "What '."said I, "is she dead?" 
 " Oh, no," replied Priscilla; "but the doctor says she cannot 
 last long, and Alfred and Edmund is a-digging of her grave." 
 " Digging her grave before she is dead !" cried I, with horror. 
 " Oh, yes," said Priscilla ; " they thinks a heap of old Judy, 
 and wants her to be comfortable-like. They is digging mighty 
 deep." 
 
 Sure enough, Judy did die in a day or two, and needed her 
 deep grave, and I stood on the veranda to watch the funeral 
 procession. Now that dances were no more every funeral 
 was a festival ; but none so great as old Judy's. The 
 overseer had granted a full holiday, and all the cane-carts were 
 in the procession, filled with negroes, old and young, laughing 
 and chattering like monkeys. Every negro who owned a 
 riding-horse could be seen on it, digging his heels into its 
 sides to riiake it " cut up," and all the private buggies of the 
 negroes could be dimly seen through the clouds of dust raised 
 by the Jehu-like driving of the owners. Everywhere shone 
 the brightest colors ; the women were attired in red and yellow 
 head-handkerchiefs and shawls, and the men in equally gaudy 
 neck-handkerchiefs, with gilt watch-chains dangling from their 
 button-holes. All were in the merriest humor, and all felt 
 that night that Aunt Judy could be quiet in her grave, as due 
 honor had been paid to her remains. 
 
 During Judy's long illness her daughter was told to send 
 to " the house" for anything she fancied to eat, and the 
 quantity of delicacies she was supposed to swallow would have 
 sufficed for a regiment. My surprise was great, however, 
 when, two days after the funeral, some children came to ask 
 for something for " poor old Judy." " Why," said I, " she 
 cannot eat anything now." " Oh, but we can," was the ready 
 reply ; " we's her grandchildren, and she sot store by us, and 
 'pears like she'd be glad to know we was eating it." I did 
 
THE FREED WOMAN. 13 
 
 not agree with them, and sent them away empty-handed, and 
 disappointment would probably have darkened their counte- 
 nances if it had been possible for the greasy, shining little faces 
 to be any blacker. 
 
 The excitement of a baptism was perhaps even greater 
 than that of a funeral. We had a colored church on either 
 side of us, both holding the fundamental doctrine that it is 
 sinful to steal from the members of one's own congregation, but 
 differing in ritual. The minister of the church above us 
 preached in a black coat ; the one below us fancied a white 
 surplice, and had more of wordly wisdom than falls to the lot 
 of most persons.. Whenever there was to be a baptism, 
 Kachel, the house-maid, would come and ask for whatever 
 wages were owing her, as she said the plate was always handed 
 round at a baptism, and the minister said they must '' frow 
 in" handsome to pay his expenses to New Orleans to have 
 the baptism registered I These negroes could have set an ex- 
 ample of liberality to many a small white congregation. They 
 paid their ministers a salary of nine hundred dollars per an- 
 num, beside " frowing in" whenever the plate was passed, 
 and when he proposed to put up a new church building, they 
 contributed so liberally that said minister was able to run off 
 to Europe with five thousand dollars in his pocket belonging 
 to his congregation. 
 
 It was towards building this new church that my cousin 
 Anna, who was spending the winter with me, sent a gift of 
 ten dollars, by PrisciUa, requesting her merely to say that it 
 came from a lady from the North. At the close of the usual 
 service the preacher said, " And now, brethren, let us pray 
 for that angel from the North who sent us the ten dollars." 
 And then, as PrisciUa reported, " there was such groaning, 
 such groaning," and for a long time we teased Anna about 
 the groans she had wrung from the freedmen. This groan- 
 ing is their way of joining in the services, or of expressing 
 their approval of the sentiments uttered, etc. 
 
 The congregation above us, on the river, was also filled with 
 ' zeal and emulation, and undertook to build a frame church. 
 When it was nearly finished it burnt down one night, and, 
 as the fire was evidently the work of an incendiary, it was 
 generally reported that the minister of the lower parish had 
 tried bv this means to rid himself of a rival. 
 "'■ 2* 
 
14 PRISCILLA BAKER, 
 
 But to return to the baptisms. .One day Priscilla said to 
 me, " Miss Julia, you should go down to the river to-morrow 
 to see the baptism. Henry Williams is to be baptized, and 
 he's mighty strong ; he'll fight hard : it'll take leastways three 
 men to hold him. There'll be such groaning, such groaning ; 
 there hasn't been such groaning since Miss Anna gave them 
 ten dollars." 
 
 Henry was the strongest man on the plantation, and could 
 lift a barrel of flour (two hundred pounds) and carry^ it on 
 his shoulder with as much ease as most men would shoulder 
 a gun. He did fight hard. Though four men tried to hold 
 him he pulled the minister down under the water (they were 
 standing in the Mississippi), and held him there so long as 
 nearly to prevent him from ever oflficiating again at a baptism. 
 
 These struggles are supposed to represent the efibrts of the 
 devil to retain the soul which is about to escape from him by 
 baptism, and to prevent the ceremony, and the groans of the 
 bystanders are thought to be a powerful aid to the good cause. 
 The candidates for baptism are clad in white, — ^the man in 
 white trousers and smock, the women in flowing gowns. The 
 negroes are all Baptists, in so. far as they always baptize by 
 immersion, and only adults. They enjoy the excitement ac- 
 companying this ceremony so much that the strong men and 
 even women, who fight well, have been known to be baptized 
 on three or four different occasions, the devil apparently 
 highly- valuing bodily strength and seizing the athletes again 
 and again. 
 
 One day Priscilla said to me, " Miss Julia, you are going 
 to have a surprise to-morrow." And a surprise it was. I 
 was awakened the next morning by a clear, merry voice sing- 
 ing Lord Lovell and divers plantation songs directly under 
 my window. I hastened to dress myself, and opened my win- 
 dow. Jim Black was singing his best songs for me and look- 
 ing as smiling as he always did. Jim was a curiosity. He' 
 earned good wages, but was not willing to waste any part of 
 them on clothes, as he had been used to having them fur- 
 nished by his master. He gave a portion of his earnings to 
 his short, dumpy wife, and she and her six round-faced chil- 
 dren looked quite respectable, but Jim's garments were a 
 marvel of skill and industry in patching. They were nothinw 
 but patches ; patches of every shape and hue were there' 
 
THE FREED WOMAN. 15 
 
 but not a piece to show what the original material could have 
 been. Jim felt easy and comfortable in them, as he said 
 "nothing could hurt them clothes;" and if there should have 
 been a rent, the supply of patches and patience was evidently 
 inexhaustible. A weak point in Jim's character was his dis- 
 inclination to cut wood for his own use. He did not object to 
 cutting wood when he was paid a dollar a cord for cutting, 
 but to cut wood for his wife to burn seemed to him a waste 
 of energy, so he preferred to steal the wood piled up for the 
 sugar-house. The negroes were allowed to cut as much wood 
 as they wanted for their own use, and to use the plantation 
 teams to haul it to their own doors, but many of them pre- 
 ferred to take their supplies from our wood-pile. 
 
 One night as my husband was returning from a neighbor's 
 he saw Jim Black take a large log from the wood-pile and 
 carry it to his cabin. He did not say anything to hira then, 
 but the next day, while the negroes were sitting together dur- 
 ing the hour of rest, my husband said to them, " Boys, I 
 saw a spirit last night." The excitement was tremendous. 
 The negroes all believe in spirits and often profess to have 
 met one, but never to have seen one. The spirit blows on 
 them in passing and fills them with horror, but here was some 
 one who had seen a spirit. With one voice they asked what 
 it looked like. " Like Jim Black, and it had a big log of 
 wood on its shoulder," was the reply, which elicited shouts 
 of laughter from the crowd. Negroes are keenly alive to a 
 joke, and, Spartan-like, they think theft is only disgraceful if 
 it is found out. Jim, being taken on a second occasion for a 
 spirit, was ridiculed so unmercifully by his fellow-laborers that 
 he could not stand it. To our regret he left the plantation 
 with his wife and children, sinking thus from the rank of 
 " one of the old families" to " a hireling." 
 
 It was some time before I understood the full meaning of 
 " a hireling." My washerwoman being ill, I told Priscilla 
 
 (who did the errands) to go over to Major C 's and see if 
 
 Frances would come over for a week to wash and iron. " Oh," 
 said Priscilla, " Miss Julia, don't get her: she is only a hire- 
 ling." " Well," said I, " so are you." " Oh," said Priscilla, 
 bridling up and putting on an air of severe dignity, " we are 
 all good old famUies." Then I found that, though the Civil 
 Bights' BUI was passed because the Constitution says " all 
 
16 PRISCILLA BAKER, 
 
 men are equal," the negroes ha;d already formed an aristocracy 
 of their own. Those who remained on the plantations where 
 they had worked as slaves were called " old families," and 
 those who had sought work on other plantations were called 
 hirelings, and looked down upon by the others. 
 
 Priscilla'-s love of talking secured for me a good deal of 
 information. One day she came up to sell some eggs, and 
 said, " We are soon going to have a wedding : Albert Lock- 
 ett is going to get married." Albert was the second engineer 
 at the sugar-house, and, getting high wages, was considered 
 un hon parti. " Poor fellow I" said I, " he was married 
 only a month ago ; is his wife (a young girl of sixteen) dead 
 already ?" " Oh, no," said Priscilla ; " he did not get married 
 then ; he took Lizzie to his cabin for a week and tried her, and 
 he did not like her, so he sent her home to her father. They 
 mostways takes them home for a week on trial ; but this time 
 he is going to get married sure." The wedding took place: 
 a great deal had been expected, as Albert was considered a 
 rich man, but it was very tame compared with what they used 
 to be in slave-times. Then the mistress furnished the re- 
 freshments, the music, and the wedding-dress. All the " black 
 ones" far and near were invited, and as Saturday night was 
 always selected for the festivity, they danced " till broad day- 
 light." The bride opened the ball in a low-necked white dress, 
 with a wreath of orange-blossoms on her woolly head. Now 
 every housekeeper objects to wasting her own stores of flour, 
 sugar, eggs, etc., in entertaining her friends. The utmost 
 stretch of hospitality now is a quilting, where, as Priscilla says, 
 " they must earn their supper ; not one bite do they get till 
 the quilt is finished and put away." So the number of in- 
 vitations is limited to that of those who can get round the 
 one or two quilting-frames, as the case may be. 
 
 As my washerwoman died, and Frances was not considered 
 worthy of a place in my household, I engaged Lucy, one of 
 
 the " old families" on Major C 's plantation. He was our 
 
 next neighbor, so Lucy continued to occupy her own cabin 
 there and (though getting her supplies from us) went home 
 to eat. All the negroes raise their own chickens, geese, and 
 eggs, but Lucy's appetite for the latter article seemed to be 
 unlimited. If any of my hens stole her nest anywhere, in- 
 stead of laying, as in duty bound, in the hen-house (where the 
 
THE FREED WOMAN. 17 
 
 nests looked so inviting, each being whitewashed, filled with 
 clean straw, and adorned with a china egg), the nest was robbed 
 daily. Two hens had from time immemorial quarrelled about 
 a self-made nest behind the wash-house door, and a third had 
 lately put in her claim ; but, though there was a tremendous 
 cackling, like a shout of victory, three times a day, not even a 
 nest-egg was ever to be found. It seemed certain that Lucy 
 must have fried eggs every day with her bacon, but when I 
 dropped a gentle hint as to my own fondness for new-laid 
 eggs, Lucy's look of injured innocence placed her above 
 suspicion. 
 
 One day Priscilla came in breathless, and said, with a very 
 solemn face, " Miss Julia, I am thankful I never made a 
 practice of stealing." " I certainly am," was my reply; "but 
 what has happened?" "Oh," said she, " Aunt Lucy's sins 
 have found her out," and then she stopped, sighed, and looked 
 more solemn than ever. Pretty soon she recovered so far as 
 
 to relate that our gardener, who also lived on Major C 's 
 
 plantation, had, on coming to his work early in the morning, 
 found old Lucy lying stiif and cold in the path. She was 
 dead. A nearly empty whiskey-bottle clasped in her stiff hand 
 showed plainly what had been the cause of her fall and her 
 inability to rise again ; but what seemed to Priscilla the climax 
 of iniquity was that in a gigantic pocket on each side, under 
 her dress, was one of my hens with her head wrung off. 
 " Yes, Miss Julia, as sure as I'm a-standing here, there was 
 old speckle in one pocket and topknot in the other, and the 
 black hen ain't nowheres ; I 'xpect she put her in the pot yes- 
 terday. "But where did she get the whiskey?" said I. "Oh," 
 said Priscilla, "those peddler-carts are bad things; one blew 
 his horn yesterday while Lucy was washing, and she said she 
 must have some blueing. I reckon she bought the whiskey 
 then." 
 
 Priscilla could speak from experience of the temptations 
 of peddler's carts. At any time if I was giving her an order 
 when the horn blew she would say, " Please, Miss Julia, 
 let me run down : I want to get a spool of cotton." As 
 Priscilla did not make much use of her needle, it seemed 
 strange that she should need so much thread, but I found 
 out accidentally that the peddler charged enough for his' 
 thread to allow him to throw in a drink of whiskey, and when 
 
18 PRISCILLA BAKERi 
 
 Priscilla returned with the thread her eyes always looked aa 
 if she had been swallowing something very strong. 
 
 It was old Luey who, finding that Cousin Anna, like 
 most Northerners, would take a good deal on trust, tried 
 to make her believe that her old mistress had had thirty- 
 seven children. " Oh," said Anna, apologetically, " are you 
 sure ? That seems a great many." " As sure as I'm a living 
 woman," replied Lucy, " old missus had thirty-seven children ; 
 and if you don't believe me I can tell you their names." " Oh, 
 do !" said Anna ; " I should like to hear them." So Lucy 
 began : " There was Master Tom, he died during the war ; 
 and then there was Master John, he has the plantation now ; 
 and then came Master David, he is a lawyer and lives in New 
 Orleans ; and Master Harry, he took the fever and died ; and 
 Miss Lizzie, she is married and lives in Plaquemine ; and Miss 
 Mary, she lives along with her, and that's all." " But that 
 only makes six," said Anna. " Well," replied Lucy, un- 
 abashed, " those are all the names I can remember just now, 
 but there were thirty-seven." 
 
 One day Priscilla informed me that John Bryan was at the 
 steps and wished to speak to me. I went out on the veranda, 
 and saw John, a picture of misery, holding at arm's length 
 by the back of the neck a kitten that was spitting and 
 scratching like a little fury. " I have brought a, pet for little 
 missy," said John, glancing sideways at the little tiger. I 
 wished to release the poor little animal from its uncomforta- 
 ble position, but John screamed in terror, " Don't touch it, 
 Miss Julia ! don't touch it ! it'll scratch you to death ; it's 
 one of them wild ones from the sugar-house." I did take it, 
 and, to John's surprise, as soon as it felt the touch of a loving 
 hand it curled itself up and began to purr. 
 
 John was our carpenter and a good workman, and his 
 wife, Cora, was a notable, stirring woman, but they had 
 trouble in their family. Their oldest son, a lad of twenty, 
 was so worthless that we could not allow him to stay on 
 the plantation. Indeed, all those who grew up during the 
 war or since are, to say the least, idle and ignorant. There 
 is no one now to teach them to work. With slavery the 
 quarter-gangs and the half-gangs have passed away. In the 
 former a stout boy was made to do the quarter of the work 
 of a grown hand, and as he grew older and stronger he was 
 
THE FREEDWOMAN. 19 
 
 put into the half-gang, where he was expected to do one-half 
 of a man's work, and it was to the owner's interest to have 
 them taught to do it well. Unfortunately, no philanthropist 
 has yet been found able and willing to teach the freedmen, 
 or rather the freed boys, to work. Plenty are ready to teach 
 them to read and write ; but, as John said while complaining 
 of his sons, " in the schools they only learn devilment," by 
 which he meant that they learned to look down on their pa- 
 rents, who do not know how to read and write. In Ger- 
 many they have industrial schools and agricultural schools, 
 where boys can, between the morning and afternoon sessions 
 (and after the latter) of the public schools, which they are 
 obliged by law to attend, earn two or three cents a day, and 
 where they are taught to work, and kept out of mischief. 
 The freedmen cannot get over their former contempt of " a 
 poor white man," so that the ordinary school-teachers exer- 
 cise but little moral influence over them. A remark made 
 by the freed coachman of Et. Eev. Alex. Grregg, bishop of 
 Texas, describes their feeling on this subject so accurately 
 that I cannot refrain from quoting it here. He was saying 
 something about " master," when a Northern man, who over- 
 heard him, said, "Why do you call him master? You are 
 as good as he is, now that you are free." " That's a lie," 
 retorted the freedman ; " I am as good as you any day, and 
 better ; I was that before I was free ; but I ain't good 
 enough to black master's boots." 
 
 The negroes have not the patience to teach their children 
 to work, and when they undertake to correct them they do it 
 without measure or mercy. One day I wanted Elijah, a boy 
 whose duty it was to drive up the calves morning and even- 
 ing at milking-time. Priscilla spoke up : "I just now see'd 
 him going down to the river, and I 'xpeot he's going to get 
 a whipping, for I see'd his mother going after him with a big 
 long pole." Yes, they are too apt to take a long pole to pun- 
 ish their children. 
 
 Any man who would open a model farm without any idea of 
 making money, and employ the half-grown hands and teach them 
 to work, would be a real benefactor to the community at large. 
 
 Priscilla and her husband Phil had their troubles also with 
 their children. Phil Madison was our cooper. He made all 
 our sugar-hogsheads and molasses-barrels, and made them 
 
20 PRISCILLA BAKER, 
 
 well, but the oldest son (a Baker) was idle, and Phil's oldest 
 boy, Ambrose, a lad of eighteen, had the misfortune to shoot 
 himself through the hand while playing with a gun, and died 
 of lockjaw, spite of medical skill and good nursing. This de- 
 stroyed Priscilla's faith in doctors, but it enabled her to date 
 back all her troubles and bodily ailments to the time of the 
 accident. She even went so far as to say to me once, " Before 
 my poor boy, Ambrose, was took I could run and jump and 
 dance with the youngest." And she remained firm in that 
 belief. Soon after Ambrose's death Priscilla was seized with 
 inflammation of the stomach, but obstinately refused to send 
 for a doctor, " as they had done Ambrose no good." My 
 mother, who was on a visit to me, and who had the knowl7 
 edge of medicine which all slave-owners acquired sooner or 
 later, gave her medicine, and as Priscilla recovered, the negroes 
 declared she was more skilful than the doctors. When she 
 was recovering, mamma made her some arrowroot jelly as 
 soon as she thought it prudent for her to eat, and taking it 
 to her she found Priscilla eating fried bacon, into the gravy 
 of which she was dipping cold corn bread I Upon mamma's 
 remonstrating with her upon such imprudence, she quietly 
 replied, " I have no appetite, so I told Norry to fry me a slice 
 of bacon !" 
 
 Norry, or Noah, was Priscilla's youngest child, and though 
 too much inclined to play truant from school, was very useful 
 to his mother at home. Priscilla informed me once that her 
 feelings had been hurt by some one asking her why she had 
 named her child after old Noah, the blacksmith. " I told 
 him," said she, " that I did not name my boy after the black- 
 smith, but after the man who made the world." Priscilla 
 was a burning and a shining light in the colored church, 
 groaning dismally whenever this mark of sympathy was ex- 
 pected from the congregation, and it was Sister 'Cilia here 
 and Sister 'Cilia there, but she possessed a very small amount 
 of biblical knowledge. The negroes have adopted the Meth- 
 odist custom of calling each other (the professors of religion) 
 brother and sister. I am sorry to say that Priscilla was not 
 quite as regular in her attendance at church as she might 
 have been. One Saturday she informed me that she could not 
 come up the next morning, as she must go to church. When 
 she came in the afternoon, I asked her if she had heard a good 
 
THE FREEDWOMAN. 21 
 
 sermon. " Oh," said she, " I did not go to church, but I 
 combed my head, and that was just as good." A good comb- 
 ing of their woolly heads is a lengthy operation, as it can only 
 be performed by putting a little cotton on the hair and then 
 carding it with a very fine carding-comb. They always pro- 
 fess to feel much refreshed bodily and mentally by the pro- 
 ceeding. 
 
 The negroes' selections of names for their children are 
 often very amusing. The maid of a friend of mine had twin 
 girls. They were her first-born, and no names seemed fine 
 enough to the young mother, until a wag suggested Constan- 
 tinople and Constitutional. These names were thankfully 
 accepted, but, being found too grand for every-day use, were 
 finally shortened to Con and Tit. On our own place, Eachel 
 Baker had one son named "John Bascomb," partly, as the 
 parents said, for the celebrated preacher, and partly for the 
 celebrated race-horse of the same name ; and the name being 
 always given him in full, he finally dropped the Baker en- 
 tirely and took Bascomb as his family name. 
 
 Naming a child for a race-horse was, at least, more dis- 
 interested than the choice made by Josephine Taylor, a lazy, 
 pockmarked woman on our plantation. Priscilla said to me 
 one day, " Miss Julia, have you heard what a lovely name 
 Josephine has given her- baby ?" Upon my acknowledging 
 my ignorance, I was informed that the baby was the happy 
 possessor of my own name in full, followed by my mother's 
 name in full, including both family names. The mother 
 doubtless expected a handsome present from each of us, but 
 she was disappointed, as, had she received it, the whole rising 
 population would have been sporting our joint names. Being 
 obliged, however, to show some interest in the matter, I sug- 
 gested that Josephine should come up to " the house" and 
 get a few pounds of sugar. " Oh, Miss Julia," said Priscilla, 
 reproachfully, " that's just impossible ! She is a decent 
 woman, and her month is not up." The baby was twenty- 
 five days old and the weather perfect, but the negroes con- 
 sider it unladylike to leave their cabins under a full month. 
 
 Humphrey Taylor, Josephine's husband, was an unhappy- 
 looking man, very tall, thin, and loose-jointed, and his spirits 
 had never recovered from a punishment inflicted on him 
 during the war. He had stolen a barrel of flour from some 
 
22 PRISCJLLA BAKER, 
 
 Northern soldiers. They caught him in the act, and devised 
 a new punishment for his benefit. They" tied his arms down 
 by his-sides, and cutting in an empty flour-barrel a hole just 
 big^enough for his head to go through, they put it on him 
 like a coat of mail and set him on his feet in the cellar, where 
 they kept him twenty-four hours without food. This treat- 
 ment broke Humphrey's spirits completely, and he was never 
 known to smile, and did his work ever after in a joyless, life- 
 less manner. 
 
 Priscilla came one Saturday to take leave of me, as she 
 was going to spend a day with a friend near Donaldsonville. 
 As she had a puffy carpet-bag in her hand, I said, looking at 
 it, " I am afraid you are prepared to spend more than a day." 
 " Oh, no. Miss Julia," replied she ; " I've only took a change 
 of linen ; I can't go without that." She took out the change 
 of linen to attest the truth of her words, and it proved to 
 be a new green calico dress, with a red and yellow head- 
 handkerchief. She did not, however, keep her word to 
 return on Monday. She had missed the boat, and, as she 
 said, " When I found the boat was gone I was all to pieces." 
 
 Priscilla was really of very little use anywhere, but she 
 considered her presence as indispensable to the well-being of 
 the plantation, and consequently was very grateful to mamma 
 fpr having, as she said, saved her life. One day, with her 
 characteristic modesty, she went so far as to say, " It is a good 
 thing old mistress saved my life in that spell, or you wouldn't 
 have any one to bring you up sugar-cane !" 
 
 It was in bringing up sugar-cane for us to eat that Priscilla 
 displayed her activity, after the sugar-making began. I went 
 into one of the cane-fields to see the cane-cutters cut the cane. 
 It was really a pretty sight. Armed with the cane-knives 
 (hatchets they should rather be called), the row of cutters 
 went on in a steady tramp, keeping time and step, and cutting 
 the triple and quadruple stalks of cane with a single blow, 
 making a clean cut which would do honor to a skilful sur- 
 geon. 
 
 On coming back, I met several little negroes with their 
 arms full of stalks of sugar-cane. Young and old steal the 
 cane to such an extent that it is a wonder any remains to be 
 made into sugar. In slave-times it was given to them freely, 
 and the negroes cannot understand that now, when the men 
 
THE FREED WOMAN. 23 
 
 get in grinding-time forty and fifty dollars a month, besides 
 board and lodging, they should not still have armfuls of cane 
 and buckets of syrup and large dishes full of the hot, still 
 soft, crystallized sugar. 
 
 I was much surprised on getting near the house to meet 
 
 Elijah, who was shouting at the top of his voice, " Mrs. H 
 
 has come ! Mrs. H has come !" The only person I knew 
 
 who had a right to that name was my mother, and she was 
 at my side. My perplexity was at an end when I saw standing 
 under one of our tall camellia-bushes my good old nurse Maria. 
 She had been head-nurse at mamma's, and particularly devoted 
 to me. She came to meet me, saying, " Miss Julia, I have 
 come to spend the winter with you. I want to see sugar- 
 making, and I want to eat plenty of oranges and sugar-cane." 
 
 Her trunk was by her, duly marked " Mrs. H , passenger 
 
 on steamer ;" and as, knowing the importance of first 
 
 impressions, she had given Moses a quarter for bringing up 
 her trunk, and Elijah some apples (a rarity with us) for carry- 
 ing her bag, she was considered by our negroes to be fully 
 
 entitled to the name of Mrs. H . When visiting in the 
 
 " quarters" she was always introduced by that name. I was 
 very glad to see Maria, and gave her a good room over the 
 kitchen, and will merely mention here that she enjoyed her 
 three months' visit to me so much that the next winter she 
 wrote to me to please to send her money to pay her fare down 
 the river, as she wished to pay me a second visit. I did so, 
 and found out that she spent the winter with me whenever 
 she had a serious quarrel with her husband, whom she had 
 married since the-war. She usually kept him in order by 
 recalling to him her past grandeur. Having belonged to the 
 governor of the State, she felt so much above her spouse that, 
 though she had condescended to marry him, she would neither 
 take his name nor allow him to take hers, which he had offered 
 to do. 
 
 Our French coachman, Baptiste, enjoyed Maria very much, 
 and learned from her all the English he ever acquired. Baptiste 
 had, for a European, a most unusual aversion to negroes, but 
 as this particular one had had the honor of holding " Madame" 
 in her arms, he was willing to treat her as an equal. The two 
 would sit in the evening before the fire in the servants' hall, 
 with their feet on the warm hearth, while Maria smoked her 
 
24 PRISCILLA BAKER, 
 
 short pipe (most negro women smoke after they reach a cer- 
 tain age) and expatiated on the glories of the past. Her loud 
 laugh at Baptiste's broken English could often be heard in 
 the drawing-room. 
 
 Maria was never tired of admiring my little girl, who she 
 said was " real quality," as she very early showed her love for 
 everything that was beautiful and refined. And her wonder 
 knew no bounds when she met a negro belonging formerly to 
 one of the old French Creole families and speaking only French, 
 — a French patois, I should say, and I found it hard to under- 
 stand them myself. As a slight specimen of. their jargon^ 
 will merely state that they call smoke la boccane, and Smoky 
 Bayou is Bayou la Boccane. An Irish tramp can often not 
 even make these French negroes understand where he wanta 
 to go. But, if they speak bad French, they cook well, and are 
 faithful and reliable, being known formerly for their devoted 
 attachment to their masters. 
 
 Maria had but one child. Two of her children had been, 
 burnt up before I made my appearance on this world's stage. 
 She had put them to bed and then gone to a camp-meeting, 
 taking the key of the door of her cabin with her. Nothing 
 was ever known, but it was supposed that the oldest one must 
 have got out of bed to poke the fire ; at any rate, the housjD was 
 discovered to be on fire and the door locked. Before it-could 
 be burst open the children were dead. Jack, the 'only re- 
 maining child, whom she had taken with her to the camp- 
 meeting (being a baby in the arms), was also the ofisprinsj of 
 her first husband, who, as Maria always said, when trying to 
 account for Jack's deficiencies, had been " a Gruinea niggeir." 
 The father could certainly not have possessed much menital 
 activity, for any one who knew Jack might be pardoned for 
 believing with Darwin that man had developed out of a monkey. 
 
 Jack could cut wood, as he was not deficient in physical 
 strength, but it was all he could do. My mother, who had 
 quite a talent for training servants and for £eaching them to 
 think, had taken great pains with him, but all efi'orts to teach 
 him anything whatsoever in his childhood had been unsuc- 
 cessful. Housework being evidently above Jack's mental 
 capacity, he was sent into the field. A good-natured overseer 
 tried for a year to teach him to plough, but gave it up at last 
 as a bad job, so that when Jack was raised to the dignity of 
 
TEE FREEDWOMAN. 25 
 
 a freedman and a voter, he found it hard to earn money 
 enough to put bread down the throat of that independent 
 voter. His mother insisted upon what he did earn being paid 
 to her, so that she might take care of it for him, but credit 
 was to be had and Jack was of age. His fellow-frecdmen, 
 and especially his fellow-freedwomen, imposed upon him, and 
 often asked him to get them things out of the store. Jack 
 always consented, as no one had ever been able to make him 
 understand that things bought on a credit must be paid for 
 some time. 
 
 The quantity of fine ladies' Congress boots which were put 
 down to Jack's account would have amazed any one who did 
 not know that at the camp-meetings the most of the black 
 ladies were shod at Jack's expense. The consequence was 
 that when the bills were presented there was a decided re- 
 fusal to pay, and generally a fight. So Jack spent half of 
 his time in prison or working as a prisoner on the roads. 
 
 I paid daily visits to the sugar-house ; all was now bustle 
 and activity, though it was hard to get hands enough for the 
 extra work. So many of the blacks throughout the land 
 (one-third of the whole number it had been computed) had 
 died during the first year of freedom, before wages had 
 reached their present exorbitant rates, that most of the 
 planters had to supplement with white laborers. These were 
 generally Irish tramps, who knew nothing about work beyond 
 ditching or grading for railroads. As one of them remarked 
 once, when told to cut down some trees, " If they would 
 only le't us spade them up ; we are divils of a hand at a 
 spade." But there was no spading to be done in the sugar- 
 house. The tramps generally came half starved, and by the 
 time they had got fed up into good condition they were often 
 too lazy for the night-watching, and had to be dismissed.' 
 
 We had even more trouble than the other planters to get 
 the requisite number of hands. Some of those who had 
 been working for us all the year had been tempted ofi' by 
 the'oifer of higher wages for a few weeks. My husband 
 then saw the merits of the system of hack wages. Disliking 
 the credit system, and being unused to freedmen, he had paid 
 the hands their full wages at the end of each month, and so 
 had no hold on them. The other planters paid only half of 
 the month's wages at the end of each month, and kept back 
 
 3* 
 
26 PRISCILLA BAKER, 
 
 the other half to be paid at the end of the year, hence the 
 name of back wages. The contracts being made for the year, 
 if a man left before the end of the year he forfeited these 
 back wages. It was, moreover, a great advantage to the im- 
 provident freedmen to have their masters thus act as a sav- 
 ings bank for them, and hand them the sum of one hundred 
 and forty dollars (and more, sometimes) in a lump at the 
 end of the year. Our hands had been very glad to get their 
 full wages at the end of each month, and had spent the 
 whole. It was only towards the close of the year that they 
 seemed to realize that no money was awaiting them, and then 
 they felt injured.- 
 
 Nic Baker, one of our best men, had always insisted upon 
 having half of his wages kept back. One day he asked my 
 husband if he would not advance him money to buy a fine 
 cow. " Oh, yes," replied he ; " and I will take it out of your 
 back wages." " Oh, no, Master Eddie," said Nic ; " please to 
 stop it a little at a time, out of my /rorai wages" (what he re- 
 ceived each month). " I want to get a big pile at Christmas, 
 and, maybe, get me a little place." These cows of the ne- 
 groes were a great trouble to us, as they always put them 
 into our pastures, and in the winter fed them on our corn. 
 They usually bought cows which were sold for some fault, 
 such as fence-jumping, hooking, etc. Poor Nic did not live 
 to realize his little dream. He died after a very short illness, 
 and was sincerely regretted by us. He had been a faithful 
 servant. 
 
 His wife had always been as lazy as he was industrious. 
 " The young widow," as Priscilla always called her, gave us 
 a great deal of trouble. She would^make no attempt to earn 
 a reputable living for herself and child, not even taking in 
 the washing and ironing and coarse sewing which were offered 
 to her, and obstinately refusing to give up the cabin to the 
 man who was hired in Nic's place and who needed it for his 
 family. 
 
 It was about this time that three of our young friends came 
 to spend a few days with us. According to Creole fashion 
 strong coffee was always carried up early in the morninc to 
 our visitors to drink in bed. The first morning after their 
 arrival Priscilla, who dearly loved to have a finger in every- 
 body's pie, took advantage" of a moment when Moses (our 
 
THE FREED woman: 27 
 
 dining-room servant) was looking for the sugar-tongs to 
 snatch up the tray, and rushing up to the middle one of the 
 three communicating guest chambers, called out loudly, " Gen- 
 tlemen, here is your coffee ; get up and drink it." Cousin 
 Dick cried out, " Go away ; we do not care about coffee." 
 " But you mwsi drink it," replied the inexorable Priscilla. 
 " You can go back to bed again if you clfoose, but you must 
 get up and drink it: it's the rule of the house." This last 
 statement Priscilla considered a knock-down argument, and 
 she generally extemporized a rule for anything she wanted 
 done. To the freedmen she was very fond of saying, " Look 
 here, niggers. Miss Julia has done forgot more than you'll 
 ever know," and this she considered as a high compliment 
 paid to what I was still supposed to know as well as to my 
 shrewdness. 
 
 At this time we received another visit which gave universal 
 pleasure. During my visit to the North in the summer my 
 good aunt had given my baby a pet donkey. For it we had 
 bought a pretty little phaeton, leaving donkey and phaeton 
 to be sent round by sea. In due time we received advice from 
 New Orleans that they had arrived and would be sent up the 
 river on the steamer " Swallow," and landed at such a time. 
 The triple Vhistle being heard at the appointed time, Baptiste 
 went down to receive Vane de mademoiselle, and we fol- 
 lowed. What was my surprise on reaching the park gate 
 to see jump off the landing-plank, ahead of its mother, the 
 shaggiest of baby donkeys? It seemed, Venus-like, to have 
 sprung out of the foam of the sea. Its joy at finding a free 
 space to move in was unbounded, and it galloped up and down 
 the levee with perfect confidence, although it had no knowledge 
 of anything but the close box on the ocean steamer, and a stall 
 equally contracted on the " Swallow." The mother came on 
 with slow and measured steps, but was evidently very proud 
 of the addition to her bill of lading. 
 
 I paid daily visits to the sugar-house. Jim Black was 
 stoker, and the bright firelight shone on his merry face, as 
 he pushed one big log after another into the furnace to the 
 tune of " Did you ever see a sheep shell corn by the rattle of 
 his horn ?" or else, " Who's been here since I've been gone ? 
 a great big nigger with a foot like a shovel," and other planta- 
 tion songs. Children are busy carrying sugar-cane to the 
 
28 PRISCILLA BAKER, 
 
 feeding-gang, and these put armful after armful of cane into 
 the slide which takes the cane to the steam-engine, whose 
 work it is to crush the cane to get out the juice, and who, 
 like an insatiable giant, keeps crying ever, " more, more." 
 When it has stripped the stalks of their juice it throws them 
 out as hagasse into another slide. The little sulphur machine 
 keeps whizzing awty as if it felt quite as large as its big 
 neighbor. The huge kettles are boiling and bubbling, and 
 ever and anon the men are dipping with long-handled buckets 
 the boiling juice from one kettle into another, as the cane- 
 juice has to be boiled in four different kettles before it comes 
 into the still larger one, where it is finally boiled down to the 
 consistency requisite for crystallizing. 
 
 From this kettle it is taken, in very thick, tight, square, 
 low wooden boxes or wagons, along the little railroad, which 
 runs between the two rows of coolers, into- which the syrup 
 is poured and allowed to stand till crystallized. It was my 
 delight to take out spoonfuls of the still warm sugar when it 
 was about the consistency of butter and eat it as one does 
 candy. 
 
 One evening during the grinding season I invited some 
 friends to a small evening party. Having occasion to go into 
 my bedroom during the evening, I was surprised to find it 
 quite denuded of chairs. Wishing to investigate this matter 
 I stepped out on to the veranda, and saw through the open 
 kitchen door a gathering of woolly heads. On a double row 
 of chairs round the kitchen sat as many freed men and women 
 as there were chairs. Seeing Priscilla bustling round with 
 an air of great importance, I called her up and asked the 
 meaning of this gathering (with which, however, I had been 
 familiar in my childhood in slave-times). " La ! Miss Julia," 
 was her reply, " we have to keep up the credit of the family, 
 
 and show them hirelings at Major C 's that there's flour 
 
 and sugar in the pantry, and that you and Master Eddie 
 ain't no carpet-baggers." " That's very well," said I, some- 
 what mollified, " but I think it would have been as well to 
 have asked only one or two." " So we did," replied Priscilla, 
 cheerfully : " we agreed each should ask two friends, but 
 Moses said he could not ask the gentlemen without their 
 ladies, and where we invited ladies the gentlemen came with- 
 out being asked, and Aunt Rachel's two friends is mighty old, 
 
THE FREEDWOMAN. 29 
 
 and they've done brought all their grandchildren ! They're 
 that fond of cake, Miss Julia, and there isn't much going now- 
 adays. We'll want lots of cakes and preserves and good 
 things. Miss Julia," added Priscilla, in a confidential whisper. 
 There was no resisting such childlike trust in my liberality, 
 and they did get " lots of cakes and preserves and good 
 things." 
 
 All things must have an end, and so had poor Priscilla's 
 blameless life. She was seized a second time by her old 
 enemy, inflammation of the bowels, and grieved much for my 
 mother, who had brought her so successfully through the 
 first, and who had then left me. " If I could handle my feet 
 as old mistress does hers," said Priscilla, " I'd start to-morrow 
 and go and fetch her." One day her next neighbor, Grace 
 Bailey, came for me, saying Priscilla was took mighty bad and 
 wanted to see me. 
 
 I went immediately to Priscilla's cabin. As soon as she 
 saw me she said, in a broken voice, " Miss Julia, I'm a going 
 to glory. I'll see you in heaven. We'll all sit at one table 
 there. We'll all he washed white in the blood of the Lamb. 
 I don't reckon we'll right off get as white as the white folks, 
 but there won't be no black ones in heaven. The Bible says 
 we'll be like the angels in heaven, and no one ever did hear 
 of a black angel. Little missy, she'll know me right off, and 
 she'll say, ' Piano, come and hold my harp.' " (My little girl 
 called her Pina, but Priscilla had always insisted upon it that 
 she called her Piano, and considered it as a great compliment.) 
 " Little missy's real quality, and don't know nothing about 
 waiting on herself. My name is Priscilla, but little missy 
 calls me Piano, but my real name is C^cile. The angel will 
 say ' C6oile, here's a gold footstool for you, you've been a 
 good and faithful servant; you've loved the white folks.' We 
 black ones won't get no gold harps, we'll only get gold foot- 
 stools, and we'll sit on them, with palms in our hands, and 
 we'll sing the song of the new Jerusalem, ' Glory to the Lamb ;' 
 and I 'xpect it will be an easy tune, and we black ones will 
 hollow louder than the white folks with their gold harps." 
 She fell back exhausted, and for a while we thought her 
 trustful spirit had already winged its flight to the mansions 
 of the blessed ; but after a while she opened her eyes again, 
 and said, " Meet me in glory," and all was over. 
 
11. 
 THE DOUBLE WEDDING AT DUNDERVIKSBORG. 
 
 BY PROFESSOR KARL EDWARD ZEDRITZ. 
 
 TRANSLATED PROM THE SWEDISH 
 BY MES. FEANCES C. HENDBESON. 
 
 Bt a little bay in a Swedish inland sea — which one is no 
 concern of the reader's, as I do not intend to describe the 
 locality — lay, and still lies, a fine estate, belonging to Major von 
 Bomben. The building is of stone, two stories high, with two 
 upper or garret rooms, side by side, on either side, forming, so 
 to speak, a kind of third story or frontispiece. The windows 
 of one pair looked out on a large court-yard, in which were 
 several small buildings. The outlook from the other pair of 
 rooms was on an orchard, which, with the adjoining park, had 
 a view of the lake. From one side of the dwelling you could 
 hear at a little distance the busy hum of the mill-wheel. 
 From the other side you could see, not hear, the busy work 
 at a brickyard. In the garret rooms on the orchard side 
 lived the major, on the other side Herr von Rindstadter. 
 
 Herr von Rindstadter was the major's cousin. He had 
 from his childhood been nearly inseparable from the major, 
 and went to live with him as soon as he inherited the es- 
 tate. Rindstadter had lived with the major already before 
 his marriage. The major had taken very tender care of his 
 cousin, whose mental gifts were very small. Indeed, bad 
 tongues had said occasionally that Cousin John, as Rind- 
 stadter was usually called, was not quite right in his mind, 
 which was not true. At any rate, Rindstadter lived with 
 
 31 
 
32 THE DOUBLE WEDDING 
 
 the major, and was devoted to him as a child to his mother, 
 and helped him in managing the estate, which he did not 
 do so badly. Von Eindstadter was the mainspring of the 
 management, and the major the balance-wheel. The major 
 placed unlimited confidence in Von Rindstadter. 
 
 When the major was in the house he spent his time mostly 
 in his own room. He was now sixty years old, and was be- 
 ginning to grow weary of the world. His principal occupa- 
 tion was reading the newspapers ; and he was a hot politician, 
 but his politics were as gray as his head. His principles 
 were, however, liberal for an old soldier who had served un- 
 der the hero king, Charles the Fourteenth, and fought with 
 him. Besides the papers he read travels and books on hus- 
 bandry, and in the course of the day occasionally smoked his 
 costly meerscTiaum pipe (he could not bear cigars), and 
 cleaned and arranged his many guns, and looked over his 
 voluminous correspondence. His intercourse with his family 
 was restricted to an hour in the morning at the breakfast- 
 table, half an hour after dinner, and an hour at tea-time. 
 He seldom took any supper, but if he did it was because he 
 had remained with the family the whole evening. 
 
 The most marked feature in the major's character was an 
 unusually hot temper. His appearance, which the large 
 gray moustache rendered stern at all times, became so fright- 
 ful when he was in a passion that the whole house trembled. 
 Still, when he was in a mild and aflFectionate mood, a look of 
 almost angelic goodness rested in those same eyes ; but this 
 fiery temperament and extraordinary violence often gave rise 
 to very bizarre rencontres. 
 
 - Von Rindstadter was a very different person. This man, 
 if he could strictly be called one, was the dirept opposite" of 
 the major ; and yet, as we have said, they were bound by 
 the ties of the warmest friendship. He was incessantly oc- 
 cupied with farming accounts and the check-books of the 
 laborers. He was so shy with ladies that he never remained 
 with them after meals longer than was absolutely necessary. 
 Spite of the dry nature of his daily occupations, to which he 
 devoted himself more from love of the major than of the dry 
 reckonings, he had a certain poetical vein, in his nature, and 
 was especially fond of lyric poetry. He had even written 
 some fugitive poems himself. He amused himself also with a 
 
AT DUNDERVIKSBORO. 33 
 
 turner's lathe, and (as one said) even occasionally with ladies' 
 work, such as sewing and embroidery. 
 
 His imagination was strongly impressed by the dangers to 
 which humanity is exposed, but the talent and sharp-sighted- 
 ness which he showed in discovering these dangers savored 
 somewhat of cowardice. His memory was stored with all 
 manner of unlucky accidents, all of which tended to prove 
 that no amount of foresight is sufficient to ward off the frigh(> 
 ful dangers which threaten human life from all quarters. 
 He could tell you of persons who had been killed by tiles 
 falling from the roof, of others who had found death in a 
 bottle or needles in their meat ; of some who had broken 
 their legs on a smooth floor, and occasionally even of some 
 who, alarmed by frightful dreams, and trying in "their sleep 
 to ward off the impending danger, had beaten out their brains 
 against the bedposts or the walls. It was rather difficult to 
 induce him to relate these anecdotes, as a sort of instinct 
 taught him that other people did not share his opinions ; but 
 when he had once begun, he was like one inspired by the 
 genius of destruction and fear. But my reader must not 
 suppose that he was as great a coward in real life as he was 
 in theory. He was constitutionally timid, but at the same 
 time really religious, and when weak-mindedness is joined to 
 piety a man often becomes a fatalist. But Von Rindstadter 
 was not a simple fatalist : with his dread of dangers which he 
 saw threaten him from all sides was combined a firm trust 
 in an overruling Providence. Therefore he was always 
 steadfast and resigned, and at all times prepared for death, in 
 whatever shape it might come. His natural cowardice made 
 him very observant of the rule requiring a man to take due 
 care of his life, but he was fully persuaded that this care 
 would be insufficient. 
 
 " Have you time, dear John ? if not I will not disturb 
 you," said the major, one afternoon, looking, after his siesta, 
 into Von Rindstadter's room. 
 
 " Oh, yes," replied he, half rising from his table, with the 
 respect he always showed the major. 
 
 " Well, dear John," was the answer, " then I will talk with 
 you a little, and pour out my troubles, as usual. Do you 
 know, I am more and more worried by these d — d lovers and 
 
 4 
 
34 THE DOUBLE WEDDIN& 
 
 courting visits. I am no longer at home in my own house, 
 and am become, as it were, a stranger in my own family. 
 Take your cap and let us go into the woods ; one can talk 
 better under the open heaven." 
 
 Von Kindstadter obeyed the major instantly, and the two 
 gentlemen began their walk. 
 
 " My wife," began the major, when they were far enough 
 to be sure of not being overheard, — " my wife, — ^hear, John I 
 you know I love the silly creature, and do not mean to say 
 anything which can hurt your feelings, — my wife grows 
 every day sillier and more sentimental. At the same time, 
 each day vanity acquires more power over her, and I begin 
 to fear that she is no longer merely a passive spectator of 
 intrigues, but that she now takes an active part in them." 
 
 " Hm I" replied John. " I do not know anything about 
 such things." 
 
 " " Therefore," said the major, " I do not expect you to 
 understand me or to answer me. But you can let me talk, 
 and sympathize with me in my troubles." 
 
 Von Kindstadter walked like one in a dream and stared 
 straight before him, out of sheer gratitude for such a proof 
 of confidence. The major noticed that Von Bindstadter 
 was walking close by a building of which they were repair- 
 ing the roof, so he called to him, " Do not go too near the 
 stables." 
 
 Von Rindstadter made such a wide jump in his ftight 
 that he fell into a ditch. 
 
 " Now you will certainly break both your neck and your 
 legs," said the major, and he jumped down into the ditch to 
 help his friend to rise.- " I am such a Satan's coward, but I 
 promise you not to scream so loud another time in my fright. 
 The fact is, I just then remembered how a young lady in 
 Stockholm was killed by a tile falling from the roof of a 
 stable. I think you told me the story yourself." 
 
 Von Rindstadter had not hurt himself at all, so they con- 
 tinued their walk. 
 
 " Thank God, there was no harm done," said the major, 
 " But to resume our discourse. It may be true that I have 
 gradually become somewhat estranged from my family, and 
 that may be hard enough for an old man to bear, but let that 
 pass. It is another thing which worries me now. I have 
 
AT DUNDERVIKSBORO. 35 
 
 considered that it is not consistent with my duties as hus- 
 band, father, and relation to allow of intrigues. You know 
 that I not only always disapprove of my wife's plans, but 
 that I have my own, which are always diametrically opposed 
 to hers. Salmis shall never marry Clara; another shall. 
 Guess who, John." 
 
 Von Rindstadter was aroused so suddenly from his passive 
 state as listener that his eyes became larger, and' curiosity 
 gave a slight color to his pale cheeks, but he did not say a 
 word. 
 
 " Bergstrom, my boy," said the major, with flashing eyes ; 
 " Bergstrom shall have her. What do you say to that ?" 
 
 Von Rindstadter stood still and looked on the ground, but 
 soon raised his tearful eyes, with a smile so inwardly good as 
 could be called forth only by the cordial assent of a good 
 heart to an unexpected proposal. 
 
 " Good, John 1" said the major. " I see you approve of 
 my discovery." 
 
 " Fully," said Von Rindstadter, at last. " Only Bergstrom 
 himself " 
 
 " My dear John," interrupted the major, " I must say you 
 are as blind as a bat in afiairs of the heart. You walk 
 therein in such utter darkness that you cannot see your hand 
 before your face. Is not that so ?" 
 
 Rindstadter gave a nod, which plainly showed that in all 
 things relative to the intercourse between man and woman 
 he saw and understood just nothing. 
 
 " Have you never seen," continued the major, " with what 
 eyes Bergstrom looks at Clara? I have seen clearly what 
 o'clock has struck. I do not mean to say that Clara is also 
 in love with. him; but she likes him well enough, and occa- 
 sionally throws a glance at him while she is talking with 
 Salmis ; but that may be only coquetry. At any rate, we 
 shall see. The girl must have at least half of my heart, as 
 she is my daughter ; so she must necessarily, sooner or later, 
 love him at least half as well as her father does, and, in my 
 old eyes, that is sufficient. As for Bergstrom, he is in love, 
 quite as much in love as I was in my poor Agnes. Berg- 
 strom tries to control his feelings and to look careless, and 
 when she speaks to him he answers her as shortly as possible, 
 and with the crossest look in the world ; looking, in fact, very 
 
36 THE DOUBLE WEDDING 
 
 mucli as if he had been ordered to storm a battery. But 
 that is only to conceal his real feelings, for I have noticed 
 that -when she is coquetting with Salmis he looks either 
 fierce or silly. I understand those things, my dear John ; I 
 have myself that silly habit of getting red in the face and 
 wet in the eyes, as if one were peeling onions. But that 
 Bergstrom does not say a word does him honor, and is the 
 
 very reason that I To tell you the truth, Johli, when 
 
 I first discovered that attachment I was angry, for aristo- 
 cratic feeling is very strong with all of us who, in this 
 world, have the luck to stand- one pin-hole higher than some 
 of our neighbors. But now I love him as if he were my 
 own son, and I have sworn by my moustache and the mem- 
 ory of Carl Johann that he and no one else shall have Clara. 
 As for what relates to Rebecca Bbhm, — hush I my dear 
 John, I know that you and I really do think alike in these 
 matters, — she shall never be united to that disagreeable fool 
 Dtinkelstern." 
 
 Von Rindstadter- gave no answer, but, according to his 
 custom, nodded his head with a good and submissive smile, 
 which only meant that the major was harping upon a well- 
 known and often-discussed theme, but one which was not 
 personally unpleasant to him. 
 
 " As I said," continued the major, " Diinkelstern shall 
 never marry the unpretending Rebecca. Good heavens ! if 
 I were such an idiot as to let him have her, my old high- 
 minded brother — a more honorable man, perhaps, even than 
 I (if he was not noble) — would turn over in his coffin 
 with vexation ; and I would not, even for a kiss from Saint 
 Peter at the gates of heaven, come face to face with him in 
 a better world. Is not that. right, John ?" 
 
 Von Rindstadter, who was well acquainted with the views 
 of both brothers, shook his head to express assent. 
 
 " Good," continued the major. " You know the plan I 
 have formed for Rebecca. Let us see if you are able now to 
 talk about it without embarrassment, nay, even with pleasure. 
 You know I mean to give Rebecca to you. Yes, yes, my 
 boy, I shall /orce you to be happy. On this point you do 
 not know what is for your own good. But be assured old 
 Walter von Bomben does know. Still, as it is not yet ac- 
 tually settled, speak out without reserve, and without consid- 
 
AT DVNDERVIKSBORG. 37 
 
 ering my wishes ; tell me, candidly, if you will have the girl 
 or not." 
 
 Von Rindstadter, finding himself thus cornered, became 
 by turns red and white, and a gesture with both hands seemed 
 to push the major's proposal away from him. The major was 
 both grieved and surprised, but made use of all his diplomatic 
 arts to convince him, as he felt the more anxious to obtain 
 his/j'ee and ready assent that his own mind was irrevocably 
 made up. Von Rindstadter, having exhausted his ammuni- 
 tion, finally gave way. Being utterly unaccustomed to oppose 
 the major in anything, he at last said yes with the bashful- 
 ness of a girl, and — wonderful character — after the deed of 
 heroism he had performed in saying that little word " yes" 
 he felt happier in his mind, and his heart was lighter than it 
 had been for a long time ; in fact, since the astounding idea 
 of marrying him to Rebecca had entered the major's head. 
 As the seal of their covenant the major folded Von Rindstadter 
 in his arms, and granted his hesitating and unusual request 
 that Rebecca should hear nothing of the matter until the 
 fatal day and hour arrived. 
 
 " Thanks be to heaven," said the major, " that this affair 
 is at last positively settled ; but let me, dear John, hear your 
 opinion of the girl." 
 
 " Of course, my good major," answered Von Rindstadter, 
 " of course I will have Miss Rebecca." And now he felt so 
 contented after he had given the major this solemn assurance, 
 that he might almost be said to have a taste of the happiness 
 swelling the bosom of a lover who has just secured the con- 
 sent of his lady-love. 
 
 " Right, John, right," said the major ; " and now let us turn 
 back, both of us contented and happy. But do not go too 
 near the fence. That Satan's beast could run its horns through 
 you between the pickets, and little Rebecca would be cheated 
 out of her day of honor." 
 
 The major, now in the rosiest of humor, laughed heartily 
 over his own joke, and drew strong pufis from his china pipe, 
 till his moustache reminded one of the roof of a cow-stable 
 struck by lightning, when the fire is bursting through the 
 thatch. 
 
 Oq the evening of this same day I must introduce my 
 4» 
 
38 THE DOUBLE WEDDING 
 
 reader to the party gathered in the little sitting-room. Here 
 is the mistress of the house, the baroness, as she was the 
 daughter of Baron yon Wickenstrbm, her daughter Clara, 
 Chamberlain Diinkelstern, Lieutenant Salmis, and the major's 
 niece, Miss Rebecca Bohm. These gentlemen often rode over 
 from the not very distant capital, particularly in summer, and 
 generally remained two or three days. They had, after dinner, 
 and after the afternoon coifee-drinking, conversed so uninter- 
 ruptedly with the ladies that, to use the major's simile, they 
 reminded one of burrs sticking to a woollen skirt. Just before 
 tea a rarer guest had arrived, but his visit was more particu- 
 larly to the major, who had made his acquaintance some years 
 since at a hunt, although it was not very long since he had 
 introduced him to his ladies. This was Sergeant Bergstrbm. 
 
 In the middle of the sofa, behind the handsome lamp 
 with its opaque shade, sat Baroness von Bomben. Although 
 this lady was not so extraordinarily interesting as the reader 
 might hope to find her, I must make my reader better 
 acquainted with her, so that he may judge for himself of the 
 truth of the major's opinion of his better-half. For this 
 purpose I will say that she strongly reminded one of Charles 
 Dickens's Mrs. Nichleby. The baroness was fat and fully as 
 vain as Mrs. Nickleby. Without being a flirt she was, even 
 in her older days, used to receiving attention from gentlemen, 
 aiid really thought that she was the chief attraction in the 
 house. It is true that she understood the wishes of Salmis 
 and Diinkelstern and aided them, but she thought they 
 particularly wished to secure her for a mother, and that it 
 was only his poverty which induced Diinkelstern to court the 
 homely Rebecca. These two gentlemen had certainly en- 
 couraged her in this belief, and by setting this trap for her 
 vanity had secured abundant opportunities for pressing their 
 suits with the young ladies. 
 
 The unusually handsome Clara soon showed herself to be 
 an apt scholar of a mother fond of admiration. But her high 
 forehead indicated a much better mind, and her large blue 
 eyes reminded one of her father. 
 
 Lieutenant Salmis considered his name as French, but he 
 had never been known to claim a French extraction until the " 
 revolution of 1848 had made the French nation an object of 
 interest to both friends and foes, 
 
AT DUNDERVIKSBORQ. 39 
 
 On a low cliair, close by the baroness, sat the major's 
 brother's daughter, Miss Rebecca Bbhm. Her appearance 
 was quite ordinary and her age somewhat advanced, say over 
 thirty. Her face indicated goodness, but a somewhat lymphatic 
 goodness, which never got thoroughly warm. Her character 
 was peaceful and unassuming, and she took part in every- 
 thing, but without ever taking a lively interest in anything. 
 Her whole manner showed that, though she was not a daughter 
 of the house, she took too active a part in the housekeeping 
 to have much time left to improve her mind. At her side, 
 but between her and the baroness, sat the Chamberlain Diin- 
 "kelstern. He looked about fifty. Here and there a stray 
 gray hair showed that he was bald, which defect he hid with 
 a wig of shining brown hair. He had the look of a rou6, 
 and it was ea^y to see that he was not the least bit in love with 
 Rebecca, whose only attraction for him was the handsome 
 property inherited from her father. Rebecca answered his 
 affected grimaces with her kindly smile, but when she looked 
 down at her sewing Diinkelstern seized the opportunity to 
 steal a glance at Clara, and if she were not looking he gazed 
 on her with longing eyes, not forgetting, however, to bestow 
 upon the mother, from time to time, a look full of respect 
 and courtoisie. With Salmis he exchanged glances, which 
 seemed to say that he fully realized that Rebecca was a goose, 
 and that he hoped his friend would give him too much credit 
 for good taste to suppose for a moment that he could be 
 honestly in love with her. On a chair near the door sat the 
 newly-arrived guest. Sergeant Bergstrom. After saluting the 
 company he had dropped quietly into the least desirable place 
 in the room. Bergstrom was a tall, well-made man, about 
 twenty-two years old. The expression of his face was manly 
 and decided, although his manners were modest, not to say 
 timid. He was certainly a handsome fellow ; and, although 
 retiring in manner, showed plainly that he was of a good 
 family and had had a good education. 
 
 All except Rebecca had answered the young man's greet- 
 ing in a formal, though polite manner. Even the baroness 
 interrupted the conversation going on when he entered to 
 perform her duties as hostess. 
 
 " We were just speaking of a hunt and its pleasures, 
 Sergeant Bergstrom," said she. " But it seems to me you 
 
40 THE DOUBLE WEDDING 
 
 •were also once at a bear-hunt. I think my husband repeated 
 to me part of a conversation he had with you at that time." 
 
 "Yes," replied Bergstrom, "that is true. Last winter I 
 paid a visit with my parents to some relations we have in 
 Wermland. A friend of mine arranged a bear-hunt at that 
 time, and invited me to take part in it." 
 
 " Hu I that must be real fun," said Clara, with a little 
 irony in her tone and a glance at Salmis and Diinkelstem. 
 
 " That is for you, chamberlain," said Salmis, who wished to 
 fasten at once upon Diinkelstern any allusions which might 
 be made to them. 
 
 " Ah 1" said Dunkelstern, who was vexed, though he had 
 not rightly understood Clara's irony. Clara was only think- 
 ing of cowardice, and so had Salmis understood her, but Diin- 
 kelstern had interpreted her words differently. " I think," 
 said he, " that in respect to this kind of hunt a chamberlain 
 and a lieutenant in the guards are much on a par. If the 
 lieutenant is fortunate enough to escape from the bear with a 
 whole skin, he will hardly find any pleasure in attacking him 
 in his cave." 
 
 Thereupon both gentlemen laughed and looked at the ladies 
 for approval. These had a pleasant and mediatory look, re- 
 minding one of seconds in a duel, who are there to watch that 
 the quarrel be fought fairly out. 
 
 " I suppose it is possible to enjoy one's self even if one is 
 afraid," said the literal and prosaic Rebecca. 
 
 As no one made any comment on this remark, Bergstrom 
 said, " If I may be allowed to give*my opinion, I should say 
 both yes and no. In this respect the sexes differ. History 
 shows us that men have in all ages been fond of sports at- 
 tended by danger. I do not know if this is a virtue, but it 
 is so. I, for instance, was on a bear-hunt, and I know from 
 my own experience that, though not free from danger, it is 
 a very exciting pleasure. I cannot deny that I felt a sort 
 of fear while engaged in combat with the powerful enemy ; 
 nevertheless, it was a pleasure of the highest order. After we 
 had, with loud cries, driven the bear to the edge of the lake, 
 and enclosed him in a pretty large half-circle, he made several 
 powerful jumps, and concealed himself in a group of trees with 
 thick foliage and closely interwoven branches, standing in the 
 middle of our semicircle. Four or five of the best marksmen 
 
AT DUNDERVJKSBORO. 41 
 
 were ordered out by my uncle, who was the leader of the 
 hunt, to stand, each at a given place, near the copse of trees. 
 Although I could not boast of the same skill as the others, 
 my uncle insisted upon my making one of their number. We 
 stood for some time peeping in between the leaves without 
 catching a glimpse of the bear. Suddenly we heard a scream 
 from a crowd of women who, armed with iron-shod staves, 
 had taken their places on a little hill ; these had caught the 
 first glimpse of Nalle, who afterwards began to move. This 
 scream set him in motion. Immediately my nearest neigh- 
 bor, who was, however, at some little distance from me, fired 
 and wounded the bear, but not mortally. He immediately 
 made for me, but ceasing to jump, came walking on his hind 
 legs. I waited for him in my place, which was a good one. 
 TVith frightful growls the wild beast stared at me with his 
 bloodshot eyes. I knew that this was a struggle for death 
 or life. Foe one moment a shudder went through my bones 
 and marrow, but only for one moment ; then as the bear 
 came nearer to me I felt my muscles harden and my sight 
 grow clearer, and without fear I let him come quite near me, 
 and gave him a shot under the shoulder which finished him. 
 It was more luck than skill, aS at that time I was not nearly 
 so good a shot as I have become since. ' Well done !' called 
 out my uncle, who had slipped up behind me, and who was 
 quite as cool as if he had been playing a game of backgammon 
 with the parson. As he put his snuff-box in his pocket just 
 then, I saw that he had taken a pinch in the excitement of 
 the moment. He had his gun under his arm, and knew that 
 his unerring aim would finish the bear if my .shot missed." 
 
 The young man had stood up during the last half of his 
 narration, which he accompanied with lively gestures. The 
 two gentlemen listened to him with a feeling akin to envy. 
 The baroness and Rebecca several times said, hu ! and found 
 his account tiresome and uninteresting. Clara's face wore a 
 singular expression, the'clear blue eyes seemed larger and 
 more brilliant, and a drawing together of her eyebrows gave 
 her forehead a daring look. 
 
 " Well, Mr. Bergstrom," said Clara, — she thought Mr. 
 Bergstrbm sounded better than Sergeant Bergstrom, — " I 
 think I understand how one can really enjoy pleasures accom- 
 panied by danger." 
 
42 THE DOUBLE WEDDING 
 
 Just at this moment the major and Von Rindstadter came 
 in to tea. The major was in high spirits, which was seldom 
 the case in this company. The resolution he had formed 
 concerning love intrigues had entirely changed his standing 
 towards his antagonists. The old soldier felt as if he had 
 won a strong position. He kissed his wife on the mouth and 
 Clara on the forehead, clapped Kebecca on the shoulder, and 
 shook hands cheerfully with Salmis and Dunkelstern. To 
 Bergstrom he simply nodded, but he nodded three times 
 in the most friendly manner. 
 
 The major's stay after tea was, as usual, very short. He 
 exchanged a few words with the " tea society," as he called 
 it, and went back with Eindstadter to his room. At the door 
 he stopped to tell Bergstrom to come up to his room to smoke 
 a pipe in the old fashion. That, he said, he knew would not 
 suit city gentlemen, with their cigar-cases and thetr porte-mon- 
 naies for cigarettes. He disliked all new-fangled notions, as 
 he said. 
 
 " My dear friends," said the baroness, as soon as the three 
 gentlemen — the major. Von Rindstadter, and the sergeant — 
 had departed, " let us resume our conversation at the point 
 where the sergeant's arrival obliged us to break off. Dear 
 Rebecca, see if the door into the boudoir is closed, so that 
 none of the servants may overhear us." 
 
 " My gracious cousin 1" said Dunkelstern, kissing the ba- 
 roness's hand. " You allow me to give you that name when 
 there is only the family present ? You are my good angel 
 and Rebecca's. But dare we indulge in the bright hopes 
 which you held out to us this afternoon ? Is it really possible 
 to win the major over to our side? I doubt it a little, not- 
 withstanding my confidence in your influence over him." 
 
 " You may trust me, my good Dunkelstern," replied the 
 baroness. " My husband, the major, does not trouble himself 
 about such things. He has his farm, his guns, his pipes, and 
 his newspaper, and -he takes no interest in anything else. 
 You are secure of your aim now that you have succeeded in 
 convincing me of your solid and honorable way of thinking, 
 and both of you of your mutual attachment. The major has 
 noticed nothino;, and it is better that he should suspect no- 
 thing. Should he accidentally have seen something, which is 
 possible, he will offer no objection, if we may judge from his 
 
AT DVNDERVIKSBORG. 43 
 
 friendly, cheerful face. Even you, my good Salmis, dare hope 
 to win Clara. You have, as far as your wishes go, only one 
 opponent to fear, and that is Albert, my own dear boy. He, 
 truly, has the bad taste not to like you, but he has no power 
 to oppose my will." 
 
 " My gracious aunt,'' sighed Salmis, " I am everlastingly 
 indebted to you. But thou art so thoughtful, my own sweet 
 angel," said he, turning to Clara. 
 
 " I am certainly not thoughtful," said the conceited and 
 lively beauty. " I am only thinking seriously about' that in- 
 teresting story about the hunt." Feeling that Salmis's hand 
 which held hers trembled slightly, and having the habit of 
 girls fond of admiration, who never allow their admirers, and 
 not even their bridegrooms, to feel sure of their affection, 
 she added, " That Bergstrom is a gallant, manly fellow, and 
 I have just discovered to my own surprise that he is hand- 
 some." 
 
 Upon this interesting piece of information Salmis got up 
 and took a glass of water, upon which Dunkelstern smiled in 
 a somewhat malicious manner. 
 
 " Yes, Bergstrom is really the handsomest man I have seen ; 
 though, to be sure, I have not seen many men," joined in the 
 passionless and thoughtless Rebecca. 
 
 ." Do you really think so, my love?" said Dunkelstern j tak- 
 ing a gold tooth-pick out of his vest-pocket. Salmis had now 
 recovered his composure, and took his place once more by 
 Clara's side. 
 
 " How kind and loving father's brother was this evening I" 
 said Rebecca, after a short pause. 
 
 " When he is otherwise," said Clara, more tartly than be- 
 came a good daughter, " it is because he has been a good deal 
 with that child in leading strings, Von Rindstiidter. That 
 man becomes every day more insufferable. He reminds me 
 of salt fish without salt or pepper." 
 
 All laughed at this idea except Rebecca. Salmis stroked 
 his moustache and kissed the tips of his lady-love's fingers. 
 From the baroness's manner it was easy to see that she did 
 not deem the comparison elegant. 
 
 " Clara is a little unjust towards Rindstadter," said Re- 
 becca. " He is a very good man, always obliging, always 
 afraid of giving trouble, very sensible in everything which 
 
44 THE DOUBLE WEDDING 
 
 belongs to household arrangements, and he has a real talent 
 for making pens. I like all good people. In his small room 
 everything is as neat as in a baby- house.'' 
 
 A general laugh interrupted Rebecca, who raised her as- 
 tonished eyes and could not imagine what she had said to be 
 laughed at. The baroness looked at Rebecca, and frowned 
 as if at some secret and painful reminiscence. 
 
 At the mention of baby-house Dunkelstern's brow grew 
 dark, and he cast inquiring looks around to see if any one 
 besides himself had thought of a French word in frequent 
 use. 
 
 Just at this time a frightful noise was heard on the stair- 
 ease. One heard persons rush rather than go down the 
 steps. The major's voice was heard coming nearer and 
 nearer, then a heavy fall and a breakfng of glass in the hall. 
 Fear seized them all, not even excepting Salmis. He opened 
 the door into the hall, and there saw the major, who had the 
 strength of a giant, holding a man by the collar with one 
 hand while he belabored him with a stick he was holding in 
 his other hand. He was just on the point of casting him, 
 like a ball, from the top of the stone steps, screaming, " You 
 have drunk too much, you rascal ! I'll teach you to do so 
 another time !" 
 
 The baroness and Clara threw their arms round the two ; 
 but, though they withheld the major from further action, 
 they did not succeed in quieting him. But presently some 
 one came softly down the steps, and Rindsfadter appeared in 
 shirt-sleeves and slippers, and laid his hand with a beseeching 
 look upon the major's arm. The touch seemed electric, 
 and to impart to the m^r all the gentleness of the con- 
 juror's nature. He loosened his hold of the man, who prom- 
 ised amendment. The major stood quite still, and said, 
 " Forgive me, John, my boy ; it was stupid in me, but I 
 could not keep my temper with that wine-sponge. Go to 
 bed, you rascal, and sleep off your drink. Be sure to be 
 to-morrow punctually at seven o'clock at Mr. von Rind- 
 stiidter's door, fall on your knees before that gentleman, 
 and ask him if you can get forgiveness this once still, or if 
 he will allow me to pitch you out of the window. Right 
 about, march !" Then, turning to his wife, he said, " For- 
 give me, my dear ; I am not surprised that you were fright- 
 
AT DUNDERVIKSBORG. 45 
 
 ened. Pray, all of you, excuse me." Then he took Von 
 Bindstadter's arm and went back to his room. 
 
 The company returned to the little sitting-room. The 
 baroness was still faint from fright, and Rebecca held a 
 bottle of smelling-salts under her nose, so that she was her- 
 self again soon and got a little color in her cheeks. 
 
 " It is impossible," said the baroness, " to renew the 
 broken thread of our discourse. My husband's fits of passion 
 are fearful. Thank heaven I have never been the cause of 
 one of them I but I know that if I ever should be, I should 
 die of fright. My dear sirs, were you not frightened ?" 
 
 Clara looked mockingly at her own and Rebecca's lover. 
 
 " I was a little afraid for you ladies, I must confess," said 
 Salmis. " That was a fearful burst of passion. If we heard 
 just now about bears, we have now seen the king of beasts, 
 for the major was really lion-like." 
 
 " And still my father is so good," said Clara. " What a 
 heart he has !" And the thought of her /a,ther's heart filled 
 her own. The coquette disappeared and left only the loving 
 daughter, radiant with womanly beauty. It was a pity Berg- 
 strbm could not have seen her then. 
 
 " When uncle is angry," said Rebecca, " Cousin Rindstadter 
 is the only person who can do anything with him." 
 
 " That is the child and the lion," said Clara, mockingly. 
 
 " Does aunt remember," continued Rebecca, " how father's 
 brother threw Peter Mattson in the mill-pond ?" 
 
 " Oh, don't I !" sobbed the baroness, taking out her pocket- 
 handkerchief The gentlemen looked curious. 
 
 " Why, it happened so," said Rebecca, who knew that her 
 aunt's nerves were not as delicate as she wished them to ap- 
 pear. " We were all sitting quietly on the bench near the 
 steps, — aunt, Clara, and I. Father's brother went over to 
 the brickyard to smoke his pipe. All of a sudden we heard 
 a shriek from within the lower story of the building. We 
 could see father's brother throw away his pipe and rush in. 
 The screams stopped instantly, and father's brother came out 
 carrying the bricklayer, Peter Mattson, who had beaten an 
 apprentice with a spade. 
 
 " Father's brother, who was so angry that he did not seem 
 to know what he was doing, set Peter Mattson on his feet on 
 the greensward and knocked him down. Then he told him 
 
46 THE DOUBLE WEDDING 
 
 to pick himself up, and knocked him down again and again. 
 At last he picked him up in his arms, carried him to the 
 mill-pond, and threw him in head over heels. This funny 
 burst of passion was at the same time so terrific that we all 
 began to scream, though we were unable to stir from the 
 spot. I do not know if father's brother's better nature got 
 the upper hand then, or if he saw Cousin Rindstadter, who 
 was running to us as fast as he could ; but, all of a sudden, 
 with the rapidity of lightning, he threw into the pond a little 
 boat, which he saw pulled up on the grass, jumped in and 
 drew in Peter Mattson, who could not swim, but who, fortu- 
 nately, had found footing on the bottom of the pond. Having 
 done this as hastily as he had thrown him in, father's brother 
 took his pipe again, and, leaving the brickyard, went towards 
 the park. We did not see him again that day, and never 
 dared make any allusion to it. Father's brother was evidently 
 annoyed at our having seen the whole affair from the steps. 
 Poor Peter Mattson, who had drank a quantity of water " 
 
 " My dearest Kebecca," said her aunt, " cannot we pass 
 over that episode?" 
 
 The gentlemen politely repressed their desire to laugh, and 
 Rebecca, who became instantly silent, blushed slightly. This 
 time she understood the drift of her aunt's remark, and she 
 cast down her eyes, a little annoyed. 
 
 " But, my good Rebecca," said Clara, " you should also 
 mention the nice sum of money my excellent papa gave 
 Peter Mattson to make amends for his short journey through 
 the air." 
 
 " Through the air, indeed !" said Rebecca. " Peter Matt- 
 son was as wet as a frog and green as Necle. Cousin Rind- 
 stadter told me that father's brother deeply regretted having 
 used such violence towards Peter Mattson, although he richly 
 deserved punishment. He immediately set to work to see 
 how he could help Peter without giving him any direct in- 
 demnification, as Peter is himself very obstinate and high- 
 tempered. Father's brother finally determined to educate 
 Peter Mafctson's oldest boy, who has a good head, and he has 
 
 kept him ever since that affair at school in . Peter 
 
 Mattson was so touched by the major's kindness that he has 
 never struck one of his journeymen or apprentices since. 
 Every little boy reminds him of his son." 
 
AT DVNDERVIKSBORQ. 4T 
 
 " You see, dear mamma," said Clara, laughing, " that it 
 will be impossible for us to return to the subject which en- 
 grossed our attention when papa's burst of anger interrupted 
 us. I will therefore add one anecdote to Rebecca's sketch of 
 papa. ■ There is on this estate a boy who is really clever, and 
 his quickness and original ideas have quite endeared him to 
 papa. This does not, however, prevent papa from getting 
 angry with him occasionally and knocking him down or box- 
 ing his ears. But the love for his favorite returns very soon, 
 and then my father is quite disposed to make him some 
 small present as a ' compensation.' The foreman and labor- 
 ers (as Rindstadter has told Rebecca) all consider the favor- 
 ite a rascal, and declare that whenever he is out of money or 
 tobacco he does something to induce papa to knock him 
 down, and then he is sure of having his wants supplied the 
 next day as ' compensation.' " 
 
 But we will leave the company, as the anecdotes are prob- 
 ably more interesting to them than to us, and go up to the 
 major's room, where Rindstadter and Bergstrom are smoking 
 pipes with the old soldier and discussing a much more im- 
 portant subject. 
 
 The major is stretched out at full length upon the sofa 
 with his favorite pipe in his mouth. Rindstadter and Berg- 
 strom are sitting directly opposite to him. " Smoke another 
 pipe, Bergstroin," said the major. " It does not matter if an 
 unmarried man gets home an hour sooner or later." 
 
 Bergstrom rose, bowed to the major, and filled his pipe 
 again. He was quite touched to see how well he stood with him. 
 He felt sure of that, because the major urged him to smoke, 
 whereas he did not generally like to see young people smoke, 
 and also because he had several times called him " my boy." 
 That distinction had heretofore been reserved for Rindstadter. 
 
 " Well, my dear Bergstrom, how is papa ? The devil take 
 me, but, spite of my affection for your family, I had forgotten 
 to ask after your father and mother. Is the old man's chest 
 stronger, or must his assistant still do duty for him every 
 Sunday ?" 
 
 " My father," replied Bergstrom, " is, thank heaven, better 
 now, and performs his duty alone. In fact, for the last two 
 months he has had no assistant. He cannot afford it, as it is 
 only a third-class parish." 
 
48 THE DOUBLE WEDDING 
 
 " True enough," said the major, -with a sympathizing tone, 
 " and he has several sons. May God bless every housefather 
 who tries to support his family in the sweat of his brow, 
 whether it be with the plough or the pen ! Is the tobacco good?" 
 
 " Excellent," replied Bergstrom, half rising to express his 
 thanks. 
 
 " I hope so," said the major ; " that is my favorite mixture : 
 Havana and one-third real Dutch canister. Bergstr'om, my 
 boy, I want to tell you something, but may I be d — d if I 
 can." 
 
 Rindstadter winked at Bergstrom, who paid the utmost at- 
 tention. This winking was intended to soothe and encourage 
 him. 
 
 " Bergstrom," said the ^lajor, " you need not mind Von 
 Kindstadter's being here. I had intended to open the subject 
 gradually, but I find it harder than I had expected. Hm 1 ' 
 my dear Bergstrom, Iwill just ask you one question. I would 
 like to know — perhaps an answer would be contrary to the 
 esprit du corps — but still, you serve in another regiment, — 
 tell me what do you think of Lieutenant Salmis ? Is he the 
 right man for his hat ?" 
 
 Bergstrom hesitated a moment, but then answered quickly, 
 " Kespect for you and the love of truth oblige me to say that 
 I do not like Lieutenant Salmis, or rather that I do not 
 understand him. He and I have been brought up in such 
 different circles." 
 
 " I am quite of your opinion," said the major, " although 
 you have hinted at it rather than expressed it. Do you think 
 — hm ! — that Clara would be happy with him ?" 
 
 Bergstrom turned red and pale by turns, but remained silent. 
 Finally he said, " I must beg the major not to insist upon an 
 answer." 
 
 " I see that you are an honest man," said the major. " I 
 understand your answer, which was not meant for an answer. 
 You have noticed that Clara is a coquette ?" 
 
 Bergstrom remained silent. 
 
 " That is right," said the major. " I understand this answer 
 also. But Clara is too good a girl naturally to remain a co- 
 quette long. Can I spei with you freely and openly without 
 fearing that you will betray my confidence ? ^Now, do not get 
 angry. I spoke sharply, stupidly perhaps. But, do you see, 
 
AT DVNDERVIKSBORO. 49 
 
 I am about to speak on a delicate subject, but it is necessary 
 that I should make you my confidant. Young man, can you 
 be as silent as the grave ?" 
 
 Bergstrbm assured the major he need have no fear. 
 
 " Grood 1" said the major; "only for form's sake I was 
 obliged to put the question. When one asks it it was only 
 that one was sure of one's man beforehand. Now listen to 
 me, Bergstrom. I shall not ask you a question, but I shall 
 tell you something. You love Clara." 
 
 " Major !" said Bergstrom, who became very red and then 
 deadly pale. 
 
 " Yes, major ; yes," said Von Bomben, laughing ; " so it is ; 
 but tell me honestly, how can you love a coquette ?" 
 
 " Major," said Bergstrom, " I will not say I love Miss 
 Clara, but only that I have an unfortunate attachment." 
 
 " Well said," replied the major, warmly. " You are a very 
 good boy, Bergstrbm." 
 
 Berg.strom looked at the major with astonishment. 
 
 " But, my boy," continued the major, " how could you be 
 so thoughtless as to fall in love when you are only a sergeant 
 and have not a penny ?" 
 
 " Major," said Bergstrom (with a pained expression on his 
 handsome, manly face), " with the same candor with which I 
 have spoken so far, I must say that I do not deserve your 
 reproof. No man can prevent his falling in love, but he only 
 is foolish who does not struggle against a hopeless attach- 
 ment. For my part I have, from the beginning, struggled 
 and do still struggle against this love, which is foolish, because 
 it is hopeless." 
 
 " Very good I very good !" said the major. 
 
 Again Bergstrbm looked at the major with astonishment. 
 It seemed to him that in his conduct there was a contra- 
 diction which he could not explain. He could not under- 
 stand why this conversation should have taken place. So 
 he remained silent for some time, but at last he said, " In 
 this struggle I have been careful of the honor of your house 
 and of mine own. It is inconceivable to me that you should 
 have guessed my secret, but I am confident that no one else 
 in the house, least of all Miss Clara, has done so." 
 
 " I can answer for that," said the major, " and have been 
 pleased with your discretion. It is especially honorable in 
 
 5* 
 
50 l-aJl^ XJUUJSLiJH tVJlJVLIIJW 
 
 you not to have let Clara suspect anything. You are a hand- 
 some fellow, and are not wanting in the qualities of head and 
 heart likely to take a young girl's fancy. Such a one, if he 
 be only a sergeant and as poor as a church mouse, need only 
 cast sweet looks and say sweet things. But I am sorry that 
 you do not admire Clara." 
 
 Bergstrom looked much astonished, but said nothing. 
 
 " Now, do you see," continued the major, " Clara might be 
 much better than she is. Her vain and silly mother, the 
 baroness, is to blame for her coquetry. But please not to 
 repeat what I say, gentlemen ; it is only I who have a right 
 to speak thus of the baroness, who is my honored wife. Do 
 you understand me, gentlemen ?" 
 
 Both Bergstrom and Rindst'adter made a respectful bow of 
 assent. 
 
 " My honored wife had her head a little turned, in her 
 time, by a fashionable governess and modern examples and 
 teaching and courting in Stockholm, and heaven knows what 
 else. AH the nonsense lurking in her nature has been drawn 
 out intentionally by those fools Salmis and Diinkelstern 
 before I noticed it. But the case with Clara is, — without 
 disparagement to my honored wife, — that she has a better 
 head and a warmer heart." 
 
 The major's eyes filled with tears, thinking of the daughter 
 whom he loved so tenderly. He seemed oppressed by his 
 emotion, and left the sofa and busied himself with his pipes 
 and his guns. 
 
 He came back perfectly composed, but from his rapid walk 
 up and down the room it was evident that he had now tome 
 to the critical moment, and that he was aiming -another blow 
 to settle the matter. Finally he said, " Well, Bergstrom, you 
 said that you do not fancy Clara, but that you love her ?" 
 
 " Yes," whispered tremblingly the brave conqueror of the 
 bear. 
 
 " Well," continued the major, in a joking tone, but with a 
 voice which showed how deeply he was moved, " it then 
 remains with you to say if you will take orders from an old 
 pensioned major of another regiment or not. Take Clara 
 for your wife and develop all the good in her character." 
 
 The old soldier, no longer able to control his emotion, 
 took Bergstrom in his arms and behaved like a silly child. 
 
AT DUNDERVIKSBORG. 51 
 
 Von Rindstadter, who took the liveliest interest in all that 
 the major did, pulled his handkerchief out of his pocket. 
 It was with the deepest sympathy that he contemplated this 
 approaching marriage, though to his own he was indifferent, 
 not to say opposed. 
 
 Bergstrom had wiped away the tears which gratitude and 
 happiness had wrung from him, but had not yet been able 
 to say a word. He sat on his chair, staring straight before 
 him. 
 
 But the major, who had said what he wanted to say, was 
 lively and courageous again. " Now, my boy, do you take 
 the order to march or not?" 
 
 " My high-minded and beloved major," answered Berg- 
 strom, " I owe you eternal and unceasing gratitude for this 
 conversation, this confidence, this unbounded benevolence. 
 But — forgive my candor — I think in this affair, only in this, 
 I can see clearer than you, and all the rapture you hold out 
 to me is only a dream. I believe in your full power in all 
 family matters, but not over Miss Clara's heart. She does 
 not love me, — nay, she despises me, or rather she scarcely 
 notices that I am in existence." 
 
 "Stop there," said the major; "that last is false. Who 
 the devil could despise you ? It is true she does not love 
 you, but then she does not love any one. It is exactly 
 because she does not know what love is that she listens to 
 her mother's wishes and is amused by Salmis's love-making. 
 Do not try to make me believe that she is in love with that 
 fool. She is simply looking forward to the time when, as his 
 wife, but with her own fortune, — for Salmis is as poor as you, 
 nay, poorer, for he has doubtless debts, — she will be able to 
 live in the capital and open her salons as a charming hostess. 
 But I hope that real happiness is in store for her. So, my 
 boy, I think the affair is settled." 
 
 The major did not think any answer necessary, and 
 Bergstrom only said, "Ah, major 1" and shook his head with 
 a melancholy smile. 
 
 " Yes, it will be major yet awhile," said the old man, " and 
 then it will be father, but now as silent as the grave, till I say 
 ' speak.' Not a single word to your old father, nor a single 
 lovesick look at Clara. Be as silent as John here. It would 
 be as impossible to worm a secret out of him as out of the 
 
52 TUJU DUUlSLiK WJ<ilJJJIJ\(jf 
 
 Mercury who is standing on tiptoe on the top of our flag-staff. 
 And now," said the major, " not one word more about this 
 business. Now, Bergstrbm, have confidence, my boy I You 
 can say as one of my old companions in arms said one day ; 
 you must hear that anecdote. Look at Rindstadter here, 
 you can see how bashful he is, just like a girl. My old com- 
 rade married somewhat late ; but no, I won't tell you. Good- 
 night." 
 
 That evening the major said to his wife, " My dear Agnes, 
 I have a word to say to you. I know, no matter how, that 
 you and your ' tea society' are cooking a couple of marriages 
 which are not at all to my taste." 
 
 The baroness grew pale, but said nothing ; it is even quite 
 possible that she trembled a little. 
 
 " Yes, so it is, old lady," said the major. " Those two, 
 Salmis and Diinkelstern, whose acquaintance we made in 
 Stockholm, and ' cultivated' (to use your expression) after- 
 wards at the Springs, are a couple of fools, and I am not sure 
 that Dunkelstern is not a rascal as well. At any rate, I now 
 tell you they shall never win their game, although they have 
 secured your confidence and your help." 
 
 " My dear Von Bomben " 
 
 " No, my dear ; and, so that you may know what to do, I 
 tell you my countermine is for Rebecca to take Rindstadter." 
 
 " But, my dearest Von Bomben " 
 
 " And also that Clara shall take Bergstrom." 
 
 " Grood heavens I" 
 
 " Hush, my honored wife," said the major, on whose cheeks 
 an angry spot already appeared. " Not one word more on the 
 subject. And now, good-night." 
 
 The baroness was silent. She did not dare make the lion 
 shake his mane, but she lay awake all night thinking over 
 what she had heard. 
 
 Otie day, some time afterwards, the major entered Von 
 Rindstadter's room. 
 
 "Do you know what ?" said he,— " a letter -from my son 
 Albert, who is, as you know, in a German agricultural school, 
 informs me of the death of the widow of my brother, An- 
 ders Bbhm. You know circumstances induced him to estab- 
 lish himself as merchant in Lubeck, and it seems now that 
 
AT DVNDERVIKSBORQ. 53 
 
 Rebecca's inheritance will be even larger than I expected. 
 Grease your boots, Rindstadter. The thousand ! you young 
 people, you and your old woman, should buy from me the 
 Olbrygge farm, which belongs to Dunderviksborg, and lies 
 about three-fourths of a mile from here. Yes, yes, I think 
 you will be quite wealthy, and will find us good neighbors. 
 Laugh, John ; clap your hands." 
 
 The modest Von Rindstadter did not clap his hands or laugh, 
 he looked rather worried, though as good and yielding as usual. 
 
 The major said, " Bergstrom and Clara, the dear children, 
 shall have Giiddnas. Hey, John 1 do you know that these 
 plans, which are to assure the peace and joy of my remaining 
 days, make my old heart leap for very gladness ?" 
 
 Now Rindstadter looked so wide awake that even Clara 
 must have liked him if she could have seen him just then ; 
 but in reply to the major's remark he simply said, " How can 
 you spare me at Dunderviksborg ?" 
 
 " Nonsense, my boy ! we can do without you," said the 
 major. " You have arranged everything so nicely that it goes 
 like clock-work. Moreover, Albert will have finished his 
 course at the Agricultural Institute next year,_and then I shall 
 take'him home. I will help him for a few years, until he 
 feels thoroughly at home with the machinery you have set 
 going, and then I shall rest. So do not be uneasy, John ; I 
 hope I have still some strength left." 
 
 And thereupon the major looked with some satisfaction at 
 his muscular and well-formed leg and arm. 
 
 " But," said the major, " all this can be settled later, as the 
 general adjutant used to say. Now I am going over to Liibeck 
 to receive and put in order Rebecca's inheritance. I leave 
 you at home, so that I can go with a quiet mind." 
 
 It was already autumn, and the cool October was drawing 
 near, when the major took leave of his family to go to Stock- 
 holm and take a steamboat there for Liibeck. 
 
 With his departure the baroness's worry and fright over 
 what her husband had said about her marriage plans ceased. 
 She would never have dreamt of setting herself against his 
 openly-expressed will, but she thought early and late whether 
 it were worth while to repeat to her " tea society" what her 
 husband had said. Finally she concluded to tell it simply to 
 
54 iJi-C' UUUJitilS WMVIJlJ>l<jf 
 
 the girls. Clara remained quite silent and thoughtful after 
 she heard it. She was deeply pained that her father, whom 
 she loved so tenderly, should have placed so little confidence 
 in her as not to speak with her personally on the subject. 
 Kebecca said, " My stars I did father's brother say that ? He 
 wants me to marry Uncle Rindstadter I That would never 
 have entered my head ! So !" To the baroness's question, if 
 she should tell the news to the gentlemen, Rebecca replied 
 that her aunt must decide for herself, as she was not able to 
 give any opinion on the subject. Clara said most decidedly 
 she should tell the gentlemen nothing. The whole affair was 
 so new that her mind was paralyzed. She wished to speak 
 with her father before they should hear anything. 
 
 When the major left Dunderviksborg he did not expect to 
 be absent more than five weeks. But six weeks had passed, 
 November had come, but no news from the major. The fam- 
 ily was already uneasy, but a letter from Albert, the son, resid- 
 ing in G-ermany, changed their uneasiness to grief and dismay. 
 He wrote that his father had heard, after he had settled his 
 affairs in Liibeck, that steamers made the voyage between 
 England and America in a reasonably quick time, and he had 
 suddenly determined to take advantage of this opportunity. 
 He had for several years cherished the (as he had thought) 
 vain wish to ascertain how a government could be carried on, 
 as was the case in the United States of North America, with- 
 out a king standing at the helm. Hasty -and impulsive as 
 he was by nature, he had been seized with such a desire to 
 travel that he had quite suddenly gone over from Liibeck to 
 England, in order to embark for America, hoping to return 
 to his family in the spring. He had asked Albert to inform 
 his wife of his movements, as well as of his safe arrival in 
 England, as he had no time to write himself. He had given 
 the name of the steamer on which he sailed for America, and 
 this steamer, as the shipping-list reported, had been lost. 
 
 One can imagine what dismay, what embarrassment, what 
 grief seized the whole family. The baroness gave way at 
 first to an unreasonable and immoderate grief, but was soon 
 comforted. Rebecca shed many tears, and grieved for her 
 uncle as sincerely as was possible for one of her impassive 
 nature. Rindstadter grieved quietly, but deeply, as an older 
 
AT DVNDERVIKSBORG. 55 
 
 child grieves for its mother. Clara's grief was the most 
 heart-rending ; she could find no tears, she could find no 
 comfort. 
 
 Salmis was not a bad man. He had accustomed himself 
 to consider the family as his own, and when the sad news 
 came felt it as a personal loss. He was, however, thought- 
 less, and as Diinkelstern kept repeating to him that all obsta- 
 cles to their speedy marriage were now removed, he very 
 soon recovered his spirits. Diinkelstern played the role of a 
 distressed relation, but his only feeling was one of unmixed 
 satisfaction, as a sort of instinct told him that the major would 
 hardly have put him in possession of Rebecca's fortune. 
 
 All those employed on the farm grieved sincerely for the 
 major, which showed how sincerely this strict and passionate 
 man was beloved for his goodness and uprightness. 
 
 The major was honored and esteemed in the whole neigh- 
 borhood, so that the sympathy felt for the family was uni- 
 versal. But we must return to the hymeneal intrigues. 
 
 The two lovers paid their visits in the old routine. For 
 the first few weeks they had sufficient tact and wisdom — 
 Salmis even sufficient feeling — not to mention a subject which 
 harmonized so ill with the family's mourning. It is true 
 there were no outward signs of mourning, — no crape, etc., — 
 as the death had not been officially announced, but no one 
 doubted it. The gentlemen noticed that the baroness's grief 
 was not deep-seated, and that she very soon recovered her 
 spirits so far as to resume her manoeuvres. The baroness had 
 become quiet enough to relate all sorts of stories, both grave 
 and laughable, of the " blessed major." She had already 
 reached the point where grief has a sort of sweetness as one 
 feels interesting. 
 
 The baroness began to reflect that the major's unlucky 
 fate enabled her to carry out her plans for the marriage of 
 the two girls. She rejoiced to think she had not mentioned 
 the major's objections to Salmis and Diinkelstern. When 
 the two gentlemen cautiously took up the thread of the inter- 
 rupted conversation, they found the baroness quite prepared 
 for them and quite ready to resume her intrigues. The " tea 
 society" became active once more. 
 
 Clara was always sad and thoughtful. All thought of mar- 
 riage had become odious to her, and it was only the idea that 
 
56 THE DOUBLE WEDDING 
 
 Salmis really loved her, and that she had, with her mother's 
 assistance, tried to catch him, and that her father might 
 even be said to have helped by his careless indifference, that 
 enabled her to listen with any composure to allusions to that 
 subject. But she would not for a long time think of any- 
 thing like setting the day. It was only when her mother 
 assured her that it would be a consolation to her, in her 
 widowhood, to see her united to the man of her choice, that 
 she agreed to let the wedding take place in the summer, if 
 Albert, who would then be at home, thought fit to set a day. 
 
 Diinkelstern was the moving spring of the " tea society." 
 Marriage was a necessity for him, as it was his only hope of 
 escape from ruin. Diinkelstern was already pire de famiUe, 
 though without any legal right to the name. * Rebecca was 
 in his eyes only a " goose," but of her feathers he hoped to 
 make a pillow on which to rest his head for continued de- 
 bauchery. So it was Diinkelstern who was always urging 
 Salmis to greater exertions. 
 
 Rebecca retained her even temper amid the ebb and flow 
 of the various consultations. She was accustomed to Diinkel- 
 stern, and perhaps liked him rather better than the generality 
 of her acquaintance. But she liked Cousin Rindstadter just 
 as well, and thought of him with pleasure. She often watched 
 him from the window when he was busy in the orchard, and 
 wondered with which of the two she could be happier, — with 
 Diinkelstern, whom she was now to marry, or with Cousin 
 Rindstadter, whom she should have married if her '• good 
 father's brother" had lived. 
 
 Bergstrbm's sorrow for the major's disappearance was deep 
 and lasting. His visits, which had never been frequent, and 
 timed with hunting- or fishing-parties, might now indeed be 
 said to be few and far between. 
 
 Clara was completely changed. She had lost the mocking 
 manner which had characterized her formerly. She had but 
 little to say, and spoke with a sorrow-tinged politeness to all 
 alike. 
 
 The snow melted unusually early, and already in March 
 there were'^igns of returning spring. One fine day at the 
 end of that month Bergstrbm came over for a visit, and 
 hearing that the two lovers were also there, and that the 
 whole family, with the exception of Clara, who was in the 
 
AT DUNDERVIKSBORG. 57 
 
 orchard, had gone out for a drive, he betook himself likewise 
 to the orchard. 
 
 Proken Clara sat on a bench, looking at the tokens of ap- 
 proaching spring. The meadows were already free from 
 snow, and the air was unusually mild for the early season ; 
 still she was wrapped in a cloak. 
 
 " Forgive me, Proken" (the appellation of the noble-born 
 young ladies), said Bergstrom, approaching her. " As I had 
 a little leisure to-day, I thought I would do myself the honor 
 of paying the ladies a visit ; but as I hear that all are out 
 except you, Proken, I have taken the liberty of presenting 
 myself before you to beg you, as the claims of duty will pre- 
 vent me from repeating my visit for several weeks, to present 
 my respects to the baroness and Miss Rebecca." 
 
 Clara had colored a little when she saw the young man 
 enter the gate, and when he had finished his address she 
 went to him and shook hands with him. 
 
 " You are sincerely welcome, Mr. Bergstrom," said she. " I 
 can bid you welcome, not only in my own name, but in that 
 of the others, who will return very soon. Please to sit down." 
 
 Then there was a pause, during which both seemed to be 
 thinking how they should carry on the conversation. 
 
 At last Clara said in a dreamy manner, " How has Mr. 
 Bergstrom been since we last saw him ? But I see I have 
 asked a question which I can answer myself. We heard 
 yesterday from one of your father's parishioners that your 
 whole family, including the old gentleman, were quite well." 
 
 "Yes, thank God !" answered Bergstrom. " And I could 
 wish that all were going on as well here. I see something 
 in Proken's eyes which pains me, and yet it would pain me 
 still more if it were not there." 
 
 " What does the sergeant mean ?" said Clara, blushing, but 
 with a steady voice. 
 
 " Yes," said Bergstrom, with a warm look, and drawing 
 nearer. " I know that Proken Clara and I have a like sorrow 
 though in different degree. We are both thinking of the 
 major." 
 
 " True," said Clara, reassured. Tears ran down her cheeks, 
 and she gave the young man her hand. " I cannot do other- 
 wise than like you for your attachment to my unfortunate 
 father." 
 
 6 
 
58 TMJ<: VOUBLE WEDVIJSG 
 
 Bergstrbm's hand trembled and he moved a little farther 
 off. Clara looked at him with wondering eyes. The con- 
 versation flagged for a while, then she said, " As you are so 
 devoted to my father, to his memory I should say, I ask you 
 if you have heard any news." 
 
 " Yes," said Bergstrbm. " Froken's engagement is spoken 
 of everywhere." 
 
 " Yes," said Clara ; " it was my mother's wish, and has been 
 a consolation to her, she says. For my part, I should have 
 preferred that the thing should not be spoken of till the time 
 for the wedding were settled." 
 
 " What has happened has happened," said Bergstrom, " and 
 I really cannot see that it makes any difference whether it be 
 known a little earlier or a little later." 
 
 " I hope," said Clara, with an inquiring look at Bergstrbm, 
 " that does not prevent you from offering me your wishes for 
 my future happiness ?" 
 
 " Oh !" said Bergstrbm, " from the bottom of my heart I 
 wish you all manner of good, and only hope that every one's 
 good wishes may be as sincere as mine." 
 
 The trembling voice with which Bergstrbm uttered these 
 words induced Clara to look at him again with some curios- 
 ity, and to say, " Your answer is not straightforward ; now 
 tell me frankly, do you think I have a good chance of hap- 
 piness ?" 
 
 " Frbken Clara !" said Bergstrbm, whose agitation pre- 
 vented him from continuing. 
 
 Much astonished, Clara said slowly, and with a sigh, " I 
 see you are not as candid with me as with my blessed 
 father." 
 
 "So," said Bergstrbm, with vivacity. "But that is a 
 question I cannot answer. Put that same question to your 
 father's spirit, and he will answer it by speaking to your 
 heart." 
 
 Clara hesitated, though she could not see that any secret 
 meaning was hidden under his words, and then said, " Mr. 
 Bergstrbm, whatever you may have meant by your remark, 
 as you are good and just I will tell you my own views of the 
 matter. I do not only believe, but I know that my father did 
 not desire this marriage." 
 
 " And still " said Bergstrbm, in a scarcely audible voice. 
 
AT DVNDERVIKSBORG. 59 
 
 " And still," said Clara, " I am about to give my hand to 
 Salmis. Hear me, Mr. Bergstrom, before you condemn me. 
 I believe — forgive what you may consider boldness in a young 
 girl — that the words with which parents utter their wishes in 
 similar cases must be understood, like obscure passages in the 
 Bible, as modified by reason and circumstance. If my father 
 objected to Salmis, which he. really did, it could only have 
 been because he did not consider him likely to insure my 
 happiness. But if I, on my side, think that he is, I must 
 surely know both Salmis and my own heart better than he 
 did. And if my father was mistaken, while respecting the 
 affection which dictated the judgment, I need not respect that 
 judgment." Ha,ving said that, she looked steadfastly at Berg- 
 strom. 
 
 " Frbken Clara," said Bergstrom, with deep emotion, 
 "however strong my belief is that the major was right, my 
 wish that he may prove to have been wrong is still stronger." 
 
 The almost sublime resignation which glistened in the young 
 man's eyes deeply alFected Clara, although she only took it to 
 be disinterested sympathy, and she could not find words with 
 which to thank him. She remained silent. 
 
 It was very evident that Clara was not in love with Salmis, 
 but could that be any comfort to Bergstrom ? 
 
 " You are doubtless interested in Rebecca's fate also," said 
 Clara at last, interrogatively, " and you have doubtless formed 
 your opinion of the happiness or unhappiness which her mar- 
 riage may bring to her." 
 
 " Hm !" replied Bergstrom, — " the good and unpretending 
 Miss Bebecea is not formed by nature for either great happi- 
 ness or unhappiness. Miss Rebecca is one of those natures 
 who have not life enough to be either very happy or very 
 unhappy, but it is otherwise with natures more highly strung. 
 Such a one cannot be happy in married life without real de- 
 votion to her husband." 
 
 Clara sighed. " Let us stop investigating so deep and 
 dangerous a subject and pass to another one. Do you know 
 that the other night I had a dream of my father, which 
 seemed so real that when I awoke it took me an hour to 
 reason myself back into the sad reality ?" 
 
 " Did Proken really hav^e a dream ?" said Bergstrom, and 
 tears stood in his eyes. " Ah ! if I only dared ; but no, it would 
 
60 T±l±i JJUUJiLiJU WJUJJUlJSijt 
 
 be wrong ; there was surely nothing in it." And he Stared 
 dreamily before him. 
 
 ""What I In heaven's name, what did you say?" said 
 Clara, with a trembling voice. 
 
 " Nothing, Froken ; really nothing. Rumors should never 
 be repeated." 
 
 " My good, good Bergstrom ! You increase my uneasiness 
 instead of quieting it. If you wish me well, as you seem to 
 do, say openly what was just now on your tongue." 
 
 " Then, if you must hear it, — but with the understanding 
 that it shall remain a secret between us until something is 
 known positively. I will not agitate others." 
 
 " I promise," said Clara, trembling like a leaf. 
 
 " I read two or three times in the newspaper," said Berg- 
 strom, " extracts from foreign papers, stating that there was 
 still some hope that the steamer on which the major sailed 
 for America was not lost." 
 
 As he said this Froken Clara rose from her seat, and stood 
 before him as pale as a ghost. Noticing her agitation, Berg- 
 strom rose also. Clara's agitation and faintness increased; 
 she put her hand on his shoulder and rested her head against 
 his breast. 
 
 A flame of fire shot through Bergstrbm's veins. If he 
 only dared kiss her once, just once ! But the noble youth 
 restrained himself, and simply put his hand behind her neck 
 and pressed her head still closer to his breast. 
 
 Clara recovered herself after a whHe, and said, with glow- 
 ing cheeks and an inspired look, " Think, think, if my father 
 still lives !" 
 
 " For heaven's sake, Froken, do not indulge that hope !" 
 said Bergstrom. " Think of the sorrow you would have to 
 bear a second time if. the news should not be true." 
 
 " No, Mr. Bergstrom," replied Clara, " I do not fear that. 
 I do not know the hearts of others, but I know my own. I 
 have wept out. My father is for me now nothing but a holy 
 and blessed memory. He is now lost to me ; I cannot lose 
 him again. I am not cheated if he does not come back, 
 because now my heart expects nothing. But if he lives, if 
 he comes back ! Oh, Mr. Bergstrom I that were a gift direct 
 from heaven which I should enjoy in blessed peace. My 
 heart has now been tried and hardened by sorrow. As for 
 
AT DVNDERVIKSBORG. 61 
 
 the others, I agree with you that no one else in this house 
 should hear of this doubtless groundless report. But I hear 
 the noise of wagon-wheels ; the company is returning. We 
 must change our subject." 
 
 Bergstrom looked troubled and restless. " I feel too much 
 upset," said he, " not to be a tiresome companion. Allow 
 me, therefore, to take my leave. They have not seen me. 
 Farewell ; but promise to think of me without bitterness, if 
 this spark of hope should be extinguished." 
 
 " Yes, Bergstrom ; I promise that," said Clara. " I shall 
 ever have a kindly feeling for you. But I make you another 
 promise : should my father return,— but no, he cannot be 
 living, or we should have heard from him, — should he return, 
 I promise to feel eternally grateful to you for having been 
 the first to bring a ray of hope into my heart." 
 
 Bergstrom was deeply moved, but his embarrassed manner 
 showed there was still something on his mind. 
 
 " You have still something to tell me, Mr. Bergstrom," 
 said Clara, with an encouraging expression on her fair face. 
 " Speak out, with your habitual frankness." 
 
 " I have a favor to ask of you, Froken Clara, but can 
 scarcely find courage to do so," said Bergstrom. 
 
 " Ask," said Clara. " I know you now, Mr. Bergstrom, to 
 be a man of honor and refinement, and I feel sure you will 
 ask nothing wrong. I promise beforehand to grant your 
 request." 
 
 " I beg you," said Bergstrom, " to allow me once to kiss 
 your hand. I know I am not entitled to such an honor, but 
 your goodness has emboldened me." 
 
 " How you talk, Mr. Bergstrom !" said Clara, blushing 
 deeply, and holding her hand out for him to kiss. 
 
 Bergstrom pressed his lips upon it, and let a tear fall on 
 the soft, white hand. When he looked up. in her face after- 
 wards Clara saw, for the first time in her life, something in 
 his eyes which awoke in her own heart a feeling hitherto un- 
 known. 
 
 After this discovery Clara's ideas flowed in another chan- 
 nel. Until then she had not known the meaning of the word 
 love. She had only known the enjoyment of coquetting, of 
 attracting young men, and of attaching a favored one, finally, 
 
 6* 
 
62 THK VOUJiLJi WEDDlJSa 
 
 to her triumphal car. After the major's disappearance deep 
 grief had humbled her heart and changed her mood to melan- 
 choly. As to Salmis she had made up her mind, and from 
 that hour, like all strong minds, she had found rest in resig- 
 nation. Now she had seen that Bergstrom loved her. The 
 love which, in an unguarded moment, had streamed forth 
 from his eyes had fallen upon her heart like a spark of elec- 
 tricity. The thought of his love followed her everywhere, 
 and as she thought of many trifling actions which women 
 notice so quickly and remember so long, she felt sure he had 
 loved her long. When she remembered her father's secret 
 wishes, his last wish, one might say, she felt a burning uneasi- 
 ness, and the idea of marrying Salmis became really painful 
 to her. But she said nothing. Without acknowledging it 
 to herself she hoped it might not be necessary. 
 Bergstrbm's visits to the family ceased entirely. 
 
 . Fourteen days lat-er the family got hold of a newspaper, 
 which created a great sensation. There was an article in it 
 about a rumor that the steamer (on which they knew that 
 Major von Bomben had sailed for Ame^'ica) had not been 
 lost. But, unfortunately, there seemed to be no foundation 
 for this glad rumor. This was about what Bergstrom had 
 confided to Clara. 
 
 As we have said, this news made a great stir, but it was 
 contradicted immediately. The baroness, who found it very 
 difficult to go from one state of mind to another, was rather 
 sorry to pee a ray of hope, and when it was extinguished she 
 said, " Yes, yes, misfortune is always certain, and it is not 
 worth while to make one's self any illusion." And, with a 
 sigh, she began to peel a juicy orange. 
 
 Fourteen days more passed away. One morning the letter- 
 carrier entered Von Rindstadter's room. That day the latter 
 did not appear at dinner, but reported himself indisposed. 
 He came down to tea and said he was better, but seemed 
 thoughtful. His eyes were red, as if he had been weeping. 
 Nevertheless, he was more talkative than usual, that is, he 
 really said a few words and was even heard to Imigh, to the 
 unutterable astonishment of all present. He surprised Clara 
 particularly by looking at her with a peculiar smile, which 
 any one who did not know Rindstadter might easily have 
 
AT DVNDERVIKSSORO. 63 
 
 taken for a lover's look. This strange behavior lasted two 
 days, only he took his meals as usual. Sometimes his eyes 
 would fill suddenly with tears, so that he was forced to take 
 out his pocket-handkerchief. *• 
 
 The next day Clara went on some errand into the so-called 
 " state rooms." As she was leaving them and locking the 
 doors, she heard Von Kindstadter come hurriedly down from 
 his room. After clearing his throat a few times he said, 
 " Cousin Clara, I do not think you have ever been in my 
 room. Would you not like to see how I live ? No one will 
 see you go up with me." 
 
 Clara was much surprised by this very peculiar invitation, 
 and with difiSculty repressed a smile ; but she accepted it, 
 thinking there must be some exceptional cause for it. 
 
 " Sit down, my good cousin," said Rindstadter, when they 
 reached his room, " I have something to tell you." And the 
 tender-heaTted man burst into tears. 
 
 " It must be a very sorrowful subject on which we are 
 going to speak," said Clara, almost frightened, as Rindstadter's 
 face betrayed deep emotion. 
 
 " On the contrary," sobbed Rindstadter, " it is only too 
 joyful. I have been requested to convey a certain intelli- 
 gence to the family, and to communicate it first to you as the 
 strongest. I was told to do it cautiously, but I find that I 
 am an unskilful agent." 
 
 " In heaven's name," said Clara, whose knees trembled, 
 " say but one word, — is my father living?" 
 
 " Yes, yes", yes, yes, yes," comforted Rindstadter. " Do 
 not be sad, do not be frightened, dearest Cousin Clara !" 
 
 Clara did not answer. She dropped on her knees and laid 
 her head on the seat of a chair. _ She wept long and quietly, 
 though her whole frame was quivering with emotion. 
 
 Rindstadter ran about helplessly, and anxiously wishing to 
 quiet Clara's paroxysm of weeping. First he took up the 
 water-pitcher and set it down again, then he took the enor- 
 mous key of the barn and set it down likewise, then he 
 opened the door into the hall, and then shut and bolted it, 
 and, finally, went and patted Clara on the head. 
 
 But Clara now arose with the smiling repose of an angel. 
 " I will only ask one question, my good uncle," said she: 
 " how do you know what you have now told me ?" 
 
64 THE DOUBLE WEDDING 
 
 " I have had a letter from your brother Albert/' was Ritid- 
 Stadter's reply. 
 
 " May I read the letter ? may I have it ?" said Clara. 
 
 Rindstadter gave her the letter with a glad smile, and Clara 
 put it in her bosom. 
 
 " I remember I have another question to ask you," said 
 Clara, seizing both of Rindstadter's hands. " I have often 
 spoken disrespectfully to you, I have even made fun of youj 
 because you are naturally timid, or rather you are less cour- 
 ageous than my father, who is my touchstone, — say, best of 
 uncles, can you forgive me ?" 
 
 Clara embraced Rindstadter with her round, white arms. 
 Rindstadter, annoyed in the highest degree, shrugged his 
 shoulders, put his hands behind him, finally stood on tiptoe, 
 moved uneasily, and behaved very much like a two- or three- 
 year-old boy who had something to confide to his nurse. 
 
 " Yes7 yes, cousin !" stammered he at last. " I forgive 
 everything. Hm ! there is really nothing to forgive, only a 
 little raillery on your part. I am really fond of you, though 
 1 do not know how to get along with ladies. You are very 
 much like your good father. God be praised that he still 
 lives and" (when he felt himself free from his cousin's em- 
 brace) " that all is over !" 
 
 With a warm and thankful pressure of the hand, Clara de- 
 parted with the letter. She begged Rindstadter to behave 
 as usual at table and to allow her to impart the news, when 
 she deemed best, to the family. 
 
 " Good heavens I" said Clara, who had locked herself up 
 in her room, " my father will be here in a few days, if all 
 goes well." 
 
 She kissed the letter and pressed it to her heart. We will 
 now impart to our readers as briefly as possible such portions 
 of Albert's letter as can interest them. 
 
 The major had landed, happily, in America, although a 
 dangerous accident, detaining them many days, had given 
 rise to the report that the vessel was lost. He had returned 
 to England in safety, and intended to return to his fatherland 
 within a week after despatching the Jetter containing this in- 
 telligence. 
 
 Clara was now as quiet as she was happy, although she 
 
AT DUNDERVIKSBORQ. 65 
 
 fouhd it hard to restrain tears of joy. She reflected upon the 
 best mode of coihmunieating to her mother and cousin the in- 
 telligence so deeply interesting to them all. Spite of all the 
 caution she could use, the baroness's emotion was so great 
 that the smelling-salts were needed to prevent a fainting fit. 
 At last she recovered herself, but st-ared round the room with 
 a bewildered air. Rebecca was very glad, and skipped about 
 the room saying, "Ah ! you dear, good father's brother, are you 
 really coming back ? shall I really see you once more ?" This 
 was the strongest emotion that Rebecca had known in the 
 whole course of her life, even including the marriage intrigues. 
 
 As we have just said, the baroness soon recovered her 
 composure, or rather, her old, wordy sentimentality. " Good 
 heavens," said she, pressing her fine batiste handkerchief 
 first to her eyes and then to her whole face, " how troubled 
 and uneasy this world is ! First I had to accustom myself to 
 the horrible idea that my good Von Bomben was lying on the 
 bottom of the-sea, and now I must accustom myself to the 
 idea that he is living. But God's ways are not our ways," 
 added she, with a sigh of resignation, " and, as a matter of 
 course, it is with great pleasure that I hear that your father 
 is to be restored to us. But, my dear girls, I fear that our 
 marriage plans are a failure. Advise me, I do not know what 
 to do or say. What shall I say to Salmis and Diinkelstern ?" 
 
 " My dear mamma," said Clara, " let everything remain as 
 it is till papa returns." 
 
 " That is also my idea," said Rebecca, in her usual pleasant, 
 friendly manner. 
 
 " My dear girls," said the baroness, earnestly, " that will 
 never do in the world. When I think of Von Bomben I shake 
 like a leaf. Just feel my hand. Am I not pale ?" 
 
 A few days later Salmis and Diinkelstern came over to- 
 gether from Stockholm, so that the " tea society" was together 
 once'more. 
 
 " We have heard a most agreeable piece of news in Stock- 
 holm," said Diinkelstern, with a stifi^ smile, which showed that 
 he did not wish to believe the report he had heard. " I do 
 not know if we dare congratulate the ladies on so extraordinary 
 a piece of luck as that Major von Bomben should be alive." 
 
 " Oh, dear ! yes," said the baroness, who exchanged glances 
 with the girls, as if to congratulate each other that the gentle- 
 
66 THE DOUBLE WEDDINO 
 
 men had been the first to mention the subject. " The girls — 
 yes, dear Clara, honesty is the best policy, as the proverb 
 says — the girls and I had been reflecting how we could lead 
 the conversation to this joyful piece of news, which, if I dare 
 express myself openly, places us in the most embarrassing 
 situation." 
 
 " Explain yourself, my gracious cousin," said Diinkelstern, 
 with a smile which was rendered repulsive by the paleness 
 which suddenly overspread his face. 
 
 " Yes, gentlemen," said the baroness, " the whole affair is 
 at an end. Our plotting has been in vain. Von Bomben 
 lives and will soon return." 
 
 " What happiness 1" said Salmis, with a tone and look which 
 proved his sincerity, for his heart was not bad. 
 
 Dunkelstern at first said nothing ; butwith the same smile 
 and still paler, if possible, than before, he pressed the bar- 
 oness's hand, as a silent and touching congratulation. " Well, 
 my respected cousin," said he, at last, " I can imagine your 
 happiness." 
 
 " It is great," said the baroness, " thanks be to heaven ! 
 But, gentlemen, our wedding preparations, what shall become 
 of them ? It lies heavily on my conscience, — yes, my good 
 Clara, I cannot keep silent any longer, — it weighs on my con- 
 science that we did not tell you what my husband said. He 
 expressed his wish, his commandment, his threat, I may well 
 say, the week before his adventurous journey. The reason 
 that we did not say anything about it was that we thought it 
 would never be necessary to mention it, as we heard so soon 
 after his departure the uncomfortable news, — hu ! I shudder 
 still when I think about it, — the false tidings that the ship 
 was lost." 
 
 " My most gracious aunt," asked Salmis, with great anxiety, 
 " surely the major did not say anything against my union with, 
 my darling Clara ?" . 
 
 " My esteemed Salmis," answered the baroness, "heaven 
 is my witness that this subject is a most unpleasant one for 
 me. Indeed, I am at a loss how to express myself ; but you, 
 gentlemen, will understand what I now say. My husband — 
 as I understood from a few words which slipped from him 
 accidentally — has had no eyes for what is fine and attractive 
 in your character, my good Salmis, and with his bizarre ap- 
 
AT DUNDERVIKSBORG. 67 
 
 preciation of character, on which he is always harping, Cousin 
 Diinkelstern does not seem to have found a soft spot." 
 
 Salmis looked cast down, but Diinkelstern's eyes expressed 
 both anger and hate. The instinct which had rendered it 
 impossible for him to approach the major now told him what 
 the major thought of him : he could even guess what the 
 major had said. But he remained silent. 
 
 " I can scarcely imagine," said Salmis, " that the major 
 will refuse me Clara's hand, as I am sincerely attached to her 
 and she to me. Is not that so, my own Clara, my loved one ?" 
 Clara grew pale, though no one happened to notice it, and 
 her only, answer was downcast eyes and a faint pressure of 
 her lover's hand. • 
 
 " For my part," said Diinkelstern, with his false smile (the 
 man lied whenever he spoke), " I find myself in the same 
 happy predicament. I certainly possess your heart, my 
 excellent Rebecca ?" 
 
 " Of course you do, good Dunkelstern," said Rebecca, good^ 
 naturedly. " I think a great deal of Jou, but I would not 
 dream of marrying you in opposition to father's brother's 
 wishes. That would never enter my head. For," said she, 
 after a few minutes' reflection, with a look and tone which 
 were both good and naive, " I have for father's brother such 
 aflFection and respect, and even fear, that I feel sure I could 
 bring myself to love and even to marry any one whom he 
 would select." 
 
 An expression of contempt and dislike passed rapidly over 
 Diinkelstern's face, but soon changed to his habitual false 
 smile. 
 
 But as long as they talked that afternoon, and as often as 
 the baroness said, " But, tell me, how shall we behave ?" they 
 found it impossible to come to any conclusion that evening. 
 
 We will now join another society, which is composed of 
 only two persons. It is Major von Bomben and his son Albert, 
 who are conversing in a room in the hotel in Calmar, during 
 the time that the steamer stopped there on its way from 
 Liibeck to Stockholm. 
 
 " But why did you not tell me that before ?" said the major. 
 " Because," said Albert, a tall, well-made and broad-shoul- 
 dered youth, in whom it was easy to recognize the major of 
 forty years back, — " because it was not necessary before." 
 
68 THE DOUBLE WEDDING 
 
 " And John," retorted the major, " wrote to you that the 
 wedding was soon to take place if the news of my death had 
 been confirmed ?" 
 
 " Yes, father," said Albert ; " but do not get angry, but re- 
 member, as a man of honor and one who keeps his word, 
 the promise you made me which induced me to tell you my 
 secret." 
 
 " You are right, you rascal," said the major, while he took 
 his son with both hands by the collar and gazed in his eyes 
 with such a bok as only a father's love can prompt. " You 
 are right, you rascal ; but I was a fool to give that promise, as 
 I see now you would have been obliged to tell me your story 
 witlftut it. Bat truly I might have expected anything from 
 Friiken Agnes Marianna von Wickenstrom." 
 
 " Father !" interrupted Albert, with a hurt but manly look, 
 " remember you are speaking of my mother." 
 
 " Right, Albert ; excuse me," replied the major. " You are 
 a real fine fellow, — as thin-skinned as the devil. I like you, 
 Albert. But how c9ald your sister Clara, — a little harum- 
 scarum she is, but — ^yes, yes. I know the ring of the true 
 metal, — how could she take part in such an intrigue ?" 
 
 " Clara," replied Albert, " did not kmaw her own heart. 
 She knows nothing of the world." 
 
 "Heavens!" said the major: "but that irritates me still 
 more against those who induced her to sacrifice herself." Now 
 the major's light eyes grew red, and his eyebrows drew to- 
 gether till they looked like shades, and he knocked on the 
 table with his clenched fist till the decanters danced, while 
 he screamed, " May judgment overtake me, a sinner, if I do 
 not " 
 
 " Now you are forgetting our agreement again," said Albert, 
 quietly. 
 
 " True, true," said the major, quieting down ; " true, but 
 have I not good reasons for getting hopping mad ?" 
 
 " Less than you think, my dear father," said Albert. " 5!eai 
 me patiently for one moment. What have they done which 
 has not happened thousands of times in families ? They have 
 simply engaged in a love-affair without consulting the head 
 of the house. Of course they did not dream of carrying oul 
 their plans against papa's wishes, but they foolishly hoped to 
 be able to win papa over to their side. Salmis is a fool, bu( 
 
AT dunderviksborq: 69 
 
 does not know that he is one. He considers himself as an 
 important person with a good future, and as he is really in 
 love with Clara, it is quite natural for him to consider his 
 share in the intrigue as perfectly honorable. He really thinks 
 he will secure Clara's happiness at the same time as his own. 
 You ought not to be angry with Clara either. She was flattered 
 by Salmis's attention, and as she has a kind heart, — and heart 
 attracts heart, — it is probable that she has learned to like 
 him to a certain point. You expect from Clara what you 
 have no right to expect, and are yourself to blame if she is not 
 all you could wish. You have played with her as if she were 
 a doll, and conversed with her as if she were a full-grown 
 woman. As to Rebecca, it is not worth while to talk -about 
 her. The only person with whom you ought to be angry is 
 Dunkelstcrn, and he is beneath your notice. He is a heart- 
 less and selfish man, who only wants Rebecca's money." 
 
 The major listened to his son with the closest attention, 
 and in order to keep his temper and to show Albert that his 
 patience was inexhaustible, he leaned back on the sofa with 
 both legs and arms crossed. One might have expected that 
 some parts of his speech would irritate the passionate father, 
 and his eyes did occasionally roll rather wildly, but, upon the 
 whole, Albert's speech made a very good impression on him. 
 His son's bold honesty touched a responsive chord in the 
 father's heart. 
 
 " The devil take me," burst from the major, at last, " if I 
 can understand where you got your sensible and really con- 
 vincing way of reasoning. You certainly did not inherit it 
 from me, and — but it is all one where you got it. But," con- 
 tinued he, evidently quite delighted, " you are a sappermented 
 bold youth to speak to your father in that way ; but — let it 
 pass. Tell me, you powerful reasoner, what do you want me 
 to do?" 
 
 " Nothing, father ; just nothing at all," said Albert. 
 
 " Nothing !" repeated the major, with great astonishment 
 and a high color. ' ' Nothing, sir ! What sort of a Danvik story 
 is that ?" . 
 
 " Nothing," said Albert ; " because it is not necessary for 
 you to do anything. Remember that respect and affection 
 are not the only feelings we entertain for you, but also fear." 
 
 " Fear, indeed 1" cried the major, evidently flattered, 
 7 
 
70 TRE DOUBLE WEDDING 
 
 although he pretended to regard Albert's assertion as a joke. 
 " Fear ; you look like it, you young rascal !" 
 
 " Our fear of you is so great," continued Albert, without 
 seeming to notice the major's remark, " that no one would 
 dream of opposing what was supposed to be your wish, still 
 less your expressed will. Do you think that those at home, 
 when they are informed of your safety and speedy return, 
 would continue to think of their old plans ? Oh, I know you, 
 my father; you do not think any such thing." 
 
 " Well, Albert," said the major, who rose up and shook 
 his son's hand, " this time I will follow your advice, for I 
 really do not know anything better to do. But now we must 
 hurry down to the boat or we shall be left." 
 
 We shall go ahead of them to Dunderviksborg. 
 
 The gentlemen from Stockholm had been persuaded to 
 spend a week there, as the spring was lovely and early. 
 
 It was'dinner-time. That day there was .an unheard-of 
 commotion in Dunderviksborg. The evening before, the 
 major's messenger had arrived with some of his things and 
 the announcement that he would be at home the next day. 
 The baroness had not closed her eyes the whole night, and 
 was now somewhat under the influence of Hoflmann's drops. 
 Clara had shed tears of joy till midnight, and then slept like 
 an angel, — if angels do sleep. Rebecca had clapped her 
 small white hands twice as she was getting into bed, and 
 dropped asleep in the quiet certainty of embracing her good 
 father's brother on the next day. 
 
 Diinkelstern had spent a good hour, on the previous even- 
 ing, in Salmis's room. The gentlemen sat each in a corner 
 of the sofa, and conversed while smoking cigars. Their 
 friendship, which had never been o^ the right sort, had long 
 been at an end. 
 
 " Do you think," said Salmis, " that all is really over?" 
 
 " Decidedly," said Diinkelstern ; " there can be no doubt 
 of that." 
 
 " It is really frightful," said Salmis, " to lose such a pearl 
 as Clara." And thereupon he wiped his eyes with his East 
 India silk handkerchief. "Under raillery and intrigues I 
 have learned to love the girl devotedly. She has a good mind 
 and a good heart, though she is a little malicious sometimes ; 
 
AT DVNDERVIKSBORG. 71 
 
 and then, what a lovely face, what a neck, what hands I Oh, 
 it is fearful !" 
 
 "Fearful?" asked Diinkelstern, jokingly. "One must 
 really be acquainted with your mode of expressing yourself 
 to understand you, my dear Salmis. You say that Clara has 
 a good heart, though she is a little malicious, and I say that 
 you have quite a poetical vein, although you are stupid. You 
 are a fool. Salmis ; or rather, an ass," said Diinkelstern, with 
 the aiFected tone of a genuine but reproving friend. " Was 
 it to fall in love that we agreed to come to this house to do 
 our courting ? Was it not to get our afiairs in order so as to 
 be able to enjoy the future ? Have you not been able from 
 the very first to rest quietly in the certainty that if you only 
 secured the money you would get the face and neck and 
 hands likewise ?" 
 
 " Don't talk so," said Salmis ; " I do not like it. You 
 cannot enter into my feelings." 
 
 " Oh, you joker 1" said Diinkelstern. " Just as if you had 
 not had a dozen love-afiairs in Stockholm." 
 
 " That is false !" said Salmis, jumping up, and speaking in 
 an excited tone which was quite unusual with him. " I 
 shall never find such a girl as Clara again ; and now hush ; 
 not one word more !" And he threw down his cigar with a 
 threatening gesture. 
 
 Diinkelstern was not a brave man, so he thought it best to 
 hold his tongue for a while. 
 
 After a lapse of time he resumed : " In your eyes I am 
 evidently less to be pitied, as I only lose a goose, but it was 
 such a goose as one only gets on St. Martin's eve. You 
 remember the habits of our Bachelors' Club." 
 
 " Not a word of that, either," replied Salmis. " You are 
 a rascal, Diinkelstern. You only wanted to get her money 
 and then neglect her. I, at least, intended to devote myself 
 to her who set me free from the usurers." 
 
 Diinkelstern did not dare aTiswer, but made a face at 
 Salmis after the latter had turned his back on him. 
 
 When Salmis turned round again Diinkelstern said, with 
 his usual tone and manner, " You are in a bad humor this 
 evening. I shall leave you to sleep it off." 
 
 " Gro to the devil !" said Salmis, and began to undress. 
 
 " Grood !" said Diinkelstern, quietly ; " only you might be a 
 
72 Axia uuunjjui yyj<iuuii\ijt 
 
 little more polite. I really do not know how I have offended 
 you." 
 
 " So !" said Salmis. 
 
 " What shall we do to-morrow ?" said the older gentleman. 
 
 " I intend to keep my promise," said Salmis, " and take part 
 in the deliberations to-morrow morning. The major returns 
 in the afternoon : and now be so kind as to go to the devil, 
 as I have already begged you to do. I wish to be alone." 
 Thereupon Salmis jumped into bed. 
 
 When Diinkelstern saw him in bed he felt vexed, and 
 would have been glad to revenge himself before he went 
 by saying something which would leave its sting ; but- he 
 could not think of anything. 
 
 " Get along with you, I say !" called out Salmis, whose sore 
 heart made him really quarrelsome. " I have to thank you 
 and your so-called friendship for this disappointment." 
 
 " To tell the truth, you ought to be grateful to- me," said 
 Dtinkelstern, whose looks showed that for once he spoke from 
 conviction. " Was it not I who showed you how to raise 
 money, and afterwards — though you now consider your hap- 
 piness as depending entirely upon her — showed you where to 
 find an attractive girl ? You had seen Clara before, but still 
 I had to call your attention to her. I, who was better ac- 
 quainted with the family, had really the right of choice ; but 
 I took Rebecca and left you Clara. Am I to blame for it if 
 you have not sufficient merit to make the girl fall in love 
 with you (for she is certainly not in love with you), and to 
 win her father and mother over to your side ?" 
 
 " Oh, you vagabond !" said Salmis, who found himself in- 
 sulted in his misfortune. " You look like a man who can make 
 a girl fall in love with you and win her parents over to your 
 side ! You look as if you could have taken Clara from me, 
 if you had wished, you fifty-year-old fool ! Begone, as I 
 said." 
 
 " Yes, you thirty-year-old ass," said Dunkelstern, near the 
 door. Salmis sat up in bed and seized the bootjack. Diin- 
 kelstern rushed out and shut the door hastily. 
 
 On the morning of the day when the major was expected 
 everything was in motion at Dunderviksborg. Clara was in- 
 visihle : she had shut herself up in her room. John von 
 
AT DUNDERVIKSBORQ. 73 
 
 Kindstadter was, on the contrary, everywhere ; he flew hither 
 and thither, giving now this order, now that : sometimes two 
 contrary orders at once. He seemed to be out of his mind, 
 and to be entirely wanting in his usual order and punctuality. 
 No one made so many useless trips on that day, or went so 
 oft out of his way as he, unless it were the guardian of the 
 orchard, the big, black Mufti. 
 
 The baroness assembled her " tea society'' immediately 
 after breakfast. Clara, as we have already said, was absent. 
 
 The baroness had that day exerted herself, — something 
 which she had perhaps never done in her life before, — and 
 had brought all her eloquence to bear on the subject. Her 
 habitual, dreamy, languid manner had vanished. 
 
 We need not give the result of this conference, but 
 merely say that their decision was only formed just as they 
 had to separate to dress for dinner, and we will paint the so- 
 ciety as they appeared before separating. 
 
 The baroness was sitting on the sofa, rather fatigued by 
 her exertions, but her eyes looked brighter than usual ; her 
 cheeks were rosy, and her whole appearance handsomer than 
 was her wont. She sat in a careless attitude, and her still 
 handsome arms hung down by her side. 
 
 Salmis sat next to her on a chair, with one leg crossed over 
 the other. He held his folded handkerchief over his mouth 
 and chin ; his face was very red, and his eyes looked as if he 
 had been crying. 
 
 Rebecca seemed petrified by astonishment over something 
 which had happened, but was as placid as usual, and her 
 expression did not denote dissatisfaction. 
 
 Diinkelstern was standing by the window, looking into the 
 orchard and drumming on the window-panes. How he looked 
 we cannot say, but we can imagine it. 
 
 The baroness arose and shook hands with them all, one 
 after the other. 
 
 " So then we are agreed, my dear friends," said she, so as to 
 close with these words the tea consultation ; the " tea society" 
 having been forced to hold this its last session from breakfast 
 till mid-day. " I have tried to show you that it is not possi- 
 ble for me to act otherwise, as the report has been so widely 
 spread.' As I, contrary to my nature and habits, mean to 
 take so bold a step, I think I have a right to count upon your 
 
 7* 
 
74 THE DOUBLE WEDDING 
 
 co-operation. Thank heaven that Clara, who is not to know 
 anything of our determination until the fatal hour has come, 
 is absent, leaving us free to consult. Farewell now till din- 
 ner. I press your hand once more, my dear Diinkelstern ; 
 and yours also, my dear Salmis. May the bond which 
 mutual confidence and mutual attachment have formed be- 
 tween us be everlasting 1 Support me well at the critical 
 moment." 
 
 The major was only expected late in the evening, at the 
 most to supper. At seven o'clock the " tea society" had met, 
 and we will join them for the last time. 
 
 The baroness opened the conversation by remarking how 
 tiresome it was that Diinkelstern had been forced, by some 
 business, to leave immediately afler dinner, so as to be in 
 Stockholm by the appointed time. 
 
 As no one paid any attention to this observation of the 
 baroness, the modest Rebecca felt obliged, out of politeness 
 to her good aunt, to prophesy that it would be a little dull, at 
 first, without Cousin Diinkelstern. 
 
 The conversation languished, as the baroness did not feel 
 equal to any fresh exertion. 
 
 Some of my readers may remember that, some years since, 
 the Day of Judgment was supposed to be at hand. Many, 
 especially women, were filled with fear ; an uncertain uneasi- 
 ness pervaded the atmosphere, and some persons seemed a prey 
 to despair. The writer of this remembers to have seen at 
 every street corner in the small town where he lived, and even 
 in the church-yards, groups of persons waiting for coming 
 events. 
 
 The baroness would now have reminded them of this 
 anxious, expecting frame of mind. One could see that some- 
 thing weighty was to happen, and that she knew that the time 
 was now at hand. She seemed uneasy and restless. She was 
 very pale. She was sewing, but her trembling hand could 
 scarcely hold the needle. 
 
 Rebecca was like herself, only she looked a little roguish. 
 Although she had been for several days expecting father's 
 brother's arrival, she looked upon his arrival now in the light 
 of an attrape. 
 
 Clara was sewing, with glowing cheeks and dreamy looks. 
 
AT DVNDERVIKSBORQ. 175 
 
 Salmis sat, as before dinner, with his handkerchief over his 
 mouth and chin, and never took his eyes oif of Clara. 
 
 The baroness felt obliged to say something at last, so, " I 
 have often told you, my dear friends," said she, " that I find 
 very little pleasure in strong emotions. Heaven is my witness 
 how thankful I am to an overruling Providence that my good, 
 honorable Von Bomben is alive and is coming back, but this 
 waiting for him is painful to me. This tension of the soul is 
 insufferable. If we were sure of the exact time of his arrival 
 we could take an exhilarating walk and go to meet him." 
 
 Just then they heard the door of the hall open hastily and 
 persons enter the hall. A loud whispering, and a quick, firm 
 step upon the stone floor of the hall, attracted their attention. 
 They rose to their feet ; the drawing-room door opened and 
 the major entered. He stood for a moment in the doorway 
 like a sentinel and opened his arms. 
 
 Clara threw herself with the spring of a gazelle into those 
 arms, and was pressed to her father's heart ; and it seemed 
 really as if her father had wished this greeting to be the first. 
 
 Clara's emotion was so great that her whole body shook, 
 and her head sank for a moment powerless on her father's 
 shoulder. " Calm yourself, my darling," said the major, with 
 a broken voice ; " be my sensible daughter again. You know 
 now that your old father is living." 
 
 Then the major hastened towards his wife, but she was 
 seized with spasmodic twitchings. Tears ran down her cheeks, 
 and she waved her husband off with the hand which held 
 the embroidered handkerchief. 
 
 " The devil, Marianna 1" said the major, soothingly. " Do 
 not be frightened 1 I should have done better to follow the 
 advice given me to prepare you a little for my appearance, 
 but I am, as you see, as I always was, rather stupid in such 
 cases. So, so, my old woman ; give me a good hug. I do not 
 surely look like the shadow of a drowned man. So, good ! 
 with this embrace it is as if I said, ' God bless you all ;' you 
 too, my good Rebecca ; and you too, my good Salmis." The 
 major then kissed Rebecca and shook hands with Salmis in a 
 friendly manner. 
 
 Salmis, who had felt very uneasy when the major entered, 
 was much encouraged by this reception. Rebecca hopped 
 around, clapping her hands, which was her way of showing 
 
76 THE DOUBLE WEDDING 
 
 emotion, and made to herself a long speech, to which no one 
 listened. The dog Mufti, who had squeezed in, jumped about 
 as if he were demented, springing up to the shoulder first of 
 the major, then of some other person in the company, and 
 jumped once so suddenly on Rindstadter, who had come in 
 unperceived immediately behind the major, that he fell back- 
 wards on the sofa, — a place which his bashfulness had pre- 
 vented tim from ever taking before. 
 
 " My beloved Von Bomben," said the baroness, after she 
 had somewhat recovered herself (though it had not been 
 without having recourse to Rebecca's smelling-bottle), " you 
 frightened me so dreadfully that I still tremble in all my 
 limbs. I had not expected you for three or four hours still. 
 But rest assured that I am inwardly thankful to Providence 
 for having restored you to me ; you whom I fancied — horrible 
 idea ! — to be swallowed up by the waves." 
 
 " Good, Marianna ! good I" said the major. " Eiss me once 
 more, and tell me if you feel strong enough to bear another 
 surprise." 
 
 " For heaven's sake, Von Bomben," said the baroness, and 
 waved her embroidered handkerchief again, " no more sur- 
 prises. I cannot stand it." 
 
 " Halloo 1" called the major, according to agreement ; and ia 
 this prudent manner (he had promised to prepare his wife 
 gradually) ushered in a young man, who instantly burst from 
 him and rushed to his mother's seat. He fell on his knees 
 before her, put his arms around her waist, and covered her 
 hands with kisses. 
 
 " Albert!" cried they all at once. 
 
 But this surprise did not seem to have any injurious effect 
 upon the baroness. She drew her son up and placed him on 
 the sofa beside her. She looked at him with eyes beaming 
 with a mother's love, wiped his forehead with her handker- 
 chief, looked at him again, kissed him on the forehead and 
 mouth, and finally laid her head on his shoulder and wept 
 the sweet tears which only a mother's love can know. 
 
 The major had not taken his eyes off this group, formed 
 of the mother and son embracing each other. Nature, when 
 she stands forth in purity and strength, throws a halo around 
 the most commonplace persons. There was no affectation, no 
 vanity, to be discovered in the baroness at this time. She was 
 
AT VUNDEMVIKSBORO. Y7 
 
 a true woman, a loving mother. The major felt tears coming 
 into his eyes, so he went to a window for a few moments and 
 looked out. He came back soon and took his son's place on 
 the sofa, and, throwing his arm with as much gallantry as 
 affection around his still undeniably handsome wife, kissed 
 her hand, saying, " My dear wife, while I have been growing 
 grayer and uglier — and heaven knows I was ugly enough 
 before — ^you have grown handsomer, and I positively feel as 
 much in love as in our honeymoon." 
 
 The baroness blushed, and looked around with a feeling of 
 gratified vanity as well as affection. 
 
 Looking at his daughter, the major discovered symptoms of 
 a great, and to him very gratifying, change. But, strange to 
 say, when they had quieted down and everything seeme'd to 
 be, so to speak, again on its old footing, there were evident 
 signs of uneasiness on both sides. The major looked impa- 
 tient and inquiring, and the baroness flourished her hand- 
 kerchief and coughed slightly. Her lips trembled, and she 
 opened and closed them without bringing forth any sound. 
 Everything seemed to indicate that she was anxious to intro- 
 duce some subject. ' 
 
 The major noticed it, and seemed even to have been ex- 
 pecting it, as he said, in a quick and peculiar tone, — 
 
 " You have something to tell me, Marianna, my dear ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes," said the baroness, looking very much frightened, 
 " if I only dared." 
 
 " Say on," said the major, with evident anxiety. 
 
 " If I only dared," said the baroness. 
 
 " Speak out, my dear," said the major, with a look which 
 he strove to make as mild as possible, but with an angry tone 
 which he could not repress. 
 
 " But you will be angry," said the baroness, coaxingly. 
 
 "I am much more likely to become deranged," said the 
 major, violently. " Out with it ! out with it !" 
 
 " Well, then, dear Von Bomben," said the baroness, with a 
 trembling voice ; but' here her courage failed her entirely, 
 and instead of the expected intelligence one heard, " Yes, 
 my dear Von Bomben, you made your journey like an adven- 
 turer. A man sixty years old !" 
 
 " Oh !" said the major, somewhat taken aback, " is that 
 all ? I did really feel like an adventurer after I wias fairly on 
 
>J8 Tum jjuujujju WJi^uuiaijt 
 
 the way. The devil only knows what Don Quixotic spirit 
 came over me in Lubeck, but I heard such glowing descrip- 
 tions of the comfort and rapidity with which the voyage could 
 be made. I was assured, too, that I could be back much 
 earlier than I was. I suppose I was myself to blame for not 
 making sufficient inquiries, so that I took a steamer which 
 went to the West India Islands instead of the one for New 
 York. In addition to this we had a fearful storm, which I 
 will describe to you to-morrow, which gave rise to the report 
 which reached you that instead of being made boatswain's 
 mate I had become fishmate" (meat). 
 
 " But, my dear friend," said the baroness, who wished to 
 keep the major talking till she had recovered her eQurage, 
 " wny did you choose America ?" 
 
 " Yes !" thundered the major, who forgot everything in his 
 interest for this subject. " It was just America that I wanted 
 to see. Had I not read with the greatest wonder the most 
 astonishing and contradictory reports concerning that country 
 where there is no king, but where the people govern them- 
 selves in an orderly manner ? I wanted to see for myself." 
 
 " And what did you see, my beloved father ?" said Clara, 
 kissing the major's brown hand. 
 
 " What I saw ?" repeated he. " Well," said he, " I saw a 
 people who are certainly happy, though I could not see how 
 they managed. I was quite repaid for my trouble, and my 
 curiosity was satisfied, but I could not write the history of 
 America. I will have much to relate to you, but will merely 
 say that though America is a fine country Sweden is better." 
 
 Then there was a pause, which the baroness broke by say- 
 ing, with a desperate efibrt, " X propos, dearest Von Bomben, 
 have you not heard sundry reports since your return ?" 
 
 " Keports ? No," said the major, with an angry look. 
 " What reports could I possibly have heard ?" 
 
 " Oh !" said the baroness, trembling. " As you neared 
 home I.thought you might have heard some reports." 
 
 " No, I did not," said the major, stretching himself out 
 angrily, so that the sofa creaked. 
 
 " Yes, my love," said the baroness, plunging headlong into 
 the subject, — " talk about a wedding at Dunderviksborg ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes," said the major ; " I really did hear some such 
 talk, but knew, of course, that it was pure gossip." 
 
AT DUNDERVIKSBORG. 79 
 
 As he looked like a lion about to make a spring, Albert 
 went and sat on the other end of the sofa. 
 
 " But it isn't gossip at all," said the baroness. 
 
 "What!" said the major, his eyebrows bristling up like 
 a wild boar at bay. 
 
 The baroness trembled violently, so Albert touched his 
 father on the shoulder and reminded him of his promise to 
 keep his temper. 
 
 That hacRhe desired effect. 
 
 " What do you mean," said the major, in a milder tone, 
 " when you say it is not gossip ?" 
 
 "Oh, yes; I mean," said the baroness — "but pray be 
 patient and let me tell you the thing as it happened. You 
 were gone, and we had no hope of ever seeing you again ; I 
 was naturally in your place." 
 
 " Be brief, my gracious mamma," whispered Clara to her 
 mother; " papa is getting impatient." 
 
 Albert took his father's hand and held it between his. 
 
 The major looked dangerous, but said nothing. 
 
 " I was thus," resumed the baroness, " in your place." 
 
 " Death and torture !" screamed the major. " While you 
 were waiting to hear if I had sunk or not could you quietly 
 busy yourself with marriage-plots?"' 
 
 It was an exciting moment, but Clara had a lucky inspi- 
 ration. She went and sat on her father's knee, and put her 
 hand on his gray head. 
 
 " For heaven's sake, father," whispered she in his ear, 
 " be quiet till mamma finishes, — perhaps you will be satis- 
 fied." 
 
 The only satisfaction which Clara could expect for her 
 father was that her mother should confess what plans they 
 had formed, and ask his forgiveness for them all, as the en- 
 gagements, which were now broken off, had never been for- 
 mally announced. 
 
 " We had ascertained," said the baroness, '' that we should 
 never see you again. We had grieved for you deeply and 
 tenderly as for 'one who had been buried." Clara's warm 
 embrace persuaded the major that it was so. " But if sor- 
 row has its claims and duties, so has love." 
 
 " Grief's claims seem to have been soon satisfied," said the 
 major, whose white eyebrows had turned red ; and Eind- 
 
80 THE DOUBLE WEDDING 
 
 stadter, who noticed it, sat' down on the sofa-table, so that the 
 major was now besieged on three sides. 
 
 " When I saw their mutual affection," continued the bar- 
 oness, " as I could not disapprove of it I gave my consent." 
 
 The major tried to jump up, but as Clara was sitting on 
 his knee, and Albert holding him back, he was forced to re- 
 main in his place, saying, " Am I dreaming or awake ? Has 
 the whole family, including Albert, conspired against me? 
 But go on, Marianna ; I swear to be quiet — sit stW, I mean — 
 though I should burst on the spot." 
 
 " Consequently," said the baroness, " you see before you' 
 a happy couple." 
 
 "Which couple?" asked the major, staring stupidly before 
 him. 
 
 " Us, good father's brother," said Rebecca, taking Rind- 
 stadter's hand. He looked very much like a school-boy who 
 has been called up to get a scolding before the whole class. 
 
 Rindstadter had not been present at the last " tea council," 
 but he did not challenge the presentation, as the major had 
 told him distinctly before his departure that he must marry 
 Rebecca. 
 
 " Pour the water in the decanter over me, so that I may 
 come to my senses," said the major. " Tell me yourself, 
 John, is this a joke or sober earnest?" 
 
 " Earnest," said Rindstadter, faintly, trying in vain to slip 
 his hand out of Rebecca's. 
 
 Albert's astonishment made him let go his father's arm. 
 Rindstadter had carefully avoided mentioning in any of his 
 letters the major's determination to unite him to Rebecca. 
 
 Father and son jumped up simultaneously, and the former, 
 looking Albert full in the eyes, said, " Do you understand 
 this ? I don't." Albert merely frowned. 
 
 " I hope you are not displeased," said the baroness, 
 placidly, " with my giving my consent to this match?" 
 
 " No, indeed !" screamed the major. " You have made 
 me very happy. You knew how ardently I desired this 
 match. I kiss you, my love, with great gratitude. Since 
 you paid such deference to my wishes when you supposed 
 me to be dead, I can easily forgive your thinking of merry- 
 makings during your mourning." 
 
 Lieutenant Salmis now quietly left the room. 
 
AT DVNDERVIKSBORG. 81 
 
 The major saw that he looked excited, and that awakened 
 his own suspicions and dissatisfaction. Turning to the bar- 
 oness, he said, " Is this all that I am to hear ?" 
 
 " Wait," said the baroness ; " you shall be satisfied. Did 
 you not hear something in Stockholm about an engagement 
 between Salmis and Clara?" 
 
 " That makes no difference," said the major, " whether I 
 heard it or not. But what then ?" 
 
 " All rumors," said the baroness, who was now in the 
 humor for talking, " must have some foundation in truth." 
 
 " For mercy's sake," said the excited major, 'f spare me 
 all your sentences and thoughts, and tell me the second part 
 of your communication !" 
 
 " I can assure you such is not the case," said the bar- 
 oness. 
 
 " What is it that is not so?" asked the major, violently. 
 " Have not all reports some foundation in truth ? In the 
 devil's name what do you mean?" 
 
 " Oh," said the baroness, with dignity, " I did not mean 
 that these had any foundation." 
 
 " I mean," said the major, in a passion, " that you are 
 crazy, Marianna, and that if I wish to avoid the same fate I 
 must go back to America. Is it not possible for you to tell 
 me whether you have betrothed Clara and Salmis or not?" 
 
 "No, certainly not; they are not betrothed," said the 
 baroness. 
 
 " They are not betrothed !" said the major, joyfully. " May 
 God bless you for that ! To tell the truth, I had feared to 
 be obliged to act on my return in a manner which would 
 have been highly unpleasant for us all." 
 
 " No, my dear," continued the baroness ; " the children 
 have a very kindly feeling for each other without knowing 
 any real ' attachment.' Salmis's attentions to Clara have 
 been an amusante courtoisie, and Clara has replied to them 
 with a coquetterie with a sweetness and grace." 
 
 "Enough, old woman," interrupted the major. "You 
 come now to a chapter which I have never read. It does 
 not interest me at all. If there is no engagement I have 
 heard enough, and am satisfied." 
 
 " You afe mistaken, my old man," said the baroness, with 
 suavity. " There has really been an engagement." 
 
 8 
 
82 THE DOUBLE WEDDING 
 
 "There has really been an engagement?" said the major, 
 this time without anger, but with a perplexed look. He 
 looked at Albert, who was as much astonished as he, and 
 then at each member of the family in turn, to see if insanity 
 was the common lot in his family. 
 
 But the most disturbed person in the room was Clara. 
 She, as we know, had not taken part in the " tea council," 
 and had never told her mother that Bergstrom had betrayed 
 his love for her, still less had she spoken of the change in 
 her own feelings for him. " Clara is," said the baroness, 
 with a very anxious look at her daughter, — " is betrothed to 
 Mr. Bergstrom." 
 
 " Which Mr. Bergstrom ?" said the major. 
 
 " The priest's son," explained the baroness, who thought 
 that name sounded better than the under-officer's title. 
 
 " So, so ; the sergeant," said the major, and sprang to his 
 son's side. " Do you understand this ?" said he ; " if you do 
 you are cleverer than I." 
 
 Clara was so startled that she grew pale and red by turns. 
 Her love of truth was struggling with her idea of a daughter's 
 duty. She did not wish to contradict her mother, who, she 
 felt sure, was only carrying out the plan formed by the " tea 
 society." She could not assent to what her mother said, so 
 she remained silent. 
 
 " But is this the truth, the real truth, you are telling me ?" 
 said the major, solemnly, turning to Clara. 
 
 " Do not ask me, ask the others," said Clara, looking down 
 afher sewing. Her father took her action for the embarrass- 
 ment of a happy bride. 
 
 " That is the day's truth," Rebecca hastened to say, and 
 the major doubted no more. 
 
 _ " Well," said he, " I hear that it is the truth. This mar- 
 riage was my heart's desire, as your dearest mother knows, 
 but I had not expected to get to work so quickly as your 
 mother has done. Well, well, it does not matter ; Bergstrom 
 will not die a sergeant, if he lives a few years. But, my dear 
 Marianna, how did it all happen ?" 
 
 The baroness looked worried and bewildered as she replied, 
 "J knew your wishes. I knew that Salmis's regard for Clara 
 was only cowtcmie. I saw that Bergstrom grew daily more 
 in love with Clara, and that she fully returned his affection." 
 
AT DUNDERVIKSBORG. 83 
 
 (Here she cast an anxious look at her daughter.) " I saw 
 that she loved him." (She had seen nothing at all.) 
 
 " Clara!" said the major, and he jumped up and took her 
 in his arms like a child and set her on his knee. " My dear 
 girl, have you so much sense, have you so much discernment, 
 as to fancy that silent and unpretending, but honorable and 
 excellent young man ?" 
 
 Clara was so glad to hear a question which she could con- 
 scientiously answer without mental reservation that she re- 
 plied without hesitation, and in a tone which would have 
 convinced the most sceptical, " Yes, my honored father, I 
 esteem, — yes, I love Berg-strbm." 
 
 " God bless you for it, my daughter !" said the major, kiss- 
 ing her on the forehead and mouth. 
 
 But now it was the poor baroness's turn to be astonished, 
 and she was more astonished even than any of the others 
 had been. She had not the least idea that Bergstrom and 
 Clara loved each other, and, judging her daughter by her- 
 self, she had expected her to refuse most decidedly to marry 
 the poor and not noble sergeant. Her consternation was 
 so great that she could not rejoice that Clara offered no 
 resistance to her father's will. She went into the next room, 
 saying half aloud to herself, " My head is in such a whirl, I 
 think Von Bomben is right; I must be crazy, or at least," 
 with a certain air of resignation, " I shall soon be so." 
 
 "Well, my dear Albert," said the major, — " en passant, I 
 thank you for your very sensible advice, — this is coming home 
 to perfect happiness. I am thoroughly satisfied with petti- 
 coat government, and am very thankful to the newspapers 
 which sent me to the bottom of the sea. I am glad, Mari- 
 anna ; but, spite of your explanations, I do not understand it 
 all. But I am tired and need rest. Excuse me, my friends, 
 if the wandering Ulysses takes his Penelope under his arm 
 and disappears. Mamma and I will not sup with you this 
 evening. Rebecca, my child, send us in some tea and bread 
 and butter and cold chicken." 
 
 When they had got to the door the major stood still, 
 turned round and said, " As sleepy as I am I must see Rind- 
 stadter kiss his bride. Ha ! ha ! John, let me see you 
 doitl" 
 
 Rindstiidter blushed to his ears ; he had never kissed any 
 
84 THE DOUBLE WEDDING 
 
 woman but his mother, and stepped backwards till he was 
 stopped by the stove. 
 
 " What 1 the devU !" said the major, " is the fellow stub- 
 bom ? Dear Kebecca, — aha ! — Eindstadter is thinking of a 
 jeu de sodiU called le putts d'amour. Gro to him and ask 
 him how many feet of water are in the well, and give him as 
 many kisses as there are feet." 
 
 As Rindstadter could not be persuaded to name. the num- 
 ber of feet, Kebecca said there could only be one, and gave 
 him one kiss, while the major clapped his hands. 
 
 After supper all went to their bedrooms, except Clara, who 
 spent an hour in the drawing-room thinking how she should 
 meet Bergstrom after what had passed between her and her 
 parents. 
 
 Soon after the major and his wife had left the company a 
 servant came and announced that Sergeant Bergstrom had 
 come to congratulate the major on his safe return. He 
 had heard the glad news that afternoon at the parsonage, 
 and had immediately jumped on his horse and rode over to 
 pay his respects ; but, hearing that he had retired, he merely 
 sent in his compliments and would return the next day. 
 
 " Tell Bergstrom," said the major, " to come up at once to 
 my room ; he is not to go away till he has seen me. I com- 
 mand him to stay." 
 
 The baroness was quite put out, but said she would meet 
 Bergstrom in the hall. The major said that was quite un- 
 necessary, so she sat down in a state of mind that can be 
 better imagined than described. 
 
 The major went up to his smoking-room, where Bergstrom 
 arrived nearly as soon as he. " Welcome, my honorable 
 Bergstrom," said the major ; " you are most heartily welcome. 
 But don't stand there bowing, but come to my arms, as I am 
 now to enjoy the great happiness of calling you my son." 
 
 The major stretched out his arms in vain, as surprise had 
 nailed Bergstrom to the spot where he stood. 
 
 " So, so," said he ; " no sheepishness, no insubordination." 
 
 "I have heretofore," said Bergstrom, meekly, "always 
 been able to understand the major, but this time it is beyond 
 my power. I neither know the cause nor the meaning of 
 this joke." 
 
AT DUNDERVIKSBORG. 85 
 
 " Am I joking?" said the astonished major. " I should be 
 the last one to joke on such a subject. What ! the devil ! 
 are there any more hindrances in the way?" 
 
 " Perhaps fhe major has not heard," said Ber^trom, 
 "what took place in his absence?" 
 
 "Yes, sir I" said the major, in a triumphant tone, "and 
 that is the very reason why I act as I do." 
 
 " Perhaps the major has mistaken me for Lieutenant Sal- 
 mis," remarked Bergstrom, sorrowfully, 
 
 " What do you meau ? I take you for Salmis 1" cried the 
 major, impatiently. 
 
 " There must be some misunderstanding," said Bergstrom. 
 " Allow me to ask one question : does not the major know 
 that Froken Clara is engaged to Lieutenant Salmis ?" 
 
 " No," said the major, angrily, " I know no such thing. 
 But I do know that you and Clara are engaged. Why are 
 you disputing thus with an old man who loves you ?" 
 
 BergstrSm was touched, and asked, meekly, " May I ask 
 who told the major that I was engaged to Frbken Clara?" 
 
 " Who ?" screamed the major. " My wife, Clara, the whole 
 family. Do you wish them to be all sworn in as witnesses ?" 
 
 " Major," said Bergstrom, " will you be so good as to listen 
 to me for one moment? I am as little engaged to your 
 daughter as I dare hope for such happiness, spite of your kind 
 promise to me." 
 
 " Well," said the major, " tell me one thing: do you love 
 Clara?" 
 
 " Yes," said Bergstrom, faintly, " that is unfortunately 
 true, but it is the only true thing in the whole story." 
 
 " Good," said the major ; " and now another question : 
 does Clara love you ?" 
 
 " She love me 1" said Bergstrom; " no, most decidedly not, 
 although lately she has been kinder towards me and more 
 considerate than formerly." 
 
 " And I can tell you most decidedly," said the major, " that 
 she does love you ; she told me so herself. And now, tell me, 
 is my wife for or against this match ?" 
 
 " That I cannot tell," replied Bergstrom, " only it would 
 surprise me if the baroness had for a moment contemplated 
 the possibility of my marrying her daughter." 
 
 " Good !" said the major. " I think I now see my way 
 8* 
 
86 THE DOUBLE WEDDING 
 
 clearly. We have all we need for a betrothal, — a boy and 
 girl who love each other and parents who give their consent. 
 Now ride home again and greet your parents for me, and in- 
 vite them, in my name, and your brothers and sisters like- 
 wise, to dine with us to-morrow. If you come yourself, you 
 can then, in the presence of both sets of parents, kiss your 
 bride. And now, good-night." 
 
 Bergstrbm tried to express his thanks, but could not get 
 out a single word. He tried by a headlong ride home to 
 divert the feeling of bliss which was about to overpower him. 
 
 When the major went back to his room he first smoked 
 his pipe out, and then said, — 
 
 " My dear Marianna, I cannot imagine anything funnier 
 than that your fear of me should have made you countermine 
 your own intrigues so successfully ; but you will see in a few 
 years that you have secured the happiness of our children." 
 
 The baroness fell asleep with a prayer on her lips that 
 Bergstrom might soon be promoted and called lieutenant. 
 
 We have not much more to relate. The betrothals took 
 place in due form. Salmis remained three or four days after 
 that ceremony, and met with all the sympathy he needed. 
 He was, however, soon comforted, as he had no depth of feel- 
 ing. When he was on the way to Stockholm the fresh wind 
 playing on his face seemed to blow away all his sadness. 
 He began to consider his courting as a romantic episode, and 
 to think that a few years still of bachelorhood would be very 
 enjoyable, and that it would really have been a pity to put 
 his neck in the yoke so early. 
 
 Does the reader wish to know something more ? The fol- 
 lowing spring the double wedding took place at Dunderviks- 
 borg. Salmis was there with the rank of captain. Diinkel- 
 stern was not there : he had been forced to leave the country 
 for debt. Clara and Bergstrom received Gaddik as a wed- 
 ding gift ; and Kindstadter and Rebecca had really, accord- 
 ing to the major's orders, bought Olbrygge and settled on it. 
 
 The major was respected by all his neighbors, so that 
 these family festivities were a matter of rejoicing to the 
 whole neighborhood. The major found it very hard to keep 
 Rindstadter, on his wedding-day, from attending, as usual, to 
 all sorts of details about the farm. The major himself was 
 
AT DUNDERVIKSBORO. 87 
 
 ubiquitous, prepared all the toasts, scolded and hurried the 
 servants, kissed mother and "the children," as the newly- 
 married couples were called long after they left home. He 
 put himself in order ; his real metal cannons, which were to 
 give forth their thunder the whole afternoon, knocked down 
 Peter Mattson, who made some mistake in loading, and who 
 was immediately handed a package of tobacco as a compen- 
 sation. Mufti ran about as if he were demented, made the 
 most dangerous jumps, and barked as incessantly as if he had 
 been engaged as trumpeter. 
 
 And now I will lift for my readers the veil of the future, 
 and show them how harmoniously father and son managed 
 the estate, how proud the baroness became, in the course of 
 time, of Bergstrom, and of the " wish-children," Albert and 
 Clara, who had been added to the family at Gaddnas. 
 
 Rebecca and Rindstadter were happy, in their own way, 
 with each other and with the three boys, who followed each 
 other in rapid succession. Rindstadter was as busy as a 
 farmer as ever, but was as fussy with his boys as a hen who 
 has hatched ducklings. 
 
XXX. 
 
 THREE AT ONCE. 
 
 A FAECE IN ONE ACT. 
 BY KAEOLY KISFALUDY. 
 
 TEANSLATED FROM THE HUNGARIAN 
 BY MKS. FRANCES C. HENDERSON. 
 
 PERSONS REPRESENTED. 
 
 LoRANYi, CouniteUor*e wife. 
 
 Adelb, the daughter of LoRAKYl's youngest hrother. 
 
 Sandor Ormi. 
 
 Madrioe Balkay. 
 
 Lajos, a huntsman, 
 
 Martha, the housekeeper, 
 
 FiJLOP, servant of Sandor Ormi. 
 
 Ferus, servant of Maurice Balkay. 
 
 SCENE, Loranyihe's country-seat. 
 
 The scene lies in a small but lovely valley. In the middle is 
 a hermitage, in front of •which is a tree with a bench round the 
 trunk; all around are forests. 
 
 Ormi in the garb of a hermit. 
 
 Ormi. If they would only bring me word ! Upon my 
 soul ! I'm in a nice mess. This hut is a real owl's nest, and 
 it is full of flies. This hair shirt is frightfully hot. I am 
 nearly suffocated. \_He looks all around.'] No one is in sight ; 
 I can throw back my hood, and perhaps I shall breathe easier. 
 Hm, hm 1 what will not a man do to get a rich girl ? I, 
 the most thorough worldling, a hermit ! ha, ha, ha ! Jupiter 
 secured such favors more easily, as a swan and as golden rain ; 
 
 89 
 
90 THREE AT ONCE. 
 
 but I, poor child of earth, am no such conjurer. Bless me I 
 am I to lie on the ground ? Ha 1 some one comes ; now I 
 must behave with" dignity. [He pulls up his cowl and sits 
 down on the bench.'] Let me be meditating. 
 
 ^ Martha comes. 
 
 Martha. Good-day, honored sir ! 
 
 Oemi. Welcome, my sweet girl. What have you brought 7 
 
 Martha. The Hajduk Andor announced your worship, 
 and my gracious lady willingly grants your wish. She has 
 no objection to your taking possession of the hermitage, and 
 will look in upon you before long. 
 
 Ormi. So ! And who are you, my sweet girl ? 
 
 Martha. My name is Martha. I am a respectable widow, 
 and housekeeper at the castle. Here, I bring you the key of 
 your dwelling. 
 
 Ormi. Thanks, my love. 
 
 Martha. My love I No, no, we know better than that ; 
 oh ! the last hermit, now resting in Grod, he has chatted many 
 an hour with me here. 
 
 Ormi. I offer my services, my dear young lady. 
 
 Martha. And I am at your service, in all things honest. 
 
 Ormi. I will at once ask a little favor of your kind heart. 
 It is, my dear daughter, that you should give me some little 
 insight into the household arrangements, and introduce me, 
 as it were, in imagination to the family. [_He pinches her 
 cheek.'] 
 
 Martha. Sow gallant you are, honored father, and how 
 soft and white your hand is I It is easy to see that you have 
 ' meditated more than you have labored. So you wish to know 
 our house. That is the easiest thing in the world. The head 
 of the house is the high-born Lorinyi, Counsellor's wife, a 
 very rich lady, but a good woman ; proud, always reminding 
 you of her ancestry, but a good woman ; stingy, but a good 
 woman ; always scolding, but a very good woman. 
 
 Ormi. In a word, an awfully good soul. I understand you, 
 my dear daughter ; but I think you just now mentioned a 
 young lady. 
 
 Martha. That is Miss Addle, the daughter of my lady's 
 youngest brother, an orphan who will some day be very rich, 
 and who rides the high horse on that account. She is, how- 
 
THREE AT ONCE. 91 
 
 ever, a good creature and knows nothing of the world. She 
 seldom leayes home, going at the most to the neighboring 
 town to do a little shopping. 
 
 Oemi. So? 
 
 Maktha. Besides that, she is betrothed. 
 
 Ormi. Be — be — trothedl 
 
 Maetha. Why are you surprised, honored father? and 
 why do you chop your words so ? 
 
 Ormi. Oh, I am not at all surprised. So, so, she is be- 
 trothed. 
 
 Martha. Yes ; but according to the custom of the grand 
 people she does not know her betrothed. The father of the 
 young man, Mr.'Zodany, arranged it all with the high-born 
 aunt; so she is a bride, but has never seen the young man. 
 
 Ormi. Hm, hm ! And this bridegroom ? 
 
 Martha. I have heard that he is on his way. If he 
 comes there will be a wedding, but when I do not know. 
 
 Ormi. So there is no man about the house ? 
 
 Martha. There is one Lajos, the huntsman, who was 
 recommended by the bridegroom's father, but he stays out of 
 doors. But the rascal is arrogant ! Just think : he looks 
 down even upon me, and yet I am the highest person in the 
 castle, after my gracious lady. 
 
 Ormi. Be comforted, my dear daughter ; pride must have 
 a downfall. [_He pinches her cheek.'] Such a worthy woman ! 
 
 Martha. He, he, he I Your worship has such a pleasant 
 manner ! So you stay with us ? Do let me ask you one 
 question : why have you turned hermit ? You are evidently 
 still in your best years, your eyes are bright 
 
 Ormi. I have renounced the world. 
 
 Martha. Yes; but why? 
 
 Ormi. I will tell you that another time, my dear daughter ; 
 it would require days, — nay, months. 
 
 Martha. Oh, I do love such unhappy ones ! I love them. 
 Now you must stay. Even on my bed I think of them. The 
 last holy hermit died upon straw, but he was old and a dif- 
 ferent kind of person from your worship. No wonder ! he 
 had been scullion in a monastery, and came from there here. 
 Now I must go ; all is so far in order. [ Goes.'] 
 
 Ormi. Ha, ha, ha ! So I have made a conquest of that 
 cracked old bell ; but I can make use of her, only I shall not 
 
92 THREE AT ONCE. 
 
 make a confidante of such a chatterbox. If the young lady 
 would only come ! If she is so innocent I shall win the 
 game so much the more easily. If I can only win her heart, 
 the old dragon may watch and the bridegroom may come. 
 If there is no other way I shall steal her. [^Sits in a digni- 
 fied manner on the bench.'] 
 
 Martha comes. 
 
 Martha. After all, I forgot the most important thing, — 
 to tell you what provision is made for your support. Every 
 day you get a little bread with goat's cheese or soup. You 
 will find the clearest of springs bubbling up in the grass 
 yonder, when it does not freeze. 
 
 Ormi. Oh 1 oh ! [_Aside.'] A pleaSant prospect ! 
 
 Martha. Every lesser saint's day and Sunday you get a 
 little meat, and every great feast a drink of wine. 
 
 Ormi. Oh, I am used to abstinence. 
 
 Martha. No, no ; believe me, we know how to shut our 
 eyes. Every one must step aside sometimes, and so holy a 
 man just as well as the rest of us. We shall see each other 
 again. [ Goes.'] 
 
 Ormi. Hell devil ! Bread, goat-cheese, water ! I shall 
 get thin and this love-afiair into the bargain ! Let me look 
 at the hut. [^Me peeps in.] Ah ! a beautiful palace, empty, 
 but dark, and for company within mosquitoes and spiders, 
 and for ornament a skull ! Much obliged ; I am making 
 a great sacrifice, but I shall not regret it if I win the girl. 
 [jHe claps his hands three times.] 
 
 FClOp, looMng ovitfrom the thicket. 
 
 FulOp. I hear, master. 
 
 Ormi. Did you bring what I need ? 
 
 FulOp. Here are writing materials. 
 
 Ormi. Put them on the" table. [FiiLOp does so.] I shall 
 need a pistol also ; the wolves may be prowling round at 
 night. 
 
 FtJLOp. I understand. 
 
 Ormi. I must expect very meagre fare here. Here is 
 money, go to the tavern and get some meat and a couple oi 
 bottles of wine ; but be careful, — creep through the bushes, 
 so that no one may see you. 
 
THREE AT ONCE. 93 
 
 FulOp. I understand, sir. 
 
 Ormi. And if you find any books in the tavern borrow 
 them. [FulOp goes.'] Now I must take a look at the spring ; 
 my heart needs cooling and my eyes shade. 
 
 Balkay, in a monk's garb, and FiRtrs come stealthily. 
 
 F:fiRtiS. I do not see any one. This, master, is the her- 
 mitage of which we heard ; yesterday still no one had taken 
 possession of it, and I have already related to your honor all 
 about the house. 
 
 Balkay. Were you in the castle ? 
 
 F:fiRUS. I tried to get in, but the castle is surrounded by a 
 ditch. There is only one gate, and by it stands a very mus- 
 cular hajduk, who lets in no strangers. I tried to push by 
 him, but the palm of his hand is the size of this table. I 
 entreated, but he was deaf; I ofiFered him money, but he 
 took up a cudgel. 
 
 Balkay. ThAi I must wait here ; this garb will help me. 
 Now go, hide yourself in the thicket. . If I need you I shall 
 whistle. 
 
 F^Rtrs. I wish your honor success. [ Goes^ 
 
 Balkay. Let me stop to consider. From my superficial 
 acquaintance with the circumstances here, it will not be hard 
 work to win the rich and beautiful girl. If I only had an 
 ally in the castle ! This, then, is my dwelling. [Re goes to 
 the hut.] Luckily, the door is open. [He peeps in.] What ! 
 writing materials, firearms ? Some one must be here. I will 
 rest on this bench till some one sees me. [Sits down.] 
 
 Ormi comes. 
 
 Ormi. Excellent water 1 Now for my ambushr— but what 
 do I see ? Who is sitting en the bench ? Is it my imagina- 
 tion, or is it really a hermit ? 
 
 Balkay. What do I see? A hermit I What ill wind 
 brings him here ? . Now I must resort to a lie ! 
 
 Ormi. How must I address him ? God with us, domine 
 confrater. Whence come you ? what do you want ? 
 
 Balkay. I am an old man, taking leave of the world, but 
 my feet are weaker than my will, and hearing of this her- 
 mitage I came here to rest for a few days, not suspecting that 
 it already had an occupant. 
 
94 THREE AT ONCE. 
 
 OnMi. I came witli tte permission of the owners, and hope 
 to end my days here in peace. 
 
 Balkat. So much the better, as I may then count upon 
 being well received. 
 
 Ormi. With all my heart, domine oonfrater, but the hut is 
 small, and.it would not be possible for me to provide for our 
 joint wants, much as I should like the companionship of so 
 ' good a man. 
 
 Balkay. Not at all ; I only need a little earth on which 
 to rest my weary body, and that I shall easily find here. 
 
 Ormi. Very fine ; but just now — ^you must know, domine 
 oonfrater, that there are often circumstances where it is a 
 man's chief wish to get something which he cannot get. 
 
 Balkat. That is true with respect to the children of this 
 world, but we have other views. Besides, I believe that this 
 garb makes us brothers, and requires us to be serviceable to 
 one another. 
 
 OeMI. [^Aside.] Curse the fellow 1 I caiftot shake him ofi; 
 This old man might talk about me and make people suspect 
 me ; but if any one comes to me I shall lock the door. 
 
 Balkay. [^Aside.'] How long he reflects about it ! But I 
 must say I am not surprised he does not care to entertain 
 strangers in such a hole ; but I will not get off his neck. 
 
 Ormi. Although I seek solitude, brotherly love has con- 
 quered in my heart; so, domine confrater, we will divide the 
 dwelling, and thus we will both have room. If you please, 
 domine confrater, we will go into the hut. [ TJiej/ go m.] 
 
 LorIntinS, Ad£le, and Martha come. 
 
 LoRlNYiJsfi. I cannot refrain from speaking, my dear niece. 
 I do not mind a young lady's enjoying herself; indeed, it is 
 pleasant to see her do so ; only she should never forget what 
 she owes to good blood and to her high ancestry. Can one 
 conceive such thoughtlessness, such an ignoble impulse, as to 
 make a moustache with ink to one of your ancestors ? 
 
 Ad^le. Do not be angry, dear aunt ; I do not see myself 
 how I came to do it. '^ 
 
 LoRANYiNfi. You had better give a different excuse, and 
 say at once that you have no idea of refinement. 
 
 Ad^ LE. But I am sure the old gentleman looks better than 
 with such a smooth-shaven face. 
 
THREE AT ONCE. 95 
 
 LoRilNTiNfi. And do you know what a distinguisted man 
 it was that you smeared in that way ? He was a leading star 
 in our nation and family. When King Sigismund, of blessed 
 memory, went to Rome to be crowned emperor, he accom- 
 panied him I Think of that 1 Does not your heart swell 
 with pride ? One of our ancestors was in Rome, a companion 
 of the emperor I 
 
 Ad]6le. Oh, dear aunt, that was so long ago. 
 
 Lob^ntin:^. Listen to me, child. It is of our ancestors 
 that I am talking. When a man has no ancestors he is not 
 of a good family, and if he is not of a good family he is not 
 a man. Such a man belongs to the populace ; we must con- 
 sider him as so much dirt. Our genealogical tree, thank 
 God, requires two ells of paper, and could even use three 
 to advantage. 
 
 Ad:6le. Ha, ha, ha I so we measure ourselves by the ell. 
 
 LoiUitNnN:6. You are a child, you never understand ; you 
 can never comprehend what you do not see with your eyes. 
 
 Ad^le. Ah, dear aunt, when will dinner be ready ? Be- 
 lieve me, I can hardly wait. 
 
 LoRi.NTiN:fi. If you go on this way your mind will not be 
 ripe in four years. 
 
 Ad^le. By that time I will be old enough for an ancestor. 
 
 LoRiNYiNf . Here you show sense, but by that time you 
 will probably understand the value of ancestry; but this 
 much you must know, that you may now any day be called 
 upon to give up your young ladyhood. 
 
 Ad^le. I do not understand. 
 
 LoRlNTlNfi. He, he 1 you will understand some time, my 
 little dove. ,i 
 
 AD:fiLE. Pray explain it to me. 
 
 Lor1nyin:6. So, so ; he, he 1 Wait a little, it is not yet 
 time. We will speak of that another time. Ho, Martha I 
 
 Martha. My honored lady. 
 
 LoRANYiN^. Where is the present hermit? I wish to see 
 him, but he is not here. 
 
 Martha. Then he must be in the hut. I- will see pres- 
 ently. [^She knocks at the door.'] Honored father ! 
 
 Ormi. I hear, I hear. [^Standing in the doorway to Bal- 
 KAT.] Domine confrater, keep still. [/« going out he lodes 
 the door.] 
 
96 THREE AT ONCE. 
 
 Maktha. The gracious Lady Loriinyin^, the Counsellor's 
 wife, graciously wishes to see your worship. 
 
 Ormi. Your ladyship has such beautiful hair, I would like 
 to leave my blessing on it. 
 
 Ad^le. Hi, hi, hi ! 
 
 Martha. How can my young lady laugh at such a time ? 
 It is not suitable ; you are too free. 
 
 AD:fiLE. Just come here, Martha. He did not give aunt 
 the blessing ; he thinks she wears a wig. 
 
 Martha. Heaven forbid 1 How could he think of such a 
 thing? 
 
 Ormi. May heaven give the young lady as much happi- 
 ness as such rare beauty deserves. [7b himsel/.J What 
 lovely eyes, what a figure, what vivacity 1 [Balkay pokes 
 his head out of the loindow.'] 
 
 Lor^ntinS. What are you saying? 
 
 Ormi. I sent a short prayer up to heaven for the welfare 
 of your ladyship's house. 
 
 Balkay. [ To himself.'] There she is. What a graceful 
 figure, what a round, full form, and what a tiny foot 1 
 
 LoB^NYiNfi. As I understand, you wish to settle here as 
 a hermit ? 
 
 Ormi. That is my ardent wish. 
 
 LoRiCNYiN:fi. I have nothing against it. Such a garb is a 
 specialty of olden times, — of those times in which my ances- 
 tors lived. But what can you do ? I do not care to support 
 you in idleness. 
 
 Ormi. I pray for your ladyship's house. 
 
 Lor1nyin£. That is very well ; but you might also do 
 something elge. The deceased hermit was forester, rang the 
 bell, and occasionally worked in the garden. 
 
 Ormi. [^Aside.] What a creature ! I'm in a pretty pickle ! 
 
 Balkay. \^To himself.'] It is well that I am a stranger; 
 I can spare myself. 
 
 Ormi. As far as my advanced age permits, I do not draw 
 back from any service, particularly out of the house. 
 
 LorInYin^. Where were you formerly ? 
 
 Ormi. I— verily, [^Aside'] what can I say? [^Aloud.] I 
 begged for the orphans: an early inspiration from above 
 prompted me to renounce the world and to devote myself to 
 meditation in solitude. Above all things I love the beauties 
 
THREE AT ONCE. 97 
 
 of nature. I could teach the young lady so many beautiful 
 things, and good, which I have learned in my contemplations. 
 
 Lor^nyin:6. We shall see. But • to what family do you 
 belong ? ' 
 
 Oemi. Excuse me ; when I put on this garb I took an oath 
 not to reveal my name. 
 
 Martha. What a pity I The name will die out and be 
 forgotten. 
 
 LoRif NYIN^. But why should you keep it secret ? If I 
 remember well, at one time even kings wore this garb. King 
 Solomon, of whom history speaks so often, was a hermit. 
 
 Ad^le. But when there was war he fought well. 
 
 Martha. [Looks at the vdndow and falls backwards on 
 the ground.'] How heaven honors the pious souls I, The ghost 
 of the deceased hermit I Look I look 1 He is looking out 
 of the window by broad daylight I 
 
 LorIntin:^. What old head is that ? 
 
 Balkay. \_To himself.'] She is going to make a forester 
 of me. 
 
 Ormi. a poor colleague, who was taken ill on his way to 
 a church festival, and hearing of the noble-mindedness of 
 your ladyship's ancestry, came here for a few days' rest. I 
 received him in the hut till I should ascertain your ladyship's 
 pleasure in the matter. 
 
 Martha. Ah ! but he gave me a fright ! I cannot imag- 
 ine why he stuck his head out there. Send him away, my 
 lady! 
 
 Ad^le. The poor man came here to rest ; why should he 
 not remain here a few days ? Will you not allow it, dear 
 aunt? 
 
 LoRiCNYiN:fi. Let him appear before us. 
 
 Ormi. I will call him at once. Domine confrater ! 
 
 Martha. That is better. 
 
 LoeAnyin^. We must learn if he comes of a good house. 
 
 Balkay comes. 
 
 Balkay. May Fortune empty her whole treasury on your 
 ladyship's house. I, poor wanderer, beg you from my heart 
 to grant my request, and to allow me to rest here a few 
 days, for which goodness I shall be eternally thankful. Other- 
 wise I live in Bakony, where I am collector for the orphans 
 
98 THREE AT ONCE. 
 
 and widows ; in this manner I have the satisfaction of know- 
 ing that I am laboring for the good of humanity. 
 
 LoRjCNYiNfi. Thank heaven, times are improving, and the 
 * good old pious customs are coming back to us 1 I have no 
 objection to your spending a few days here, and, as the hut 
 is small, one of you can come to the castle. [ They go."] 
 
 Martha. I will prepare a place and then come back. 
 \_Slie goes.'] 
 
 Balkay. My.best thanks. \_Aside.'\ In the castle I shall 
 have an opportunity. 
 
 Ormi. He must remain here. [To Balkay.] Domine 
 confrater, as you would scarcely be able to secure the needful 
 repose amid the bustle and noise at the castle, I will sacrifice 
 myself to brotherly love and go to the castle. 
 
 Balkay. No, domine confrater ; as you had already made 
 choice of this place for your pious life, I will not disturb 
 your pious meditations, and I wUl go to the castle. 
 
 Ormi. No, domine confrater ; as you are a stranger, I con- 
 sider it much more delicate that I should give way and go to 
 the castle. 
 
 Balkay. Even on that account, domine confrater, I will 
 not impose upon your goodness, and, as a stranger, I shall go 
 to the castle. 
 
 Ormi. [Suffocating mth rage.l And I believe, domine 
 confrater, that decency requires that I should go. 
 
 Balkay. [AngrUi/.'] Excuse me, domine confrater ; I con- 
 sider hospitality as the first duty : " yield thou to the stranger." 
 
 Martha comes vrith a basJcet. 
 
 Martha. Was I not quick ? 
 
 Ormi. Like a good thought. 
 
 Martha. [7b Balkay.] Is your worship going to the 
 castle ? 
 
 Balkay. Of course ; let us go at once. 
 
 Ormi. My dear daughter, this pious man prefers remain- 
 ing here. I go to the castle. [In a whisper. J Let us talk 
 as if we had a private understanding. 
 
 Mabtha. [In a whisper.'] That is a good idea. Your 
 worship is the man for me. 
 
 Balkay. I understood that her ladyship invited me. 
 
 Martha. So did I. [She holes at Ormi.] This one 
 
THREE AT ONCE. 99 
 
 can come with me. Your worship may thank me that I have 
 brought provisions ; in this basket you will find bread and 
 goat's cheese. 
 
 Ormi. And in the grass yonder bubbles a cool spring. But 
 I think, my dear daughter, we had better go at once. 
 
 Martha. That is as your worship wishes. \_She leaves 
 mth Ormi.] 
 
 Balkay. That hermit is a rough, unpolished man, but it 
 is doubtless owing to his education. He seems to seek the 
 worldly goods which he has renounced. I must sit on this bench 
 and contemplate the heavens. [-He sits on the bench.'] I 
 have engaged in a ticklish business, but the object is worthy 
 of some sacrifice. Beautiful ! but that would not be enough : 
 but so rich I That is the spring without which nothing can 
 run in this world, and without which even the pleasures of 
 love soon come to an end. 
 
 FiJLOp comes with a hasJcet. 
 
 FOlOp. Pszt! pszt! 
 
 Balkat. [2b himself.'] A servant! What can he want? 
 
 FWlOp. Aha I there he sits. I have brought the meat 
 and wine, and also some books. 
 
 Balkay. Who are you ? what do you want ? What are 
 you staring at me for ? 
 
 FiJLOp. The gentleman — your worship — formerly there 
 was another hermit here. 
 
 Balkay. He went to the castle. 
 
 FiJLOp. lAside.] Oh, he is in luck ! 
 
 Balkay. Who is your master ? 
 
 FulOp. In the neighborhood — I shall not tell you. Your 
 servant, sir. 
 
 Balkay. Sit down here by me, I wish to speak with you. 
 You can leave the basket with me in full confidence. G-ive 
 it here, my son ; don't straggle. [.Se carries off the hasJcet.'] 
 
 FulOp. [_Aside.'] I don't know what to do. 
 
 Balkay. Come, sit down by me. Who is your master ? 
 
 FtJLOp. He lives in this neighborhood, but he does not 
 wish people to talk about his good deeds. But I suppose he 
 would give to you as well as to any other hermit. [ To him- 
 self.'] I can't help it if I have done wrong ; if I could only 
 find my master 1 [fie goes.] 
 
100 THREE AT ONCE. 
 
 Balkat. This hermit must be a great rascal, since the 
 servants bring him things openly. Let us see what there is. 
 Ah I a capon, two bottles of wine ; I shall use these alms, 
 as the prospect for my stomach is poor enough. What books 
 are there ? Baron de Manx. The Child of Love 1 Is that 
 suitable reading for a hermit? Now I must go into the 
 hut and write a note, and see if I cannot find some way to 
 get it into the young lady's hands. {He goes off with the 
 bashet.'\ 
 
 Ad^le comes. 
 
 Ad£le. Ha, ha, ha ! I have escaped from my old aunt. 
 If Lajos would only come ! With that exception I have 
 only before me the images of old bearded creatures, who 
 look as if Time had ploughed deep with them. I am fright- 
 fully curious to know how my bridegroom looks. I should 
 laugh myself to death if he were as stiff aa those old pic- 
 tures in there. How happy I could be with him if he were 
 like Lajos I But so Oh, heavens, but I feel sad 1 
 
 Lajos comes. 
 
 Lajos. So, alone, my sweet young lady ? 
 
 Anf LE. How you ftightened me, you naughty boy ! I 
 won't say that I was thinking about you. Whence do you 
 come? 
 
 Lajos. From the forest. 
 
 Ad:6le. What did you shoot ? what have you brought ? 
 
 Lajos. Nothing. 
 
 Ad:ele. That is not much ; you are a bad huntsman, 
 Lajos. 
 
 Lajos. I heard a nightingale, and went after it, but I 
 could not shoot it, as I fancied Ad6Ie was singing. I saw a 
 dove, but could not shoot it, because it looked as gentle as 
 Ad61e. I saw a deer, but could not shoot it, because it was 
 as graceful as Ad^le. 
 
 AD:fiLE. And if you saw a fox you could not shoot it, be- 
 cause its eyes look as roguish as yours. You are a bad hunts- 
 man, Lajos. 
 
 Lajos. I would do better if I had not always something 
 else before my eyes. If I see a violet, I immediately think 
 of Ad61e. A lily of the valley reminds me of Ad61e's fair 
 
THREE AT ONCE. 101 
 
 face. All that is beautiful and pure reminds me of Ad^le. 
 But what is the matter with my young lady to-day ? 
 
 Ad:6le. I am grieving about my bridegroom. , If you 
 could only carry him away, Lajos, how I should thank 
 youl 
 
 Lajos. Oh, willingly ; but 
 
 Ad:6le. But what ? Be obliging. 
 
 Lajos. Would the bridegroom be willing to go ? 
 
 Ad:6le. Aunt is always saying, " A woman's kingdom is 
 her house," therefore I have to speak here, and I order it. 
 
 Lajos. Ah, my sweet young lady ! 
 
 Ad:6le. Why do you sigh ? Do you not like living in the 
 country? I would also rather live in town, where you see 
 plenty of nice people, and where you meet your acquaint- 
 ances on the street ; but aunt always says, " So long as you 
 are unmarried you should have no wishes." Lajos, do you 
 peep out from under your cap, as the gentlemen do in town ? 
 I can almost hear how they abuse the veil which aunt hung 
 over my portrait. 
 
 Lajos. A man's wishes reach even unto the stars ; I also 
 am attracted by beautiful eyes. 
 
 Ad^le. And do mine attract you ? Look at me, Lajos. 
 
 Lajos. Indeed, I have looked, and they shoot right into 
 my heart. 
 
 Adele. Listen to the hunter; he talks of shooting. If 
 you were shot through the heart you could not live. 
 
 Lajos. Indeed, a man can live when he is shot through 
 the heart ; but what a miserable life it is I know from my 
 own experience. 
 
 Ad^le. Do not talk with such a thick voice, you make me 
 sad, and I shall have time enough to be sad when my bride- 
 groom comes. Lajos, I want to ask you something ; tell me, 
 candidly, have you ancestors ? 
 
 Lajos. It is possible, but I do not know. 
 
 Ad^le. Bad enough ; it is a great pity. Do you love any- 
 body? 
 
 Lajos. What does that matter ? Of what use would an- 
 cestors be to an empty purse ? 
 
 Ad^le. What do I care about your purse ? Where there 
 is love that is more useful than anything else. 
 Lajos. Ah, my sweet young lady, if love were only free 1 
 
102 THREE AT ONCE. 
 
 Ad£le. And why should it not be? That is no one's 
 business except mine. 
 
 Lajos. Then if love is not forbidden, whom does my young 
 lady love ? 
 
 Ad^le. Do ^ou know how to love ? I am not talking of 
 myself. 
 
 Lajos. But, my kind, sweet young lady, love is the highest 
 happiness. 
 
 As£le. Don't look at me so ; I simply say I trust Lajos 
 
 Oh, me ! what have I said ? If aunt should find it out ! 
 
 Lajos. Ad6Ie ! my darling Ad61e I 
 
 AD:fiLE. Do you know that it is not suitable for you to say 
 such words to me. I shall soon get angry, and we cannot so 
 soon belong to one another. Do you understand ? Nothing 
 can come out of it. 
 
 Lajos. Even if such unhappiness is in store for me I am 
 now happy. 
 
 Ad:6le. Lajos, I painted the picture of one of my an- 
 cestors. You can clean it, and I will help. \^She runs away.'] 
 
 Lajos. No I those eyes cannot deceive ; I am content. 
 Ad61e ! [J3e ffoes.'] 
 
 Balkay comes out of the hut, 
 
 Balkat. My stomach is now in order and my letter 
 written. If I only had an opportunity I should send it to 
 her at once. I must have help from some one, but from 
 whom ? The hermit? He is as obstinate as an old wolf, but 
 I believe for good pay he would do it. Ha ! look I there he 
 is. But why has he left the castle ? 
 
 Ormi comes. . 
 
 Ormi. Domine confrater, did I not return soon ? I op- 
 posed your wish just now ; but I feci that I sinned against 
 brotherly love, and I yield you the place in the castle, where 
 you will be better off than here. The good young lady will 
 attend to you as if you were her own father. 
 
 Balkay. The young lady ? 
 
 Ormi. . Excuse me, domine confrater, for having been some- 
 what rude just now, but know that a new lodging is a man's 
 delight, and for good things — de sapienti sat ! 
 
 Balkay. Enough, my good father. I see that you are a 
 
THREE AT ONCE. 103 
 
 good man, and your good heart encourages me to place con- 
 fidence in you. Know, then, that I am no hermit. I am 
 Maurice Balkay. 
 
 Ormi. Hell devil I Two foxes aftet one goose 1 
 
 Balkay. I astonish you, my good father, but so it is. I 
 only put on this garb on account of the young lady, as other- 
 wise, on account of the aunt, it is not possible to approach 
 her. 
 
 Ormi. That was very sensible. 
 
 Balkay. I saw her for a moment in town, and having 
 inquired into her circumstances, I determined, if possible, to 
 secure her for myself. I think your worship could play into 
 my hands, and that you could conscientiously help me in this 
 matter. 
 
 Ormi. The success of the undertaking requires that we 
 should deceive the old womam, and I shall willingly help you 
 to do it. You could not have chosen a better confederate 
 than myself. The great difiiculty is that the young lady is a 
 bride. 
 
 Balkay. On that account we must hurry, and not lose a 
 single moment. 
 
 Ormi. But when I reflect, the girl is frightfully rich. 
 
 Balkay. That is the main thing, my dear father. Here, 
 I give you something in advance ; [ Gives Mm a purse\ and 
 if my plan succeeds your worship shall be satisfied. 
 
 Ormi. You certainly oblige me to gratitude ; and now I 
 shall go at once to the castle so as to be able to serve you 
 mor^ promptly. 
 
 Balkay. Take care of this letter, my dear father, and 
 give it into her hands ; if I should accidentally meet her 
 before that I can explain myself without the letter. 
 
 Ormi. Excellent ! thus we cannot fail to win : your grace 
 within, I without ; but now for the castle. 
 
 Balkay. But I must tell you one thing, my dear father. 
 A servant out of the neighborhood brought you meat and 
 wine, but, do not get angry, I ate it. 
 
 Ormi. Do not mention it. There will be enough left for 
 me. 
 
 Balkay. Oh, no. I ate it all. 
 
 Ormi. Indeed ! Oh, blessed appetite ! \_Aside.'\ I only 
 pray that he may get the colic. 
 
104 THREE AT ONCE. 
 
 Balkat. But I promise you that for every drink I took 
 you shall get a keg. 
 
 Ormi. Thanks ; but now I must go. 
 
 Balkat. Do you not see something white yonder ? Oh, 
 it is she ! 
 
 Oemi. It is only old Martha. I shall send her away ; but 
 I must speak with her first. Go ! go I [Balkay goesJ] 
 
 Ha, ha, ha 1 So that is your game. You want that rich 
 girl, do you? Wait, see how nicely I shall help you. I 
 am nearly blinded by this frightful heat ; he drank all my 
 wine and left me only water. I shall not care if I only get 
 the girl. That fool Ftilbp ; but it is well that he did not 
 betray me. Ha, ha, ha 1 Only see how the dark hole looks 
 where they pitied the poor hermit. It is lucky for me that 
 Martha has taken a fancy to me. Here they come. 
 
 Martha comes mth AdS le. 
 
 Martha. Believe me, my dear young lady, I am convinced 
 that some great personage is hidden under our hermit, per- 
 haps some count, who from unhappy love or any other reason 
 has renounced the world ; but they must be great reasons, 
 frightfully great reasons. I had arranged for him the room 
 next to the hen-house, but he would not stay there, because 
 he loves Nature ; that drives him away from all companion- 
 ship. So it is ; but little by little I shall worm all out of him. 
 
 Ad:6le. I feel great sympathy with the old man, because 
 he is so poor. 
 
 Ormi. I greet you heartily, beautiful young lady. • [To 
 Martha.] My dear daughter, I send my companion, the 
 other hermit, to the castle. Poor fellow, he is quite unaccus- 
 tomed to the ways of the world, and does not understand the 
 proprieties. Go with him, my dear daughter, and settle him, 
 so that he can rest. I will entertain the young lady in the 
 mean time. 
 
 Martha. Good ; but keep the most imporJ;ant things till I 
 get back. Always running about in this heat 1 [*S^/je goes.'] 
 
 Ad^le. I am curious to know how the father is going to 
 entertain me. 
 
 Ormi. Ah, sweet young lady, love is the only subject 
 which can interest so young a heart. 
 
 AD:fiLE. Ha, ha, ha 1 Does a father know anything about love? 
 
THREE AT ONCE. 105 
 
 Ormi. "We are born for that, and for that we die. 
 
 Ad^le. Father, love sounds badly in your mouth ; let us 
 talk of something else, 
 
 Ormi. That is the power of beauty, that it infuses life into 
 everything, that it makes everything young, and that as spring 
 covers the earth with flowers, so it excites a sweet desire and 
 longing in the heart, so powerful a fairy is a beautiful young 
 lady. 
 
 Ajy&L%. But do tell me, father, how I am to understand 
 that ; a fairy moves among the clouds, I only walk on earth. 
 
 Ormi. But you transform that earth into a garden of 
 Eden. Sweet young lady, how I have longed for this hour, 
 when I could speak to you without witnesses, and tell you 
 that seeing you once has filled my heart with fire and trans- 
 formed me into your most ardent admirer ! 
 
 Balkay comes. 
 
 Ormi. He who sighs in secret for this heart is happy 
 when he stands within the enchanted circle, as I do at this 
 moment, when he can seize this little velvet hand, as I do at 
 this moment, when he dare press it to his lips, as I do at this 
 moment. 
 
 Balkay. [^.^c^e.] He is talking of me at this moment, but 
 still it is better that she should hear all directly from me. 
 \_To Ad£le.] My sweet young lady, at last I can enjoy such 
 happiness. I confirm all that this honored father has said. 
 Is it not true ? He spoke of a young gentleman whose only 
 thought is Adele, whose only desire is Adele, who only lives 
 for one angel, and that angel is Ad61e. 
 
 Ormi. \_Aside.'\ Hell devil ! I could also give my fancy 
 play on that subject. 
 
 Balkay. Know, therefore, my gweet young lady, the 
 secret which brings life or death to me. 
 
 AD:fiLE. Ha, ha, ha ! A secret leave-taking. 
 
 Balkay. Here I take my leave ; here shines the great 
 treasure which attracts me so powerfully. \_Secretly to Ormi.] 
 I depart, at such a time I could not keep my incognito. 
 
 Ormi. If ou hear, my sweet young lady, what that old man 
 said of a youth who, under the disguise of a hermit, would 
 gladly carry off the young lady, who loves so ardently, who is 
 
 so rich 
 
 10 
 
106 THREE AT ONCE. 
 
 AD^fiLE. I ? 
 
 Balkat. [ Whispers.'] "What are you saying ? I depart ; 
 I am too angry. 
 Obmi. I wish you success. 
 
 Martha comes. 
 
 Martha. Just look at that man. There they stand. I 
 asked the doorkeeper if he saw a hermit enter, he said no. 
 I scolded him for not paying attention, and even abused him. 
 Why did not your worship send the other hermit ? Do you 
 think we can stand upon ceremony with such a stranger ? 
 We have no time for that. 
 
 Balkat. [ To himself.'] Accursed creature ! I could choke 
 you ; you have spoiled everything. [ TVhispers to AstJjE.] 
 Sweet young lady, I hope to have the pleasure in the castle. 
 Till then my letter will explain everything. 
 
 Martha. What business has your worship whispering to 
 my young lady ? When you are not looking up to the skies, 
 you ought to keep your eyes on the ground. 
 
 Balkay. Go along ; don't be so restless 1 [ 'Whispers to 
 Ormi.] For the love of heaven, manage matters so that I 
 may have a private conversation with the young lady 1 
 
 Martha. My gracious, but you stir my bile ! Are you 
 coming ? 
 
 Balkat. I'm coming, my good mother. 
 
 Martha. G-ood mother, indeed ! Look at the creature 
 who is so old and has no manners yet I My name is Mrs. 
 Martha; do you understand ? \^Goes off vnth 'Balkay.] 
 
 Ad£le. My dear father, he who has left us does really 
 speak as if he had lost his reason. Where is the letter of 
 which he speaks? 
 
 Ormi. Will you hafe the goodness to give it to the old 
 lady ? She will know what to do about it. 
 
 AD:fiLE. But on the letter is written " To the beautiful 
 Ad^le, in the region of the stars from the most profound love." 
 
 Ormi. All deceit 1 My young lady must not trust any one 
 but me ; and if you do not give this letter immediately to 
 your gTaoious aunt I shall tell her about it myself, and then 
 won't there be an explosion ! He who wrote it is a selfish 
 creature, who wishes under the cover of love to advance his 
 own interested aims. I, on the contrary, am an honest ad- 
 
THREE AT ONCE. 107 
 
 inirer. I do not seek wealth, but only a good, innocent heart. 
 Know, my dear young lady 
 
 Lajos comes. 
 
 Lajos. Miss ! miss ! 
 
 Oemi. [Aside^- This fellow might have come at some 
 other time. 
 
 Ad£le. Is that you, Lajos ? Come here ; see what a 
 funny love-letter the old father has written me. He says he 
 adores me. 
 
 Lajos. A love-letter ! your adorer ! 
 
 Oemi. Oh! I beg you; only deep respect. [^To himself .^ 
 Frightful I this girl is innocent to the verge of stupidity ! 
 
 Ad^le. Do you know what, Lajos ? I am a fairy, a star ; 
 it is written here. Come, we will read it. \_She reads quietly 
 with Lajos.] 
 
 Okmi. [ To himself.'] If she places such confidence in the 
 huntsman it is no wonder that he is always around. Perhaps 
 I can make an ally of the fellow. Why not ? Fair words, a 
 promise, a gift, will attach him to me. 
 
 AdSle. Ha, ha, ha ! that is a beautiful letter ! 1 did not 
 know that it was possible to write with such elegance. What 
 warmth, what depth of feeling it betrays ! I am really happy, 
 — I never received a love-letter before. 
 
 Lajos. So ? I am glad of it ! 
 
 Ad^le. What is the matter, Lajos ? I am sure it is pret- 
 tier than our genealogical tree. 
 
 Ormi. My dear young lady, I have already requested you 
 to show this letter to your aunt. 
 
 Lajos. Yes, yes I If you wish it I will take it and give 
 it to her. 
 
 Ad^le. No; I will take it to her at once ; the hermit is 
 also there. [^She goes.] 
 
 Lajos. The letter is doubtless from you, my father ? 
 
 Obmi. Yes ; but I do not think it will be of much use. 
 
 Lajos. Who knows, sir ? [5e tries to go.] 
 
 Oemi. Look here; one word more. Hear me, young 
 man. I like you. I see such manly daring in your eyes that 
 I feel as if I should like to have you for my friend. 
 Lajos. I am pleased to hear it. 
 Oemi. Let us get better acquainted. 
 
108 THREE AT ONCE. 
 
 Lajos. I am willing. 
 
 Ormi. When I look at you I feel angry with fate which 
 made you a simple huntsman in the forest, whereas in some 
 other position you might have made yourself a name. 
 
 Lajos. I am content. 
 
 Ormi. But you cannot remain long even in this humble 
 position. 
 
 Lajos. How is that ? 
 
 Ormi. In the house all the servants are against you. 
 
 Lajos. Ha, ha, ha ! I am sorry to hear it, but shall not 
 worry myself about their enmity. 
 
 Ormi. But it is so ; Martha told me. You are arrogant, 
 therefore they slander you. Hear me, young man. T will 
 make amends for fate's neglect and make you chief forester, 
 which is a very honorable position. Besides that, I will give 
 you a good round sum of money. 
 
 Lajos. Your worship ! 
 
 Ormi. I must tell you my secret, for as a hermit I am 
 helpless, and live so miserably that I cannot stand it more 
 than a day or two. Know, then, that I have only assumed 
 this garb out of love for the young lady. 
 
 Lajos. So ? And who may you be ? 
 
 Ormi. My name is Sandor Ormi. I saw Addle in town 
 and inquired into her circumstances, and so felt a wish to 
 know her better. I hear that there is a bridegroom whom I 
 must cut out. As he does not seem to care to come, I hope 
 to attain my end. You must help me. 
 
 Lajos. I? 
 
 Ormi. You are outside and have plenty of time. "When 
 I talk with her you can stand there and watch. And if you 
 hear of anything in the castle that I can use to lure the girl 
 to me, let me know. ' If I can once win her heart I should 
 not be afraid of a troop of bridegrooms. 
 
 Lajos. But that other gentleman ? 
 
 Ormi. I think the old lady will settle him. Besides, he is 
 a very old man and stingy, and you will find it much more 
 advantageous to serve me. [He gives him the pvrse he had 
 received from Balkat.] You can see that, can't you ? 
 
 Lajos. Oh, certainly ! and I will attend to the business 
 so as to give satisfaction. 
 
 Ormi. It will be to your advantage, even more than to 
 
THREE AT ONCE. 109 
 
 mine. You will be a gentleman, and need not serve any 
 more ; do you understand ? 
 
 Lajos. Now, sir, I am going. 
 
 Ormi. Lajos, bring me news how things are going on 
 within. 
 
 Lajos. I hear, sir. [He goes."] 
 
 Ormi. How much easier it is for a man to get along if he 
 only understands human nature, and if he knows whom to 
 approach and whom to use ! Ha, ha, ha ! just look at Balkay ; 
 he thinks I am going to play the young lady into his hands. 
 I think his love-making is a help to me, and at any rate I 
 have become paymaster. Ha, ha, ha! there comes Balkay, 
 and from what I see he is feeling the effects of that basket. 
 
 Balkay comes. 
 
 Balkay. May the devil take that silly country bride ! 
 The silly creature showed my letter to her aunt, and she is as 
 mad as a setting hen when she sees a hawk. I had to run 
 for fear she should order the hajduk to help me off with the 
 sole of his foot. [£e throws off his hermit's garh.'\ What 
 I have suffered from this accursed woman's gown is in vain, 
 not to speak of wearing this thick wig in this fearful heat. 
 
 Ormi. Ha, ha, ha ! What is to become of the hermit ? 
 
 Balkay. Is that the way for your worship to talk ? You 
 have got me into a bad mess ; you offered me your help, you 
 took my money. What can one expect from such an awk- 
 ward man, who spends his life in solitude, who has banished 
 himself from human society ? Hell devil 1 in vain I have 
 made the journey ; the game is up, 
 
 Ormi. I regret it very much, honored sir ; but if anything 
 has happened, it is because fortune does not smile on you and 
 does not favor your wish to secure a rich bride. I will ask 
 for her for you myself. 
 
 Balkay. Hear, father ! here comes the old woman scold- 
 ing as hard as she can. If I could only hide myself some- 
 where till the first heat of her anger is over. Do not say 
 that I am losing courage. 
 
 LorInyin:^, Ad^le, Martha, and Louis eom^. 
 
 LoRjiNYiNi. Well, my fine gentleman, I am glad to see 
 you at last with your own bristles on your head. At first 
 
 10* 
 
110 THREE AT ONCE. 
 
 truly I could not believe it, but now I say that this persecu- 
 tion of innocence is a — to heaven — crying wickedness. 
 
 Balkat. I trust, madam, that you will consider this as a 
 joke, and consistent with the respect due to your ladyship. 
 My aim excuses my action, and I am sure the young lady 
 will excuse what was done for the love of her beautiful 
 
 AdSle. As for me, I am not at all displeased ; we so seldom 
 have any amusement here. 
 
 LoRi.NYiN:fi. Oh, this degenerate world ! to creep after 
 the girls in that dress, in this holy place, when you might 
 have come openly and been introduced with suitable cere- 
 mony, and proposed to me for the young lady like any other 
 honorable man. But, no ; you prefer sneaking into the house 
 like a weasel, sighing secretly, scribbling letters, and deceiving 
 the head of the house. 
 
 Ormi. Excuse me, but I must give vent to my feelings: I 
 am charmed with your ladyship's wise words. 
 
 Loe^ntin:6. Indeed! You are only a silly monk, and doubt- 
 less just as deceitful as he is. 
 
 Ormi. I, at least, behave like a gentleman. 
 
 Balkat. You can say what you please. 
 
 Ormi. To speak in defence of virtue is a holy duty, is it 
 not, my gracious lady ? 
 
 Lor1ntin£. Bead the young gentleman a good lecture. 
 
 Ormi. With my whole heart. Hear, my young gentle- 
 man ! People of your way of thinking run straight into hell- 
 fire. Virtue's first obligation — virtue — the — the 
 
 Lajos. Pray excuse me ; while the good hermit is speaking 
 about virtue his actions tell a difierent tale. Is it not true 
 that his actions should be like his words. Now take a good 
 look at him. Sandor Ormi is hidden under the hermit. 
 
 Ormi. The rascal ! I shall drop dead. 
 
 liAjos. But it is in vain. Please to take off that child's 
 dress and stop talking about virtue. As for me, I do not 
 care to be made chief forester. 
 
 Balkat. So this pious [Se puUs the monJc's gown 
 
 °ff of Ormi.'] Verily, it is Ormi ! What frightful deceit 1 
 it calls for vengeance. 
 
 Ormi. \_To Lajos.] I shall pay you for your treachery, 
 you rascal ! 
 
THREE AT ONCE. Ill 
 
 LoR^NTlNf. Oh, twice degenerate world ! 
 
 Martha. Did not I say so ? Under this garb something 
 is concealed. Oh I I have eyes, I have eyes. Nothing can 
 be concealed from me. 
 
 Ormi. [ Throws away Ms gown.'\ There is no use denying 
 it. I was also fascinated by the beautiful young lady. Your 
 ladyship has caused my deceit by shutting your niece up as 
 if she were a witch. 
 
 Balkay. Yes, madam, if you were not so eccentric there 
 would have been no necessity for our disguise. 
 
 LoRitNTiNi. And if I should now admit you into my 
 house, do you think you should succeed ? 
 
 Balkat. Why not ? I think it would not be hard to beat 
 this vile monk, who betrayed my confidence so shamefully. 
 We will speak again on that subject. 
 
 Ormi. My dear friend, that can happen to any of us, — first 
 to me and then to you. There was a wonderful sympathy 
 between us, both in thought and action ; but only wait a little, 
 and I shall settle this young man's business. 
 
 La JOS. I only did my duty. 
 
 LorjCntin:6. You did exactly right, Lajos ; I am pleased 
 with you. \_She holds her hand out to Mm^ You can kiss 
 my hand ; I remain your gracious mistress. 
 
 Lajos. What I did does not deserve thanks, but I can no 
 longer keep it a secret that, though only a poor huntsman, I 
 love Miss Ad^le. 
 
 LorXntin:6. What I you impudent creature ! you dare to 
 love a young lady, and that young lady one with the blood 
 of the Lordnyi in her veins ! Frightful idea ! A miserable 
 hireling, a peasant, whose only recommendation is deceit, 
 wildness, roughness, loves this young lady ! The world must 
 indeed be turned upside down for such a thing to happen. 
 
 Ad^le. Dear aunt ! 
 
 LoRiNYiN:6. What! you sit here so quietly and do not 
 dig out his eyes ? 
 
 Ad£le. Oh, dear aunt, it would be such a pity to dig out 
 those lovely eyes ! 
 
 Lajos. I do not know what kind of eyes I have, but in 
 order that death may close them I shall go now and hang 
 myself. [iZe goesJ] 
 
 LoK^NTiN^. Let him go at once ! Take the stick to him. 
 
112 THREE AT ONCE. 
 
 Ad61e ! There you sit ; are you not trembling with fury? are 
 you not burning with rage ? 
 
 AD:fiLE. Not at all ; but what did he tell it for ? It was 
 enough for me to know that he loves me, without his letting 
 the whole world know it. 
 
 LoeXntinS. Very well. Good heavens 1 If you had not 
 encouraged him we should never have heard this disgraceful 
 avowal. You unworthy offshoot from my blood ! No ; that 
 I can never forgive. Out of my sight I Unheard-of fault ; 
 go, go ! [Ad:6le aside, crying.'] 
 
 Balkat. If that is the case I am not surprised that we 
 came too late, and confess that it causes me very little sorrow. 
 Verily, a little pride along with the money would not have 
 iurt. Ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 Ormi. Verily, the greater the innocence the blacker the 
 smoke. 
 
 LoRj(NTiN:fi. Both of you begone out of my sight I 
 Wherefore would you put me to shame? Such tortures only 
 a heart as strong as mine can bear. 
 
 Martha. So it is. I always said that Lajos was not so 
 proud for nothing. When I speak to him he never gives me 
 any answer. I regret that this has happened, but I am glad 
 that I was true prophet. 
 
 FulOp. [ Outside.] In the spring, you wicked fellow I 
 
 F^RTJS. [^Outs:ide.] Just you wait a little ! 
 
 FulOp. I am looking for my master; why do you stop me? 
 
 Fj6rtjs. And I am smelling round for my master; why 
 don't you let me go ? 
 
 Ormi. My servant ! Ha, ha, ha ! they have caught each 
 other. Let each other go at once. What do you want, 
 rascals ? 
 
 Balkay. F6rus ! How dare you make such a noise ? 
 
 F^RUS. He came there on the hill, and wanted to drive me 
 away. 
 
 FUlOp. He wanted to order me round, as if he were the 
 Queen of May. 
 
 Ormi. Make friends ! [ To LorIntin^.] As this racket 
 was occasioned by the faithfulness of our servants, I trust 
 your ladyship, will excuse it. 
 
 Martha. Yonder seems to move the form of a young 
 gentleman, and that is a sight that has not been seen here for 
 
THREE AT ONCE. 113 
 
 the last four years. But as long as I have served in this 
 house I have not heard such an uproar as your servants 
 made. 
 
 LoRifNTiN:fi. I have not a word to say, as this day parts 
 us forever. If any one calls, say I am not at home. 
 
 Lajos comes elegantly dressed. 
 
 Lajos. Gracious lady ! 
 
 LorjCntin^. Who? what? La — La — . 
 
 Ormi. Upon my soul, the huntsman ! 
 
 Lajos. Allow me to call you dear aunt. I am Lajos 
 Zodany, and arranged it so as to come sooner than I was ex- 
 pected, so as to get acquainted with my dear bride. You 
 seem to doubt my word. 
 
 LorIntin:^. I, sir ! 
 
 AdSle. [^Rwns into Ms arms.] Lajos ! Lajos ! thou de- 
 ceitful, naughty bridegroom, art thou not deceiving me again ? 
 Dost thou see, thou naughty man, how I have cried ? and 
 heaven knows I would not have cried if I had known how 
 it was. But now it is all right : thou art here. 
 
 Lajos. And I shall never leave thee again. My gracious 
 lady, here is a letter from my father which, I think, will settle 
 all your misgivings. To-morrow he will come himself to 
 witness my happiness. 
 
 Lob1ntin:6. [^Reads the letter Jiastily.'] It is really from 
 the honored gentleman, and it was not suitable for the son of 
 such a gentleman to put on a servant's dress, even for the 
 purpose of acting as a spy on his betrothed ! 
 
 Lajos. One of my ancestors did the same, and to his 
 writings I appeal for my justification. I am happy to say 
 that if I cannot claim credit for originality, the investigation 
 has been even more satisfactory than that, in our own family, 
 was a hundred years since. 
 
 LoRjiNTiN:fi. I congratulate you I Ad61e, now it is quite 
 another thing for you to love Lajos. Now it is your duty to 
 love him. 
 
 Ad^le. Now, truly, you cannot reproach me for my bad 
 taste. 
 
 LoRjfNYiNfi. But I did not suspect it. And yet — I always 
 said he looked as if he had good blood in him ; did I not, 
 Martha? 
 
114 THREE AT ONCE. 
 
 Martha. So it is ; we always loved him. 
 » LoRjtNTiNfi. Such a distinguished-looking, high forehead I 
 and a hundred ancestors seemed to be looking out of his eyes. 
 Is it not true, Ad61e ? you also love ancestors ? 
 
 Ad]6le. Not at all, dear aunt ; fiery eyes and an agreeable 
 manner are worth more to me than the past. 
 
 Lajos. Now as I exerted myself in vaia for these gentle- 
 men, I will return this purse to Mr. Ormi. 
 
 Oemi. And I give it back to Mr. Balkay, from whom I 
 received it. 
 
 Balkat. And I present it to the servants. They can 
 divide it, but without fighting. 
 
 FulOp. Come, comrade I [ They embrace.] 
 
 LoRiCNYiN:6. Now I shall be truly happy to see both gen- 
 tlemen at my house, but they must give up their hermit's 
 tastes and try to be like other people. 
 
 Ormi. As we two are companions in misfortune, let us 
 shake hands. As hermits we came, but now we will make 
 merry at the wedding, and drown our sorrows in good wine. 
 
 Martha. All lovers ! Three at once ! Happy girl ! Ah I 
 
IV. 
 
 SALARDO. 
 
 BY SIGNOR GIO. FRANCESCO STRAPARALA DE 
 CARARAGGIO. 
 
 TRANSLATED TKOM THE ITALIAN 
 
 BY MRS. FEANCES C. HENDERSON. 
 
 Salabdo, the son of Eainaldo Scaglia, leaves Genoa and goes 
 to Monserrato, where he acts against three commandments con- 
 tained in his father's will, and is condemned to death. He is 
 liberated, and returns to his own country. 
 
 A MAN should carefully weigh everything he does or in- 
 tends to do. Thrice blessed is the son who reverences his 
 father and is obedient unto him, for thus he obeys the com- 
 mandment of the eternal God, and he shall live long on the 
 earth, and succeed in all that he does. But he who is dis- 
 obedient may well be considered unfortunate, and all his 
 undertakings are likely to be unsuccessful. 
 
 In the ancient city of Genoa there was once upon a time 
 a nobleman named Rainaldo Scaglia, a man who was as rich 
 in mental gifts as in those of fortune. He, being rich and 
 learned, had an only son named Salardo, whom he loved 
 beyond everything else, and whom he taught and educated as 
 a good father should do, never allowing him to want for any- 
 thing which could be useful to him, or which could tend to 
 his honor and glory. Now it happened that Rainaldo, being 
 already old, fell dangerously ill. Feeling his end draw near, 
 he sent for a notary and made his will, in which he instituted 
 
 115 
 
116 SALARDO. 
 
 Salardo his universal heir ; but he begged him, as a good 
 father, to remember three things, and never depart from 
 them. The first was that lie should never, no matter how 
 great the love might be he bore his wife, intrust a secret to 
 her. The second, that he should never adopt a strange child 
 as his own and leave him heir to his fortune. The third was, 
 that he should never serve under any lord who knew no law 
 but his own will. Having said these things, he gave him 
 his blessing, and, turning his face to the wall, he died after 
 the space of a quarter of an hour. 
 
 Eainaldo being dead, and Salardo remaining sole heir of 
 his possessions, and seeing that he was young, rich, and of 
 high birth, instead of thinking of the soul of his old father, 
 and of the multitude of duties which devolved upon him as 
 the possessor of the paternal estates, he determined to marry, 
 and to select such a wife, and of such descent, as should 
 satisfy him. Before the close of a year from the death of 
 his father Salardo had married Theodora, daughter of M. 
 Odescalco Doria, a Genoese nobleman, one of the first in the 
 city ; and because she was beautiful and virtuous — although 
 a little proud — her husband Salardo was so devoted to her 
 that he stirred from 'her side neither by night nor by day. 
 After they had been married several years, as they had no 
 children, Salardo, with the consent of his wife, but contrary 
 to his father's dying injunctions, determined to adopt one, 
 and to treat him in all respects like his own son, and to leave 
 him at last heir to all his possessions. He carried out his 
 plan at once, and adopted the child of a poor widow. His 
 name was Posthumus, and he was brought up by them more 
 delicately than he should have been. After some length of 
 time Salardo concluded to leave Genoa ; not but what the 
 city was beautiful and honorable, but moved by that restless- 
 ness which often attacks those who are responsible to no one 
 for their actions. Taking, therefore, a quantity of money and 
 jewels, and calling into requisition all the carriages and horses, 
 he went with Theodora, his beloved wife, and Po-sthumus, 
 his adopted son, from Genoa to Monserrato, on the way to 
 Piedmont. Having settled there, he cultivated the acquaintance 
 first of one citizen, then of another,^oing hunting with them, 
 and enjoying with them all the pleasures of which he was fond. 
 And his magnificence towards each one of them was so great 
 
SALARDO. \\*l 
 
 that he was not only loved, but honored by them all. Re- 
 ports of his great liberality had reached the ears of the 
 marquis of Monserrato, and seeing that he was young, rich, 
 noble, wise, and suitable for every undertaking, he took him 
 into high favor, and could not do without him a single day. 
 And so great was the friendship which united Salardo and 
 the marquis, that every one who wished to obtain any favor 
 from the latter was obliged to address himself to Salardo if 
 he wished to secure it. Salardo, seeing himself in such high 
 favor, used every exertion to please the marquis in all things 
 which he thought might be agreeable to him. 
 
 The marquis, who was also young, was very fond of flying 
 the falcon, and had in his possession many birds, and setters, 
 and other animals, as is suitable for a grand nobleman, but 
 he would not have gone once to hunt or to fly the falcon with- 
 out Salardo. Now it happened once, when Salardo was alone 
 in his room, that he thought within himself of the great 
 honor the marquis did him, and passing in review in his 
 mind the polite manners, the pretty ways, and the ready 
 obedience of his son Posthumus, he said to himself, " How 
 much my father was mistaken ! Surely his mind, like that 
 of most old men, must have been on the wane. I cannot 
 think what folly, what frenzy, could have induced him ex- 
 pressly to command me not to bring up a son who was not 
 my own, nor to enter the service of any lord governing 
 according to his own pleasure. I see now how opposed to 
 truth were his precepte, because Posthumus is not mine -own 
 son, and yet he is good, wise, polite, moral, and most obedient 
 to me. And would it be possible for any one to bestow more 
 honor and caresses upon me than the marquis ? and yet he 
 governs solely according to his own will. His love for me 
 is so great, and he does me so much honor, that one could 
 almost fancy I were his superior and he were afraid of me. 
 At this I marvel so that I know not what to say. There are 
 certainly silly old men who, forgetting what they did in their 
 o,wn youth, wish to give laws and orders to their children, 
 laying on them burdens which they would not touch with the 
 tips of their fingers. And this they do not from any love 
 they bear them, but simply that they may be worried and 
 tormented. Now that I have succeeded beyond my hopes in 
 relieving myself of two of the burdens laid on me by my 
 
 11 
 
118 SALARDO. 
 
 father, I mean to try my luck now with the third, and feel 
 sure that my dear, sweet wife will only bless me the more 
 with her warm and well-founded love ; and she, whom I love 
 more than the light of my eyes, will see how great is the 
 simplicity, nay, the folly, of miserable old age, which is only 
 happy when loading its last will with unbearable conditions. 
 Whom could I trust more securely than mine own wife, who 
 left for me her mother, and brothers and sisters, and her own 
 home, and has become with me one heart and one mind ? 
 Thus I feel sure that I could confide to her even the most 
 important secrets. I mean, therefore, to test her fidelity, 
 — not that I doubt it myself, as I am sure that she loves me 
 better than herself, but I will try her solely as an example to 
 those silly youths who think it is an unpardonable sin to act 
 contrary to the crazy injunctions of their old fathers." 
 Thinking thus of his father's last wishes, Salardo fully de- 
 termined to disregard the third, as he had done the other two. 
 
 Without losing a moment he left his room and went down- 
 stairs and direct to the palace. There he went into a room 
 where there were many falcons, and without being seen by 
 any one he took the one the marquis loved best, and carrying 
 it ofiF, intrusted it to a friend named Fransae. He begged 
 him to take charge of it till he heard from him again ; and 
 going home, he took one of his own falcons, and without 
 being seen of any one killed it and carried it to his wife, 
 saying,— 
 
 " Theodora, my beloved wife, I (as you know yourself) 
 can no longer have one moment's rest. Our marquis is 
 always either hunting, or flying his falcon, or fencing, or 
 doing something else where he considers my presence indis- 
 pensable, so that I often do not know whether I be dead or 
 alive. But to cool his ardor for sports I have played him a 
 trick which he will not like, and perhaps for a few days he 
 will leave me in peace." 
 
 "What can you have done?" replied his wife. 
 
 " Why," said Salardo, " I have killed his best falcon, and 
 his pet, and 1 think when he does not find it he will nearly 
 die of rage." 
 
 And taking the dead falcon out of his handkerchief he 
 gave it to his wife, telling her to have it cooked for supper, 
 when they would eat it for love to the marquis. 
 
SALARDO. 119 
 
 The wife, hearing her husband's words and seeing the dead 
 falcon, was much grieved, and began to reprove her husband 
 for his deed, saying, — 
 
 " I do not see how you had the heart to do so great an in- 
 jury to the marquis, who loves you so tenderly. He tries to 
 please you in everything, and after him you hold the first 
 place. Oh I my dear Salardo, you have certainly brought 
 ruin on yourself. If the marquis were to hear of it you 
 would probably even lose your life." 
 
 " But," said Salardo, " how should he hear it? You and 
 I are the only persons who know anything about it. But I 
 beg you for the love you bear me not to betray my secret to 
 any one ; if you did you would cause my ruin and your own." 
 
 " Best assured," said the wife, " that I would die rather 
 than betray such a secret." 
 
 The falcon being well cooked and seasoned, Salardo and 
 Theodora sat down to table, and as Theodora would not eat 
 of the falcon nor listen to her husband's loving entreaties that 
 she should, he raised his hand and gave her such a box on 
 the ear that her whole right cheek was scarlet. She began 
 to cry and to complain of his beating her, and left the room 
 muttering that he should remember this, and that she would 
 soon find a suitable opportunity for revenging herself. The 
 next morning she arose very early, and going without delay 
 to the marquis, related the death of the falcon. The marquis 
 flew into such a passion that he ordered Salardo to be seized 
 instantly, and (without hearing any justification he might 
 have to give) decreed that he should be hung at once by the 
 neck and that his possessions should be divided into three 
 parts, one of which should be given to his wife, one to his 
 son, and one to the man who should hang him. 
 
 Posthumus, who was a handsome, well-made yo ing man, 
 when he had heard of the sentence passed on his fether and 
 the division of his possessions, ran home to his mother, and 
 said, — 
 
 " Oh, mother, would it not be better that I should hang 
 my father, and thus secure the third of his estates, rather 
 than it should fall into the hands of a stranger ?" 
 
 " Thou hast well spoken, my son," replied the mother ; 
 " because by so doing the whole estate will remain together 
 as heretofore." 
 
120 SALARDO. 
 
 Without loss of time Posthumus went to the marquis, and 
 asked to be allowed to hang his father, so as to secure the 
 third of his possessions promised to the hangman. The 
 marquis was graciously pleased to grant Posthumus his re- 
 quest. Salardo had begged his faithful friend Fransae, to 
 whom he had told his secret, to go to the marquis when they 
 should be about to lead him to death, and to beg him to have 
 Salardo brought before him and to hear if he had anything 
 to say in his own defence. His friend did as he had been 
 requested. 
 
 While Salardo was sitting alone in his dark prison, with 
 his feet in irons, expecting hourly to be led forth to an igno- 
 minious death, he began to weep and to reason thus with him- 
 self: " Now I see and clearly comprehend how my good old 
 father, by the light of his long experience, had cared for my 
 welfare. He, as prudent and wise, gave me advice which I, 
 as a headstrong young man, rejected. He ordered me to pro- 
 tect myself from my domestic enemies, and I gave myself into 
 their hands that they might slay me and divide my spoils. 
 He understood the nature of princes, who, in one and the 
 same hour, love and abuse, who raise up and who put down, 
 and he ordered me to keep away from them, but I sought 
 them out, in order to lose through them my property, my 
 honor, and my life. Would to G-od that I had never tried 
 my faithless wife! Oh, Salardo, how much better thou 
 wouldst have done if thou hadst followed in thy father's 
 footsteps, and left to flatterers and parasites to pay court to 
 princes ! Now I see what has been the result of my over- 
 confidence in myself, my wife, my rascally son, and, above all, 
 in the ungrateful marquis ! Now I see how much he loved 
 me ! How could he treat me worse than he is doing ? Is he 
 not taking from me my possessions, my honor, and my life ? 
 Oh, how-soon his love has been changed to hate ! Now I see 
 the truth of the proverb, which says, ' A prince is like wine 
 in a bottle : in the morning it is good, in the evening it i8 
 sour.' Oh, miserable Salardo! where is now thy nobility? 
 where thy household walls ? where thy great riches ? where 
 thy honesty, integrity, and loving nature? Oh, my father 
 I think that, although you are dead, you can now, in tht 
 mirror of eternal goodness, see me led forth to be hung foi 
 not having obeyed your wise and loving precepts. And 1 
 
SALARDO. 121 
 
 feel sure that you love me still with the tenderness with 
 which you did then love me, and that you pray to God to 
 have compassion on my youthful errors and to forgive my 
 disohedience to your commandments." 
 
 While Salardo was thus reasoning with himself his son 
 Posthumus, like a well-trained executioner, went with the 
 sbirri to the prison, and presenting himself arrogantly to his 
 father, said, — 
 
 " My dear father, as your death is inevitable, I, knowing 
 the great love you bear me, have thought that you would not 
 take it amiss if I performed the office of hangman, as thus 
 your possessions wiU not fall into the hands of strangers, but 
 will remain in your family, which you will prefer." 
 
 Salardo, who had listened attentively to his son's words, 
 said, " God bless you, my son I You have thought what is 
 agreeable to me, and if before I was unhappy I shall now die 
 content. Perform your office, my son, without delay." 
 
 Posthumus first begged his pardon and then kissed him on 
 the mouth, and taking the halter put it round his neck, com- 
 forting him and exhorting him to suffer death patiently. 
 Salardo, seeing the turn things had taken, was astonished and 
 remained as one stupefied ; but, having left the prison with his 
 hands tied behind him and the halter round his neck, and ac- 
 companied by the hangman and sbirri, he went with a quick 
 step towards the place of execution, and having arrived there 
 he turned his back to the ladder placed by the gallows and 
 went up backwards, step by step. Having arrived at the ap- 
 pointed height, he looked around him with a steadfast and 
 unperturbed look, and addressing the assembled crowd, re- 
 lated to them in full the cause for which he was about to suf- 
 fer, after which, with loving words, he exhorted the sons to 
 be obedient to their old fathers, and asked forgiveness for any 
 injury he might have done any one. When the people had 
 heard the cause of Salardo's condemnation there was not one 
 who did not burst into tears, and who did not desire the 
 liberation of the unfortunate man. 
 
 While these things were taking place, Fransae went to the 
 palace and addressed these words to the marquis : " Most 
 illustrious lord, if ever a spark of pity were kindled in the 
 heart of a just ruler I am sure of now fanning it into a flame 
 in you, if, with your usual clemency, you will consider the 
 
 11* 
 
122 SALARDO. 
 
 innocence of the friend already led forth to death for an un- 
 known error. What cause, my lord, could induce you to 
 condemn to death Salardo, whom you loved so tenderly ? 
 He has never offended you, nor even thought of doing so. 
 But if you, most henign lord, will order your most faithful 
 friend to be brought into your presence, it will not be difficult 
 for him to prove his innocence." 
 
 The marquis, nearly suffocated with rage, wished to drive 
 Fransae from his presence without vouchsafing him any answer, 
 but he threw himself on the ground, and, weeping and em- 
 bracing his knees, cried, " Mercy, just lord ! mercy, clement 
 lord ! Do not cause the death of the innocent Salardo. Ctllm 
 your anger and I will prove his innocence. Let it not be 
 said of you, O lord, that you put your friends to death with- 
 out any reason." 
 
 The marquis angrily replied, " I see you wish to keep 
 Salardo company, and if you fan the flame of my anger a 
 little more I will myself hang you up beside him." 
 
 Fransae replied, •' I am content, my lord, that my long ser- 
 vices should receive this reward, and that you should have me 
 hung by Salardo's side, if he do not convince you of his inno- 
 cence," 
 
 The marquis, considering Fransae's noble-mindedness, 
 thought within himself that, unless he were very sure of 
 Salardo's innocence, he would not agree to be hung by him, 
 and therefore he said, "I am content; let the execution be 
 suspended for an hour ; but if he do not prove his innocence 
 you shall both be hung." 
 
 • Calling a servant, he ordered him to proceed at once to the 
 place of execution, and to order the sbirri to suspend the exe- 
 cution, and to bring Salardo bound, with the halter round his 
 neck and the hangman by his side, into his presence. 
 
 W hen Salardo came before him and saw his face inflamed 
 by anger, with a proud aspect and dry eyes, and without the 
 least perturbation, he thus addressed him : " My lord, my 
 submission to you, and the love I bear you, did not deserve 
 the shame you have heaped upon me, condemning me to a 
 disgraceful death. And although your indignation at my 
 folly (for folly it was) caused you, contrary to your nature, 
 to turn so cruelly against me, still you ought not to have 
 condemned me to death without hearing me. The falcon, 
 
SALARDO. 123 
 
 whose supposed death has irritated you so violently against 
 me, lives and is as well as ever. Neither did I take him to 
 kill him nor to offend you, but to experiment on a certain 
 object, as I will now relate to you." 
 
 Calling Fransae, who was present, he begged him to re- 
 turn the falcon to his beloved master. He then related to 
 him his father's loving commandments, and his own infraction 
 of them. 
 
 The marquis, hearing Salardo's words, which proceeded 
 from the bottom of his heart, and seeing his falcon even 
 handsomer than before, was speechless. But having recov- 
 ered himself, and considering his great error in condemn- 
 ing his innocent friend so thoughtlessly to death, with his 
 eyes full of tears he said to Salardo, " Salardo, if your eyes 
 could penetrate to the bottom of my heart, you would see 
 that the rope which has bound your hands, and the halter 
 which was round your neck, have not caused as much sorrow 
 to you as to me. Neither do I expect ever to be happy again, 
 since I have offended you who loved and served me so faith- 
 fiiUy. If I could I would annul the past, but as that is not 
 possible, I will try to make you such amends as will satisfy 
 
 you." 
 
 With these words the marquis, with his own hands, took 
 the halter from around Salardo's neck, and loosed his hands, 
 and embracing him tenderly, and kissing him several times, 
 made him sit beside him. But when the marquis wished to 
 have the halter put round Posthumus's neck and to have him 
 hung, Salardo would not agree to it, but calling him to him 
 said, " Posthumus, brought up by me as a son, from your 
 infancy to the present time, I do not know what to do with 
 you now. On one side I am drawn by the love I have 
 always borne you, and on the other by my indignation at 
 your hard-heartedness. One asks me to pardon you, the 
 other requires me to punish you. What can I do ? If I 
 forgive you, I shall be hooted at in the street. If I punish 
 you, I shall be disobeying the divine injunction to do good to 
 those who hate us. But in order that I may not be accused 
 of too great leniency or too great cruelty, I shall take a mid- 
 dle path, and neither punish you corporally nor forgive you 
 entirely. Take this halter which you had wound round my 
 neck and keep it in exchange for my possessions which you 
 
124 SALARDO. 
 
 coveted so much, and as a remembrance of me and your 
 grievous error, and go so far away that I may never hear of 
 you again." 
 
 So saying he drove him from his face, and never heard of 
 him again. Theodora, hearing that her husband had been 
 liberated, fled and went to a convent, where she finished her 
 life in sorrow and penitence. Salardo, having heard of the 
 death of Theodora, begged the marquis to dismiss him, and 
 leaving Monserrato returned to Genoa, living there a long 
 time happily, devoting the greater part of his possessions to 
 the service of God, and retaining for himself only what was 
 absolutely necessary. 
 
V. 
 
 THE SNOW-STORM. 
 
 BY A. a. PUSHKIN. 
 
 . TRANSLATED FBOM THE RUSSIAN 
 BY MES. PBANCES 0. HBlTOEESOJr. 
 
 Towards the close of the year 1811, — a memorable epoch 
 
 for us, — the good Gabriel Gabrilovitch P lived oiThis 
 
 estate Nenaradov. He was celebrated in the whole neigh- 
 Jjorhood for his hospitality. The neighbors were constantly 
 coming in to eat and drink, and to play Boston at five ko- 
 pecks a point with his wife, Prackovia Petrovna, and some- 
 times, in addition, to throw loving glances at their daughter, 
 Maria Gabrilovna, a well-made, but pale seventeen-year-old 
 damsel. She was reckoned a great match, and many cov- 
 eted her for their sons. 
 
 Maria Gabrilovna had been brought up on the French plan, 
 and was consequently very romantic. The object on which 
 she had bestowed her affections was a poor ensign in the army, 
 who was on leave of absence on his father's small estate. As 
 a matter of course, the young man was consumed by the 
 same flame ; and it is also a matter of course that the young 
 girl's parents, having noticed this mutual inclination, forbade 
 their daughter's ever thinking of the young man, and treated 
 him even worse than they would have done an assessor. 
 
 Our lovers corresponded, and also met each other daily, 
 either in the piny wood or in the old chapel. There they 
 exchanged vows of eternal love and formed many plans. 
 What between conversing and corresponding they at last 
 
 125 
 
126 THE SNOW-STORM. 
 
 came to the following conclusion : " As we cannot live without 
 each other, and our hard-hearted parents oppose our happi- 
 ness, we shall he obliged to do without their consent." One 
 will readily imagine that the mind of the young man gave 
 birth to this happy idea, and that it fired the romantic imag- 
 ination of Maria Grabrilovna. 
 
 Winter came and often prevented their meeting, but their 
 correspondence was so much the livelier. Vladimir Nick- 
 olaevitch begged her in every letter to give herself to him, 
 and marry hini secretly. After waiting a little while they 
 would then throw themselves jointly at the feet of her pa- 
 rents, who, finally touched by the unhappiness and heroic 
 afiection of the lovers, would say, " Come into our arms." 
 
 Maria Gabrilovna hesitated long and rejected many plans, 
 but at last consented to do as follows : On an appointed day 
 she would not go down to supper, but would remain in her 
 room under pretext of a headache. She had taken her maid 
 into her confidence. They were to go down the garden-steps 
 and through the garden, at the gate of which they would find 
 a sleigh. In this this they were to drive straight to the 
 church in the parish of Zardino, five wersts (kilometres) 
 from Nenaradov, where they would find Vladimir waiting for 
 them. 
 
 On the eve of the appointed day Maria G-abrilovna did not 
 close her eyes. After selecting and packing up clothes, she 
 wrote two letters, one, the longest, to a sympathizing baroness, 
 her bosom friend, the other to her parents. She told them, 
 in touching words, that the insupportable violence of her 
 passion had induced her to take this step, and that the hap- 
 piest moment of her life would be that in which she would be 
 allowed to throw herself at their feet and to sue for pardon. 
 Having sealed these letters with a seal, on which were en- 
 graved two burning hearts, with a suitable motto, she threw 
 herself on her bed just as day began to dawn and fell into 
 an uneasy slumber. She dreamt that just as she was taking 
 her seat in the sleigh which was to convey her to the church 
 her father seized her, and, dragging her with frightful rapid- 
 ity through the snow, threw her into a dark and bottomless 
 pit. Down that she flew headlong with an inexplicable chill- 
 ing of the heart, while she saw Vladimir lying on the grass, 
 pale and bleeding. He, dying, begged her with a piercing 
 
THE SNOW-STORM. 127 
 
 voice to hurry and wed him. At last she arose paler than 
 usual, and with a most genuine headache. Her father and 
 mother noticed it with anxiety, and their tender care and 
 their repeated inquiries, " How are you, Masha ? I hope you 
 are not ill, Masha ?" rent her heart. She tried to seem more 
 cheerful, to reassure them, but she could not. Evening came. 
 The thought that this was the last day she would spend with 
 her family wrung her heart. She was scarcely alive ; she 
 secretly took leave of all the persons, and of all the objects 
 even which surrounded her. Supper was announced: she 
 trembled. With a quivering voice she said she could not eat, 
 and said good-night to her father and mother. They kissed 
 her as usual and blessed her ; she could scarcely restrain her 
 tears. When she reached her room she fell on her knees and 
 wept bitterly. The maid tried to comfort and encourage her. 
 Everything was ready. Within half an hour Masha was to 
 leave forever the home of her childhood, her room, her quiet, 
 maidenly life. Out-of doors was a snow-storm ; the wind 
 howled, and the snoW fell in thick flakes, and Masha (Molly) 
 considered it as a bad omen. Soon everything in the house 
 became quiet. Masha wrapped herself in her shawl, drew 
 on her warm kapot, and, taking her bag on her arm, she 
 went down the garden-steps. The maid followed with two 
 cakes. They went with difficulty through tlie garden, — the 
 wind was blowing with such violence that it seemed to wish 
 to annihilate the young criminal, and it was with difficulty 
 that they reached the garden-gate. Outside, the sleigh was 
 waiting for them. The horses, who were nearly frozen, would 
 not stand still. Vladimir's coachman was holding them fear- 
 lessly by the bit. He helped the noble young lady and her 
 maid into the sleigh, placed the bag and the cakes, took the 
 reins, and the horses went off like lightning. We will now 
 leave the barishria (noble young lady) and her maid to the 
 care of their skilful driver and turn to our young lover. 
 
 Vladimir had been busy the whole day. Early he had 
 been to see the priest at Zardin, and had some difficulty in 
 talking him over. Then he had to seek three witnesses among 
 neighboring noblemen. The first to whom he applied, the 
 retired forty-year-old Cornet Dravin, consented with pleasure. 
 This proposal, he said, reminded him of the time he served 
 in the Hussars, and of the tricks they used to play. He per- 
 
128 THE SNOW-STORM. 
 
 suaded Vladimir to stay and dine with him, and assured hiir 
 there would be no difficulty in getting two other witnesses 
 In fact, soon after dinner appeared the surveyor Smith, ir 
 whiskers and spurs, and the son of the mayor, a youth oi 
 sixteen, who had just entered the Lancers. They not onlj 
 acceded to Vladimir's request, but assured him of their read- 
 iness to sacrifice their lives for him. Vladimir embraced 
 them with transport, and went home to make his prepara 
 tions. 
 
 It already began to grow dark. He sent his confidential 
 servant Tereshky to Nenaradov with his three-horse sleigli 
 and positive and detailed instructions, and ordered for him- 
 self a little sleigh with one horse, and alone, without anj 
 coachman, he started for Zardin, where Maria Gabrilovna 
 ought to arrive in about two hours. 
 
 But scarcely had Vladimir begun his journey when such a 
 storm of wind and snow arose that he could not see anything, 
 In one minute all traces of the road were effaced. Nothing 
 was to be seen but a thick yellow fog, dotted with flakes o( 
 snow ; the sky and earth seemed to join. Vladimir, who had 
 attempted to take a short-cut across the field, wished tc 
 return to the road. The horses stepped at hap-hazard and 
 occasionally mounted a snow-drift, through which they had 
 to work their way, overturning the sleigh in their plunges. 
 Vladimir tried not to lose his way. It seemed to him that he 
 had already travelled more than half an hour and still there 
 was no sign of the wood of Zardin. He drove ten minutes far- 
 ther ; still no sign of the wood. He then crossed a field 
 intersected by deep ditches. The storm had not abated a< 
 all, neither had the sky become clearer. The horse showed 
 signs of fatigue, and could only go in a walk, as it was occa- 
 sionally up to the girths in the snow. 
 
 Finally Vladimir became convinced that he was not going 
 in the right direction ; he began to reflect and thought he 
 remembered that he ought to have turned to the right. He 
 drove to the right. The horse was nearly exhausted. Thej 
 had already been more than an hour on the road ; Zardii 
 could not be far. On they went and went, and still saw nt 
 signs of it. Every few minutes the sleigh was overturned 
 as they were constantly crossing snow-drifts and ravines 
 Time sped ; Vladimir was growing very uneasy. 
 
THE SNOW-STORM. 129 
 
 Finally they saw something blackish on one side. Vladi- 
 mir turned the horse's head in that direction. As they drew 
 near they saw a wood. " Thank heaven !" said he, " now we 
 arc near." He drove round the wood, hoping to fall at last 
 into the well-known road, or at least to get to the side of the 
 wood on which lay Zardin. Soon they found a road, and 
 drove along dark trees stripped by the winter. The wind 
 lull d a little, the road became smoother, the horse revrved a 
 little, and Vladimir became easier in his mind. 
 
 Still on they travelled and the wood did not come to an 
 end. Vladimir saw with horror that he was in an unknown 
 forest. Despair seized him. He took the whip to his horse ; 
 the poor creature broke into a trot, but gave out in a quarter 
 of an hour and relapsed into his slow gait, spite of the 
 unfortunate Vladimir's blows. 
 
 The trees gradually grew thinner, and Vladimir finally got 
 out of the wood. Zardin was not in sight. He thought it 
 must be about midnight. Tears burst from his eyes and he 
 drove at a venture. The weather improved, the clouds scat- 
 tered, and the night became tolerably clear. Before him lay 
 a plain covered with white ridges, and not far off he saw 
 a village composed of four or five houses. Vladimir drove 
 to it. At the first hut ho jumped out of his sleigh, ran to 
 the window and knocked. At the end of a few minutes a 
 wooden shutter was pushed open and an old man poked out 
 his white beard. 
 
 " What do you want ?" 
 
 " Is it far to Zardin ?" 
 
 " If it is far to Zardin ?" 
 
 "Yes, yes; is it far?" 
 
 " Not far ; it must be about ten versts" (kilometres). 
 
 At this answer Vladimir pulled his hair, but remained 
 motionless, like one condemned to death. 
 
 " And where are you from ?" asked the old man. 
 
 Vladimir did not have the heart to answer his question, 
 but said, " Could you, old man, give me a horse to Zardin ?" 
 
 " Just as if we had horses !" replied the man. 
 
 " Could you not, then, give me a guide ? I will pay what- 
 ever he asks." 
 
 " Wait," said the old man ; " I will send you my son ; he 
 will accompany you." 
 
 12 
 
130 THE SNOW-STORM. 
 
 Vladimir waited about a minute and then began to kno( 
 again. The shutter was opened, the beard stuck out. 
 
 " What do you want?" 
 
 " Where is your son ?" 
 
 " He will come in a minute ; he is dressing. If you a: 
 cold, go into the cellar." 
 
 " Thank you ; send your son quickly." 
 
 The beard disappeared, and a lad came out with a cudg 
 and walked on ahead, now showing the road, now finding 
 again where it was hidden by the snow-drifts. 
 
 " What o'clock ?" asked Vladimir. 
 
 " It will soon be day," replied the youth. 
 
 Vladimir did not say a word. 
 
 The cocks were crowing and it was broad day when th( 
 reached Zardin. The church was closed. Vladimir paid t 
 guide and drove to the parsonage. His three-horse sleif 
 was not in the yard. What tidings were aAvaiting him ? 
 
 Now we must return to our good Nenaradov squire ai 
 see what has happened there. 
 
 Nothing. 
 
 The old people had left their bedroom and gone into t' 
 sitting-room, — Gabriel Gabrilovitch in his nightcap and fi 
 trimmed jacket, Prackovia Petrovna in her wadded dressii 
 gown. The samovar was brought in, and Gabriel Gabri 
 vitch sent a maid up -to ask Maria Gabrilovna how she f 
 and how she had slept. The maid returned with the answ 
 that the barishna had slept very badly, but that she felt b 
 ter now, and would soon come to the sitting-room. In fa 
 the door opened and Maria Gabrilovna came forward to wi 
 a good-morning to her papa and mamma. 
 
 " How is your head, Masha?" asked Gabriel Gabriloviti 
 
 " Better, papa," she replied. 
 
 " Yesterday evening you looked feverish," said Pracko- 
 Petrovna. 
 
 " That is possible, dear mamma," answered Masha. 
 The day passed comfortably, but in the night Masha i 
 taken ill. They sent to town for a doctor. He came in i 
 evening and found the patient on the brink of the grave. S 
 had a very hot fever, and was for two weeks at the point of dea 
 No one in the house knew anything of the nightly es 
 pade. The letters written on the eve had been destroy 
 
THE SNOW-STORM. 131 
 
 even in delirium she did not allude to it. The priest, the 
 retired cornet, the surveyor, and the young lanoer were all 
 prudent, and held their peace. The coachman, Tereshka, 
 never blabbed, so that the transaction was never divulged, 
 which was wonderful, as there were half a dozen confidants. 
 But Maria Gabrilovna herself, in her constant delirium, be- 
 trayed her secret to the watchful mother, who never left her 
 bedside for a moment. It is true, even in delirium, she 
 never so much as alluded to the marriage topic, but her 
 mother gathered from what she did say that she was desperately 
 in love with Vladimir Nikolaesvitch, and that this love was the 
 sole cause of her illness. She consulted with her husband and 
 with some of her neighbors, and all with one accord declared 
 that it was evidently Maria Gabrilovna's destiny, and that it 
 is impossible to escape from one's destiny; that poverty is not 
 a crime ; that one does not live with the money but with the 
 man, and similar sayings. Moral reflections and sayings are 
 generally found very useful in similar cases, when we cannot 
 of ourselves find any excuse. 
 
 In the mean time the barishna began to recover. For a 
 long time Vladimir had not come near the house. He had 
 been frightened by his habitual reception. The parents de- 
 termined to send for him and tell him that they consented to 
 the match. What was the surprise of the family at Nena- 
 radov when for answer thoy received a letter written evidently 
 under the infiuence of partial derangement ! Vladimir as- 
 sured them he would never set his foot in their house, and 
 begged their pardon for having been the cause of their losing 
 their only darling by an untimely death. In a few days they 
 heard that Vladimir had returned to the army. This was in 
 the year a.d. 1812. 
 
 It was long before they dared communicate this intelligence 
 to the convalescent Masha. She never mentioned Vladimir. 
 A few months later his name stood in the list of those who 
 had distinguished themselves and been severely wounded at 
 Borodino. On seeing it she fainted, and it was feared that 
 her fever might return, but, thank heaven, no serious conse- 
 quences followed the faint. 
 
 She was struck by a second misfortune : Gabriel Gabrilo- 
 vitch died, leaving her heiress of all his property. But the 
 inheritance did not seem to give her any pleasure, and she 
 
132 THE SNOW-STORM. 
 
 caused deep sorrow to the poor Prackovia Petrovna by swes 
 ing never to leave her. Together they left 'Nenaradov, 
 such sad memories were associated with it, and went to li' 
 on an estate at . 
 
 Suitors for her hand were not wanting, as she .was knoT 
 to be rich and amiable, but she never gave any of them tl 
 least encouragement. Her mother often urged her to mal 
 a choice, but Maria Gabrilovna shook her head and fell into 
 revery. Vladimir no longer lived ; he had died on the eve 
 the entrance of the French troops into Moscow. His mei 
 ory seemed to be sacred to Masha, at least she careful 
 treasured everything that reminded her of him, the bool 
 that he had read aloud to her, the drawings, the music, ai 
 the poetry he had written for her. The neighbors, who kne 
 all this, wondered at her constancy, and were anxiously e: 
 pecting the hero who was to overcome the steadfastness 
 this second Art^mise. 
 
 In the mean time the war had ended gloriously. Our rej 
 ments returned to their own country. Crowds ran to me 
 them. The music played the warlike tune " Vive Hen 
 Quatre," Tyrolese waltzes, and airs from Joconda. The office 
 were mostly decorated with orders, the soldiers were convei 
 ing gayly with each other, mixing continually French ai 
 German words with those of their own tongue. Never to 1 
 forgotten epoch ! epoch of glory and ecstasy ! Oh, ho 
 quickly the Russian's heart beats when it hears the woi 
 " fatherland" ! How sweet were the tears shed on seeir 
 their loved ones again ! i 
 
 The women, the Russian women, were then unequalle 
 Their usual calmness forsook them, and they were real 
 drunk with enthusiasm, as they shouted hurrah when the 
 met the returning warriors. Which of the officers of th 
 time will deny that it is to the Russian women that he wi 
 indebted for the best, the most precious reward ? 
 
 At this brilliant time Maria Gabrilovna lived with hi 
 
 mother in government, and did not see how the two cap 
 
 tals feted the returning army. In the provinces and the vi 
 lages the rejoicings were, if possible, still greater. The appea 
 ance of an officer in these places was a veritable triumph, ai 
 in their presence lovers in frock-coats were scarcely noticed 
 
 "We have already stated that, spite of her coldness, Mar 
 
THE SNOW-STORM. Vo^ 
 
 Grabrilovna was constantly surrounded by a crowd of suitors. 
 All had to retire when she received into her castle the wounded 
 Colonel Byrmin, with the Georgian cross on his breast, and 
 with an interesting paleness which pleaded powerfully for 
 him with the barishna. He was about twenty-six years old. 
 He came to reside on his estate, which lay in the neighbor- 
 hood. Maria Gabrilovna received him very graciously, and 
 so it may be supposed that she coquetted with him, and a 
 poet noticing her manner might have said, — 
 
 " Se araor non e, che dunque ?" 
 
 Byrmin was really a charming young man, and was quite 
 as clever as a marrying man need be. He was refined and 
 observing, and without any evil habits or inclinations. His 
 deportment towards Maria Gabrilovna was frank and open, 
 but whatever she did or said his soul and his looks followed 
 her. He seemed to be of a retired and modest disposition., 
 but report said that he had at one time been frightfully 
 thoughtless and hare-brained. That did not injure him in the 
 opinion of Maria Gabrilovna, who, like most young ladies, 
 willingly excused practical jokes betraying daring and strength 
 of character. 
 
 But far more (more than his attentions, more than his in- 
 teresting paleness, more than his bandaged arm) did the 
 silence of the young hussar excite her interest and observa- 
 tion. She could not help seeing that he admired her, and 
 one of his observing disposition could surely see that he was. 
 not indifferent to her. How, then, did it happen that she, 
 had not yet seen him at her feet ? For what was he wait- 
 ing? Was it the timidity inseparable from real love that 
 held him back, or pride, or a cunning coquetry ? It was an 
 enigma to her. Having reflected well, she determined to 
 show him greater tenderness and attention, as she thought it 
 must be timidity which prevented his declaring himself. She 
 prepared herself for a sudden burst of passion, and waited 
 impatiently for a romantic declaration. A secret, of what- 
 ever nature it may be, is always burdensome to the female 
 heart. Her warlike tactics were crowned with success, — at 
 least Byrmin became so pensive and his black eyes shot such 
 fierv dances at Maria Gabrilovna that it seemed as if the de- 
 
134: 'PHE SNOW-STORM. 
 
 cisive moment must be at hand. The neighbors talked of a 
 wedding as of a settled affair, and the good Prackovia 
 Petrovna rejoiced that her daughter had at last selected a 
 suitable mate. 
 
 The old lady was sitting one day alone in the guest-cham- 
 ber, laying the corners of a "patience," -when Byrmin en- 
 tered the room, and immediately asked for Maria Grabrilovna. 
 
 " She is in the garden," said the old lady. " Go to her, 
 and I -will wait for you here." 
 
 Byrmin went, and the old lady crossed herself and thought 
 this business will finally come to an end. 
 
 Byrmin found Maria Gabrilovna sitting by the fountain 
 under a willow-tree, with a book in her hand and in a white 
 dress, just like the heroine of a novel. After the first in- 
 quiries Maria Gabrilovna purposely stopped conversing, so as 
 to be able to pay undivided attention to the explanation which, 
 she felt sure, he was about to give. Sure enough, Byrmin, 
 feeling the difficulty of his situation, opened the subject by 
 saying that he had long sought an opportunity to lay his 
 heart bare before her, and that he now begged for the closest 
 attention. Maria Gabrilovna closed her book and cast down 
 her eyes in token of assent. 
 
 " 1 love you," said Bymin. " I love you to distraction." 
 (Maria Gabrilovna blushed and bent her head still lower.) 
 " I have acted thoughtlessly in allowing myself to contract 
 the pleasant habit of seeing you and hearing you daily.'' 
 (Maria Gabrilovna thought of St. Preux's first epistle.^ 
 " Now it is too late for me to contend against my fate. Youi 
 incomparable image, the recollection of your loveliness, wil 
 pursue me everywhere and be the torment of my life ; but ] 
 must perform the difficult duty of imparting to you mj 
 frightful secret, which places between us an insuperable ob 
 stacle." 
 
 " There already existed one," said Maria Gabrilovna, witl 
 vivacity. " I never could have been your wife." 
 
 " I know," replied he, sadly, " that you once loved, bu 
 
 death and three years of mourning , Good, sweet Mari; 
 
 Gabrilovna, do not rob me of my sole consolation, — th 
 thought that you might have consented to make me happ 
 
 if " 
 
 " Ilush ; for heaven's sake, hush ! you torture me 1" 
 
THE SNOW-STORM. 135 
 
 " Yes, I know, I feel that you would have been mine, but 
 I, — unfortunate creature, — I am married !" 
 
 Maria Gabriloyna looked at him with astonishment. 
 
 " I am married," repeated Byrmin. " I have been mar- 
 ried four years already, and I neither know who my wife is 
 nor where she is." 
 
 " How you talk !" exclaimed Maria Grabrilovna. " How 
 strange I But continue ; I will relate afterwards. I entreat 
 you, tell me all !" 
 
 " In the beginning of the year 1812," said Byrmin, " I 
 was hurrying to Vilna, where our regiment was stationed. 
 I arrived at our post-station quite late in the evening. I 
 ordered them to unharness the horses as speedily as possible, 
 as a frightful storm had arisen, and the inspector and the 
 postilions advised me to wait. I followed their advice, but 
 an inexplicable uneasiness seized me, — it seemed as if some 
 one was calling me. The storm had not abated, but I 
 could not rest, so I ordered the horses to be harnessed, and 
 set off in spite of the storm. The postilions were afraid of 
 driving into the river, which we had to follow for three 
 versts. Soon they lost all trace of the road, and as the 
 banks were steep they turned aside and at last came to an un- 
 known region. The tempest was still raging, and seeing a 
 Hght in the distance I told the postilion to drive to it. We 
 came to a village. The village church was lit up. The 
 church was open, and before it stood several sleighs. Several 
 persons were standing in the porch. ' Here, here !' cried 
 several voices. , I ordered the postilion to drive thither. ' In 
 the name of common sense,' said one, ' what is the cause of 
 this delay ? The bridte has fainted, the pope does not know 
 what to do. We were about to go home. Come in, quick !' 
 I jumped silently out of the sleigh and went into the church, 
 which was very badly lighted with only two or three candles. 
 A young girl was sitting on a bench in a dark corner of the 
 church, another was supporting her head. ' Glory be to 
 God,' said she, ' that you have come at last ! The barishna 
 is nearly dead with anxiety.' The old priest came to me, 
 and said, 'Is it your pleasure that we should begin?' 
 ' Begin, begin, father,' said I, thoughtlessly. The young 
 lady came forward ; she did not seem to be ugly. Incom- 
 prehensible, unpardonable thoughtlessness 1 I stood beside 
 
136 THE SNOW-STORM. 
 
 her durinp; the ceremony. The priest hurried through it. 
 Three gentlemen and the waiting-woman supported the bride, 
 who completely absorbed their attention. We were made 
 man and wife. ' Now, embrace,' said they to us. My wife 
 turned her pale face towards me and I tried to kiss her ; she 
 screamed, ' It is not he ! it is not he !' and fell without con- 
 sciousness. The witnesses cast angry glances at me ; I passed 
 throughthem without any hindrance, jumped into mykibitka, 
 and screamed, ' Drive on 1' " 
 
 " My God!" cried Maria Gabrilovna. "And you do not 
 know what became of your poor wife?" 
 
 " No," replied Byrmin. " I do not know the name of the 
 place where I was married ; I do not know the name of the 
 station to which we drove. At that time I so little under- 
 stood the importance of the step I had taken that, on leaving 
 the church, I went to sleep and slept till the next morning, 
 when we were already at the third relay. The servant who 
 was then with me died during the journey, so that I have no 
 hope of ever being able to discover who was the victim of my 
 heartless joke, which I now so bitterly deplore." 
 
 "My Godl" said Maria Gabrilovna, clasping her hands; 
 " was it really you, and you do not recognize me ?" 
 
 Byrmin turned pale and threw himself at her feet. 
 
FRIENDSHIP AT THE HARVEST-FEAST. 
 
 A FAKOE IN THEEE ACTS, 
 BY JAN PALAKIK. 
 
 TRANSLATED FEOM THE SLOVACK, A SLAVISH TOWGUE, 
 SPOKEN IN UPPER HUNGARY, BUT ENTIRELY DIFFER- 
 ENT FROM HUNGARIAN, 
 
 BY MKS. FKANCES 0. HENDERSON. 
 
 PERSONS REPRESENTED. 
 
 CouKTESs Eezika Hrabotska. 
 
 Orieska, o Bchool-feacher, 
 
 MiLUSA, his daughter, cowpanion to the Countess. 
 
 Baron Kostrovicky, the Countess's guardian. 
 
 LuDOVIT, his son, a lieutenant. 
 
 RoHON, fi civil engineer. 
 
 Capkova, the Countess's mnid. 
 
 SuCHAT, the Countess's etemard. 
 
 PiSTA, Baron Kostrovicky's hussar. 
 
 Thomas, ) 
 
 .1 ANO I y""S peasants. 
 
 Dora, ] . ■ , 
 
 Kate, ) ^""'"^ peasant girls. 
 
 First Footman, 1 ,,, ,, 
 Second Footman, j ""*' ""''=• 
 The SCENE is laid on the Countess's estates. 
 
 FIRST ACT. 
 
 A room at th» castle. To the left is a -window, to the right a 
 door. A piano stands against the wall, books are lying on the 
 table. 
 
 FIEST SCENE. 
 
 MiLUSA ; afterwards Orieska. 
 
 MiLUSA. [Looking at a picture lying on the tal)le.'\ That 
 was certainly a good idea of mine to paint the countess in 
 
 137 
 
138 FRIENDSHIP AT THE HARVEST-FEAST. 
 
 our national Slovack costume. What a lovely harvest-girl 
 she makes ! 
 
 Orieska. [ Comes in softly through the door.'] Ha 1 my 
 daughter alone and so thoughtful. 
 
 MiLUSA. [ Without noticing her father.'] I could fall ia love 
 with such a reaper. 
 
 Orieska. [ Quite hud.'] Milusa ! 
 
 MlLUSA. Ha, my father ! [<S'Ae kisses his hand.] May 
 you live a hundred years ! You come to see me as^seldom as 
 if you lived' ten miles from the castle. 
 
 Orieska. I do not wish to be importunate, dear daughter. 
 If I came oftener your gracious lady might be displeased. 
 
 Milusa. You are mistaken; Countess Erzika often in- 
 quires after you. 
 
 OaiESKA. AH talk, my daughter. I sent in a petition 
 about the school, and no one paid the least attention to it. 
 
 Milusa. There were reasons for that, father. You know 
 the young countess does nothing without the advice of her 
 guardian, and that is as it should be. Yesterday evening the 
 old Baron Kostrovicky (the guardian of the young countess) 
 seemed very thoughtful. He began to read a letter from his 
 son Lajos in Pest, in which he tells him that he is at last 
 coming home on a visit, and that he is very anxious to see 
 the young countess, with whom he had played as a child. 
 The young lady took his hand and kissed it, but of course 
 that was only respect for the tutor. 
 
 Orieska. We may perhaps look to have a new master in 
 the castle. But this school, my child? 
 
 Milusa. True ! Well, the old baron is a very grand po- 
 bleman, and he knows that the gentry must keep up the 
 schools. He was very glad that you had brought this matter 
 to their notice. 
 
 Orieska. Very fine. He was, of course, glad per se 
 that he should soon see his son. 
 
 Milusa. And then when he saw that Erzika put his son's 
 letter away so carefully, he said he was perfectly satisfied 
 with me, and that he could not, even in Paris, have found a 
 better companion for his pupil, and that we kept everything 
 in such perfect order. 
 
 Orieska. So we must please the guardian also. 
 
 Milusa. His face fairly shone with delight. 
 
FRIENDSHIP AT THE HARVEST-FEAST. 139 
 
 Orieska. Ah, my daughter ; there is not another girl like 
 you in the whole country. But it is better to let our daugh- 
 ters be governesses and companions for our own nobility than 
 to send them to Hamburg or London. It is a sad thing that 
 our nobles keep themselves so secluded. 
 
 MiLUSA. Our good masters do not deserve this reproach ; 
 they are very aiFable. 
 
 Orieska. [Joyfully.'] Then is the baron per se in favor 
 of the school ? 
 
 MiLUSA. At first he made some.difiiculty ; but the countess 
 soon convinced him that she considered it her duty to keep up 
 a good school on her property. 
 
 Oeieska. All honor to her for that. 
 
 MiLUSA. Then her guardian told her that if she kept up 
 a school at all, she had better try to have one of a somewhat 
 higher order than the others in the neighborhood. 
 
 Orieska. All honor be to him for that. Yes, there are 
 still among our upper classes noble minds who seek the real 
 welfare of those beneath them. 
 
 MiLUSA. Yes, indeed, father ; and who wish us to feel our 
 nationality as Slovacks. But now I must go in to the 
 countess. [She goes.] 
 
 SECOND SCENE. 
 Orieska and Capkova. 
 
 Capkova. [ To Orieska, who has been singing a national 
 ballad.'] Hollo ! worthy rector. Please to stop. 
 
 Okieska. Ha ! the lady's-maid. 
 
 Capkova. Of course your daughter has been gossiping and 
 telling you that the countess is about to marry the young 
 Baron Kostrovicky, and you have come to congratulate. 
 
 Orieska. Nonsense ! I have simply come to see my 
 daughter. Why are you so cross when the countess is satis- 
 fied with her ? 
 
 Capkova. I am not satisfied, Mr. Rector. Formerly I 
 really acted as companion to the countess, and then she did 
 not care a pin for French or German or any other outlandish 
 tongues. But now it is some gibberish or other the whole 
 day, unless they are playing lady's billiard. 
 
140 FRIENDSHIP AT THE HAHVH^ai-rj'^^^i. 
 
 Orieska. Heaven forbid ! 
 
 Capkova. The only change is when they play duets on 
 the piano, and that so unmercifully that the strings snap. 
 
 Orieska. Ha, ha, hal 
 
 Capkova. And when the duets are over, as sure as I 
 am a living woman, the horses are brought to the door, and 
 out they go for a ride. 
 
 Orieska. Ha, ha, ha 1 
 
 Capkova. And what am I now but a poor, despised 
 maid ? Oh ! if her blessed* papa could only see the change 
 which has come over his daughter he would turn over in his 
 grave. He was a good master 1 I nursed him in his. last 
 illness ; and when he said, " To think that I must leave my 
 dearest treasure, my daughter, behind me," his eyes filled 
 with tears, and I wept with him. 
 
 Orieska. That was right, my dear Miss Capkova. 
 
 Capkova. He left it in his will that Erzika should never 
 dismiss me, but keep me as a relic of both her parents. Yes, 
 yes ; so he did. 
 
 THIED SCENE. 
 The Countess, Milusa, Orieska, and Capkova. 
 
 The Countess and Milusa. Ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 Capkova. Of course, countess is always joking. Here 
 is Miss Milusa's papa, who has come to congratulate. 
 
 Countess. Mr. Orieska, your Milusa has already told me 
 your business. 
 
 Orieska. And she has already told me how noble-minded 
 you are. [Se kisses her hand.'] 
 
 Countess. It is a great pleasure to me to be able to do 
 some good, but for my good intentions you have your own 
 daughter to thank. She has spoken so often and so beauti- 
 fully about the importance of keeping up the Slovenish 
 nationality. 
 
 - Milusa. Oh, countess ! I have no merit at all. It is 
 your own good heart, and father's arguments, which have 
 done all. [^She wishes to kiss her hand.] 
 
 Countess. [Preventing her.] Not so, Milusa, and do not 
 look so sad. I like to see you happy. I love you as if you 
 were my own sister. \_She embraces her.] 
 
FRIENDSHIP AT THE HARVEST-FEAST. 141 
 
 Capkova. [jToOeieska.] Don't you believe, Mr. Kector, 
 that it is the Slovenish which has done it ; it is all along of 
 that French. 
 
 Countess. [ To Capkova.] Ha, ha, ha I Eh bien, Ma- 
 dame de Capkova 1 Vous 6tes plus ridicule que stupide, 
 verstandez vous ? 
 
 Oeieska anif MiLUSA. Ha, ha, ha! [^They laugh.'\ 
 
 Capkova. [Jb the Countess.] Oh, ouj, ouj, ma ch&e 
 Comtesse. I understand something, if I have not taken les- 
 sons. [TbMiLUSA.] Ouj, ouj, madmoaselfca. [TbOaiESKA.] 
 Ouj, mosiurko, you need not laugh; it is not only the noble 
 who are " gebildete Lajt." I can " parliruju" also, if I am 
 a "gemajne bagage." 
 
 Orieska. [Ironically.'] Very well said, but you do not 
 understand everything. 
 
 Countess. Mr. Orieska, we have had enough of Capkova ; 
 but I wanted to ask you if you do not think we could sing 
 some quartettes. I am expecting a guest, the young Baron 
 Kostrovicky. He has a very fine voice, and I think we 
 might get up some musical " potpourris." Your Milusa has 
 a fine contralto, I sing soprano, and you must have a good 
 baritone. 
 
 Orieska. With the greatest pleasure, gracious countess. 
 
 Milusa. [7b Me Countess.] Countess, will you allow me 
 to give you my opinion candidly ? You wish to receive the 
 young baron as the friend of your childhood, but how do 
 you know that he is now worthy of your friendship ? Oh, I 
 beseech you, do not grant him your confidence till you know 
 him better. I do not like matches made up by the parents. 
 
 Countess. You may be right, my dear. 
 
 Orieska. [ To Milusa.] What have you done, my child ? 
 How you talk ! The old baron will be so angry. He must 
 know his own son. 
 
 Capkova. Yes, the " madmoaselka" would like to break 
 off the match. That is the thanks one gets when one takes 
 a companion out of pity. 
 
 Orieska. Miss Capkova, my daughter means well. 
 
 Capkova. But her guardian expects from the countess 
 the obedience of a daughter. Has he not been a second 
 father to her, and taken the greatest pains with her edu- 
 cation ? 
 
 13 
 
142 FRIENDSHIP AT THE HARVEST-FEAST. 
 
 MiLUSA. \^Pointedly.'] I dare say he does want obedieilice 
 when he proposes his son for a husband. 
 
 Orieska. My daughter, please not to impute any bad 
 motives to the honorable guardian. 
 
 Countess. Milusa is right ; do not scold her. I honor 
 and esteem my guardian, but I am not at all sure that I 
 could love his son. I mean to remain perfectly free till I 
 see how I like him. 
 
 Capkova. So? 
 
 MiLTJSA. Thanks, thanks, dear Erzika. Then you will 
 receive the young baron simply as you would any other 
 visitor ? 
 
 Countess. I shall, and even observe the strictest etiquette 
 with him. Oh, it will be so amusing, and if he seems a little 
 "wild I will>give him little lectures. 
 
 Orieska. [To the Countess.] And you still wish the 
 musical " potpourris," gracious countess ? 
 
 Countess. I will reflect. What do you think, Milusa ? 
 
 Milusa. Oh, now I will take part in them with the great- 
 est pleasure. Music is the most innocent amusement, and we 
 will make our guest acquainted with our lovely Slovenish 
 ballads. 
 
 Countess. I am so glad, Milusa. [ To Orieska.] Mr. 
 Teacher, let us try our parts. [She goes to tlie piano and takes 
 up some mitsic.'] Here we have songs, duets, trios. 
 
 FOURTH SCENE. 
 The foregoing and SuCHAY. 
 
 SucHAY. {Bowing to the Countess.] Gracious countess, 
 it is my duty 
 
 Countess. [Interrvpts him.^ Steward, please to be as 
 brief as possible. I have no time to spare. 
 
 SucHAY. I have the honor to report that to-day is the 
 close of the harvest on all your possessions, and therefore 
 according to custom 
 
 Countess. [Interrupts Mm impaiiently.'] Enough ! enough ! 
 Do you not see that I have no time to spare ? Put it all down 
 in writing. [She turns away.'] 
 
 SucHAY. Pardon me ; but it is my duty to tell you that 
 the peasants expect the usual harvest-supper. 
 
FRIENDSHIP AT THE HARVEST-FEAST. 143 
 
 Countess. Harvest-supper ? 
 
 SucHAY. Yes ; it is the custom to make a feast for the 
 reapers. 
 
 Countess. [^Impatiently.'] Feast ! Supper ! I never heard 
 of such a thing. 
 
 Orieska. Let me explain the matter to you, gracious 
 countess. The peasants are accustomed to a little supper 
 after the harvest is over. Here you can see in KoUar's 
 "Songster," such a festival is thus described; "One troupe 
 of mowers and reapers select a young man and carry him on 
 their shoulders. Another crowd of harvesters selects a young 
 girl, whom they carry in triumph. Both the young man 
 and young girl are decked with ribbons, and have wreaths of 
 flowers on their heads. These are carried in a triumphal 
 procession to the master's door. Here they sing a song 
 (the words are given here) and appeal to the master's gener- 
 osity, after which they dance and eat and drink." 
 
 Countess. Well, I like to follow the old national custom. 
 But why did not the reapers come to me directly ? 
 
 SucoAT. Ah, my lady, there is a hajduk at the park gate. 
 
 Countess. They might have come to the castle. 
 
 SucHAY. There is your grace's housekeeper, and even the 
 lady's-maid \he bows to Capkova] will not admit them. 
 
 Countess. [ Jb ' Capkova.] Aj, aj, madame! how dare 
 you take it upon yourself to refuse admittance to any one ? 
 
 Capkova. Oh, such common people would only retard the 
 march of civilization with their harvest-feasts and their merry- 
 making. If they must dance, let them dance in the road for 
 your hajduk. 
 
 Countess. The civilization of the masters ought only to 
 increase the comfort and happiness of those who are under 
 them. 
 
 Capkova. [Disdainfully.'l Oh, of course. 
 
 Countess. May I ask what was the occupation of your 
 high-born ancestors, Frau von Capkova ? 
 
 Capkova. That is more than I can stand. 
 
 Orieska. [ To Capkova.] Ha, ha ! that is your weak 
 point, Mrs. Capkova, as your father was the count's hajduk. 
 
 Capkova. I shall die of mortification. 
 
 Orieska. Yes, Mrs. Capkova, it was only as a reward for 
 faithful services that you were advanced to the dignity of 
 
144 FRIENDSHIP AT THE HARVEST-FEAST. 
 
 lady's-maid; but you need not for all that think yourself 
 better than the others, for it is after all honesty which makes 
 the man. 
 
 Capkova. Of course ; but for all that I shall try to pre- 
 vent the harvest- feast from taking place. \_She goes."] 
 
 Countess. [Ironically to her as she is leaving^] So I must 
 have the kind permission of my gracious servants. [To 
 StrcHAT.] Steward, I wish the harvest-feast to be kept 
 with suitable pomp, so that the harvesters can enjoy them- 
 selves fully. Send me a deputation from them. [Stjchay 
 goes.'] 
 
 MiLUSA. But apropos ! It has just occurred to me that 
 it might be well to put off the harvest-feast till after the 
 arrival of our guest. Such a national festival must, through 
 its novelty and originality, interest a young man more than 
 the proposed concert. 
 
 Countess. That is a bright idea, my little Milusa. Even 
 our national ballads would not be so new to the young baron, 
 as he has doubtless heard them in the theatre at Pest, as 
 Cornelius Hollas and Lemiewsky have been fond of singing 
 them. 
 
 Milusa. Yes ; but he has certainly never seen a harvest- 
 feast, and the'gayety of our people would be infectious. 
 
 Countess.- Excellent, excellent ! So we abide by the har- 
 vest-feast ! 
 
 FIFTH SCENE. 
 
 SuoHAT comes in with Thomas, Jano, Kate, and Dora. 
 
 SuoHAY. [Introduces the deputation.] Here, are some of 
 our honest lads and lasses. 
 
 Thomas. [ To the Couj^tess.] Long life and riches to our 
 lady ! We are proud to see you ! 
 
 Jano. [ Crosses himself.] Praise be to God, who has helped 
 us at this time to gather in the increase He has given us ! 
 
 DoEA. And when we go to the field, what shall we eat for 
 supper ? A roast kid shall be our supper ! 
 
 Kate. Help us, help us, my lady, that we may have wine 
 and cake with our meat ! 
 
 [All together.] And then give us music ! Music in the 
 large room at the tavern, and after we have danced we will 
 drink in praise of the harvest-feast ! 
 
FRIENDSHIP AT THE HARVEST-FEAST. 145 
 
 Countess. Well, my good people, you shall dance auid 
 drink to your heart's coutent, only you must wait a day or two. 
 
 Thomas. \_Scratchincf his head.^ Oh, gracious lady 1 why 
 cannot it be this evening ? 
 
 Countess. You must wait two days. I am expecting 
 visitors, and should like them to see one of our national 
 festivals. 
 
 Jano. In that case we are quite satisfied to wait, gracious 
 lady! 
 
 Countess. And then I want you to make some prepara- 
 tion ; you must all wear our national colors, and you roust 
 have on your best clothes, and the girls nsust have beads and 
 ornaments. The steward will give you whatever money you 
 need. 
 
 The Peasants. A long life to out gracious lady 1 
 
 Countess. Remember that I want the girl who is to lead 
 to be of unblemished reputation. [ T& O^eska.] Mr. Ori- 
 eska, you have taught all these girls their catechism, you 
 ought to know them, 
 
 Orieska. I think • The miller's daughter is a most 
 
 excellent girl. 
 
 Dora. And do yon mean to say I am not ? 
 
 Kate. [ To Orieska.] Did not I always answer well in 
 the catechism lessons ? 
 
 Thomas. [Jb Orieska. J Please, the haEdsomest girl is 
 Fabian's Lena. She just suits for tliat part. 
 
 Dora. [ To Thomas.] See if I do not pay you for that ! 
 
 Kate. Just wait till we get outside I 
 
 Orieska. Now mind 1 There- is to be no quarrelling 
 about this. 
 
 MiLUSA. [To fAe Countess-] I have aa idea. Let me 
 act the part of the leader. It wUl be foiBi fox me, and will 
 prevent any hard feelings among the gisls, 
 
 Dora and Kate. And woidd you be willii^ to. lower 
 yourself to us ? 
 
 MiLUSA. We each have our own sphere, b«t I certaiinly 
 do not consider myself any better than you, 
 
 Dora. Where the heart is gDod aU else is good. 
 
 Kate. How pleased all oim people will be ! 
 
 Thomas. Since the world began there won't have been, 
 such a harvest-feast 1 
 
 13^ 
 
146 FRIENDSHIP AT THE HARVEST-FEAST. 
 
 Countess. I like your idea, Milusa. 
 
 Orieska. And if the gracious countess will allow me, I 
 will practise the people in singing. We have beautiful har- 
 vest-songs. For instance, [Ae opens a hooK] " The harvest 
 is over." Do you know it? 
 
 All the Pjeasants. Yes, yes ; try us. 
 
 [Oeieska sits down to the piano and plays a simple 
 accompaniment, the peasants sing."] 
 
 Countess. That is a beautiful air. 
 
 Orieska. We have many others that are quite as fine, 
 and my daughter knows them all. \_To the peasants,^] When 
 you sing, follow my daughter. 
 
 Countess. [lb the peasants. "l Now, my good people, you 
 can go. [7b Suchay.] And you, steward, will take care 
 that there is plenty to eat and drink at the feast. 
 
 Peasants. Long life to our lady ! [_They dance in going 
 out, and the curtain falls.'] 
 
 SECOND ACT. 
 
 FIRST SCENE. 
 
 Capkova ; afterwards a Footman. 
 
 Capkova. [Js sitting hy the table and sealing a letter.'] 
 How much trouble such a school-director can give one ! 
 Just to think of his blurting it right out that my papa had 
 been a hajduk ! Wait, you vulgar Slovak ! Your proud 
 daughter is only a coquette ! If she objects to the countess 
 marrying the young baron, it can only be that she wants to 
 catch him for herself I But I shall be on the lookout, and 
 if I discover anything, won't I tell it to the guardian ! 
 
 Footman. \_Q)ming^ Mrs. Lady's-maid, please to an- 
 nounce that the horses are at the door and I am ready. 
 
 Capkova. My dear Ferko, here is a little letter which 
 I want you to take to Kostrovic, and give to the baron in his 
 own hand. Here is something for your trouble, and. as there 
 is very important news in the letter the baron will undoubt- 
 edly also give you a few groschen for you to refresh your- 
 self. 
 
 Footman. You may depend upon me. [fi« goes.] 
 
FRIENDSHIP AT THE HARVEST-FEAST. 14Y 
 
 Capkova. I think I may count on the rector's daughter 
 being dismissed in a hurry. What a pleasure it will be to 
 bow her out of the door. \_She makes repeated hows towards 
 the door.'] 
 
 SECOND SCENE. 
 Countess and Milusa enter, and later a Footman. 
 
 Countess. Oh, Mrs. Lady's-maid, what deep bows ! 
 
 Milusa. Yes, you can be pleasant when you wish to be 1 
 
 Capkova. Oh, I am so glad that we are once more to- 
 gether. \_Aside.'\ Fear my enmity for all that. 
 
 Countess. [^Laughingly to Milusa.] Ha, ha, ha I Milusa I 
 I shall enjoy seeing you play your naive part at the harvest- 
 feast. You will attract the men much more than all the rest 
 of the show. 
 
 Milusa. Oh, countess ! please not to make fun of me ; 
 you know the baron will not look at me. 
 
 A Footman. [ Comes in with a letter in his hand and says 
 to the Countess.] A messenger on horseback from Kostrovic 
 has just brought this letter, and says it contains good news 
 for our gracious lady. 
 
 Countess. Then give it to me at once. [She takes the 
 letter.'] I must see what the good news is. [ The servant goes, 
 and she reads.] " I announce to you the speedy arrival of my 
 son ;" ha ! [She reads on silently.] 
 
 ^ Milusa. Does the old baron write this about his son 
 Ludovit ? 
 
 Countess. [Reads aloud.] " Yesterday he returned to me 
 from the stranger's home ; but his desire to know Erzika is 
 even greater than was his wish to see me. As he will hear 
 of no delay, I shall send him to you to dinner. Receive him 
 graciously." 
 
 Milusa. If we are very industrious can we not give our 
 comedy to-day ? 
 
 Capkova. Will his "herr papa'' accompany him ? 
 
 Countess. No, no ! Send me the messenger who brought 
 this letter. [Capkova departs.] To tell you the truth, I am 
 annoyed ; I thought he would only come to supper. How 
 shall we receive him, Milusa ? Hear what my guardian says 
 farther : " Excuse me, Erzika, if I cannot accompany my 
 
148 FRIENDSHIP AT THE HARVEST-FEAST. 
 
 son, though I hope to visit you to-morrow. I send with him 
 a young engineer, who went to school with him, and who 
 has accompanied him from Pest." 
 
 MiLUSA. So we shall have two cavaliers. 
 
 Countess. And perhaps the young engineer will attack 
 Milusa's heart in due form ; ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 THIRD SCENE. 
 TJie foregoing, Capkova, and PiSTA. 
 
 Capkova. [In the doorway to PiSTA.] Come in, Stephen ; 
 don't be afraid. 
 
 PisTA. \_To the Countess.] What are your ladyship's 
 commands ? 
 
 Countess. Stephen, I am much pleased with the news this 
 letter contains. My maid will give you a bottle of wine for 
 your trouble. [Capkova goen to get it.'\ And now, Stephen, 
 tell me something about your young master. You know the 
 proverb " handsome is who handsome does." Does he look 
 like his picture ? 
 ^ PiSTA. I humbly kiss your hand, countess. But, please, 
 I ,am not Stephen. I am the lieutenant's hussar Pista. 
 
 MiLUSA. Ha, ha ! the hussar Pista 1 So the young gentle- 
 man has christened you anew. 
 
 Pista. Yes, indeed ; and in the whole house no one dare 
 speak a word of German or of Slovack, only Hungarian. 
 The old baron is very angry about it, and his old nurse even 
 cried. 
 
 MiLUSA. Ha, ha I that is funny ; then I suppose your 
 master calls himself Lajos instead of Ludovit ? 
 
 Pista. Yes, indeed ; and he has given new names to the 
 whole house. 
 
 Capkova. [Comes tvith the ivine.] Here, hussar, drink 
 your wine. 
 
 Countess. [To Milusa.] "We must think how we can 
 give Lajos a lesson ; patriotism is the greatest of virtues. I 
 have an idea. [ To Pista.] Listen, hussar Pista ! 
 
 Pista. Tessek parancsolni. [Hungarian for "what are 
 your commands?"] 
 
 Countess. You must do me a service ; I will reward you 
 -well. 
 
FRIENDSHIP AT THE HARVEST-FEAST. 149 
 
 PiSTA. Oigen szivesen [very willingly]. Gracious lady, I 
 •will serve you gladly. 
 
 Countess. Hear me, Pista ! Your old baron writes to 
 me that he will only come here the day after Lajos, but that 
 to-day he will send a friend, a young engineer, with him. I 
 do not know this gentleman ; who will accompany them ? 
 
 Pista. So it is ; the old baron has important business, and 
 the young baron will drive himself and his friend over. 
 
 Countess. Good I What about this engineer ? 
 
 Pista. He is young, but rather dry and tiresome. His 
 name is Jan Rohon, and he seems to be a very good young 
 man. 
 
 Countess. Excellent ! This all suits for my plan. We 
 must necessarily see a good deal of two young gentlemen who 
 are staying in the house. 
 
 MiLUSA. I am afraid of them ; they will think they must 
 be very gallant. 
 
 Countess. Of course I Cavaliers from Pest are always 
 gallant. 
 
 MiLUSA. I do not care about their attentions ; I like our 
 own national simplicity better. I cannot parry jests and 
 banter. 
 
 Capkova. [ To MiLUSA.] Of course, the mam'selle means 
 .to carry on her intrigues against the guardian's plans. 
 
 Countess. [ To Capkova.] Hush, maid ; I am displeased 
 with you. I feel on this point just as Milusa does. Lajos 
 does not know me and I do not know him, and if he only 
 wishes to talk Hungarian my answers will be short. 
 
 Milusa. Ah ! countess, will you not excuse me from at- 
 tendance ? Indeed, I shall have enough to do to prepare for 
 the harvest-feast. 
 
 Countess. On the contrary, I mean to have my fun. [to 
 Pista and Capkova] and you must promise not to betray 
 me. [ To Capkova.] You must treat my companion as your 
 countess, and I shall take the part of the queen of the har- 
 vest-feast, with my basket on my arm and a wreath on my 
 head. 
 
 Pista. I promise not to betray you. 
 
 Countess. [ To Capkova.] And you, lady's-maid ? 
 
 Capkova. And why do you wish to make such a breach 
 of etiquette and to make a fool of the young baron ? 
 
150 FRIENDSHIP AT THE HARVEST-FEAST. 
 
 Countess. You must obey me, Captova, whether you ap- 
 prove of it or not. [To MiLUSA.] And you.my pseudo- 
 countess, please to come with me. [ They walk together act- 
 ing and laughing.'] 
 
 Capkova. [Aside.l I will spoil their game ! — and yet it 
 is really water for my mill. When the guardian arrives to- 
 morrow and sees that flirting companion playing the countess 
 and trying to entrap his son, he will dismiss her on the spot. 
 \^She smiles malignantly.'] 
 
 Countess. [ To Capkova.] What are you thinking about ? 
 
 MiLTJSA. And what were you laughing about ? 
 
 Capkova. I was only thinking how droll it will be. Yes, 
 my children ; I will do all you want. 
 
 Countess. That is simply to treat Milusa just as you do 
 me, and to show her the same respect. 
 
 Capkova. [Aside.] That will be a bitter pill for me! 
 [Aloud.] Indeed, a pretty countess ; such a stuck-up school- 
 director's daughter ! 
 
 Milusa. [To Capkova.] You need not be uneasy, lady's- 
 maid ; Erzika will lovingly lend me all that is necessary to 
 act my part to the life. " 
 
 Capkova. [Bowing to Milusa.] You must not be sur- 
 prised if I forget myself sometimes, at first. 
 
 Countess. Good ! We must each try not to forget her 
 part, and then we will see who acted best. 
 
 PiSTA. [Loohs out of the window.] Here is really my 
 young master with Mr. Engineer ; master is driving,' and the 
 coachman is sitting behind in the best seat. 
 
 Countess. [Looking also out of the window.] They are 
 dressed exactly alike. Which is the young baron ? 
 
 PiSTA. The one in the tight-buttoned coat with so much 
 braid. 
 
 Countess. Both have braided coats. 
 
 PiSTA. Excuse me, I have no time ; I must run to meet 
 them. 
 
 Countess. Pista, don't betray our plans to your young 
 master. 
 
 Pista. [From the door.] I will not betray them. [He 
 goes off.] 
 
 Countess. [7b Milusa.] Why are you standing' there? 
 Run and make your toilet. Take all my things, — my crino- 
 
FRIENDSHIP AT THE HARVEST-FEAST. 151 
 
 line and my chemisette, perfume, pomatum, bracelets, dia- 
 monds, — everything to make you look every inch a countess. 
 [MiLTJSA goes off, while the Countess says to Capkova.] 
 Now, maid, give your orders that all the servants shall treat 
 Milusa as if she were the counters. {Both go."] 
 
 FOUKTH SCENE. 
 
 LUDOVIT KOSTROVICKY, JaN KoHON, and PiSTA. 
 
 [PiSTA holds open the door for Ludovit and Kohon to 
 enter.'] 
 
 Ludovit, [ To Eohon, in Hungarian.] I must say that is 
 a real palace. 
 
 Eohon. Happy Lajos ! Is not your heart beating very 
 fast? 
 
 PiSTA. {Aside.] Ha, ha ! Sirs, if you only knew what a 
 countess you are going to see ! 
 
 Ludovit. My friend, do me one favor. The countpss 
 does not know either of us : I would really like to try if I 
 could win her love as a plain engineer. 
 
 Kohon. And if I represent the young baron, supposing 
 she were to fall really in love with me ? 
 
 Ludovit. Then I must take her friend ! ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 Eohon That would be truly romantic. I am certain to 
 be caught by this close companionship, but I will do as you 
 want. 
 
 Ludovit. [Emhracing him,.] We are friends till death, 
 no matter how the affair ends. 
 
 Eohon. Ha, ha ! if our friendship stands that test it is 
 really immortal. A beautiful woman, like politics, can part 
 the firmest friends. I do not wish Erzika to fall between us 
 like an apple of discord. Love is not a thing to be played 
 with. My heart is not a lump of ice, my friend. 
 
 Ludovit. I will risk it. [Tli Pista.] Listen, Pista. 
 
 PiSTA. Yes, sir. 
 
 Ludovit. Now, pay attention to what I order you. I wish 
 to court the Countess Erzika while she thinks I am the en- 
 gineer. So you must treat the engineer as if he were the 
 Baron Ludovit Kostrovicky. 
 
 Pista. {Scratches his head.] By all the luciferian ele- 
 ments ! Meltosagos, sir. 
 
152 FRIENDSHIP AT THE HARVEST-FEAST. 
 
 Ltjdovit. [Interrupts Mm.'] I have already told you that 
 the engineer is your meltosagos master for the present. If 
 you betray me here or at home you shall get twenty. Do 
 you hear? 
 
 PiSTA. I understand, I understand, meltas, — I meant en- 
 gineer, sir. \_Aside.'] My goodness, but this is a real farce I 
 [^Aloud.'] Ha, ha, ha I 
 
 LuDOViT. What are you laughing about, you rascal ? 
 
 PiSTA. Must I tell the gracious countess ? 
 
 LuDOViT. She is the very one who is not to know that I 
 am the Baron Kostrovicky ; and now march. 
 
 RoHON. My friend, I have conscientious scruples ; I do not 
 like to deceive the countess. 
 
 Ltjdovit. Don't be suet a pedant. 
 
 RoHON. [Looking at himself in the glass.] Well, I sup- 
 pose I must take a part in this play. [ The door opens.] Here 
 she is. 
 
 FIFTH SCENE. 
 
 MiLUSA, dressed as a countess, Capkova, Pista, and the 
 preceding. 
 
 PiSTA. [Holding the door open.] Gracious countess. [He 
 laughs.] 
 
 EoHON. [Bows to MiLUSA and says in Hungarian^ Your 
 most obedient servant, dear countess. 
 
 MiLUSA. [Bows likewise.] Excuse me, sir, if I kept you 
 waiting, but I have just completed my toilet, as you came 
 sooner than I expected. [To Rohon.] You are welcome, 
 baron. I have not seen you since my childhood, and could 
 really not have recalled your features. 
 
 Capkova. [Aside.'] He, he ! of course. 
 
 Rohon. I really do not think I could recall yours either. 
 [Aside to LuDOViT.] A thousand devils ! here I have been 
 talking Slovack like a native. 
 
 LuDOViT. [Aside to him.] A bad business. [In Hungarian 
 to MiLUSA.] I trust you will excuse me if I speak another 
 language. 
 
 MiLUSA. [ To Rohon.] I suppose this is your good friend, 
 the engineer, of whom Pista was speaking to me ? 
 
 Rohon. [Much embarrassed.] Well — ^yes he is my very 
 
 good friend. 
 
FRIENDSHIP AT THE HARVEST-FEAST. 153 
 
 LUDOVIT. [7b MiLUSA.] I will perhaps be able to amuse 
 your ladyship with some specimens of surveying. \_He Sows.] 
 
 PiSTA and Capkova. [^Aside.'} Ha, ha, ha! \_Thei/hide 
 their faces.'] 
 
 Miltjsa. I shall be most happy ! You are both welcome, 
 Pista and you, homorna [lady's-maid], give us chairs. [7b 
 RoHON and LuDOViT.] Please to be se'ated. [ They aM sit 
 down. PiSTA and Capkova^'O away laughing.] [ To KoHON.] 
 And now, my dear Lajos — ^you will allow me to treat you in 
 this friendly manner ? 
 
 LUDOVIT. [^Impatiently to Milusa.J I must tell you that 
 my. friend has become a thorough Hungarian, and in a con- 
 versation in Slovack he feels about as lively as a fish out of 
 water. 
 
 EoHON. [7b Milusa.J True, my dear Erzika; but how 
 beautifully Hungarian would sound in your lovely mouth ! 
 
 MiLTiSA. Ha, ha, ha ! Excuse me, sirs, but Hungarian only 
 sounds well when you are among Hungarians. Here Slovack 
 is much finer. 
 
 LuDOViT. [Aside to Rohon.] This Slavish mania is 
 frightful. 
 
 MimsA. My dear Lajos, please to remember that patriot- 
 ism or the love of the country where you happen to have been 
 born is the greatest of virtues. Let those who are born in 
 Pest love everything Hungarian, but not those who are born in 
 a Slovack-speaking community or region. [She turns away.] 
 
 LuDOVIT. [Who has been drumming impatiently on the 
 table, aside to ROHON.] Now, my friend, have we not had a 
 lecture ? 
 
 Rohon. [Aside to him.] But she is quite right. [Aloud 
 to MimsA.] But, my dear countess, those of us who burn 
 with love for their fatherland are often ridiculed. 
 
 MiLUSA. The one who should be ridiculed is the one who 
 neglects his own nation, who is ashamed of his countrymen 
 and their manners and customs, who despises his mother- 
 tongue. Such a man I would not want for a friend. 
 
 LuDOViT. [Jumps up.] That is too much ! 
 
 Rohon. [Aside to him.] Be quiet ; what a charming crea- 
 ture ! 
 
 MiLUSA. I hope I have convinced you ; but why do you 
 look at me so steadfastly ? 
 
154 FRIENDSHIP AT THE HARVEST-FEAST. 
 
 RoHON. \^Abrupily.'] If I may speak the truth it is from 
 
 the deepest But first let me explain, — I sent you my 
 
 picture. 
 
 LuDOViT. \^Aside to Rohon, angrily.'] What the devil are 
 you thinking about ? Tell her at once you do not like her. 
 
 EoHON. f^Aside to Ltjdovit.] / say that to that splendid 
 woman ! Why, I am over head and ears in love with her. 
 
 MiLUSA. Gentlemen, it is a breach of etiquette to whisper 
 together thus. [ To RoHON.] If you wish, baron, to say that 
 you do not like me, say it openly ; I shall not be angry. 
 
 LuDOViT. Say it bravely. 
 
 Rohon. [ To Milusa, loith deep emotion.'] Ah, countess ! 
 perhaps you do not like me. 
 
 Milusa. \_With feeling to Rohon.] I do not like you. 
 [Asidei] Ah, woe me ! 
 
 Rohon. \_Seizing her hand.'] -Then, farewell, countess; 
 may you be happy I \^He wishes to leave.'] 
 
 MiLTJSA. [^Detains him.] Oh, no, baron ! do not go. Even 
 if I would not be your wife, I am not your enemy. Stay 1 
 
 Rohon. [Passionately.] Oh, no, adorable countess ; but 
 I 
 
 LuDOViT. [^Hurriedly.] Don't be a fool. [Aloud' to Mi- 
 lusa.] Baron Lajos wishes to say he would like you better 
 if you were more tolerant of other nationalities. 
 
 Rohon. Tolerant 1 Oh ! yes. 
 
 Milusa. Excuse me if I must leave you for a short time. 
 We are to have a harvest-feast. Here are books and music. 
 [She shows a portrait.] Who does this look like ? 
 
 LuDOViT. [Looking at it.] May I ask if you painted this? 
 
 Milusa. Yes ; I did. 
 
 Rohon. And you paint I Do tell me if all the Slovack 
 girls are your equals. 
 
 Milusa. Do not underrate our girls. If you wear Hun- 
 garian clothes, Slovack blood flows in your veins. 
 
 Rohon. True, countess ; you speak the truth. 
 
 LuDOViT. [Aside to Rohon.] Idiot ! don't forget that you 
 may be a Magyar, but that you are not a baron. 
 
 Rohon. [Aside to him.] A thousand devils ! true. I had 
 nearly forgotten it. [Aloitd to Milusa.] What I meant, 
 countess, was that you must have idealized the face, and made 
 it more beautiful than the original. 
 
FRIENDSHIP AT THE HARVEST-FEAST. 155 
 
 LuDOVlT. \_LooMng admiringly at the picture."] It is 
 lovely ! 
 
 MimsA. \Aside.'] I painted the countess as a Slovack 
 burgher's daughter., 
 
 LUDOVIT. [ Vehemently^ Be she reaper or be she countess, 
 it is the loveliest face I ever saw ! It would be stupidity to 
 suppose that that woman could be a Slovack. 
 
 E.OHON. I must say I think the same. 
 
 MimsA. Gentlemen, I can assure you that this is the 
 portrait of the handsomest girl in this region, and you can 
 see her this evening in the harvest-feast. Till we meet' again. 
 \_She goes.] 
 
 SIXTH SCENE. 
 LuDOViT and ROHON ; later PiSTA. 
 
 EoHON. [^Looks admiringly after MlLUSA.J Did you ever 
 see such a charming creature ? 
 
 LuDOViT. But what a tongue 1 I sat the whole time as 
 on hot coals. 
 
 RoHON. But is she not beautiful ? 
 
 LtJDOViT. But I do not admire that style. 
 
 RoHON. And, then, how frank she is ! 
 
 LuDOViT. Frank rudeness ! 
 
 RoHON. To be sure, you caught it ; but I could have kissed 
 her for every word she uttered. 
 
 LtrpoviT. My friend, please to remember that what you 
 choose to call frankness was very ill timed. 
 
 RoHON. Now, now, friend Lajos, you know the proverb : 
 " An ugly face don't love the looking-glass." But this dose 
 of truth may do you good. Be a philosopher. 
 
 LtJDOViT. Pudge ! I am opposed to all philosophy. But, 
 to tell you the truth, I think she is as much in love with you 
 as you with her. 
 
 RoHON. Do not joke, Lajos. It is a tender subject. 
 
 PiSTA. \_In the doorway.] Please, meltosagos, — that is, 
 engineer master. 
 
 LUDOVIT. It is well you corrected yourself, Pista, and well 
 you came. I think I shall go back again. 
 
 RoHON. Don't be so unreasonable, Lajos. She is beau- 
 tiful, rich, and well educated, and you promised your father 
 to. comply with his wishes. 
 
156 FRIENDSHIP AT THE HARVEST-FEAST. 
 
 LuDOTiT. I shall simply tell father that she was rnde to 
 me, and that she is a Panslave. [To PiSTA.] What are 
 you standing there for ? Did you not understand that I want 
 my carriage ? 
 
 PiSTA. Please, sir, I wish to say that there is a Slovack 
 girl in the castle who is much handsomer than the countess. 
 I would much rather marry her. 
 
 LuDOViT. [Interrupts Atm.] Oflf with you, you rascal ! 
 
 PiSTA. [ To himself in going out.'] I am not going to get 
 things ready till he has seen the true countess. 
 
 LuDOViT. It serves me right for having thought of this 
 masquerade. {Both remain thoitght/ul.'] 
 
 SEVENTH SCENE. 
 
 The Countess eomes in to Ltjdovit and Rohon vrith a 
 basJcet on her arm. 
 
 CorNTESS. {Speaking to herself.'] Both so thoughtful ! 
 
 Ltjdovit. [ToEohon.] My friend, I must speak my mind 
 out. [ The CoTTNTESS coughs loudli/, Lddovit turns round.] 
 Ha ! what is this ? What a beautiful girl ! 
 
 EoHON. Does the countess wish to insult us ? 
 
 LtTDOTiT. {Aside to RoHON.] Perhaps. But the wonder- 
 ful likeness to the portrait ! 
 
 Countess. [ To herself.] He stares at me so he must like 
 my looks. 
 
 LuDOviT. {Aloud to the Countess.] What do you want, 
 beautiful maiden ? Come nearer, my angel ; do not be afraid 
 of us. 
 
 Countess. If you please, I am not an angel, and I am not 
 afraid of you. I only want to see the young baron who wants 
 to marry our mistress, and his friend, too. You have said, 
 young gentlemen, that no Slovack girl can be as pretty as 
 that picture. Now, please to look at me, for I am the one 
 the countess painted there, and she dressed me up in the 
 same way to-day for the harvest-feast. Admire me ! {She 
 turns round before them.] 
 
 LuDOViT. {Aside to EoHON.J What a merry creature ! 
 
 Rohon. {Aside to him.] Yes ; but she is too free. 
 
 Countess. Now, is my picture like me ? 
 
 LuDOViT. (Aside to Rohon.] Charming ! Charming ! 
 
FRIENDSHIP AT THE HARVEST-FEAST. 157 
 
 [Aloud to the Countess.]. Oh, it is exactly like you, only 
 the living model is still handsomer than the portrait. 
 
 Countess. \_Simpli/.'] A potret ! I do not know what 
 that word means, but that picture cannot be a potray. 
 
 LuDOViT. [Aside to RoHON.] Ha, ha ! it is a pity that 
 she is so stupid ! [Aloud to the Covf^T'ESS.'] My beautiful 
 Slovack, if you will not allow it three times [potret'\, let me 
 kiss your lovely face once. 
 
 Countess. [Threatens Mm, with her handJ] Get away 
 from my five fingers ! Do you see this basket ? [She aims 
 it at him,."] 
 
 LuDOViT. A thousand devils, but she is fierce! 
 
 RoHON. [To LuDOViT.] You had better let her alone, my 
 friend, or she will really send that basket at your head. 
 
 LuDOViT. [ To the Countess.] Do not be so shy, my dear, 
 receive advances more kindly. [He approaches her.'\ 
 
 Countess. [Raises her hand.'] If you do not wish to feel 
 the weight of my hand you had better edge off a little, or you 
 might fare like the writer who wished to describe my face, 
 but I marked his for him with my basket. [She shakes her 
 basket in Ltjdovit's face.l 
 
 LuDOViT. [Jumps back.'] She is a real devil ; she would 
 scratch. 
 
 RoHON. Please to let her alone. Slovacks do not under- 
 stand jokes. 
 
 Countess. [To Ludovit.] That young man is better be- 
 haved than you. He must have learned his catechism better 
 at school. 
 
 LuDOViT. [Aside to RoHON.] Is she not charmingly 
 naive? [To her.] Tell me which of us two is the baron? 
 
 Countess. [Looks at them both and says to herself.] This 
 wild one is the nicest, he must be the baron. 
 
 LUDOVIT. What do you think ? 
 
 Countess. I am not a prophet, but I think it must be 
 you, sir. 
 
 Ludovit. Ha, ha, ha ! you are wrong. [Aside to Rohon.] 
 Wonderful 1 this Slovack has aristocratic instincts. [ To her.] 
 You are wrong, my dear ; I am only an engineer. This gen- 
 tleman [poiiitinff to Rohon] is the young baron and your 
 future master. 
 
 Countess. [Looks wonderingly at RoHON, and says to 
 14* 
 
158 FRIENDSHIP AT THE HARVEST-FEAST. 
 
 herself.'] And he stands there so stiff and cold. I do not 
 like him. 
 
 LuDOViT. [To the CotTNTESS.J Ha, ha! so you do not 
 like the young haron? Go and kiss his hand instead of 
 staring at him. He will be your master. 
 
 Countess. [ To Rohon, who still stands very stiff."] If you 
 please, sir, the countess says she won't have you. 
 
 RoHON. [Sadly.'] And has the countess really told you 
 that? 
 
 Countess. \^Adde^ Amen 1 He is in love with Milusa, 
 that is a settled thing, [lb Eohon.] I am surprised that 
 she does not like you, as you are such a steady young man. 
 \_She wishes toga.] 
 
 LuDOViT. [Stops her.] Wait a little, you beautiful dove, 
 and show me those lovely eyes. [He looks into her eyes and 
 says to RoHON.] Her beauty will drive me mad I 
 
 Countess. [Stniffcfling.] Please to let me go, Mr. Baron 
 — no, Mr. Engineer — or I will call the hussar, and what will 
 he think of you ? [In going out she says to herself.] Woe me, 
 the engineer 1 [Pista is waiting for her at the door.] 
 
 EIGHTH SCENE. 
 LuDoviT, RoHON, and Pista. 
 
 Pista. [Aside.] Ha, ha ! that is splendid ; she has fallen 
 in love with him ! I have eyes I [Se laughs aloud.] Ha, 
 ha, ha ! 
 
 LuDOViT. [Angrily to PiSTA.] The devil take you, you 
 idiot ! 
 
 Pista. If you please, sir, you forgot to say exactly at 
 what time you want your carriage. 
 
 LuDOViT. It is true ; I forgot it. But tell me, Pista, who 
 is that Slovack girl who was in here just now ? 
 
 Pista. That girl ! she is a bold one. 
 
 LuDOViT. So you know her ; what is her name ? 
 
 Pista. All I know about her is that she is the prettiest 
 girl in the whole neighborhood. It is only a pity that she 
 has such a real peasant's hand. 
 
 LuDOViT. How is that ? 
 
 Pista. She gave me such a box on the ears that all my 
 
FRIENDSHIP AT THE HARVEST-FEAST. 159 
 
 teeth ache. {Holding his face, says to himself.'] I must stir 
 him up a little. 
 
 Ltjdovit. She would not have done it if you had not been 
 worrying her, you villain. Now, if I hear of your following 
 that girl I will make you remember it. Do you understand ? 
 
 PiSTA. As soon as the carriage is ready, are we to go 
 home, sir ? 
 
 LUDOVIT. Do not order it. I have changed my mind. 
 
 THIRD ACT. 
 
 The same room as in the first act. 
 
 FIRST SCENE. 
 Countess and Milusa. 
 
 Countess. {Sits sadly on a chair, dressed in her peasant' g 
 dress-l Oh, I wish I had not been born a countess, and that 
 I could marry for love ! 
 
 Milusa. Listen to me, dear countess. The young baron 
 is worthy of you, and your equal in virtues and landed 
 
 Countess. But I do not like him. Moreover, he is in 
 love with you. Towards me he was as still and cold as if I 
 had been a statue. 
 
 Milusa. That is very much in his favor, and shows that 
 he is a moral young man, and too refined to admire a peasant 
 girl, without manners or education. 
 
 Countess. {Interrupting her."] No, no. I could not be 
 happy with him. What do I care about silver and gold and 
 estates ? Besides, he prefers foreign manners and a foreign 
 people. [ The Countess goes.] 
 
 SECOND SCENE. 
 Milusa and Rohon. 
 
 EoHON. {Near the door, to himself] What must I do ? 
 She can never be mine. [ To Milusa.] Gracious countess, 
 I cannot deceive you any longer. I must confess all, to you, 
 and beg your pardon. {He tries to fall on his knees before 
 her.] 
 
 Milusa. {^Holds him lack.] For heaven's sake, baron, 
 
160 FRIENDSHIP AT THE HARVEST-FEAST. 
 
 stop ! Do not say what you were going to say. [ To herself. 1 
 He wishes to declare his love. I must not allow it. 
 
 KoHON. Gracious countess, I have deceived you. 
 
 MiLUSA. ^Interrupts Mm.'] You are the one who has been 
 deceived; but it was only a joke. I am no countess, but only 
 Erzika's companion. My name is Milusa ; and I did not 
 think to steal your love by acting the countess's part. Nature 
 has intended you for her, and she is worthy of you. Oh, 
 forgive me ! 
 
 KoHON. [^Ecstatically.'] Oh, how joyfully I forgive you ! 
 Your jest was a fortunate one for me. But tell me, who, 
 then, is the real Countess Erzika ? 
 
 Milusa. \_Smiling.] The one who was dressed as a reaper. 
 
 E.OHON. [ To himself.] Everything suits ; but she whom I 
 love is not a countess. Perhaps I dare hope. \_He stands 
 undecided.] 
 
 MiLtJSA. Baron, I must tell you that the beautiful reaper 
 was very much displeased because you scarcely looked at her. 
 That was excusable while you thought her a peasant ; but I 
 hope now you will make amends for your previous neglect. 
 
 RoHON. Never, never ! I love you, Milusa, and, compelled 
 by my ardent love, I now fall at your feet and offer you my 
 hand and name. \_He kneels before her and seizes her hand. 
 The Countess and Capkova appear at the door.] 
 
 Milusa. [Not noticing the Countess.] Get up, baron, get 
 up, and do not trifle with a poor girl. I have told you I 
 am no countess. [She takes her hand away.] 
 
 KoHON. [Not seeing the others.] But you are a refined and 
 patriotic Slovack, and as such I want you for my wife, — ^you 
 must be mine ! [He rises and embraces her.] 
 
 Milusa. [Sees the Countess.] What I feared has hap- 
 pened. But see there the beautiful reaper. [They both 
 look at the Countess, who is as motionless as if she had 
 been turned to stone.] 
 
 Capkova. [In the doorway, to herself] It is as I hoped. 
 This will certainly be the false countess's last day in our 
 castle. Ha, ha I [She laughs.] 
 
FRIENDSHIP AT THE HARVEST-FEAST. 161 
 
 THIRD SCENE. 
 Countess, Milusa, and Eohon. 
 
 Countess. I see that I am here de trap. [/SAe wishes to ffo.'} 
 
 KoHON. IStops her.'] Illustrious countess ! 
 
 Countess. [Astonished.'] Who told you that I am the 
 countess ? ' 
 
 KoHON. Milasa, my beloved and your faithful friend. 
 
 Countess. ISnrprised.] So? 
 
 Eohon. Yes ; I have fallen in love with her beauty and 
 virtue, and beg you, countess, to give her to me for my wife. 
 
 Milusa. Do not mind him, countess; the baron does not 
 know what he is saying. 
 
 Countess. If he wishes to raise you to our level 
 
 , Eohon. I am thoroughly in earnest, countess, and wish to 
 marry Milusa. 
 
 Milusa. Baron, such jests are unbecoming to you. 
 
 Countess. [To Eohon.] If you are in earnest, I can 
 only say I am surprised at your choice. 
 
 Eohon. Know that I am not the baron. He forced me 
 to play his part. I aid only his friend, the engineer. 
 
 Countess. [Delighted.] "What ? you are not the baron ? 
 
 Milusa. [Delighted.] You are the engineer ? 
 
 Countess. [ Cunningly.] And the other cavalier ? 
 
 Eohon. [With a smile.] Is the Baron Lajos. We ex- 
 changed rSles, and thus had paid you off in your own coin. 
 
 Milusa. Then I am no longer surprised at your love for 
 everything Hungarian. 
 
 Countess. But where is Baron Kostrovicty now ? ■ 
 
 Eohon. He is looking for you among the reapers. 
 
 Countess. [Joyfully.] Eeally? 
 
 Eohon. I am afraid his Hungarian mania is in great danger. 
 
 Countess. Then our double comedy has been successful. 
 
 Eohon. And I have also become a Slovack. [ To the Coun- 
 tess.] Lovely reaper, give me Milusa. [He hows low to her.] 
 
 Countess. Milusa is yours, but not wholly so till you have 
 her father's consent. 
 
 Eohon. I am the happiest of men. 
 
 Milusa. And Baron Lajos will be still happier. 
 
 Countess. I make no promises. But, my friends, let us 
 make our harvest-feast as romantic as possible, and keep up 
 
162 FRIENDSHIP AT THE HARVEST-FEAST. 
 
 our parts. What a triumph it will he for me if I can subdue 
 his aristocratic pride and make him offer to a poor Slovack 
 his hand and name ! 
 
 MiLUSA. That Would be a fearful test of love. 
 
 Countess. Bat how great would be his delight when the 
 metamorphosis takes place and the poor reaper appears as the 
 Countess Erzika I So it is understood Lajos is to know 
 nothing about what has now taken place. \_She goes.'] 
 
 FOURTH SCENE. 
 
 The stage represents a garden ; against the castle wall are seats. 
 
 LuDOViT, then, MiLUSA and Eohon. 
 
 LtlDOVIT. [ Comes into the garden, much excited.'] I have 
 sought her everywhere in vain, and all the peasants whom I 
 have asked about her have laughed at me. And that ras- 
 cally hussar of mine looks at me as if either he or I were 
 crazy ! Well, I must wait for the Slovack procession ; per- 
 haps she will be in it. Ha ! there are the pseudo-baron and 
 that enthusiastic countess ! 
 
 MiLUSA. [^0 LuDOViT.] Aj, aj, Sir Engineer. I suppose 
 you are seeking the fair one whom you could not see at the 
 dinner-table ? 
 
 KoHON. [7b MimsA.J Countess, you must excuse my 
 friend ; he is of a melancholy turn of mind. 
 
 MiLUSA. Sentimental melancholy is very attractive. 
 
 LuDOViT. [Dryly.] Excuse me, countess; my aim is 
 simply 
 
 MiLtrsA. [Intemtpting him.] Pure philanthropy. I un- 
 derstand. 
 
 RoHON. Countess, my friend is only looking at your 
 grounds with the eye of an engineer, and beauty and sym- 
 metry have also a charm for one in love with geometry. 
 
 LUDOVIT. [Aside.] Oh, the rascal ! [Alovd.] Yes, illus- 
 trious countess ; symmetry ! 
 
 MiLUSA. Well, sir, have you found anything to admire ? 
 
 LuDOViT. Here, in the garden, most certainly nothing. 
 
 RoHON. And I, on the contrary, have found everything 
 that is beautiful ! [He kisses her hand.], 
 
 LuDOViT. [Aside to him.] A thousand devils I are you crazy? 
 
 MiLUSA. [To RoHON.] My dear Lajos, I only wanted to 
 
FRIENDSHIP AT THE HARVEST-FEAST. 163 
 
 test your love, — for I feel assured that you do love me, — and 
 I am quite willing to give you my hand. [He seizes it and 
 kisses it with rapture.'] 
 
 LuroviT. [Anffrili/ to him aside."] Are you crazy, or are 
 you dreaming ? \_A chorus is heard in the distance.] What 
 is that ? 
 
 MiLUSA. That is the song of the reapers in honor of the 
 harvest-feast. Listen ! it is one of our national Slovack airs. 
 [ Thei/ listen.'] How do you like it ? 
 
 LCDOVIT. Oh, it is beautiful! [Aside.] Perhaps she is 
 singing in it. 
 
 FIFTH SCENE. 
 
 The foregoing, Codntess, Thomas, and Eeapers of loth 
 sexes. The Countess, dressed as a reaper, with a wreath 
 on her head, is led forward hy Thomas, in the national 
 costume. The other reapers follow them. MlLUSA and 
 RoHON are seated. 
 
 LuDOViT. Ha ! it is she ; how beautiful ! If I could only 
 get out among them I 
 
 Countess. [ Taking the wreath from her head, offers it 
 to MiLUSA.] Take this wreath, dear countess, it is made of 
 wheat and barley, and is as pure as yourself. God grant that 
 there may always be enough of these. His precious gifts, for 
 us all ! [MiLUSA takes the wreath.] 
 
 MiLUSA. Thanks, my good friends. Whenever there is 
 not bread enough, your good countess must divide with you. 
 Land-owners are in God's stead towards you. [To the 
 Countess.] Is it not so, my dear girl ? 
 
 Countess. [ With feeling.] Yes, indeed, dear lady. 
 
 Reapers. Slava! 
 
 Female Reapers. Long live our beautiful reaper ! 
 
 LuDOViT. [Aside to RoHON.] My friend, I like this ; it is 
 quite like being at the theatre. 
 
 MiLUSA. [To the Countess.] Now, my dear girl, you so 
 kindly gave me your wreath, and in exchange I give you 
 from my hair this bunch of flowers, with the bow. [She pins 
 it in her hair.] 
 
 Countess. Many thanks to your grace. How pretty it is ! 
 [ To LuDOVlT.] Do you not think so, young gentleman ? 
 
 MiLUSA. [ To LuDOViT.] Aj,aj, Sir Engineer! She seems 
 
164 FRIENDSBIF^/PT THE HARVEST-FEAST. 
 
 to know you very well, or she would not dare to appeal to 
 you thus. 
 
 LuDOViT. [Fi'^A/ee^Mty.] Well, yes. Aurevoir. lAside.] 
 What a charming creature 1 
 
 MiLTiSA. [ToLuDOViT.] Is that what you call Symmetry, 
 Sir Engineer? {To the reapers.'] Thanks once more, my 
 children 1 Take this little gift from me in remembrance of 
 this present joyous harvest-feast. \_She goes among them 
 with RoHON, and gives each one a present.] 
 
 IShe goes off with B.OHON, and the reapers follow them.] 
 
 SIXTH SCENE. 
 
 Countess and LtrooviT. 
 
 CoTTffTESS. Well, young gentlemen, will you not come and 
 eat some cakes with us ? \_She -tries to go.] 
 
 LuDOViT. [^CaJls to her.] Wait a while, my dear! Why 
 did you not sing with the others ? 
 
 ■ Countess. If you please, I do not know how to sing. 
 [_She hums.] 
 
 " How to sing I never learned, 
 But my bread I always earned." 
 
 LuDOViT. That is not the right tune ; try again. [5e 
 seizes her hand.] 
 
 Countess. You hold my hand too tight, young gentleman. 
 
 LuDOViT. This hand is as fair and soft as if it had never 
 known work. Tell me, how is this ? 
 
 Countess. Let me loose first, and then I will tell you. 
 [^She snatches her hand awai/.] 
 
 Ludovit. Are your parents living ? 
 
 Countess. Ah, no ! I am a poor orphan. 
 
 Ludovit. Poor thing 1 That is the reason you have to 
 work so hard. I would gladly help you. Tell me, do you 
 like me? 
 
 Countess. That is not a fair question. You are a high 
 gentleman, and I only a lowly peasant. 
 
 Ludovit. [ To himself.] A thousand pities that she is not 
 high enough ! [^Aloud.] Then you do not know how to read, 
 my golden dove ? 
 
 Countess. So, so 1 What idea have you of us Slovack 
 
FRIENDSHIP AT THE HARVEST-FEAST. 165 
 
 girls ? We have a splendid school-director, and he teacTies 
 us all the spelling-book. And in Slovack there are such nice 
 prayer-books, and that is a help for us poor girls. 
 
 LuDOViT. \_Aside.'] Unfortunate stupidity of our country I 
 [ To Tier.'] And would you not like me to teach you some- 
 thing ? 
 
 Countess. Ha, ha, ha ! you teach me ! You do not look 
 as old as our school-director, and then it would be too funny 
 for me to go to school again, when I am grown up ! 
 
 LuDOVlT. [^Lovinffly.'] I love you sincerely. Give me one 
 little kiss. [5e tries to embrace her.'] 
 
 Countess. You had better not, or I'll scream. ^She 
 screams.'] 
 
 LuDOViT. [Jumps bacJc] A thousand devils ! Who 
 would have thought you were so shy ? 
 
 Countess. Let me tell you what. If you are so fond of 
 kissing, kiss my hand. [Seeing MiLUSA and E.0H0N in the 
 background.] Pst ! 
 
 LuDOViT, [ Without minding the witnesses.] Oh, with 
 pleasure, my dear! [Se hisses her hand.] How soft and 
 white this dear hand is ! 
 
 SEVENTH SCENE. 
 MiLUSA and EoHON and the preceding. 
 
 MiLUSA. Aj, aj, that is an original idea! I could not 
 have believed that a young man of culture and refinement 
 would kiss the hand of a peasant girl ! 
 
 RoHON. [ To MiLUSA.] Ha, ha, ha, countess ! My friend 
 here seems to have overcome his prejudices against the 
 Slovacks. 
 
 MiLUSA. He is excusable, for he loves the prettiest Slo- 
 vack girl in existence. [7b th^ Countess.] But you, my 
 girl, why did you remain in the castle ? 
 
 Countess. It was not my fault. This young gentleman 
 held me, and said I was his dear, and his gold dove, and he 
 squeezed my hand, and he said he loved me sincerely, and 
 he wants to educate me. 
 
 MiLUSA. Very fine I [Ironicalli/ to LUDOVIT.] So you 
 would like to educate her. Sir Engineer ! 
 
 RoHON. Ha, ha ! Such is the value of symmetry of figure. 
 15 
 
166 FRIENDK,i.ij.i. jij. ixi^ ja^ar-nior-rjijjini: 
 
 LtjdOvit. Yes ; the girl told me she was ah unfortunate 
 orphan, and was obliged to do hard work because she had not 
 had any education. 
 
 MiLUSA. So you wish to emancipate her and train her ac- 
 cording to your own system. If your love for her is so 
 ardent that 
 
 LUDOVIT. That ! what do you mean ? 
 
 MiLUSA. That you would be willing to choose her as your 
 companion for life. 
 
 LuDOViT. Allow me, countess. I think a young man may 
 jest with a young girl, h 
 
 Countess. [^Sorrowfully.'] So the young gentleman was 
 only jesting, and I thought he was in earnest. 
 
 MiLUSA. [IbLuDOViT.] Sir Engineer, you have not been 
 sufficiently careful of the honor of my house. All the ser- 
 vants and the reapers know that this girl has been alone with 
 you all this time. Our customs are not those of Pest. We are 
 Slovacks. The only course you can take now is to marry her. 
 
 LuDOVIT. [ With dignity. '\ You compel me to throw off 
 my mask. Know then, countess, that I am Baron Ludovit 
 Kostrovicky. The one who loves you is the engineer. You 
 are free to return his love if you choose, but I protest against 
 a peasant bride being forced upon me. 
 
 MiLUSA. [ Wonderingly.'] And is this the etiquette you 
 have learned in Pest? You have deceived me and the 
 whole household. [ To Rohon.] And you. Sir Engineer, how 
 could you lend your help to such a sottise ? You see, my 
 girl, [to the Countess] you are not needed here. Adieu, gen- 
 tlemen. [She goes off with the Countess.] 
 
 Rohon. You see, Lajos, how we have fared for carrying 
 out your famous " idea." The countess is angry with me. 
 I will go and throw myself at her feet. She is good ; per- 
 haps she will forgive us, and she may yet be yours. [He 
 goes.'\ 
 
 EIGHTH SCENE. 
 
 Ludovit ; later Pista and Orieska. 
 
 Ludovit. Forgive us ! I wish I had never put my foot 
 in this proud castle. But I am sorry for that beautiful 
 Slovack. If she were only as cultivated as she is handsome ! 
 How happy I could then be with her in some romantic valley, 
 
FRIENDSHIP AT THE HARVEST-FEAST. 167 
 
 in a little hut with a pretty garden ! But with her I could 
 not thiak of it. She is a simple, unpolished peasant girl. 
 
 PiSTA. [ Comes along talking to Okieska.] So it is, Mr. 
 Rector. It is a pity you were not at the harvest-feast. All 
 went off splendidly. But there is the illustrious young 
 baron. [He points to Ludovit.] 
 
 Orieska. [Bowing low to LtTDOViT.J What happiness for 
 me, illustrious sir, to greet within these walls our future lord 
 and master ! 
 
 LuDOViT. [Impatimtli/ to PiSTA.] What does he want 
 with me ? 
 
 PiSTA. It is the school-director. 
 
 Orieska. [Bowing low. "] Atyourservice, illustrious sir; I 
 am the director of the school here. I am very glad that you 
 could witness our harvest festivities. My daughter played 
 the part of the leader of the reaper maidens. 
 
 LuDOViT. [Interrupting Aim.] What is that you say about 
 your daughter ? 
 
 Orieska. At your service, sir ; my daughter Milusa is the 
 Countess Erzika's companion. Did she not act her part 
 beautifully at the feast? 
 
 LUDOVIT. Only too well. [Harshly. \ Woe to you, old man, 
 if you deceive me in telling me she is your daughter ! 
 
 Orieska. Heaven forbid that I should ever deceive such 
 a gentleman. But here, this man [pointing to Pista] knows 
 all about her. 
 
 LiTDOViT. [ To Pista.] Why did you not tell me this ? 
 
 Pista. Ha, ha, ha ! the illustrious countess told me not to 
 tell you. [J.si(£e.] If I must play comedy I must make up 
 my answers to suit. [He goes off, laughing.] 
 
 LuDOViT. So you are the father of that girl. She told 
 me she was an orphan. 
 
 Orieska. Oh, sir, she was only joking. 
 
 LuDOViT. Most unwise teacher, why did you not polish 
 your daughter a little ? Why did you not teach her some- 
 thing ? 
 
 Orieska. [Anxiomlf/.] I hope she has not been guilty of 
 any want of respect to you, illustrious sir. 
 
 LuDOViT. No; not that; but she has such vulgar, un- 
 polished manners. 
 
 Orieska. Ha, ha, ha ! then she acted her part well. She 
 
168 FRIENDSHIP AT THE HARVEST-FEAST. 
 
 only thought of taking it this morning.' I could not see 
 ter acting, as I had to direct the choir. Was the singing 
 good? 
 
 LuDOViT. Excellent ; but what is this you are telling me ; 
 then your Milusa is educated ? 
 
 Orieska. Indeed, she is, sir. I am not a rich man, but I 
 have spared no pains nor expense on my only child. A good 
 education is the best inheritance I could leave her. I am as 
 poor as Job, but I am happy, and feel that I have done my 
 duty by her. 
 
 Lttdovit. \_To Tiimself.'] I really like that man. \_To}iim.'\ 
 You have a beautiful daughter ; but does she know any Hun- 
 garian, or is she a fearful patriot ? 
 
 Okieska. She loves the Slovack nation with her whole 
 heart ; but she does not meddle with politics. 
 
 LuDOViT. Give me your daughter for my wife, and she 
 will teach me to love my own country even as she does. 
 
 Orieska. Sir, I have been praising my daughter, but I 
 did not expect you to make fun of a poor man. 
 
 LuDOViT. No, my good man ; I am not joking. I loved 
 Milusa when I thought she was a simple reaper, and now 
 that I hear that she is your daughter and educated, I wish 
 to make her happy. I honor your calling, sir. 
 
 Orieska. By heaven ! he is not joking. Hm ! that 
 would be a most unexpected honor for my daughter; but 
 no, no ; it cannot be. 
 
 NINTH SCENE. 
 RoHON and PiSTA, with the preceding. 
 
 RoHON. [To LuDOViT.] Victory, my friend! Countess 
 Erzika is appeased and willing once more to marry you. 
 
 LuDOViT. So ! But I do not need her. [ To Orieska.] 
 Do not be uneasy, Mr. Eector ; I do not love the countess. 
 
 EoHON. Ha I is this man Milusa's father ? 
 
 Orieska. [To RoHO>f.] At your service, sir. I am the 
 school-teacher of this place. 
 
 E.OHON. Oh, may you live a hundred years, excellent man I 
 Honor to you, who have brought up your daughter in senti- 
 ments of virtue and patriotism. I am a well-to-do engineer, 
 and I love your daughter to distraction. Give me her hand, 
 
FRIENDSHIP AT THE HARVEST-FEAST. 169 
 
 and thereby you will assure my happiness for my whole 
 life. 
 
 LUDOVIT. \_Hastily.'] My friend, nothing can come of this. 
 [ To Orieska.] Mr. Rector, I asked for your daughter's hand 
 first. She loves me. I have the best right to her. 
 
 OaiESKA. Are you playing a comedy with me, gentlemen ? 
 Mr. Engineer, may I beg 
 
 PiSTA. [ Comes in hurriedly and says to LuBOVIT.] Melto- 
 saffos, sir, the old baron, your father, has arrived. The lady's- 
 maid has already related to him that you do not want to 
 marry the Countess Erzika, but that you love Milusa, her 
 companion : he is as hot as fire, and says he will drive Milusa 
 away from the castle, and will teach you obedience. 
 
 LuDOViT. Won't there be a fearful scene ? [ 2b Orieska.] 
 Mr. Rector, I will not give up your daughter. 
 
 RoHON. [7b Orieska.] Mr. Rector, I love your daughter ; 
 give her to me. ' ^ 
 
 05lESKA. A thousand thanks ; but the baron asked first 
 for Milusa. 
 
 RoHON. He must marry the Countess Erzika ; his father 
 will force him to it. 
 
 LtiDOViT. Do not make me angry. You know that Mi- 
 lusa loves me, and not you. You have no right to her at all, 
 do you understand ? I honor my father, but I do not love 
 the countess. [5e goes.'] 
 
 RoHON. [ Calls after him.] That is not true. You had 
 better just go and talk it over with your father. [Ludovit 
 Hims round angrily.'] Milusa shall be mine. I would rather 
 lose my life than her. 
 
 LlTDOViT. [^From the door.] My friend, if you wish, we 
 can settle the question with pistols. 
 
 RoHON. Oh ! thank you ; I have no wish to do so. 
 
 Ludovit. You coward! To-morrow, at seven o'clock; do 
 you hear ? {He goes.] 
 
 RoHON. Ha, ha, ha I You see, Mr. Rector, you must be 
 my second. {He shakes his hand.] 
 
 Orieska. May heaven preserve us from a duel 1 
 
 RoHON. I think we will settle this matter without blood- 
 shed. I will explain all to you some time, Mr. Rector. 
 
 15* 
 
170 FRIENDSHIP AT THE HARVEST-FEAST. 
 
 TENTH SCENE. 
 
 The same room as in the heginning of the play. 
 
 Baron KosTROviCKr and Capkova. 
 
 [KosTROVICKT is sitting in an arm-chair^ and Capkova is 
 standing he/ore him.'] 
 
 KpSTROViCKT. Now, HOW, komorna. It can all be put 
 to rights. Of course my Lajos thought he was making love 
 to Erzika ; Milusa ought never to have deceived him thus, 
 and given herself out for the countess, 
 
 Capkova. Oh, of course, she knew what she was doing, 
 and she has quite bewitched the young baron, — and as long 
 as she is here 
 
 KosTROViCKT. {^Sorrowfully.'] Who would have thought 
 that rector's daughter could be so deceitful, and repay all 
 my kindness with such black ingratitude ; but it is ndt so 
 easy to send her suddenly away ! 
 
 Capkova. I would undertake that unpleasant duty for 
 you, most gracious baron. ^ 
 
 KosTROViOKY. But where is my Lajos ? I must beat this 
 folly out of his head. [2b Capkova.] Send him to me at 
 once. 
 
 Capkova. Yes, sir. [She goes.] 
 
 KosTRO VICKY. I shall be sorry ; but that ungrateful girl 
 does not deserve pity; but how could I keep Lajos away 
 from her? Perhaps she is less dangerous here than else- 
 where. [LuDOViT comes.] Ha, there is my son ! 
 
 ELEVENTH SCENE. 
 
 KOSTEOVICKT and LUDOVIT. 
 
 Ltjdovit. My dearest father ! [He kisses his hand.] 
 
 KosTROViOKY. [Embracing him.] Servus, my dear son, 
 I expect obedience from you. 
 
 LuDOViT. I honor my father, but I do not like the 
 countess. 
 
 KOSTROVIOKY., My son, listen to your father, who loves 
 you so well. Erzika is beautiful and cultivated, of a noble 
 family, and richly endowed with virtues and worldly goods. 
 
FRIENDSHIP AT THE HARVEST FEAST. Vl\ 
 
 LuDOViT. But, my dear father, she does not love me either. 
 
 KosTROViCKT. But she cannot help liking you ; she must. 
 
 LuDOVlT. And what do I care for such forced love ! Her 
 riches are greater than her refinement ; whereas Milusa's 
 virtues are her sole possession. I do not need a long chain 
 of ancestry, nor diamonds, nor gold. I would rather heart 
 should meet heart than that estate should join estate. 
 
 KosTROViCKY. [Aside.'] A thousand devils ! Who would 
 have expected such reasoning from him ? [A loud.'] My dear 
 son ! I am really proud of your sentiments, but still I cannot 
 consent to plebeian blood being mingled with ours. I can- 
 not have our honor compromised before the neighboring 
 gentry. 
 
 LuDOVlT. What do I care about them, if I have a loving 
 wife at home ? 
 
 KosTROVlCKT. [Ironiccdly.] That is all very fine; but 
 marry Erzika you must and shall I 
 
 TWELFTH SCENE. 
 Capkova, Rohon, and the preceding. 
 
 Capkova. [Leading RoHON hy the hand to Kostro- 
 VICKY.] Here, gracious baron, I bring you the young baron, 
 your Lajos. He was afraid to appear before you. [To 
 Rohon.] Do not be afraid, young sir ; your gTacious papa 
 will forgive you all. [She leads him to KosTROViCKT.] Kiss 
 his hand 1 
 
 RoHON. [ Objects.] Ha, ha, ha 1 
 
 KOSTROVICKT. A thousand devils I Has that old granny 
 lost her senses ? 
 
 RoHON. [Laughing.] Will you soon let me loose ? 
 
 Capkova. [To Rohon.] Yes, presently, Herr Baron. 
 
 KOSTROVICKT. [ To Capkova.] Oh, you silly woman ; go 
 and buy a pair of spectacles, if you cannot see better than 
 that! 
 
 LuDOViT. [To Capkova.] Komoma, I am the young 
 baron. 
 
 Capkova. Nonsense 1 you are the engineer I 
 
 Rohon. [To Capkova.] Have you been drinking too 
 much, Mrs. Lady's-maid ? 
 
 Capkova. [To Rohon.] I never took too much in my 
 
172 FRIENDSHIP A'l' THE HARVEST-FEAST. 
 
 life ; and every word that I have spoken is gospel truth f 
 Baron Lajos loves Milusa. 
 ROHON. That is not true. 
 
 THIETEENTH SCENE. 
 The foregoing, OalESKA, and MlLUSA. 
 
 Oeieska. [To Kostkovickt.] Illustrious sir, will you 
 give me your advice? These two young gentlemen have 
 asked for my daughter's hand. The first was Baron Lajos, 
 and he has the best right 
 
 KoSTROViCKT. [^Interrupts him.'] Take her to the devil ! 
 
 Capkova. [ To Kostkovickt.] Now, what do you say, 
 gracious sir ? 
 
 Orieska. [To Ltjdovit.] Aqji yet, sir, do not take it 
 amiss if my daughter refuses your offer. 
 
 LuDOViT. Thunder and lightning I 
 
 KosTROViCKY. [ To Orieska.] Mr. Rector, you are a most 
 wise and excellent man. But who, then, is the other who 
 wants your Milusa ? [Milusa comes m.] 
 
 Orieska. [Showing Rohon.] This engineer. « 
 
 KosTRO VICKY. [Joyfully to Rohon.] You ? 
 
 Rohon. [Holding Milusa hy the hand."] Yes, baron; 
 all is in order. You see before you a happy pair. [Re 
 hows."] 
 
 KosTROViCKT. Well done, Mr. Engineer; you are an 
 honest man. You will make MUusa an excellent husband, 
 and I will give her a dowry. 
 
 Capkova. [To Kostrovickt.] Most illustrious baron, 
 are you out of your mind ? You are giving your son to that 
 girl ! 
 
 Kostrovickt. Teremtette ! Can't that old hag hold her 
 tongue ? 
 
 Orieska. [To Capkova.] Ha, ha, ha I Komorna, you 
 cannot slander us any more. 
 
 LuDOViT. A thousand devils 1 Are you all crazy, or do 
 you wish to make me so? [To Orieska.] Is this lady 
 [pointing to Milusa] really your daughter ? 
 
 Orieska. She certainly is. 
 
 LuDOViT. And who was the other one ? 
 
 Orieska. Guess yourself. 
 
FRIENDSHIP AT THE HARVEST-FEAST. 1^3 
 
 LuDOViT. Could it be Erzika ? 
 
 Orieska. She took her revanche by playing the part 
 of the queen in the harvest-feast, while my daughter was the 
 pseudo-countess. 
 
 KosTEOViCKT. \_LavgMng.'\ That was a good joke. 
 
 Orieska. The false baron fell in love with her, and the 
 real countess fell in love with the false engineer. 
 
 KosTROViCKY. Ha, ha ! My children, you have really 
 given us a most laughable farce. 
 
 MiLUSA. [roCAPKOVA.] What Say you, Mrs. Lady's-maid ; 
 will you dance at my wedding? 
 
 Capkova. Of course. {Aside.'] Catch me doing it ! 
 
 PiSTA. {Running in to LuDOViT.] Meltosagos, sir, shall I 
 bring you Milusa ? 
 
 LtTDOViT. You rascal ! why did you not tell me which was 
 Erzika? 
 
 PiSTA. Please, sir, I wanted to, but you said you would 
 give me twenty lashes if I said a word. Ha, ha, ha 1 
 
 LuDOViT. You rogue ! 
 
 FOURTEENTH SCENE. 
 The foregoing, the Countess, and the Harvesters. 
 
 {The Countess comes forward in national costume, led 
 hy a youth, and says to Kostrovickt.] I beg you, gracious 
 sir, to allow us to close our harvest-feast merrily in your 
 presence. 
 
 Kostrovickt. Splendid ! You beautiful creature, I do 
 not wonder that my Lajos is raving about you. 
 
 Countess. [To Ludovit.] Eaving? 
 
 LUDOVIT. {To her.] Oh, yes. Countess Erzika. {Hehneels 
 before her and presses his lips to her hand.] 
 
 Countess. {Interrupting him.] Kise, baron ; you know it 
 is Milusa you love. 
 
 All. {Laughing.] Ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 Ludovit. My golden dove, you really put my love to a 
 severe test, but I am only so much the happier now. And 
 now, will you not tell me if you love me as I do you ? 
 
 Countess. [ Turning to him and embracing him.] With 
 my whole heart. 
 
 Kostrovickt. And now, my dear children, receive a 
 
174 FRIENDSHIP AT THE HARVEST-FEAST. 
 
 father's blessing. [5e blesses them.] Love each other truly 
 and live happily. 
 
 LUDOVIT. ^Embraces his father.'] Dear father, how grate- 
 ful I am to you 1 [ To MimsA.] I thank you, dear lady, for 
 the lesson you gave me. I shall henceforth be. a true Slovack 
 in mind and action. 
 
VII. 
 
 BLACK EYES. 
 
 BY DON PEDRO ANTONIO DE ALARCON. 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM THE SPANISH 
 BY MES. FEANCES C. HENDEESON. 
 
 Beyond the Arctic Circle, on the coast of Lapland, near 
 Hammefert, the last inhabitable village in Europe, rises, in a 
 sea which is frozen six months in the year, the black, steep, 
 and gigantic island Loppen. The first leaves were falling, in 
 the year 1730. It was the 15th of August. The nights 
 were then only three hours long, and the aurora borealis 
 shone, throwing its crimson splendors over the twilight. It 
 was just a week since the moon had reappeared in that sky 
 after a month and a half of complete absence. Everything 
 announced the approach of winter, that white spectre who 
 throws a shroud over those dreary latitudes, which turn to 
 stone in his cold embrace. 
 
 The nobles shut themselves up in their castles, the poor in 
 their huts, the white bears in their ice-dens. A few birds 
 kept to their nests on the leafless trees, but the most flew to 
 the south, in search of new springs. The whalers and the 
 Greenlanders set their sails towards Europe, dreading being 
 frozen up. The fields, the ports, the villages even, looked 
 deserted and abandoned. One would have thought that 
 some horrible plague had passed over them, or that they 
 were dreading the approach of some bloody conqueror. And 
 so must those regions remain during seven months of silence 
 
 and desolation. 
 
 175 
 
176 
 
 ±f±JJ%\jJX. XUAHjH. 
 
 II. 
 
 On the barren peaks of the island of Loppen stood a castle, 
 which seemed to be an outgrowth of their barren crests, so 
 old and moss-grown were its walls, cut out of the living rock. 
 What is seen from the outside is not a work of buUding, but 
 of excavation ; so that from the sea one sees only the towers 
 of the fortress ; the rest is, as it were, buried in the heart of 
 the island. A few oval openings cut in the rock to let light 
 into the interior indicate vaguely the seven stories of the 
 castle, in the lowest of which, completely inaccessible to the 
 rigors of winter, dwelt the lords of this subterranean Alcazar. 
 
 There it is always night. In a triangular drawing-room, 
 hung with rich furs, and lighted by six resinous torches, 
 burnt on the aforementioned evening an enormous pine log, 
 resting on an iron tripod. The smoke escaped in a gigantic 
 column through a hole in the arched roof of this room, 
 situated a hundred feet below the open air, while an immense 
 open gallery in front of the chimney brought a constant cur- 
 rent of tepid and perfumed air. 
 
 There were two persons in this room. One of the two 
 was sleeping on a low couch. This was Magno de Rimi, the 
 lord of the island of Loppen. He might be twenty-five years 
 old. He wore a loose shirt of black fur, over which he had 
 donned a luxurious costume, half warlike, half courtier-like. 
 This youth, who would not have been considered handsome 
 in the south, was yet endowed with a strange kind of beauty. 
 He was low, and slightly .thick-set, or rather robust, very 
 dark-skinned, but with hair as red as gold, which fell upon 
 his shoulders, and eyes of a blue as light as is the sky of 
 Spain on a fine day in January. He was as beardless as a 
 woman, but his face indicated so much strength and decision 
 that no one would have felt inclined to doubt his valor. 
 
 In front of him a woman, still little more than a child, was 
 praying silently. The firelight illumined her face, which was 
 as white as alabaster, with a rosy tinge. Her eyes were of a 
 heavenly blue, and her whole appearance was as delicate and 
 fair as the flowers which bloom and die in one summer's day. 
 She was completely covered by a flowing tunic of ermine fur, 
 with a hood going over her head. She looked Hke a small 
 heap of virgin snow, or like a white flower floating in a sea 
 
BLACK EYES. 177 
 
 of foam. This was the Jarlesa Poedora, the wife of young 
 Magno. 
 
 The couple had been for some time in their present posi- 
 tion. Foedora, whose face showed the traces of an ineffable 
 sorrow, kept her eyes mournfully fixed on the floor. Occa- 
 sionally she raised them to Magno's dark figure, and then her 
 whole body quivered slightly, and she resumed her prayers 
 with still greater fervor. 
 
 Once Magno opened his eyes suddenly and caught the 
 timid glance of his wife. 
 
 " Were you sleeping?" said she, in a low, sweet voice. 
 
 " No, senora," replied Magno. " Why do you look at me 
 thus?" 
 
 Foedora trembled, but presently she replied, " Because I 
 love you so much." She wiped her eyes and returned to her 
 prayers ; but her fingers lingered on the beads of her amber 
 rosary. 
 
 They spoke no more ; they had already spoken more than 
 was their wont. 
 
 III. 
 
 Foedora had been married for three years to the Jarl of 
 Kimi, but they had not yet passed a winter in their castle on 
 Loppen. Previously they had gone to Christiania, where the 
 life of the nobles is a continued round of gayety during the 
 winter months ; but this year, after having spent the months 
 of June and July in travelling along the coast of Norway, 
 Magno decided to bury himself with his wife in the Alcazar 
 of ice which we have just described. Here alone, and taci- 
 turn, one in front of the other, they had already spent fifteen 
 days. They would not be able to leave it for eight -months, 
 as winter had frozen the first snows fast over the castle door. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Fifteen nights have passed. 
 
 Magno de Kimi had asked for his Scandinavian harp, and 
 was singing ballads to his wife : 
 
 " Kneeling on my father's tomb, 
 On the tomb of my father 
 A promise of eternal love you gave. 
 Should ever you break that vow 
 I pray you now, my darling, 
 Oh ! never go near my father's grave." 
 16 
 
178 BLACK EYES. 
 
 Magno's voice reverberated like thunder through the echoes 
 of the castle as he repeated the last verse of his song. He 
 turned immediately to the young wife at his side, and said, 
 " What are you doing, Foedora ?" 
 
 " I am praying for the soul of your father," said she, 
 closing her eyes so as not to see the bitter smile which curled 
 his lip. 
 
 Magno touched his harp again and continued his ballad : 
 
 " Light shining in the azure sky, 
 Flowers blooming in the vale, 
 Here below did my fathers die, 
 Here shall all my sons be born. 
 If you see here my son's grave, 
 Oh ! pass not where my fathers lie." 
 
 The amber rosary fell from Foedora's hands on to the burn- 
 ing coals on the hearth. Some of the beads began to burn, 
 casting a delicious perfume around. 
 
 "How do you feel, senora?" asked Magno, as if he had 
 seen nothing. 
 
 " Well, Magno." 
 
 " Have you still any doubt as to your condition ?" 
 
 " No, senor." 
 
 " You are going to be a mother. What bliss 1 The hopes 
 of the last three years will now be realized." 
 
 " Yes," sweetly replied the wife. 
 
 " And when may we hope ?" 
 
 " About March." 
 
 " I think so myself," replied the jarl, playing arpeggios on 
 his harp and preparing to sing. 
 
 Foedora crossed her hands and bent her head. 
 
 Magnus sang : 
 
 " A stranger roams 
 On the mountain. 
 His eyes are black, 
 Black is his hair; 
 His first-born son 
 Will surely have 
 Hair black as coal, 
 Byes black as jet." 
 
 " Oh, hush !" murmured Foedora, falling on her knees. 
 " Did you know your ancestors ?" exclaimed Magno in the 
 most indifferent tone, raising his wife at the same time. 
 
BLACK EYES. 179 
 
 "How, senor?" asked the poor wife, stretching out her 
 hands. 
 
 " What colored eyes had they ? Answer 1" 
 
 " They had blue eyes." 
 
 " And did you know my ancestors ?" 
 
 " No, senor." 
 
 " You are going to know them now," replied the young 
 man, taking his wife by the arm and dragging her slowly to- 
 wards the picture-gallery. In it there was a long row of 
 portraits illuminated by torches held from space to space. 
 The venerable features of the Senores de Bimi seemed alive 
 and restless in their frames. 
 
 " These are my ancestors !" exclaimed the jarl. " Look at 
 them, senora I All of them have blue eyes, like you and I, 
 like your father and your ancestors, like all Scandinavians. 
 You will readily understand that our son must also have blue 
 eyes !" 
 
 He spoke and departed, laughing convulsively, while the 
 wife, who had thus far kept her footing simply because the 
 jarl held her by the arm, fell on her knees, speechless and 
 breathless. 
 
 Several hours passed ; and when everything was silent in 
 the castle, and the torches had burnt out, and the fire had 
 also burnt out in the drawing-room, she rose from her knees, 
 like one released from the rack, and wended her way to her 
 bed-chamber. 
 
 When she arrived there and found herself alone, she 
 sighed deeply. She had not sufficient strength to stand up. 
 She leaned against the wall, lost in meditation. 
 
 " My son," murmured she, at last, with a hollow, sepul- 
 chral voice, pressing both hands upon her heart as if it might 
 be the heart of her child, — " my son, why do you wish to be 
 your mother's executioner?" 
 
 Catching sight of herself in the looking-glass, she fled 
 horrified to the other corner of the room, covering her face 
 with her hands. It was the statue of remorse cursing itself. 
 
 Five months have passed. 
 
 Magno de Rimi is in his own private room. He is seated 
 with his elbows resting on the table, supporting his forehead 
 
180 BLACK EYES. 
 
 with his feverish hands, and gazing steadfastly at two objects 
 which he seems to wish to engrave in his most secret soul, 
 so close is the attention with which he eyes them. 
 
 These two objects are a portrait and a letter. The portrait 
 represented a very handsome youth, not more than twenty 
 years old, in a rich Norwegian garb, but with most marked 
 southern physiognomy ; his locks, as black as ebony, make a 
 frame round a face dark and pale as are the Albanians ; his 
 eyes, still blacker, shine like polished jet under coal-black 
 eyebrows. A little down covers his upper lip, pouting grace- 
 fully under a straight, delicate nose, which reqalls the Cau- 
 casian type. The contrast between this face and that of the 
 man who was looking at him so intently, and indeed of all 
 the races inhabiting Scandinavia, was as striking as would be 
 a white man in Ethiopia, or a negro in melancholy Albion. 
 Magno de Kimi looked at him with mingled hate and admi- 
 ration. 
 
 The letter read thus : 
 
 " To THE HIGH-BORN Jael Magno DE KiMi, his Servant 
 
 " Senor I come, come to Christiana ! You have lost love I 
 Save your honor I The Jarlesa Foedora is faithless to you. 
 For the last few days there has been at this court a young 
 stranger beautiful as the angel of darkness. He has robbed 
 you of your wife's heart. Looks and sighs, words and smiles, 
 everything betrays their mutual passion. I have been thrown 
 out of the house like a dog, but like a dog faithful to his 
 master. Come, I say, perhaps it is still time. 
 
 " The assassin of your happiiiess is either an Italian, a 
 Greek, a Moor, or a Jew. His eyes are as black as night, 
 and his hair like ebony. He is noble and powerfiil. You 
 can kill him. He has bought two castles on the banks of 
 the Yo, and he has ships in the port of the island of Langoe. 
 His name is Alfonso de Haro. Come, and count on the arm 
 of your servant Stanislas." 
 
 Magno de Rimi contemplated this portrait and this letter 
 for many hours. At last he arose, he looked at a watch 
 which marked midnight, and opening a book which was 
 formed of two tablets of ivory, he traced in it a black line. 
 
BLACK EYES. 181 
 
 Twenty-four hours of night had passed. Another dark day- 
 had commenced. The jarl counted the strokes already there, 
 and found that there were still thirty-five days wanting till 
 the reappearance of the sun. 
 
 " This is the 22d of December," said he. " Within seventy 
 days the babe will be born, and I shall know the truth of 
 everything. On the 20th day of April I can set sail. If 
 Foedora has betrayed me, I can be revenged on them all 
 within the year." And, smiling darkly, he drew the curtains 
 of his bed and lay down. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Two months later the Jarlesa Foedora gave birth to a child 
 with black eyes. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Three months after the rising of the sun spring began in 
 the island of Loppen. The sea burst the chains of ice which 
 bound it to the foot of the castle. The birds returned to those 
 skies ; the springs flowed once more. Flowers burst through 
 the snow, and the moon fled to the southern hemisphere. 
 
 Magno de Rimi presented himself before his wife. " I 
 am going to kill him," said he. " You will wait here. I am 
 merciful, and leave you to your son. You will not see me 
 till the day when I come to pronounce sentence upon you. 
 Pray to God that he who dishonored me may kill me. That 
 is the only way in which we can all be happy : I in dying, 
 he in coming to seek you ; you in leaving this rock where I 
 have buried you alive. You see that I confide our cause and 
 our fate to the judgment of God, who knows everything and 
 can order everything as He pleases. Adieu, woman, whom I 
 have loved so deeply. Adieu, my Foedora." 
 
 On the following day he sailed for Langoe in the " Thor," a 
 fishing brigantine, which was the only means of communica- 
 tion between the island of Loppen and the rest of the world. 
 
 Foedora, who had neither spoken nor sighed for many 
 months, went up to the platform of the castle to witness the 
 departure of the terrible embarkation, which carried in its 
 bosom the secret of her future. She kissed her son and 
 went back to her own rooms to wait there for her lover, and 
 to refceive from him life, love, and liberty, or for the return 
 of her husband, who would bring death to.her and her son. 
 
 16* 
 
182 BLACK EYES. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 It was the night of the 25th of April. The cold was 
 intense, and the aurora borealis had set everything on 
 fire with its mysterious brilliancy. The island of Langoe 
 was as silent as the grave. The two rivals must have met 
 already. 
 
 On the steepest part of the coast arose a colossal dolman, 
 remains of the accursed altars on which the Scandinavians 
 had offered unto Odin their bloody worship. 
 
 The magnificent and brilliant moon of that region, where 
 the sun is so pale and melancholy, shed its soft splendor on 
 those ruins. By its bright light one could see two men clad 
 in loose tunics of ermine girded round the waist. One was 
 seated on an uprooted beech-tree, the other was leaning on 
 the ancient dolman. They seemed to be two white phan- 
 toms, two ghosts of the victims immolated on those rocks in 
 honor of the Scandinavian deities. The one sitting down 
 was Alfonso de Haro, the one standing was Magno de.Rimi. 
 Each had a naked sword at his feet. They had been speak- 
 ing, but now they were silent. Both were panting from the 
 violence with which they had been fighting. Both were still 
 unhurt ; the struggle had been equal ; in three hours of 
 mortal combat neither had yielded an inch. 
 
 Alfonso arose. A ray of light illuminated his pale face, his 
 black eyes shot flames of fire. " Let us try again," said he. 
 
 " Let us try with the left hand," said Magno. 
 
 They put themselves once more in posture, and the combat 
 began again with unheard-of fury. The blades crossed each 
 other and whistled and shone in the air like two silver ser- 
 pents ; the quick drawing of their breath seemed like the 
 roaring of two lions ; the blows rained down with supernat- 
 ural rapidity, but always on the sword of the adversary. The 
 sparks flew from the blades as if they were fireworks. Use- 
 less fight. Both gladiators were worthy of ancient Eome. 
 
 " Enough I" cried they both at once, and their swords fell 
 together to the ground. Their hands could no longer hold 
 them. They wished to throw themselves one on the other 
 and have a wrestling match, but both were so tired that their 
 knees bent under them and they fell to the ground like two 
 inert masses. 
 
BLACK EVES. 183 
 
 " God does not wish either of us to die," said Alfonso, 
 roaring like a dying bull. 
 
 " And yet the world cannot contain us both at once," re- 
 plied Magno de Eimi, with a faltering voice. 
 
 " I give you my life for hers," said the Spaniard, picking 
 up his sword and handing it to the Norwegian. 
 
 " Her life is neither yours nor mine ; it depends upon the 
 will of God. If you wish her to live you must kill me." 
 
 " Then let us begin again !" cried De Haro, gnashing his 
 teeth. 
 
 " No ; it would be useless," replied Magno ; " but we have 
 still one resource." 
 
 "Which?" 
 
 " To begin another kind of duel." 
 
 " Describe it. I accept at once." 
 
 " My whole race against yours ; your Spaniards against my 
 Scandinavians. Your schooner against my brigantine, — in 
 one word, war." 
 
 "When?" 
 
 " To-morrow." 
 
 "Where? 
 
 " In front of the Cape of Eimia." 
 
 " You have my word." 
 
 " I will not fail." 
 
 " Day is dawning." 
 
 IX. 
 
 The sun was nearing the horizon. 
 
 The " Thor," Magno de Eimi's brigantine, and the " Fin- 
 isterre," commanded by Don Alfonso de Haro, were both 
 pierced with shot and resounded with the cries, " The grap- 
 pling-irons ! the grappling-irons !" 
 
 The two nobles were covered with wounds. A furious 
 tempest added its horrors to those of the battle. All 
 manoeuvring was impossible. The wind driving them to- 
 wards the south, seemed to favor the combatants' desire to 
 continue the fight hand to hand. 
 
 Night came on ; the storm had not abated ; the vessels flew 
 forward like arrows. At last the rival bands met with a 
 frightful noise. A horrible butchery began. 
 
 Alfonso de Haro jumped on board the " Thor," sword in 
 
184 BLACK EYES. 
 
 hand, while Magno de Kimi was seeking him on the " Fin- 
 isterre." In a few moments they met. The different nature 
 of their wounds, and the jumps and thumps of the vessels, 
 might thfen perhaps have decided the combat. 
 
 At this moment there was a terrible cry, fearful, sepulchral, 
 arising from a hundred throats paralyzed by fear, and reach- 
 ing even to the two heroes. 
 
 « The maelstrom 1" 
 
 All repeated this frightful word, all threw away their arms ; 
 there was no longer either friend or foe. In the distance was 
 heard a roaring overpowering even the horrors of the tempest. 
 
 " The maelstrom I" repeated both bodies of sailors, and they 
 tried to bring the prows of the vessels round to the north. 
 
 It was too late 1 
 
 " What is the maelstrom ?" asked a young Spaniard, who 
 did not know those seas, of an old man who was on his knees 
 praying. 
 
 " The maelstrom," replied the old man, " is a whirlpool 
 with a whirlwind and abyss, a tomb opened by God in this 
 part of the ocean. The maelstrom is a boa-constrictor which 
 looks at us, fascinates us, attracts us, and devours us. It is 
 a monster showing us his teeth, a hell- showing us his fiery 
 throat. Do you not hear him roaring? Useless are the 
 sails, useless the rudder, useless the oars. Kneel down and 
 pray as I have done, for the maelstrom is death." 
 
 He spoke and jumped into the sea. Others imitated him. 
 Magno and Alfonso looked at each other in silence. At times 
 they turned their eyes towards the island of Loppen. Both 
 thought of Foedora. 
 
 The roar of the whirlpool became every moment more dis- 
 tinct. The sea was black and thick and dull, like a sheet of 
 lead. The wind had suddenly lulled, and yet the two boats, 
 bound by grappling-irons, travelled with frightful rapidity, 
 such is the attraction of the unavoidable abyss. They were 
 still at the distance of one league. 
 
 The two nobles, struck suddenly by the same thought, held 
 out their hands to each other, went to the poop of the " Fin- 
 isterre" and jumped into the sea. Those left on the two 
 boats were screaming or howling or weeping or praying. 
 They had come together to die. 
 
 Two minutes later the " Thor" and the " Finisterre" were 
 
BLACK EYES. 185 
 
 thrown one against the other, and their fragments and the 
 bodies of seventy men, with their prayers, their cries, and 
 their blasphemies, were swallowed up together by the in- 
 satiable monster. 
 
 X. 
 
 Foedora lived, we don't know how long, on the island of 
 Loppen, buried alive in that tomb of ice awaiting the arrival 
 of Alfonso, and with him liberty and love, or the return of 
 her husband, which would be the signal of her death. She 
 must have died soon, exhausted by that solitude, that uncer- 
 tainty, the horrible doubt which was never solved. 
 
 Her son, the child with the hlaclc eyes, passed his life also 
 in that prison. Neither do we know the time of his death. 
 
NO HAPPINESS WITHOUT VIRTUE. 
 
 A DRAMA IN THEEE ACTS. 
 BY T. S. VAN DOOSSELAEVE. 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM THE DTJTOH (HOLLANDISH) 
 BY MRS. PEANCES C. HEKDERSON. 
 
 PERSONS REPRESENTED. 
 
 Matilda, an orplianj eighteen years old. 
 William, liouse-painterj twenty-Jive years old. 
 
 Van En&elbn, member of the College of Overseers of the Poor, forty 
 years old, . t 
 
 Makinson, a rich English lord, forty-eight years old, 
 
 ScHROK, landlord, 
 
 Frank, Van Engelen's servant. 
 
 Mabia, chambermaid at LonD Makinson's. 
 
 Some friends of Me. Van Engelen. 
 
 The PLOT is laid in a large town in Belgium, 
 
 FIRST ACT. 
 
 The stage represents a poorly-furnished room ; a door is in the 
 background; to the left of the spectator is a door opening 
 upon a back staircase ; to the right is Matilda's bedroom ; to 
 the left is a small table, on which is a work-box ; a closet is in 
 the background. (It is eight o'clock in the morning.) 
 
 FIEST SCENE. 
 
 William. {Pohes his head through the door in the hack- 
 ground; seeing no one, he enters.'] Matilda is not here. So 
 
 187 
 
188 NO HAPPINESS WITHOUT VIRTUE. 
 
 much the better. I do not know how it is, when I don't see 
 her I form a dozen plans for declaring my love to her, and 
 all goes on swimmingly, but when I am with her all my 
 castles in the air are overturned. Now, now, I think I shall 
 yet carry it through. She will surely not reject my proposal. 
 My aim is pure ; I wish to marry her, and once married I 
 will work day and night to bring up our children ; that is, of 
 course, if we have any. But I feel anxious about one thing, 
 — to be sure, I have as yet no right, — Is she an orphan or is 
 she an illegitimate child ? And if she were, can she help it ? 
 Is that a reason why I should not love her ? The unfortu- 
 nate children are not to blame for their own birth. In a 
 word, she is good, industrious, handsome, and young ; what 
 can one want more ? She is poor, very poor, that is true, 
 although she tries to hide it. If I could only help her with- 
 out her knowing it ! Let me think where I could put these 
 two five-franc pieces. [i7e reflects.'] I have an idea ; I will put 
 them in her work-basket. [_3e puts the money in the basket.'] 
 She will never know who put them there ; but she will bless 
 the hand that helped her secretly, and the blessings of the 
 unfortunate bring us happiness. [.He listens.] I hear some 
 one coming up the steps. It is Mr. Schrok, our merciful 
 landlord ; he is certainly coming to torment Miss Matilda to 
 pay her rent. How I should like to throw this grasping 
 usurer out of the window I I must put her basket in the 
 closet. [jHe puts the haslcet in the closet.] 
 
 SECOND SCENE. 
 
 William hy the closet; Schrok comes in and sees him busy 
 
 at the closet, and stands on one side to watch. 
 
 "William. \JoyfvMy to Schrok.] Good-day, Mr. Schrok; 
 what procures us the pleasure of seeing you so high up in 
 your house ? It must be some weighty reason, or you would 
 not leave your money-bags. 
 
 Schrok. \^Aside.] What can he have been putting in that 
 closet? lAloud.] Laugh, young man, laugh ; you'^may be 
 old yourself some day. 
 
 William. May heaven grant it ! But I hope I shall not 
 be such a miser as you are. 
 
 Schrok. There is no disgrace in saving. But when I 
 
NO HAPPINESS WITHOUT VIRTUE. 189 
 
 climb so higt, it is not to hide something in the closet of a 
 young girl. 
 
 William. [_Aside.'] The old spy sees everything. [Ahud.'] 
 Well, what harm is there in it ? I borrowed a needle to sew 
 a button on my jacket, and now I have put it back. 
 
 ScHROK. And I, I came to see if I can get what she is 
 owing me for renlt. 
 
 William. [^Aside."] I must try to get him away from here. 
 [Aloud.'\ Mr. Schrok, I am not superstitious, but this morn- 
 ing, when I got up, I saw a spider ; then I remembered what 
 my mother often told me. 
 
 Schrok. And what was that ? 
 
 William. " Boy," said she to me, " when you sec a spider 
 in the morning, it means distress, at mid-day good luck, and 
 in the evening love." 
 
 Schrok. And how does that suit here ? 
 
 William. \_Laughing.'] Distress, that is you. Will you 
 take a bite, old fellow ? 
 
 Schrok. Insolent buffoon ! 
 
 William. Come, come, old fellow, don't let us quarrel. 
 Come and I will give you a drop close by ; does that suit 
 you? 
 
 Schrok. At my age one does not refuse such an offer. 
 
 William. Well, then, forward march I [ Tliey go out 
 through the door to the left.'\ 
 
 THIRD SCENE. 
 
 Matilda. [^Oomes in through the door in the background j 
 she is neatly dressed, and throws off her shawl.^ Will mis- 
 fortune never cease persecuting me ? Everything is against 
 me. Oh, my God ! what have I done that thou dost chastise 
 me so severely ? must I suffer for the thoughtlessness of my 
 parents ? Oh, mother, who watchest over me from heaven, 
 do not take this as a reproach I it is not you who were to 
 blame as much as he who caused your ruin. No, it is no re- 
 proach to you I am making, but to him who induced you to 
 leave your home, and then left you to starve with your child. 
 Oh, if my father knew how the world looks down upon his 
 child, he would surely pity me ! [_She leans upon the table 
 in deep thought.'] 
 
190 JPO HAPPINESS WITHOUT VIRTUE. 
 
 FOURTH SCENE. 
 
 Matilda hy the ia6fe, William coming in. William 
 wiA some hread and m^at in his hand. 
 
 William. \_Aside.'] She is alone ; good ! now I can speak 
 of my love for her. [Aloud.'] Good-morning, Miss Matilda. 
 
 Matilda. [Answerinff him.'] Good-morning, William. 
 \^She casts a longing looJc at the hread.] 
 
 William. \_Aside.] She looks so sad, I can really not 
 .speak to her of love. {^Drakdng nearer, 'he says ahud.] 
 Miss Matilda, it is really bold in me to come and disturb you 
 at your work. 
 
 Matilda. Not at all ; I have no work, for that very reason 
 I came home. Sit down, my friend. 
 
 William. [Aside.] Friend 1 now I feel encouraged. 
 [Aloud.] Matilda, can I help you? will you not have my 
 breakfast? You are most heartily welcome to it. [He 
 offers her his breakfast.] 
 
 Matilda. [Aside.] What a good man I [Aloud.] I thank 
 you, I breakfasted with one of my friends. 
 
 William. [Aside.] I know that is not true. 
 
 Matilda. [Aside.] I am tormented by hunger. If I 
 only dared accept his offer ! 
 
 William. [He has laid his hreaJcfast on the table and 
 takes a chair, and sits down by Matilda.] Do you not 
 think, Matilda, that when we are together the time seems 
 much shorter, and the work goes on better than when one is 
 alone and thinks of one's poverty ? Do you wish to remain 
 alone always ? 
 
 Matilda. [Aside.] What does he mean ? How he looks 
 at me ! [Aloud.] I do not know why you should ask me that. 
 Why should I not wish to be alone ? Should I wish to unite 
 myself to any one I could give him nothing but my poverty. 
 
 William. And your love, do you count that for nothing ? 
 And then if we must work we could lighten each other's 
 burden; and when we love another is it not sweet, after 
 the day's hard work, to come home at night and find a wife 
 in whose bosom one can pour out all one's troubles ? 
 
 Matilda. [Deeply touched.] Oh, yes, you are right ; but 
 such happiness is not for me. 
 
NO HAPPINESS WITHOUT VIRTUE. 191 
 
 "William. [Anayioudy.'] How so ? 
 
 Matilda. My good friend, I have no name. 
 
 William. [IHstressed.'] And if some one came who did 
 not care if you had a name or not, who only asks you to love 
 him, and that you should lead a blameless life, would you 
 refuse that man, would you cast him off? Oh, speak, Ma- 
 tilda, speak I The man who loves you so deeply, who adores 
 you, who wishes to share with you happiness and unhappiness 
 is kneeling at your feet. [5e hneels.'] He is waiting for one 
 single little word from you. Oh, Matilda, Matilda, grant his 
 request ! With you he can live, without you he must die. 
 
 Matilda. \_Who has been rrmch excited during Wil- 
 liam's speech, lifts her eyes to heaveie, and exclaims.'] 
 Mother, shall I? 
 
 William. Matilda! 
 
 Matilda. William I \_She throws herself into his arms. 
 ScHROK comes in and sees William kiss Matilda; they 
 jump up mnch embarrassed.'] 
 
 FIFTH SCENE. 
 William, Matilda, and Sohrok. 
 
 ScHROK. [^Lavffhing.] Splendid, my friends ; why do you 
 not continue? Don't let me stop you. -I was young myself 
 once, and know what that means ; the^ only difference was 
 that the young girls of my time were not fashion-plates as 
 now, and that they did not encourage the addresses of a 
 workingman one day and of a rich man the next. 
 
 Matilda. [Aside.] Good heavens ! Does he think that I 
 listened to the gentleman who followed me home yesterday ? 
 
 William. [Seizing Schrok's hand.] What do you mean 
 by that, sir ? 
 
 Sohrok. Ei, ei, my good fellow, you will put my wrist 
 out of joint. I do not mean anything. I simply made a 
 
 remark ; but if the shoe fits you My sole object in coming 
 
 here was to ask if Miss Matilda can pay me. 
 
 Matilda. I will go at once to the shop for which I work, 
 and I hope to be able to pay you at least a part on my return. 
 
 ScHROK. Yes, I need my money. 
 
 Matilda. [Going towards Wii^liam] William, my friend, 
 we meet again. 
 
192 NO HAPPINESS WITHOUT VIRTUE. 
 
 William. [ Coldly.'] Yes, we meet again. 
 Matilda. lAside.'] How cool I Should he suspect me! 
 Oh, my God, protect me ! [^She goes.] 
 
 SIXTH SCENE. 
 ScHEOK and William. 
 
 William, [^strfe.] She seemed embarrassed. Could I 
 really be deceived in her? I must now try to find out. 
 {Aloud.] Mr. Schrok, what you said just now about the 
 young girls, does that include Matilda ? 
 
 ScHROK. I do not say it does, and I do not say it don't. 
 But one thing I will say. How can one wear bottines when 
 one earns so little ? The plain cap has been abandoned, and 
 everything must be d, Vinstar de Paris, and in order to be 
 able to follow the fashions the girls sell their souls to the 
 devil, and of course they prefer the rich man. 
 
 William. And you really believe that of Matilda ! She 
 works half the night. 
 
 Schrok. Matilda ! So, so ! Work, work ! I really do 
 not know if I ought to tell you ; but I have seen a man fol- 
 low her the two last evenings. I cannot say positively if 
 she speaks with him, but I suppose she does. {Aside.] A 
 little slander, as Basilius says in the " Barber of Seville," and 
 he will leave her. Then she will listen to Mr. Van Engelen. 
 I must report to him at once. {Aloud, imitating MATILDA.] 
 William, my friend, we shall meet again. Ha, ha, ha 1 {He 
 goes.] 
 
 SEVENTH SCENE. 
 
 William, alone. 
 
 William. Matilda a flirt I She deceive me I Oh, no ; that 
 is impossible. And yet the gentleman who followed her 1 
 Welle can she prevent them? How many rascals does one 
 not see who use their money to ruin young girls, deceiving 
 them by fair promises? {He meditates.] But Matilda a 
 flirt I Oh, jealousy, how you are wringing my poor heart ! 
 If I knew who it is who wants to rob me of her love I would 
 trample him under my feet. Yes, you may be sure that 
 where William loves he wants no partners, if he is a work- 
 
NO HAPPINESS WITHOUT VIRTUE. 193 
 
 man. But to deceive me so, and I who thought I read love 
 in her eyes I [Se listens.'] I think I hear her. I will go, 
 so that she may not see my perturbation. [5e vjishes to go, 
 hut Van Engelen enters.'] Oh, Mr. Van Engelen, a good and 
 benevolent man. What brings him here ? 
 
 EIGHTH SCENE. 
 Van Engelen and William. 
 
 Van Engelen. [4 little embarrassed.] You here, Wil- 
 liam? 
 
 William. Yes, sir ; this is my lodging. I was just break- 
 fasting. 
 
 Van Engelen. And in the mean time you come to chat a 
 little with the young girl who also lives here. You know, 
 friend William, that you have not finished the gilding in my 
 drawing-room, and that I am expecting company. 
 
 William. I know that, sir ; and I was just going as you 
 came in. But did you come after -ne, or did you also come 
 to speak with Miss Matilda ? 
 
 Van Engelen. [^Defiantly J^ What do you mean? I 
 hope you don't think I have any bad designs ? 
 
 William. \_Emharrassed.] Oh, no, sir I every one knows 
 your exemplary life too well to suspect you of anything wrong. 
 I merely wanted to know if you came to bring Matilda work 
 or aid of any kind : in that case your trouble is useless. 
 
 Van Engelen. How is that ? 
 
 William. Mr. Sqhrok pretends that she is encouraging a 
 rich man, and if that is the case she will certainly not need 
 your assistance. 
 
 Van Engelen. That is possible. And if it should be 
 true, shall I tell her anything for you ? 
 
 William. Oh, yes, sir ; tell her that it is a sin, and one 
 which renders her unworthy of the confidence of honest 
 people. But if it was only the clatter of a bad tongue, oh ! 
 help her then, help her ! Who can do it better than you, — 
 you who are looked up to as a pattern of generosity and be- 
 nevolence ? Tell her that I shall always love her. Oh, Grod ! 
 my brain is turned ; I do not know what I am saying or 
 doing ! No, she is not guilty ; my heart assures me of that ! 
 iHegoes.] ^^^ 
 
194 NO HAPPINESS WITHOUT VIRTUE. 
 
 NINTH SCENE. 
 
 Van Engelen, alone. 
 
 Van Engelen. [_Se looks around Mm, laugliing.'\ Ha, ia, 
 ha ! The fellow is crazy, to make me his confidant ! Ha 1 
 Mr. Schrok, you have played your part well, — ^you know how 
 to slander I William must not speak with her again ; he 
 must move out of here. And then, when she has no one to 
 help her, will she still refuse my offer ? Foolish girl 1 With 
 what contemptuous words she ordered me off yesterday I A 
 prince would scarcely have such a tenv^, such pride 1 \_He 
 leans his head against the back of a chair."] Ha, ha, ha 1 the 
 little witch keeps my hot head in a fever ; she must be made 
 to think that I love her sincerely. Come, come ! I have won 
 stiffer girls than you, without my good name being tarnished 
 in the least. Matilda is poor, she already owes Mr. Schrok 
 money : I will make him turn her out-of-doors. In the shop 
 they have promised to give her no more work. The only one 
 who could help her then is William. But what can he do ? 
 I have but to speak the word and he shall also be left without 
 work. But yet I shall not have the imprudence to come 
 here often. Oh, was not that noble in me, the benevolent 
 man ? Ha, ha, ha I how easy it is to hoodwink the world I 
 But, hush ! I hear some one. I had better go away for a 
 moment. [5e goes through the door to the left.'] 
 
 TENTH SCENE. 
 
 Matilda, and afterwards Van Engelen. 
 
 Matilda. [^She falls powerless on a chair.] Oh, my God 1 
 what is there left for me but to die ? The woman who had 
 always been so kind to me has refused to pay me, and would 
 not give me any more work. I fell on my knees before the 
 hard-hearted creature ; I begged for a morsel of bread. I 
 legged for that which was mine, for that which I had fairly 
 earned, but she pushed me out of the door. [^She raises 
 her eyes to heaven.] Yes, mother, your child was turned out- 
 of-doors as if she had been a thief 1 Oh, God, forgive me 
 the horrible thought that crossed my mind ! — for a moment I 
 thought I would put an end to my life by jumping into the 
 
NO SAPPINESS WITHOUT VIRTUE. 195 
 
 river. I had just passed by the house of the poor-master of 
 this district, the one who is said to do so much good. A 
 crowd of poor women and children stood before his door ; 
 although they were all beggars, clothed in rags, I went in 
 among them, and thought to get alnjis and to be able to sat- 
 isfy my hunger, but the beggars hooted at me because I was 
 so well dressed. My courage failed me and I came home. 
 How shall I still my hunger ? [^She sees the bread William 
 leji on the table and seizes it greedily.'] What do I see? 
 Bread 1 bread I [She puts it to her mouth. Van Enqelen 
 comes quietly in at the door, hut stands oMde.l But if Wil- 
 liam should come for it — it is his — what could I say to him ? 
 No, I canndt take it. \_She puts it hack and eyes it sorrow- 
 fully.'] And yet, I am so hungry ; I have eaten nothing 
 since yesterday. Oh, God forgive me, if it is a theft I \_She 
 takes the hread. Van Engelen, who has been looking at her, 
 now comes forward.] 
 
 Van Engelen. Matilda ! 
 
 Matilda. [^She is frightened and hides the hread.] Who 
 is there ? [^She lays the bread on the table.] 
 
 Van Engelen. \_Drawing nearer.] Some one who loves 
 you devotedly. 
 
 Matilda. [ Turning round.] You here, sir 1 always you. 
 [^Fiercely.] What do you want with me ? Did you not under- 
 stand me yesterday when I said that my hand and heart must 
 go together, that I loved some one, and if I could not be his 
 I would never belong to another ? 
 
 Van Engelen. Matilda, reflect well. You are poor, — 
 you must often go hungry to bed. If you will listen to my 
 love the thorns shall become roses ; silk shall replace this 
 calico ; you shall have servants, and your slightest wish shall 
 be my law. Speak, Matilda, speak ; dare I hope ? 
 
 Matilda. What could you hope for ? nothing but my con- 
 tempt 1 So you, the rich man, thought you had me akeady 
 in your power. Because I am hungry, must I have lost all 
 respect for virtue and receive you with open arms ? No, sir, 
 you have deceived yourself. Your expectations shall not be 
 realized. I would rather die of hunger and want than accept 
 youj offer. Begone, I say I begone ! 
 
 Van Engelen. It matters little if I go or stay, you are 
 mine. Every one knows that I am in your room, and if any 
 
196 NO HAPPINESS WITHOUT VIRTUE. 
 
 one should come in and find us together your good name would 
 certainly be lost. 
 
 Matilda. Oh, horror 1 And have you forgotten that God 
 sees you, and that he could punish you for trying to dishonor 
 an innocent girl ? Oh^sirl on my knees [she kneels.'] I beg 
 you to leave this room ; there are so many girls handsomer 
 than I who would perhaps accept your offer. For the love 
 of heaven, leave this room I 
 
 Van Engi;l£N. \_6azincf longingly at her. Aside.] How 
 beautiful she is I No, she shall not escape me. 
 
 Matilda. [Rising.'] Oh, thanks, sir ! I see in your eyes 
 that you are going to grant my request. You will not force 
 me to curse yon. 
 
 Van Enqelen. [Seizing her in his arms, passionately.] 
 You deceive yourself, adorable Matilda ; I love you more than 
 ever, and will have you by fair means or foul. 
 
 Matilda. Let me go ! [She breaks loose. Some one 
 knocks.] Oh, sir 1 go, go I Do not let any one find you here. 
 I entreat you, go ! 
 
 Van Enqelen. [Laughing.] Well, I will ; but in which 
 direction ? 
 
 Matilda. [She runs to the door on the left.] This way. 
 Locked! [She reflects.] Truly, there is no other way. 
 Come and hide in my bedroom. No one can see you there. 
 [Some one knocks again at the door in the backgrovnd.] 
 If it were William I [Van Enqelen goes into her room, 
 while she opens the door.] 
 
 ELEVENTH SCENE. 
 
 ScHROK, Matilda, and Van Enqelen, in the cabinet. 
 
 ScHROK. [ Coming in.] Miss Matilda, it took you a long 
 time to open the door, and that surprises me the more that 
 you are not in the habit of locking this door. [Spying around.] 
 Ithought I heard some one speaking with you. 
 
 Matilda. [Much embarrassed and always looking towards 
 the cabinet.] You are mistaken ; you see that I am alone, quite 
 alone ; you know that no one comes here except William. 
 
 ScHROK. Yes, I said that to myself, and it would not be 
 necessary to hide him. Ha ! 
 
 Matilda. [Aside.] Can he have noticed anything ? 
 
 ScHROK. Well, well, that is none of my business. Every 
 
NO HAPPINESS WITHOUT VIRTUE. 197 
 
 man must shear his own sheep. But to come back to the 
 business -which brought me here. How is it now, miss ; can 
 you pay my little bill ? 
 
 Matilda. No, sir, I cannot. I have not received any 
 money. Have patience one month still ; I will try to get 
 work elsewhere ; I will work day and night to satisfy you. 
 Have pity upon me 1 
 
 ScHROK. Pity 1 A fine word, but one does not get on far 
 with it : it is poor pay. 
 
 Matilda. l_Takes Ms hand imploringly. "] Do not jeer at 
 me, sir! Do you know. what it is to suffer hunger? But, 
 no ; you do not. Your table is loaded. Well, I am hungry ! 
 
 ScHROK. Ta, ta ! The proverb says, " Complainers know 
 no want, boasters have no bread." 
 
 Matilda. Inhuman man ! 
 
 ScHROK. I laugh at your insults ! If you have no money 
 you shall leave my house at once ; besides that, you won't 
 have much to carry ; I shall keep your furniture as security 
 for my rent. When I reckon the interest and the interest of 
 the interest, I lose by it. All your things together are not 
 worth twenty francs, and you owe more than that. [Se goes 
 to the closet and opens it."] 
 
 Matilda. Good heavens ! What is going to happen ? 
 
 ScHROK. \_Brings a poclcet-book out of the closet.'\ A 
 sealed pocket-book, — love-letters probably. 
 
 Matilda. \_Runs frantically to ScHROK and snatches it 
 away.'] Rascal ! Don't touch it ! It is my mother's last will. 
 
 ScHROK. [^RidicvMng her.] It contains probably a beauti- 
 ful inheritance. [JSe throws out some lineni] There, you can 
 have your trash. \_IIe takes the worJc-basJcet in which Wil- 
 liam had hidden the money and comes forward on the stage. 
 Aside.] Now I have found the borrowed needle which 
 William had put back in the closet. [_Aloud.] How is this, 
 Miss Matilda ? You say you have no money, and here in 
 this basket are two splinter-new five-franc pieces 1 [5e 
 loolcs at them.] They are still from the Republic. 
 
 Matilda. Money! I have money and I am dying of 
 hunger ! Sir, I do not know how that money came into my 
 basket, but I swear that it does not belong to me. 
 
 ScHROK. ^Trying the pieces.] They are not false. That 
 is good money. If you don't know that you are unfortunate. 
 
198 ifO HAPPINESS WITHOUT VIRTUE. 
 
 Matilda. [^Aside.'] Could 'William have done it? But 
 he has nothing to spare ! 
 
 SoHEOK. They could not have come here alone. [Look- 
 ing around.'] Ha ! now I know. It must have come from 
 yonder. 
 
 Matilda. [Aside.] Ah, the hat 1 Now I am lost ! 
 
 ScHROK. The money does not belong to you, and you do not 
 know that hat ! Yes, yes, Schrok is silly enough to believe 
 that. But, miss, remember that your disorderly life can 
 give my house a bad name. The owner of this hat must be 
 hidden here. [He takes a step towards Matilda's hed- 
 room. She plants herself be/ore the door and prevents his 
 going tra.] 
 
 Matilda. [Befyingly.] You shall not go in there 1 What 
 right have you, sir, to act as spy upon my actions ? Yes, 
 there is some one hidden here, whom I hate, because he is a 
 monster like 'yourself. Some one whom I know only through 
 the contempt with which he inspires me. [Van Engelen 
 bursts open the door and comes out on the stage."] 
 
 TWELFTH SCENE. 
 ITie preceding, and Van Engelen. 
 
 Matilda. [To Van Engelen.] Speak, sir! Tell this 
 man that I have rejected your infamous proposals 1 That I 
 only hid you to save my good name ! Speak, sir. 
 
 Van Engelen. Yes, Mr. Schrok, I am obliged to confess 
 that Miss Matilda's conduct towards me, at least, has been 
 blameless. [ With a meaning wink.] One always protests in 
 the beginning, that is usual. Is it not so ? 
 
 Schrok. We understand that; sunshine comes after a 
 storm. 
 
 Matilda. What do you mean? Have I sunk so low 
 that you think I am yours ? 
 
 Van Engelen. [Aside.] I must dissemble. [Aloud.] 
 Oh, no, dear Matilda ! All that I have said was only to try 
 you, — only to see if all is true that is said of your virtue 
 and of your steadfastness. I wanted to prove you, and then 
 come to your assistance. 
 
 Schrok. Then the five-franc pieces came from you ? 
 
 Van Engelen. That is possible. 
 
NO HAPPINESS WITHOUT VIRTUE. 199 
 
 Matilda. \_Douhtingly. Aside^ Can that be the truth, 
 or is it only deep cunning, to throw me off my guard ? 
 
 ScHROK. [Secretly to Van Engelen.] She doubts your 
 word. Tell her your name. 
 
 Van Engelen. Young girl, do you doubt me still? 
 Here is my name. \_He gives her his card.'\ This shall answer 
 for me. 
 
 Matilda. \_Reading.] Good heaven, what do J. see ? Is 
 this all true ? You, Mr. Van Engelen, the refuge of the 
 unfortunate ! Oh, sir, forgive me 1 but I did not know you. 
 Oh, my God, thanks, thanks ! If this good angel helps me 
 I shall no longer suffer from hunger. 
 
 Van Engelen. Matilda, you have nothing now to fear 
 from me. Come to my house this afternoon and I will give 
 you work. 
 
 Matilda. Oh, you benevolent man ! how can I show my 
 gratitude? You have saved me from certain death. \_She 
 Jails on a chair panting for breath.'] Ah! air, air! I am 
 suffocating ! Gratitude has filled my heart to overflowing. 
 Oh, William, William, will you not rejoice ? 
 
 Van Engelen.' [2b Schrok.] She is mine. 
 
 ScHEOK. [^Laughing.] The cat is in the well. 
 
 SECOND ACT. 
 
 The scene represents a richly-furnished room in Van En- 
 gelen's house. Doors are on both sides, and a door in the back- 
 ground. A window is to the right, to the left a table and 
 chairs. A sword is lying on a chair to the left j books are on the 
 table. 
 
 FIRST SCENE. 
 
 When the curtain rises Van Engelen is sitting hy the tahle. 
 He has an order on his breast. 
 
 Van Engelen. [Alone.] Will Matilda come ? Oh, yes ; 
 she thanked me so warmly when I promised her work ! 
 Gratitude shone in her eyes, and from gratitude to love there 
 is but a step. She does not come. I am dying of impa- 
 tience. How beautiful she is ! how noble her bearing ! Oh, 
 Matilda, a devouring thirst for love is tormenting me ! but 
 one word from you can quench it. [Rejlecting.] But if she 
 should expose me ? Oh, I shall take care of that. When 
 
200 NO HAPPINESS WITHOUT VIRTUE. 
 
 she is once here, she shall not leave the house till she has 
 sworn not to betray me. And yet, who would believe her? 
 Am I not known to be chastity personified ? All I should 
 have to do would be to say, She is slandering me because I 
 refused her the help which she did not deserve. ISome one 
 rings the door-bell.'] Can it be she ? Oh, no ; no such good 
 luck. I believe — ha, ha ! — I believe I am really in love with 
 her. [H&J.istens.'] No, it is not she. Now I am once more 
 the respectable philanthropist. 
 
 SECOND SCENE. 
 Van Engelen ; Fkank, hringing a letter. 
 
 Frank. Here, sir, is a letter. The servant is waiting for 
 an answer. 
 
 Van Engelen. [^Takes the letter and opens it."] What do 
 I see ? Lord Makinson, who rescued me out of the Thames 
 during my last voyage to London ! And he is here 1 Frank, 
 tell the man that I shall be delighted to see Lord Makinson. 
 [ The servant goes.] 
 
 THIED SCENE. 
 
 Van Engelen, almie. 
 
 Van Engelen. So that he does not come when Matilda 
 is here. That would be very unpleasant. I must read his 
 letter. [He reads.] 
 
 " My dear Sir, — I hope you have not forgotten the favor 
 I asked you to do me when you left London ?" [^Speaking.] 
 I have really forgotten all about it. {^Meditativ^.'] Oh, yes ; 
 I think I remember the story. Some girl whom he seduced 
 more than eighteen years ago. As if it were worth while to 
 think of that now ! If he could find her he would make an 
 honest woman of her ! \_Laughing.'] One would be kept 
 busy if one had to make honest women of all the deceived 
 girls. I had thought I was doing him a service by not look- 
 ing for the girl, and now I see he is coming to look for her 
 himself Well, I shall tell him all my researches proved 
 fruitless. And now I must get ready to receive my adored 
 one. [He goes out of the second door to the left.] 
 
NO HAPPINESS WITHOUT VIRTUE. 201 
 
 FOURTH SCENE. 
 
 William and Fkank, both going along the background; 
 William is carrying a painter' s pot, 
 
 Frank. Is your work done, William ? 
 
 William. Yes ; and I am not sorry for it. I do not mean 
 that Mr. Van Engelen is not a good gentleman to work for, 
 but just now my nose itches. 
 
 Frank. Well, well, we must not forget to eat, as the say- 
 ing is. But see, if I were like you, I would go and take a 
 drink. Well, friend William, you needn't get angry ; you are 
 as sober as a hermit. Gome with me, for to-day we dare not 
 fret ; Mr. Van Engelen has j ust received a decoration. 
 
 William. Yes, one more I How~many of those new 
 knights are there who could answer the question, if one 
 asked them, where they earned their decorations? Not 
 that I mean to say that Mr. Van Engelen has no merit, not 
 at all ; but — ^well — no more on that subject. Frank, I thank 
 you for your offer ; but I am only going to put on my coat, 
 and then I am off with my pots and cloths. 
 
 Frank. Well, if you won't, I can't force you. I must go 
 to my master. When you have your things together you 
 can go down this little staircase. Good-by, William. [He 
 goes.'] 
 
 FIFTH SCENE. 
 
 William, alone. 
 
 William. [_Thought/ully.'} However I try I cannot 
 throw off the idea that Matilda is faithless. It kept me 
 from doing my work properly. Now, what can have induced 
 Mr. Van Engelen to come to Matilda's room ? Infernal 
 jealousy 1 Do I not believe any longer in Mr. Van Engelen's 
 benevolence ? How stupid in me to worry myself about it I 
 \_Some one rings.'] That is certainly the company, and here 
 I stand as if I belonged to the family ! This infernal love is 
 the cause of it ! I felt so sure of spending my life with Ma- 
 tilda. But there is no use in thinking about that now. [.fle 
 goes thoughtfully towards the background, and when he passes 
 a window he stops to look out.] There, that is like me, going 
 off by the front door instead of down the little staircase. [5e 
 
 P 
 
202 NO iiAppy:fESS without virtue. 
 
 holes out, hut Jumps bacJc.] Good heavens I What do I see ? 
 Matilda here ! Then what Schrok told me is true ! I shall 
 not go away till I see clear in this matter. I think I hear 
 her. I will hide myself. Oh, women, women,, what suffer- 
 ings you cause us ! [Me goes out through the door to the 
 right!] 
 
 SIXTH SCENE. 
 
 Matilda ; Frank coming along the background. 
 
 Frank. Please to wait here a minute, miss ; I am going to 
 call master. He will come presently. [He goes out to the leji.'] 
 
 SEVENTH SCENE. 
 Matilda, alone. 
 
 Matilda. [LooMng round..'] How fine everything is 
 here ! Mr. Van Engelen must be very rich. How I was 
 deceived in him ! But now that I know him my gratitude 
 will be everlasting. Oh, my God, can you forgive an unfor- 
 tunate being for having doubted your loving providence? 
 But I have drank the cup of adversity to the very dregs. 
 Oh, forgive me that I thought of cutting the thread of my 
 life I But now I will throw off those sad remembrances and 
 think only of this angel of mercy. He promised me work, 
 and here, in this house, where I came this morning to beg, 
 I shall now get the means of earning enough to satisfy my 
 hunger. [ While she is speaking thus Van Engelen enters.] 
 
 EIGHTH SCENE. 
 
 Van Engelen, Matilda, and William in the cabinet to 
 the right. 
 
 Matilda. Excuse me, sir, if I come at an inconvenient 
 time. If I had known that you expected company I should 
 never have been so bold as to come at this time. 
 
 Van Engelen. No excuse is necessary, my deai young 
 lady ; it is a great pleasure to be able to do a little good in 
 this yorld. Sit down, adorable Matilda, [fie gives her a 
 chair.] 
 
 Matilda. [Aside.] How he says that! Is he deceiving 
 me ? Oh, God protect me I 
 
NO HAPPINESS WITHOUT VIRTUE. 203 
 
 Van Enqelen. {^Sits dovm hy her.\ Lovely miss, do not 
 be frightened at what I am going to say. 
 
 Matilda. Am I to be so unfortunate as not to get the 
 work for which I came here ? 
 
 Van Engelen. That was only a pretext to draw you here 
 to me. You despised me, you would not let me speak of my 
 love, benevolence was my only resource. You believed me, 
 you are here, and now, Matilda, you are in my power. 
 
 Matilda. \^Indignantly.'\ Have I heard aright ? No, no ; 
 that is not possible ! Can one use that holy word philanthropy 
 for such base purposes ? [Beseechingly. 1 Oh, sir, tell me that 
 I have misunderstood you ; that you are still only trying me, 
 as you did this morning ! Give me the work you promised 
 me, so that I can, at least, earn enough to repay you your two 
 five-franc pieces. Oh, give it to me and let me go ! or — no, 
 let me go so. I will seek work elsewhere, and sew my fingers 
 off rather than remain indebted to you. [^She tries to go.'] 
 
 Van Engelen. [^Holding her hach.'] Hear me, Matilda. 
 If you go now your good name will none the less be lost I 
 [ With emphasis-l I am sure that Mr. Schrok has already 
 told William that you are faithless to him, and that he at this 
 very moment hates you worse than he loved you before. 
 
 William. [ Who has been listening, and can scarcely con- 
 tain himself.'] Villain ! \_He hides himself quickly.] 
 
 Van Engelen. [Aside.] Are we not alone ? [He goes to 
 the door on the right, holes out, and lochs it.] No one ! It 
 is singular ; I thought I heard some one speak. \_Aloud.] 
 You see, dearest, that nothing is left for you but to correspond 
 to my love. 
 
 Matilda. Sir, now I see through your rascally plans ! 
 You thought, Matilda is poor ; she has nothing but her good 
 name, we will tarnish that ; she has a little furniture, that 
 shall be taken to pay the arrears of rent ; there is one heart 
 which loves her devotedly and which she loves in return, to 
 him she shall be shown as the mistress of a rich man ; and 
 then, when nothing is left to her, she shall be obliged to sell 
 her honor ! 
 
 Van Engelen. You deceive yourself, Matilda. 
 
 Matilda. I am not mistaken. Ha ! you said, the girl is 
 young and pretty, she must love finery ; she has had an edu- 
 cation such as seldom falls to the lot of girls of her class ; she 
 
204 J!^0 HAPPINESS WITHOUT VIRTUE. 
 
 does not like work. She shall have servants and gold. Is it 
 not so ? 
 
 Van Engelen. Collect yourself, Matilda ; you are raving. 
 
 Matilda. IDefyingly.'] No, no I But what can I say to 
 you ? You have deceived me ! You want a girl for your 
 plaything, — a plaything that you can throw away when you 
 are tired of it, — who will keep of all the luxury with which 
 she was surrounded nothing, — nothing but her dishonored 
 name. She may consider herself fortunate if she retains her 
 beauty, so as to find an entrance into a house of shame. But 
 I say this girl rejects your love. She may die of want, but 
 she will never be anything but the^lawful wife of an honest 
 workman. And now, sir, let mahout ; I wish to go. 
 
 Van Engelen. [Seizing her hand.'] Silly girl ! do you 
 think that when a wolf has a sheep under his paws it can slip 
 off without losing some of its wool ? 
 
 Matilda. Unhand me, sir ; unhand me ! 
 
 Van Engelen. \_Passionately.'] Matilda, I love you un- 
 speakably ; nothing shall prevent me from making you mine. 
 Do you hear ? nothing ! Your screams will avail you nothing ; 
 no one can come to your help. You shall be mine, if I have 
 to use violence. 
 
 Matilda. Oh, my God, help me, save me from this un- 
 principled man 1 
 
 Van Engelen. \^TaMng her round the waist.^ Come, 
 Matilda ; I will strew your path with flowers. 
 
 Matilda. Monster ! Do you not think that the anger of 
 God can overtake you ? Oh, sir, by your mother's memory, 
 I pray you let me go ! 
 
 Van Engelen. Your prayers are useless. You are mine. 
 [/Some one hnocks.l 
 
 William. [Outside.] Open the door I Open the door! 
 
 Matilda. William's voice I I am saved 1 [She runs to 
 the door to the right.] 
 
 Van Engelen. [Furiously.] Damnation ! He must have 
 heard everything. [He taJees up the sword which is lying on a 
 chair.] Stop, stop, Matilda, or it shall cost your lover his life ! 
 
 Matilda. [Frightened, falls on her knees.] Stop, stop I 
 put down that murderous weapon. Yes, yes, I will obey 
 you ; but spare the life of him who would sacrifice it for my 
 sake I — spare William I 
 
NO BAPpTnESS without virtue. 205 
 
 William. \_Ovitside, lenocking furiovislyI\ Open the door, 
 or I shall burst it open ! 
 
 Van Engelen. {Hwrriedly to Matilda.] Welh, come, 
 hide yourself in this room. [iE?e throws away the sword and 
 leads Jier to the bedroom. He shuts the door, locks it, and puts 
 the hey in his pocket. At that- minute the door of the cabinet 
 is burst open and WiLLiAM rushes in. Van Engelen is 
 standing by the tahle.'] 
 
 NINTH SCENE. 
 William, Van Engelen, and Matilda. 
 
 William. [^Furiously.'] Where is she ? Where is Matilda ? 
 Speak I I heard her voice ! 
 
 Van Engelen. IQuietly.'} Are you crazy, young man, or 
 have you been drinking with my servants ? You had better 
 try to get home. 
 
 William. I almost think I am crazy ; but no, there is no 
 craziness here. I am sure I heard Matilda call for help. 
 Tell me, did I not hear her ? 
 
 Van Engelen. [ Crossly.'] Well, yes ; Matilda was here. 
 She came here just as I went to her this morning. She 
 prayed for help, and I have promised her help ; and now, — 
 now she has gone away. 
 
 William. IDoubtingly.] Gone I gone ! And why was 
 she begging for me ? 
 
 Van Engelen. I wanted to see if she really loved you, and 
 I told her that if I saw her speaking to you you should lose 
 your work. But, be tranquil, William ; you may be quite cer- 
 tain that you only shall have her. [^Se laughs.} Ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 William. But, sir ! 
 
 Van Engelen. [ Turning round suddenly,] Is this ques- 
 tioning never to have an end, or am I standing here before a 
 police inspector ? Begone, or I will throw you out of the 
 window 1 
 
 William. ^Sorrowfully.] Oh, no I One catches a thief, 
 one throws a rascal out of the window, but to insult an honest 
 workman is the act of a rascal. 
 
 Van Engelen. What do you mean ? 
 
 William. That you would not wish to act like a rascal ; 
 you who are honored by all for your benevolence. And now, 
 
 18* 
 
206 NO HAPPINESS WITHOUT VIRTUE. 
 
 sir, I shall go ; but woe to you if any harm happens to Ma- 
 tilda through you ! [^He takes a few steps towards the door 
 in the Vachground, when he hears a cry for help.'] 
 
 Matilda. [/?i the chamber to the left.] William, save me, 
 save me ! 
 
 Van Engelen. [_Aside.'] Damnation I I am lost. 
 
 William. [^Comes forward and lays his hand upon Van 
 Engelen's shoulder.] She has not gone, sir ; she is there. 
 [Se points to the left.] So you wished to attain your end by 
 violence, and to satisfy your evil desires you were trying to 
 prevent me from making her my wife. 
 
 Van Engelen. ^Decidedly.] Well, yes, Matilda is still 
 here ; she is in that room ; but before you shall go id to her I 
 will run you through with this sword. There is nothing from 
 which I would shrink to make her mine. [Se stands before 
 the door of the room.] 
 
 William. [ With a choMng voice.] Love 1 Oh, do not 
 speak of love I It is only pure hearta that should speak of love. 
 
 Van Engelen. \^Furioudy.] Enough, enough 1 
 
 William. Your whole life is hypocrisy, and it is through 
 your hypocrisy that you have obtained your decoration. 
 Have you deserved it ? Speak ! No ; you have not de- 
 served it. That cross does you no honor ; it is a mark of the 
 shame which should brand you on the breast. 
 
 Van Engelen. This impudent speech shall cost you your 
 life. [Van Engelen has taken the sword and is trying to get 
 near WiLLIAM, who has seized a chair toith which to ward off 
 his attack. ITie door in the background is opened forcibly, 
 Lord Makinson and other gentlemen enter and throw iliem- 
 selves between the combatants. 
 
 TENTH SCENE. 
 
 The preceding, Lord Makinson, some friends o/"Van 
 Engelen, and Frank. 
 
 Makinson. IThroioing himself between tJiem.] What 
 are you doing, my friends ? 
 
 Van Engelen. I am trying to punish this miserable 
 creature for the insults he has offered me. [ They disarm him.] 
 
 William. Let the young gentleman come on. I know 
 how to use my hands. 
 
NO HAPPINESS WITHOUT VIRTUE. 207 
 
 Makinson. [2b Van Angelen.] Edward, let me act 
 as mediator between you and this young man ; you know 
 that my only source of happiness is in helping the unfortu- 
 nate. 
 
 William. Sir, if that is true, tell this hypocrite to set 
 free the young girl whom he wishes to seduce. 
 
 Makinson. Have I heard aright, Edward? Oh, this 
 rends the bonds of friendship between us ! 
 
 Van Engelen. Can you believe such tales ? 
 
 Makinson. Any one who speaks so straightforwardly must 
 be telling the truth. Do you know what remorse such a deed 
 occasions ? I also sinned once, and heaven alone knows what 
 tortures I have suffered. 
 
 Van Engelen. [^Impatiently.'] But, sir. 
 
 Makinson. Do you think it is honorable in us rich men 
 to treat the working classes as slaves ? 
 
 Van Engelen. [Disturbed.'] Sir, you go too far, and you 
 are indebted to the gratitude I owe you for the peaceable issue 
 of this conversation. 
 
 Makinson. A duel you would _have? Silly men who 
 murder each other in cold blood for a so-called point of honor ! 
 And now, sir, if you do feel the gratitude of which you speak, 
 I beg you in its name to give the young girl back to her 
 friend here. 
 
 Van Engelen. [Aside.] Oh, I shall have my revenge ! 
 [Aloud.] Frank, bring the young girl out of my room. [He 
 gives him the key. Frank ffoes.] 
 
 William. [Joyfully.] Ob, Matilda, I shall see you again, 
 unhurt, and can now protect you with my respectful love 1 
 
 Van Engelen. [Aside.] She shall yet be mine. 
 
 ELEVENTH SCENE. 
 
 The preceding, and Matilda, who has fainted. Frank 
 places her upon a chair, 
 
 William. [Screams.] Matilda! dead I 
 
 Van Engelen. Is it possible ? 
 
 Frank. She has only fainted. 
 
 William. [Kneeling hy her.] Matilda, come to yourself, 
 you have nothing more to fear : there is a noble man here who 
 has undertaken to protect you. 
 
208 NO HAPPINESS WITHOUT VIRTUE. 
 
 [Makinson has drawn near, %,nd looks at Matilda with 
 emotion.'] 
 
 Makinson. [Aside."] Good heavens 1 what do I see? What 
 a likeness ! Can it be possible ? 
 
 William. She is coming to. 
 
 Makinson. [To Matilda.] My dear child, be comforted, 
 you are here with friends. 
 
 Van Engelen. [ To one of his friends.'] How beautiful 
 she is, even in a fainting fit ! 
 
 Matilda. [^Gomin^ to herself sees William at her feet.] 
 William, my preserver I 
 
 William. [^Rising.] Matilda, it is not I, but this kind 
 gentleman. {Be points to Makinson.] 
 
 Matilda. \_Sises with difficulty, gazes for a moment va- 
 cantly around, and then throws herself into Makinson's arms.] 
 Protect us, sir ; protect us against the persecution of this 
 scoundrel I \_She points to Van Engelen, who laughs.] 
 
 Makinson. [Raising his eyes to heaven. Aside.] Can it 
 be the voice of nature speaking to her ? [Ahud.] Gentle- 
 men, I take this girl under my protection. . [ To Matilda and 
 William.] And now, my children, let us leave a house where 
 I had expected to find a philanthropist, but where I have 
 discovered a libertine. [ They depart.] 
 
 Van Engelen. [ To his friends, with assumed indifference.] 
 My friends, do not let this little episode interfere with our 
 enjoyment of a social hour. [Aside.] I shall revenge myself 
 later. 
 
 THIKD ACT, 
 
 A room in Makinson's house. Balcony in the hackground; 
 doors to the right and left. The first door opens into Matilda's 
 chamher. 
 
 FIRST SCENE. 
 
 Maria and Frank are arranging the room; Frank tries 
 to kiss Maria, and runs after her. 
 
 Maria. Frank, will you let me do my work ? 
 
 Frank. I am not hindering you, my dear ; I only ask to 
 be allowed to leave a kiss on your blooming cheeks, and you 
 won't let me. 
 
NO HAPPINESS WITHOUT VIRTUE. 209 
 
 Maria. No, deceiver ; I will not let you, because I have 
 good reasons, excellent reasons. 
 
 Frank. And may one know what those reasons are, Miss 
 Pert? 
 
 Maria. Why, that I will not have any man for my lover 
 who kisses the scullion also 1 Have you heard ? 
 
 Frank. \_Aside.'\ Jealousy ! so much the better. [^Aloud.'] 
 Well, I don't deny that I kissed her. Is it my fault if all 
 the women are crazy for me ? It is as if I had a talisman 
 in my pocket which brings luck, as the saying is. [ WkUe 
 he is talMng Frank lias quietly drawn near to Maria, and 
 tries to kiss her, but she gives him a box on the ears.'] Ah I 
 you fight, Maria ! 
 
 Maria. It is to punish your cursed impudence. 
 
 Frank. Now I will have a kiss if the devil holds the 
 stakes. [Se runs after her and hisses her.] Now, you've 
 caught it. 
 
 Maria. Frank, I won't have that again. I do not love 
 you. I like William much better. 
 
 Frank. \_Laughing.'] You love William, do you ? That is 
 funny. And has he ever spoken to you of love ? 
 
 Maria. Not a single word. 
 
 Frank. My child, I think you have reckoned without 
 your host. 
 
 Maria. How so ? 
 
 Frank. Why, can't you see that he is in love with Miss 
 Matilda ? He must be dreadfully in love, as he, a poor work- 
 man, was not afraid to brave the anger of my rich master. 
 
 Maria. That is true ; well, I. won't think of him any more. 
 
 Frank. And now you see you must walk a chalk line, as 
 the proverb says, and you had better make me the owner of 
 that feeling heart ; will you not, my darling ? 
 
 Maria. Oh, I like you well enough, and now that I see 
 I can't get William, I would rather take you than a worse one. 
 
 Frank. That is very kind of you. I am much obliged 
 for the preference ; but no more jealousy. 
 
 Maria. And you must not kiss any more scullions. 
 
 Frank. No, only you ; and here is a beginning. [He hisses 
 her.'] 
 
 Maria. [Laughing.'] You feel very safe already ; but while 
 we are chattering you forgot to bring Miss Matilda out of the 
 
210 NO HAPPINESS WITHOUT VIRTUE. 
 
 garden where she is taking an airing. Till we meet again, 
 dear Frank. 
 
 Frank. Till we meet again, my turtle-dove. 
 
 SECOND SCENE. 
 
 Frank, alone. 
 
 Frank. Frank, Frank, you are a bad man. You know 
 very well you have learnt this loose life from your master. 
 And yet you must not think that when you render your 
 account at the judgment-seat it will be enough to say, Like 
 master, like servant! Mr. Van Engelen said to me, 
 " Frank, you can earn a great deal of money if you will serve 
 me faithfully ;" and I, who love money better than blows any 
 day, answered that I would be zealous in any service. He 
 then said, " You must go and offer yourself as servant to Lord 
 Makinson." That did not seem hard work, as it is always 
 easy enough to deceive honest people. So I came to this 
 rich lord, who has been living here for the last twelve days, 
 and told him that my master had sent me away because I 
 had taken William into his room. The good man believed 
 me, and engaged me instantly. This is a good way to get ' 
 rich. I am earning money on both sides. Every day Schrok 
 comes, feigning remorse, to inquire after Matilda's health ; 
 and then he goes and reports to Mr. Van Engelen. And I, 
 as a pastime, make love to the maids in my leisure bours. 
 But, still, there she is, with Matilda. When you speak of 
 the fox you see his bush. 
 
 THIRD SCENE. 
 Matilda, Maria, and Frank. 
 
 Matilda. ^Supported hy Maria, sits down hy the tahle^ 
 How much trouble you take for me, my friends ! Oh, I hope 
 to be able some day to reward you ! 
 
 Maria. You need not reward us, as Lord Makinson pays 
 us to obey his orders, and these are to treat you with the 
 tenderest care. 
 
 Matilda. The good man I Is he not at home ? I have 
 not seen him to-day. I hope he is not indisposed. 
 
NO HAPPINESS WITHOUT VIRTUE. 211 
 
 Frank. Oh ! no ; he will soon be here. I hope you are 
 better to-day, miss. 
 
 Matilda. Oh, much better! But, my friend, did not 
 Mr. Van Bngelen send you away on my account ? 
 
 Frank. Yes. 
 
 Matilda. But you forgive me ? 
 
 Frank. And why not ? I have not lost by it. 
 
 Matilda. My friends, do not let me interrupt your work. 
 If William or your master comes, tell him I am here. [^Both 
 go away.'] 
 
 FOUETH SCENE. 
 
 Matilda, alone. 
 
 Matilda. Oh, my G-od, who never forsakest those who 
 put their trust in thee, give me now the strength to- take the 
 most important step in my life. To-day I have completed 
 my eighteenth year, and, according to the will of my dying 
 mother, to-day I must open the portfolio which she gave me 
 a few moments before she drew her last breath. Honored 
 mother, shall I there find the details of all your struggles to 
 bring me up, to give me a good education ? But, however 
 much I wish to open it, I will not do it until I am alone in 
 my own room with my mother's memory. 
 
 FIFTH SCENE. 
 Matilda and William. 
 
 Matilda. [ Turns round and sees William.] You there, 
 my friend ? 
 
 William. My beloved Matilda, what a pleasure to see 
 your health improve daily ! Thank God, we need now have 
 no uneasiness. Nature and good nursing have conquered 
 the disease which threatened to rob me of my dearest treasure. 
 
 Matilda. My good William ! 
 
 William. My dear Matilda, you have suffered much, but 
 you have the blessed consciousness of having done nothing 
 wrong. But I, — I did you wrong in my heart. I doubted your 
 faith. Can you forgive me? 
 
 MatiBDa. And you could doubt me ! But how could it 
 be otherwise ? They left no means untried to corrupt me. 
 
212 NO HAPPINESS WITHOUT VIRTUE. 
 
 They even tried to buy me. They even Md money in my 
 workbox. 
 
 William. What do you say, Matilda? I hope they did 
 not take the credit of doing so ! 
 
 Matilda. Oh, yes. Mr. Van Engelen acknowledged that 
 he had put it there. 
 
 William. The rascal ! Matilda, it did not come from him, 
 but from me ! I did not dare offer it to you, so I hid it. 
 
 Matilda. You, William! How long you must have 
 had to save to get it I Now I see better than ever that you 
 love me. 
 
 William. Yes ; but it was no longer any love when I saw 
 you come in to Mr. Van Engelen's; then I felt convinced 
 that you were as black as you had been painted to me. Tor- 
 mented by jealousy, I determined to act the spy upon you. 
 Will you believe now that I suffered as much as you ? But 
 the first word that you spoke showed me how I had been 
 deceived, and now I love you more than ever. 
 
 Matilda. And I, William, ought I not to love you? 
 Have I not seen your anxiety, while I was so ill, while you 
 stood by my bed looking at me Vith such sorrowful eyes ? 
 
 William. Yes, for three nights and days you hung be- 
 tween life and death, and Lord Makinson could not have 
 watched over you more tenderly if you had been his own 
 daughter. 
 
 Matilda. To you, William, I can devote my life ; but 
 what can I do for him ? 
 
 William. For him ? We will give him everlasting grati- 
 tude, and let him enjoy the sight of our happiness. As soon 
 as you are well enough we will get married, Matilda, if you 
 will agree to it, and we will work hard to bring up our little 
 ones as honest citizens. You blush, my angel, at the thought 
 that you, as mother, see your children playing around you 
 and running to meet their father when he comes from his 
 work. 
 
 Matilda. Your imagination makes the picture very bright, 
 my friend ; but see here, the other side : The workman is 
 married, but his income does not increase with every child 
 that God gives him, though his happiness does ; and then if 
 sickness strikes down the father of the family, misSty comes 
 in at the door. Oh, fearful must be the sufferings of the 
 
NO HAPPINESS WITHOUT VIRTUE. 213 
 
 mother who sees her children suffering want around her, 
 who hears their cries for bread and cannot give it to them I 
 
 William. Be comforted, my beloved ; we will begin at 
 once to put in the savings-bank for a rainy day. 
 
 SIXTH SCENE. 
 The preceding and Makinson. 
 
 Makinson. [To Matilda.] I have inquired of every 
 one, but no one can tell me anything about your birth or 
 your name. God only knows how anxious I am to know 
 your name. Are your parents still alive ? 
 
 Matilda. [ Weeping.'] My parents I My unfortunate 
 mother has been dead for four years. My father I have 
 never known ; and my name, — I know it not. \_She rises 
 from Tier seat.] 
 
 ^ Makinson. [^Deeply moved.] One more question, only 
 one. The locket you wear round your neck. [_He points to a 
 locket Matilda wears.] Did you buy this ? 
 
 Matilda. \_Panting.] It is the only memorial of better 
 days which my mother retained. 
 
 William. You are hot, Matilda; your fever will return; 
 come and lie down for a while. \_He leads her into her 
 room.] 
 
 SEVENTH SCENE. 
 Makinson, soon afterwards William. 
 
 Makinson. [ Thoughtfully, but with increasing agitation.] 
 I am going astray in my conjectures. She did not buy the 
 locket. It belonged to her mother, — it remained to her 
 from better days. Unfortunate ! — and her mother is dead. 
 Oh, torture I But the resemblance, does not this say enough ? 
 Oh, yes, she is my daughter ! I have found my child ! But 
 I must not say anything yet that could excite her. I must 
 have patience for a day or two, and then explain everything. 
 [_To William, who is coming in.] You had better remain 
 a while, William, as Matilda does not seem very well. Can 
 you spare the time ? 
 
 William. Sir! 
 
 19 
 
214 NO HAPPINESS WITHOUT VIRTUE. 
 
 EIGHTH SCENE. 
 
 William, alone. 
 
 William. What can be the matter with Lord Makinson ? 
 he seemed quite overcome. I suppose it is simply his con- 
 versation with Matilda which is to blame for it. What an 
 angel she is ! every one takes a fancy to her. Oh, Matilda I 
 how I long for the blessed hour which shall make us man 
 and wife ! With what pride shall I not go walking with you 
 on Sunday ! With what delight shall I not say to myself, 
 That beautiful woman is my wife ! For me she despised the 
 offers of a rich man. \_He stops to listen.'] What is that? 
 I hear some one speaking in that room. \_He goes to the first 
 door to the right.'] Who can it be ? It is Schrok's voice. 
 I must conceal myself, [^e goes out softly through the sec- 
 ond door to the right. In the mean time the stage has grad- 
 ually become darker.] 
 
 NINTH SCENE. 
 ScHROK, Frank, and William in the room to the right. 
 
 SoHROK. ILow to Frank.] It is now twilight. Where is 
 her room, Frank? 
 
 Frank. There. [-He points to the left.] 
 
 ScHROK. With that balcony ? Splendid 1 The plan is 
 well laid, and this time it cannot fail. 
 
 William. [_In the room.] We shall see. 
 
 [Frank sneezes.] 
 
 ScHROK. What did you say ? 
 
 Frank. Nothing. I only sneezed. 
 
 ScHROK. So ! Well, if you did not say anything, but only 
 sneezed, then God bless you I But, do you hear, Frank ? as 
 soon as they have all gone to bed, you must come to this win- 
 dow and open it. Mr. Van Engelen will come along the 
 garden. ^Looking around.] But don't let us stay here any 
 longer; I think I hear some one. If any one were to over- 
 hear us all would be lost. Come along, I will tell you the 
 rest below. _ I They go out at the same door through which 
 they came in.] 
 
NO SAPPINESS WITHOUT VIRTUE. 215 
 
 TENTH SCENE. 
 
 William, alone. 
 
 William. Have I heard aright ? Van Engelen will force 
 himself into this house I And I did not break old Schrok's 
 neck for him 1 So much the better. It is Van Engelen 
 I wish to punish. 
 
 ELEVENTH SCENE. 
 William and Mama, with a light. 
 
 William. You come just at the right time, Maria ; I want 
 you to do me a favor. 
 
 Maria. Speak, Mr. William, speak ; what must I do ? 
 
 William. Matilda must remain here for a few moments ; 
 will you be so good as to call her, or if she is asleep, to wake 
 her? 
 
 Maria. But why should I wake her if she is asleep ? 
 She needs rest. Is it not better to let the light burn here, 
 and when she wakes she can come and sit here as long as she 
 pleases. 
 
 William. Perhaps that will be the best, my good Maria. 
 Light the taper in Matilda's room and go to bed. I must 
 speak to your master before I go home. I shall wait for 
 him with Frank. 
 
 Maria. Good-night then, Mr. William. 
 
 William. Sleep well, Maria. 
 
 Maria. [Aside in going out."] He does not give me any 
 kiss like Frank. \^She takes a night-light into Matilda's 
 room, and goes.'} 
 
 TWELFTH SCENE. 
 William, alone. 
 
 William. I must write a note quickly, so that she shall 
 not be frightened if she hears a noise. [5e writes.'] There, 
 I will put it here by the light. Now I must secure the 
 window and apprise Lord Makinson of everything. And 
 then for you, Mr. Van Engelen, Matilda's persecutor. [He 
 fastens the toindow.'] I think I hear Matilda ; I must go, 
 [JSe goes out of the second door to the left.'] 
 
216 NO HAPPINESS WITHOUT VIRTUE. 
 
 THIKTEENTH SCENE. 
 Soft music. Frank comes in through the first door to the 
 right, he has a rope-ladder in his hand, and, going hy the 
 table, he blows out the light. He opens the door on the 
 balcony and makes the rope-ladder fast, shuts the door 
 again, and goes off the way by which he came. 
 
 FOURTEENTH SCENE. 
 Matilda, alone. 
 
 Matilda. IShe carries a night-light, and is very pale.'] 
 I thought I heard some one speak ; I thought I heard William 
 mention my name. I am surprised not to find him here. 
 IShe puts the light on the table.'] How truly he loves me I 
 My dear William, I now swear that whatever I may learn 
 about my birth, I never will be the wife of any one but your- 
 self. IShe lights the bougies.] And now, mother, I must 
 think only of you. [_She sits doton and takes the letter which 
 William iDrote.] Good heaven ! what do I read ? What could 
 frighten me? Let me read it again. IShe reads.] " What- 
 ever you may hear or see do not be frightened, we are watch- 
 ing over you." This is William's handwriting, but perhaps 
 some one is trying again to deceive me. I must be on my 
 guard. All is still ; I only hear the wind rustling in the 
 leaves in the garden. [^She gets up and holes around.] I 
 shudder involuntarily ; my letter says fear nothing, and yet I 
 am frightened. Oh, my God I support me while I open my 
 letter. [(SAe opens the little port/olio she brought with her.] 
 A cloud comes over my sight. I can scarcely read the in- 
 scription: "To my daughter." \_She breaks tJie seal and 
 reads.] 
 
 " Mt beloved Matilda, — On the eve of appearing be- 
 fore my God, it is my duty to disclose to you the secret of 
 my life. I was the daughter of a rich merchant in London. 
 My father, James Butler, wishing me to get a finished edu- 
 cation, placed me there in a fashionable boarding-school. I 
 formed a warm friendship for a young girl of my own age. 
 She had a brother about thirty years old, who was very fond 
 of her and often came to see her. I was often presentat 
 these visits. I fell in love with Ernest. When we left school 
 
NO HAPPINESS WITHOUT VIRTUE. 217 
 
 I continued to see her and her brother. Having lost my 
 mother early, I had no one to warn me of the danger I was 
 incurring. Ernest declared his love and I did not reject it. 
 This was my first step towards misery ; one moment of for- 
 getfulness of duty was sufficient to blast the happiness of my 
 whole life. He promised me marriage, but his parents would 
 not give their consent, as my father had lost a great deal of 
 money by unfortunate speculations. ' My beloved Caroline,' 
 said he, ' let us live on hope. God will not permit us to be 
 separated.' But he was mistaken. His parents procured 
 him an appointment in India. Weeping, he took leave of 
 me never to see me again. My condition could not much 
 longer be hidden from my father, and one day I was forced 
 to acknowledge everything. His rage knew no bounds. He 
 cursed me, and rushed from the house like a madman. My 
 father's curse had broken my heart. I fell down in a faint- 
 ing fit, and was for some time out of my mind. When I 
 recovered my senses I was fatherless and poor. My father 
 had drowned himself in the Thames, and everything had to 
 be sold to pay his debts. All that remained to me was a few 
 jewels and my clothes. I sold the jewels, retaining only the 
 locket which I have begged you always to keep, and which 
 your father, my Ernest, had given me." [She puts the letter 
 oxide and takes the locket off her neck. She kisses it."] Oh, 
 mother! now it is doubly valuable to me. [^It falls from her 
 hands.'] Oh, it is broken I [iSAe picks it up.J What do I 
 see ? — a portrait I \_She gets up.] The features seem fami- 
 liar to me. ^Surprised.] He, he could be my father ! But, 
 no, that is impossible ; that would be too much happiness. 
 [J. smothered scream is heard.] Heavens ! I hear a noise 
 at the window. What can it be ? [_She turns round, and sees 
 Van Engelen at the window with a dagger in his hand. 
 She screams.] 
 
 FIFTEENTH SCENE. 
 
 Matilda and Van Engelen ; afterwards Makinson. 
 
 Van Engelen. Matilda! 
 
 Matilda. You here, barefaced seducer ? 
 
 Van Enqel'en. \_£IarnestlT/.] Matilda, time is precious ! 
 Tears and entreaties will avail you nothing. Nothing shall 
 wrest you from me ! I love you devotedly I [_He throws 
 
 19* 
 
218 NO HAPPINESS WITHOUT VIRTUE. 
 
 away the dagger and falls on Ms hnees hefore her.] This is 
 no pretence. A post-chaise is awaiting us. We will go to 
 Italy and there spend our honeymoon. Come, Matilda, 
 come 1 
 
 Matilda. [^Breaks loose from him as he is trying to carry 
 her off. Makinson comes in unseen."] Unhand me ! the 
 daughter of Caroline Butler wUl know how to defend herself! 
 
 Makinson. [Aside.] She is my child I 
 
 Matilda. Oh, Grod I where can I find a place of refuge ? 
 
 Makinson. {Drawing near.] On your father's heart ! 
 
 Matilda. [CWe«.] My father! [She stands a moment 
 motionless. Makinson opens his arms.] 
 
 Makinson. Matilda, you are my daughter 1 [Matilda 
 falls into her father's arms. WiLLiAM has got up on the 
 balcony ; he is wounded.] 
 
 Matilda. Father, beloved father I 
 
 SIXTEENTH SCENE. 
 2%e preceding ; William on the halcony. 
 
 William. Her father! All is lost! [He comes forward 
 on the stage.] 
 
 Matilda. [She has seen William.] No, no ! You shall 
 share my happiness ! Is it not so, father ? 
 
 Makinson. Yes, William, she shall be your wife, to 
 reward you for having run into danger for her sake. 
 
 William. [To Makinson.] Oh, thanks, thanks I And 
 now one great deed more : forgiveness for this man. [He 
 points to Van Engelen.] 
 
 Makinson. [ To Van Engelen.] Well, sir, you wished 
 to dishonor my child and to murder this brave young man, 
 but you can depart unharmed. 
 
 Van Engelen. [ With a forced laugh.] Unharmed ! Ha, 
 ha, ha ! [He goes off the stage.] 
 
 Matilda. Now, dear mother, your daughter is happy. 
 
 Makinson. [Standing between her and WiLLIAM.] My 
 dear children, let us ever remember this great truth : There 
 is no happiness without virtue. [Matilda embraces her 
 father.] 
 
TAXES. 
 
 A COMEDY m THEEE ACTS. 
 BY FKANZISKA KARPINSKY. 
 
 TRANSLATED PROM THE POLISH 
 BY MES. FKANCES 0. HENDERSON. 
 
 PBESONS EEPEESENTED. 
 
 Me. Miloski. 
 
 Statecki, a friend of Me. Milosei. 
 
 G-ROZNICKI, underataroat. 
 
 Matgorzata, wife of the wnderaiaroaU 
 
 SzYMON, a villager. 
 
 POLUSIA, daughter of SzYMON. 
 
 Sartecki, aecretary of GrROZNiCKI. 
 
 The SCENE is laid in the underataroat'a farrtiy in ilie village of Mr. 
 Miloski. 
 
 FIRST ACT. 
 
 riEST SCENE. 
 Groznicki and Bartecki. 
 
 Gkoznicki. Bartecki, you do not know our master now? 
 Young and old, all follow the French fashion and wear a high 
 frisure over the whole head. I do not know that he speaks 
 French so well, but he never talks about anything but money. 
 He even suspected me once of having taken a bribe. It is 
 true I am only a so-called secretary, but I look after my 
 master's interests. 
 
 Bartecki. What is our master always doing in Warsaw ? 
 Is he among the leaders, or is he one of the judges ? 
 
 219 
 
220 TAXES. 
 
 Geoznicki. As if it were possible to relate all that our 
 master does in Warsaw 1 He goes to church, to the general- 
 governor's, to the opera, to routs, to the hunt, and so forth. 
 
 Bartecki. To church and to the governor-general's is 
 only what is right. But to the opera, to routs, to the hunts I 
 
 Groznicki. He wants to follow the fashion. That is the 
 amusement for the gentry. Then our master is often in- 
 vited out to dinner, and at such times he must have his car- 
 riage, and two footmen, and two chasseurs, and two hussars 
 and a Moor, and another man to run by the carriage. 
 
 Bartecki. Eight servants for one carriage 1 that must 
 take a lot of money. 
 
 Groznicki. Pass for the carriage and its attendants ; but 
 I do not know how long the money will last. And that 
 Moor don't work at all. 
 
 Bartecki. And those two chasseurs, do they go about 
 in Warsaw shooting ? 
 
 Groznicki. They are only called chasseurs because they 
 wear a chasseur's livery ; but they do not even know how to 
 shoot, unless it be a. plate or a dish. He does not spend the 
 whole year in Warsaw, and shooting is not allowed in the 
 town, and they cost such lots of money. The infantry sol- 
 diers in Warsaw are badly clad and often wear shabby hats, 
 but the chasseurs always look spick and span new. 
 
 Bartecki. You say that our master goes to take dinner 
 with his acquaintances. Does he never invite them to his 
 house ? 
 
 Groznicki. Oh, yes; he invites them very ofl«n. In- 
 deed, they say that our master's dinners are the best that are 
 given in Warsaw. But if a good deal goes into your mouth 
 a good deal goes out of your pocket, and Mr. Statecki helps 
 our master to get through his money. 
 
 Bartecki. Who is this Mr. Statecki ? 
 
 Groznicki. Mr. Statecki's grandfather was the heir to all 
 these villages, and as they say the grandfather of Mr. Miloski 
 got them from him in some unjust way, so our master, who 
 has a very kind heart, insists upon Mr. Statecki's living with 
 him. He has something of his own, but in Warsaw they do 
 not consider him a gentleman, so he is glad to be with some 
 one who is well known. 
 
TAXES. 221 
 
 Bartecki. What a pity that our master makes an inti- 
 mate friend of him ! 
 
 Groznicki. We may expect him in a few days. Let the 
 register be ready by that time, so that the taxes and all dues 
 may then be settled. In these days where there are so many 
 rascals, there is not a better master than ours. 
 
 Bartecki. All the serfs have been paying ; but Szymon, 
 who was always the first to pay, has not yet given a shilling. 
 
 Groznicki. Your favorite Polusia (Szymon's daughter) 
 begged for favor. But I have sworn that if the money is 
 not ready to-day the Tartar shall have a taste of him, with- 
 out respect to his age. Go to him now and tell him I am 
 waiting for him. [Bartecki goes out.'] 
 
 SECOND SCENE. 
 Groznicki and Groznioka, Ms wife. 
 
 Groznicka. What are you sitting here so idly for? And 
 why do you look so cross ? 
 
 Groznicki. Is it such a misfortune if I have been angry ? 
 All the serfs have paid up their taxes, and Szymon has not yet 
 given in anything. His daughter has again been asking for 
 a respite, but I have assured her that if all is not promptly 
 paid he shall have a hundred lashes, without regard to his 
 age. 
 
 Groznicka. A hundred lashes to Szymon ! That would 
 be his death. Have you sworn to murder him ? 
 
 Groznicki. Oh, my lady I A man cannot be as tender- 
 hearted as a girl. He will not hold out against that threat. 
 
 Groznicka. The peasant's skin is like the nobleman's. 
 Better send him to prison, and let his beloved daughter stir 
 round and get the money. She had better let some of the 
 admirers whom she treats with such contempt pay the debt 
 for them. 
 
 Groznicki. That is the daughter's duty, if she does not 
 want her father to pay his taxes with his hide. She only 
 lives for Szymon, and you advise nie to send him to prison ? 
 
 Groznicka. Yes ; I want your Polusia away from the 
 farm. If I were to die, in two months she would be Mrs. 
 Vnderstarost. 
 
 Groznicki. Margosia I What are you thinking about? 
 
222 TAXES. 
 
 Groznicka. Eather say, what are you going to do ? 
 Gkoznicki. I will show mercy at first. 
 Groznicka. And at last also. 
 
 THIRD SCENE. 
 Geoznicki, Groznicka, and Polusia.- 
 
 POLTJSIA. Sir, my father is crying. 
 
 Groznicka. And why does his darling little daughter 
 let him cry, when she pretends to love him so much ? . 
 
 Groznicki. My dear Margosia, what business is it of 
 yours ? Let him cry if he wants to. Polusia, what is your 
 father crying about ? - 
 
 Polusia. Because your worship sent Bartecki to threaten 
 him with a hundred lashes if he did not pay his dues. When 
 my mother died he did not cry, but comforted me when I 
 cried. As this is the first time I have seen my father cry, 
 it must be that it is the greatest trouble he has yet had to 
 bear. He told Bartecki it was not the pain he dreaded so 
 much as the shame, as he had always been an honest man. 
 
 Groznicka. If you love your father as much as you say 
 you should go out to service, and you can soon earn enough 
 to pay his dues for him. 
 
 Polusia. As long as my father lives I will not leave him. 
 
 Groznicka. [^Seizes Polusia's hand, and says very earn- 
 estly.'] What else can you do, virtuous daughter, to have the 
 dues ready in time ? It is not your father you are thinking 
 about, you only wish to spare yourself. 
 
 Groznicki. [After Pojajsia has gone out."] Margosia, how 
 rude you were ! While you were talking so to the girl my 
 heart filled with pity, and you were trying to torture her. 
 
 Groznicka. You are very tender-hearted when Polusia is 
 talking, and just now you wanted to lacerate the body of a 
 seventy-year-old man. 
 
 Groznicki. I wanted to punish him to secure my master's 
 dues, but Polusia has no concern at all in the matter. To 
 punish the daughter for the father, that I could never agree 
 to. 
 
 Groznicka. I feel so hot that I can scarcely see. 
 
 Groznicki. Margosia, are you going to begin again ? 
 
 Groznicka. I have finished. I shall not say another word, 
 
TAXES. 223 
 
 but I shall call Polusia, and write out a contract for her as 
 servant on the farm. 
 
 FOUETH SCENE. 
 Groznicki, and later Baetecki. 
 
 Groznicki. Is my wife crazy, to think I am in love with 
 Polusia ? Just as if I could not praise a good and pretty 
 girl without being in love with her ! It is true I have a 
 liking for pretty faces, and Polusia is as good as she is 
 pretty. [Baetecki enters.'] So, Bartecki, Szymon is crying 
 and your Polusia is sad. 
 
 Baetecki. They are both crying ; Polusia because she was 
 scolded by Mrs. Groznicka. 
 
 Geoznicki. I was angry myself with my wife, but there 
 is no usa in crying about it. 
 
 Baetecki. I never cried so much as I have done just now. 
 At first when your worship used to send me into the village to 
 levy executions, the mothers and children would surround me 
 to try to beg off their brothers and sisters, but I never gave 
 way, for it never hurt me as this has done. When Polusia 
 came home she fell on her father's neck crying, and he raised 
 his eyes to heaven and begged God to take him to himself 
 before this shame fell upon him in his old age. I cried with 
 them. At last the father said, " You say you love my daugh- 
 ter. If you love her go and beg a further delay for me, for 
 it will kill Polusia to see me whipped." So I ran here as fast 
 as I could, [he kneels before Geoznicki] and now I say have 
 mercy, have mercy so that my Polusia may not die. 
 
 Geoznicki. If you mean me to pay Szymon's dues out of 
 my pocket, that I cannot do ; and it would really be well to 
 give that obstinate fellow a lesson. 
 
 Baetecki. There is a way for everything. I love Polusia, 
 and will love her as long as I live. I am willing to live on 
 bread and water and work for her to my life's end. If your 
 worship will send for Szymon and get his consent to my mar- 
 riage with his Polusia, I will pay his dues out of my savings. 
 I do not know what Szymon has against me, but now that he 
 needs me he will certainly give his consent. So if your wor- 
 ship acts for me now, I will try always to give you satisfaction. 
 
 Geoznicki. Run and call Szymon. [Bartecki goes out.'] 
 
224 TAXES. 
 
 FIFTH SCENE. 
 
 Gkoznicki, alone. 
 
 GuozNiCKi. Bartecki is in love in earnest, and Szyraon 
 would be very stupid if he refuses him. The old man is 
 no longer able to work, and it will be a good thing for him 
 to be taken care of. But then Polusia would always be on 
 the farm, and my wife would be jealous of me and Bartecki 
 of Polusia. 
 
 SIXTH SCENE. 
 Groznicki, Sztmon, and afterwards GrOZNICKA. 
 
 SzTMON. I thought I had better come myself to your 
 worship. 
 
 Groznicki. And how long will you be so neglig^t about 
 your dues to our master ? You have not paid anything, and 
 I have lost all patience. So now I think I must try another 
 argument. \_jSe shows Mm the knout.l 
 
 SzYMON. The harvest was very bad this year, and I am 
 old, and I ought not to pay as much taxes as heretofore. 
 
 Groznicki. We are not talking about what was or should 
 be, but about what is. You owe the money ; pay it. 
 
 Sztmon. I have not the money and cannot pay, but you 
 will surely allow me to put an end to my life, and thus spare 
 myself that shame ? 
 
 Groznicki. It is not so easy to die as you seem to think. 
 We have Russian police here, and it will not let any one take 
 his own life. Marry off your daughter and let your son-in- 
 law pay your taxes for you. 
 
 SzYMON. My Polusia is poor, and no one is going to marry 
 her simply for her virtue. 
 
 Groznicki. You are mistaken. Bartecki wishes to marry 
 your Polusia. He is a man of good, settled habits ; he is 
 clever and has had schooling ; he knows how to read, write, 
 and cipher. He will make a living. Your daughter will be 
 happy, and Bartecki will settle your taxes for you. 
 
 Sztmon. I have already heard that Bartecki is smitten 
 with my daughter, that he is steady, that he is clever, but 
 
 Groznicki. What but ? I took Bartecki without any but. 
 He is a man that will never want bread. 
 
TAXES. 225 
 
 SzYMON. I do not doubt it ; but it is bitter bread that is 
 moistened with the tears of the unfortunate. 
 Groznicki. How so ? 
 
 SzYMON. Bartecki loves to oppress people, which shows 
 that he has a bad heart. He is hated in the whole village, 
 because he never shows any mercy, but proceeds at once to 
 an execution. 
 Groznicki. Well, and what more ? 
 
 SzYMON. It is true he has talent for reading and writing, 
 but with so bad a heart as he has it would be better if he 
 did not know how to write, and the village would be a good 
 deal happier. 
 
 Groznicki. And what will Miss Szymon do now ? 
 SzTMON. As she has done heretofore. I do not care much 
 about myself, but I want to see my daughter happy. 
 Groznicki. And who is going to pay your taxes ? 
 Szymon. I am not going to pay them with my daughter's 
 life-long unhappiness. If necessary I must give my own life 
 for them, but not my daughter's. 
 
 Groznicki. How is- this, peasant; do you brave me to 
 my face ? 
 Szymon. My name is not peasant, but Szymon. 
 Groznicki. Blows, lashes, fetters, you deserve everything. 
 Perhaps you will be a little more yielding when you have 
 been a while in prison and in irons. \_IIe seizes Szymon by 
 the shoulder and pushes Mm into the next room, calling his 
 people."] Ho, ho ! to prison with him, to prison, and lock 
 him up well. \_Coming hack alone.'] That is a curious fel- 
 low, poor but stubborn. An angel could riot get along with 
 him. To say he would not make his daughter unhappy by 
 marrying her to Bartecki ! Well, it is to be hoped he will 
 have a little more sense when he has been in prison a while. 
 Groznicka. [^Rushing in.] My love, my love, the lancer 
 has arrived to announce our master ! 
 
 Groznicki. Help me, help me ! Nobody is ready in the 
 village. Rush round, rush round ! And, Margosia, put on 
 your new slippers and your black cloak and gloves, and your, 
 nat on your head. 
 
 20 
 
226 TAXES. 
 
 SECOND ACT. 
 
 FIEST SCENE. 
 MiLOSKi, Statecki, and Gboznicki. 
 
 MiLOSKi. How are you, Mr. Groznicki ? Have you man- 
 aged well? Have you plenty of money? But I do not 
 need to ask, for every land-owner has money. 
 
 Groznicki. All seasons are not equally prosperous, and 
 for our dues we have had to go begging. 
 
 MiLOSKi. What is the use of your books and your columns 
 and divisions and your translations into Latin, unless money 
 flows in ? 
 
 Groznicki. Sic est, Monseigneur. 
 
 MiLOSKi. Did you read the whole letter ? From here to 
 town it was so hard to get an explanation, and our house- 
 keeping suffered in consequence. 
 
 Groznicki. I hope you will convince yourself, by looking 
 over my books, that I have managed as well as it was possi- 
 ble to do, and that I understand the nature and merits of the 
 various farms as well as it is possible to do. 
 
 Statecki. Mr. Groznicki, I think a country gentleman 
 can learn to understand his estates better by looking at the 
 fields themselves than by examining any one's books. Each 
 field has its own peculiar physiognomy, and in each, one a 
 great treasure is hidden, which can only be secured by the 
 industry of the laborers. 
 
 Groznicki. Thank God, I have never neglected my duty 
 in any respect ; and when the laborers do not perform theirs, 
 I give them the knout. 
 
 Statecki. The knout is a bad manager. It only makes 
 the serfs bad and stubborn, and makes them hate their mas- 
 ter. I do not deny that it may be necessary sometimes, but 
 it is better to have as little to do with it as possible. They will 
 always have respect enough for their master. I do not say 
 that he ought to treat his subjects as brothers, but he certainly 
 ought to be a father to them. 
 
 Groznioki. We know better than you, Mr. Philanthropist, 
 how to keep the peace. If you allow the peasants to have 
 their own way, thank you, sir, all is at an end. 
 
TAXES. 227 
 
 Statecki. So much the worse for us if we cannot make 
 them happy. 
 
 MiLOSKt. Let the matter rest, Mr. Groznicki, and let each 
 one keep his own opinion. 
 
 SECOND SCENE. 
 MiLOSKi and Statecki. 
 
 MiLOSKi. What are you quarrelling with my Groznicki 
 for? 
 
 Statecki. Because while he is talking of management 
 he knows nothing. I like some one who acts out what he 
 says. I have heard enough. I should like to see the results 
 of his method. 
 
 MiLOSKi. I have been assured that he understands man- 
 aging an estate, and that he is very industrious ; but he may 
 be a little severe and harsh with the people, which I never 
 wished any one to be on my estates. 
 
 Statecki. Anybody can see that from his way of talk- 
 ing. It is common among our overseers, but the land-owners 
 generally repudiate it. Do tell me how many serfs you have 
 on your estates ? 
 
 MiLOSKi. I really do not know, as it is not on the in- 
 ventory. 
 
 Statecki. And that is the first thing that ought to have 
 been done. In the number of the serfs and their increase 
 is the great gain of the heirs of the land-owner. Therefore 
 it is to the interest of the latter to make his serfs as happy 
 and comfortable as possible. 
 
 Miloski. My dear Statecki, I see you are a true friend, 
 and I wUl try to follow your advice. 
 
 THIRD SCENE. 
 
 The same and Geoznicki, and Groznicka, mth butter. 
 
 Groznicki. This is my wife, who wishes to offer the best 
 wishes of herself and children. 
 
 Miloski. How long have you been married ? 
 Groznicki. Just five years. I married a widow. 
 Groznioka. When I was fourteen years old I married my 
 
^28 i'AXES. 
 
 first husband and lived with him two yeats, and I remained 
 only one year a widow. 
 
 Gboznicki. My wife is of a good family, de domo Malgor- 
 zata Bzepska, a primo voto ; she was a Pagromskin. 
 
 MiLOSKi. Is she a good housekeeper ? 
 
 Groznicka. Just please to taste my butter, and no one 
 makes as good linen as I. But here, look at my shirt. 
 
 Statecki. How many cows do you milk on this farm ? 
 
 Groznicki. There are ten cows and five calves. 
 
 Statecki. Have- you good pasture-lands ? 
 
 Groznicki. We might keep more cows, but the commis- 
 sioners only allowed us fifteen head. 
 
 MiLOSKi, What persons are those standing before the 
 window ? 
 
 Groznicki. Those are the farmers who have leases. They 
 wish to welcome their master, and have brought small gifts. 
 
 MiLOSKl. I do not want their gifts, but I want them to 
 pay their rent punctually. 
 
 FOUETH SCENE. 
 Groznicki and Groznicka. 
 
 Groznicki. It was foolish in you, Margosia, to ask our 
 master to look at the linen of your shirt. He did not Uke 
 it. 
 
 Groznicka. Neither did he seem to take any interest in 
 knowing that I was of the house of Bzepska. 
 
 Groznicki. And then that other gentleman who was ask- 
 ing about the cows I [Groznicka goes away."] 
 
 FIFTH SCENE. 
 Statecki and Groznicki ; afterwardi Polusia. 
 
 Statecki. Mr. Miloski has been speaking of you in the 
 most flattering terms, andl can see by your conversation that 
 you understand the business thoroughly, only I fear, and so 
 does Mr. Miloski, that you are too severe with the serfs. 
 
 Groznicki. I can assure you that I never overstep the 
 bounds of justice. 
 
 Polusia. [ With her apron to her eyes.] Oh, how can I 
 get into the prison where my poor father is confined for that 
 
TAXES. 229 
 
 unhappy rent? Will Mr. Groznicki accept my little gift? 
 It is all I have in the world, — a shirt, an apron, and a string 
 of coral. 
 
 G-EOZNiCKi. That is not worth much. 
 
 POLUSIA. I have only kept for myself this coarse shirt. I 
 would give all my clothes if I had any for my poor father. 
 [She falls on her knees before Groznicki and says, weeping.'] 
 Oh, Mr. Grroznicki, set my poor father free I Bemember that 
 you are also a father. 
 
 Groznicki. Get up, Polusia, get up. I do not like that. 
 
 PomsiA. \_Tv/ms, on her knees still, to Statecki.] Mr. 
 Philanthropist, you do not know me, but in me you see one 
 who is unhappy. Let me find mercy in your heart. Beg 
 Mr. Groznicki to set my poor father free. 
 
 Statecki. Mr. Groznicki, for my sake grant her request, 
 and give her father time still in which to pay his rent. I 
 would like to do something for the poor in the village. 
 
 Groznicki. Rise, Polusia ! Mr. Philanthropist, this is a 
 good girl, the best in the whole village, and the most re- 
 spected by all. [Statecki goes out.] 
 
 SIXTH SCENE. 
 Groznicki and Polusia. 
 
 Polusia. At first I thought you would accept my little 
 bundle of clothes, but as you do not care about it, I have 
 nothing that I can give for my poor father. 
 
 Groznicki. It is Szymon who is owing me, not you, and 
 I do not want this kind of payment. 
 
 Polusia, What kind, then ? This is all I have. 
 
 Groznicki. Look here, Polusia. Bartecki was speaking 
 with me about you. I mentioned it to Szymon, but he is 
 hard-headed. Bartecki said he would pay his taxes and rent 
 for him. Can you hope to get any one better ? What do you 
 say, Polusia? 
 
 Polusia. If my father objects there is no use in talking 
 about it. 
 
 Groznicki. But who will ever love you as much as Bar- 
 tecki does ? 
 
 Polusia. Your worship must excuse me if I say I should 
 be very unhappy with him. 
 
230 TAXES. 
 
 Groznicki. But what objection can you possibly have to 
 Bartecki ? 
 
 PomsiA. You have already had my father's answer, and 
 I have nothing to say in the matter. 
 
 SEVENTH SCENE. 
 The same, MiLOSKi, and Statecki. 
 
 MiLOSKi. Who is that girl ? 
 
 Groznicki. She is the daughter of one of your farmers. 
 
 Statecki. This is the girl about whose father I was speak- 
 ing just now. 
 
 MiiiOSKl. Girlj what is your name ? 
 
 PoLUSiA. Apolonia. 
 
 MiLOSKi. And your father's? 
 
 PoLUSiA. Szymon. 
 
 MiLOSKi. What is it you want? 
 
 PoLUSlA. That my father may be let out of prison. 
 
 Statecki. And why did not your father pay his rent ? 
 
 POLUSlA. He paid always the first, but this year God gavd 
 no harvest. We have nothing. All that we had in the house 
 lies now on that table. 
 
 Groznicki. Polusia, that is your own, take it back.. I am 
 sure your master will consent to wait for the rent. 
 
 Polusia. If master could only see how old and weak 
 father is, he would surely have ^ity on him. 
 
 MiLOSKi. Why do you always look on the ground, Polusia? 
 
 PoiiUSlA. I cannot bear to see the light so long as*my 
 father is in prison. 
 
 MiLOSKi. Look at me, and I will go and let him out. 
 
 Polusia. [Sohbing.'] Oh, do, or he will die in the prison ! 
 
 MiLOSKi. Mr. Groznicki, let Szymon out, and bring him 
 iiere. Now, Polusia, be cheerful ; I would like to see how 
 your face looks when you are not crying. So pretty and 
 good a girl deserves to be happy. 
 
 Polusia. \_Tuming to Statecki.] Oh, sir, you were so, 
 good as to speak to master for us, we will feel almost as' 
 grateful to you as to him. 
 
 Statecki. It is pleasure enough for me to be able to help 
 any one who is poor but honest. 
 
 Miloski. And who is handsome besides. 
 
TAXES. . 231 
 
 POLUSIA. J^Wrinffinff her hands.'} Oh, gO to father! let 
 him out ! let me go to him I 
 
 MiLOSKi. [ Taking \er hand.} Stay here, Polusia ; he will 
 be here in a moment. 
 
 PoLTJSiA. I love my father ; he is all I have in the world. 
 
 MiLOSKl. And do you really know what love is ? 
 
 Polusia. Could I help loving my father, and he so good ? 
 
 MiLosKi. You ought to love your father ; but you might 
 also love some one else. 
 
 Polusia. My father has told me that if I am to love any 
 one, he must love him first, and then he will allow me to 
 love him. 
 
 Statecki. Your father may be happy if you wait for hia 
 permission. 
 
 EIGHTH SCENE. 
 
 TAe same, Gboznioki, and Sztmon. 
 
 Groznioki. Here is Szymon, who has been let out accord- 
 ing to your orders, sir. 
 
 Polusia. \_Running to her father a/ttd kissing him.'] Have 
 I you again, dear father ? Both these good gentlemen took 
 pity on you. 
 
 MiLOSKi. I have ordered my children to be set free that 
 they may work for the payment of their debt to me. I will 
 wait a while. 
 
 SzYMON. I thank you, master, I thank you. I will bless 
 you as long as I live, and even in death. 
 ■ Statecki. You can feel easy in your mind now, Szymon, 
 but you must be faithful to your merciful master^ So all is 
 settled. 
 
 Sztmon. You are both my gracious masters, but ^ 
 
 Groznioki. I have already told your daughter she can 
 take her clothes home. She need not have brought them to 
 pay this debt. 
 
 Sztmon. [^Kissing Polusia.] Oh, my beloved daughter I 
 You were willing to give your only shirt for me, to get me 
 out of prison. Right, my child ; virtue is a better ornament 
 than your string of coral ; with such sentiments you can never 
 be really unhappy. 
 
 MiLOSKi. And you, Szymon, may well be proud of your 
 daughter. 
 
232 TAXES. 
 
 POLUSIA. And I, sir, am so happy to have my dear father 
 again. It is true we have only dry bread to eat, but when 
 my father eats it with me, how good it tastes I 
 
 Statecki. \_Aside.'] Oh, how little it costs to make people 
 happy 1 
 
 SzYMON. I have learnt that honest poverty is not unhap- 
 piness. But coiae, Polusia, let us go home, and take your 
 things with you, as master allows it. We will work hard to 
 satisfy his claim, but I see we will not be punished for what 
 we could not do. [ They go off, bovoing fow.] 
 
 MiLOSKi. What an excellent girl I What sound good 
 sense, and what a feeling heart 1 
 
 Statecki. And the father is evidently a very upright man. 
 
 Groznicki. If he were only not quite so proud. It is 
 true he lives on very good terms with his neighbors, and in 
 the quarrels in the village he always acts as peace-maker. 
 And he always tells them that the taxes are not high, and 
 they must try and have them ready. 
 
 Statecki. The idea of putting such a man in prison 1 
 [ The Chef db Cuisine comes in and says, On a servi, Mon- 
 seigneur. They go out together.'] 
 
 THIRD ACT. 
 
 riEST SCENE. 
 MiLosKi and Groznicka. 
 
 MiLOSKi. Mrs. Groznicka, would it be possible, do you 
 thijik, to induce that, girl to go to Warsaw ? 
 
 Groznicka. The girl might perhaps be glad to go, but 
 Szymon certainly would not. 
 
 MiLOSKi. If Polusia is willing to go with me, I will bind 
 myself in writing to provide for her father as long as he lives. 
 
 Groznicka. You do not know Szymon yet. He is so set 
 upon virtue that he has brought his daughter up as carefully 
 in that respect as if she were a lady, and he has instilled his 
 own sentiments into her. 
 
 MiLOSKi. Tell him that I only want to take Polusia to 
 Warsaw because I think she is capable of receiving a finished 
 education there. Tell him that I only want to secure his 
 daughter's happiness. I will have her taught to ride, to dance,, 
 
TAXES. 233 
 
 to flay on the piano, ^nd she has so much natural sense that 
 she can become a very cultivated woman, and need not re- 
 main in the misery in which they now live. 
 
 Gkoznicka. The only thing for you to do is to persuade 
 Szymon to go along, for she would be so afraid he might die 
 in her absence that she would not leave him. 
 
 MiLOSKi. How ridiculous to have such scruples ! But I 
 can take my peasants to Warsaw with me if I choose. I 
 dare say he would follow fast enough if I took Polusia. 
 
 Groznioka. If, sir, you wish to ruin her, would it not be 
 better to give her to Bartecki ? 
 
 MiLOSKi. And who is this Bartecki ? 
 
 Groznicka. He is my husband's secretary, and a very 
 steady, industrious man. He loves Polusia, and has spoken 
 to my husband about it. The old man and the girl are not 
 willing ; but if you say so it can be done. 
 
 MiLOSKi. But I do not want Polusia to be Mrs. Bartecki ; 
 I mean to do better by her if her stupid father will let me. 
 For that reason it would be better for her to be in the city. 
 My dear Groznicka, if yon can talk Polusia over you can 
 count on my gratitude. In the mean time here is a trifle. 
 [He gives her moriey.'] 
 
 Groznicka. Thanks, sir ; I prostrate myself at your feet, 
 
 MiLOSKi. If you succeed you shall be well paid. [Miloski 
 goes.'l 
 
 SECOND SCENE. 
 
 Groznicka, alone. 
 
 Geosnicka. [*S%e counts the gold pieces.'] Ten gold 
 ducats ! I do not see so much money in a whole year. 
 What a good, kind master ! What does it cost me to bring 
 Polusia to him ? He has assured me he only wishes to secure 
 her happiness, so I am doing her a service. But first I must 
 see Polusia. She will probably be thankfiil not to have to 
 live any longer in that hut. . I dare say she may show her 
 gratitude when she is a great lady, and wears silk dresses and 
 rides in a carriage with a footman behind her. 
 
 THIED SCENE. 
 
 Groznicka and Bartecki. 
 
 Groznicka. I think exactly he might be useful to me. 
 
234 TAXES. 
 
 Bartecki. If I can be of any use to you I am at your 
 service. 
 
 GrROZNiCKA. The first thing to do is to send Polusia to me. 
 But she is now on the farm ; tell her to fetch some bread for 
 the gentlemen. After that she must come to me, but her 
 father must not hear a word about it. 
 
 Bartecki. Oh, Mrs. Groznicka, do speak to Polusia for 
 me ! I have heard that our master has taken a great fancy 
 to her, and I am so unhappy 1 
 
 Groznicka. I dare say it is true, but do not be uneasy, 
 just let me speak to her. [Bartecki goes away."] Poor 
 fellow ! If he only knew for what I want Polusia. She must 
 listen to our master. Of course she will refuse at first, but 
 who can long refuse finery, good living, and adoration ? I 
 must only take care that he must use me as go-between, ^nd 
 not speak to her himself. 
 
 FOURTH SCENE. 
 Groznicka and Polusia. 
 
 Groznicka. How are you, Polusia ? You are certainly 
 happy now that your father is free. I have myself told our 
 master that Szymon is honest but unfortunate, and has got 
 poor. On that account master interfered and ordered him to 
 be released from prison. 
 
 Polusia. I thank you that you spoke a good word for my 
 father. And I will not think any more about your having 
 tormented me so before, only we know that Mr. Groznicki 
 spoke well of father. 
 
 Groznicka. So you tHink, so you think; and he loves 
 your father, and is thinking about you also. If you were 
 only wise, Polusia, you could be so happy. 
 
 Polusia. I would not marry Bartecki even if father 
 wished me to. 
 
 Groznicka. You need not marry Bartecki; but what 
 would you say to going to Warsaw ? 
 
 Polusia. And how should I get to Warsaw? My father 
 is not going there, and I have no horse. 
 
 Groznicka. But would you not like to go with some one 
 else's horses ? 
 
 Polusia. I won't go to Warsaw with Barteoki's horses. 
 
TAXES. 235 
 
 GrozniCKA. I have already told you, my dear Polusia, 
 that you need not have anything to do with Bartecki. Our 
 master was praising you very highly to me, and then he said 
 if the girl would like to learn to ride, to dance, and to play 
 upon the piano, which would be a great piece of good luck 
 for her and her father, I would take her to Warsaw and have 
 her taught. Oh, Polusia ! Polusia ! how happy you will be I 
 
 PoLrsiA. And could my father go with us to Warsaw ? 
 
 Geoznicka. And what would Szymon do in Warsaw? 
 He don't want to get an education at his time of life. 
 
 Polusia. I will never go there without my father, even 
 if the greatest happiness were awaiting me. 
 
 Groznicka. Our master, who loves you so well, would 
 always provide for your father. He would make him an al- 
 lowance, and Szymon need not work for his daily bread in his 
 old age. 
 
 Polusia. A stranger's hands would never be as loving as 
 mine. 
 
 Groznicka. Still, if your father had a pension he would 
 enjoy a degree of comfort he has never known in his whole 
 life. If you are sensible, my child, you will accept our mas- 
 ter's offer. 
 
 FIFTH SCENE. 
 
 MiLOSKi, Groznicka, and Polusia. 
 
 MiLOSKi. What are you doing, Polusia ? 
 
 Polusia. I came to bring some bread to the house, and 
 then Mrs. Groznicka called me. 
 
 MiLOSKi. Don't they make good bread in the house ? 
 
 Polusia. To-morrow I ought to bake if I can, as I am 
 housekeeper. 
 
 MiLOSKi. Oh, you beautiful housekeeper 1 \_He takes her 
 hy hoth hands.'] I would rather suifer hunger than to let 
 you bake bread for me. Ask Mrs. Groznicka what I think 
 of you. 
 
 Polusia. \_Takmg her hands away and looking doion.'] I 
 will not leave my father as long as he lives. I am his only 
 comfort in his old age and his poverty. He must go with us, 
 or he might die alone in my absence. 
 
 MiLOSKi. You will be very happy in Warsaw, but your 
 father would be very unhappy. 
 
236 TAKES. 
 
 PoLusiA. I could never be iappy anywhere if I were away 
 from my father. 
 
 MiLOSKi. \_Tahes out money and gives it to POLUSIA.] 
 Here is money for you, only you must not let your father see 
 it. You can pay his dues for him, and use the rest to pro- 
 vide comforts for your father. 
 
 PoLusiA. Why do you give me money which I have not 
 earned ? 
 
 Gboznioka. Our master gives it to you for love, and you 
 can keep it for love of him. [Polusia re/uses the money. 
 Jle forces it into her hand.'\ 
 
 MiLOSKi. Well, my good child, are you ready to go to 
 Warsaw ? 
 
 Polusia. If my father were to order me to go, I must 
 obey him. 
 
 Groznicka. a master is more than a father. Listen to 
 jpur master, Polusia. [Bartecki comes in. Groznicka 
 takes Polusia's hand and leads her away.'] Come with me, 
 Polusia, I want to give you some wool to spin. 
 
 SIXTH SCENE. 
 MiLOSKi and Bartecki. 
 
 MiLOSKi. And who are you, my brother ? 
 
 Bartecki. I am Bartecki, Mr. Groznicki's secretary. 
 
 MiLOSKi. What are you sneaking round here for ? 
 
 Bartecki. I am attending to my business, sir. 
 
 MiLOSKi. Don't Groznicki look after the business him- 
 self?. 
 
 Bartecki. The most of it passes through my hands. 
 
 MiLOSKi. Go and look into your papers, and don't be fuss- 
 ing round here. [He goes away.'] 
 
 Bartecki. Yes, you are afraid Bartecki will spoil your 
 game. Mrs. Groznicka, instead of pleading my cause with 
 Polusia, has been helping the master. She is afraid of me, 
 and not without reason. Mrs. Groznicka and Polusia to- 
 gether, and not without a reason. But I will tell Szymon, 
 and he will lead Polusia a dance. 
 
TAXES. 237 
 
 SEVENTH SCENE. 
 Baetecki and Szymon. 
 
 SzTMON. Can you not tell me, Mr. Bartecki, where my 
 Polusia is ? 
 
 Bartecki. A few minutes since she was with Mrs. Groz- 
 nicka. 
 
 SzTMON. They sent for her to bring bread, but she never 
 stayed so long before. 
 
 Bartecki. She would not have stayed now if there had 
 not been other reasons. 
 
 Szymon. And what might they be ? 
 
 Bartecki. But you must not betray me. 
 
 Szymon. Certainly not; you know, Bartecki, that I am 
 not given to gossiping. 
 
 Bartecki. Our master was much pleased with Polusia, 
 and it was because Mrs. Groznicka was to manage the busi- 
 ness for him that she sent for Polusia, and I found them all 
 together, the master and Mrs. Groznicka and Polusia. I 
 should not wonder if she persuaded Polusia to listen to him. 
 
 Szymon. Can that affliction still be awaiting me ? 
 
 Bartecki. Mr. Szymon, this may secure my happiness. 
 Give me Polusia, and the master will not be running after 
 her any more. 
 
 Szymon. That I cannot do ; and you are certainly doing 
 my daughter injustice. But where can she be now? My 
 God, give me my daughter back again ! My Polusia is vir- 
 tuous ; the master cannot accomplish anything with her I 
 
 EIGHTH SCENE. 
 Szymon, Polusia, and Bartecki. 
 
 Bartecki. Here is Polusia. 
 
 Polusia. [Kusing her father passionately ^ If they would 
 only not part us ! 
 
 Szymon. What is the matter, Polusia ; what is it ? 
 
 Polusia. They say I must leave my darling father ; but 
 they may take my life first. 
 
 Szymon. What has happened? 
 
 Polusia. First, Mrs. Groznicka advised me to gfl to War- 
 21 
 
ii38 TAXES. 
 
 saw, where my happiness would be secured ; then our master 
 came in, and he also advised me to go there. Then he gave 
 me money and kissed me, and then Mrs. Groznicka took my 
 hand and led me into the next room. 
 
 Bartecki. That is true ; I was there at the time. 
 
 SzTMON. But you were not there to oppose the master. 
 What next, my daughter ? 
 
 Bartecki. He made all sorts of fine promises to Polusia. 
 
 SzTMON. Mr. Bartecki, please to let Polusia speak for her- 
 self 
 
 Polusia. When we were in the big room, she said she 
 must go into the bedroom to look for some wool she meant 
 to give me to spin for her, and that I must be patient and 
 wait a little. When she went out I heard that she locked 
 the door. Oh, I was so frightened ! 
 
 Bartecki. That is not possible, Polusia. You must be 
 making that up. 
 
 SzYMON. I must beg you again, Mr. Bartecki, to let Polu- 
 sia speak for herself to the end. 
 
 Polusia. Then it came into my mind that they meant to 
 carry me off to that unfortunate Warsaw. 
 
 Bartecki. Did you not want to go, Polusia ? 
 
 Polusia. Oh, I got such a fright I I thought they would 
 carry me off, and I would not be able to tell father what had 
 become of me. 
 
 Bartecki. They meant to use force — force I 
 
 SzYMON. Be so good, Mr. Bartecki, as to allow Polusia to 
 speak. 
 
 Polusia. Then I ran to the window and opened it and 
 jumped out safely. Keep me, father; do not let them take 
 me to Warsaw ! 
 
 SzTMON. And the money which the master gave you, 
 what did you do with it? 
 
 Polusia. I kept it here in the hollow of my hand, but in 
 my fright I nearly lost it when I jumped. 
 
 Bartecki. And did not you count, Polusia, how much 
 master gave you ? 
 
 SzYMON. How could she count it in her fright? [fie 
 takes the money away from her. J 
 
TAXES. 239 
 
 NINTH SCENE. 
 The same, Statecki, and Groznicki. 
 
 Statecki. What is it, Szymon ? What is the matter with 
 Polusia ? She don't look like herself. 
 
 SzTMON. One misfortune, as it so often happens, follows 
 close upon the heels of another. 
 
 Bartecki. Was it you, kind-hearted man, who sent for 
 Polusia ? 
 
 Groznicki. What on earth has happened to Polusia ? 
 
 SzTMON. Ask your wife ; she knows all ahout it. 
 
 Statecki. But explain yourself, Szymon. 
 
 SzTMON. Although you are the friend of the master, I 
 know you to be an honorable man, and I beg you in the name 
 of the virtue which you profess to love to support us against 
 him. 
 
 Statecki. What is it that you want from Mr. Miloski ? 
 
 Szymon. That he should not take away from me that 
 which he did not give me. Mrs. Groznicka has been trying 
 to persuade my Polusia to go with the master to Warsaw. 
 He has even given her money. Fortune seems to have 
 turned her back upon me entirely since I have been obliged 
 to live in a dark hut. A stranger robbed me of my inherit- 
 ance, and now he is laying snares for the virtue of my child, 
 the only thing left me. 
 
 TENTH SCENE. 
 
 Miloski, Statecki, Groznicki, Groznicka, Szymon, 
 Polusia, and Bartecki. 
 
 Miloski. What did you run away for, Polusia ? I only 
 wanted to secure your happiness. 
 
 Szymon. That depends upon what you call happiness, sir. 
 
 Miloski. Hush, peasant! Mr. Groznicki, did you ever 
 hear such impudence ? 
 
 Statecki. But, Mr. Miloski, Szymon only spoke the 
 truth. [Statecki seizes Miloski's hand.'] 
 
 Groznicki. And I say that he is only a peasant like any 
 other. 
 
 Szymon. Mr. Groznicki, I am working on Mr. Miloski's 
 
240 TAXES. 
 
 land and have to pay my rent and dues, but I am not obliged 
 to suffer wrong from him or to allow him to carry off my 
 daughter. As to the money you gave Polusia, it was to be 
 the price of shame. Here, I give it back to you, and assure 
 you that we, at least, love virtue more than money. 
 
 MiLOSKi. I really believe he means to read me a lecture. 
 What pretensions such a serf can make 1 
 
 SzTMON. I am as free as you, and as much a gentleman ; 
 and you have insulted me. 
 
 Groznicka. Woe, woe! he compares himself to our 
 master ! 
 
 MiLOSKi. Bad blood 1 All that you can prove is that you 
 are proud and unthank&l. 
 
 SzTMON. I breathe the same air as you, and am warmed 
 by the same sun. 
 
 Groznicki. Nonsense- ! nonsense ! We will soon stop 
 this! 
 
 MiLOSKi. And I, peasant, shall not put up with it any 
 longer. 
 
 StateckI. Do you allow me, sir, to speak with him, to see 
 if what he says is true ? 
 
 MiLOSKi. If he does not give me his daughter willingly, 
 I will soon teach him the difference between a peasant and 
 his master. 
 
 Bartecki. [^Aside to Polusia.J You will have a nice 
 time with him ! 
 
 PonjsiA. If I only did not have to leave father ; nothing 
 would ever be nice without him. 
 
 SzTMON. As you wish to take my child from me by force, 
 I must tell you that I am noble-born, like yourself, and you 
 cannot do me wrong with impunity. 
 
 ])IiiiOSKi. What nonsense is this ? 
 
 Statecki. I do not understand him. Let him explain 
 himself. 
 
 SzYMON. I can establish my birth by ample proof. I 
 never told my name to my daughter, as I did not wish to 
 excite her pride, as we were so poor. My father was a 
 spendthrift, who wasted his patrimony and left his two sons 
 penniless. John, the oldest, who had learned to read and 
 write, was able to make his way in the world, and became 
 rich; I bad learnt nothing, and was obliged to work for 
 
TAXES. 241 
 
 others. After a long time and known to no one I returned 
 to the region where I was born. I settled down in this vil- 
 lage, as I wanted to end my days near the stream where I 
 had fished and bathed in ipy childhood. Thus it is. My 
 father once owned all these villages over which you now 
 lord it. I am Simon Statecki, the younger son of Jacob 
 Statecki. * 
 
 Statecki. What do I hear ? 
 
 MiLOSKi. Can that be possible ? You are Mr. Statecki ? 
 Statecki. It is certainly true. My father always told me 
 he would give a great deal to know what had become of his 
 brother Szymon. ^Turning to Sztmon.] My good uncle, 
 I am your nephew. John Statecki is now dead; be my 
 father and my guardian in his stead. Do not any longer 
 wear that peasant's garb, but put on the garments suited to 
 your rank. Polusia, you are my cousin ; but take me for 
 your brother, and we will all live together in the home which 
 I inherited. 
 
 Sztmon. Oh, my God, how wonderful are thy ways I I 
 have not deserved that thou shouldst show me such won- 
 drous kindness. [Szymon embraces Statecki, and Polu- 
 BIA kisses his hand.'] 
 
 Statecki. Do not kiss my hand, Polusia; I am your 
 brother. 
 
 Miloski. Since you are now so happy, I must stand on 
 one side abashed. I will only say to you, Szymon, that as my 
 grandfather wronged yours at the time he purchased the 
 estate, and as I myself intended to injure you still more 
 deeply, I now ask for the hand of Polusia, to make her my 
 lawful wedded wife. Polusia need not be separated from 
 her father. We will find teachers enough who are able and 
 willing to teach her all things that it is necessary for her to 
 know, and her virtue is a sufficient dowry. 
 
 Groznicki. I hope you will excuse me, master Szymon, as 
 I must now call you. There is nothing so bad that it cannot 
 be turned to some account. If your honor had not been put 
 in prison for debt, this explanation would never have taken 
 place. 
 
 Sztmon. All that has been is forgotten. Only I will beg 
 you to be kinder to the poor serfs. They are human beings, 
 even if you will not recognize them as men. They will not 
 
 21* 
 
242 TAXES. 
 
 he as fortunate as I have been. No other Statecki will come 
 to the village. 
 
 GrROZNiCKA. And I hope you do not bear me any ill -will, 
 Mr. Szymon? 
 
 SzTMON. I find it much harder to forgive you than all the 
 others. 
 
 B4.RTECKI. \_In a reproachful fone.'\ You will find no em- 
 ployment in the kingdom of heaven I 
 
 MiLOSKi. Do stop your prayers ! 
 
 Statecki. Let him conclude. Do not be so uncharitable, 
 for we are all sinners. 
 
 Bartecki. It was only just on my tongue to say that we 
 must all strive to live honestly. Mr. Szymon and Miss Apol- 
 onia have secured such happiness simply because, though poor, 
 they were honest. 
 
 Polusia. You have spoken well, Bartecki ; and my father 
 often said the same to me, — " Polusia, be honest and you will 
 be happy." 
 
2C. 
 
 CARDS FOR FOUR. 
 
 BY EKNST ECKSTEIN. 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN 
 BY MES. FRANCES C. HENDEKSON. 
 
 " YoTT are talking nonsense again, my dear Otto. If you 
 wish me to understand you, please to talk more coherently." 
 
 " But, my dear cousin '' 
 
 "Hel Pray who is he?" 
 
 " The name is of no consequence. I have spoken of the 
 matter solely that you may inform my mother." 
 
 " You call that informing ; that is a good joke. But let us 
 speak seriously. You know that I am your friend. Your 
 excited state makes me uneasy. What do you intend to do ? 
 Give up this oracular obscurity and explain. We are still 
 alone in this bow-window, but the threatening figure of the 
 professor is looming in the distance. If it is in my power 
 to help you I am at your service, only be quick and tell me 
 all." 
 
 " Help ? No. You are too kind, my dear Louise ; I only 
 ask you, in case anything happens to me, to console my poor 
 mother for the loss of her only son." 
 
 " Are you deranged ?" 
 
 "Unfortunately not. Do you doubt that a pistol-shot 
 might end the days of the healthiest man ?" 
 
 " You are going to fight a duel ?" 
 
 " Yes, cousin." 
 
 " But in heaven's name, what for ?" 
 
 " One of us must leave this place : he or I. Do you think 
 
 243 
 
244 CARDS FOR FOUR. 
 
 that an honorable man can see an intriguing fellow steal his 
 bride from him without getting angry ? I think otherwise. 
 Fate must decide." 
 
 " You mean to say you were engaged ? I neyer heard a 
 word of it. You keep your own secrets wonderfully well. 
 May I ask the name of the young lady ?" 
 
 '' As long as she is the bride of another her name shall 
 not cross my lips." 
 
 " Otto, I think you view this matter in a wrong light," 
 
 "How so, cousin?" 
 
 " Just consider : the young girl has been faithless to you. 
 She has given the preference to your rival." 
 
 " So, I understand you ; but matters stand differently from 
 what you suppose. If she were free to act, that rascal would 
 never have triumphed. She has been positively forced. Must 
 I tell you how easy it is for a tyrannical mother to force her 
 daughter into compliance ?" 
 
 Louise looked thoughtful. 
 
 " She is as unhappy as I," continued the young officer ; 
 " but she, as a woman, must suffer without complaining. I, 
 as a man, know how .to act." 
 
 " And who is the bridegroom ?" 
 
 " Do not ask for any details. Will you try to comfort my 
 good mother in case I should fall ?" 
 
 " Otto, you do not know what you are talking about. 
 Think of the consequences, I beseech you I" 
 
 " I have weighed everything well." 
 
 " That is impossible, or you would never have formed that 
 hare-brained plan. You are on the point of committing a 
 great sin." 
 
 Otto shrugged his shoulders, and said, " You choose to 
 consider it such." 
 
 " No, really and truly. Your conduct would be wicked, 
 because it would be useless in any case." 
 
 "Useless?" 
 
 " Yes, my dear Otto. Let us consider the matter practi- 
 cally, without any sentimentality ; supposing you are killed?" 
 
 " Then this miserable, deceitful life is at an end." 
 
 " Very beautifully said, but not logically. It seems to me 
 more consistent with the views of lovers to live by each other's 
 side than to die far from one another." 
 
CARDS FOR FOUR. 245 
 
 " But when the former is not possible ?" 
 ' " It is only faint-heartedness which speaks thus." 
 
 " We have tried everything, dear Louise." 
 
 " Who knows ? Still, we will take it for granted. If you 
 fall you cause great grief to all your relatives, and especially to 
 your beloved, and thus you miss your aim. Is your troubled 
 mind able to understand this plain truth?" 
 
 " I do not contradict you, but " 
 
 " Good. Then thesis No. 1 is granted. Now let us take 
 up the second point. We will suppose that you kill your 
 adversary. What will be the consequences ?" 
 
 Otto's eyes shone with an angry light, and a sardonic smile 
 played around his lips. 
 
 " What will be the consequences?" said he, slowly, laying 
 an emphasis on every word. " Your questions are really 
 amusing, my dear cousin 1 If I kill him, he is punished 
 for his wicked audacity, as he deserves to be, and my be- 
 loved " 
 
 " Will never be your wife." 
 
 " I should like to see that." 
 
 " Otto, do not deceive yourself. If you have not thus far 
 been able to accomplish what you so warmly desire, how can 
 you hope to do it after such a bloody catastrophe?" 
 
 " Oh, I will try other means. If the despotic old lady 
 still refuses her consent, I shall then throw off all restraint. 
 I am determined, if necessary, to elope with my bride." 
 
 " That sounds very romantic, but I doubt if the young girl 
 would agree to it. I do not, of course, doubt that she has 
 every moral and mental perfection, but I fear she might not 
 have the courage necessary for an elopement. If the mater- 
 nal authority was able to force a hateful bridegroom upon 
 her, the dutiful daughter will, doubtless, continue to yield to 
 that same authority. One does not become independent in 
 one night." 
 
 Otto stared straight before him. 
 
 " Or, if I am Mistaken," continued the young woman, " why 
 do you not run away with her at once ? By hurrying matters a 
 little you might save yourself this impious shedding of blood." 
 
 " That is a good idea. But before we found a suitable 
 opportunity the worst might have come to pass. It is only 
 a question of a very few weeks, cousin 1" 
 
246 CARDS FOR FOUR. 
 
 " That is long enough to conquer a kingdom. Hear me, 
 Otto ; I really wish you well. Promise me to wait patiently 
 for eight days, at least." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " For my sake. Periaps in the mean time some bright 
 idea may strike you. But better still : will you not grant 
 me your full confidence ?" 
 
 " Ah 1 what would I not do if I only thought I" 
 
 " At any rate, you do not lose anything by talking the 
 matter over with me. What do you think?", 
 
 " Certainly not ; but " 
 
 " I tell you what. Come to me to-morrow between four 
 and five, and we will see what can be done. Till then no 
 imprudence. Is it a bargain ?" 
 
 " I will be at your house punctually at half-past four to- 
 morrow afternoon. And now I will not weary you any 
 longer, cousin. A propos, do you dance?" 
 
 " No, Otto." 
 
 " Otherwise I should have asked for the favor." 
 
 " You are very kind. Cousin Otto. Dance with the young 
 girls and forget your troubles. I wish you much pleasure, 
 dear Otto." 
 
 The young officer rose, and kissed his friend's hand with 
 knightly grace. Then he disappeared in the crowd. 
 
 Soon after appeared the venerable gentleman whom the 
 lady had designated as .the " threatening figure of the pro- 
 fessor." He was accompanied by a fine-looking gentleman 
 about thirty years old. 
 
 " Will you allow me, madam, to introduce to you the son 
 of one of my dearest friends. Dr. Leopold Winthen, who 
 owns a fine estate in Rodenstadt ? Frau von Ustendorff." 
 
 Louise blushed slightly, and the young man seemed ex- 
 ceedingly surprised. 
 
 " Is it possible ?" said he, with a deep bow. " Miss Louise 
 von Gerhard !" 
 
 " Oh I you have met before." 
 
 " We were neighbors, professor," replied Leopold.. " When 
 you spoke of the charming Frau von Ustendorff I had no 
 idea." 
 
 " Now really 1 Well, that is such good luck as one does 
 not meet with every day. So you knew each other before ? 
 
CARDS FOR FOUR. 247 
 
 You will have a great deal of news to excliange, weddings 
 and deaths, etc. I will not disturb you." 
 
 " But indeed, professor, you would not disturb us in the 
 least." 
 
 " I know, I know. I will have the honor later. Your most 
 humble servant." 
 
 With a friendly nod, he left them alone, and wandered to 
 another part of the room. 
 
 Leopold was the first to break silence. 
 
 " Miss — madam, I should say. How strange that sounds 1" 
 
 Louise smiled. 
 
 " Verily, when one has known a lady solely as Friiulein 
 von Gerhard, and finds her suddenly and unexpectedly again 
 as Frau von Ustendorfl", you must admit yourself " 
 
 " Bah I that is the march of time. Neither were you a 
 doctor of philosophy when I saw you last." 
 
 " How long is it since we met at the masked ball at Miss 
 Henrietta's?" 
 
 " Full six or seven years." 
 
 "You know that Henrietta has married in the mean 
 time ?" 
 
 "I suppose so. She was engaged. Our correspondence 
 ceased long ago." 
 
 " How transitory everything is in this world I You called 
 Eer then your best friend." 
 
 " Out of sight out of mind. She was to blame. Is she 
 happy with her Reinhold?" 
 
 " How, — Reinhold ? She soon got tired of him. She mar- 
 ried a rich banker from Berlin, and Reinhold, in despair, went 
 to America." 
 
 " Silly fellow 1" 
 
 " It is strange that you should thus lose sight of your in- 
 timate friends." 
 
 " But how do you hear the news ?" 
 
 " My sister writes it to me from time to time to keep me 
 au courant." 
 
 " Under those circumstances it is not exactly flattering that 
 you should never have heard the name Ustendorff." 
 
 " That is altogether difiierent." 
 
 "How so?' 
 
 " It was — it happened — it was my express wish." 
 
248 CARDS FOR FOUR. 
 
 " Better still. Do you know, doctor, that you are really 
 very, very ungallant ?" 
 
 " You misunderstand me." 
 
 " No, no ; I always felt that you treated me in a very 
 peculiar manner. But excuse me, if I speak of things which 
 happened long ago." 
 
 " My dear madam, I do not know how it is, but you mis- 
 understand me completely." 
 
 " I am only joking." 
 
 " True, you are joking ; but there is sober earnest at the 
 bottom. I confess that I have often been puzzled to under- 
 stand your manner. So this sort of repulsion must have been 
 mutual." 
 
 " That is possible." 
 
 " If I was occasionally — perhaps involuntarily — a little 
 abrupt or ironical, it was because I felt that you positively 
 disliked me." 
 
 Louise blushed scarlet. 
 
 " You were mistaken," said she, with forced composure. 
 " I saw that you could be very agreeable when you wished ; 
 I appreciated your various good qualities, but " 
 
 She stopped. 
 
 " Pray continue ; but?" 
 
 " But it annoyed me to see that you purposely changed 
 your manner as soon as you came near me." 
 
 " My dear madam," said Leopold, steadfastly, " dare I be 
 frank?" 
 
 " Why not ? I like frankness as much in trifles as in im- 
 portant matters. Speak I" 
 
 " You are married, I am engaged, so that any kind of em- 
 barrassment would be out of place here. I told you that it 
 was at my express request that my sister avoided all mention 
 of you and your fate." 
 
 " And I did not think that exactly complimentary." 
 
 " But you do not know what my motive was." 
 
 " I should really like to know." 
 
 " I loved you." 
 
 Louise laughed,- and said, " You are your old self. I be- 
 lieve you said something of the kind once to Henrietta, 
 and I can assure you that I thought that joke in very bad 
 taste." 
 
CARDS FOR FOUR. 249 
 
 " But I assure you, my dear madam- 
 
 • Oh, yes ; I know you. Henrietta laughed at me so long 
 that evening that I finally turned my back upon her in high 
 dudgeon. For two weeks we were not on speaking terms. 
 This quarrel between two friends was your work, doctor." 
 " Then the serpent deceived you. What did she say ?" 
 " How can I remember her words ? You ask for an im- 
 possibility." 
 
 " Try to remember them." 
 
 " I believe I do ; but it is a matter of no consequence." 
 " Oh, it is of great consequence to me, if you think me a 
 second Mephistopheles or not ! What did she say?" 
 
 " She came to me and congratulated me on my learned 
 admirer. I did not understand her. ' Dear Louise,' said 
 she, ' he has made me his confidante. He adores you and is 
 going to write sonnets to you, as Chloe, in all the periodicals.' 
 And in saying that she laughed so immoderately that she 
 brought tears of vexation into my eyes." 
 Leopold took a thoughtful attitude. 
 
 " That was either the most unpardonable duplicity or un- 
 paralleled stupidity. I had made her my confidante, and 
 asked her to help me. The wretch !" 
 " Let us talk of something else." 
 " Why, I should exactly like to convince you." 
 
 " But, I pray you " 
 
 " No, no ! as we are talking about it now, I must make a 
 clean breast of it. Heaven is my witness, I was madly in 
 love with you." 
 "Really?" 
 
 " Yes ; far, far more than in my present bride." 
 " You are quite naif! Poor girl !" 
 " I am simply stating a very intelligible fact." 
 " Intelligible ? Do you mean that for a compliment ? If 
 so, I must tell you at once that I am very obtuse." 
 
 " I did not mean it so, neither did I wish to draw a par- 
 allel. The Louise von Gerhard whom I knew was too difier- 
 ent from my quiet, fair-haired Emmy. No, I did not mean 
 it so ; but at thirty a man lovefS more rationally than at 
 twenty." 
 
 " More rational ? It was really very silly to admire the 
 aforesaid Louise." 
 
 22 
 
250 CARDS FOR FOUR. 
 
 " You are really expert in twisting the most harmless re- 
 mark. What I mean is that at thirty the heart can no 
 longer feel the same burning, overpowering, self-re»ouncing 
 love which throws such a halo over our youth." 
 
 " What do you mean by burning, overpowering, self-re- 
 nouncing ? If you really love your Emmy, these three ad- 
 jectives ought to be just as applicable now as then." 
 
 " As then ? That is exactly what I deny. I repeat it, at 
 my age a man has left all the illusions of youth behind him. 
 My blood flows now so quietly, so coolly through my veins, 
 that I can speak of the days of my first love as coolly as I 
 would of some historical fact. And I thank heaven that it 
 is so !" 
 
 Louise gazed dreamily around and played with her fan. 
 At last she broke the silence by saying, — 
 
 " So, you are engaged ? Would it be indiscreet to ask for 
 a description of the future ' Mrs. Doctor' ?" 
 
 " Not at all. My bride is the only daughter of the widow 
 of Counsellor Fabricius. She is eighteen years old, fair, rosy, 
 slender, and could doubtless write a pretty fair French letter. 
 She is modest and sweet tempered " 
 
 "What can you desire more? I congratulate you from 
 my heart, doctor." 
 
 " Much obliged. Do you not know the family ?" 
 
 " I regret " 
 
 " If you did I should ask you for some details. All that 
 I know is that Emmy is a sweet, amiable girl, and that 
 Mamma Fabricius is a lady — well, a lady who was evidently 
 cut out for a mother-in-law." 
 
 " And you really feel so little interest in a family with 
 which you are soon to be so closely allied ?" 
 
 " What could I do ? It is only three weeks since I came 
 to this town, and only nine days since I became engaged." 
 
 " Is that possible? Your happiness is still in its infancy." 
 
 " Yes. When one is thirty years old one has neither time 
 nor inclination to indulge in romantic love-making. I saw 
 Emmy at a small party ; she did not seem to dislike me, I 
 was pleased with her, and So I thought " 
 
 " Say, rather, it was altogether thoughtless." 
 
 " My dear madam, in such things 1 can trust my knowl- 
 edge of human nature. It was the wonderful quiet and 
 
CARDS FOR FOUR. 251 
 
 repose of Emmy's nature which attracted me. I said to my- 
 self, ' This innocent child seems to have been made for you. 
 She will neither try to deceive you nor to tyrannize over 
 you, and as you must sooner or later give up this wandering 
 life ' " 
 
 " Really, you made up your mind quickly." 
 
 " I am really tired of roaming around. I know half of 
 Europe and a good part of Asia and Africa." 
 
 " I believe you own an estate?" 
 
 " Yes ; but I have really troubled myself as little about 
 its management as an Esquimau about aesthetics. Since — 
 since I left my home and all that was dear to me, I have wan- 
 dered around and carried with me everywhere the image of a 
 cold and mocking, ah ! but beautiful face ; and this phantom, 
 — which has driven me from Rome to Cairo, from St. Peters- 
 burg to Nischnij Novgorod, from the Tagus to the Euphrates, 
 — this sweet, torturing creation of my brain was yourself, 
 Miss Louise, — madam, I should say." 
 
 " You really went as far as the Euphrates?" said Louise, 
 in charming confusion. 
 
 " As far as the Euphrates, and farther. Oh ! we travel 
 rapidly when we seek rest and forgetfulness. Thank heaven I 
 this childish longing diminished as years increased. I be- 
 came reasonable. I forgot the beloved demon who had 
 frightened me away from my home. I learnt to understand 
 life, and in my few happy moments I laughed at my own 
 fancies." 
 
 " Is — is the Euphrates a fine river ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes, tolerably ; but when I was walking along its 
 banks I cared but little for beautiful landscapes. It was 
 only six months after that masked ball. The wound was 
 still too fresh, Frau von Ustendorff 1" 
 
 " You talk as if I had done you some great wrong. So 
 your bride is Emmy Fabricius? Why is she not here?" 
 
 " Mamma did not allow it, to speak with respect. The 
 little one is busy preparing her trousseau. From morning 
 till evening she is surrounded by six or seven sewing-girls, 
 and they work till midnight." 
 
 " Is the wedding-day so near at hand ?" 
 
 " I suppose in four or five weeks ; but Mamma Fabricius 
 settles everything. I have given hei plein pouvoir" 
 
252 CARDS FOR FOUR. 
 
 " Shall we not be able to see your bride before the wed- 
 ding?" 
 
 "Ireally doubfit." 
 
 " What a pity !" 
 
 " You feel some interest in her ?" 
 
 " A deep interest !" 
 
 " Hm ! Do you know what ?" 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " Gro with me to-morrow to see Mrs. Fabricius." 
 
 " What are you thinking of?" 
 
 " You are startled by my proposal?" 
 
 " I certainly am." 
 
 "But, my dear madam, we are no longer children. 'If 
 necessary we can take a chaperon." 
 
 " I can chaperon myself." 
 
 " You see : do me this favor, the first which I have asked 
 of you in my whole life. " 
 
 " But what will the family in Grrubenhain think if a per- 
 fect stranger " 
 
 " A stranger ? I will introduce you as a friend of my 
 youth, as my cousin, — my sister, if you will. Mamma Fa- 
 bricius will receive you with open arms. You can give the 
 little one some hinfe about her wedding-dress, and a bond of 
 everlasting friendship is thus formed." 
 
 " Your idea is very eccentric." 
 
 " But good ; say yes." 
 
 " Well, then, yes. You see that, spite of my twenty-eight 
 years, I can still play a mad prank." 
 
 " Agreed ! I will come for you in my one-horse buggy at 
 half-past nine. Nota bene. Excuse my rudeness ; I have 
 not yet asked after your husband. I shall be most happy to 
 make his acquaintance." 
 
 Louise hesitated a moment, and then said, solemnly, " Herr 
 von Ustendorff is dead." 
 
 " Dead ? You are a widow ?" 
 
 " My husband fell at Sadowa, as a faithful officer, fighting 
 in the service of his country.". 
 
 At this moment the professor returned to them, and the 
 conversation took another turn. Leopold took very little 
 part in it. When, a few moments later, the signal was given 
 for a polonaise, he departed, with a silent bow, and hurried 
 
CARDS FOR FOUR. 253 
 
 into the dancing-room, where he stood gazing at the couples 
 dancing. He was in an inexplicable state of mind. He 
 found it impossible to fix his attention upon anything. It 
 was in vain that he reminded himself that it is most inter- 
 esting to study the physiognomy of the ladies in a strange 
 town. He found himself forever straying in the side-paths 
 of an aimless revery. At last, without being aware of it, he 
 leaned against the handsome marble mantel-piece, and stared 
 at the bow-window where Louise was talking with the pro- 
 fessor and three or four other gentlemen. 
 
 How beautifiil she was 1 How softly the dark brown hair 
 shaded her noble forehead 1 And those eyes, — those ex- 
 pressive, fascinating eyes I Yes, that was the sweet, roman- 
 tic look which had first captivated him. She had lost none 
 of her charm. On the contrary, it seemed to him as if the 
 rose had only now opened fully, and as if it were only now 
 that her soul had expanded so as to fill its charming casket. 
 In the depth of his soul remembrance, love, and longing 
 were once more busy. His love for Louise seemed to have 
 been fanned into a fresh flame, and to have been only smoul- 
 dering under the ashes ; and she was now freer than she had 
 ever been, — free not only from outward b.onds, but free from 
 all misunderstanding. She knew now what he had never re- 
 vealed ; she understood wliat had seemed inexplicable to her. 
 " Oh, Louise, Louise ! has fate separated us a second time ?" 
 
 He could no longer bear to contemplate his beloved. He 
 longed for cooling, for a storm even. In a few muttered 
 words he took leave of the lady of the house and hurried out 
 into the frosty March night. He ran hastily through the 
 empty streets, without knowing whither or wherefore. Sud- 
 denly he found himself seized by the left arm. 
 
 " Hollo 1" called he, in a mocking tone, after he had shaken 
 oflF his opponent. " Take care, my friend, that I do not break 
 all your ribs for you. What has come over you, in the devil's 
 name ?" 
 
 " I have already asted you three times to listen to me," 
 answered a choking voice. " You must give me satisfaction, 
 at once, on the spot." 
 
 " Who are you?" asked Leopold, as coolly as he could. 
 
 " My name is Otto von Fersen." 
 
 " I have not the honor of your acquaintance." 
 22* 
 
254 CARDS FOR FOUR. 
 
 " I am a lieutenant m the — th Infantry Regiment." 
 
 " We expect elegant manners from an officer." 
 
 " It depends upon the person to whom he speaks. Will 
 you stand still now ?" 
 
 " It is too cool, lieutenant. If you have anything to say 
 to me you must try to keep up with me." 
 
 " You must fight me." 
 
 " Fight, with you 1" 
 
 " Yes ; and at five paces harriire. I shall kill yo«." 
 
 " I really think you must be mistaken in your man. Be- 
 sides this, you must reflect that you are sinning against eti- 
 quette. Do you not know that it is customary to send a 
 second to make all the necessary arrangements in such mat- 
 ters?" 
 
 " I do not need your instructions, I only wish to know if 
 you will fight." 
 
 " And if I should say no ?" 
 
 " Then I would shoot you through the head." 
 
 " And supposing you should miss your aim ?" 
 
 " Do not goad me to the utmost." 
 
 " And in what might that ' utmost' consist?" 
 
 The officer pulled out a revolvCT from under his cloak. 
 One second later Leopold had wrested it from him. He put 
 it in his overcoat-pocket, and said,," You may thank me, sir. 
 I am keeping you from a boyish act of folly." 
 
 " Grive me back my revolver," said the lieutenant. 
 
 " I shall take good care not to do thiat. Besides, I am 
 weary of this conversation. Good-night, lieutenant. To- 
 morrow you can send your servant to get this thing. Here 
 is my card." 
 
 " So you refuse to give me satisfaction ?" 
 
 Leopold stopped for a moment. The light of a gas lan- 
 tern fell on the j)ale, distorted countenance of the young man, 
 and gave him an expression of grief and distress which was 
 well calculated to inspire pity. 
 
 " Lieutenant," said Leopold, in a milder tone, " I am quite 
 willing to give you satisfaction as a man of honor. Only I 
 must really beg you earnestly to tell me quietly how I have 
 offended you. I give you my word that I have not the 
 slightest recollection of ever having seen you before." 
 
 " You have insulted me ip the most tender point where a 
 
CARDS FOR FOUR. 255 
 
 man of honor can be struck, and besides that, you have robbed 
 me of the happiness of my whole life." 
 
 " Please to look at my card. There is certainly some mis- 
 understanding here." 
 
 " Oh I I know that hated name which causes every drop of 
 blood in my veins to boil !" 
 
 " You are certainly frank, but you must really allow me to 
 doubt your sanity. I am not conscious of having offended 
 you in any way." 
 
 " You are a miserable intriguant I" 
 
 " Before I allow you to insult me, I must beg you to tell 
 me in what my supposed offence consists. Then only shall I 
 be able to decide whether I am dealing with a sick man or a 
 professional bravo." 
 
 " Sir 1" 
 
 " Do be quiet. Your voice trembles like that of a poor 
 culprit. I will willingly forgive your rudeness if you will 
 tell me in what way I can serve you." 
 
 " You must leave this town and never return to it, and 
 then I will take back all I have said." 
 
 " That is not possible." 
 
 " Make it possible." 
 
 " That is a queer idea. My presence troubles you : I can- 
 not understand that. J should think the town were large 
 enough to contain even two mortal enemies." 
 
 " But too small for two rivals. One of us must leave the 
 field." 
 
 " We are rivals ? I could not see that in your face. And 
 pray in what are we rivals?" 
 
 " And you really do not know ?" 
 
 " Upon my word, all that I know is that it is very cold. 
 Let us drink a cup of coffee." 
 
 The young ofGicer seemed lost in thought, but he followed 
 his opponent mechanically to the nearest coffee-house. They 
 continued the conversation in a low tone. 
 
 " Good heavens, how you look 1" said Leopold, with genuine 
 sympathy. 
 
 The officer did not seem to be able to overcome his dislike 
 of his opponent. Leopold smiled. 
 
 " Let us talk sensibly about this matter, my dear lieutenant. 
 As you sit there, as pale and sorrowful as if death were gnaw- 
 
256 CARDS FOR FOVR. 
 
 ing at your heart, you really inspire me with pity. Take a 
 good sup of that brandy, — so. And now, tell me wherein we 
 are rivals. I have tried in vain to solve the enigma." 
 
 " I see that you really do not know how deeply you have 
 injured me. But that makes no difference ; I must still in- 
 sist upon my demand. You must either set off to-morrow 
 and promise never to let any one here hear of you again, or 
 you must fight me." 
 
 " Take another sup of brandy, lieutenant. So I must set 
 off to-morrow ? But if I tell you that I am going to be 
 married here very soon?" 
 
 The officer became, if possible, a shade paler. 
 
 " That is just the point," muttered he, " You must not 
 marry, — at least, not my Emmy." 
 
 " So there is where the shoe pinches 1 Hm, hm I You 
 love the girl?" 
 
 " More than life." 
 
 " And does Emmy know it?" 
 
 *' She returns my love." 
 
 " Indeed 1 no one had said a word about that. Have you 
 proofs?" 
 
 " Oh, a thousand, if you want theml See here !" 
 
 He pulled out a photograph. Leopold recognized the 
 features of his bride. On the back,side he read the words, 
 " To my ardently beloved Otto, with a hundred kisses. Emmy." 
 
 " Hm I" said Leopold, meditatively. " It seems to be true. 
 But the child never told me, — never said one word." 
 
 " She is so timid——" 
 
 " Yes, yes, you are right ; very timid, very timid. A pro- 
 pos to what I meant to say, it is singular the mother never 
 told me." 
 
 " Oh,, the horrid old tyrant ! She has made the mischief. 
 They are rich, my property is moderate. You, perhaps, 
 know how to pay court to a mother-in-law ; I do not. That 
 settled the question. The heart of the poor girl was never 
 consulted." 
 
 Leopold supported his burning forehead with his right 
 hand. He did not say a word. The lieutenant sipped his 
 smoking coffee slowly. At last Leopold said, 
 
 " You love the girl sincerely ?" 
 
 " More than mysel£" 
 
CARDS FOR FOUR. 257 
 
 " And you will make the good child happy if I, after 
 mature consideration " 
 
 "What?" screamed Otto, so loud that he was frightened 
 at his own voice. " Do I understand you aright ?" 
 
 " Let me explain myself. My dear lieutenant, the silliest 
 thing a man can do is to marry a girl who has given her heart 
 to another." 
 
 " That is an undeniable truth," replied the trembling young 
 man. 
 
 " Listen to me. Would it be disagreeable to you if I should 
 give you my official title of bridegroom?" 
 
 " Oh, inconsiderate noble-mindedness 1" screamed Otto, 
 beside himself with joy. " You are a man of honor, a cav- 
 alier in the truest sense of the word I Oh, I do not know 
 what I say ! Are you really in earnest, or are you joking 
 with me ?" He was panting for breath. 
 
 " Take another sup," said Leopold. " I am in earnest. 
 Emmy is yours. Far be it from me to joke on such subjects." 
 
 " And the counsellor's widow " 
 
 " The mother-in-law ?" 
 
 " She will never ratify our bargain I" 
 
 " I will take care of that." 
 
 " Oh, how can I thank you, my angelic friend ? Such a 
 sacrifice I I know better than any one else what you are 
 giving up. Your generosity touches me even to tears !" 
 
 " Be quiet, my dear lieutenant. I am only acting ration- 
 ally. And now, listen to my proposal." 
 
 " I am all ear. Heavens ! I can still not understand it ! 
 HirnmehchochrniUionendonnerwetter ! Do not take it amiss 
 if I swear a little, but I was obliged to ease my heart a little." 
 
 " Do not restrain yourself." 
 
 "Well, then?" 
 
 " Be to-morrow, a little before eleven o'clock, by the large 
 elm-tree near Grubenhain, and leave everything else to fate, 
 or in other words, to me." 
 
 " I shall be punctual." 
 
 " And now, good-night." 
 
 " Q;Ood-night, my dear friend, my preserver I" 
 
 " A pj-opos, here is your revolver." 
 
 " I am really ashamed of myself ! May I beg you to keep 
 the weapon as a souvenir of this evening?" 
 
258 CARDS FOR FOUR. 
 
 " Thanks ; I accept it. And now, sleep well and dream 
 of your Emmy." 
 
 The two men separated. Otto dreamt of Emmy, but 
 Leopold did not close his eyes all night. 
 
 The next morning, at the appointed hour, the one-horse 
 buggy drove up to the door. The radiant, cloudless March 
 sky promised a pleasant drive. Leopold gave his arm to the 
 beautiful widow and led her to the carriage. 
 
 "You are driving yourself 1" said Louise, surprised, when 
 she saw the handsome buggy. 
 
 Leopold answered in the aflSrmative. 
 
 Frau von Ustendorff blushed slightly, but she politely ad- 
 mired the handsome bay, who was impatiently pawing the 
 ground, and jumped lightly into the inviting vehicle. Leo- 
 pold seized the reins, and the fast trotter went off like a 
 dart. 
 
 In five minutes they were in the country. Louise, opened 
 her pink- lined parasol, and looked like a Madonna surrounded 
 by the glow of a brilliant sunset. Leopold let his horse fall 
 into a gentle trot, and hung the reins on the iron rod placed 
 there for that purpose. 
 
 " It is a lovely morning," said Louise. 
 
 " The loveliest I have ever seen," replied Leopold. 
 
 " Do you see the enchanting young green on the fields?" 
 
 " And the enchanting red on my neighbor's cheeks ?" 
 
 " My dear doctor, I must really beg you." 
 
 " Excuse me, if I forgot that you could hear me. 1 was 
 only thinking aloud." 
 
 " Think of something better. How beautifully that gray 
 old castle stands out from the blue sky 1 Have you really no 
 eye for the beauties of nature ?" 
 
 " The castle yonder ? Really very picturesque. It reminds 
 me forcibly of the Vehmburg near D . Do you re- 
 member how the count locked us up in the convent chapel ?" 
 
 " No ; I do not." 
 
 " It was on that very excursion where Henrietta engaged 
 herself to the Reinhold whom she jilted afterwards so shame- 
 fully. You and I, and who was the third? I think my 
 sister, or some other of our acquaintances." 
 
 " It was your sister. We wandered through the dark old 
 
CARDS FOR FOUR. 259 
 
 church. The count locked the door, and we were obliged to 
 call and knock for two hours before we were released." 
 
 " Oh, I was so happy then 1 I could have fallen at your 
 feet and worshipped you." 
 
 " If I remember aright, we talked merely of indifferent 
 things." 
 
 " Ah, Louise ! I did not know what I said. I saw only 
 your soft dark eyes, and thought for one short hour that I 
 was not indifferent to you. Then came the bitter awaken- 
 ing to the truth. You did not grant me a single look the 
 whole of the rest of the day. You made yourself so agree- 
 able to that horrid man, Herr von Serbingen, and had so 
 little sympathy with my feelings at the time, that I could 
 have died." 
 
 " I never liked Herr von Serbingen." 
 
 " Public opinion said the contrary." 
 
 The young widow looked aside to hide her deep blushes. 
 
 " Appearances are often deceitful," said she. 
 
 " But I cannot understand " 
 
 " You are a bad psychologist, doctor. Now we can talk 
 frankly. I made myself agreeable to Herr von Serbingen 
 out of caprice, out of spite, to show you that I did not care 
 about your attentions." 
 
 " But for mercy's sake, what had I done to make you dis- 
 like me so fearfully ? Was I ever wanting in politeness ? 
 It was only later, when I had convinced myself that it was 
 perfectly useless to court you, after Henrietta had assured me 
 that you disliked me from the bottom of your heart." 
 
 " What ? did she say that ? The story-teller 1" 
 I , " Louise ! Can it be possible ? Could she have deceived 
 us both ? You did not really despise and hate me ?" 
 
 " I told you yesterday already that you were mistaken. 
 On the contrary " 
 
 " On the contrary. Oh, say that once more ! You felt'a 
 little friendship for me." 
 
 " I liked you at first much better than I was willing to 
 
 admit. It was only afterwards, when I learned " 
 
 " Oh, the wicked traitor ! She has robbed me of the hap- 
 piness of my whole life ! Oh, sweet, heavenly Louise 1 why 
 must I lose thee before thou wast mine ?" 
 
 " In the name of heaven, what language 1 Is it suitable 
 
260 CARDS FOR FOUR. 
 
 for a bridegroom wIlo is on his way to greet his bride ? I 
 almost regret having accepted your invitation." 
 
 " Louise, Louise, I love thee more than life !" 
 
 " Please to come to your senses. Do you wish me to get 
 out?" 
 
 "Kemain, remain, and let me gaze into the depths of your 
 beautiful unfathomable eyes !" 
 
 " Look into your Emmy's eyes." 
 
 " Listen to me, dear madam. Fat« did not grant you to 
 me. I had resigned myself to what was unavoidable. You 
 became Frau von UstendorflF. I roamed far and near, to seek 
 peace. The wound my heart received in its youth has been 
 scarred over, but life has lost all charm for me." 
 
 " Remember that you are on the way to your bride." 
 
 " Please not to interrupt me. I am resigned to my lot, but 
 I have still one ardent wish. Will you grant it, Louise ?" 
 
 " Speak." 
 
 " I would like to read your soul. Did you love your hus- 
 band?" 
 
 " What a question I" 
 
 "You will not answer it?" 
 
 " I esteemed him. I liked him." 
 
 " Did you love him ?" 
 
 " What do you call love ? I loved him, as — as you love 
 your Emmy." 
 
 " I could throw myself at your feet for that answer. Fur- 
 ther : if I had had the courage to propose for you at the same 
 time that he did " 
 
 " Enough, doctor I" 
 
 " Would you have given him the preference ? Answer me." 
 
 " Is that the way to speak to a lady ?" 
 
 " Answer me." 
 
 "No." 
 
 " I beseech you by all the tears T have shed for you, by all 
 my buried happiness I Whom would you have chosen ?" 
 
 " I have already told you that I did not love Herr von 
 Ustendorff with that blind devotion of which yon speak." 
 
 " Oh, oh, Louise ! you render me the happiest of mortals ! 
 Could yott love me, Louise ? Oh, say yes ! Give me your 
 lovely and beloved hand !" 
 
 " Are you deranged, doctor ?" 
 
CARDS FOR FOUR. 261 
 
 " Louise, my adored bride 1" 
 
 He threw his arm round her neck. She blushed deeply, 
 and began to weep bitterly. 
 
 " I did not deserve this," said she. " If you wanted to 
 revenge yourself you have succeeded. Your mockery hurts 
 me more than I can express." 
 
 She covered her face with both hands. 
 
 " But, Louise, star of my life, hear me. Will you send 
 me from you a second time ? It is you only whom I love. 
 The/Ttfe dream with Emmy is at an end." 
 
 " What' do you mean ?" said she, still weeping. " Take 
 me home." 
 
 " Never ! I shall never let you go again, my beloved. I 
 will keep you always. Dry your tears, my darling. Since 
 yesterday evening Emmy is the bride of another. She is as 
 happy as I. And now tell me quietly and rationally, shall 
 we now make up for the wrong we did ourselves and each 
 other seven years ago ? Will you be my sweet, adored wife ?" 
 
 The buggy entered the wood. The sensible horse followed 
 the road without needing his master's guidance. Tall pines 
 rose to the right and to the left. Louise laid her head on 
 the shoulder of the friend of her youth. In the mean time 
 the lieutenant was waiting under the elm. At ten o'clock 
 he was already at the appointed place. A hundred times 
 already he had walked through the little clearing and looked 
 down the road, like a man who does not know what he is to 
 expect. From time to time he stood still to listen. Not a 
 sound. 
 
 " It is true," said he to himself, " I came an hour too soon. 
 But that does not matter. If he could understand my im- 
 patience, if he had the least idea what true, ardent love is, he 
 would have hurried here on the wings of the storm-wind, 
 without thinking of the words of our agreement. No, he 
 never loved Emmy I Or does he perhaps regret the promise 
 he gave me yesterday? Frightful idea! If he had mali- 
 ciously placed me on the pinnacle of happiness to make my 
 fall into the depths of despair the more crushing ? Non- 
 sense ! I am ungrateful ! He is noble-minded ! Who knows 
 if his generosity did not cost him violent inward struggles, 
 which must have been the more heart-rending that he used 
 sufficient self-control to conceal them ? To lose Emmy ! 
 
 23 
 
262 CARDS FOR FOUR. 
 
 Is it possible to imagine a greater misfortune ? But no, lie 
 was so calm, so cheerful. It could not have been a sacrifice." 
 He pulled out his watch. " A quarter-past ten 1" he mur- 
 mured. " I have still three-quarters of an hour to wait, if 
 he is punctual." 
 
 At that moment he heard the rumbling of carriage-wheels. 
 He hurried on to the high-road. To his unutterable surprise 
 he saw his benevolent friend of yesterday sitting by Louise, 
 his gracious cousin. But what astonished him still more 
 than this buggy ttte-d-tete was the inexplicable fact that the 
 vehicle was at that moment turning round to drive back to 
 the town. 
 
 The quick-sighted reader will more easily comprehend this. 
 After the first transports of the lovers had subsided, cool 
 reflection resumed her sway. Leopold would gladly have 
 driven on thus to the end of time, but he remembered his 
 appointment with the lieutenant. Louise already suspected 
 that the proposed visit to Grubenhain was only a ruse de 
 guerre, and at any rate she could not very well accompany 
 her bridegroom, even if it were true, as he laughingly said 
 that he wished to speak with his ex-mother-in-law on busi- 
 ness. Leopold knew nothing of the relationship between 
 Louise and the fiery young fellow with whom he had made 
 an appointment under the elm-tree. If he had, his fancy for 
 dramatic efi"ects might perhaps have induced him to form 
 some other plan. As matters stood, he could only yield to 
 his bride's wish and drive back to town. 
 
 The lieutenant, who was completely hidden by the under- 
 growth in the little wood, could not be seen by either of them. 
 Even without the impatience of love which was devouring 
 him, his curiosity would have induced him to try to solve the 
 enigma before his eyes. So he stepped quickly outside of 
 the bushes, and, making a speaking-trumpet of his hands, 
 screamed after the retreating vehicle, — 
 
 " Cousin ! Louise ! Hollo, doctor ! It is I, cousin 1" 
 
 Leopold and his companion turned around, making gestures 
 of great astonishment. 
 
 " Oh ! but that is my cousin Otto !" said the widow, blush- 
 ing. 
 
 " Thy cousin, my love ? Why, that is the crazy officer who 
 wanted to shoot me last evening." 
 
CARDS FOR FOUR. 263 
 
 The lieutenant winked, and called louder and louder. 
 " Turn round !" thundered he, through the still pine wood. 
 
 " Let us turn round," whispered Louise. " I am curious 
 to know what he wants to say to us." 
 
 A new light struck Leopold and inspired him with a bold 
 idea. If Louise was the lieutenant's cousin, her visit to 
 Grubenhain was accounted for. Besides, as an experienced 
 man he knew that he had sufficient tact and skill to sail 
 round a dangerous coast. His own moral superiority, the 
 eloquence of an accomplished fact, shame, surprise, and the 
 prospect of finding a satisfactory way out of this painful sit- 
 uation, all these might conquer a woman even of the char- 
 acter of the counsellor's widow. The thought of introducing 
 his own bride and Emmy's brautigam at one and the same 
 time charmed him so that he determined to make every 
 effort to win Louise over to his way of thinking. 
 
 His first words were, " Lieutenant, I have the honor of in- 
 troducing to you my dear Braut Louise von Ustendorff, nie 
 Von GerHard. Louise, allow me to make you acquainted 
 with the happy bridegroom of my Emmy." 
 
 And now followed questions and answers, which we, who 
 know the story, need not repeat. Louise reproached her 
 cousin with having tried to carry out his impious plan without 
 waiting for their interview. Otto excused himself, alleging 
 success, and expressed his gratitude towards Emmy's ex-brau- 
 tigam in the most glowing terms. After mutual congratula- 
 tions, the inevitable question, " "What shall we do next?" was 
 asked. 
 
 Leopold disclosed his plan, and advocated it so successfully 
 that Louise at last agreed,, saying that she threw oflf all re- 
 sponsibility on to her lover. Otto was, from the first, strongly 
 in favor of the proposed mode of action. He seated himself 
 on the uncomfortable little front seat opposite the doctor, and 
 they started at full speed for the house. 
 
 " HaVe you the photograph with you ?" asked the doctor, 
 as he jumped out of the buggy and threw the reins to an 
 approaching stable-boy. 
 
 " Emmy's picture ?" 
 
 " Yes ; the one with the touching inscription ?" 
 
 " Of course." 
 
 " Will you trust it to me for a few minutes ?" 
 
264 CARDS FOR FOUR: 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 " Now, then, for action." 
 
 The counsellor's widow was not a little astonished when 
 the servant announced the triple visit. Her surprise turned 
 to indignation when she saw the lieutenant, whom she had 
 not allowed to enter the house for a month. 
 
 " I bring you dear relations, honored HofraetMn" said 
 Leopold, with a polite bow. 
 
 " I am much pleased to see them, son-in-law ; please be 
 seated." 
 
 Louise and her cousin accepted this invitation so quickly 
 that one might have supposed that they did not feel quite at 
 their ease. The lieutenant's heart beat quite uncomfortably 
 against the bright buttons of his uniform, and the vriidow did 
 not know exactly where to look. 
 
 " And Emmy ?" asked Leopold. 
 
 Otto trembled. 
 
 " Oh, Emmy is very busy," said the Hofraethin, smiling. 
 
 " Oh, to be sure ; the trousseau. But that makCs no dif- 
 ference. My dear Hofraethin, be so kind as to have her 
 called down for a few minutes." 
 
 The Hofraethin rang the bell. 
 
 " Annette," said she, in a drawling voice, " I request Miss 
 Emmy to come into the drawing-room for a few minutes." 
 
 " In the mean time allow me to introduce my relations in 
 due form. Frau von Ustendorff." 
 
 Louise bowed. 
 
 " Herr Lieutenant von — ^von Upon my word, my 
 
 dear Otto, I cannot remember your name." 
 
 " I have the honor already," said the Hofraethin, in an icy 
 tone. 
 
 " Ah, tant mieux, tant mieux !" 
 
 At this moment the door opened. Emmy appeared on the 
 door-sill. She wore a neat and becoming dress. She was 
 very pale. Her pretty blue eyes betrayed a secret soiSrow. 
 
 She shuddered when she saw the lieutenant. Otto shiv- 
 ered to the tip-end of.his sword. 
 
 Leopold went to meet the frightened" girl, and kissed her 
 hand respectfully. Then he planted himself in the middle of 
 the drawing-room and pulled Emmy's photograph out of his 
 pocket. He read aloud and distinctly as follows : 
 
CARDS FOR FOUR. 265 
 
 "'To my beloved Otto, with a hundred tender kisses. 
 Emmy.' " 
 
 The poor girl screamed as if a dagger had been plunged 
 into her heart. 
 
 " What does that mean ?" asked the Hofraethin, frowning. 
 " Why, it means that Otto is tenderly beloved by Emmy, 
 and kissed by her a hundred times. That seems clear 
 enough." 
 
 " I do not see the point. Are you deranged, son-in-law ?" 
 " My name is Leopold. The tenderly beloved Otto is 
 sitting in that chair, trembling." 
 " In the name of all the saints 1" 
 
 " Listen to me, Frau Hofraethin. Your dear little Emmy 
 is a charming girl. In the whole of Germany there is per- 
 haps only one lovelier bride ; but in my eyes she has one 
 unpardonable fault." 
 " Doctor 1" 
 
 " Yes, I say an unpardonable fault. Her heart belongs 
 to another." 
 " Nonsense 1 a joke, a flirtation 1" 
 Now it was the lieutenant's turn to speak. 
 " Oh, dear madam," said he, with a deep-drawn sigh, " do 
 not make two young, joyful hearts eternally miserable I 
 Emmy loves me, as I love her, with an unchanging, unex- 
 tinguishable love, and only the filial respect due to a mother's 
 positive commandment could have induced her to consent 
 
 to a " 
 
 " What is the use of wasting words ?" said Leopold. " You 
 must understand, madam, that I must, under existing cir- 
 cumstances, renounce all the rights you had granted me. 
 The real and genuine bridegro'om stands there. Miss Emmy, 
 please to come a little nearer. Here, my dear lieutenant ; 
 the Hofraethin consents willingly to your union. Join 
 hands." 
 
 Emmy sobbed with delighted surprise. She timidly held 
 out her rosy fingers. , 
 
 " Back 1" cried her angry mother. • " I alone dispose of 
 my daughter's hand !" 
 
 " But, my best Hofraethin, you must bow to the decree of 
 fate," said Leopold, soothingly, stepping between the mother 
 and the lovers. " Think of the consequences ; an engage- 
 
 23* 
 
266 CARDS FOn FOVM. 
 
 ment broken off three weeks before the wedding! What 
 would people say? The world would not understand my 
 motives. There would be no end of gossip. And then 
 think of the beautiful trousseau I You surely would not 
 wish to have taken all that trouble for nothing? But I 
 think I hear you say, I shall soon have another proposal for 
 her. So you may, but our Emmy has learnt wisdom from 
 experience. She will die rather than accept a second bride- 
 groom whom her heart has not chosen. And what objection 
 have you really tp this excellent young man? He loves 
 your Emmy to desperation, is steady, brave, and honorable, 
 has a respectable income, and regards you, madam, with a 
 degree of reverence which is quite marvellous, considering 
 the way you have treated him. He did not use one angry, 
 light word. In Otto you will gain a son-in-law who will put 
 his hands under your feet. All unpleasantness, all fatality, 
 and all sorrow is at an end if you say yes. Can a woman of 
 you mental gifts, of your high-mindedness, of your dignity 
 and benevolence, refuse to say the one little word which will 
 bring happiness to two innocent mortals, and save the honor 
 of your house and establish the justice of the decrees of 
 fate?" 
 
 The Hofraethin was vanquished. She rested her chin 
 meditatively upon her breast. Then she determined to put 
 a good face upon the matter. A broad smile softened the 
 harsh, unsympathizing features. 
 
 " Do you really love each other so much, children ?" asked 
 the Hofraethin, with an affectation of benevolence. 
 
 " To distraction 1" cried the lieutenant. 
 
 " Yes, mamma," said Emmy. 
 
 " And you would really like to marry that young man ?" 
 
 " Yes, dear mamma, if you are so good as to allow it," was 
 the timid answer. 
 
 " Then take each other and marry as soon as you like. I 
 see it is impossible to oppose the intrigues of youth." 
 
 " Madam," began Leopold, in a stately manner. 
 
 " Sir 1" said she, a Httle hurt. 
 
 " I hope you will still grant me your friendship. I belong 
 somewhat to the family. The lieutenant and Frau von Us- 
 tendorff are not related to me at the present time, but I am 
 going to remedy that evil as soon as possible." 
 
CARDS FOR FOUR. 267 
 
 " I beg your pardon ; I do not understand you, sir." 
 
 " Then allow me to present my bride to you. My Louise 
 is first cousin to your son-in-law." 
 
 The young widow greeted the startled Hofraethin most 
 gracefully, and apologized for being the uninvited spectator 
 of this family scene. The old lady nodded thoughtfully, as 
 if she saw the matter in a new light. 
 
 " So, so ; is that the way the wind blows ?" murmured she. 
 " I should never have dreamt of that." 
 
 " My dear madam," continued Leopold, " we have fished- 
 up two pearls in one net. We will relate everything to you 
 minutely ; and a lady of your acuteness will soon see that 
 things could not have happened otherwise. If you will allow 
 us we will remain to breakfast. My Louise is dying with 
 anxiety to get well acquainted with you." 
 
 " Well, then, doctor, here is my hand. Come, lieutenant, 
 fate has spoken ; I forgive you." 
 
 " Dear mother !" whispered Otto. 
 
 " Noble-minded woman I" said Leopold, emphatically. " I 
 did not expect less from you. A Hofraethin Fabricius can- 
 not hate where all others love." 
 
 He raised the hand of the ex-mother-in-law to his lips and 
 kissed it with theatrical pathos. 
 
 " And, Miss Emmy," said he, after a pause, " it is true I 
 have no longer a right to your friendly looks ; but I think 
 you might once look at me lovingly. So I- We remain good 
 friends, do we not?" 
 
 The blond child nodded. Louise went up to her and folded 
 her new friend silently in her arms. 
 
REVENGE. 
 
 BY GUSTAV PFLEGER. 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM THE CZECH, OE BOHEMIAN, 
 BY MES. PRANCES C. HENDERSON. 
 
 The storm had ceased, but a strong wind was still blowing 
 and driving before it clouds which looked almost like newly- 
 fallen snow. It was about half an hour before midnight. A 
 post-chaise was driving rapidly along the highway to the 
 
 town of J . The driver whipped up his horses, as they 
 
 were beginning to lag, but all remained so still within the 
 carriage that one might have supposed at first that there was 
 not a living soul in it. At a turn of the road the pale rays 
 of the liioon fell directly into the vehicle and revealed two 
 persons, who seemed to be buried in d§ep sleep. A closer 
 examination would have showed that one did not sleep, but 
 kept st-aring fixedly at the road. This was a pale, black- 
 haired man, of about thirty years of age, with very thick 
 eyebrows and fiery though deep-set eyes. On his left sat a 
 young lady, apparently his wife ; a thick veil hid her face, 
 but she seemed to be asleep. The man occasionally glanced 
 at her and seemed surprised at her perfect quiet, and then he 
 stared again out of the window. 
 
 The white rays of the moon occasionally burst through 
 the dark clouds which had gathered anew, and showed that 
 the carriage was leaving the wood and coming out into the 
 plain. The light from the post-house was shining in the dis- 
 tance, and at the end of about a quarter of an hour the 
 
 269 
 
270 REVENGE. 
 
 chaise was standing before the post-house in J . It was 
 
 close by the best hotel in the place, and the postilion opened 
 the carriage-door to ask if he should drive to it. 
 
 " Have we arrived ?" asked the traveller, in a ringing voice. 
 
 " Yes, sir," answered the postilion. " The best hotel in 
 the place is close to the post ; there is still light in the re- 
 ceiving-room. Do you wish me to call the landlord or the 
 waiter?" 
 
 " Do so," replied the gentleman ; and the postilion went at 
 once, leaving his tired horses to the care of the stable-boy. 
 In the mean time the male traveller got out, showing that he 
 was a tall, well-made man, very elegantly dressed. 
 
 " Can I assist you, Matilda?" said he to the lady in the 
 carriage. " It is beginning to rain again ; let us hasten to get 
 under shelter." 
 
 The lady rose quietly, and, taking the gentleman's prof- 
 fered hand, stepped lightly on the iron stirrup and sprang to 
 the ground. At that moment the postilion returned with 
 the waiter of the hotel, who conducted the travellers to the 
 hotel, and opened for them the best room on the first story. 
 It was a plain room, without mirrors, without velvet furni- 
 ture, without silk quilts on the beds, and yet it looked invit- 
 ing and comfortable, and the tallow candles at least answered 
 for the good will of the landlord. Two windows looked out 
 on to the street, and on each side of these were two beds, 
 with clean white linen ; a large wardrobe, a sofa, and a round 
 table completed the furniture of the room. 
 
 The waiter put the bags and parcels into the wardrobe and 
 brought up three leather trunks, and was .leaving the room, 
 when the gentleman said, " Is the room next to this occu- 
 pied ?" 
 
 " No, sir ; but if you wish " 
 
 " Open it, and carry my wife's things into the next room, 
 and call the chambermaid. Bring me wine." 
 
 The waiter went. In a short time the key was heard to 
 turn in the outside lock ; the door of communication was 
 thrown open, and the chambermaid appeared, carrying two 
 candles. She led the lady into the adjoining room ; the gen- 
 tleman seemed absorbed in deep thought. After a while he 
 got up, and, having ascertained that the lady had finished 
 her toilet, he went to one of the trunks and took out a small 
 
JREVENGE. 271 
 
 leather travelling-case. From this he took two pistols, closed 
 the case and put it back in the trunk. Having assured him- 
 self that the pistols were loaded, he put them in the breast- 
 pocket of his coat. 
 
 About this time the strange lady, whom the gentleman 
 called his wife, appeared out of the adjoining room. Her 
 appearance would certainly have struck any one who saw her 
 for the first time. She was nearly as tall as her husband, 
 and her dark eye fairly shot fire ; the smile playing round 
 her mouth was ironical rather than friendly, and everything 
 betokened a vivacious and excitable temperament. Her 
 high, snow-white forehead showed unbending determination, 
 and her unflinching dark eyes were overshadowed by dark, 
 wavy hair. One might almost have thought her to be in 
 league with the powers of darkness. Her dress, of a soft 
 and yielding material, fitted closely to the full bust, and a 
 beautiful arm and hand were shown off to advantage by the 
 wide, flowing sleeve. She took a seat near her husband, in 
 an attitude of the most perfect nonchalance, and supported 
 her head with her snow-white hand. 
 
 The gentleman remained plunged in deep thought, occa- 
 sionally he turned towards the lady, and then his whole frame 
 trembled. His lips and round his mouth were ashy pale, and 
 in vain he tried to speak. Some trouble seemed to be gnaw- 
 ing at his heart-strings and to deprive him of the power of 
 utterance. Just then the waiter came in with a large tray, 
 on which were a bottle of wine, some glasses, and a dish of 
 cold meat, with bread and butter. 
 
 " We do not need anything more," said the gentleman. 
 " You can order post-horses for six o'clock to-morrow morning 
 for my wife." He- drew his chair up to the table and poured 
 wine into two glasses. He emptied his at a draught and filled 
 it again. When he had ordered the post-horses the lady had 
 looked at him inquiringly, but he had not seemed to notice her 
 surprise. After a few moments he spoke. " Matilda," said 
 he, " you will continue your route to-morrow morning, so as 
 to be with your mother as soon as possible." 
 
 The lady rose from her seat, and, fixing her piercing eyes 
 upon her husband, she said, " And I tell you, Alfred, I will 
 not go." The tone, still more than the words, announced an 
 invincible determination. 
 
272 REVENGE. 
 
 " You shall go without delay, my beloved wife," said the 
 gentleman, laying a marked emphasis upon each word. 
 
 " I would rather lose my life ; kill me if you will," said 
 Matilda, losing the composure she had hitherto maintained, 
 and drawing nearer to her husband. He turned away his 
 eyes from her bewitching face and beseeching attitude. " It 
 is of no consequence what you wish, Matilda, though hereto- 
 fore your wish has been my law," said the stranger, firmly. 
 
 "Where axe you going, Alfred?" asked Matilda, quietly. 
 
 "I shall go back after a short delay," was the quick reply. 
 
 " I shall not go to mamma." 
 
 " You are afraid of her iron hand. You know that she has 
 an unbending will and uncompromising uprightness, and that 
 she will force you to care for your own honor and that of the 
 name I have given you," said the young man. 
 
 " Not a word more, Alfred !" screamed his wife, and she 
 seized his hand and squeezed it so tight that she left the print 
 of h«r nails on it. " As your wife I have a right." 
 
 " Hush, you are no longer my wife," said the young man. 
 " You have tarnished my fair name, you have sullied mine 
 honor, you have rent in twain the sacred bond which united 
 us. You will remain my wife in the eyes of the world, but 
 you have long ceased to be so in reality." 
 
 The lady did not answer a word. Her head had fallen 
 back, her eyes were closed, and the color had left her cheeks ; 
 her right hand rested on her bosom, which wore the hue of 
 death. She was unconscious. 
 
 The young man had poured himself out and drank two 
 more glasses of wine. He rested his hot head upon his hand 
 and looked with a strange and wondering joy at the beautiful 
 creature near him. 
 
 Five minutes passed. The lady recovered consciousness. 
 In the mean time the young man had left the room several 
 times and always returned in deep thought. Suddenly he 
 approached her with a glass of wine in his hand, and said, 
 with piercing irony, " My dear lady, you are a good actor, if 
 you are now playing the comedy. If you are not acting, 
 your weakness surprises me more than your skill would. I 
 shall be much obliged to you if you will remain quiet for a 
 few minutes and listen to me attentively, as this is the last 
 time we shall ever speak together." 
 
REVENGE. 273 
 
 The lady trembled on hearing these last words, but she did 
 not speak. 
 
 The young man emptied his glass again, and thus addressed 
 his wife : 
 
 " You know — although your memory is your weakest point 
 — that we have been married four years, and that we thought 
 at one time that we loved each other. Your mother, a most 
 excellent woman in every respect, brought you up with the 
 greatest care and the most tender love. She kept you se- 
 cluded from the world until you should have a husband, and 
 that is doubtless all that kept you from an early fall. I saw 
 you for the first time in the circle of your young friends, I 
 fell in love with you." Here Alfred's voice was choked by 
 emotidn, and he remained silent for a while. His wife 
 looked downcast and uneasy. At length Alfred resumed his 
 discourse : " I loved you, but did not find the happiness I 
 expected. You soon showed a dislike for all I liked, but I 
 did not oppose you, I thought you would grow wiser as you 
 grew older. Full of romantic devotion to you, I wished to 
 live only for you. As you wished it, I left my regiment and 
 exchanged the military for the civil service. I did not then 
 realize that I was sinning in loving you so exclusively. Your 
 mother would not, however, agree to my marrying you. She 
 and she only saw that we were not made for each other. We 
 left your mother's house secretly, after having written her a 
 letter begging for her consent to our union, and also for a 
 trousseau which would enable you to appear as became a bride. 
 Even in our honeymoon you craved amusements of every 
 kind and complained of the monotony of our life. I took 
 
 you to the baths of S , and there you soon plunged deep 
 
 into the vortex of dissipation. Anything and everything to 
 make time pass more quickly. I let you do it ; I thought 
 you would soon see the hollowness of these empty pleasures, 
 and that you would then appreciate the sterling worth of 
 your husband's steadfast love. My love was so blind that I 
 did not see that your purity and honor were among the things 
 that had been. 
 
 " You went to visit your aunt. I did not accompany you, 
 as I had just been called to the bedside of a dying friend. 
 His death not only cost me my best and truest friend, but 
 was the cause of my losing you entirely. You had com- 
 
 24 
 
274 REVENGE. 
 
 pletely forgotten your marriage vow, and had become the 
 heroine of a romance, and your name was coupled in every 
 mouth with opprobrious epithets." 
 
 Again Alfred kept silence for a while. Matilda was sitting 
 pale and still in a corner of the sofa. Her eye was fixed on 
 vacancy. She listened mechanically to what he was say- 
 ing. The wind rushed in through the half-opened window, 
 and streaks of lightning followed each other in rapid succes- 
 sion. The wind howled mournfully and blew out the lights. 
 Alfred went and shut the window, lighted the candles anew, 
 and poured out a fresh glass of wine, which he drank at one 
 gulp. 
 
 " Matilda," said he, " you forged my name, and deserved a 
 bloody death." 
 
 Matilda shook violently, and covered her face with her 
 hands. 
 
 " And you know, Matilda, what I did. I, your unhappy 
 husband, I screened you from punishment. I paid the draft, 
 though it exhausted my available means. 1 thought you 
 would at last make me some return for my faithful and all- 
 enduring love. But instead of being grateful to me for'having 
 saved you from your merited punishment, you threatened at 
 every moment to leave me entirely. And still I loved you. 
 Your mother turned from you and forbade you to enter her 
 house, but I loved you still I 
 
 " You know, Matilda, to what your thoughtlessness has led 
 you. You wrote to your paramour offering to fly with him, 
 and that man showed me your letter. He despises your offer 
 and your love. Do you recognize this letter, Matilda ?" said 
 Alfred, with the energy of despair. He took a letter from 
 his pocket and showed it to his wife. She screamed as she 
 might have done if he had thrust a dagger into her heart, and 
 she stretched her snow-white hand out to snatch the letter. 
 Alfred jumped back, and Matilda fell partly on the sofa and 
 partly on the floor. Her bosom was heaving as if it might 
 be her death-struggle, and she was panting for breath, and 
 her pale face and wild eyes were frightful to behold. 
 
 " Let me read this loving epistle to you, my dear lady. 
 Listen well, lest I should skip some passage, or a word even. 
 ' My beloved Victor ! I have made up my mind. My hus- 
 band persecutes me with his accursed love. Evasions avail 
 
REVENGE. 275 
 
 me nothing. I must leave him and come to you. Write me 
 at once, dearest, when it shall be, aa until then I am only half 
 alive.' 
 
 " You know now, Matilda, what he has done with that 
 letter." 
 
 Matilda looked up; her eyes shone with an unearthly fire, 
 and the expression of her face was threatening as she turned 
 to Alfred with the rapidity of lightning and looked straight 
 into his eyes. 
 
 " Do not take the trouble, dear lady," said Alfred, with 
 a gesture of impatience. " I see to-day that you have not 
 known me ; you have thought there were no limits to my 
 endurance." 
 
 So saying, he went to the table and put the tell-tale letter 
 into the candle. It flamed up, giving a momentary brilliancy 
 to the room. 
 
 The wife screamed again, but this time it seemed to be 
 more a scream of joy at deliverance from a great danger. It 
 was a scream of surprise. She behaved as one deranged ; 
 she tossed herself about on the sofa and tore into a hundred 
 pieces the handkerchief which she held in her hand. She 
 loosened her neckkerchief and seemed to have spasms. She 
 looked more like a hyena than a human being. 
 
 Alfred had gone to the window, but he turned round, and 
 his face darkened as he gazed on this beautiful fiend. The 
 storm raged outside, the lightning flashed, and all the elements 
 seemed to be unchained. A struggle was going on in the 
 young man's bosom. For a while he was as motionless as if 
 he had been turned to stone ; then he seemed to revive, and 
 ■ repeated several times to himself, " It must be ; I cannot bear 
 this life longer ;" then he turned to his wife, who had in the 
 mean time become quiet, and, going close to her, said, — 
 
 " I have forgiven you all, Matilda I May Grod have mercy 
 on your soul ! You have cheated me out of the happiness of 
 my life ; you have dishonored my name, and trampled your 
 vows under your feet ; you have added one crime to another, 
 but I will forgive you all if you will go to your mother." 
 
 " Never, never 1" shrieked Matilda. " Kill me rather, ter- 
 rible man." 
 
 " Then I must revenge myself upon you," said Alfred. 
 He pulled out a pistol and fired twice, three times at his 
 
276 REVENGE. 
 
 wife. He cocked the pistol again, pulled the trigger, and 
 the ball went straight through his own heart. » 
 
 Alfred has at last found peace. In his will he was found 
 to have left all his property to benevolent institutions. 
 
 Three months afterwards Matilda went to America with a 
 young nobleman. She had not regretted her husband ; on 
 the contrary, she had rejoiced that his death had left her 
 free. 
 
 And the moral to this story ? The reader must draw it. 
 
RUE DES PIERRES, NO. 60. 
 
 A FLEMISH PLAY WITH A FEENOH NAME. 
 BY EUGENE STROOBANT. 
 
 PERrORMED AT THE TLEMISH THEATRE IN BRUSSELS JUST 
 
 AFTER THE TLBMISH SIGNS AT THE CORNERS OF THB 
 
 STREETS HAD BEEN TAKEN DOWN. 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM THE FLEMISH 
 BY MRS. rKANOES C. HENDERSON. 
 
 PERSONS REPRESENTED. 
 
 Mu. Ballast, a niember of the Town Council, 
 
 GuSTAVE, /w8 nephew. 
 
 The garde-champStre Van Goyck. 
 
 Mr. Breakbals. 
 
 Matilda, Ballast's niece and Gdstave's sister. 
 
 Marianna, o Bmaaela jUhwoman. 
 
 Jean Pierre, a coal merchant, 
 
 Tribn, a honeemaid out of place, 
 
 Wantje, a young peasant girl, 
 
 Josepu, porter at Mr. Ballast's. 
 
 FIRST SCENE. 
 
 Matilda and Gustave. 
 
 When the curtain goes up Matilda is sitting down. Before 
 her stands a trunk, and she is looking over various articles 
 of clothing, Gustave is standing to the right, and seems 
 also to be examining a pair of pantaloons. 
 
 Matilda. Can you believe it, Gustave, the nearer the 
 
 hour of the representation approaches the more anxious I 
 
 feel? 
 
 24* 277 
 
278 RVE DES PIERRES, NO. 60. 
 
 GusTAVE. Anxious ! and why ? I will just ask you one 
 question. When you play in Mr. Van Mecl'a drawing-room 
 in Ghent, do you feel anxious ? 
 
 Matilda. That is very different, Gustave. There I play 
 before a few persons, a few acquaintances, and here I am to 
 appear before the public. 
 
 Gustave. Oh, that comes to the same thing. See, a 
 button is wanting here also. [Se hands her the pantaloons.'] 
 
 Matilda. It is not, after aJl, so much the idea of appear- 
 ing before the public that frightens me, but the fear that 
 Uncle Ballast may hear of it, 
 
 Gustave. Uncle Ballast I He won't trouble himself much 
 about us. He goes out regularly at dusk every evening, and 
 it is long after midnight before he comes home. For a whole 
 year I have attended every evening the meetings of the 
 Flemish Thespians, and uncle has not the least idea that I 
 belong to them. 
 
 Matilda. Oh, I am not afraid of his finding it out by 
 himself, but some one might tell him. 
 
 Gustave. And who could tell him? Who knows you? 
 The Thespians themselves do not know that the actress from 
 Ghent, who is to star it here this evening alone, is my sister. 
 
 Matilda. It was only after receiving your promise to that 
 effect that I agreed to play. 
 
 Gustave. Then how could he possibly discover you? 
 See, here a bow is wanting. [He gives her the garment he 
 has in his hand and gets another out of the trvmk^ 
 
 Matilda. Gustave, let us ask him. 
 
 Gustave. To play this evening in the Flemish theatre ? 
 
 Matilda. No ; only to accompany us thither. [Gustave 
 shrugs his shoulders.'] Do you think he would refuse us ? 
 
 Gustave. Refuse us I That he would, most certainly. 
 Uncle is so Frenchified, and so prejudiced against the Flem- 
 ish language, that he will not allow any one to speak a word 
 of Flemish in his hearing. Yes, Matilda, all that the Town 
 Council has done against the Flemish tongue, has been at 
 his instigation. I know how busy he has made himself in 
 Brussels. 
 
 Matilda. For all that, I shall feel easier in my mind 
 when I have asked him. 
 
 Gustave. Matilda, you are an honorable girl, and if you 
 
RVE DES PIERRES, NO. 60. 279 
 
 feel thus, ask him, and see if you don't catch it. But I hear 
 him coming. Quick, quick, pack up our things, march I 
 [ They throw the garments hurriedly into the trunk. Matilda 
 opens the door to the right, and Gtjstave pushes the trunk 
 into the nearest room. Matilda shuts the door."] 
 
 SECOND SCENE. 
 
 Matilda and Ballast, coming from the left ; later, Jo- 
 seph, through the middle door. 
 
 Matilda. \_Going to meet her uncle.'] Good-morning, 
 dearest uncle. I hope you slept well. 
 
 Ballast. A merveille, my dear child. [5e kisses her on 
 the forehead.'] And you ? 
 
 Matilda. Very well, uncle ; thank you. 
 
 Ballast. You will dijeHner with me, will you not ? 
 
 Matilda. Excuse me, dear uncle, I could not wait so 
 long. I have already breakfasted with Gustave. 
 
 Ballast. And I, who told Joseph to bring up two dijeHners ! 
 'Voild ! there he is with them I [Joseph comes in and sets 
 the tahU.] Have you then, du tout, no appetite or no thirst ? 
 
 Matilda. If you wish it, uncle, I will take a cup of tea, 
 to keep you company. 
 
 Ballast. A la bonne heure. [He takes his seat at toMe.] 
 
 Matilda. [Aside, taking a chair likewise.] I do it the 
 more willingly, as it will give me an excellent opportunity to 
 speak about the theatre. 
 
 Ballast. Allans, niece, A table ? [ To Joseph, while Ma- 
 tilda is taking her seat.] Joseph, bring me the correspon- 
 dance which has crrriwAsiuce yesterday evening. 
 
 Matilda. Uncle, you ought really to take time to eat and 
 drink. You have hardly sat down, and you are already ask- 
 ing for your letters and newspapers. 
 
 Ballast. That is so as not to lose any time, my child. 
 We hommes d' administration, as they call us, ought never to 
 be unoccupied. 
 
 Matilda. Yes ; but there is no law obliging you to do two 
 works at once. 
 
 Ballast. Toujours espi&gle, eh 1 And then while I am 
 reading I cannot converse with you, is that it ? 
 
 Matilda. You have guessed it exactly, uncle. 
 
280 RUE DBS PIERRES, NO. 60. 
 
 Ballast. Well ? I shall only give a coup cPceil to my cor- 
 respondaiice, and then I am compUtement A vous. \_To Jo- 
 seph, who is just coming ire.] Voyons! [Joseph hands him 
 the letters and papers, and goes away.'] A gazette. I shall 
 not open it to day. Ha I a letter ; will you allow me to 
 dicacheter it? [JTe opens it.] What is that? — Flemish. 
 Quoi! A rdclame against the enUvement of the Flemish 
 signs at the corners of the streets ! And do they really think 
 I shall read that trash ? Du tout, dv, tout ! The time is 
 passi'd when a counsellor must read a letter written in that 
 Jargon. Away with that trash 1 [5e throws the letter on the 
 table.'] You see, my dear niece, I shall not be occupS'd very 
 long this morning. I expddie my affaires very lestement. 
 I must look at this sous bande. What do I see ? More 
 Flemish I " Cirque Schonburg, National Theatre, Represen- 
 tation." How can it enter anybody's head to send me a 
 programme of a Flemish spectacle ? [^Laughing.] Ha, ha, ha I 
 
 Matilda. [^Aside.] I must seize this opportunity. 
 [_Aloud.] A Flemish play, did you say, uncle ? 
 
 Ballast. Why, yes. 'Foyez, Mathilde. 
 
 Matilda. Yes, truly! And are you not going to it, 
 uncle ? 
 
 Ballast. 'Vous vovlez badiner, Mathilde. I go to see 
 a Flemish play I I, a counsellor of the city of Brussels ! 
 
 Matilda. And I had already counted upon you to accom- 
 pany us this evening to the Flemish theatre. 
 
 Ballast. Are you speaking sirieusement, Matilda ? 
 
 Matilda. Certainly, uncle. I am devoted to the Flemish 
 theatre. 
 
 Ballast. My dear Matilda, I should like to do what is 
 dgriahle to you, but I am ford' d to refuser. My colleagues 
 would make fun of me. 
 
 Matilda. Your refusal distresses me, dear uncle. 
 
 Ballast. Allons, allons ! You are childish. But before 
 you go back to Grhent I will take you to the French Thi&tre 
 de la Monnaie; that is better worth seeing than a Flemish 
 play. But where is your brother, Matilda ? 
 
RUE DES PIERRES, NO. 60. 281 
 
 THIRD SCENE. 
 The preceding and GuSTAVE. 
 
 Matilda. [Gustave comes in throitgh the middle door.'] 
 Here he is, uncle. 
 
 GusTAVE. How did you spend the night ? 
 
 Ballast. Merd, Gustave, I slept on ne peut mieux. 
 
 Matilda. Only think, Gustave, a Flemish play is given 
 to-night I 
 
 Gustave. Of course I know it, Matilda, and if uncle will 
 allow it I will take you there this evening. 
 
 Ballast. Quoi! You talk of going to the Flemish 
 theatre ! 
 
 Matilda. Oh, dear uncle, do procure us that pleasure \ 
 
 Ballast. Du tout, du tout! I am not willing for you to be 
 seen in such company. 
 
 Gustave. [ With digniti/.'] Uncle ! 
 
 Ballast. Well, well ! Can you expect to see respectable 
 people where nothing is spoken but Flemish ? 
 
 Gustave. Uncle, if you knew the Flemish society in 
 Brussels, you would be delighted with it. 
 
 Ballast, And you, my nephew, who speak so warmly in 
 its favor, do ypu know it ? 
 
 Gustave. Of course ; I belong to it. 
 
 Ballast. So, you belong to it I Then you have probably 
 seen this reclame against the enUvement of the Flemish eti- 
 quettes at the corners of the streets ? 
 
 Gustave. I have not only*seen it, uncle, but I knew that 
 a copy was to be sent to you. 
 
 Ballast. A copy \he takes up the letter which he had just 
 received and laid on the table'] which I have not yet taken 
 the trouble to read. 
 
 Gustave. You doubtless fear the truths stated therein. 
 
 Ballast. Futilitd, mon cher. How can it possibly hurt 
 the Flemings to have the names of the streets in Brussels 
 posted up only in French ? 
 
 Gustave. You seem to forget what Brussels is, uncle. 
 Brussels is the capital of a country in which two-thirds of 
 the inhabitants are Flemish. And the capital belongs to the 
 whole country. Each one, the Fleming as the Frenchman, 
 
282 RUE DES PIERRES, NO. 60. 
 
 the Frenehman as the Fleming, ought to feel at home here. 
 Well I Why do you remove the language spoken by the 
 majority of the people, and leave only that spoken by the 
 minority? Is not that putting the Flemish-Belgian, who 
 comes to Brussels, in a strait ? Does it not oblige him to pay 
 a guide, or else to lose a great deal of his precious time in in- 
 quiring his way ? Yes ; I do not hesitate to say that taking 
 away the Flemish signs at the corners of the streets was an 
 act of stupidity, a downright piece of injustice, that the tax- 
 payers in the city ought not to submit to. 
 
 Ballast. Charmant ! You are an excellent lawyer ; but 
 to show you how little cos I make of your raisonnement, I 
 shall in the rapport which I shall make of this petition 
 
 GusTAVE. Resolve, that the signs shall always be in both 
 languages. 
 
 Ballast. Du tout ! I shall declare that it is important 
 to efface every letter of the frightful gibberish which you 
 difendez. 
 
 GtrsTAVE. You shall not do that 1 
 
 Ballast. And who shall hinder me ? 
 
 GUSTAVE. I. 
 
 Ballast. You t VoUa qui est un pen fort ! 
 
 GusTAVE. It is true, nevertheless. And what is more, 
 you shall defend our cause in your rapport. 
 
 Ballast. I ? Ha, ha ! Comptez Id-dessus ! 
 
 GusTAVE. If you grant me one hour, I will convert you. 
 
 Ballast. But Have you sworn to drive me mad ? 
 
 GusTAVE. Yes ; before an hour has passed you will under- 
 stand that the day must come when the Flemings, who are 
 now carried away by their admiration for everything French, 
 and have lost sight of what is for their own good, will see 
 that the only way to preserve Belgium's nationality is to pre- 
 serve its own peculiar language. 
 
 Ballast. \^Aside.'] I believe I shall soon lose my wits. 
 \_Alovd.'] I advise you to dibiter your beaux discours else- 
 where ; here they can only digoUter. 
 
 GnsTAVE. Well, you shall judge yourself, uncle. Do you 
 know what the Flemings call a fransgydllon f 
 
 Ballast, [/ji a passion.'] FransquUhn ! We shall see. 
 Begone, sir, and never let me see you again I [-isiWe.] He 
 called me a, framquillon. 
 
RUE DES PIERRES, NO. 60. 283 
 
 Matilda. [_AnxiousIi/.'] Gustave, do go away. 
 GusTAVE. I obey you, uncle ; the more readily that I have 
 already said enough. 
 
 Ballast. You have said a great deal too much. Go ! 
 
 ^FOUETH SCENE. 
 Ballast and Matilda. 
 
 Ballast. In my whole life I have never seen such an 
 enrac/S. 
 
 Matilda. Forgive him, uncle. He is still so young. 
 
 Ballast. \_Scom/vMt/.'] He is young, c'est vrai, but if he 
 continues so he will be still worse when he grows older. And 
 then to dare to pretender that I shall make my rapport in 
 favor of the Flemish. I ! Allans done ! I shall soon show 
 him the contraire. 
 
 Matilda. [_Friffhtened.'] Dear uncle, I am so sorry that 
 my brother spoke so incautiously ; pray forgive him, I en- 
 treat you. Best assured that he entertains none the less the 
 deepest respect for you, the most profound gratitude. 
 
 Ballast. Yes, yes, Hy paralf. To call me afransquillon! 
 [A little softened!] See, Matilda, he should not have said 
 that, though, to tell the honest truth, he was not so far wrgng. 
 
 Matilda. [Suddenly changing her tone."] Well, uncle, I 
 have a proposal to make. To prove that you are not quite 
 Frenchified, go with us to the Flemish play-house. 
 
 Ballast. [Sternly.'] Matilda! 
 
 Matilda. Well, then, let me go with Gustave. 
 
 Ballast. Matilda, leave me in peace and do not worry me 
 any more. [ With emphasis.] Je ne le veux pas. That is 
 my last word. Allans ! I am going to dress myself, as it is 
 near the time when my administres are in the habit of coming 
 to consulter me. You know a conseiller always has visitors. 
 
 Matilda. [Kissing him.] But you will not be angry any 
 more? 
 
 Ballast. lAttle fripanne. [He kisses her on the forehead 
 and goes.] 
 
 FIFTH SCEN£. 
 Matilda and Gustave. 
 Gustave. [Opens the middle door carefully.] Has he 
 gone, Matilda? 
 
284 SUE DES PIERRES, NO. 60. 
 
 Matilda. Crustave! 
 
 GusTAVB. [Drawing nearer."] Weill how did you like 
 the sauce. Pretty strong of pepper, eh ? 
 
 Matilda. Rather too hot. 
 
 GtrSTAVE. Come, come, it cannot be bad enough. Men 
 like Ballast, who are born Flemings, and who have the con- 
 fidence of the people, deserve to be treated so. But we will 
 not speak of it any more. We must force him to make a 
 report favorable to the Flemish cause, and you must help me. 
 
 Matilda. I? 
 
 GusTAVE. I must keep my word ; and besides, I should like 
 to give Uncle Ballast a practical lesson. 
 
 Matilda. What are you going to do ? 
 
 Gtjstave. Why, we will simply rehearse here the parts we 
 are going to perform this evening. 
 
 Matilda. Here? 
 
 GuSTAVE.' Yes, here. We will let Uncle Ballast, without 
 his knowledge, take the part of the Frenchified city coun- 
 sellor. 
 
 Matilda. Are you dreamipg? 
 
 GusTAVE. Come, come, no more time wasted in talking. 
 Go and dress ; I will come immediately, — as soon as I have 
 givSn Joseph my instructions. 
 
 SIXTH SCENE. 
 GusTAVE and Joseph. 
 
 GuSTAVE. Joseph, would you like to go this evening to 
 the Flemish theatre? 
 
 Joseph. 1 ? go to the Flemish theatre ? Good heavens ! 
 I would almost sell my soul for that ! 
 
 Gttstave. That is not necessary. All you have to do to 
 earn a ticket is to lend me a helping hand. 
 
 Joseph. [ With ddigkt, putting up his sleeves.] In what ? 
 I am ready. 
 
 GtrsTAVE. Not so ; I will explain how it is. 
 
 Joseph. I am" all attention. 
 
 GusTAVE. I have just had a hot quarrel with my uncle ; 
 he is furious. 
 
 Joseph. I understand. 
 
RUE DES PIERRES, NO. 60. 285 
 
 GusTAVE. But if I could once do something to make him 
 laugh, it would all be smoothed over, 
 
 Joseph. I understand. But what can I do to make him 
 laugh? 
 
 GusTAVE. Not you. I shall try it myself. 
 
 Joseph. Now, I do not understand at all. 
 
 GusTAVE. That is not necessary. Listen to me. 
 
 Joseph. I am listening. 
 
 GusTAVE. Six persons are coming to speak to Mr. Ballast. 
 
 Joseph. One after the other ? or 
 
 GusTAVE. Yes. You will take them in to him. Nothing 
 more. 
 
 Joseph. I understand. I am just to do what I do every 
 day. 
 
 GtrsTAVE. Just so ; only if you should happen to know 
 one of those persons, you must not let any one suspect it. 
 
 Joseph. I understand. But, Mr. Gustave, may I ask 
 you something ? 
 
 Gustave. Be quick, then. 
 
 Joseph. What are you going to do with all those clothes 
 in that trunk, here in the next room ? 
 
 Gustave. You shall know that later. And look here, if 
 you pay attention you shall have two tickets instead of one. 
 
 SEVENTH SCENE. 
 Joseph, alone. 
 
 Joseph. Two tickets for the Flemish theatre ! Would not 
 that be a piece of good luck ? Now, I can take Wantje along. 
 Well, well, that would be a pleasure. I think I hear them 
 singing. My goodness, but the rich people who understand 
 French are lucky I They can go to the theatre every day, 
 and we, poor sinners, who don't understand French, we are 
 like outcasts from the city. We have scarcely five or six 
 representations in the whole winter. I am not a politician, 
 but it don't seem fair to me. I have heard that the town gives 
 eighty thousand francs a year to the French theatres, and I have 
 never yet heard that they have given one centime to the 
 Flemish. No, no, that is not fair. Hal I hear Mr. Ballast; 
 he is certainly coming here. Quick ! I must carry off my 
 tea-tray, and then the room is clear. 
 
 25 
 
286 HUE DBS PIERRES, NO. 60. 
 
 EIGHTH SCENE. 
 Ballast and Joseph. 
 
 Ballast. [ Coming in from the left side.'] Is no one ar- 
 rivid, Joseph ? 
 
 Joseph. No one as yet, sir. 
 
 Ballast. Taut mieux. Then I can go to work on my 
 rapport. Ha, ha ! Mr. Gustavo, you look like making me 
 alter my opinion. 
 
 Joseph. Some one has just rung. Can I show them in, 
 sir? 
 
 Ballast. Yes. 
 
 Joseph. {Aside, going out with the tea-tray. '] Is the game 
 beginning already ? 
 
 NINTH SCENE. 
 Ballast, alone. 
 
 Ballast. Quel ennui to be dirangid so soon. I felt so 
 well disposed for writing ; my head was full of good idies, 
 c'est dommage. 
 
 Joseph. \Opemmg the door and leading Makianna m.] 
 Go in, my good woman. 
 
 Ballast. [ ^.sri^e.] What kind of a commire is that ? 
 
 TENTH SCENE. 
 Ballast and Marianna ; later, Joseph. 
 
 Ballast. Who are you ? 
 
 Marianna. I am Marianna Palings, at your service, sir. 
 
 Ballast. A fishwoman, to judge by the smell. 
 
 Marianna. An honest fishwife from the fish-market, at 
 your service, sir. 
 
 Ballast. Well, Marianna, and what do you want ? 
 
 Marianna. What I want, sir Why, I come for your 
 
 orders. 
 
 Ballast. {Astonished.^ Orders? 
 
 Marianna. {Laughing.'] Why, you don't seem to under- 
 stand me. With your leave, sir. {She tries to taJce a pinch 
 
MUE DES PIERRES, NO. 60. 287 
 
 out of the snuff-hox Mr. Ballast holds in his hands. He 
 succeeds in putting it out of her reach-l 
 
 Ballast. Eh bien ! what are you doing ? You really 
 smell very strong of fish. 
 
 Marianna. That is true, sir. Every one's smell is ac- 
 cording to his trade. But if you will just pay me my cents I 
 will go at once. 
 
 Ballast. Cents 1 and for what, pray ? 
 Marianna. For what I Why, for the fish which my girl 
 brought for your madame, here to your door. 
 
 Ballast. You are certainly mistaken. For one thing, I 
 am not married. 
 
 Marianna. Well, if you are not married, you may for 
 all that have a madame who does your marketing for you. 
 
 Ballast. [Impatiently.'] Woman, I tell you again, you 
 are mistaken. You never brought any fish here. 
 
 Marianna. [Raising her voice.] Look here, if you are 
 going to scream, I shall scream too. What do you mean by 
 screaming ? I can scream too ; and if you think you are 
 going to over-bufialo me, you got up too late, my fine sir. 
 Ha ! I should like to see any one outbellow me. Do you un- 
 derstand me ? 
 
 Ballast. Well, just tell me, where did you take the fish 
 to? 
 
 Marianna. Where the fish was carried ? Well here, just 
 here. Stone Street. Ha ! there is no longer any Flemish 
 sign at the corner of the street, but we all know where 
 Stone Street is. I am born and bred in Brussels, and know 
 the town as well as my " Our Father." It would be a pretty 
 story if I did not know Brussels. 
 Ballast. Stone Street ? Bon ! but what number ? 
 Marianna. Why, the number that stands over your door. 
 A 3, and after it a 9. 
 Ballast. That is No. 39. 
 
 Marianna. Yes, that is No. 39. Well, now, isn't that 
 here? 
 
 Ballast. That was here formerly, but it is not any longer. 
 Marianna. Oh, you wis6 man I Can the houses run off 
 to another part of the town ? 
 Ballast. No ; but it is possible to changer the numbers. 
 Marianna. And why should any one change the num- 
 
288 RUE DES PIERRE8, NO. 60. 
 
 bers ? Any one who has once stolen on the fish-market is 
 always a thief; and I say, once a number is always a num- 
 ber. 
 
 Ballast. Well now, my good woman, that is justement 
 what has deceived you. The numbers have been changed, 
 and this is now No. 60. 
 
 Marianna. That is all very well. All very fine for ras- 
 cals who do not want to pay. It is very easy for them to 
 say the number of the house has been changed. Hal I 
 should not like 
 
 Ballast. But it is so. 
 
 Marianna. Yes; and who does all these fine things? 
 That comes certainly from the state-house. 
 
 Ballast. Of course. » 
 
 Marianna. I thought so. You see, sir, that the gentle- 
 men at the State-house don't know what to do to pass their 
 time. They don't need to smell fishy to earn their living I 
 And where has No. 39 gone to ? 
 
 Ballast. To the other end of the street, par Id. 
 
 Marianna. Well, I will go and look after it ; but take 
 care of yourself if I don't find it ; you might be the worse 
 for it. I should not like Alh the door ! 
 
 Ballast. Adieu! [He rings. Joseph comes in, opens 
 the door, and lets MAkiANNA ovt.'\ Joseph ! 
 
 Joseph. [Comes nearer."] Sir. 
 
 Ballast. Send some one at once to my sign-painter, and 
 tell him to come immediately and take away the old number 
 from over my door. 
 
 Joseph. Good, sir. 
 
 Ballast. [ While Joseph goes out."] I had no idea that 
 altering nimiiros could expose me to such unpleasant misun- 
 derstanding. Allans ! let us get to work. Eh bien ! what is 
 the matter now ? 
 
 Joseph. [ Opens the door again and lets in Jean Pierre.] 
 Go in, my friend. 
 
 ELEVENTH SCENE. 
 
 Ballast and Jean Pierre ; later, Joseph. 
 
 [Jean Pierre, coming in, stammers a few French words.] 
 Ballast. What do you want ? 
 
RXIE DES PIERRES, NO. GO. 289 
 
 Jean Pieerb. Ha, ha,! you can speak Flemish? Ha! I 
 shall probably understand you. 
 
 Ballast. What can I do for you ? 
 
 Jean Pierre. What can you do for me ? It is I who 
 should say that, sir. [J3e opens his portefeuille and takes 
 out of it a paper, which he hands to Mr. Ballast.] See, 
 here is the bill of the houiUe which I have furnished you. 
 
 Ballast. My friend, you are mistaken ; you have fur- 
 nished me no coal. 
 
 Jean Pierre. That is a little too much, really too much ; 
 a little too strong. 
 
 Ballast. It is so strong that it is true. 
 
 Jean Pierre. But, my good friend, I sent you the coal 
 per railway, as you desired. * 
 
 Ballast. I did not commander anything at all. 
 
 Jean Pierre. But here I have your letter ordering the 
 coal, and here is the address, Rtie des Pierres, No. 39. 
 
 Ballast. Well, that is not here. 
 
 Jean Pierre. So, this isn't the Bue des Pierres ? 
 
 Ballast. Oh, yes. 
 
 Jean Pierre. I say so too. I can read, and I have read 
 at the corner of the street a No. 9 and a 30, too. 
 
 Ballast. That was here, but now is has become No. 60. 
 
 Jean Pierre. How did that happen ? 
 
 Ballast. Why, the numbers were changed a few days 
 ago. 
 
 Jean Pierre. Tell that to somebody else. You are only 
 trying to cheat me, and not pay for the coal. No. 39 stands 
 over your door. 
 
 Ballast. That is true ; the old number is still there, but 
 the new one is by it. 
 
 Jean Pierre. That is none of my business. I must have 
 my pay where I sent my coal. 
 
 Ballast. You are an obstinate fellow ; you will not under- 
 stand me. 
 
 Jean Pierre. Oh, I understand you well enough, but 
 you pretend not to understand me. 
 
 Ballast. Come, my man, that lasts a little too long. I 
 tell you you are mistaken. You have nothing to claim, and 
 therefore \_He rings.'] 
 
 Jean Pierre. You 'cannot get off that way. 
 25* 
 
290 RUE DES PIERRES, NO. 60. 
 
 Ballast. [ To Joseph, who appears at the middle door.l 
 Take this man and show him No. 39, 
 
 Joseph. Well, that is here, sir. 
 
 Jean Pieerb. Ha 1 you see now. 
 
 Ballast. [Angrily to Joseph.] That was here formerly. 
 Don't you remember that the numbers have been changed ? 
 
 Joseph. To be sure. Yes, I remember it. [2b Jean* 
 PiEEKE.] Come, comrade. 
 
 Jean Pierre. I don't know if I want to, 
 
 Joseph. Oh, come along ; believe me, I will bring you 
 where you want to go, and if you find that it is not the right 
 place, you can always come back again. 
 
 Jean Pierre. Ha ! You shall not escape me. My son, 
 Pierre Josepli, is waiting for me in the street. I shall put 
 him as a sentinel before your door, and then take care of 
 yourself, sir. [He goes.'\ 
 
 TWELFTH SCENE. 
 Ballast and Joseph. 
 
 Ballast. Well, Joseph, is the old number painted over ? 
 
 Joseph. Yes, sir ; the paint is nearly dry. 
 
 Ballast. [Aside.'] So much the better. Now at least 
 there can be no more mistakes. [Ahvd.'\ It is well. , [Joseph 
 goesJ\ Hal now at last I can occuper myself with my 
 rapport. Voyons, let us attack the Flemings, and show them 
 thsA, it is a, fait accompli. [Writing.'] Messieurs. [The bed 
 rings.'] That cursed bell I 
 
 Joseph. [Behind the screen, near the middle door.] Come 
 in, my good woman. 
 
 THIETEENTH SCENE. 
 Ballast and Trien. 
 
 Trien. Good-morrow, sir ; how well you are looking. I 
 am glad to see it. I am also well. [She takes a chair and 
 sits down close by Mr. Ballast.] 
 
 Ballast. [Poshing away his chair. Aside.] Dear me, 
 what old witch is this ? 
 
 Trien. [Drawing nearer him.] I am a little deaf, sir, 
 
RVE DES PIERRES, NO. 60. 291 
 
 which IS the reason I must sit so close by you. You do not 
 know me, sir? 
 
 Ballast. Not at all. 
 
 TaiEN. Well, I will tell you why I came. The sister of 
 the niece of the barber of Mynheer's servant told me that 
 you needed a good servant, a person of a certain age, to 
 manage your house, so I have come to ask you if you would 
 not like to engage me. 
 
 Ballast. My good woman 
 
 Teien. My name is Trien, sir ; Catharina Dobbeleer. 
 
 Ballast. Well, Trien 
 
 Tbien. Oh, I know what Mynheer is going to say. You 
 are going to say that I am too old. I am not exactly young, 
 that is true. I am sixty-two years old,«sir. You would not 
 have thought that, would you? Yes, sir, I am sixty-two 
 years old ; but I am still active. 
 
 Ballast. You can use your tongue, too. 
 
 Trien. Yes, sir ; and I can do my work as well as the 
 best of them. See here, sir, are all my certificates. \_She 
 puts some papers in his hand.'\ Take your time and read 
 them, sir. You will see that I lived sixteen years with the 
 sexton of Magerhal, twelve years with the burgomaster of 
 Lapschure, and sixteen years with the pastor of Uilekote. 
 May heaven have mercy on his dear soul I I saw them all 
 three die, sir, and made them comfortable in their last mo- 
 ments. Just look at the papers, sir ; that is also in it. 
 
 Ballast. But, my good woman 
 
 Trien. Oh, you shall not have any cause for complaint, 
 sir. You will never have been better off in your life. I 
 work well, I eat little, and drink also very little. 
 
 Ballast. And you talk very little, also. 
 
 Trien. Oh, sir, I may have my faults like another, but 
 you will never hear me speak ill of any one. 
 
 Ballast. It is all very well, my good woman, but there 
 is one diflSculty. 
 
 Trien. A difficulty, sir, a difficulty ? Mynheer means that 
 it is a pity that I am deaf? 
 
 Ballast. No ; I mean that I do not need any maid. 
 
 Trien. Why could you not say that at once ? Mynheer 
 let me tell him everything, and then says he don't need any 
 maid. 
 
292 RUE DES PIERRES, NO. 60. 
 
 Ballast. That is to say, my good woman, you did not 
 give me time to open my mouth to tell you. 
 
 Teien. That comes to exactly the same thing. If I do 
 not suit Mynheer, he is free not to take me ; but I think it 
 would have been civil in Mynheer to say that before he gave 
 me the trouble of coming here. 
 
 Ballast. Whatl I? 
 
 Trien. Yes, you ; why did you tell people to get you a 
 maid ? 
 
 Ballast. I assure you, my good woman 
 
 Teien. Yes, Mynheer finds it very funny to make a fool 
 of me. I am not acquainted in this street; but I was told to 
 come to the Pjeire Street, No. 60, to speak to a gentleman who 
 lives here. • 
 
 Ballast. \_Aside.'\ G-oodI there we have it again. [Alovd."] 
 The Pjeire Street you say ? That is not here. 
 
 Trien. That is not here. How is that possible ? As I 
 came to the corner of the street I asked a sort of citizen sol- 
 dier, who stood there staring at the crows, where the Pjeire 
 Street was ? " Pje6re, Pjeire," said he ; " that is just here." 
 
 Ballast. That is juste; it was undoubtedly a garde-viUe, 
 the Flemings are so stupid. He thought you were speaking 
 French, and this is really the Rue des Pierres. 
 
 Trien. That I should speak French ! I never did that in 
 my life ; but that is all one. I beg Mynheer's pardon, and 
 would just ask. him how I shall find the Pfeire Street, where I 
 want to go. 
 
 Ballast. With much plaisir. The street is close to the 
 Augustina Church, but so that you need not make any mis- 
 take just remember that it is written up Rue du Gheval. 
 
 Trien. How did you say that, sir, ratteval? 
 
 Ballast. Rite du Cheval. 
 
 Trien. Oh, I cannot remember that. I never learnt 
 French. 
 
 Ballast. Wait, I will write it for you." [jETe writes.l 
 
 Trien. That is better, sir, that is better. Oh, what a 
 good man you are I How I should have liked to live with 
 you ! I cannot tell you how glad I should have been, and 
 Mynheer would have been content with me. I am good at 
 all kinds of work, but if it cannot be that it should be here, 
 there is nothing more to do about it. 
 
mjE DES PIERRES, NO. 60. 293 
 
 Ballast. Here, my good woman, take care not to lose 
 your address and your certificates. {He rings. Joseph opens 
 the door.'] 
 
 Tkien. It is not necessary, sir, I never yet lost anything. 
 Much obliged, sir. 
 
 Ballast. Adieu. [Tkien goes.] 
 
 FOUETEENTH SCENE. 
 Ballast and Joseph. 
 
 Ballast. The old witch has nearly rendered me as crazy as 
 she is herself. One thing is certain : if I had had the least 
 idea of what I should have to endure I should never have 
 labored to have the numbers of the houses changed, and to 
 have the Flemish ^igns taken away from the corners of the 
 streets. Should that rascal . of a Gustave really be in the 
 right ? But no ; he might boast that he had induced me to 
 change my opinion, and I mean to show him that I have a 
 head of my own. For all that I begin to see that he spoke 
 the truth. Now I can go on with my rapport. [He reads.] 
 Messieurs 
 
 Joseph. \_Opening the door.] Go in, Guard. 
 
 FIFTEENTH SCENE. 
 Ballast and the Garde-Champ£tre. 
 
 Guard. Good-day, sir. 
 
 Ballast. Good morning, Champetre. Where do you come 
 from? 
 
 Guard. I come from Goyek. 
 
 Ballast. From Goyck ! And what can I do for you ? 
 
 Guard. Well, sir, I come about that business. You know 
 what. 
 
 Ballast. Indeed, I do not. 
 
 Guard. You act as if you really did not know. 
 
 Ballast. [Aside.] Can there be another mistake? 
 [Aloud.] Explain yourself, Champetre. 
 
 Guard. I recognize you very well, sir, though you are 
 dressed differently from what you were. 
 
 Ballast. And I do not recognize you, my friend. I never 
 saw you. I have no idea what you want. 
 
294 B.VE DES PIERRES, NO. 60. 
 
 Guard. Then you have no long memorie, sir. Then you 
 no longer know that I attrappSd you last Sunday, hunting 
 on a piece of land belonging to our burgomaster. 
 
 Ballast. ■ [^Aside.'] I thought so. 
 
 GuAED. And you said, Champitre, let it be now and come 
 next week to my house. 
 
 Ballast. Friend, I am sorry, but I was never in Goyck 
 in my life. I have not even the slightest idea where 
 Goyck is. 
 
 Guard. Could I be mistaken ? Will you be so good as 
 to see if that is not your direction ? You ought to know it 
 better than I. [5c takes a piece of paper out of hu pocket 
 and holds it hefore Ballast's eyes.] 
 
 Ballast. [Reads.'] Pieren Street, No. 60. 
 
 Guard. Well, sir, is that you or not ? 
 
 Ballast. No, my friend, it is not here. We are here in 
 the Stone Street. 
 
 Guard. Wrong ? in the Stone Street ? No, no, I am not 
 wrong. I can read, sir, or how else could I l?e a garde- 
 champitre. I can also reckon and writ*. Well, I am not 
 wrong. I read very distinctly at the corner of the street, on 
 a sky-blue sign printed in white letters, Rue des, that was 
 French, and then in Flemish Pier, and then an S for street, 
 as I suppose there was not room enough on the sign to write 
 it out in full. Now, you see, sir, that I am not wrong. 
 
 Ballast. All that gibberish cannot help you. You are 
 in the Rue des Pierres, which means in Flemish Stone Street. 
 
 Guard. So, that means Stone Street. Well, why don't 
 they write it up by it ? 
 
 Ballast. [Aside.] He is right. [Aloud.] Why, why? 
 because it is not necessary. 
 
 Guard. Well, I find it to the contraria very necessary. 
 It is not every one who comes to Brussels who knows French. 
 
 Ballast. You have talked enough. You are wrong, and 
 that is the end of it. 
 
 Guard. And where is, then, the Pieren Street, where you 
 say that I ought to be ? 
 
 Ballast. Close by the High Street. 
 
 Guard. High Street. Ha, ja! but the High Street, how 
 do you say that in French ? For if I do not know that I can- 
 not find it. 
 
RUE DES PIERRES, NO. 60. 295 
 
 Ballast. La Sue Haute. 
 
 Guard. Ar u Of. That sounds as if one was hallooing to 
 the oxen in the plough. Wait, let me write it down, or I 
 shall forget it. [Se dips a pen in the inle and writes.'] Ar 
 u Ot. And now how do you say the Pieren Street? 
 
 Ballast. La Rue des Vers. 
 
 Guard. Ar u Veer do you say? I believe Mynheer is 
 making fun of me. I am a peasant, sir ; a peasant and a 
 garde-champttre ; but a veer cannot be a pier. 
 
 Ballast. Have you nearly finished ? 
 
 Guard. You must not get angry, sir ; but in France veer 
 (feathers) cannot be pieren (worms). 
 
 Ballast. Come, come, that has lasted long enough. [5e 
 rinffs. Joseph appears.] 
 
 Guard. Look here, sir, I am not going to be put out of 
 the house by your servant. I can go out very well by my- 
 self. [ To Joseph.] Tell me, friend, is it far to the street Ar 
 u Veer? 
 
 Joseph. I cannot tell you. 
 
 Guard. Well, then, to the street Ar u Ot ? 
 
 Joseph. I cannot tell you that either. I do not know the 
 town very well, Champetre. 
 
 Ballast. Are you going ? 
 
 Guard. Yes, sir. Ar u Ot. [He departs accompanied hy 
 Joseph.] 
 
 SIXTEENTH SCENE. 
 
 Ballast, alone. 
 
 Ballast. Have you ever in your life seen such a com- 
 edy? The farther it went the finer it was. Yes, yes, I 
 must say that I have received a good lesson, and, malgri moi, 
 I must say that my nephew was right about his Flemish. It 
 was really imprudent to take away the Flemish names from 
 the corners of the streets. And that horrid rapport, I do 
 not know any longer where I was. [Some one knocks at the 
 door.] Entrez. 
 
 SEVENTEENTH SCENE. 
 
 Ballast and Wantje ; later, Joseph. 
 
 Ballast. [Adde.] What is that now? [Aloud.] Well, 
 my good woman, what do you want? 
 
296 -fit/B VES PJERRES, NO. 60. 
 
 Wantje. Why, sir, T come on account of my sister, who 
 sends you back your child. 
 
 Ballast. ISwrprised.'] My child 1 
 
 Wantje. Yes ; the clild you gave her to nurse. 
 
 Ballast. What do you say ? 
 
 Wantje. Oh, sir, that ought not to surprise you, as you 
 no longer pay for it. 
 
 Ballast, \_8hrugging his shoulders.'\ Woman, I do not 
 know what you mean. 
 
 Wantje. [Raising her voice.'] Ah ! so you do not know 
 what I mean ? 
 
 Ballast. For heaven's sake do not talk so loud ! 
 
 Wantje. [^Talking very loud.'\ What I have to say is very 
 simple. I bring your child back, because you no longer pay 
 for it. 
 
 Ballast. Hush, I tell you ! \_He looks around him very 
 much Jri^htened.'] 
 
 Wantje. \^StHl shouting.'] Ha ! I suppose Madame is not 
 to know anything about it ? 
 
 Ballast. I tell you again to hush ! and get you gone out 
 of my sight I 
 
 Wantje. The sooner the better, Mynheer ; but you should 
 at least relieve me of this burden. 
 
 Ballast. I have nothing to do with those rags. 
 
 Wantje. Neither do I and my sister, and therefore take it. 
 
 Ballast. Well, I tell you that the child is not mine. 
 
 Wantje. We do not mean to have anything more to do 
 with it. 
 
 Ballast. Take it back to the people who gave it to you 
 to nurse. 
 
 Wantje. You gave it to us to nurse. 
 
 Ballast. I? 
 
 Wantje. Of course ; the gentleman from the Stone Street, 
 No. 60. 
 
 Ballast. [^Aside.] Of course she takes the new number 
 for the old one. 
 
 Wantje. So it seems you do not deny it any longer? 
 
 Ballast. [^Bewildered.] Woman, it is not here that you 
 want to go. 
 
 Wantje. That is your game, is it? You want to get me 
 outside of the door ; but I am not such a fool. 
 
RUE DES PIERRES, NO. GO. 297 
 
 Ballast. [^ImpcUierUly.] It is not here that you want to 
 
 go- 
 
 Wantje. Yes, it is exactly here that I want to go. The 
 woman in the corner shop has certainly spent a great deal on 
 the child, as well as I. 
 
 Ballast. You wretch ! You have already made it known 
 in the town, and my good name 
 
 Wantje. We thought it was the Madame's child. 
 
 Ballast. Hush, I tell you ! and get out of my house with 
 the brat ! 
 
 Wantje. If I go, it will be without the child. Here, 
 take it. 
 
 Ballast. For heaven's sake, woman, don't torture me any 
 longer ! 
 
 Wantje. Take it, I say, or I will throw it at your feet. 
 [(SAe has raised the child. Ballast involuntarily holds out 
 his arms ; she puts the child in them, and rushes out of the 
 room as Joseph comes in."] 
 
 Ballast. Joseph, Joseph ! Bring her back, bring her 
 back ! 
 
 Joseph. [^LauffJiinff.'] That is impossible, sir ; she runs at 
 least as fast as the vapeur. 
 
 Ballast. What difference does that make? Run after 
 her ! There, take the child, and if you do not find the 
 woman, take it to the old No. 60. [Se puts the child in 
 Joseph's arm«.] I shall die of vexation 1 
 
 EIGHTEENTH SCfeNE. 
 
 Joseph, and later Ballast. 
 
 Joseph. [^Alone.'] Eun after her ! That is soon said, but 
 not so quickly done. I might, perhaps, run during my whole 
 life without finding that woman again. It is much better to 
 stand still and hold the child. But what am I going to do 
 with it ? That is master's business. I wonder if it is really 
 his child ? I donH believe it, but he is fast anyhow. Good 
 gracious, how heavy such a tiny creature is ! I have no more 
 feeling in my arms. I should make a bad child's nurse. 
 Wait ! how is it they carry the little things ? [fie tahes it 
 very uncomfortably in one arm."] If it only don't begin to 
 cry ! I feel it stirring, [fie rocks it in his arms.'] If I 
 
 26 
 
298 RVE DES PIERRES, NO. 60. 
 
 could only remember a nursery song! [fie sinffs, "Sleep, 
 haby hunting, your dacCs gone a-hunling."'] I wonder if it 
 is a boy or a girl ? It gets heavier every minute ! Wait, 
 we'll spring a little. Hrrpp ! \_He throws it so awkwardly 
 over his shoulder that the child falls off its pillow. He gives 
 a loud scream and j\imps aside.'] Ah, good heavens, there 
 it lies ! But what do I see ? [fie bursts out in a loud laugh.'] 
 Ha, ha 1 a piece of wood wrapped in swaddling-clothes ! 
 What can that mean ? Ah I now I have it. That is one of 
 the persons of whom Mr. Gustavo spoke. [^Se throws it into 
 the room on the right.] I will remove all that could betray 
 him. 
 
 Ballast. [ Coming in anxiously from the left side.] Well, 
 Joseph, did you put the child in the right place ? 
 
 Joseph. [ Wiping the sweat from his forehead.] Yes, sir; 
 but it was not without trouble. 
 
 Ballast. [^Aside.] Thank heaven ! [^Altmd.] It is well ; 
 leave me. [Joseph goes out laughing.] 
 
 NINETEENTH SCENE. 
 Ballast, alone. 
 
 Ballast. Allons, allons! I must acknowledge that I 
 have committed a sottise — a double soitise — of which I am 
 the first victim. I shall not again be so foolishly French. 
 As regards the names of the streets, I shall propose to-day 
 putting up the Flemish names alongside of the French. 
 
 About the unfortunate numbers on my house [fie 
 
 rings.] 
 
 TWENTIETH SCENE. 
 Ballast and Joseph. 
 
 Ballast. Joseph, go to my sign-painter and tell him 
 
 Joseph. That he must come and paint over the new num- 
 ber? 
 
 Ballast. Hush ; mauvais plaisanf ! 
 
 Joseph. [Aside.] Yes, it is certainly plaisant. 
 
 Ballast. Tell him I want him to come and paint over my 
 
 door Wait, I will write it out for him. [He unites.] 
 
 No. 39 in an accolade, old, ancien, and No. 60 also with an ac- 
 colade, new, nouveau. 
 
RUE DES PIERRES, NO. 60. 299 
 
 Joseph. [^Aside."] He is a good deal changed. {Aloud.'] 
 Would it not be well to put, sir, since when one is old and 
 one new ? 
 
 Ballast. Hush, I say, and go 1 
 
 Joseph. [ Who had gone out, comes hade again.'] There 
 are other persons there who wish to speak to you. - 
 
 Ballast. Tell them I have no time now ; they can come 
 back to-morrow. 
 
 Joseph. Yes, sir. 
 
 Ballast. [ To Joseph ax he goes out] And mind, Joseph, 
 and be sure and ask if it is really for me that they come. 
 Of all the people that were here to-day, there was not a single 
 one who wanted me. 
 
 Joseph. Yes, sir ; but that is certainly not my fault. 
 
 Ballast. Gol [Joseph ^'oes.] 
 
 TWENTY-FIRST SCENE. 
 
 Ballast, alone. 
 
 Ballast. No, it is not his fault ; it is mine. But my 
 rapport ! Diahle ! I had forgotten it. And yet it is high 
 time that I should write it. \_A terrible noise is heard out- 
 side of the door.] What can that be ? 
 
 TWENTY-SECOND SCENE. 
 Breakhals and Ballast. 
 
 Breakhals. [Jii ho has forced the door open.] And who 
 
 shall hinder me from coming in ? By all the devils in hell 
 
 [ To Ballast.] Ha ! tljpre you are, my fine gentleman ! 
 And so you thought to escape from the effects of my anger ? 
 
 Ballast. \_AMde.] What kind of a bullying fellow is 
 this? 
 
 Breakhals. Ha I I see you tremble. But don't think to 
 escape me ! 
 
 Ballast. Sir! 
 
 Breakhals. All your whining and begging won't help 
 you. You were not trembling when you insulted me yester- 
 day as we came out of the theatre, so you need not tremble 
 now when I come to call you to account for it. 
 
 Ballast. I insult you ? I ? 
 
300 RVE DBS PIERRES, NO. 60. 
 
 Breakhals. So you know nothing about it ? You are a 
 good actor I 
 
 Ballast. I assure you, sir, there is some misunderstanding. 
 
 Bkeakhals. You did not say that yesterday! Hal I 
 tore up the card you threw me in the dark, when you slipped 
 through the crowd and ran off. 
 
 Ballast. My card, you say ? 
 
 Breakhals. Yes, your card ! There was no address on 
 it, but I learned from others that you lived Stone Street, 
 No. 60. 
 
 Ballast. That accursed confusion of numbers again I 
 
 Breakhals. You did not think I could find you out, did 
 you? 
 
 Ballast. Sir! 
 
 Breakhals. No evasion ! I have been insulted, and 
 come now to ask for satisfaction. You cannot refuse me. 
 Name your weapons. Here are pistols and here are swords. 
 Choose ; it is the same to me. 
 
 Ballast. A duel ! 
 
 Breakhals. Yes; what is there alarming in that? A 
 duel does not frighten me. I have already sent thirty-two 
 men into the other world: you shall be the thirty-third; 
 Come ! 
 
 Ballast. Good heavens ! I assure you 
 
 Breakhals. Are you skilful in feints ? 
 
 Ballast. I never had a sword in my hand. But 
 
 Breakhals. Then I should really have it a little too 
 much my own way : one, two, three 
 
 Ballast. But, sir 
 
 Breakhals. l?erhaps you prefer pistols. 
 
 Ballast. I never fired a shot. 
 
 Breakhals. And I can shoot a pipe out of a peasant's 
 mouth at twenty-five paces. Come along ; it won't last long. 
 
 Ballast. But you don't mean to murder me in cold 
 blood? 
 
 Breakhals. Now, since you have chosen pistols, we will 
 fire at five paces. One — two — three! One, shoots! One, 
 good-evening, and all is over. 
 
 Ballast. But listen to me. 
 
 Breakhals. Come along! [He fakes Mm by the arm 
 and drags him towards the door.'] 
 
RUE DES PIERBES, NO. 60. 301 
 
 Ballast. For heaven's sake let me loose I I will tell 
 you I 
 
 Breakhals. What can you possibly have to say to me ? 
 Excuses ? I shall not accept them. That we have no sec- 
 onds? It is not necessary that, on our account, any one 
 should be brought up before the court. That you must put 
 your affairs in order before you leave this world ? That is 
 possible. \_JBe lets him loose.'] Well, I will go and wait for 
 you. In two hours from now in the Teskamer Wood ; and, 
 if you do not meet me there, I shall come here and shoot you 
 through the head. So, in two hours ! Do you hear ? [ZTe 
 rushes off.'] 
 
 Ballast. The man is stark mad 1 Joseph 1 Joseph I 
 
 TWENTY-THIRD SCENE. 
 Ballast and Joseph. 
 
 Joseph. [Cbminy in hastily.] Good heavens! What is 
 the matter, sir ? You are pale ; you tremble 1 You do not 
 look like yourself! 
 
 Ballast. Ah, Joseph ! He wants to murder me. 
 
 Joseph. Who? — the wild beast who forced his way in 
 here after he had given me a good beating ? 
 
 Ballast. Yes, yes 1 But now you will stand by me, will 
 you not? 
 
 Joseph. Of course I shall. But it cannot be so bad. 
 
 Ballast. Joseph, go and fasten the front door with the 
 night-lock. Put up the chains and push the bolts. Let no 
 one come in to-day. Call my nephew ; call my niece. They 
 must watch with you and me. 
 
 Joseph. I run, sir. 
 
 Ballast. Don't stay long, Joseph. 
 
 Joseph. Be easy, sir. [He goes.] 
 
 TWENTY-FOURTH SCENE. 
 Ballast; afterwards Matilda, Gustave, and Joseph. 
 
 Ballast. [Alone.] Easy, do you say? And how could 
 I be easy in a house which is haunted ? Oh, I will not live 
 here any longer ! 
 
 Matilda." rJ3i*mc« in.] What has happened, dear uncle ? 
 26* 
 
302 RVE DES PIERRES, NO. 60. 
 
 Ballast. What has happened, my dear niece? Why, 
 that since this morning I have been the football of some 
 infernal combination. And, at last, a mad fellow came in 
 and wanted to murder me ! 
 
 Matilda. To murder you ! 
 
 GtJSTAVE. [Rushes in.'] What do I hear, uncle ? An im- 
 pudent fellow has challenged you to fight a duel ? 
 
 Ballast. I have the choice between fighting a duel and 
 being murdered in my own house when he comes back. 
 
 GusTAVE. I would like to see him touch you when I am 
 here. 
 
 Ballast. Oh, then do not go away from me ! 
 
 GusTAVE. Not one step, uncle ! 
 
 Ballast. Now I recognize you as my dutiful and loving 
 nephew, spite of our quarrel this morning. 
 
 GtrsTAVE. Uncle I 
 
 Ballast. But a quarrel is no longer possible between us, 
 as I have become a Fleming again. 
 
 GusTAVE. Uncle I Are you in earnest ? 
 
 Ballast. Here is my hand on it, — the hand of a Flem- 
 ing. Is anything more necessary to convince you ? 
 
 Gustave. Certainly not. 
 
 Ballast. And to prove to you that my conversion is sin- 
 cere, I shall make a favorable rapport on your petition. 
 
 GusTAVE. Uncle, I thank you in my own name and that 
 of your fellow-countrymen. But 
 
 Ballast. Do you want anything more ? Speak out. 
 
 GusTAVE. [ With emphasis.'] I feel obliged to say that, if 
 you and your colleagues grant the Flemish part of the 
 population the justice to which they are entitled, it is 
 because 
 
 Ballast. [Aside.] What can he mean ? [Alovd.] Speak 
 out, my boy ; speak out. 
 
 GusTAVE. In a word, you were enlightened as to your 
 duty by a French houiUe man, by the garde-champttre of 
 Goyck, and by Mr. Breakhals. 
 
 Matilda. And by the fishwife Marianna, old Trien, and 
 the peasant girl Wantje. [Gustave and Matilda laugh 
 alovd.] 
 
 Ballast. [Displeased.] Well! — Ehbien! — What are you 
 laughing at ? 
 
RUE DES PIERRES, NO. 60. 303 
 
 GusTAVE. Will you forgive us, uncle ? 
 
 Ballast. Explain, explain I 
 
 GusTAVE. Read the title of this play. [He shows him 
 the programme lying on the table.'] 
 
 Ballast. IReads.'] "Rue des Pierres, No. 60." My 
 house I 
 
 GusTAVE. Your house ? There is nothing to show if it 
 is the old or new number. 
 
 Ballast. What does that mean ? 
 
 Matilda. Why, it means that we have just given you a 
 repetition of the play. 
 
 Ballast. That is to be played this evening in the Flemish 
 theatre ? 
 
 Gustave. By your dutiful nephew and niece. 
 
 Ballast. What I you as acteurs ? 
 
 Matilda. No one will recognize us. You did not your- 
 self. 
 
 Ballast. That is true. But it was through deceit you 
 converted me. 
 
 Gustave. Uncle, you surely will not recall the promise 
 that you wanted to strengthen with an oath ? 
 
 Ballast. Allons ! Yes ; I will keep my word. 
 
 Gustave and Matilda. Dearest uncle I [ They embrace 
 him.'] 
 
 Joseph. [ "Who has slipped in unnoticed, oxide.] Good ! 
 They are friends again. \JE[e comes forward.] Mr. Gustave, 
 please to give me my two tickets for the Flemish play. 
 
 Gustave. [ Giving them to him.] Here ; you have earned 
 them. 
 
 Ballast. What I Was that rascal also in the plot? 
 
 Joseph. Yes, sir, I played, too ; and so did you. 
 
 Ballast. Well, Gustave, I will come this evening and 
 see your representation. I am curieux to see what effet my 
 personnage will make. 
 
 Matilda. Do, uncle. We shall all play twice as well. 
 [^She kisses him.] 
 
TWELVE PORTUGUESE LEGENDS. 
 
 FROM THE EOMANCEIRO PORTUGTJEZ, BY VICTOR ETJGENIO 
 HARDING, AND THE EPOPEAS MOgARABAS, BY TEOFILO 
 BRA6A. 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM THE PORTUGUESE 
 BY MKS. FBANCES C. HENDERSON. 
 
 1. THE LEGEND OF PASSO DE RONCESVAL. 
 
 The king ordered them to count his knights and see Tfrho 
 was missing. There was only one missing, — Dom Beltrao, — 
 but he was one of the bravest and strongest. They drew 
 lots who should go to seek him. The one on whom it fell 
 turned his horse's head without saying a word. He went 
 alone, and sought day and night, and wept all the time. He 
 asked the shepherds on his way, " Have you seen a knight in 
 white armor mounted on a pied horse.?" They always an- 
 swered " No," so he went on and on till he came to the Pass 
 of Roncesval. He was ready to drop with fatigue, but he 
 sought among all the dead, who were lying there in heaps. 
 No Beltrao was among them. He saw a Moor, and said to 
 him, — 
 
 " For the love of heaven, good Moor, tell me if a knight 
 in white armor has passed this way ? Tell me if he is lan- 
 guishing anywhere in captivity ?" 
 
 " Tell me, my friend," said the Moor, " by what signs I 
 should know him ?" 
 
 " His armor was white, his horse was pied, and on the 
 
 point of his lance he carried a knot of white ribbon, a token 
 
 from his lady-love." 
 
 •' 305 
 
306 TWELVE PORTUGUESE LEGENDS. 
 
 " That knight, my friend," said the Moor, " lies here in 
 the ford ; his feet are in the water, his head on the sand. 
 He has seven mortal wounds : the one lets in the sun, an- 
 other lets in the moon, and by the smallest of all his blood 
 could have ebbed away ; and yet the cause of his death was 
 neither the foe nor the sword, but his horse, who would not 
 jump over the fallen dead." 
 
 Who ever witnessed such a miracle ? The horse, though 
 nearly dead, opened his mouth and spoke, " Don't blame me I 
 Three times I tried to save him, — three times I prepared to 
 jump. He always renewed the fight, and I fell with this 
 deadly wound." 
 
 2. THE LEGEND OF THE SHIP OP SAINT CATH- 
 AEINB. 
 
 SUPPOSED TO EEPEE TO THE VOYAGE OF COUNT JORGE DE ALBIT- 
 QTJEEQTJE COELHO, MADE TBOM BRAZIL, A.D. 1565. 
 
 " Mount, sailor ; mount to the top of the mainmast, and see 
 if you discover the land of Spain, the meadows of Portugal." 
 
 " I do not see the land of Spain nor the meadows of Por- 
 tugal. I only see seven swords ready to kill you." 
 
 " Mount, boatswain ; mount to the top of the foremast, and 
 see if there is naught of Spain, naught of Portugal, in view." 
 
 " Oh, yes ; I see them both, and I see three lovely maids 
 under an orange-tree. One is sewing, one is spinning, and 
 one — the fairest of all — stands in the middle and weeps." 
 
 " They are all three my daughters. If I could only kiss 
 them ! Bring me safe to land, and the fairest of all shall be 
 your bride." 
 
 " I do not want your daughter ; I do not care for a bride." 
 
 " I will give you so much gold, — more than you will care 
 to count." 
 
 " I do not care for gold ; I have no use for it.'' 
 
 " I will give you my white charger, who has no equal for 
 speed." 
 
 " I do not care for your charger ; keep it and ride it vour- 
 self" J o . F J- 
 
 " I will give you the good ship ' Catharine' : you can sail all 
 over the world." 
 
 " Keep your good ship ' Catharine.' /want other pay." 
 
TWELVE PORTUGUESE LEGENDS. 307 
 
 " What guerdon, then, shall I give you if you bring me 
 safe to land ?" 
 
 " Captain, give me your soul ; that alone I can use." 
 
 " Avaunt, Satan, who hadst taken this form to tempt me ! 
 My soul belongs to God, my body I give to the waves." 
 
 An angel took him under the arms and did not let him 
 sink. The demon fled with the whirlwind, and the sea and 
 the air grew calm, and that night the good ship " Catharine" 
 was riding at anchor in port. 
 
 3. THE LEGEND OF DONNA MARIA. 
 
 There was a king who had a daughter, and her name was 
 Donna Maria. She was in love with a captain, who loved 
 her equally well. Her father found it out, and locked her 
 up on bread and water. He called for all the ship-carpenters, 
 and ordered them to make, a ship on which Donna Maria 
 could be sent out to sea. There were so many at work that 
 they built the ship in a day. The king put provisions on it 
 for seven years and a day, and turned Donna Maria adrift in 
 it, alone and without sails or oars. 
 
 She drifted a long time, till she came to an uninhabited 
 island where there was no living soul but a holy hermit. 
 
 " Who brought you here, woman," said the hermit, " to 
 make me lose my soul ?" 
 
 " Indeed, I do not wish to make you lose your soul, most 
 holy hermit. The wind that blew me here," said she, " can 
 blow me back again. Blow, wind, blow, and be obedient, ye 
 waves, and take me where I would wish to be, — take me 
 back to my own country." 
 
 While the king was sitting at lunch in the middle of the day, 
 he saw a ship enter the port without sails and without rowers. 
 
 " Who is that," said he, " who is sailing so boldly in with- 
 out license?" 
 
 " Why, it is your daughter, Donna Maria." 
 
 " If it is my daughter, I will go and see her." 
 
 " My daughter," said he, " how did you pass the sea ?" 
 
 " The waves rolled smoothly under me and the winds 
 wafted me courteously. The angels kept me company ; one 
 kept guard over, me by day and one by night. And the 
 Virgin called me her handmaid Maria." 
 
308 rpFjE*- r -I-' J. \^^*.j~\j\TfjA:dtJi2j jjJi^KTIlJ^yjJiy* 
 
 4. THE LEGEND OP THE BELLA INFANTA. 
 
 The beautiful Infanta was sitting in her garden, combing 
 her hair with a comb of gold. Raising her eyes, she saw a 
 troop of soldiers with a fine-looking captain marching in front 
 of them. She called to him, and said, " Oh, most noble cap- 
 tain, did you not meet my husband somewhere in the Holy 
 Land?" 
 
 He replied, '' Tell me some sign by which to distinguish 
 him. There are so many knights in the Holy Land." 
 
 " He rode," said she, " a white horse, with a saddle of 
 cloth of gold, and on the point of his lance he carried the 
 cross of Christ." 
 
 " By those signs I know that I saw him die, and that I re- 
 venged his death on the infidels." 
 
 " Ah, poor me ! I am then a widow, and I have three un- 
 married daughters." 
 
 " What would you give, senhora, to him who could bring 
 the knight back again ?" 
 
 " I would give him gold and fine linen and all the riches I 
 have." 
 
 " I care not for gold and silver, neither for linen fine ; but 
 what would you give, senhora, to him who could bring the 
 knight back again ?" 
 
 " I would give you my three mills, which make flour so 
 fine and rare." 
 
 " I do not care for your mills or flour. What could you 
 give me more if I brought the good knight back again ?" 
 
 " I would give you my three daughters, — one to burnish 
 your arms, one to be your maid, and the handsomest to be 
 your wife." 
 
 "Your daughters, Infanta, are no ladies for me. You 
 must give me more than that if I am to bring your husband 
 back again." 
 
 " I have nothing more to give, and you nothing more to 
 ask." 
 
 " All this is nothing, senhora, unless you give me yourself" 
 
 " You are no cavalier, for you keep asking more and more. 
 I will make my servants tie you to the tail of my horse, and 
 drive him round the garden." 
 
TWELVE PORTUGUESE LEGENDS. 309 
 
 Then lie said, '•' Where is the other half of this ring with 
 seven stones, which I divided with you? Here is my half." 
 And then she knew it was her husband. 
 
 5. THE LEGEND OF COUNT ALVEZ. 
 
 The king of Castile found his daughter Sylvana crying 
 bitterly, and asked her what was the matter. " Why," re- 
 plied she, " my three sisters are married and have families. 
 I, who am the handsomest, must be an old maid." 
 
 " There is no one," said the father,. " whp is of a sufficiently 
 good family to marry you except Count Alvez, and he is mar- 
 ried and has children." 
 
 " He is the very one I wanted," said Sylvana. " Send and 
 call him, father, in your name and mine." 
 
 " Hurry 1" said the king to a servant. " Gro and call Count 
 Alvez !" 
 
 The count came in haste, and, with many bows, asked what 
 was the king's pleasure. 
 
 " You must kUl the countess immediately," said he, " and 
 marry my daughter." 
 
 " I cannot kill the countess myself," said he, " because she 
 does not deserve death ; but I will send some men to kill her, 
 and let the wolves eat her." 
 
 " You must kill her yourself. Count Alvez, and bring me 
 her head on this gold dish. You must not think to deceive 
 me by bringing some other head for hers. She has a mole 
 on her right cheek, which I should recognize at once." 
 
 The good count went home very sad, and had his doors 
 bolted, — a thing he never did, — and said no strangers should 
 be admitted to dinner. He wept incessantly, so that his tears 
 ran down on the table. 
 
 His wife, noticing it, said, '" My dear count, what causes 
 this melancholy? Tell me what makes you so sad, and I 
 will cheer you up with pleasant tales." 
 
 " How can I tell you my troubles ? The king has ordered 
 me to kill you, and to marry his daughter." 
 
 " Don't do it, dear count," said she, " for I do not deserve 
 death. Have me thrown into the sea, and let the fishes eat 
 me." 
 
 " That is not possible, countess, as the wise king has ordered 
 27 
 
310 TWELVE PORTUGUESE LEGENDS. 
 
 that your head shall be broi^ht to him on this golden dish ; 
 and he says I cannot send another head instead of yours, as 
 you have a mole on your right cheek, which he would recog- 
 nize instantly." 
 
 " Oh, then," said she, " let me take a walk in the garden, 
 and say farewell to the roses and lilies ; and let me nurse my 
 darling boy once more." 
 
 So she took her baby, and sang, " Drink, my darling, drink 
 this milk of bitterness. To-morrow, at this hour, your father 
 will wear a crown : to-morrow, at this hour, I shall be in my 
 grave." 
 
 The next day the king was knocking at the door, saying, 
 " If the countess is not yet dead, I have come to kill her my- 
 self" 
 
 " Oh !" was the mournful reply. " The countess died for 
 crimes that she had committed ; the count died this morning 
 at ten ; the baby he died at twelve. God did not wish to part 
 a loving couple." 
 
 6. THE LEGEND OF DONA ALDONQA. 
 
 A stream of clear water ran by Dona Aldonga's door. 
 Every woman who drank of that stream immediately be- 
 came a mother. Dona Aldonga drank in an unfortunate 
 hour ; and once, as she sat at table, her father said, eying 
 her sternly, " I think you must have drank of that stream." 
 
 " Oh, no, father," said she ; " it is only that my dress fits 
 so badly." 
 
 " Well," said he, " if it be the fault of the dress, let it be 
 burnt at once. Go to your room, Aldon§a ; and never appear 
 again in a dress so badly made !" 
 
 Dona Aldonga retired to her room, and after some time a 
 baby lay in her arms. " Eun," said she to her maid, " and 
 see who is passing in the court- yard." 
 
 " Don't be displeased, my lady," said the maid, " but it is 
 your rich cousin, Valdirinos." 
 
 So she sent and had him called. When he came, he said, 
 " What can I do for you, fair cousin ?" 
 
 She replied, " Take this baby, and give it to some one to 
 bring up for me ; but let it be so arranged that I shall have 
 no trouble except paying for her." 
 
TWELVE PORTUGUESE LEGENDS. 311 
 
 As lie went down the steps he met his uncle, and said, 
 " Good-morning, uncle of my soul." 
 
 " Oh, nephew of my heart, what are you carrying under 
 your cloak?" s-i 
 
 " Only some green bananas, — the fancy of an invalid." 
 
 " Give me one or two, that I may see if they will soon be 
 ripe." 
 
 " I cannot ; they are counted." 
 
 Just then the babe began to cry. " Begone with you, 
 Valdirinos, ruin of my house ! If you were not my nephew, 
 I would kill you and burn your cousin alive !" 
 
 " I do not care if you kill me, neither do I care if she be 
 burnt, only I would like to prove her innocence." 
 
 " If I kill Dona Aldonga, she is my adored daughter. If 
 I kill Valdirinos, then my daughter is dishonored. I would 
 rather you should marry at once." 
 
 They went to Dona Aldonga, who was shedding tears of 
 grief. When her father gave her her baby, and told her she 
 was to marry her cousin, she shed tears of joy. 
 
 7. THE LEGEND OP DOM GAYFEIROS. 
 
 Dom Gayfeiros was sitting at the table playing dice. As 
 he held them in his hand his uncle came in, and said, " In- 
 stead of playing at dice you had better be looking for your 
 poor wife." 
 
 " I spent seven years seeking her," said Gayfeiros, — 
 " four on land and three on the waveS of the sea. I went 
 over mountains and valleys without even stopping to rest. I 
 had to eat raw meat, and to slake my thirst with blood. And 
 now how could I seek her without arms or horse, as I have 
 lent both to my cousin Montezinhos to go to the tourna- 
 ment in Hungary ? If you will lend me yours, I am willing 
 to begin again." 
 
 " Melisendra has been a captive for seven years," said the 
 uncle, " and you have always had arms and horses. I made 
 a vow at San Joao de Latrao never to lend mine to anybody 
 who had ever proved himself a coward." 
 
 As soon as Dom Gayfeiros heard this he pulled out his 
 sword, and said, " Do you wish to insult me, Dom Roldao ?" 
 
 The Admiral Dom Guarino came to separate them, and 
 
312 TWELVE PORTUGUESE LEGENDS. 
 
 Dom Boldao smiled, and said, " I am willing to accompany 
 you myself, nephew ; but, if you prefer it, I will send you 
 my arms and horse." 
 
 Dom Grayfeiros started, and travelled till he came to the 
 land of the Moors ; and then he felt very sad to think of his 
 wife being captive in their hands. He did not know how to 
 get within the gates of the town of Sansonha. Suddenly the 
 gates opened, and the king and his cavaliers came out to 
 hunt. Gayfeiros spied a Christian captive just going to his 
 work, and said to him, " God bless you. Christian captive, 
 can you tell me if you have heard of a Christian lady, of 
 high lineage, who is captive here, and spends her time in 
 weeping?" 
 
 " Yes," said the captive ; " she is here in this palace. 
 Take this street to the right, which leads to the royal 
 palace, and you will doubtless see her behind the blinds." 
 
 He did as he was told, and walked up and down the street 
 Tinder the windows. 
 
 " Oh, what a handsome cavalier 1" said one of the at- 
 tendants. 
 
 Melisendra, hearing this, began to weep. She could not 
 recognize her husband in a different armor ; but the mere 
 sight of a knight reminded her of her distant home, so she 
 called to him, " Sir knight ! if you go to France, will you 
 take a message for me ? Ask Dom Gayfeiros why he does 
 not come to set me free, Is he afraid of the Moors, or has 
 he another love ? I, a poor captive, spend my time in weep- 
 ing. If you will not' tell Dom Gayfeiros, tell Dom Beltrao, 
 - or my father, the emperor, to send for me, as they wish to 
 force me to be a renegade and to deny Christ ; and then I am 
 to marry a Moorish king." 
 
 " You must give this message yourself, senhora," said Dom 
 Grayfeiros, " for I am here, and have come to liberate you." 
 
 He had hardly spoken these words when she jumped 
 from the balcony into his arms. The accursed Moor who 
 was keeping watch, called out, " Come to Melisendra ! the 
 Christians wish to steal her !" 
 
 " Melisendra, my wife, how can we escape ?" 
 
 " God and the Virgin Mary must protect us." 
 
 He settled the breastplate and bit of his horse, and, put- 
 ting his wife behind him so that she could hold on to him, he 
 
TWELVE PORTUaVESE LEGENDS. 313 
 
 dug the spurs into his horse till the blood flowed. He flew 
 so that no one could overtake them. The Moors in the town 
 ran about screaming, and shut all the gates. Seven times 
 Gayfeiros made the tour, at the eighth his horse jumped 
 over the wall. They had already lost sight of the walls of 
 the town, when they came upon King Almansor returning 
 with his cavaliers. Then Dom Grayfeiros said to his wife, 
 " Do not be frightened, Melisendra ; but you must get down 
 and wait for me a while under these green trees. Here I 
 must try my good arms." 
 
 Melisendra got down and began to pray, and the horse im- 
 mediately charged the Moors. He was so tired from the 
 rapid flight that he could hardly stand, but as soon as he saw 
 the Moors he seemed to lose all feeling of fatigue, and if 
 Dom Gayfeiros fought well the horse fought still better. 
 They killed so many of the infidels that the field was swim- 
 ming in blood. At last King Almansor, seeing this, began to 
 swear by Allah and Mahomet. 
 
 " Christian," said he, " there is no one who can equal thee 
 in the fight. Who art thou ? Urgel de Nantes, or the In- 
 fant Dom Guarim, or perhaps Dom Boldao himself?" 
 
 Dom Gayfeiros, hearing him, called out, — 
 
 " Hush, Moorish king ; do not speak thus. There are 
 many knights in France equal to those you have mentioned. 
 I am the Infant Dom Gayfeiros, nephew of Dom Roldao." 
 
 The king did not wish to hear any more, but, turning his 
 horse's head, he went and shut himself up in Sansonha. 
 
 •As there was no longer any one to fight, Gayfeiros re- 
 mained lord of the field. Full of joy, he went to join Meli- 
 sendra. 
 
 " Are you hurt, husband ?" said she. " You must be, for 
 there were so many Moors and you were the only one on 
 your side." 
 
 " Oh, no," replied Gayfeiros ;' " I have not a single wound. 
 This is the armor of my Uncle Boldao, through which no 
 sword can cut." 
 
 They travelled a long time before they entered a Christian 
 land, but the way seemed short to them, talking of their 
 loves. When they arrived in Paris the whole court came 
 out to meet them, as the emperor wished to embrace his 
 daughter. There were the twelve peers of France and ladies 
 
 27* 
 
314 TWELVE PORTUGUESE LEGENDS. 
 
 without number, Donna Alda and Dom Roldao and the ad- 
 miral of the sea, Archbishop Turpin and Dom Julio, the 
 good old Dom Beltrao, and all others about the court. Great 
 honor was paid to Dom Gayfeiros, who had given such proofs 
 of valor. 
 
 8. THE LEGEND OF THE YARAVI OF PADRE 
 LERSUNDI. 
 
 This priest was excommunicated because, without regard 
 to his sacred vows, he fell madly in love with one of his par- 
 ishioners. She died and was buried, but Padre Lersundi 
 bribed the grave-digger to take her up on the following night 
 and bring'her secretly to his house. When he received her 
 he placed her in a chair, surrounded by lighted wax tapers, 
 and began to make her declarations of love, varied by groans 
 and sighs. When decay set in and he was obliged to part 
 with her, he buried her in his own house. Previously, so as 
 not to give her up entirely, he detached a thigh-bone, and 
 made of it a simple flute with five holes. On that he played 
 dirges, which froze the marrow in the bones of those who 
 heard them. At the end of five days all was still : the neigh- 
 bors, hearing no noise, broke open the door, and found the 
 poor man lying dead with his flute in his hand. 
 
 Words set to the mournful music he played are still sung 
 as a national ballad in parts of Peru. 
 
 9. THE LEGEND OF JOAO, ABBOT OF SAM* 
 BENTO. 
 
 It was during the wars with the Moors that many cavaliers 
 and captains took refuge in the fortress of Coimbra, in Por- 
 tugal, with their wives, their children, and their goods, from 
 ,the Moors, who were coming to attack them under King Al- 
 man§or de Cordova. This king was advancing with one hun- 
 dred thousand soldiers to try to destroy the little remnant 
 which had remained faithful to the Cross. For three years 
 the handful of valiant cavaliers resisted all the efforts of the 
 vast army of the Moslems. Their patroness and helper was 
 an image of the Holy Virgin, which was venerated in the 
 chapel of their leader, the abbot of Sam Bento. This man, 
 
TWELVE PORTUGUESE LEGENDS. 315 
 
 seeing that all their provisions were eonsumecl, as well as 
 their ammunition, and that nothing short of a miracle could 
 save the city, called a meeting of the most influential of 
 the captains. He represented to them the great danger 
 there was that their wives and children should fall into the 
 hands of the infidels, and be induced to renounce their re- 
 ligion in order to save their lives ; so he proposed that they 
 should kill them all, and then rush upon the enemy and sell 
 their own lives dearly. They all agreed to his proposal, and, 
 after poniarding their wives and children, set fire to the city 
 and all it contained. They themselves rushed out naked 
 against the Moors, and fought with such desperate valor that 
 they killed ninety thousand of the enemy, and returned to 
 the castle laden with spoils." They were bowed down with 
 grief for the death of their wives and children, but God him- 
 self comforted them, for at the gates they were met by them 
 all in a procession, headed by the Virgin Mary, who had re- 
 stored them to life, and whose own neck showed as well as 
 theirs the marks of the bloody dagger. 
 
 Id. THE LEGEND OF THE MAIDENS OP SI- 
 
 MANCA. 
 
 The town of Simanca was originally called Gureha. The 
 Moors, after conquering it, imposed upon it an annual tribute 
 of seven young maidens, who were to be sent to the Caliph's 
 seraglio. These were to be decided by lot. One year the 
 seven who had been thus set apart all cut off their hands, 
 and when the Moors came to receive the tribute they showed 
 the raw stumps, and said, " Without hands you cannot use 
 us." The Moors replied, "Si, manca (yes, handless); we 
 will take you." The populace, touched by the virtue of the 
 damsels, attacked the Moors, and killing them all, set the 
 maidens free. In commemoration of this victory and the 
 heroic act of the maidens, they changed the name of the 
 town to Simanca, and took as the city arms two hands. 
 
 11. THE LEGEND OF CARRIAO. 
 
 A church was erected in Carriao to Our Lady of Victory, 
 in commemoration of the wondrous miracle by which she 
 
316 TWELVE PORTUGUESE LEGENDS. 
 
 set free some maidens whom the Moors were carrying off. 
 When they arrived at this place, where a large drove of cattle 
 was feeding, the bulls united, and placing themselves in a row, 
 charged the Moors with such fury that they killed them all, 
 and the maidens were set free and restored to their homes. 
 
 12. THE LEGEND OF DOM ALBERTO. 
 
 When Dom Alberto returned from the hunt, he found his 
 wife very much confused, and said to her, — 
 
 " What is the matter, Dona Maria, that you look so con- 
 fused ? Have you betrayed me during my absence ?" 
 
 " Oh, no, indeed 1" said she ; " but I have lost the keys of 
 the store-room." 
 
 " Don't trouble yourself about that, Dona Maria ; if the 
 keys were of silver, I will give you others of gold. But tell 
 me whose horse was that I heard neighing in my stable ?" 
 
 " Oh, that is yours, Dom Albert ; my brother sent it to 
 you as a present." 
 
 " And whose sword is that I saw in my cabinet?" 
 " Yours also, Dom Albert ; a gift from my second brother." 
 " And whose spurs were those I saw at my bedroom door?" 
 " Yours also, Dom Albert ; a gift from my youngest 
 brother." 
 
 " And what cavalier is that whose form I see in my bed ?" 
 " Kill me, kill me, Dom Albert I I own that I have be- 
 trayed you !" 
 
 " I shall not kill y@u, my rose, — I love you far too well for 
 that ; but I shall send for your father and give you back to 
 him." 
 
2CX"V. 
 
 THEODORE, CONTE DE LA VIE LITTfiRAIRE. 
 
 BY ALPHONSE DEQUET. 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH 
 BY MES. PKANCES C. HENDERSON. 
 
 A TERRIBLE storm overtook the ship on which Theodore 
 had embarked and capsized it. Theodore, who had fortu- 
 nately left his cabin when the tempest began, soon reappeared 
 on the surface of the water. A Norwegian ship picked him 
 up. A fortnight later Theodore disembarked at Havre. He 
 had gained a friend on the Norwegian ship, but he had lost 
 everything he possessed. When Aristides, his friend, tried to 
 comfort him, he answered, " I had seventeen boxes, each con- 
 taining eleven hundred and fifty sable furs, which made nine- 
 teen thousand eleven hundred and fifty sable-skins, direct from 
 Canada. I could have sold them well in Paris ; and now I am 
 a beggar !" 
 
 " Not a beggar," said Aristides, " for half of all that I have 
 is yours; it is not much, but it will suffice us until I can gain 
 a position as a literary man." 
 
 After the two friends had arrived in Paris with Aristides's 
 trunk, they divided the clothes and dressed in their joint bed- 
 room. As they were going out Aristides addressed Theodore 
 thus: 
 
 " My dear friend, I most ardently desire that we may re- 
 main as closely united as at present, and, to make our union 
 more lasting, I would advise you to imitate me, and choose 
 letters for your profession." 
 
 S17 
 
318 TMJsuvuKJ!:, 
 
 " I have come from Canada," replied Theodore, " and I have 
 never thought of letters, except in connection with furs." 
 
 " What difference does that make ?" answered Aristides. 
 " There are men in Canada ; and wherever these are there 
 are passions to which we can appeal and the germ of a lite- 
 rature. Man is the same wherever he may live : he differs 
 only in the mode of expression. If you permit me, I will 
 introduce you to Mr. Sulpicius, the bookseller, to whom I 
 have brought letters of introduction." 
 
 They locked arms, and crossed the streets, the bridges, and 
 the quays, expecting wonders from Mr. Sulpicius. 
 
 Mr. Sulpicius was busy chasing with a feather-duster a 
 multitude of little books, the length of his finger, which had 
 so little consistency that a strong wind, which was then blow- 
 ing, whirled them around before your eyes so as to make you 
 dizzy, and, finally, lodged them on the book-shelves. 
 
 " Those are the Parisian grasshoppers," said Sulpicius. 
 " My fellow-publishers, who have not been as careful as I, 
 have seen their shelves ravaged and their reputations suffer. 
 I think that watchful care may arrest this plague." 
 
 Mr. Sulpicius explained the process of reproduction among 
 these grasshoppers, and said that one produced four, four 
 sixteen, sixteen two hundred and fifty-six, and these sixty- 
 five thousand five hundred and thirty-six, and so on, in a 
 frightfully rapid progression. 
 
 "I have just come from Canada," said Theodore, — "a 
 country where there are numbers of carnivorous animals, 
 who devastate the poultry-yards. Fortunately, it also abounds 
 in liunters, who follow the murderers to their holes, and drive 
 a very lucrative trade with their skins in different parts of 
 the world-" 
 
 Mr. Sulpicius was pleased with this remark and smiled. 
 Aristides thought this was a good time to present the letter 
 of introduction he had brought from Norway. Mr. Sulpicius 
 read it very attentively, folded it carefully, and promised the 
 young men that he would publish their works as soon as they 
 had earned a reputation. 
 
 II. 
 
 They threaded their way back through the quays, the 
 bridges, and the streets, which they had crossed an instant 
 
CONTE IDE LA VIE LITTERAIRE. 319 
 
 before with a firm step and hearts bijoyant with hope. This 
 time they looked dejected and irresolute, stopped before the 
 placards announcing horses for sale, and before the shop- 
 windows, elbowed the passers-by, apologized, and made the 
 coachmen swear. Theodore, still more dejected than Aris- 
 tides, repeated, incessantly, " I see that to make one's self 
 known one must be known already." 
 
 They were both so absent-minded that they had walked a 
 long time without noticing a man who followed them, laugh- 
 ing. It would not have been possible to imagine a more be- 
 nevolent-looking person. He kept his eye on all who passed 
 by him, and seemed to anticipate their slightest wants. For 
 one he called up a hack, to the second he told the time of 
 day. He oflFered his hand to ladies who wished to cross the 
 road, and picked up the canes of the men. As soon as he 
 was unemployed, he returned to take his place by Theodore, 
 who finally asked him who he was. 
 
 " My name is Pamphilius," replied he. 
 
 " That means, if I am not mistaken," said Theodore, " one 
 who loves every one." 
 
 " And I act up to my name," replied Pamphilius. " My 
 happy mental gifts can be used in the most varied ways. My 
 father did not wish to acknowledge me, so I have disowned 
 him. I am, therefore, independent of all family ties ; and I 
 carry my independence into the domain of art. I remember 
 that in my early youth I loved the heroes of romance ; but 
 on the occasion of my first illness I gave them up for horny 
 monsters. The next day I went to the museum to worship 
 the gods of Greece. But very soon art was declared to have 
 a mission, and I had to rise with art. Everything had to be 
 placed upon a pinnacle. Woman came out of our hands not 
 only liberated, but ennobled ; and the galley-slave kept in the 
 galleys the purity of heart which had not prevented him from 
 purloining the goods of his neighbors. Happy age of para- 
 doxes I — sublime virtues and vice and brutality in wonderful 
 contrast. In all the phases of public opinion, by flattering 
 the predominant taste and following the leaders, I have won 
 a place which is not to be despised. I follow close behind 
 the masters, and look as if I had helped them to plant the 
 flag. Thus it is that by turns idealist, romantic fantast, and 
 realist, not more than a month since, I am now in quest of 
 
320 i\aji,uuujiJ!i, 
 
 some new subject which will put me for the tenth time on 
 the road to glory." 
 
 " We are also seeking this road," said Theodore. " Tell 
 us how we must go to work to find it." 
 
 " You seem very far from it," replied Pamphilius. " First, 
 you must select some costume ; and it is indispensable that it 
 should be in the latest fashion." 
 
 " Is that very dear?" asked Theodore. 
 
 " They can be had, on the contrary, -at a very low price," 
 answered Pamphilius. 
 
 For nearly two months Aristides and Theodore worked 
 very assiduously, without allowing themselves the slightest 
 recreation. They had seen Mr. Sulpicius again, and he had 
 made very fair promises in case they should bring him a chef- 
 d'ceuvre. The two friends presented themselves one morning 
 with great confidence to Mr. Sulpicius, and each one handed 
 him a manuscript. A week later Mr. Sulpicius returned them 
 to them, saying, " Your ehef-d'oeuvres are detestable ; but, as 
 you have been warmly recommended to me, I am willing for 
 you to try again." 
 
 The next month new manuscripts and a new visit to Mr. 
 Sulpicius, who assured them that their chef-cTaeuvTes were 
 not worth much, and that they must begin again. Two 
 months later they paid a third visit to the publisher. 
 
 " Your cJief-d'aeuvres are weak," said Mr. Sulpicius; "but, 
 as you are persevering, I will keep your manuscripts, which 
 I shall never put in print." 
 
 III. 
 
 " Decidedly," said Theodore, one evening, " Mr. Sulpicius 
 is making fun of us. When we take him a fourth chef- 
 d'ceuvre, he will promise to use it to make paper boats for 
 his children. Aristides thinks we are progressing : I think 
 we are still a long way ofi' from renown. By dint of reason- 
 ing, I have convinced myself that Mr. Sulpicius is, after all, 
 a merchant who must consult the taste of the public ; and 
 that if he does not, he does not understand his business, and 
 there must be other men in the trade who have more sense. 
 I shall, therefore, study the public taste, and then write, and 
 I shall certainly find an editor." 
 
 The two friends no longer lived together. The day on 
 
CONTE DE LA VIE LITTERAIRE. 321 
 
 which Theodore arrived at this conclusion he rose early and 
 went out. 
 
 " I have just come from Canada," said he, " and I scarcely 
 know how to study the tastes of the public. I suppose the 
 safest way is to consult the public and ask him what his tastes 
 are. The public is composed of the persons that one sees 
 every day, that one meets on the street, who go to the eating- 
 houses and to the theatres, who make coats and canes and hats 
 or wear them, and who give to their century its peculiar cachet 
 of learning or penetration, — that moral expression resulting 
 from a total of ideas, opinions, and manners, which we mean 
 when we say the seventeenth (*ntury, the eighteenth century, 
 the age of Pericles, the age of Augustus. One man does not 
 make the public, neither dP two ; three is already a little 
 nearer the mark. I shall, therefore, stop a certain number of 
 persons each day and ask them politely what their tastes are." 
 
 While Theodore was reasoning thus with himself, he found 
 himself opposite a group of young men, pale, thin, and worn- 
 out, who came out of one of the good restaurants of Paris, 
 and were singing and joking and pretending to be drunk. 
 
 " Grentlemen," said he, bowing, " I am Theodore : who are 
 you, who are so elegantly dressed so early in the morning?" 
 
 " We are always well dressed," said one of the young men. 
 " We are the youth of France." 
 
 " I esteem myself fortunate," said Theodore, " to have met 
 at once the youth of France. Permit me to ask you what is 
 the bent of your literary tastes, and what is your opinion 
 about the literature of this age and those which have pre- 
 ceded it? Please to tell me if your opinions agree with those 
 of the youth of the preceding age ; and if they differ, please 
 to tell me why and in what theyr differ?" 
 
 One of the members of the youth of France replied, in 
 the name of all, that they were very tired ; that Bambilla 
 had more grace, but Tantina was lighter and more active, but 
 that the two were to dance in the same ballet, and that they 
 should attend the performance without fail, although it was 
 certain that they would still be exceedingly tired when it 
 took place. Then he made a slight courtesy to Theodore, 
 and the rest of the youth of France, courtesying likewise, 
 went off coughing and yawning. 
 
 Theodore was then in front of a large Grecian edifice sur- 
 28 
 
322 THEODORE, 
 
 rounded by columns. " This," thought he, " must be the 
 temple of taste." He accosted a gentleman, who seemed to 
 be composing, and who was rapidly writing down the ideas 
 which heaven sent him. This man directed him to his wife, 
 who, he said, doubtless had time to read. 
 
 The wife passed at that moment, so Theodore ran after 
 her and asked what her taste was. The lady informed him 
 that taste was very variable, but that at that time the best 
 was in the Rue Vivienne for hats and on the Boulevards for 
 flounces. She said her husband was much mistaken if he 
 thought she had time to read. She never had time to open 
 a book, as she had to pay or rtceive twenty-one visits a day, 
 had to take a walk to visit several shops, and show herself at 
 the theatre, and was, in fact, soliisy that she had no time to 
 pay any attention to her two children, but had been obliged 
 to give them up entirely to a governess. 
 
 Theodore apologized for having stopped a lady who had 
 not time to look after her children, and asked a gentleman 
 who was driving a handsome turnout what he thought of 
 letters. He replied that he had never yet met with a horse 
 of that name. 
 
 Theodore was discouraged. He tried to get some informa- 
 tion as to their reading from a literary man who would only 
 talk of the great book, from an author who would only talk 
 of his own book, and many other authors and literary men 
 who did not talk at all. Finally he fell in with an individual 
 who was reading a newspaper. At first this man was fright- 
 ened, but he took courage, and promised to acquaint him with 
 his opinion, as soon as he had found it in an article of Mr. 
 Sacerdot, which he was reading at that moment. Theodore 
 declared that Mr. Sacerdot bad no opinion, and that his inter- 
 locutor proved that he had an opinion of his own by taking 
 the part of Mr. Sacerdot ; but he did not give in, and con- 
 tinued reading. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Theodore went, one morning, to see Aristides. He was at 
 work, but when his friend entered he threw down his pen and 
 ran to embrace him. After the first transports of joy had 
 subsided, he asked Theodore how he was getting on with his 
 literary labors. 
 
CONTE DE LA VIE LITTERAIRE. 323 
 
 " I have," said Theodore, " something like the plot of a 
 comedy in my head, but I don't know exactly how to end it. 
 The beginning is good : I must find the end later." 
 
 " I think," said Aristides, " that you ought to have let 
 your ideas ripen better before you began to write. If you 
 do not know exactly how you are to end, it is probable that 
 you did not know much better how you ought to begin. At 
 any rate, it is uecessary to study first at home and out-of- 
 doors, in books and in drawing-rooms, — wherever one may 
 happen to be." 
 
 " There is nothing to be learned out-of-doors," replied his 
 friend. " I spent a day in questioning the persons whom I 
 met on the street, and I came home much more uncertain as 
 to what I ought to write than I was when I went out." 
 
 " If you are a'writer," said Aristides, " you ought not to 
 ask the public what you must do. Act, and the public will 
 either condemn you or absolve you. It is not necessary to 
 question, but to see. I am going out ; will you accompany 
 me?" 
 
 They went down together. 
 
 " Where are we going?" said Theodore. 
 
 " Let us take what the day brings," said his friend. " I 
 see a long file of carriages in front of that church ; there is 
 to be a wedding. Shall we, go in ?" 
 
 " Willingly," said Theodore. 
 
 The sweet melodies played by the organ filled the sacred 
 arches. The nuptial proce'ssion advanced to the steps of the 
 high altar, and a curious whispering was heard in the crowd. 
 A very young girl had just knelt on the prie Dieu, from 
 which she was to get up a wife. One might have taken her 
 for an angel, if she had not been so elaborately dressed. The 
 richness of her toilet caused the ladies to say, " At the present 
 time one cannot marry without those expensive dresses." 
 
 " What grace, what purity !" thought Theodore. " Oh, 
 young virgin ! oh, star of the morning ! union with you must 
 be the pledge of durable happiness, and the house which 
 gives you shelter shall be purged from all that is dark and 
 maleficent, — ^just as vitiated air is made wholesome by the 
 presence of pure gold." 
 
 " Sir," said to Aristides a man about forty years of age, 
 who was standing by the bridegroom, " it seems that among 
 
324: THEODORE, 
 
 the numerous acquaintances of Mr. there was no man 
 
 recommendable by his family, — high-minded, intelligent, and 
 well-informed, and capable of making a wife happy, — since he 
 gives his daughter to a man to whom he would not have bowed 
 on the street three weeks ago. This father said, three weeks 
 ago, ' I have only one daughter, but she is an heiress.' In fact, 
 
 for the last two years. Miss has been spoken of as a great 
 
 match, and that reflects a sort of consideration on the father. 
 
 Mr. is really not a bad man, but he thinks he shows 
 
 sense if he simply says, ' My shares in the Northern Railway.' 
 
 " Shall I show you Madame ? She is the one who 
 
 is so bowed down by grief that her head is hidden by her 
 shoulders. Since she has been seated there she has not 
 moved. Do not ask her later who was at the wedding : she 
 has seen nothing, — she is weeping. 
 
 " If you wish to know the names of the guests, the toilets 
 of the ladies, the words spoken around you that no third 
 person is supposed to hear, and all the details of the cere- 
 mony — even to the number of the gilt nails on eai^fauteuU — 
 
 you must ask , the bride. She knows by instinct the 
 
 number of folds of her bridal-veil behind. When she was 
 ten years old she knew the worth of the trimmings on the 
 underskirts of her little companions. The day the marriage 
 was decided upon she spoke in su^h a sensible way as to prove 
 that her worldly education had brought forth fruits worthy of 
 the golden age, and that a love-match had no value in her 
 eyes. She gave her opinion on the subject of the marriage 
 contract, and stipulated for several clauses in her favor. In 
 a few years she will say they married her without consulting 
 her heart. To-night she will leave her mother without shed- 
 ding a tear, and her silly husband will not be frightened by 
 that alarming symptom. He thinks he has made a good bar- 
 gain. You will see him later at the Exchange. His heart 
 does not, on this his wedding-day, give one pulsation more to 
 the minute than on any other day." 
 
 "Sir," said Aristides, politely, "I thank you for these 
 details." 
 
 " There is nothing new in them," replied the same gentle- 
 man. " In Paris there are every year at least two thousand 
 marriages between persons who think each other ugly and 
 disagreeable, and who marry par convenance." 
 
CONTE DE LA VIE LITTER AIRE. 325 
 
 They bowed to each other, and the two friends left the 
 church. 
 
 As they went out a funeral was coming in. The man 
 could have made but little noise in his lifetime, as so few per- 
 sons accompanied him. Aristides and Theodore were sur- 
 prised to see Mr. Sulpicius among the mourners. They both 
 had the same thought, and went to the bookseller to condole 
 with him on the loss of the friend or relation whom he was 
 escorting to his last home. Notwithstanding the abruptness 
 of his manners, Mr. Sulpicius was much touched, and re- 
 plied, — 
 
 " It was neither a relation nor a dear friend. We had 
 some business transactions together, after each of which we 
 had a regular quarrel. But it is our last poet, and I wanted 
 to pay him the last honors " 
 
 Theodore was going to Siay that very few persons were fol- 
 lowing the last poet to the grave, but Sulpicius was already 
 in church. So he turned to his friend, and said, — 
 
 " Please to tell me, Aristides, the name of the poet who is 
 going to be buried ?" 
 
 " Alas I" replied Aristides, " I am as ignorant as you on 
 this head. But I know by heart the poetry of the greater 
 part of our poets, and as it is probable that the death of this 
 one will recall to the mind of some one present the finest 
 verses he has written, we have only to listen, and I shall be 
 able to satisfy your curiosity." 
 
 Presently they passed by a group of young men. They 
 listened, as they were really talking about the dead poet. 
 They had a thousand funny anecdotes to relate : they spoke 
 about those of his tastes which seemed curious, ridiculous, or 
 vicious ; they even recalled to each other the state of his 
 linen and the moles on his face. One made an epigram on 
 the dead poet, and the other a hon mot on the disease which 
 had carried him off. And then the group dispersed, and 
 each one ran to his own neighborhood to call attention to the 
 points w^ere the last poet had been open to ridicule. 
 
 V. 
 
 " But, sirs ; genius !" cried Aristides. But he was alone, 
 on the public square. 
 
 " Genius," said a gentleman, who was passing by, " is a 
 28* 
 
326 THEODORE, 
 
 natural gift, by which we can appreciate the merits of causes 
 and effects. It is genius which shows us what are our rela- 
 tions to society, with respect to labor ; what is the principle 
 of production and wants, and what the causes of consumption. 
 I am Professor Martin, whom you must know, as you are 
 studious. I am going to expound thai thesis at this moment 
 in my lecture. It is fortunate," added he, " that you have 
 fallen in with me, as you would hardly have found places. 
 To the left, and force your way through the crowd. I will 
 put you in the first seats, even if people do complain ; but 
 my voice fills the room, and when I am speaking you could 
 hear a pin drop." , 
 
 Theodore and Aristides followed, though lost in astonish- 
 ment, as they, Mr. Martin, and one other man composed the 
 crowd. Mr. Martin's harangue lasted an hour, during which 
 he explained how all things depended upon one another ; how 
 increase of production lowered the prices ; how low prices 
 stimulated consumption ; how consumption raised the prices, 
 and how high prices, in their turn, stimulated production. 
 When he had finished he saw his third disciple, who was 
 also his debtor, for Mr. Martin helped with his money all the 
 useful undertakings which were mentioned to him, so as to 
 aid the development of. production, which was to produce a 
 more general consumption, and so make comfort more general. 
 As he just then needed to have his advances reimbursed to 
 him, he hinted as much to his borrowing disciple, whose 
 name was Joshua. But Mr. Joshua told him, after offering 
 several very bad excuses, "All things are correlative, Mr. 
 Martin. Go your way, and remember that, if it would give 
 you a great deal of pleasure to receive a sum of money, there 
 is another person who would be very sorry to give it to you." 
 
 " Mr. Martin is not up to anything," said Joshua, taking 
 Theodore's arm in the street. " With the money which he 
 lent me, without production and with a very large consump- 
 tion, I contrive to live very comfortably in Paris." 
 
 " I can Scarcely believe that," said Theodore. 
 
 " There is nothing simpler," said Joshua. 
 
 " Are you a merchant?" 
 
 " Not at all." 
 
 " Owner of a factory, perhaps ?" 
 
 " You have not guessed aright. But I do not want to have 
 
CONTE DE LA VIE LITTERAIRE. 32 
 
 any secrets from you : I have a capital. If I kept it at home 
 it would not bring me in anything ; on the contrary, if I lend 
 it to a friend who is in need, my capital becomes productive. 
 If I had ten times as much capital, and ten times as many 
 friends needing it, my profits would be ten times as large as 
 they are in one operation. Well, as I have only this amount 
 of capital, this is what I do : I lend to my first friend, — his 
 credit, which was bad, immediately becomes good. I then 
 take back my capital, and lend it to a second friend, and 
 thus on to a third and fourth, etc., and I have -soon obliged 
 ten friends and decupled my capital." 
 
 " But," objected Theodore," your friends will lose their 
 credit again when you have taken your capital away from 
 them." 
 
 " So much the better," replied Joshua. " I will lend them 
 my capital again, and make better terms." 
 
 " And those," said Theodore, " who trusted your friends 
 because they knew you were behind them " 
 
 " Are fools," said Joshua. 
 
 " Sir," said Theodore, " who is that person who is treated 
 with such marked respect, and who is always surrounded by 
 admirers ?" 
 
 " That," said Joshua, " is a man who did not believe that 
 a Tartar had rode one hundred and twenty leagues to bring 
 good news from the war." 
 
 " And this other, whom one scarcely deigns to notice?" 
 
 " That is the man who believed that the Tartar had rode 
 one hundred and twenty leagues." 
 
 " Then it is disgraceful to believe that one has been vic- 
 torious, and honorable not to believe it," said Theodore. 
 
 " It is disgraceful to lose," said Joshua. 
 
 Theodore was just going to ask Joshua if the building be- 
 fore them was not the Temple of Taste, as he had supposed,^ 
 but Joshua was already ascending the steps which led to it. 
 While he was going up the steps the man who had had the 
 decency to gain was coming down. 
 
 " I keep the world in motion," said he, addressing Theo- 
 dore and Aristides. " To-day I have been putting excellent 
 mines in circulation." 
 
 " Copper mines?" asked Theodore. 
 
 " I do not know," said the financier. " They will pay 
 
328 THEODORE, 
 
 forty-five francs the first year and one hundred the second. 
 I have also helped to raise the shares of the Circuit Canal, 
 which were nearly worthless." 
 
 " Is that the canal," said Aristides, " which is to unite the 
 large towns in the centre?" 
 
 " I do not know," said the financier. " They gained thirty 
 francs this morning, and to-morrow I shall sell. Lastly, I 
 have gone into the Jacquart steamboats." 
 
 " Which wiU go to New York ?" asked Theodore. 
 
 " I do not know," said the financier. " And you, sirs, — 
 have you taken any?" 
 
 " We are writers," said Aristides. 
 
 " I am very fond of artists," said the financier. " If I 
 were in your place I would describe a financier : but a real 
 financier, such as I am ; one who devotes himself to industry, 
 the queen of the day ; who makes a fortune, arrives at high 
 positions, and enjoys the favor of the public as I do, and ex- 
 presses himself " 
 
 " As you do ?" said Theodore. 
 
 " Yes, as I do," said the financier. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Theodore had been told that the theatre was the winning- 
 post, and that all talents came there to seek the consecration 
 of the superiority which they had displayed elsewhere, so he 
 thought it might be as well to start from the winning-post ; 
 and that, without having been a man of business, or painted 
 battles, or preached peace to the nations, it might be possible 
 to be born with a vocation for the theatre. He had, there- 
 fore, finished the comedy of which he had spoken one day to 
 Aristides, and he had offered it to a theatre, which refused it, 
 as a matter of course. Theodore said to himself, as he car- 
 ried it home, " I wonder who read it between the porter who 
 received it and the porter who returned it?" 
 
 The happy Pamphilius, whom he met at that moment, 
 spoke the language of reason to him. 
 
 " You should do as I do," said he. " I do with the theatre 
 as I do with everything else. If I find that a piece has suc- 
 ceeded, I write one like it, and that two, three, four, ten times, 
 even, till the public is weary. I am now working up dan- 
 gerous liaisons, which fiirnished me materials for two pieces. 
 
CONTE DE LA VIE LITTArAIRE. 329 
 
 — one where I condemn them, and one where I make them 
 prosperous." 
 
 " Which one is the most moral ?" asked Theodore. 
 " Always the last," said Pamphilius. 
 "And why?" 
 
 " Because in that one I prove that the other one was not. 
 It is impossible to know how far the indulgence of the public 
 will reach : one must have tried it to understand it perfectly. 
 As to the subject which I am treating now, I have an infal- 
 lible touchstone for the interest it excites. Thus fifteen or 
 twenty times a year in Paris a certain set of furniture is sold, 
 which the public goes to see, to admire, and to pay for much 
 higher than they would the same articles new. Why ? Be- 
 cause said furniture is said to have belonged to some actress, 
 whsse real talent consisted in receiving some presents to 
 sell them afterwards. And who is it who runs to such 
 exhibitions? You may be sure that there are very few 
 figurantes ; these know the costly and famous furniture by 
 heart, — they have received it and sold it in their turn. No ; 
 it is especially respectable women who go there ; their hus- 
 bands take them there, and their children accompany them. 
 They Come because they are curious, — curious of vice, curi- 
 ous of the carpets on which it walked, of the cushions on 
 which it sat, of the mirrors in which it looked ; they almost 
 regret that the mirrors have not retained some trace of it. 
 But they indemnify themselves by going to the theatre to 
 see a representation of that which interests them. The 
 honest women, and those who are not, seem to have made 
 an agreement to dress, to amuse themselves, and to spend 
 money without thinking or feeling. One listens, one notices : 
 the only question is. Who shall pay the first visit ?" 
 
 " You are right," said Theodore. " I will study morality 
 among those who have none. I will write either a novel or 
 a play. I shall be played or read. Must I write an apology, 
 or a satire ? Ah, I see now how I shall achieve renown 1" 
 
 " You are not quite right," said Pamphilius ; " you must 
 also collaborate." 
 
 " How so ?" 
 
 " In making hon mots which another will put in the piece, 
 or in making a piece where another will place the bon mots." 
 
 " And what is a bon mot?" asked Theodore. 
 
330 THEODOUE, 
 
 "Wit makes itself small to pass," replied Pamphilius. 
 " There must Dot be too many mots, Iseoause they would in- 
 jure each other ; besides which, they can be used in another 
 piece. There must, however, be enough, — five or six is a 
 very pretty number. They must be spoken quickly and gen- 
 erally in reply, and one need not shrink from stopping a scene 
 to bring them in happily. It is well for them to be plain 
 enough to be understood by everybody, so that they can be 
 repeated the next day in town and printed in the papers. The 
 theatre requires a vast experience, as you may see." 
 
 " It is almost an art," said Theodore. 
 
 Pamphilius proposed to Theodore to introduce him in a 
 house where he had business to transact. " The master is a 
 man celebrated for his skill," said he. " If you wish to 
 carve, I engage you to imitate his style." 
 
 The man who received them ran to place himself before 
 his desk after he had opened for them, begging them to 
 excuse him. He said he was finishing a critical review, with 
 sharp angles, of a work of Aristides. 
 
 " Aristides 1" cried Theodore. " He is my friend. How 
 do you, like his book?" 
 
 " Read, sir," said the critic, " for I have finished. This 
 article will tell. Besides three new mots, I have dovetailed 
 in it four other words twisted from their original meaning. 
 You see how I treat your friend." 
 
 " But the idea ?" asked Theodore, after having read. 
 
 " Let us leave the idea alone," said the other. " Is not 
 that a labor?" 
 
 " It is very much like your preceding article on Baptiste." 
 
 " You are very much mistaken ; this article is perfectly 
 new." 
 
 " I think I read it on Sunday," said Theodore. 
 
 The skilful carver answered with some sharpness, and Pam- 
 philius carried off Theodore. Going down the steps he made 
 him obsefve that he should have been full of admiration for 
 four words twisted from their true sense, and that it was not 
 exactly the thing to tell a writer that his articles had already 
 been in print. Theodore acknowledged that he was wrong, 
 and promised to be more careful in future. 
 
CONTE DE LA VIE LITTERAIRE. 331 
 
 VII. 
 
 A few days later Pamphilius introduced Theodore in the 
 office of a newspaper where all shades of opinion were en- 
 dured. He told him that if he could make fun agreeably of 
 every one who had become celebrated through his prose or 
 his verse by his labors or his natural talent, he was free to 
 develop his literary tastes under the superintendence of two 
 or three editors. 
 
 A number of persons were there, and some one mentioned 
 Aristides. 
 
 " He is my friend," said Theodore. 
 
 Immediately he was overwhelmed by questions. Theo- 
 dore, who was proud of having a friend who seemed to be so 
 celebrated, related all the details of the life of Aristides from 
 the day when he had first made his acquaintance on the Nor- 
 wegian vessel. When he began to speak of his literary 
 works he was immediately brought back to private life, which 
 convinced him that it was real interest which dictated the 
 questions, and not merely curiosity. 
 
 The next day Theodore went to see Aristides, in order to 
 tell him that the editors of a certain literary periodical 
 admired him very much and were very anxious to make his 
 acquaintance. 
 
 " My friends, as you are pleased to call them," said Aris- 
 tides, " seem to know me perfectly already. Bead this !" and 
 he handed him a still damp number of the periodical sent him 
 that morning. 
 
 Theodore read it, and was surprised to recognize the anec- 
 dotes which he had related on the previous evening. He 
 could not repress an exclamation of surprise, and acknowl- 
 edged to Aristides that he had some share in forming the 
 halo of glory which was about to encircle his head. 
 
 Aristides replied that, taking all things into consideration, 
 he was rather sorry than pleased. " Personal preoccupations 
 are most injurious to literary labors. I see in all that I have 
 read only useless details about my person, my tastes, and my 
 habits, and I would gladly give the praises which accompany 
 them, and which have no foundation, for a good and fair 
 critique. All these biographical details— ^which suit one 
 about as well as another — only stimulate a morbid curiosity. 
 
332 THEODORE, 
 
 and the public, charmed by the daily representation of impo- 
 tence side by side with talent, ends by regarding all with per- 
 fect indifference, and at last knows no longer which is ridicu- 
 lous, the king or his fool. So, my dear Theodore, I beg you 
 to go and speak to my friends : thank them for their good 
 intention, but ask them not to relate any more anecdotes con- 
 cerning me, as, if my works belong to the public, my person 
 is my own." 
 
 Theodore promised compliance and went out. He went to 
 the office of the periodical, where the editors laughed heartily 
 at Aristides's pretensions. 
 
 The next number of the periodical did not say anything in 
 praise of Aristides. On the contrary, it said, in an article 
 devoted to this young author, that all the good ideas in his 
 books wer6 furnished by his friends, but that all the bad ideas 
 were his own. Finally it drew a parallel between Theodore 
 and Aristides, where the former was crowned with flowers 
 and all the honors of victory. 
 
 " What will Aristides say ?" was Theodore's first thought. 
 He arrived quite out of breath at the office of the paper, sat 
 down at the green table, and asked how it was possible that 
 they should treat his friend so badly to-day, after having paid 
 him so many compliments yesterday. They replied that the 
 compliments came from one person and the " punishment" 
 from another, and that nothing prevented him from praising 
 his friend in the next number, but that they could not prom- 
 ise that nobody should abuse him in the succeeding one. 
 
 Theodore, who was very anxious to prove his innocence in 
 this matter, went to see Aristides. He found him in a state 
 of high irritation. " I am dishonored !" cried he continually. 
 
 Theodore tried to prove to him that he attached too much 
 importance to those scurrilous attacks, to wHich no one would 
 listen. 
 
 " How is it possible to work under such annoyance?" said 
 Aristides, sinking on a chair. 
 
 " Rest assured that I am not to blame for this," said Theo- 
 dore. 
 
 " You are all answerable," said Aristides, " as you write 
 for the same paper." 
 
 " Each one of us expresses only his own opinion," was 
 Theodore's reply. 
 
CONTE DE LA VIE LITTERAIRE. 333 
 
 He returned to the office of the periodical, where he was 
 politely informed that, as he had more scruples than talent, 
 his services were no longer needed. 
 
 When he found himself alone on the street, Theodore in- 
 dulged in very bitter reflections. " I have suffered ship- 
 wreck," said he, " and have been forced to share the wardrobe 
 of a generous man. I have been shown out of the door by 
 a publisher to whom I offered three chef-d'ceuvres. I asked 
 the public to tell me his taste, which he could not do, and I 
 have studied his manners without being able to make any use 
 of my observations. I have seen, tried, and left everything. 
 I have betrayed my best friend, and have no career !" 
 
 He happened to be just then before the little hotel where 
 he had lodged with Aristides on their arrival in Paris, and 
 he contemplated the two windows of the room which had 
 seemed so favorable to study and to be a hot-bed for celeb- 
 rity. 
 
 " Mr. Theodore !" exclaimed the porter, who recognized 
 him. " I have had a letter here for you for more than a 
 year, but as you had not left me your address I could not 
 deliver it. Come in, and I will hand it to you." 
 
 Theodore went in : the porter looked, but found nothing ; 
 looked again, and put his hand upon a large envelope show- 
 ing the stamp of the marine commissariat in Nantes. Theo- 
 dore opened it and read. This letter announced to him that 
 seventeen boxes had been picked up on the coast between 
 Le Croisie and Saint Nazaire, — that these boxes contained 
 Canadian furs, eleven hundred and fifty skins in each box ; 
 on all of these boxes, in spite of their having remained a 
 long time in the water, Theodore's name was perfectly legible, 
 and he was invited to come and claim them at the custom- 
 house, where they had been deposited. 
 
 Theodore's heart was filled with delight. He rewarded the 
 faithful porter, blessed the custom-house, and ran to see Aris- 
 tides, who forgave him and congratulated him. He sold his 
 furs very well, as they were then very fashionable, and em- 
 bracing Aristides, embarked for Canada. He arrived without 
 suffering shipwreck a second time, and never gave an after- 
 thought to literature. 
 
 29 
 
2CV. 
 
 AMANDA. 
 
 A FAEOE IN ONE ACT. 
 BY NICOLAS MILAN. 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM THE CROATIAN 
 BY MRS. PRANCES 0. HENDERSON. 
 
 PERSONS REPRESENTED. 
 
 MiLITOJ. 
 
 MiLKA, his wife, 
 
 Andrija. 
 
 TiNKA, Ma wife. 
 
 Agbnt of an.inaurance company, 
 
 Katica, chambermaid. 
 
 The SCENE it laid in MiLIVOJ's haute. 
 
 The room is arranged tastefully ; in the middle is a door, and 
 doors also to the right and left ; to the right a window. On 
 the right side are a table and a chair ; on the left are a sofa, an 
 arm-chair, and a table, and close by the door, on either side, an 
 arm-chair. 
 
 FIRST SCENE. 
 
 MiLKA, alone, 
 
 MiLKA. [Is seated near the window, leaning back and 
 lonking cardessly into the street.l I would really like to know 
 if my Milivoj is carrying on a flirtation with any one. 
 [Meditatively.'] It is already sixteen days, and [she holes at 
 the clocK] in five minutes he will have been gone one hour 
 
 3S5 
 
336 AMANDA. 
 
 over the proper time. I am sure eleven o'clock is late enough 
 for any one to stay out. At eleven I always begin to doubt 
 if my Milivoj really loves me. [<SAe hears her husband's 
 voice outside.'] There he is, talking angrily to some one at 
 the end of the street. Of course, I feel uneasy ; I love my 
 Milivoj. It is true he is noisy, even when he is happy. 
 When we came down from the altar he seized my hand and 
 looked at me so, — he never looks at any one else so. And 
 then, when he kisses me he looks as devout as if he were 
 worshipping in church. [^She leans out and looks anxiously 
 dovm the street.] But what has become of my friend? 
 Gone ! but whither ? For a little walk ? See how sorrow- 
 fully Anice is looking after him ! Of course, she only wanted 
 to give her master the paper. [She hows' and points to her 
 headdress.] If I had on my hat I would run after him. 
 Good heavens, if he were going to fight a duel with any one ! 
 I am young and aflFectionate, but I do not mean to be as much 
 in love with my husband as my friend Tinka is with hers. 
 She is wrong, for Andrija is not a true and worthy man like 
 my Milivoj. When he says anything he means it. I often 
 say to her, " Tinka, you are wrong, — you are his wife." 
 
 SECpND SCENE. 
 Tinka and Milka. 
 
 Tinka. \_Comes in hurriedly through the door repeating 
 the sentence, "Tinka, you have no time." Continuing.] The 
 deceiver ! he avoids me. 
 
 MiLKA. Tell me what is the matter? I know nothing. 
 
 Tinka. So you know nothing? I must tell you; yes, 
 yes! 
 
 MiLKA. Fie, Tinka, to talk so of your husband ! 
 
 Tinka. [Giving her her hand.] Ah, my friend, you know 
 I have no husband. He avoids me. My husband deceives 
 me I \^She cries.] Ah, ah ! I am the most miserable woman 
 in the whole world I [She cries and sohs.] 
 
 MiLKA. [Bending over her.] But do tell me what has hap- 
 pened. 
 
 Tinka. [Continuing to weep.] Just think! my Andrija 
 
 MiLKA. Your Andrija — • — 
 
 Tinka. Has money ! 
 
AMANDA. 337 
 
 MiLKA. That is no crime. My Milivoj also has money. 
 
 TiNKA. But he hoards it I 
 
 MiLKA. That is not wrong either ; he does well to take 
 care of it. 
 
 TiNKA. But he hides it ! 
 
 MiLKA. Hides it ? where ? 
 
 TiNKA. In his hat ! in his hat ! 
 
 MiLKA. IMerriltf.^ In his hat ? 
 
 TiNKA. Yes, in his hat. 
 
 MiLKA. Then he must either have a very small fortune oi: 
 [smilinff] a very large hat. 
 
 TiNKA. It is not kind of you to make fun of me I You 
 smiled ; that is not friendly. [ Weejpin^ bitterli/.'] You would 
 laugh over our ruin ! oh, oh ! « 
 
 MiLKA. Tinka, I wish you would be in earnest and talk 
 sensibly. 
 
 Tinka. Well, then, listen. [^She makes a great effort to 
 restrain her tears. J My Andrija has a new hat 
 
 MiLKA. Milivoj also. 
 
 Tinka. A little hollow 
 
 MiLKA. To make the lining firmer. 
 
 Tinka. Yes, to make the lining firmer. Oh, that lining, 
 that lining ! 
 
 MiLKA. And what do you care about the lining of my 
 husband's hat? 
 
 Tinka. And what are you talking about your husband's 
 hat for ? Much I care about your husband ! I do not know 
 if your husband is also in the habit of hiding money under 
 the lining of his hat. 
 
 Milka. I have already begged you once, and beg you now 
 again for the last time, to speak plainly, so that I can under- 
 stand you. I am getting uneasy about your health. 
 
 Tinka. Milka, my dear Milka, please bear with me pa- 
 tiently to the end. 
 
 Milka. \_Leads her to the sofa, and they both sit doum.} 
 Well, then, tell me all. 
 
 Tinka. You know that a husband ought never to have 
 any secrets from his wife. You know that mine always has 
 a hundred requirements to make of me, because I have prop- 
 erty and am a good manager. 
 
 Milka. And who tells you that ? 
 29* 
 
338 AMANDA. 
 
 TiNKA. My mother, — and that because she is such a sen- 
 sible woman. Since my Andrija requires so much of me, he 
 ought to render an account of his own expenses. He spends 
 a great deal. Every day at the office, at all hours, he drinks 
 Pilsener beer, eleven kreutzers a glass, and after dinner he 
 gives twelve kreutzers for a cup of coffee, although we buy it 
 by the hundredweight. 
 
 MiLKA. I have never inquired if Milivoj pays twelve or 
 fourteen kreutzers for a cup of coffee. A wife has nothing 
 to do with such matters. 
 
 TiNKA. We ought exactly to look after those very things. 
 It is easy to see that you are very inexperienced, — which is 
 very excusable, as you hava only been married fourteen days. 
 Wait till you have been married half a year, and then tell 
 me if such extravagance does not vex you. 
 
 MiLKA. Getting vexed never does any good. 
 
 TiNKA. Yes, it does 1 How else could I have found out 
 that my husband hides money in his hat ? 
 
 MiLKA. There is that unfortunate hat again ! 
 
 TiNKA. That unfortunate hat Yesterday he bought 
 
 it, brought it home, tried it on, and asked me if it was be- 
 coming to him. I said it was, and made him look at himself 
 in the glass. He then sent the servant to the office for a 
 letter : Andrija went himself to see a friend. I took up the 
 hat, and was looking at it carelessly and feeling it with my 
 finger, when I heard the rustling of fine paper under the 
 lining. It moved when I pushed it, and examining more 
 carefully I made a discovery. There were three five-gulden 
 notes and a one-gulden note, — in all sixteen guldens. I put 
 them back again exactly as I had found them, folded up 
 together. He denies that. When he came back he glanced 
 at his hat, and said instantly, " What have you been doing 
 to my hat?" 
 
 MiLKA. And you ? 
 
 TiNKA. I ? Nothing. I took the hat into his room and 
 put it on the table ; then I wrote a letter to my mother, re- 
 lating the occurrence, and asking for her advice. 
 
 MiLKA. You did wrong. It is quite possible that the hat- 
 maker had put the money in the hat for some particular pur- 
 pose, and forgotten it ; but in that case his property should 
 be returned to him. 
 
AMANDA. 339 
 
 TiNKA. Oh, no ! I did exactly what I should have done, 
 and that is what my mother said in her answer to my letter. 
 She fully approved of my having put the money back in the 
 hat, and advised me to look in the hat every day to see whether 
 it increases or decreases, and thus I can find out if my hus- 
 band is guilty or not. 
 
 MiLKA. And did you find out ? 
 
 TiNKA. Can you ask, already, on the next day ? 
 
 MiLKA. Did his money-plant grow ? 
 
 TiNKA. On the contrary, my dear, on the contrary. The 
 sixteen florins melted away to twelve. Now, my dear Milka, 
 is not that a positive proof that he does not love me ? 
 
 Milka. Yes ; it looks dark. Fortunately, my Milivoj has 
 DO office. 
 
 TiNKA. You may feel that you have a treasure. But 
 have you looked under the lining of his hat? and have 
 you counted all his dear friends ? 
 
 Milka. Tinka, I must really forbid all such insinuations ! 
 
 TiNKA. \_LooMng' out of the window.'] Here are the two 
 birds. 
 
 Milka. Take care, — that is my Milivoj. 
 
 Tinka. And the other one ? I see another hat. 
 
 Milka. The owner pf the other hat — is the agent' of an 
 insurance company. 
 
 Tinka. Does he visit you ? 
 
 Milka. Since yesterday he has been about here several 
 times. 
 
 Tinka. I will slip away. I am too much excited to see 
 strangers. 
 
 Milka. As you please, my friend. [ Thetf go out on the le/i.'] 
 
 THIRD SCENE. 
 
 MiLivojr and the A GENT ; afterwards Katica. 
 
 Both have on hats exactly alike. Milivoj puts his down on 
 the chair on the right side of the door, the Agent is stand- 
 ing on the left side, and holds his hat in his hands. 
 
 Milivoj. Please to come in. [7b himself.'] It is not pos- 
 sible that my wife should have gone out. [ To the Agent.] 
 Please to take a seat. Excuse me. \_He opens the door!] 
 Katica ! Is not my wife at home ? 
 
340 AMANDA. 
 
 Katica. [^Stands in the doorwni/.'] My gracious lady ? If 
 she is not here she must be in her room with her friend. 
 
 MiLivoJ. Good 1 good 1 [ZSs shuts the door.'] Then we 
 can talk quietly over the matter. 
 
 Agent. As I have said, — a sum of twenty thousand 
 florins 
 
 MiLivoj. Yes, I know ; but I must beg you to keep it a 
 profound secret. Neither my wife nor any one whatsoever 
 must hear a word about this transaction. 
 
 Aqeni. You can rely upon me. I am as silent as the 
 grave. 
 
 MiLivoj. But every one is occasionally indiscreet. 
 
 Agent. My dear sir 
 
 MiLivoj. You must be particularly careful not to let any- 
 thing slip before an intimate friend my wife has here. 
 
 Agent. I have business calling me home just now. If 
 you will allow me I will return in half an hour, and wait for 
 you somewhere in the neighborhood. 
 
 MiLivoJ. Please rather to take the trouble to come back 
 here for me. 
 
 Agent. With pleasure. Farewell. [Me goes^ 
 
 MiLivoJ. Farewell. The other project we can talk over 
 with my wife later. 
 
 Agent. [Lays his hat on the chair to the left of the door, 
 takes a letter out of his pocket, and steps back a little.] Take 
 this little book [j/ives him a pamphlet] and look over the 
 figures here in this chapter. [^He shows him the place.] 
 
 MiLivoj. Do not trouble yourself; I can find it. 
 
 Agent. Good ! Then I will just step home for half an 
 hour. [He picks up Milivoj's hat from the chair on the 
 right of the door instead of his own, and departs.] 
 
 MiLivoj. [Puts the pamphlet doum on the table.] To think 
 of my being so polite to the agent of an insurance company I 
 
 FOUETH SCENE, 
 
 Andeija and MiLivoj. 
 
 Andrija. Servus, Milivoj, are you alone? 
 MiLivoj. I am alone ; but your wife is with Milka in her 
 room. 
 
 Andrija. Then we have plenty of time. [He puis his 
 
AMANDA. 341 
 
 hat on the chair to the left of the door.'] So, is the honey- 
 moon over already ? 
 
 MiLivoj. I have business with a certain man. Have you 
 paid your wager yet ? [iTc la-ughs.'] 
 
 Andrija. Don't talk so loud. You know my wife is not 
 far off. Yesterday I was really plucked. I lost four florins 
 besides the beer of the wager. I shall have to pinch myself 
 for six months to pay that. I must drown myself if I have 
 another such vein of ill luck. 
 
 MiLivoj. Yes ; and your little capital is wasting away in 
 such follies. 
 
 Andrija. [Jumps up and takes the wrong hat, leaving his 
 ovm.'] It is melting away, my friend. It worries me. I no 
 longer feel as happy, even when I am with my wife. I know 
 she would be dreadfully angry if she suspected that I play. 
 
 MiLiVOJ. Why do you not resolve to give up cards entirely ? 
 
 Andrija. Tinka would certainly wish me to do it. 
 
 MiLivoJ. Don't mind Tinka ; she holds you under the 
 slipper fast enough. What do I care about Tinka? 
 
 Andrija. To be sure she is here. Then I will run 
 away. [He jumps vp from his chair.] 
 
 MiLivoj. Have you quarrelled ? 
 
 Andrija. Oh, no ; but she has hidden the key of her 
 treasury. [He puts on the hat he was holding in his hand, 
 and leaves.] Adieu. 
 
 FIFTH SCENE. 
 MiLivoj ; afterwards MiLKA and Tinka. 
 
 MiLiVOj. I pity you, my poor Andrija ; you are a good 
 
 fellow, but dreadfully under the slipper. If [The door 
 
 on the right opens, and TiNKA and MiLKA come in.] I 
 kiss your hand. [7b Tinka.] [ToMilka.] Good-morning, 
 Milka. 
 
 MiLKA. [Still standing hy TiNKA, says very coolly.] 
 Good-morning, my dear Milivqj. 
 
 Tinka. Good-morning, Mr. Malic. 
 
 MiLivoj. How is this that Milka greets me so coolly? 
 She does not come to meet me, — she does not kiss me as 
 usual. [He is standing by the table, so that the ladies do not 
 see the hat on the chair near it,] 
 
342 AMANDA. 
 
 MiLKA. [To TiNKA.] Can I? 
 
 TiNKA. Look around if you see his hat anywhere. 
 
 MiLKA. \_Loolei around coolly and mechanically.'] My 
 dear Milivoj, good-morning. 
 
 MiLivoj. And my kiss ! {He presses her to his heart. 
 MiLKA glances hastily at TiNKA, and seeing that she is not 
 looking, site looks lovingly at MiLIVOJ and kisses him ten- 
 derly.^ 
 
 TiNKA. {Says without looking at MiLKA.] That is the 
 way to treat these men. [/SAe hears them kiss."] Oh, fie ! 
 
 MiLKA. {To TiNKA.] I cannot do otherwise. 
 
 MiLiYOJ. And that is right. But do tell me what has put 
 you out of humor ? 
 
 TiNKA. Milka does not feel very well. {To Milka.] 
 See what you find in the hat. I think something is hidden 
 in it. 
 
 Milka. Yes, Milivoj ; I really feel badly. {Looking 
 around, says to TiNKA.] Is something really hidden ? 
 
 Milivoj. Eeally — ^ — {Pulls out his memorandum-book 
 and writes down the date.'] 
 
 TiNKA. But where can it be ? 
 
 Milka. Where? 
 
 Milivoj. I have an invitation for this evening. 
 
 Milka. And where, then, is your hat, Milivoj ? 
 
 Milivoj. My hat ? {Se looks everywhere, and at last dis- 
 covers it on the chair behind him; MiLKA sees it at the same 
 <ime.] 
 
 MiLKA. There! 
 
 Milivoj. Yes, there it is. And why do you ask ? 
 
 Milka. Oh, just because. 
 
 TiNKA. Did you see it ? 
 
 Milka. What? 
 
 TiNKA. That I was right? 
 
 Milka. I have not seen anything. 
 
 TiNKA. Oh, you poor, blind creature ! 
 
 Milivoj. I have told you that I have an invitation for 
 this evening. 
 
 TiNKA. {Seated by the table, to MiLKA.J Just look here. 
 
 Milivoj. Had you not heard of the party ? 
 
 TiNKA. Mr. Malic, have you a purple lining in your new 
 hat? 
 
AMANDA. 343 
 
 MiLivoj. [^Astde."] How naive ! [^Aloud.'] I believe so. 
 
 TiNKA. Is that your only answer, — muttering in youi 
 beard " I believe so" ? . 
 
 MiLKA. I do not see that anything more was needed. 
 
 TiNKA. Nothing more needed 1 Do you not see that hii 
 avarice stands out as clear as the sun ? I was already sure 
 that two friends would have the same habits, and I now see 
 that your husband is, like mine, in the habit of concealing 
 his property in his hat. 
 
 MiLKA. Tinka, I forbid you to speak of my Milivoj ir 
 that way. 
 
 ' Tinka. You unworthy creature 1 you would really fal 
 down at your tyrant's feet 1 
 
 Milka. What tyrant? 
 
 Tinka. Can you ask ? Why, your Milivoj and my An 
 drija. 
 
 Milivoj. When there are quarrels it is always the wifi 
 who is to blame. 
 
 Tinka. I suppose you would like roast goose every day. 
 
 Milka. [CVop* her hands.'] Roast goose! that is what ! 
 like. 
 
 Milivoj. [^Aside.'] Roast goose ; so ! [_Aloud.'] Madam 
 I am really tired of such arguments. I am willing to be 
 that you would quarrel even in heaven. 
 
 Tinka. I do not think any tyranny will be allowed ii 
 heaven: not even under a lining, — even under a purpl 
 lining. 
 
 Milivoj. IWith quiet irony. 1 I suppose you would no 
 mind it under some other lining. 
 
 Tinka. [^Looks sorrowftdly at Milka.] You see, my deai 
 I was right. 
 
 Milivoj. Please to let Milka alone; she is good an 
 happy. 
 
 Tinka. It is no thanks to you if she is good and happy. 
 
 Milivoj. Did you look in the newspaper to assure youi 
 self? 
 
 Tinka. Of what? 
 
 Milivoj. Of what is under that lining? 
 
 Tinka. I did not look in the paper, but I know whei 
 else to look. Adieu, Milka ; adieu, Mr. Malic. \_She goes. 
 
344 AMANDA. 
 
 SIXTH SCENE. 
 MiLivoj and Milka. 
 
 MiLiVOJ. [laoking after Tinka.J Milka ! 
 
 Milka. Milivoj ! 
 
 MiLiVOj. What is the matter with that lady ? 
 
 Milka. Nothing, — nothing at all. 
 
 Milivoj. Nothing ! You know that is not true. It is 
 not nice in my Milka to have secrets from her husband ; say 
 with your hand on your heart if it is right. 
 
 Milka. Milivoj 
 
 Milivoj. Well? 
 
 Milka. I would tell you, if I dared. 
 
 Milivoj. Dared ? how so ? 
 
 Milka. [^GonfidejUialli/.'] Tinka is very inquisitive 
 
 Milivoj. I perceive that myself. But what is she after 
 now? 
 
 Milka. I dare not tell you. Tinka made me promise not 
 to tell you ; and you would not want your Milka to break her 
 promise ? 
 
 Milivoj. You had better refrain from making promises 
 if it is going to make you keep secrets from me. It is very 
 wrong for a wife to have secrets from her husband. 
 
 Milka. And not for the husband to have secrets from his 
 wife, eh ? 
 
 Milivoj. Of course, he ought not to have any. 
 
 Milka. And yet you have secrets which you do not wish 
 me to know. 
 
 Milivoj. No, I have not. 
 
 Milka. You have not ? 
 
 Milivoj. I 
 
 Milka. I believe you, I believe you 1 and yet I would be 
 fso glad if you would swear it. 
 
 Milivoj. You little witch I I am beginning to fear that 
 you know how to deceive one. 
 
 Milka. It is much easier for a man to deceiye one. 
 
 Milivoj. Indeed? I am curious to know how. 
 
 Milka. Are you joking ? 
 
 Milivoj. I must really beg you to tell me what you are 
 driving at. 
 
AMANDA. 345 
 
 MiLKA. {^Quickh/ to herself.'] If I require of him- 
 
 then my suspicions would be lulled, and I might be as happy 
 as before. [ To Milivoj.] But you must not get angry. 
 
 MiLivoj. I get angry, — with you ? 
 
 MiLKA. Good! [^She speaks mth a patJietic voice, andlooJcs 
 right into his eyes.] Now, look me straight in the eyes, — so. 
 
 Milivoj. [Does what she wishes, hut cannot keep from 
 smiling.] Is that right ? 
 
 MiLKA. Yes. [7b hersdf.] Now, if this arrow does not 
 hit the mark, my mind will be easy. [Aloud.] Now give 
 
 me 
 
 . Milivoj. [Holding out his hand.] My hand ? 
 
 MiLKA. No ; your new hat. 
 
 Milivoj. [Laughs aloud.] My new hat ? 
 
 MiLKA. [Aside.] He laughs. [Ahvd.] Yes, your new hat. 
 
 Milivoj. Here, my love. [He gives her his hat.] 
 
 MiLKA. You give it to me ? [Joyfully.] And may I do 
 what I please with it ? 
 
 Milivoj. [Decidedly.] Yes, what you please. 
 
 MiLKA. May I rip out the lining ? 
 
 Milivoj. Yes ; if you put in another. 
 
 MiLKA. [Surprised.] If I put in another? [She looks: 
 up.] Really 1 [She puts the hat down Joyfully on the chair 
 to the right.] Milivoj, you are my good, dear, only Milivoj ! 
 [She kisses him and leaves the room.] 
 
 SEVENTH SCENE. 
 
 Milivoj, alone. 
 
 Milivoj. You dear little witch I How she blushes ! I 
 really do not believe there is another such a lovely and beau- 
 tiful wife in the whole country. [He looJcs at his watch.] 
 What a nuisance to have to meet that agent again ! 
 
 EIGHTH SCENE. 
 
 Milivoj and Andrija. 
 
 The door ij suddenly opened, and Andrija comes in in a 
 state of great excitement. 
 
 Milivoj. Oh, Andrija ! what is the matter with you ?• 
 Andrija. I have lost all my property. 
 30 
 
346 AMANDA. 
 
 MiLivoj. So, then, you were rich ? 
 
 Andrija. Don't ask such silly questions. Oh, Milivoj ! 
 I should not have expected it of you ! Remember that we 
 have been friends since our earliest childhood. It is a shame 
 that you should have betrayed me ! 
 
 Milivoj. /.' betray you ? and to whom ? 
 
 Andeija. Yes, you 1 Who else could have told my wife 
 that I keep money under the lining of my hat for my game 
 of taroc? 
 
 Milivoj. Heaven is my witness that I never said a word 
 about it. 
 
 Andrija. I am willing to believe that you did not tell her 
 directly, but you told your wife, and of course she told her 
 friend. 
 
 Milivoj. [Standing on the right side of the taJfe.J I as- 
 sure you 
 
 Andrija. [^Standing on the left side of the tahk.^ As for 
 me 
 
 NINTH SCENE. 
 
 Milivoj, Andrija, and Tinka. 
 
 TiNKA. {Bursts in very much excited, and says, angrily.'\ 
 Is your wife at home, Mr. Malic ? 
 
 M ILIVOJ. She is ; but what is the matter with you, madam, 
 you are so excited ? 
 
 Tinka. Oh, I am as quiet as a lamb ; but [angrily to An- 
 drija] I shall not rest till I have learned something about 
 your friend Amanda. [She goes out, slamming the door.'] 
 
 TENTH SCENE. 
 Andrija and Milivoj. 
 
 Andrija. [Quite hewildered.'\ Amanda? 
 
 Milivoj. So you have a friend Amanda? For shame, 
 Andrija ! 
 
 Andrija. Milivoj, do not drive me to despair. 
 
 Milivoj. That is a great deal worse than hiding money 
 in your hat. It is very bad in you to be having a love-affair 
 when you have only been married six months. You are old 
 enough to be steady. Oh, fie ! 
 
AMANDA. 3417 
 
 Andrija. [^AngriJj/.l Will you stop, or shall I show you 
 what I can do when I am really angry ? 
 
 MiLivoj. Oho I Quiet, my friend ! If you hare done no 
 wrong, why is your wife jealous about this Amanda? 
 
 Andrija. Will you stop speaking about that wicked 
 Amanda? I do not know any Amanda; and I do not 
 know how my wife hit upon that name. All I know is 
 that when I got home the fox was in my hen-house ; that is, 
 my wife was examining my hat, and had her finger under the 
 lining. She took out the treasure 
 
 MiLivoj. Treasure? 
 
 Andrija. Yes; for me it was really a treasure that I 
 had there in my hat ; and now she has locked it up in her 
 room ! 
 
 Miiiivoj. Most curious ! 
 
 Andrija. I am sure that my mother-in-law is at the 
 bottom of it all. She has invented some story about some 
 Amanda; but it exists only in her imagination. There is 
 not a word of truth 
 
 ELEVENTH SCENE. 
 The same, MiLKA, and TiNKA. 
 
 MiLKA comes forward very solemnly, behind her is the weep- 
 ing TiNKA. MiLKA goes straight up to the astonished An- 
 drija. TiNKA goes to the middle door and sits dovm on, 
 a chair. She weeps silently while MiLKA is speaking. 
 MiLKA. Mr. Vajkon, it is not right in you to deceive my 
 friend in this manner, and to destroy the happiness of her 
 whole life. My dear Tinka has not deserved this. She loved 
 you, — loved do I say ? She worshipped you. Her unfortu- 
 nate inquisitiveness has shown her that you are carrying on a 
 love-afiair, and injuring her honor. I must say I could not 
 have believed it of you. I- 
 
 Andrija. l^Meekly.'] My dear madam 
 
 MiLivoj. But, Milka ! 
 Milk A. [To Milivoj.] Tell me candidly, do you know 
 anything about any Amanda ? 
 
 MiLivoj. Upon my honor I do not 1 
 
 TiNKA. \_Orying.'] I do not believe him, my dear Milka. 
 
 Milivoj. But do tell us : who is this Amanda ? Have 
 
348 AMANDA. 
 
 you any proofs, or have you only surmises wittout any foun- 
 dation ? 
 
 MiLKA. IConfidentialli/.'] Only think, dear Milivoj, my 
 unhappy friend found a letter from his beloved signed " Your 
 faithful Amanda." It came from Triest. 
 
 Milivoj. Andrija, how is it possible ? 
 
 MiLKA. I will not ask if you think you are acting fairly 
 towards them both. [^She pushes Milivoj towards Andbija, 
 so that she comes on the right side and he in the middle.^ 
 
 Milivoj. \^Couffhs and hesitates a little.'] Andrija! 
 
 Andrija. \_Furious.'] Don't say a word or I will kill yon ! 
 
 MiLKA. Milivoj, don't be afraid of him ; but tell him 
 plainly what you think of him. 
 
 Milivoj. Yes, yes ; that is what I mean to do. 
 
 MiLKA. Wait! Better still, you need not speak at all. 
 \^She points to the chair to the right.] Is that his hat or 
 yours ? 
 
 Milivoj. [Seeing that Andrija- has his hat in his hand.] 
 That must be mine, as he has his in his hand. 
 
 Milka. [Takes the hat and turns up the lining.] Now, 
 see? the proof was hidden under the lining of his hat. 
 Here [Finding money hid, she looks up in great sur- 
 prise.] Milivoj, what is this? Here is money in your hat. 
 
 TiNKA. [Quickly.] You see it is as I told you, — the men 
 are all alike. 
 
 MiLKA. Air ! air ! I am stifling. [SJie leans back in her 
 chair.] Oh, my God ! 
 
 Milivoj. Milka, my dear Milka 1 do compose yourself 
 and listen to me ! 
 
 Milka. I do not want to hear anything I I have no faith 
 in anybody ! I am the most unhappy woman in the whole 
 world ! 
 
 Milivoj. But — thunder and hell ! — is that my hat ? 
 
 Milka. [Starts.] Then whose is it ? 
 
 Milivoj. I never hide money in my hat; but Andrija 
 does. So we must have changed hats, and that one must be 
 my hat and this one his. 
 
 Milka. [Sadly.] Then Amanda was in your hat ? 
 
 TiNKA. [Joyfully to Andrija.] Then that letter did not 
 belong to you ? 
 
 Andrija. Of course not. 
 
AMANDA. 349 
 
 MiLivoj. But — a thousand thunders! — who is Amanda? 
 . Show her to me at once, or I shall fly in a passion. 
 
 Andkija. [To Milivoj.] For shame ! so it was you, and 
 you were trying to pass it off on me ! 
 
 Milivoj. Where is the insane asylum? for I shall cer- 
 tainly lose my senses. Who can deliver me from that unfor- 
 tunate Amanda? 
 
 TWELFTH SCENE. 
 
 The same, the Agent, and Katica. 
 
 Katica. [^Announces.] The agent of the insurance com- 
 pany. 
 
 Milivoj. Let him go to the devil ! 
 
 Agent. [Standing hy the door.^ I have come for you, as 
 you asked me to do. As I see on your table a hat exactly 
 like mine, allow me to ask if we coulS not possibly have ex- 
 changed hats ? 
 
 Milivoj. IJoy/uUi/.'] Now I see how it is ! Have you a 
 lady-love whose name is Amanda? 
 
 Agent. I do not know any lady of that name. 
 Milivoj. You do not know any one ? Please to think a 
 little. 
 
 Agent. If you please, I came to get you. 
 Milivoj. Have you never received a letter from a certain 
 Amanda ? 
 
 Agent. Amanda? wait! I believe that is the name 
 signed to a copy of a letter which one of my friends sent me, 
 from some lady who wants to know something about insurance. 
 All. And where was that letter ? 
 
 Agent. Why, I suppose I put it where I always put any 
 papers which I do not wish to lose, — that is, under the lining 
 of my hat. 
 
 Milivoj. Mr. Agent, I would like to embrace you, 
 Andrija. And I also. 
 
 Agent. [^Ihnbarrassed.'] Oh, pray I have come for 
 
 you ; but please to give me my own hat. 
 
 MiLKA. [ Coaxingly to MiLivOJ.] Give Andrija the money. 
 Tinka. ^Lovingly to Andeija.] Give the agent the letter. 
 Andrija. And you promise never to be so inquisitive 
 again ? 
 
 30* 
 
350 AMANDA. 
 
 TiNKA. Never ! — if you tell me what is your reason for 
 hiding money in your hat. , 
 
 Andrija. For my game of taroc. 
 
 MiLivoj. His losses are written down as cups of coffee. 
 
 TiNKA. It is not necessary to secrete money in your hat 
 for a game of taroc. From to-day on I will give you what 
 you need for it. 
 
 Andrija. You adorable creature I 
 
 MiLKA. [ To MiLivoJ.] And you are a pearl of a man I 
 
 Agent. If you please, I came to fetch you. 
 
 MiLivoj. No, no ; you must stay here and drink a glass 
 of wine in honor of your having restored harmony and peace 
 to us all. You 
 
 TiNKA. You, .an agent for insuring lives ! 
 
 MiLKA. [^Smilinff.'] You, who carry Amanda in your hat ! 
 
 Agent. If you please, sir, I have come to fetch you. 
 
THE STORM-BRIDE. 
 
 BY DK. E. C. BASK. 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM THE DANISH 
 BY MES. PRANCES C. HENDERSON. 
 
 He who, on the lYth of April, a.d. 1823, has stood behind 
 the new windmill near Lagjewnike, in the Brombergske dis- 
 trict, can, if he escaped with his life, relate to us the follow- 
 ing story : 
 
 Lise, a poor orphan girl, and the parson's sixteen-year-old 
 nursery girl, — who had been carefully educated in his house 
 and who had a right pretty face, — wished on that day, as on 
 every other since the beginning of spring, to go along the 
 pleasant foot-path in front of the mill to her master's piece 
 of ground. The young miller Louis, the miller's sprightly 
 son, poked his head out through the hole in the mill and 
 cried, jestingly, " Ah, Lise ; pretty Lise !" 
 
 Half angrily, half pleasantly, she stood still, and said, "And 
 what is now the matter again ?" 
 
 " Just what I told you yesterday, pretty Lise. Have you 
 no desire to marry ?" 
 
 " Handsome Louis 1 If you only wish to tease me, let me 
 go my way in peace." She said these words in a pout, and 
 went on her way. 
 
 " But, fair Lise, you are not to marry me. I know you 
 consider a miller's son as beneath you." 
 
 " As agent for another I will not have anything to say to 
 you. Adieu !" 
 
 351 
 
352 THE STORM-BRIDE. 
 
 "So! neither as suitor nor agent? Oh, Lise I the mill- 
 hole is unfortunately too small, but if I could get through I 
 would throw myself at once into your arms. Listen to me ! 
 Do you remember four or five years ago ? You did not then 
 want to pass for a grown-up young lady ; then you would give 
 me a kiss on Sunday when I took you on my lap and gave 
 you a ginger-cake. Now the Herr Pastor has doubtless for- 
 bidden that. Tell me, Lise ; does he not preach to you 
 daily ?" 
 
 " Would he not have good cause to preach now, and say, 
 ' Lise, go to your work ; do not let the miller's son make a 
 fool of you' ?" 
 
 Lise now really started off, although she only too gladly 
 heard the jests of the somewhat overbearing but good and 
 honest youth ; but he called her back with a " Lise, pretty 
 Lise ; look here !" Lise turned round and smiled. 
 
 " Hold up your apron, little witch," cried the miller's son, 
 " and you shall have a spick and span new apple from Para- 
 dise." 
 
 Before she could make up her mind what to do he threw 
 at her feet an orange, — a fruit she had never seen. 
 
 " Eat, my Eve," called Louis, laughing ; " eat the beautiful 
 Paradise apple." 
 
 The credulous girl followed his advice, and bit into the 
 orange. Her mouth was drawn awry by the bitter taste of 
 the skin, but she noticed that a sweet juice flowed out of the 
 hole. She ran off with the orange, while Louis called after 
 her mockingly, " Lise, pretty Lise ; how do you like the Para- 
 dise apple?" 
 
 The girl stood now in the. parson's field, and wielded her 
 spade with double diligence to make up for lost time. Her 
 thoughts dwelt constantly on the lively Louis. " Perhaps he 
 jokes so with all the girls," said she to herself, "-and means 
 nothing at all by it ; and yet he is a good youth, industrious 
 and sober, — and how beautifully his new blue clothes fit him ! 
 And it was kindly done of him, — though it was a sort of a 
 frolic, — to give me that nice fruit. He means well, or at 
 least not so very badly, by me." 
 
 While she was thus talking to herself she heard a hollow 
 noise, which seemed to be coming from the vilFage and to be 
 drawing nearer and nearer. A strange and powerful current, of 
 
THE STORM-BRIDE. 353 
 
 air with a breadth of only about two hundred feet came in • 
 that moment sweeping over from Kruschwitz, bearing aloft 
 roofs and windows and even sheds and stables. The rapidly 
 darkening air announced to the lonely girl an approaching 
 hurricane. She hurried behind a quickset hedge which had, 
 verily, no leaves, but was still thick enough to shield her in 
 some measure from the wind. The dibris of her home were 
 whirled over her head, a large barn soared like a bird high 
 up in the air, and after that some linen torn from the bleach- 
 ing-ground. But now the wind began to roar and howl fear- 
 fully and to whistle around her and through her. Lise looked 
 on in trembling till she saw the new windmill, borne by the 
 irresistible force of the wind, sail like a kite over her head ; 
 at this fearful sight she fainted. But soon a fearful cracking 
 noise aroused her : the storm had loosed its grasp of its 
 booty, and the windmill had been hurled down only a few 
 steps from her feet. After this fearful feat everything 
 became suddenly still, but Lise remembered with unspeak- 
 able horror that Louis was probably buried under the ruins 
 of the windmill. Weeping and lamenting she walked round 
 the slight building, and it was heartfelt grief that forced 
 tears from her eyes. " Oh, if the house had only fallen 
 upon me !" cried she, wringing her hands. " How can I live 
 now that he is dead ? He never knew how dear every word, 
 every look of his was to me ; he never suspected that my 
 heart belonged solely to him. I well knew that I could 
 never be his, but still I loved him. It made me happy to see 
 him, and now he lies crushed under the broken beams." 
 
 While the guileless girl was thus giving vent to her heart- 
 felt grief, she suddenly heard Louis's well-known voice call- 
 ing, " Lise, pretty Lise !" A shudder passed through her 
 and dreamily she looked around, and behold ! Louis's head 
 was stuck bravely through the mill-hole, which now looked 
 up to the skies. His eyes were full of tears. " My dearest 
 Lise," said he, .with embarrassment, " can you not help me 
 out of this strait ? The door is lying on the ground. My 
 good child, did it need a storm to show us that we were 
 made for one another ? Break off this board ; the wind has 
 already loosed the nails. Good heavens, what an infernal 
 flight ! But, Lise, do you really love me so well ? Thank 
 heaven ! I am now free and in your arms." He strained to 
 
354 THE STORM-BRIDE. 
 
 ' his heart the blushing girl, who was nearly overpowered by 
 her joyful emotion. " God sent his storm to lead you to me, 
 and the storm-bride has become an earth-born bride. Come, 
 come to my father ; we will tell him all and ask for his con- 
 sent to our union." ^ 
 
 Arm in arm, gazing at each other with blissful looks, the 
 lovers returned to the village. Upon the spot where the n^ill 
 had stood Louis found his family rending the air with their 
 cries. He appeared among them like a spirit. It would be 
 impossible to describe the delight of the old father, and when 
 the son presented the bashful Lise as his bride he gladly, in 
 the excess of joy, consented to the match. Soon the penni- 
 less orphan girl was transformed into a mistress miller, and 
 she used to say, " Eve lost Paradise by eating the apple, but 
 for me the Paradise apple has become Paradise itself." 
 
 If any one is inclined to consider this account of the wind- 
 mill sailing through the air in the light of a fairy-tale, let him 
 read the " Hande und Spenerske Tidende," No. 57, for 13th 
 May, 1823, and if he looks under the head of " Miscellane- 
 ous" he can soon satisfy himself that the story of this wind- 
 mill is not wind. 
 
LEKA; OR, REimiSCENCES OF A PHYSICIAN. 
 
 BY DK. KRYPOW. 
 
 TRANSLATED FKOM THE SERBIAN 
 BY MKS. FRANCES C. HENDEKSON. 
 
 I WAS bom in a village on the flowery banks of the river 
 
 C . My father was a priest. The air was mild, and 
 
 delicate people were often sent into our neighborhood to re- 
 cruit ; but we also had many poor and needy around us. The 
 church was close to our dwelling-house ; but among the old 
 women who worshipped there, there was only one boy with 
 whom I grew up, with whom I shared everything, and with 
 whom I played in the grave-yard in front of the church. 
 He was unusually fond of sweet things, and many a cake 
 have I begged for and then handed to him privately through 
 the fence. My friend, having the misfortune to squint a 
 little, went by the name of Squinting Leka. He was a 
 daring little fellow ; and when he was six years old he swam 
 like a fish and darted up the highest tree like a squirrel. He 
 would wander away from home quite alone for hours, and felt 
 as safe on the top of a mountain as in the house. He knew 
 every foot-path in the neighborhood as well as every road. 
 But though usually joyous, he even then seemed sometimes 
 to be a prey to melancholy. When he was eight years old 
 he came to the parsonage to be instructed with me. But 
 though I was reading the Psalter at the end of a few months, 
 he had not even got to spelling properly. My father tried in 
 all possible ways to develop the boy's talents, and gave him 
 
 355 
 
356 LEKA; OR, 
 
 two lessons to my one, but in vain. Beating him, locking 
 him up on bread and water, giving him sour looks, all were 
 useless. Leka never put the book out of his hands, but he 
 could get nothing out of it, and spent two years on what is 
 always learnt in one. His whole nature seemed to change 
 with the efforts he made. He grew weak, and always had 
 the look of a hunted deer. He had lost the open look of 
 childhood, and could no longer look any one full in the face. 
 The sexton — his father — became convinced at the end of these 
 two years that nature had not intended his son for a scholar, 
 and gave him leave to choose his own work. Whoever had 
 seen Leka, after he was restored to freedom, handling a pitch- 
 fork or stepping cheerfully behind a plough, would never have 
 recognized in him the dull boy who had moped so over his 
 book. Still less could they have thought him stupid who 
 had seen him wading in shallow parts of the river, carrying a 
 puppy in his arms or dragging a small shrimp-net. 
 
 When I was twelve years old I was sent to the gymnasium 
 (government school where the classics are taught). For two 
 years I did not return home, but the third I spent the hol- 
 idays with my parents. The next day, as soon as it was light, 
 I ran to visit all my former haunts. I had scarcely shut the 
 garden gate when I saw Leka standing near the fence, exactly 
 at the place where I had so often handed him a cake. His 
 joy at seeing me was unbounded. " Steve," said he, " I have 
 waited here the whole night. I came here as soon as I was 
 told ' Steve has come,' " and he fawned on me like some pet 
 animal. Then he looked straight into my eyes, saying, " You 
 are surely not angry with me ? Is there still room in your 
 heart for Leka ? I would love you just the same if I were 
 suddenly made a prince." I immediately embraced Leka and 
 kissed him ; but this was something so new for him that he 
 suddenly burst into t«ars, and, seizing my hand, he covered it 
 with kisses. He trembled so violently that he was scarcely 
 able to stand. " Come," said I to him, " let us go into the 
 wood." 
 
 " Yes," replied he ; " but far,— for the farther the better." 
 
 He led me through the wood and then on to the moun- 
 tain, where there was a small, smooth meadow with a clear 
 brook gurgling peacefully over its pebbly bed. 
 
 " Is it not beautiful here ?" said Leka. 
 
REMINISCENCES OF A PHYSICIAN. 357 
 
 "And why is it beautiful?" said I, not knowing his taste 
 exactly. 
 
 He looked at me doubtfully for a while, and then hid his 
 face between his hands, and said, mournfully, " Leka does not 
 know ; but it is beautiful." I felt vexed at having asked the 
 question. 
 
 Leka washed me and his puppy, and then we continued 
 our walk as far as the frontier, whose nearness astonishied me 
 now very much. It used to seem to us so far away. We 
 talked together ; and I thought he had become bitter. He 
 seemed ashamed of his parents, and he seemed to dislike 
 human beings. I said to him, " Do not abuse men : they 
 are also God's creatures." Dogs he liked, and they all liked 
 him. As soon as he appeared on the street all the dogs 
 in the village came to him, and would have followed him to 
 an;^ distance if he had allowed it. If they met him they 
 jumped on him, licking his hands and even his face, and Leka 
 would sit down by the side of the road so as to fully enjoy 
 his canine friends, conversing with them, or rather talking to 
 them, as if they were reasonable beings. If any one in the 
 village had thrown a stone at a dog without a very good 
 reason, he would have had to fight it out with Leka. 
 
 In a few days was the annual f&te of the village, and my 
 father, seeing Leka quite ragged, asked my mother to cut 
 him out a shirt. She did so, and my sister sewed it. She 
 also took some good homespun and cut him out a cloak. 
 There was an old tailor in the village who was very success- 
 ful in making clothes fit : to him she gave the cloak to line 
 and trim. How nice he made it look ! But it came very 
 dear, as the tailor needed so many things which we would 
 not have used. Leka was delighted with his new shirt and 
 his cloak, but he did not care at all if other people admired 
 it or not. But the other villagers did admire his new clothes 
 very much, and greeted him now very respectfully, feeling his 
 clothes as they passed him with ill-concealed envy. Even the 
 women crossed the road to shake hands with him and con- 
 gratulate him : some even gave him cheese and pogache (un- 
 leavened bread like ship-biscuit) and even butter. Any one 
 acquainted with the sort of patriarchal life led in our villages 
 will not be surprised to hear that even the young girls openly 
 expressed their admiration. 
 
 31 
 
358 LEKA; OR, 
 
 Still I felt very sorry for Leka ; but I did not see exactly 
 how I could help him. It is hard to raise people who have 
 sunk down in misery and become used to it. It was hard 
 even to approach him to talk- about it ; and father, who was 
 not brave by nature, would not undertake it. One day I said 
 to him, " Leka, would you not like to lead a higher life and 
 be something better than your dog ?" 
 
 " Of course I should like it, Steve," replied he. 
 
 " And where do you mean to go to do it?" 
 
 " Nowhere," was his simple reply. 
 
 " Oh, fool, fool ! you do not want to leave your mother." 
 
 '' I do not wish to." 
 
 " But you must some day leave your father and mother. 
 They know it and will agree to it. They are reasonable 
 beings and not brutes." 
 
 " And what do you call brutes ?" ». 
 
 " Why, horses, dogs, — all dumb animals." 
 
 Leka shook his head. " Even a puppy," said he, " does 
 not like to leave his mother, though he is usually taken away 
 forcibly." 
 
 AVhen I repeated this to my father, he smiled, and said, ' 
 " Blessed are the poor in spirit." 
 
 I was then studying rhetoric, and I brought all my store of 
 eloquence to bear upon him, but it fell against a rock. Once, 
 as I was taking a short walk alone, I saw at a little distance 
 his dog Lisa watching something. I drew dear and saw Leka 
 fast asleep under a large shady tree. I went silently up to 
 him and contemplated him. How peaceful, how blissful even 
 seemed his sleep 1 At first sight one would have called him 
 ugly, with his flaxen hair falling down over his forehead and 
 his white eyebrows, and his slight figure. Yet, when you ex- 
 amined him closely, he had a beauty all his own ; and now, 
 while he was sleeping,' his face seemed transformed. The 
 squijiting eye was shut, and one only saw the pure, peaceful 
 soul marking every feature with its own heavenly calm. 
 
 While he was lying there sleeping several persons passed 
 by, and all exclaimed, almost involuntarily, " He is a good 
 creature who never did any one any harm !" 
 
 All sorts of wonderful ims^es and metaphors came into my 
 mind as I contemplated the sleeping Leka, and though they 
 came in at hap-hazard each one seemed to give rise to an 
 
REMINISCENCES OF A PHYSICIAN. 359 
 
 • orderly series of ideas. And first I thought, " Why is Leka 
 different from others ? Is it because he is lowly or more 
 lowly born ? And why, out of fifty men living and moving 
 on the earth, is not more than one of sufficient importance 
 for us to know anything about his movements ? Have the 
 other forty-nine cared to live at all ? Did they care as little 
 about life and its pleasures as Leka seemed to do? And 
 what becomes of their children ? Even Leka, insignificant 
 as he is, may one day have children. And would Leka be 
 proud and happy with his children?" 
 
 And then I began to wonder at his contented spirit, — at 
 his asking for nothing, at his craving nothing but what he 
 had. Labor at the present day is not sweet, and he who does 
 not need to labor will certainly not do it. Peasants must 
 work every day and the whole day, or there will not be bread 
 enough to fill the hungry mouths ; and when they have eaten 
 to-day's bread to-morrow they must go to work again for to- 
 morrow's bread, spite of their firm trust in Providence. 
 Here and there one grows rich, — like Todor Glishich, the 
 only one here who does not need to labor, as he can live on 
 his income without exerting himself at all. But his life 
 seems to me even emptier and more tiresome than Leka's, 
 for, as I well know, he does nothing but eat and drink and 
 sleep. 
 
 I do not know what Leka does early, but as he is stupid I 
 suppose he vegetates, — somewhat like a mushroom or fun- 
 gus. If he is not exactly as poor as Lazarus, he certainly 
 eats every green berry he finds and wild sorrel. Leka never 
 stays at home, and never feels the sweetness nor fulfils the 
 duties of the relations of brother or son. But is it only he 
 who lives under the same roof who has these duties to per- 
 form ? He has still seven brothers and sisters who are living 
 at home, and who get on very pleasantly with their father, 
 the sexton. And still their life seems to me empty and 
 void. 
 
 And so my ideas went round in a circle without finding 
 the desired solution, but always meeting the fact that Leka 
 was stupid. If I had been a fortune-teller mixing the cards, 
 fate would certainly always have been against Leka. But I 
 am not writing a learned dissertation, — my collegiate studies 
 bad not at that time carried me quite so far. 
 
360 LEKA; OR, 
 
 But these holidays, like all others, came to an end, and I • 
 was forced to return to the gymnasium. If my father had 
 looked pale and melancholy even before the country vehicle 
 drove up which was to take me once more away from my 
 home, when it had come Leka was almost beside himself with 
 grief. He was standing by the fence at the place where we 
 had so often met, holding on with one hand and with the 
 other wiping off every now and then the tears which were 
 running down his face. The leave-taking was very painful 
 for me, and he noticed that each one was making me some 
 little parting gift. Leka came up in his turn, and embracing 
 me, he said, " God bless you, Steve ; take Lisa with you." 
 This dog Lisa was what Leka loved best on earth, — no price 
 that could have been oifered him would have induced him to 
 sell her. Leka ran by the carriage as long as we were in the 
 plain, in fact until we took the boat ; then he stood and looked 
 after me, waving his handkerchief as long as he could see 
 me. 
 
 On the way I could not help thinking about Leka and try- 
 ing to divine the cause of his peculiarities. That brought 
 me again within the domain of metaphysics. My father had 
 left me after giving me his blessing, and I did not take ^ any 
 interest in the driver's remarks on the state of the crops and 
 the weakliness of this year's lambs. Little by little there 
 arose within me a strong desire to study medicine. When I 
 first wrote to my father on the subject his reply brought me 
 a regular lecture. " You good-for-nothing fellow !" wrote he ; 
 " you deceitful pigmy 1 it is not from any neglect on the part 
 of your parents that you are turning out so badly. To think 
 that I should receive such an insult in my old age ! Till now 
 you had been my joy and my pride. May God himself pun- 
 ish that sneaking sexton for wishing to devote you to eternal 
 perdition by putting such an idea into your head 1 That is 
 what one gets for associating with paupers." If my mother 
 was also angry because I wished to study medicine I do not 
 know. " Oh, my God," thought I, " thou knowest that I 
 only wish to study medicine so as to be able to help the poor 
 and the suffering ; what is there wrong in that ?" 
 
 I waited a month and then I renewed my request, but with 
 no better success. I was not discouraged, and seized every 
 opportunity to study Latin privately. Our rector was very 
 
REMINISCENCES OF A PHYSICIAN. 361 
 
 much surprised when he found that I had made some head- 
 way in it, and allowed me then to have lessons. I waited 
 some time for a fortunate day, and then went and prostrated 
 myself before the rector. " Arise, my son," said he, kindly, 
 " and tell me what it is you want." I told him of my wish 
 and my father's opposition. The rector shook his head and 
 looked at me from head to foot, and told me it was a most 
 unfortunate choice for one who, like myself, had been destined 
 by his parents to the service of the altar, and that it was 
 much better to try to heal the diseases of the soul than those 
 of the body. He dismissed me after a quarter of an hour's 
 exhortation, giving me the life of a holy patriarch to read. 
 I read it carefully, but it did not conquer my desire to study 
 medicine.. 
 
 In the next long vacation I returned to the village to my 
 parents. Leka had become shyer than ever, and at his own 
 request had been hired out as a shepherd, and he never came 
 home. He came, however, to visit me. He had on a strangely- 
 made, dirty, ill-fitting garment. It made my heart ache to 
 look at him, and he talked in a melancholy, desponding man- 
 ner so that I almost felt like weeping. 
 
 In the course of the year I had positively refused ever to 
 study divinity, at which my father expressed great indigna- 
 tion. I was very weary of so much opposition, but I remained 
 firm. God helped me in the hour of my greatest need. In 
 the neighboring palanka (a size between a town and a village) 
 there was a celebrated church. It was quite an .important 
 place, with a good deal of business and some wealth. The 
 priest there occasionally invited us on the feast-days, and 
 Pope Basilius and the Popadija (his wife), my father (without 
 my mother), the teacher, and I always went to vespers to- 
 gether. This was a great feast, and some merchants with 
 their wives and some young men came in on horseback. Just 
 before service began the old priest came in with his wife and 
 two sons. I do not know how it happened, but I felt very 
 joyous just then, although a little while before I had been 
 very unhappy. I believe I felt unhappy partly because no 
 accident had happened to the carriage and to us in coming 
 down the hill. After service I went to walk along the bank 
 of the river, and suddenly I saw Leka by my side. I do not 
 know if he had also been in the church ; I do not know, as 
 
 -31* , 
 
362 LEKA; OR, 
 
 I never look around me in church. A boat was moored to 
 the shore. Some villagers were lying on the grass dressed 
 in their Sunday clothes. We went a little farther on and 
 then saw a man, who seemed to be the owner of the boat, 
 and who was singing merrily. I went up to him, and said, 
 " Brother; will you allow us to take your boat for a row ?" 
 " Willingly," said he. " We know your father. Mijo, Mijo 1 
 loosen the boat for him." 
 
 Mijo, a Liliputian sailor without trousers, came unwillingly 
 out of the water where he had been wading, loosened the 
 boat and gave it to us. I took the helm, and Leka began to 
 
 row down the river C . In the mean time it grew dark 
 
 and the moon shone out brightly ; on one side of the river 
 the water looked like silver, while the other side, on which 
 our boat was, lay in deep shade. The dew began to fall and 
 a slight fog arose, to which the rays of the moon lent a sort 
 of diamond sheen. 
 
 Leka seemed very contented, and unceasingly bathed his 
 heated face with the river water and let it trickle on his hair, 
 which fell, as usual, over his forehead. " Oh, but this is 
 beautiful, Steve !" said he ; to which I replied, " Most beau- 
 tiful ! charming !" which seemed to make him very happy. 
 
 Leka was a master-hand at the oar. Sometimes he would 
 let the boat lie motionless on the water, and then let her glide 
 along with the easy motion of a swan. At a distance we heard 
 the noise of people who were merry-making, and of others 
 returning to their homes. At last we came to the landing in 
 our village. I got out and went home, and Leka rowed back 
 to give the boat to her owner. 
 
 I had intended to go at once to bed ; but a vehicle stood 
 before our door. What could it be ? My mother had not 
 been out. She met me at the door, and when I asked her if 
 anything was the matter, she said, " Gro to bed, my child." 
 She looked so anxiously down the street that I asked again, 
 "What is it?" 
 
 " Oh, nothing," said she. " With God's help he will soon 
 be better." 
 
 " He?— who?— what?" said I; and I trembled as if I had 
 the ague. 
 
 " God, who knows all, «lone knows if he will recover." 
 
 I rushed into the room. My father lay on the floor : he 
 
REMINISCENCES OF A PHYSICIAN. 363 
 
 had had an attack of apoplexy. I still hear his stertorous 
 breathing. I seemed to have three hands. I picked him 
 up and carried him to his bed and poured water on his head ; 
 but when the doctor came and tried to bleed him, and the 
 blood would not flow, I leaned against the wall, scarcely 
 knowing if I were dead or alive. My father looked anx- 
 iously at me and tried to speak. 
 
 "What is it?" said I. 
 
 With difficulty he articulated, '' I have not done right by 
 you ; forgive me." And with these words the pope's pure 
 spirit passed away. 
 
 After my father's death my mother never scolded me, but 
 quietly consented to my giving up the study of divinity and 
 taking up that of medicine. 
 
 In looking over the list of lectures I found that one pro- 
 fessor gave, out of the regular course lectures, some on spir- 
 itual diseases. I immediately inscribed myself, and was an 
 unfailing attendant ; but I was at that time so badly prepared 
 that I really understood very little of what he said. " Psy- 
 chology," declared he, " is by far the most important branch 
 of medical science ; but it is also the one on which it is the 
 most difficult to throw sufficient light. Neither metaphysics 
 nor philosophy," said he, " can show so plainly as psychology 
 the intimate connection between mind and body. She teaches 
 us that all mental and moral diseases arise from this same con- 
 nection, and that if the mind could exist apart from the body 
 it would enjoy unbroken health." I must say that I consid- 
 ered such assertions as useless and incapable of proof. 
 
 I learned by heart what was the most urgently necessary, 
 and accustomed myself by degrees to the investigation of 
 mental diseases, and read every book which I could find re- 
 lating to them. On Sundays and feast-days only I visited and 
 mixed with people. But my chosen branch was never absent 
 from my mind ; and I studied the persons whom I met, and 
 compared them with Leka, — as he looked that day when he 
 was so quietly jsleeping. But it was especially the eccentric 
 Leka and the talented persons whom I studied. 
 
 The chief doctor in the university was a very benevolent man, 
 but ready to take offence and to fight at the least provocation. 
 With us he was very pleasant, as we were very submissive, 
 and always addressed him as your "Your Excellency," which 
 
364 LEKA; OR, 
 
 gratified him very much. He would often say, " In this little 
 spot of ground I am equal to the Czar himself." He had a 
 very unpleasant habit of grating his teeth together while he 
 was speaking, but he insisted upon it that Voltaire had also 
 done it. He had great influence over the sick. When about 
 to perform an operation, or when he wished to gain the con- 
 sent of the patient for its performance, he would say, " Oh I 
 ye shining heavens, ye powers of earth, and ye spirits of the 
 mighty deep, come to my aid, and help me to combat this 
 disease I" The patient would generally laugh and allow him 
 to do what he pleased with him. 
 
 He was entirely wanting in modesty or sense of shame. 
 There was an old man in the infirmary with whom he often 
 stopped to converse, though he was only half-witted. This 
 fellow would paint love-passages (in words) without a veil, so 
 that my hair would stand on end ; but the doctor would only 
 laugh, and say, " Is that really true ?" 
 
 I often had occasion to observe persons coming from Porech 
 (an island in the Danube, belonging to Serbia). They always 
 seemed to nje deficient in intellect. One there was who, like 
 Don Quixote, was somewhat erratic on the subject of knight- 
 errantry. I learned that his father had died of indigestion, 
 and his grandfather of phthisic. He was so peculiar in his 
 intercourse with his associates that not one of them dared 
 to help himself out of the same dish ; and the servant was 
 not allowed to remove anything that had once been put on 
 the table till he had gone oflF into another room. He was 
 so sly and secretive that, as a rascal, he must have been suc- 
 cessful. 
 
 Even nearly idiots claim the right to think and talk about 
 politics ; but, of course, they merely echo the opinions of 
 some one or other of their friends, choosing between them. 
 I would gladly prove this by extracts from my diary ; but 
 they would be tedious, as they contain also a diagnosis ot 
 idiocy. The principal signs of a deficient intellect are : 
 
 a. A want of method, or an inability to place the true val- 
 uation upon the objects which surround us. 
 
 h. A diseased obstinacy and an inability to bear dampness 
 without an increase of mental weakness. 
 
 c. A stupid and constant improvidence. 
 
 I must give here one extract from my diary : 
 
REMINISCENCES OF A PHYSICIAN. 365 
 
 Subject 29. — Varoshanka Maria Bychivia : Sanguine tem- 
 perament ; inclined to fever ; 30 years old ; married. 
 
 This woman was in my service as cook, and thus I had the 
 opportunity of observing her carefully, and noticing many psy- 
 chological facts of interest. Alienatio mentale did not exist ; 
 but she was always /ancyin^ that she had received insults and 
 injuries. She was without circumspection, though not without 
 certain capabilities, which showed themselves principally in 
 deliberations and reasonings on remittable sins, and by always 
 taking a firm stand on the side of providence and shifting 
 all blame from it. As a woman, Maria's mind might be said 
 to be above mediocrity ; but she was a regular chatter-box, 
 and, as I say, was always inventing insults to herself, — show- 
 ing clearly the diseased mind. 
 
 While this woman still lived with her iusband she was in 
 the habit of stealing, or, in other words, tarrying ofi' her own 
 valuables and his : this is a pathological fact. Before they 
 had separated her husband often came to see her on week- 
 days early in the morning. One day Maria took from him 
 his last para to buy some wine and some butter to make cake. 
 He discovered it, and reproached her with it, scolding a good 
 deal about it. She fell into a lethargy which lasted till Mon- 
 day, and when she awoke she complained of a violent head- 
 ache, which lasted for seven " days, after which time she was 
 able to do her work again. 
 
 When she entered my service I positively forbade her ever 
 buying wine, as drinking it was very injurious to her. I 
 found that was touching her in a tender spot, as she replied 
 that she was a poor, injured orphan, and that she bought wine 
 for her own pleasure and not for mine ; that her husband 
 could not prevent her from drinking wine, and I should not 
 either. 
 
 Our town was rather peculiar in one respect, — viz., that 
 the inhabitants were so well satisfied with the order of things. 
 The houses and surrounding farms were neat and well kept. 
 The country was dry, and flowers, vegetables, and fruit sur- 
 rounded the town. There were, of course, merchants and 
 artisans, — for how could a town exist without those ? These 
 all lived where it was the easiest to find them, and all were in- 
 terested in the general well-being of the community. Masters 
 — i.e., tailors, shoemakers, etc. — and their families were in- 
 
366 LEKA; OR, 
 
 dustrious and simple in their habits. Coffee-houses with high 
 prices were not much frequented. 
 
 Our town counted about five thousand inhabitants. Of 
 this number about two hundred tired themselves doing no- 
 thing and the other four thousand eight hundred were busy 
 with their daily work. Those who labored never needed a 
 doctor, but those who did not were scarcely ever free from 
 some ache or pain. Many often came to me to seek a cure 
 for their bodies who really only needed it for their minds. 
 
 Once a request was sent for me to come to Mrs. Anka 
 A , as she was very ill. 
 
 Mrs. Anka A was a woman of about thirty years of 
 
 age, whose wishes and doings interested many people besides 
 her husband. He was a rich man and as fond of pleasure as 
 his wife, but they had carried their chain together for ten 
 years. 
 
 I found Mrs. Anka in bed, with her eyes a good deal 
 swelled and some fever and pain in her chest. Everything 
 told of a matrimonial quarrel : the children were going and 
 coming crying ; on the floor and in one corner lay pieces of 
 broken pipes, in another corner a meerschaum pipe. 
 
 " You look excited, madam," said I. " I must prescribe 
 some tranquillizing drops for you ; but you must not trifle 
 with them, — ^you must not take more than twenty drops at 
 one time." 
 
 The patient brightened up and bit her lips. 
 
 " To judge by the signs, you are suffering from indigestion. 
 As well as you live, it is not surprising." 
 
 " Nothing on earth shall induce me to go to the village on 
 our estate !" 
 
 " Surprising ! I should think it would be much pleasanter 
 there in summer than in town." 
 
 " What do you mean by such foolish talk ?" 
 
 " Why, you require quiet, — the most perfect repose. In- 
 deed, under other circumstances I will not answer for your 
 restoration to perfect health." 
 
 " Doctor, I am the most miserable woman in the world. It 
 would be a gain to me if I were to die ! And who is it who 
 treats me so badly ? why Nika, my accursed husband. Save 
 me, doctor ; save me !" 
 
 " My dear patient, I am afraid the apothecary has no rem- 
 
REMINISCENCES OF A PHYSICIAN. 367 
 
 edy for such evils. Here is my prescription. You arc slan- 
 dering Nika, who is a very pleasant-tempered man. Your 
 estate is in a very pleasant and beautiful part of the country ; 
 provisions there are excellent, and you can take books and 
 work and music with you. There you can have the perfect 
 repose which is so needful for you." 
 
 " It is easy for you to talk ; you know nothing about 
 wedded life I" 
 
 " I do not know it by experience, but I can imagine it. 
 There must be mutual concessions and a desire to please on 
 both sides. When one has a very strong desire to do some- 
 thing the other ought to try to give up his or her own wishes. 
 Tell me, is not this the truth?" 
 
 " You are really encouraging 1 But talk to my husband a 
 little." 
 
 " Excuse me, madam ; but a long practice in your family 
 emboldens me to be frank. I would suggest something to 
 
 " What is it you wish, doctor ? You are a friend of our 
 family, you " 
 
 " Do you want ta get anything out of your husband ?" 
 
 " Oh, no ; I would be willing to say to the whole world. It 
 was my silly aunt who urged me to this unfortunate mar- 
 riage." 
 
 " And you did not wish to marry ?" 
 
 " I neither loved nor admired him. Now, I have a little 
 flirtation with Persom, you know. May the devil take him !" 
 
 " Very good ! Am I to understand, then, that it is your 
 wish to live with him, as you both have property ?" 
 
 " But, doctor, what are you looking at me for ? I can 
 assure you that my good name is dearer to me than life itself. 
 And how the world would talk 1" 
 
 " That is another thing. But how time has slipped away ! 
 I must go. As I have said, take twenty drops at a time of 
 my preparation and again at night, and I will call again to- 
 morrow." 
 
 As I was going away I was called in by Mr. Nika, whose 
 face bore unmistakable signs of anger. 
 
 " Doctor, dear doctor, do give me a few minutes of your 
 time." 
 
 " Just now it is really precious to me." 
 
368 LEKA; OR, 
 
 " Doctor, you are an honorable man, and I have always 
 considered you a learned and sensible man ; you are of a 
 good family; you do not waste your time running round 
 eating good dinners: will you promise to be candid with 
 me?" 
 
 " What is it you desire of me ?" 
 
 "How did you find my wife ?" 
 
 " Her case is not dangerous, so your mind can be easy. 
 I have prescribed some drops for her." 
 
 " May the devil carry her off for the sake of order and 
 decency ! As far as I am concerned she may drop down dead 
 anywhere, only not here in the house. She is not a woman, 
 but a serpent ! Don't talk about her." 
 
 " I do not understand you." 
 
 " What is the matter with you to-day, doctor? She is not 
 ill at all." 
 
 " You must be careful, if you desire an heir." 
 
 " An heir ? I could hope for an heir ! Doctor, my wife 
 steps aside, though she conceals it ; she bears my name, but 
 she dishonors it." 
 
 " I do not understand you, Mr. Nika ; but perhaps it might 
 be better for both t)f you if you were to live apart." 
 
 " Now, is it worth while to send for a doctor to get such an 
 idea as that ? No, indeed ; that would not do at all. I have 
 always been used to order and decency. My mother is still 
 living, and what would she say if we were to brave public 
 opinion thus ?" 
 
 " Excuse me, Mr. Nika, if I cannot remain longer. I 
 have other calls to make." 
 
 " And what is it is the mattei: with her — with my wife ?" 
 
 " I cannot tell yet. I did not see her maid ; she might 
 enlighten me as to her mistress's habitual state." 
 
 " Ah, good heavens ! what is that ? I saw Mr. Persom 
 yesterday myself." 
 
 " Do you know what? This illness of your wife's seems 
 quite sudden." 
 
 " Dear doctor, I have always honored you. The priests 
 live by the altar and doctors by the dissecting-knife. Allow 
 me to present you with this golden snuff-box as a mark of my 
 particular friendship. At the same time " 
 
 " You must not wonder if a doctor has sense but no tongue." 
 
REMINISCENCES OF A PtirSICIAN. 369 
 
 Mr. Nika embraced me, and his blue lips and anxiously 
 sweating face touched mine most unpleasantly. 
 
 Next door to me lives a rich merchant, proud of his prop- 
 erty, but stingy. His house is always closed to visitors, he 
 never invites a friend, and he does not take the slightest 
 interest in what his fellow-citizens are doing. In fact, at the 
 time of which I am epeaking he only kept one man-servant, 
 — as the female servant had launched some amorous looks at 
 him, which frightened him so that he instantly dismissed her 
 and would not take another. His neighbors thought the real 
 reason was to save a few novaks (a coin equal to half a cent). 
 I met him one day, and he stopped me and said, " Doctor, I 
 was just coming to ask your advice as to my mode of living." 
 I knew that he was fond of going to the taverns, where he 
 met young men and heard all sorts of low gossip. As soon 
 as I heard his voice I knew that he had just been drinking at 
 the tavern. Although I did not like him, he interested me 
 in a psychological point of view. Joy was shining in his face, 
 apparently without any particular cause. 
 
 I immediately thought of something I had just been read- 
 ing in the Augshurc/er AUffemeine-Zeitunff, a paper I like 
 very much. This was an article on mental diseases which 
 quite confirmed my own observations. If I read Titus Livy, 
 Tacitus, or Gribbon I find one fact in them all, — viz., that his- 
 tory records as many acts of folly as of greatness. Chronic 
 folly and its easy cure are everywhere to be met with. So 
 many sovereigns have had fantastic tastes and have pitched 
 battles for their fancies. That is particularly the case in 
 ancient history, where human nature stands out in bolder 
 relief Thus, Cyrus rushes needlessly to the Holy Land, and 
 often the fate of a kingdom was perilled for a maiden. On 
 that account I love the study of history. 
 
 Were not the torturing of Christians by the heathen and 
 afterwards of heretics by the Christians also acts of folly ? 
 When men ceased torturing their enemies and eating the flesh 
 of wild beasts they still did not stop doing one another all 
 the harm they possibly could. How bitter has not the en- 
 mity been, even of late years, between the French and Ger- 
 mans 1 And was it not utter folly to shed so much blood in 
 order to be able to sleep a little farther from the spot where 
 they had come into the world ? 
 
370 LEKA. 
 
 Travellers and chroniclers lose their interest for us when 
 we enter an anatomical and pathological cabinet. We see 
 then only folly in the Indian who lets himself be crushed 
 under the car of Juggernaut to insure his eternal happiness, 
 or in the woman who offers herself a living sacrifice on her 
 husband's funeral-pile. We have had instances enough of 
 folly in modern times without visiting classic lands, and at the 
 bottom there is little difference between Asiatic and European 
 stupidity. 
 
 I cannot lay down my pen without giving the " Moral" to 
 these few pages as my slight contribution to the treasury of 
 science, — viz., that mental diseases are much more common 
 than is generally supposed, and that such diseases, even where 
 they are not recognized as such, are often the cause of crime 
 and irregularity of life. Bentham said once that no scoundrel 
 had a head for arithmetic ; and Aristotle said of Anaxagoras 
 that he was the only sober man of his age. Spinoza said the 
 immoral man was always wanting in sense. Further, I would 
 remark that the atmosphere has great influence over mental 
 diseases, just as it has over the health of the body, and that 
 they are particularly prevalent in all places where there are 
 miasmatic exhalations. In some places the air and water 
 combined produce goitre, and goitre is generally accompanied 
 by more or less idiocy, either total or partial. 
 
ROZA. 
 
 A PLAY IN THREE ACTS. 
 BY FE. CELESTIN.' 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM THE SLAVONIAN, A SLAVISH TONGTIE 
 
 SPOKEN IN KRAIN, CARINTHIA, AND 
 
 STEIERMARK, 
 
 BY MES. FRANCES C. HBNDEESON. 
 
 PERSONS REPRESENTED. 
 
 BozA. 
 
 EuRiJ, her uncle, and guardian of her eataiea. 
 
 Baroit Mireo, her lover, 
 
 Anze, kit servant. 
 
 Marjbtioa, Roza's servant. 
 
 It ia played in a large town, in Boza's aalona. 
 
 FIRST ACT. 
 
 riEST SCENE. 
 
 Marjetica, humming a tune to herself. 
 
 " Were I a green tree 
 On the hill-side, 
 My love I would see 
 From far and wide." 
 
 Marjetica. Ha 1 ha I I am proud of my voice. It is 
 quite as good as if I were a fine lady. I know mankind ; and 
 in two days the baron will be as friendly as ever. He has 
 plenty of time always to sit and chat with me. {_She smiles.'] 
 To be sure I am not hard-hearted. Here he comes ! 
 
 371 
 
372 
 
 SECOND SCENE. 
 Baron Mikko, Anze, and Marjetica. 
 
 Marjetica. Sir Baron! 
 
 Baron. Please to announce me to your honored lady. 
 
 Marjetica. And what shall I tell my lady you want o: 
 her? 
 
 Baron. To pay my humhle respects to her. 
 
 Marjetica. I will tell her. 
 
 Anze. Maijetica, you do not even look at me. 
 
 Marjetica. Mr. Footman, every one must bide his time 
 [7b the Baron.] Please to take a seat, sir. [<SAe goes.'] 
 
 THIED SCENE. 
 Baron and Anze, near the door. 
 
 Baron. Shall I, then, see you, my beloved? What hap 
 piness to see once more those lovely features, — a sight of whicl 
 might well cause the earth to swerve from its orbit 1 
 
 Anze. [Aside.] Oh ! my master is thinking aloud. Lover 
 are all alike. 
 
 Baron. Do not be smiling over your own thoughts. Pu 
 them into words, so that I may laugh with you ; or let u 
 rather together praise the might of love. 
 
 Anze. [ Very much embarrassed.'] Oh, sir I 
 
 Baron. I do not fear to grow poor in love though I giv 
 all I have and ever can have, for will she not give me hers 
 which is better and fuller far ? 
 
 Anze. Master, I am going home. 
 
 Baron. Home? 
 
 Anze. Yes, yes. It is written in that Italian pamphlet— 
 which I have learned by heart — that it is impossible to pleas 
 your master when he is in love. You must help him in hi 
 love-affairs as much as you can, but you need not expect t 
 give him satisfaction. [JSe goes.] 
 
 FOURTH SCENE. 
 Baron, alone. 
 Baron. No ; he is wrong, for love, is in itself pleasure 
 
ROZA. 3*73 
 
 and the loving lieart is mild and gentle. I hear some one : 
 is it she ? 
 
 FIFTH SCENE. 
 
 EozA and the Baron. 
 
 BozA. Here I am, my good friend. I am sure you will 
 be so good as to excuse my delay. I had not expected you. 
 Have you forgotten our agreement ? 
 
 Baron. How could I do otherwise than come? I am 
 young ; I am rich ; I am in love. I would make your life 
 one long dream of love ! 
 
 EozA. My dear friend, I will help you to be happy as long 
 as you are my guest. 
 
 Baron. Shall we not be one ? Is not marriage the fusion 
 of two hearts into one ? 
 
 BozA. How you talk 1 and then when you are married you 
 men expect women to be your slaves. I am also in love, and 
 with Mr. Merzarja. The valleys look to me now as if they 
 were full of gold, and the mountains as if they were made 
 of diamonds ! 
 
 BXron. I am a poor poet, or I would write verses expres- 
 sive of your feelings and mine. 
 
 RoZA. Praise the new gospel which preaches love to man. 
 I like free love. I want no domestic tyrant to curtail my 
 freedom. If I choose to give any one a kiss, I mean to 
 remain free to do so. 
 
 Baron. G-ive me a kiss ? 
 
 BozA. You had better keep quiet. You have a bitter 
 enemy, and that is the steward of this estate, my lincle and 
 guardian. 
 
 Baron. The steward of this estate ? 
 
 BozA. Yes, he. Now I have warned you. 
 
 Baron. I have done him no wrong. 
 
 BoZA. No ; only he is very gallant, and he always assures 
 me that I am an angel j and he talks You understand. 
 
 Baron. And you prefer him to me ? 
 
 BozA. Yes. You always talk as if a woman were your 
 captive. You only give barren words. You have no idea 
 how a free hand opens the door to love. 
 
 Baron. I am not well acquainted with the female heart ; 
 
 but I should never have dared to offer 
 
 32* 
 
374 ROZA. 
 
 P.OZA. And yet you must know that youth craves enjoy- 
 ment. If any one would only emancipate us women, we 
 could enjoy life quite as much as you. 
 
 Baron. In the grave we shall all be alike and all be free. 
 
 BozA. Oh, no, no I That likeness is dark and sad. My 
 heart would fail me were I to think of it. My heart is 
 now full of love — nay, running over with longing — for my 
 God! 
 
 Baron. Love I can buy, but death rules us all. He does 
 not change, — his power can never become less. He can 
 snatch from me what I love the best, — you. I love you, — 
 not as a youth, but as a man who knows the world can love 
 when he finds hia ideal. 
 
 EozA. How you can talk 1 And yet, if I were to yield 
 you this weak heart, you would soon scatter your vows to the 
 winds. 
 
 Baron. I cannot say all I feel : my tongue fails me in your 
 presence. I will go, however sweet it be to remain near the 
 loved one, but anon you may be kinder. Adieu ! [5e goes.'] 
 
 SIXTH SCENE. 
 BozA and Marjetica. 
 
 Marjetica. How v?ould it be possible not to laugh ? 
 
 BozA. So you have been listening again I But tell me, 
 my good girl, do you think I can trust him and believe all 
 he says ? 
 
 Marjetica. I cannot say, as to-day I have not spoken 
 with Anze. 
 
 BozA. With Anze ? 
 
 Marjetica. Yes ; servants often know their own masters 
 better than we can. 
 ' BozA. And you have been listening ? For shame ! 
 
 Marjetica. Yon ordered me yourself to try to find out 
 something about his master from Anze. I could not very 
 well ask him in his master's presence. 
 
 BozA. Marjetica, you are very bold. 
 
 Marjetica. And now you are scolding me ! You will 
 trust neither me nor the baron. 
 
 BozA. Yes, I feel I can trust the baron. Do not ask 
 Anze. 
 
nozA. 375 
 
 Makjetica. And you do not trust me as much as him ? 
 
 KozA. No. 
 
 Marjetica. Then you are already in love with him 1 
 
 SECOND ACT. 
 
 FIEST SCENE. 
 
 Maejetica. 
 
 Marjetica. How is it that I have not seen Anzeta ? I 
 ■would like to have a good chat with him. I know him now 
 and like him, but love— ^that is another thing. I am not a 
 bird to be caught with chaff ! 
 
 SECOND SCENE. 
 BozA and Marjetica. 
 
 BoZA. Maijetica, I think that in my age one must enjoy 
 one's self, and the night seems the best time to make merry. 
 What do you think of it ? ■* 
 
 Marjetica. You are right. I am a merry maiden, and 
 I really do not care to waste my sighs upon the desert air, 
 but I would like to have a gay time for once. 
 
 BoZA. Only take care that your laughing does not soon 
 turn to sighing. 
 
 Marjetica. Now there ! you are sighing yourself! 
 
 BozA. Maijetica, those who are in love have but few happy 
 days to expect. 
 
 Marjetica. There I you are sighing again ! How soon 
 you have changed your opinion ! Do you really class your- 
 self among those who are in love ? What will your uncle 
 say to that ? I feel like running away I 
 
 BozA. Then go 1 [Marjetica goes.'] 
 
 THIED SCENE. 
 
 BoZA, alone. 
 
 BozA. Anze has really convinced me of the baron's con- 
 stancy. But I cannot level mountains : what can I say to 
 my uncle to change his opinion of him ? He has cared for 
 
376 ROZA. 
 
 me and my interests so faithfully ; why should he not help 
 me in this strait ? And yet I cannot understand myself how 
 I should have changed so much in so short a time. 
 
 FOURTH SCENE. 
 FuEiJ and EozA. 
 
 FURIJ. My dear little Eoza, you do not wear to-day the 
 happy, careless look I like to see on your face. 
 
 BozA. Dear uncle, you have been even more than a father 
 to me, and I must acknowledge to you that I do not feel as 
 light-hearted as usual. 
 
 FuEiJ. Tell me, my little gold-fish, what can your uncle 
 and guardian do to restore your gayety? I do not want 
 you to break your wings against the wires like a caged bird. 
 Many a pretty bird has died in a golden cage, and many a 
 pretty girl awaits with longing her wedding-day. 
 
 RozA. Do not consider that danger as imaginary. 
 
 FuRij. Kind fortune has showered worldly riches upon 
 you, and in those lines many read hope. 
 
 RozA. Verily, dear uncle, you do not flatter me. 
 
 FuRlJ. In your place many a one would have become con- 
 ceited. 
 
 B.OZA. Not if she had any inward worth. 
 
 FuRiJ. Inward worth ? That is hard to measure, whereas 
 gold can be weighed. My little dove, you have almost 
 acknowledged yourself to be in love. \_Aside.'] I might 
 have lost a million ! [ To RozA.] Do you know I could 
 even feel jealous of the sunlight which shines upon you ? 
 
 RozA. Dear uncle, do you really love me so ? 
 
 FuRiJ. Not for your beauty alone, but for your many vir- 
 tues. [^Aside."] I came very near losing a million I 
 
 EozA. You have been so careful of me, dear uncle ! 
 
 FuRiJ. And who would not have taken care of you gladly, 
 — of you, radiant with youth and beauty? 
 
 BozA. I always liked to be praised, especially by you. 
 
 FuRiJ. I would jump into the sea to serve you ! Your 
 dying father entrusted you to my care, and I have watched 
 with delight your charms expand in beautiful harmony with 
 your growth in stature. Beflect, Boza : till now I have con- 
 cealed my love, I have left you free. 
 
ROZA. 377 
 
 EozA. [^Aside.'] So have I concealed my love for the baron. 
 ITo her vncle.'] The heart cannot be forced but it goes 
 whither it is drawn by love. 
 
 FuEij. [Aside.'] Anze told me the truth : she loves me ! 
 [To EozA.] Oh, my Bosita, how happy you make me with 
 this sweet confession I I had thought you had never felt the 
 power of love. 
 
 RozA. I appeal to the benevolence of your kind heart. 
 
 FuEij. Oh, my darling, my heart must be hard as stone 
 if I could refuse you any request 1 
 
 RozA. [Aside.] How strangely uncle talks to-day I [To 
 her uncle.] I really feel ashamed to tell you, dear uncle, but 
 I am sure you will pardon my weakness if I make a full con- 
 fession. 
 
 FuKij. Now I fear nothing ; life has no more clouds for 
 me ! [Aside.] Now I have no fear ; the million is mine 1 
 
 RozA. I rejoice to discover in you the fire of youth. 
 
 FuKiJ. [Aside.] How she loves me I [To EozA.] It is 
 the light of your own joyous youth which has vivified the 
 ashes of mine I 
 
 BozA. You are becoming quite a galant, uncle. 
 
 FuEij. Behold me on my knees before you, love's obedient 
 slave I 
 
 BozA. Good heavens ! [Runs away.] 
 
 FIFTH SCENE. 
 
 FuRiJ, alone. 
 
 FuBiJ. Victory ! She runs away, but she loves me ! My 
 
 lovely ward 1 my golden Bosita I How she blushed when I 
 
 - owned my love, thus confessing a passion equal to my own I 
 
 I see myself already with a golden key, — lord of all her 
 
 wealth 1 
 
 SIXTH SCENE. 
 
 Anze and Fukij. 
 
 . FURIJ. [Believing himself still alone.] Anze sold himself 
 to me. 
 
 Anze. So it seems. 
 
 Fukij. You can carry the news to the baron. 
 
378 ROZA. 
 
 Anze. Something you have invented? 
 
 Fdrij. No ; what you betrayed to me, — that Roza loves 
 me. 
 
 Anze. Do you mean that you have bewitched her ? 
 
 FuBiJ. Unasked, she confessed her love for me. 
 
 Anze. Bless me I It is as if one were to see water spit 
 fire! 
 
 FuRi J. What will your master say ? 
 
 Anze. Oh, he will soon console himself. 
 
 FuRi,r. Come here and sit down by me, my good Anze. 
 Have you anything else to confide to me ? 
 
 Anze. [Aside.'] Fool! 
 
 FuRiJ. What do you say ? 
 
 Anze. I see some sparrows on that roof. 
 
 FuRiJ. What will your master say ? 
 
 Anze. Oh, he won't care. He has another love, which 
 will soon raake him forget the old one. [^sw?e.] Master 
 must needs forgive me that lie. 
 
 FtTRiJ. That is right; but I cannot understand that he 
 should choose you for a confidant. 
 
 Anze. Ha, ha ! ha, ha ! ha, ha ! 
 
 FuRiJ. Hi, hi ! hi, hi ! 
 
 Anze. So it is. But no wonder : I could not help seeing 
 their mutual coldness ; and it is all explained if she is your 
 honor's bride. 
 
 FuRij. How you talk I That is simply impossible 1 
 
 Anze. Boza herself invited me to the wedding, and as- 
 sured me that she was your betrothed. 
 
 FURIJ. And I who did not even dare to ask her to plight 
 me her troth ! [JSe ffoes.'] 
 
 SEVENTH SCENE. 
 
 Anze, alone. 
 
 Anze. Go, you old fool, go ! When you want a bride al- 
 ways send for Anze. I'll freshen up your old memory for 
 you. You wanted to hire me to betray my master, as you 
 thought every one could be bought for gold. Take care, 
 Anze ; your impudence may cost you dear, but I mean to 
 strike for my master while the iron is hot. Our notary is 
 ready, and when the contract is to be signed, master has only 
 
liOZA. 379 
 
 to step in before the uncle, •who will not be on his guard, as 
 he thinks I am on his side. 
 
 EIGHTH SCENE. 
 EozA and Anze. 
 
 Anze. You see me struck dumb with surprise, honored 
 lady. 
 
 EozA. My uncle [^Aside.] I know not what to 
 
 answer. 
 
 Anze. Your uncle? Is he a suitable match for you? 
 Have you not suddenly lost your senses ? 
 
 EozA. Lost my senses I Oh, I am so miserable ! 
 
 Anze. May I not act the doctor's part ? Is it too late to 
 propose a remedy ? 
 
 RozA. But my uncle is not an invalid. 
 
 Anze. I would like to save i/mi from unceasing regrets. 
 
 RozA. And verily, Anze, my only hope rests on you. In 
 you is my trust. Has not God himself sent you to me to 
 rescue me from this misery ? 
 
 Anze. From misery 1 — you ? 
 
 RozA. Yes; since my guardian has taken up this strange 
 idea. 
 
 Anze. Ideas do not hurt unless you let them produce 
 action. 
 
 BozA. That may be a moral truth, but marriage is a re- 
 ality. 
 
 Anze. Is it that which causes your unhappiness ? 
 
 EozA. I am so young to wed ! 
 
 Anze. Especially with an old man. 
 
 EozA. I would like Oh, how unhappy I am I And 
 
 life has hitherto seemed so bright and joyous I 
 
 Anze. There may be relief from everything but death. 
 
 KozA. Heretofore I have obeyed my guardian gladly^ and 
 listened dutifully to his reproofs, but I cannot force my heart 
 to turn' this way or that, according to his will. 
 
 Anze. It is not a blade of grass waving in the wind. 
 
 EozA. He likes you: could you not use your influence 
 with him in my favor ? 
 
 Anze. Influence ? Oh I excuse me. 
 
 KozA. Yes. He grants you his confidence. 
 
380 HOZA. 
 
 Anze. You do me too mucli honor. But can you not 
 obey your guardian in this ? 
 
 EozA. What I and marry some one whom I do not love ? 
 
 Anze. Dear lady, dare I speak frankly to you ? 
 
 BozA. Speak ! speak ! 
 
 Anze. [Aside.'] Now, Anze, now is your time. [TbRozA.] 
 To tell the truth, I can only think of my poor master. He 
 has no other thought in life but you, no other aim in life but 
 to win you. 
 
 BozA. How unjustly I have been treated ! 
 
 Anze. Before he left home to come here he was so sad 
 that he scarcely ever said a word. 
 
 BoZA. I like to hear that. 
 
 Anze. My conscience is beginning to reproach me for be- 
 "• traying his secrets, but he had really begun, in his want of 
 hope, to grow weary of life. 
 
 BozA. How pleasant it is to hear that I 
 
 Anze. In his despair he even began to think that God 
 would refuse him eternal as well as temporal happiness. 
 
 BozA. And I seem to myself so faithless I 
 
 Anze. Even in his despair the only word he uttered' was 
 your loved name. 
 
 BozA. I can only wonder now I should have been blind to 
 such deep afiFection, to such constancy. my God, thou 
 dost chastise me fearfully I 
 
 Anze. [Aside."] She is growing softer every minute I 
 
 BozA. The brightest light in nature seems to me the light 
 of love. My uncle has always appeared to me deserving of 
 respect, but I cannot change the filial love I bear him to a 
 warmer feeling such as I have read about. Had I a sister I 
 would not confide even to her the feeling which fills my heart 
 and say that there is one who reigns supreme over my 
 thoughts. 
 
 Anze. [Aside.] She has betrayed herself I [To BozA.] 
 But to poor little Anze you can safely tell everything, 
 
 BozA. But first you must go to my uncle. 
 
 Anze. Of course, I will go if you wish it, and tell him 
 everything you want him to hear. 
 
 BoZA. Do not attempt to conceal anything that I shall tell 
 you I 
 
 Anze. How you misunderstand your humble servant 
 
ROZA. 381 
 
 < 
 
 Anze ! I could almost weep to see my motives so little ap- 
 preciated. Last night I had a glorious idea, and I came so 
 joyfully to you ; but if you do not trust me my idea is fruit- 
 less. 
 
 RozA. Speak ! what was your idea ? 
 
 Anze. I had really hoped it would cheer you up. 
 
 E.OZA. Speak, my good Anze, and tell me your idea. 
 
 Anze. But you must promise not to be angry with me. 
 
 RoZA. Do not be afraid. I am so unhappy ! like a drown- 
 ing man, I would grasp a straw. 
 
 An:^e. Well, then 
 
 RozA. Well, dear Anze ? 
 
 Anze. You must be somebody's wife. 
 
 RozA. How you talk ! 
 
 Anze. How much better it would be for you to marry my 
 master ! and it is so easy to have the same bride, but to 
 change the bridegroom. 
 
 RozA. I am so unhappy ! 
 
 Anze. Who could prevent my master's stepping in and 
 putting his name before your guardian knows what is going 
 on ? 
 
 RozA. Oh, I am so unhappy ! \_She goes.} 
 
 NINTH SCENE. 
 
 Anze, alone. 
 
 Anze. She is now as soft as wax ! ha, ha ! Now T must 
 hurry to my master. Anze, you must lose no time now : 
 afterwards you will have time to sit down and rejoice over 
 the success of your schemes. Anze, my boy, you are in 
 luck! 
 
 THIRD ACT. 
 
 FIRST SCENE. 
 
 RozA and Maejetica. 
 
 RozA. Marjetica! 
 Marjetica. Command me. 
 RoZA. Shall I tell you a piece of news ? 
 Marjetica. Yes, if it is that you are going to marry the 
 baron. 
 
 33 
 
382 liyji^Ji.. 
 
 RozA. Alas! no, Maijetica; it is not that. 
 
 Marjetioa. What, are more clouds gathering over our 
 heads? It is not for one like me to give advice to your 
 ladyship. 
 
 EozA.- And yet I need advice. 
 
 Marjetioa. You will find no one who desires your wel- 
 fare more sincerely than your faithful Maijetica. 
 
 Koza. Flatterer! 
 
 Marjetioa. For a time I thought I saw the hlue sky 
 overhead while you talked a while ago of the natural desire 
 of young people for enjoyment. 
 
 RozA. So, so ! Now look again and tell me where you 
 see fresh clouds gathering ? 
 
 Marjetioa. [JLsid!e.] I feel everything drying up within 
 me ! \To Eoza.] My lady, I see clouds gathering over 
 the path of true love. Love is like the gilding of life : it 
 is the reflection of the rays of the sun shining from above 
 upon us. But it must be true love. You are a bride, 
 but 
 
 RozA. Whose bride ? 
 
 Marjetioa. Why, your guardian's. 
 
 RozA. Indeed, I am not. 
 
 Marjetioa. Here comes the baron. \She goes.'\ 
 
 SECOND SCENE. 
 Eoza and the Baron. 
 
 Baron. You are alone ? 
 
 Eoza. I have withdrawn myself from the tumult of so- 
 ciety. 
 
 Baeon. Excuse me if I say that it is a crime to deprive 
 others of the sight of such beauty and such amiability. Is 
 it perhaps that you have sought solitude to nurse your 
 strength for war against all mamkind ? 
 
 Eoza. Oh, no, not that ; but solitude is the best place to 
 heal the wounds society has inflicted. 
 
 Baron. Can you be sufiering from any wound ? 
 
 Eoza. [j4si&.] Why has he not gone away forever ? \To 
 the Baron.] It is not possible for me to beat about the bush 
 any longer I Allow me to ask you a direct question : when 
 is a certain important event to take place ? 
 
ROZA. 383 
 
 Baron. [^Aside.] She wishes to drive me awayl [To 
 EozA.] I should, of course, like it to take place as speedily 
 as possible. 
 
 KozA. And I must tell you my views in a few words. As 
 a matter of course, I cannot see it unmoved if a man comes 
 to me with words of love in his mouth while his heart has 
 only room for the image of another. -If I hesitated to yield 
 to the wishes of a lover, I had, nevertheless, always believed 
 in the truth of his vows. 
 
 Babon. And do you really believe him no longer ? 
 
 BozA. The more the bud unfolds its petals in the noonday 
 sun the more blighting is the unexpected midnight frost. If 
 we have raised an idol on a pedestal, and find it to be but 
 clay, how great must his fall in our esteem be ! I loved with 
 all the warmth of a fresh, unspoiled heart, and now I find 
 myself despoiled of all I loved, — you 1 
 
 Baron. This is too much happiness, — too much for one 
 heart to bear at once. No, dear Roza, I do not love another. 
 
 BozA. You have not another bride to whom you have 
 plighted your troth ? 
 
 Baron. I came as soon as I received your note. 
 
 BozA. My note ? Please to show it me. [^She takes it and 
 reads.'] " Baron Mirko, I request the pleasure of your com- 
 pany. RozA." What do I see here? Marjetica's hand- 
 writing ! Anze ! Marjetica ! Now I begin to understand 
 how Marjetica thought she saw blue sky overhead. 
 
 THIRD SCENE. 
 FuRiJ, BozA, and the Baron. 
 
 FuRlJ. Oh, my beautiful Bosita ! The sight of you would 
 turn the dreariest winter to gladsome spring 1 You are like 
 the pure lily, whose color the rays of the sun change to a 
 golden hue I Thou art like the green tree in a dark wood 
 in which the winds of heaven play, drawing sweet music out 
 of every leaf I Thy brilliant eyes would make the flash of 
 lightning seem tame and dull in comparison ; and thou drawest, 
 chained to thy triumphal car, the hearts of all who see thee ! 
 [^sicfe.] I think that is putting it strong enough. 
 
 BoZA. \_Aside.'] How can I answer ? What can I say to 
 destroy this most unfortunate attachment of my uncle's ? 
 
 33* 
 
384 noZA. 
 
 Ftjrij. How you blusli ! You cast your eyes to the ground 
 to hide the love which shines in them for me ! Cupid is lurk- 
 ing in them, playing his sweet pranks. You will be a love- 
 lier bride than the sun has ever shone upon ! [^Aside.'] I am 
 afraid she will believe all this flattery. [Jb the Baron.] 
 Excuse me, Baron ; but I expect to be congratulated very 
 soon. I believe I must also congratulate you. If I have 
 heard aright, you are also about to offer up your vows at the 
 altar of Hymen. We have both been younger than we are 
 now, so — I repeat it — I congratulate you. 
 
 Baron. You are most kind to wish me G-od-speed in this 
 most important action of my life. Yes ; I love with all the 
 fervor of which the human heart is capable. 
 
 FURIJ. Good, gocd, my dear baron 1 Lovers are pretty 
 much alike : when there is hope they are all fire. When is 
 the great event to happen ? 
 
 Baron. That depends somewhat upon yourself. 
 
 FuRiJ. What do you mean ? What can I do for you ? 
 
 Baron. See in what loving harmony we come to you, — 
 our second father? {^Se takes Boza's hand and leads her 
 forward.'] See, we jointly beg you for your blessing on our 
 union ? 
 
 FuRiJ. How, Koza, do you really mean to say that you 
 love this man ? [^Aside.'] The million is slipping from my 
 grasp. 
 
 Boza. Dear uncle, you know that I have always loved you 
 as a daughter should love a father 
 
 FuRiJ. [^Aside.'] Oh, the cunning serpent ! 
 
 Boza. And I feel assured you will gladly see me united 
 to one who has so long loved me faithfully. 
 
 FuRlJ. [^Aside.] All is not yet lost. [To BozA.] You 
 think he loves you faithfully. Ha, ha, ha I I know that he is 
 faithless to you. 
 
 Baron. I untrue to her ? 
 
 FuRiJ. Yes, my dear Bosita, I can prove to you that he 
 loves another. 
 
 Baron. Excuse me, dear uncle, but that is impossible, for 
 it is not true. 
 
ROZA. 385 
 
 FOURTH SCENE. 
 Anze, Marjetica, Furij, Baron, and Eoza. 
 
 FuRiJ. [2b tJie Baron.] Please to convince yourself, 
 Anze! 
 
 Anze. Here, sir ! 
 
 FURIJ. Answer me truthfully. 
 
 Anze. Yes, sir. 
 
 FuRiJ. Do not be afraid of your master: I will protect 
 you. 
 
 Anze. Woe is me ! 
 
 FimiJ. Has your master another bride or not ? 
 
 Anze. Yes, of course he has. 
 
 FuRiJ. Now, answer, do you think he loves our young 
 lady? 
 
 Anze. I do not think he does. 
 
 FuRlJ. Answer as if you were standing before a judge. 
 Will you stand up to what you say ? 
 
 Anze. No, indeed ! 
 
 FuRiJ. Then you have merely been deceiving me. [^Aside.] 
 I have lost the million. [To RozA and the Baron.] It is too 
 much ! I have been deceived. I will give you over all that 
 belongs to you. In future I will live only for myself. 
 
 Baron. If I may be allowed to put in a word here, why 
 can you not help us with your advice and your experience, 
 and live with us as you have done heretofore with Roza? 
 
 RozA. Dear uncle, do not refuse your little Rosita this 
 favor. 
 
 FuRiJ. [J.siWe.J Would it really be proper for me to 
 remain ? [ ?b RozA.] I agree, and will see if the uncle can 
 still be as near to you as he was before he played the lover. 
 
 Roza. Oh, my dear uncle ! \_To Marjetica, shoimng her 
 tJbe letter.^ Marjetica, did you write that letter? 
 
 Marjetica. Yes, my lady : Anze persuaded me to do it. 
 
 Baron. Anze, how did you dare do such a thing? 
 
 Anze. Forgive me, master, if I tried to help the course 
 of true love. This honored lady had fallen in love with you, 
 but as she did not know her own mind, Marjetica determined 
 to try to help her to understand her own feelings. 
 
 34 
 
386 JROZA. 
 
 RozA. Maijetica has really acted the part of a good prov- 
 idence. 
 
 Anze. Grive her to me for my wife. 
 
 RozA. Must we, then, have a double wedding ? 
 
 Marjetica. And thus I need not leave my mistress nor 
 he his master. ' 
 
 Baron. I see, Anze, that thou art a most faithful servant. 
 
 FmiiJ. But / have an account to settle with him. 
 
 EozA. Dear uncle, forgive him for my sake. 
 
THE GARDEN OF THE PARSONAGE. 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM THE NORWEGIAN OP ALEXANDER L. 
 RIELLAND, 
 
 BY MKS. PEANCES 0. HENDBESON. 
 
 It seemed as if spring would never come. Through the 
 whole of April there had been north winds and night frosts, 
 though at noon the sun shone so brightly that a few large flies 
 began to buzz around. A solitary lark even insisted upon it 
 that it was summer ; but larks are the most unreliable creatures 
 under heaven, as the first rays of the rising sun often cause 
 them to forget the night frosts. This one rose high above the 
 earth, singing its hymn of praise as it flew upwards and around 
 in large circles, beating time to its own music with its wings. 
 At last it remembered it was hungry, and, folding its wings, it 
 dropped like a stone among the heather. 
 
 A lapwing went with small steps among the little hillocks, 
 and nodded thoughtfully as shesaid " bi litt — hi litt;" she 
 evidently doubted if spring had really come. A couple of 
 ducks were diving into a mudhole. The oldest of them pulled 
 out his head and said, " There must be a good rain before spring 
 could come." He was right. It rained, and then spring came 
 so suddenly that it surprised the lapwing before she had found 
 a suitable place for her nest. She lost her presence of mind, 
 and laid her eggs on the top of a little hillock. That was 
 very silly, and she knew it, but she let them stay there. The 
 lark laughed at her ; but the sparrows, who had just come, were 
 in too great a hurry to laugh. They had wasted a whole week 
 sitting on a roof, quarrelling about the almanac, so some of 
 
 387 
 
388 THE GARDEN OF THE PARSONAGE. 
 
 them had only laid one or two eggs, and some of them had no 
 nests, and now they did not know at which end to begin. 
 They concluded to hold a council in the large rose-bush in 
 the garden of the parsonage, but they did nothing but fly in 
 and out and chatter and scold each other. At last they all 
 flew away and disappeared as suddenly as they had come, but 
 not until some of the males had engaged in a free fight. 
 
 Little Ansgarius had been watching the fight with a lively 
 interest. For him it represented a battle, with deeds of 
 knightly prowess. He read with his father the history of the 
 world and the history of Norway, and invested with a warlike 
 hue everything that took place in the garden. When the 
 cows came home in the evening, they were supposed to be 
 troops advancing; the hens were militia, and the cock was 
 Burgomaster Nansen. 
 
 Ansgarius was a clever boy, who had his chronology at his 
 fingers' ends ; but he had no idea of the lapse of time. He 
 brought Napoleon, Eric Blodoexe, and Tiberius onto the stage 
 together ; and he fancied he saw, on the ships sailing lazily by, 
 Tordenskjold fight sometimes with the Vikings, and sometimes 
 with the Spanish armada. 
 
 In a secret place behind the summer-house he had hidden a 
 broomstick, which he called Bucephalus. It was his delight 
 to race about the garden with this fiery charger between his 
 legs, and a flower-stalk in his hand. A short distance from 
 the garden was a hill where a few small trees grew, and from 
 which he had an extensive view over the wide heath and the 
 great sea. 
 
 He was on his guard against every danger. Sometimes 
 suspicious-looking boats approached the shore, and then, again, 
 powerful bodies of horse were made to advance so cunningly 
 that they looked like a single horseman. But Ansgarius saw 
 through the deceitful plan. He turned Bucephalus suddenly 
 round, and, dashing down the hill, rode into the court-yard in a 
 mad gallop. The hens screamed as if they were going to be 
 killed, and Burgomaster Nansen flew on to the priest's study 
 window. 
 
 The priest looked out in time to see Bucephalus's tail as the 
 hero disappeared round the corner, to prepare to repulse the 
 assault. 
 
 " What makes the boy so wild ?" thought the priest. He 
 
THE GARDEN OF THE PARSONAGE. 389 
 
 did not relish his warlike tastes. He wanted Ansgarius to be 
 a man of peace, like himself, and it vexed him to see how 
 easily the boy learned and remembered whatever related to 
 war and battles. 
 
 Sometimes he tried describing the peaceful life in other 
 countries, but that made no impression on the boy. He was 
 content to abide by his books, and there battle followed battle, 
 the people were all soldiers, the heroes waded in blood, and it 
 proved labor lost when the priest tried to awaken his sympathy 
 for those in whose blood they waded. 
 
 Once only did it occur to the priest that it might have been 
 better to store the young head first with peaceful ideas rather 
 than with descriptions of the roving and plundering lives led 
 by our forefathers. Then he remembered that he had studied 
 those very things, and was not he a man of peace ? Ansgarius 
 could also become a man of peace, — and if not ? 
 
 " Well, we are all in the Lord's hand," said the priest, rev- 
 erently, and he set to work again on his sermon. Presently a 
 blonde head appeared at the door and said, " Father, have you 
 forgotten all about breakfast ?" 
 
 " You are right, Rebecca," replied he ; " I am a whole hour 
 too late," and he went in immediately to the daily room. 
 Father and daughter sat at the breakfast table. Ansgarius 
 always had Thursday to himself, as his father was busy writing 
 his sermon. It would be hard to find two persons more ad- 
 mirably suited to each other than the priest and his eighteen- 
 year-old daughter. She had grown up without a mother's 
 care ; but there was so much of a woman's nature in the cheer- 
 ful, gentle father that the young girl, who barely remembered 
 her mother as a pale face smiling lovingly upon her, looked 
 upon her loss as one remembers a sad dream. And for him, 
 as she expanded, she filled daily better the void which had 
 come into his life ; and all the tenderness which, since his 
 wife's death, had been so covered up by sorrow and want, he 
 now laid around the young woman growing up under his 
 hands, and his grief became less and peace came to his inner 
 man. 
 
 Really, he could be almost a mother to her. It was from 
 his own pure, quiet stand-point that he taught her to know 
 life. His main object in life was to ward off from her delicate 
 and sensitive nature everything that was impure, all the rest- 
 
 34* 
 
390 THE GARDEN OF THE PARSONAGE. 
 
 less elements -which make the world so confiised, so dangerous, 
 and so difficult to traverse. 
 
 As they stood on the little hill near the parsonage, and 
 looked out on the stormy sea, he would say, " See, Rebecca, 
 such is life ; the life on which the children of the world are 
 tossed, where impure passions raise and sink the feeble boat, 
 to throw it at last upon the shore a shapeless wreck. ' Only 
 he who possesses a strong will and a pure heart can brave the 
 storm, for the waves shall break powerless at his feet." 
 
 Rebecca clung to her father's arm ; she felt so safe with 
 him. There was such a clearness in all that he said that it 
 seemed like a light shining in front of her when she thought 
 of life. From him she received an answer to all her questions ; 
 nothing was too high for him, nothing too insignificant. They 
 exchanged ideas as freely as if they had been brother and sis- 
 ter, still there was one dark point between them. In all other 
 things she went at once to her father with her questions ; but 
 here she chose a roundabout way, without ever getting nearer 
 to the point. She knew what happiness her father had pos- 
 sessed and lost, and she followed with heartfelt sympathy the 
 changing fortunes of the lovers in the books she read aloud in 
 the winter evenings. Her heart comprehended that love, which 
 can bestow the greatest happiness, can also cause the deepest 
 sorrow. But apart from the misery of unrequited. affection, 
 she felt that there was a mystery she could not fathom. 
 
 Through love's paradise she saw dark figures flitting, de- 
 based and ashamed. In one breath, with the holy name of 
 love, were mentioned the worst disgrace and the deepest deg- 
 radation. Things happened, she knew, among human beings, 
 about which she did not like to think ; and when her father 
 had talked about them in words of bitter condemnation, it was 
 long before she dared look him in the face. The father noticed 
 this, and rejoiced over it. He rejoiced that his treasure was 
 like the pure pearl to which dirt will not cleave. As long as 
 he was spared, nothing unclean should approach her. Should 
 he be called away, — " We are all in God's hand." 
 
 " Have you not time to take a walk with me to-day, father ?" 
 asked Rebecca, after they had eaten. 
 
 " Yes, and I should enjoy it above all things. The weather 
 is delightful, and I have worked so hard that my sermofi may 
 be considered finished." 
 
THE GARDEN OF THE PARSONAGE. 391 
 
 They stepped onto the green sward before the door, and de- 
 bated whether they should go down to the heath or follow the 
 road which led to the village. It was a peculiarity of this 
 parsonage that the high road to the village led directly through 
 its court-yard. Suddenly Ansgarius appeared. He was red 
 and heated, and Bucephalus was put to his utmost speed. 
 The boy was waving his sword and shouting, " They are 
 coming ! they are coming ! three war-chariots full of armed 
 men!" 
 
 " Who are coming ?" asked Rebecca. 
 
 " Three carriages with city people," said Ansgarius, dis- 
 mounting from his charger, with a cunning look. 
 
 " Let us go in, Rebecca," said the priest, turning round. 
 But at this moment the first horses came rapidly up the hill, 
 and as it was really a pretty sight to see carriage after carriage 
 full of bright colors and happy faces drive into the bright sun- 
 shine, Rebecca could not help remaining to look. In the first 
 carriage an elderly gentleman and a corpulent lady sat on the 
 back seat; on the front seat was a young lady, and just as 
 they entered the court-yard a young man who sat next to her 
 rose, and, with an apology to the lady on the back seat, leaned 
 over his neighbor and looked out of the carriage window. 
 Rebecca gazed at him fixedly without knowing it. 
 
 " It is charming here," cried the young man. The garden 
 of the parsonage stood on the last hill towards the sea, so that 
 the wide, blue horizon became suddenly visible as you entered 
 the court-yard. The gentleman on the back seat looked out 
 also and said, " It is really beautiful ; I am glad that you ap- 
 preciate our peculiar scenery, Mr. Llntzow." At this moment 
 the young man's eyes met Rebecca's. She cast hers down, 
 but he stopped the carriage and cried, " We will remain here." 
 
 " That is not possible," said the lady, smiling. " Mr. 
 Lintzow, this is the garden of the parsonage." 
 
 " That makes no difference," said the young man, merrily, 
 jumping out of the carriage and calling to those in the other 
 carriages, " Shall we not rest here ?" 
 
 " Yes, yes," answered a chorus of glad voices, whose owners 
 began to jump out; but the gentleman on the back seat rose 
 and said, with dignity, " No, no, my friends, it is really not 
 possible ; we cannot force ourselves upon the priest, whom we 
 do not know. In ten minutes we will reach a house of en- 
 
392 THE GARDEN OF THE PARSONAGE. 
 
 tertainment." He was just giving the order to drive farther 
 when the priest appeared at the door, with a friendly greeting. 
 He knew Consul Hartwig, the most important man in the 
 town, by sight. 
 
 " I shall be really pleased to have you rest here," said he ; 
 " and as for the view, I can assure you " 
 
 " No, my best Herr Pastor, you are too good ; we cannot 
 think of accepting your kind invitation, and I must beg you 
 to excuse these crazy young people," said Mrs. Hartwig, in a 
 despairing tone, as she saw her youngest son, who had been 
 sitting in the last carriage, engaged in a familiar conversation 
 with Ansgarius. 
 
 " But I can assure you, madam," said the priest, smiling, 
 " that both my daughter and I will be delighted with so 
 pleasant an interruption of our solitude." 
 
 Mr. Lintzow opened the carriage doors with a formal bow. 
 Consul Hartwig looked at his wife, and she at him. The 
 priest came forward and renewed his invitation, and the end 
 was that the party followed, half unwillingly and half laugh- 
 ingly, into the garden parlor. 
 
 Here renewed excuses and presentations followed. The 
 party consisted of Consul Hartwig's children and a few of 
 their young friends. The excursion had been made chiefly to 
 gratify Mr. Lintzow, who was a friend of the oldest son, and 
 was on a visit of a few days at the consul's. 
 
 " My daughter Kebecca," said the priest, introducing her, 
 " who will do her best in all sobriety to " 
 
 " No ; do you know what, Herr Pastor," said the lively Mrs. 
 Hartwig, earnestly, " that is going too far. That incurable 
 Mr. Lintzow and my crazy sons have succeeded in forcing us 
 into your house and home, but I am not going to give up the 
 last remnant of my independence. I will play the hostess, 
 gentlemen ! unpack the carriage. And you, my dear child," 
 said she to the priest's daughter, " you shall amuse yourself 
 with the young people. Let me take your place as house- 
 keeper ;" and the good woman looked at the pretty Rebecca 
 with her honest gray eyes, and patted her cheek. 
 
 That felt so good ; there was something peculiar in the mere 
 touch of the fat woman's bare hand. The tears nearly came 
 into Rebecca's eyes, and she stood still as if she expected that 
 the strange lady would take her round the neck and whisper 
 
THE GARDEN OF THE PARSONAGE. 393 
 
 in her ear something for which she had long waited. But 
 the conversation went further. The young men brought, amid 
 increasing rejoicing, all sorts of wonderful packages from the 
 carriages. Mrs. Hartwig threw her mantle on a chair, and 
 arranged things with much taste ; but the young people, with 
 Mr. Lintzow at their head, seemed determined to bring in as 
 much disorder as possible. Even the priest seemed to be in- 
 fected with the merriment ; and Kebecca saw him, to lier un- 
 speakable edification, help Mr. Lintzow to hide a large paper 
 bundle under Mrs. Hartwig's mantle. 
 
 At last it was too much for the old lady. " My dear Miss 
 Rebecca," said she, " is there not something remarkable to 
 see in the neighborhood, — the farther the better, — so that I 
 can get rid of these crazy people for one short hour?" 
 
 " There is a fine view from Kongshongen, and the strand, 
 and the sea." 
 
 " Let us go to the sea," said Mr. Lintzow. 
 
 " That is right," said the lady ; " if you will rid me of him 
 I can get along, for he is the worst one of all." 
 
 " If Miss Rebecca will lead the way I will follow, wherever 
 it may be," said the young man, with a bow. 
 
 Rebecca blushed. She had never heard anything of the 
 kind before. The young, handsome man bowed so low before 
 her, and his words had the accent of truth. She had no time 
 to study her impressions, as the glad crowd rushed out of the 
 house and up the little hill, called Kongshongen. Many years 
 ago some simple antiquities were found at the top, and a pre- 
 decessor in ofiBce had planted some hardy trees on the slopes. 
 Besides these, and an avenue of nut-trees in the garden, there 
 was not another tree within miles, on the steep slopes by the 
 open sea. In the course of time, spite of the storms and 
 wind-blown sand, they ha'd grown to the height of a man, 
 and bending their knotty and bare stems as if to avoid the 
 north winds, they stretched their longing arms towards the 
 south. Among the trees Rebecca's mother had planted 
 violets. 
 
 " How charming !" cried the oldest Miss Hartwig. " See, here 
 are violets, Mr. Lintzow ! Please to pick me a bouquet for 
 this evening." The young man, who had been trying to find 
 some topic upon which he could converse with Rebecca, noticed 
 that she seemed startled by Miss Frederika's words. " Are 
 
394 THE GARDEN OF THE PARSONAGE. 
 
 these violets favorites of yours ?" said he, in a low voice. She 
 looked at him with surprise. How could he know that ? 
 
 " Do you not think, Miss Hartwig," said he, "that it would 
 be more to the purpose to pick the flowers just before our de- 
 parture ? — they will be fresher." 
 
 " As you please," replied she, shortly. 
 
 " We may hope she will forget it by that time," said he to 
 himself, half aloud. 
 
 Rebecca heard it, and wondered what pleasure he could find 
 in protecting her violets, rather than in picking them for the 
 handsome lady. 
 
 After they had sufficiently admired the extensive view from 
 the summit of the hill, the company followed a foot-path which 
 led to the sea. The young people held a lively conversation 
 as they wandered along the hard smooth beach. At first Re- 
 becca was quite bewildered ; it was as if these joyous city peo- 
 ple spoke a language which she did not understand. At one 
 time it seemed to her as if they laughed at nothing, and then 
 again she often felt like laughing at their naive admiration of 
 everything they saw, and the simple questions they asked. 
 But in a short time she felt quite at her ease among the good, 
 kindly people. The youngest Miss Hartwig passed her arm 
 round her neck as they walked. Rebecca soon thawed, and 
 talked and laughed as freely as the others, but she was far 
 from noticing that the young men, and especially the stranger, 
 paid her a great deal of attention ; and the piquant words 
 which flew here and there in the conversation were as unin- 
 telligible to her as much else that was said. 
 
 For a while they amused themselves running down to the 
 water's edge, as the waves retreated, to fly back as they ad- 
 vanced again, and great was the rejoicing when one of the 
 gentlemen was overtaken, or when a wave, larger than the 
 others, covered them with foam. 
 
 " See ! mamma is afraid we shall be too late for the ball," 
 cried Miss Hartwig, suddenly, and they discovered that the 
 consul and his wife, and the priest were standing on the par- 
 sonage hill like three windmills, waving handkerchiefs and nap- 
 kins. They turned their steps homeward. Rebecca took 
 them by a short cut over the marsh, without reflecting that 
 city ladies could not jump, as she did, from mound to mound. 
 Miss Frederika took too short a jump in her tightly-laced dress, 
 
THE GARDEN OF THE PARSONAGE. 395 
 
 and fell into a wet hole. She screamed and called for help, 
 with her eyes fastened on Mr. Lintzow. 
 
 " But, Henry," called Max to young Hartwig, who was 
 nearer than he, "why do you not help your sister?" Miss 
 Frederika helped herself, and the expedition proceeded. The 
 table was set in the garden, and although so early in the spring, 
 it was warm enough in the sunshine. When all were seated, 
 Mrs. Hartwig cast a last glance over the table. " But, but — " 
 said she,j" there is something wanting. I am confident that I 
 saw the maid put up some birds ; dear Frederika ! do you not 
 remember it too?" 
 
 " Excuse me mother ! but you know I never attend to the 
 eating." Rebecca looked at her father, so did Lintzow ; and 
 the priest made a face upon which even Ansgarius could read 
 guilt. " I cannot believe,' ' said the lady, " that you, Herr Pastor, 
 are in the conspiracy." But he had to laugh and confess amidst 
 great hilarity, when the boys brought forth in triumph the 
 bundle of birds. Consul Hartwig was enchanted to find that 
 even a clerical gentleman could join in a joke ; and the priest 
 was in gayer spirits than he had been for years. 
 
 In the course of conversation some one remarked that the 
 dishes were too city-like, though the arrangement was very rural. 
 " For a meal in the country one must have curdled milk." 
 
 Rebecca rose immediately and asked leave to bring a circle 
 of thick milk, and left the table without listening to Mrs. Hart- 
 wig's objections. 
 
 " Let me help you, miss !" cried Max, and ran after her. 
 
 " That is a lively young man," said the priest. 
 
 " Is he not ?" replied the consul ; " and such a devilish clever 
 merchant besides. He has spent several years in foreign coun- 
 tries, and has just been taken into partnership by his father." 
 
 " He seems a little uncertain," said Miss Hartwig, hesi- 
 tatingly. 
 
 " He certainly is !" sighed Miss Frederika. 
 
 The young man followed Rebecca to the dairy. She did 
 not exactly like that, as the dairy was her pride ; but he asked 
 such funny questions, and laughed so merrily, that she was 
 obliged to laugh also. She selected a milk circle on the upper 
 shelf, and raised her arm to take it down. 
 
 " No, no, miss ; that is too high for you !" cried Max ; " let 
 me take it down," and he put his hand upon hers. 
 
396 THE GARDEN OF THE PARSONAGE. 
 
 Eebecca drew her hand away instantly, but she felt that 
 she blushed, and she would have liked to cry. He looked 
 down and said, respectfully, " I beg your pardon, Miss Eebecca, 
 I feel that my manners are too free for a woman like yourself, 
 but I should be sorry if you were to deem me the frivolous 
 puppy which I seem to be. Many persons affect gayety to 
 hide that they are suffering, and there are those who laugh to 
 keep from crying." 
 
 As he said the last words, he looked up. There was some- 
 thing so sad and, at the same time, so respectful in his look, 
 that Rebecca suddenly felt as if she had been hard upon him. 
 She was in the habit of taking down pans from the upper 
 shelf, but as she reached again after the milk-circle, she 
 dropped her arms and said, " It is really rather high for me." 
 
 A slight smile passed over his face. He took down the 
 pan, and carried it carefully. She accompanied him, and 
 opened the doors for him. Every time he passed her she 
 looked at him closely. His coat, his cravat, everything was 
 so different from her father ; and his clothes exhaled a per- 
 fume unknown to her. When they reached the door, he 
 stopped and said, with a melancholy smile, " I must take a 
 moment's time to lay my face in merry folds, so that no one 
 shall suspect anything." 
 
 With these words he entered the room, and went up to the 
 table with a merry joke. She had remained outside, but she 
 heard the shouts of laughter which answered him. 
 
 Poor young man ! How sorry she felt for him, and how 
 strange it was that she should be the only person in whom he 
 seemed to confide. Had he also lost his mother, or had he a 
 still deeper sorrow ? How gladly she would help him if she knew 
 how ! Later, as Rebecca joined the party again, he was the 
 gayest of the gay. Only once, when he looked at her, she 
 thought his eyes wore the same melancholy, half begging 
 expression, and it pierced her to the heart to hear him laugh 
 at the same moment. 
 
 At last the guests departed, with a hearty leave-taking on 
 both sides. But, during the final chooising of places and 
 stowing away bundles, Rebecca slipped into the house and out 
 of it through the garden, to the Kongshongen. There she 
 sat down under the trees, by her mother's violets, to collect 
 her thoughts. 
 
THE GARDEN OF THE PARSONAGE. 397 
 
 " But the violets, Mr. Lintzow," said Miss Frederika, 
 when all were comfortably seated. The young man had been 
 looking anxiously for the daughter of the house, and answered 
 absently, " I am afraid it is too late." 
 
 Suddenly he seemed to have an inspiration. " Ah !" said 
 he, " Mrs. Hartwig, you will surely excuse me if I run to 
 pick a bouquet for Miss Frederika. I will be back in two 
 minutes." 
 
 Kebecca heard a rapid step approaching; she thought it 
 must be he. 
 
 "Oh! I find you here, miss. I came to pick the violets." 
 
 She turned half away, and began to pick. 
 
 " Are you picking them for me?" said he, with an unsteady 
 voice. 
 
 " Are they not for Miss Frederika ?" 
 
 " Oh, no ! let them be for me," said he, and he knelt by 
 her side. 
 
 His voice sounded as disconsolate as that of a begging child. 
 
 She handed him the violets without looking up. He 
 seized her round the waist, and drew her towards him. She 
 did not struggle, but shut her eyes ; then she felt that he 
 kissed her — once, many times — on the eyes and mouth ; then 
 he called her by her name, and whispered honeyed words ; 
 then he kissed her again. Then there were loud calls from 
 the garden. He let her go, and ran down the hill. The 
 horses were stamping ; the young man jumped quickly into 
 the carriage, and it rolled ofiF; but when he shut the carriage- 
 door, he was so awkward as to drop the bouquet ; a single 
 violet remained in his hand. 
 
 " I suppose it would be of no use to offer you this one, 
 miss," said he. 
 
 " Thank you, no ; you can keep it to remind you of your 
 dexterity," replied Miss Hartwig, in anything but a gracious 
 tone. 
 
 " Yes ; you are right ! I will do it," replied Max Lintzow, 
 with great tranquillity. 
 
 The morning after the ball, when Mr. Lintzow put on his 
 every-day coat, he found a certain violet in his button-hole. 
 He pinched off the head with his fingers, and pulled it out 
 backwards. 
 
 " It is really true," said he, looking at himself in the glass, 
 35 
 
398 THE GARDEN OF THE PARSONAGE. 
 
 with a smile. "I had almost forgotten her." That afternoon 
 he went home, and so he forgot her entirely. 
 
 Summer came, with its warm days and its long light nights. 
 All over the quiet sea lay the smoke in dark streaks behind 
 the passing steamboats. Sailboats went by with flapping 
 sails, and required nearly the whole day to pass out of the 
 horizon. 
 
 It was some time before the priest remarked a change in 
 his daughter, but little by little the conviction was forced 
 upon him that Kebecca was not thriving that summer. She 
 was pale, and spent much of her time in her own room. She 
 hardly ever came into his study, and at last it even seemed to 
 him as if she avoided him. 
 
 He spoke seriously with her, and begged her to tell him if 
 scruples of any sort were to blame for her not being as joyous 
 as formerly. Tears were her only answer. 
 
 After this conversation she did better. She did not remain 
 so much alone, and joined her father oftener, but the glad ring 
 was wanting in her voice, and her eyes were no longer so 
 bright. The doctor came and questioned her. She blushed 
 scarlet, and wept so violently that the old man left her room 
 and sought the priest in his study. 
 
 " Well, doctor, what do you say about Rebecca ?" 
 
 " Tell me, Herr Pastor," was his reply, " has your daughter 
 had any violent moral emotion ? Hm — any ?" 
 
 " Any worry or vexation, do you mean ?" 
 
 " No, not exactly ; but has she no trouble of the heart ? To 
 speak plainly, has she had any unfortunate love-afiair ?" 
 
 The priest felt quite hurt at this question. How could the 
 doctor believe for a moment that his own Rebecca, whose heart 
 was for him like an open book, should have a care that she 
 could or would hide from her father ? Moreover, Rebecca was 
 not one of those girls whose heads are filled with romantic 
 dreams of love ; besides which, she had never been away from 
 home, and how could she ? " No ! no ! my dear doctor ! this 
 diagnosis does you little credit," said the priest, with a quiet 
 smile. 
 
 " Yes, yes, it is easy to talk," said the old man ; and he 
 wrote a prescription which could not do any harm. He did 
 not know any herbs that were good for a sore heart, but he 
 silently held fast to his diagnosis. 
 
THE GARDEN OF THE PARSONAGE. 399 
 
 The doctor's visit had frightened Rebecca. She watched 
 over herself still more carefully, and doubled her efforts to 
 appear as she had been. No one should suspect what had 
 happened, — that a young man, a total stranger, had taken her 
 in his arms and kissed her,— many times. 
 
 As often as she remembered this she blushed scarlet. She 
 washed herself certainly ten times a day, but it seemed to 
 her she could never be cleansed. And what was it that 
 had really happened ? was it not the greatest disgrace ? Was 
 she any better than the unfortunate girls of whose faux 
 pas she had heard with horror, and for whom she could 
 make no excuse ? Ah ! if she could only ask any one ; if 
 light could be thrown on the darkness and doubt which 
 distressed her so ; if she could see clearly what it was she 
 had done ; if she could know if she still had a right to look 
 her father in the eyes, or if she was one of the worst of 
 sinners. 
 
 Her father asked her often if she would not confide to him 
 what troubled her, for he felt that she concealed something 
 from him. But when she looked in his clear eyes, in the 
 pure and placid face, she felt that it would be impossible to 
 uncover the plague-spot, and she could only weep. Some- 
 times she thought of the motherly touch of good Mrs. Hart- 
 wig's hand ; but she was a stranger and far away, so she must 
 fight the battle out by herself, but fight it so silently that no 
 one should be aware of the struggle. 
 
 And he, — who was wandering through the world with the 
 glad face and the sad heart, — should she never see him again ? 
 And if she ever did meet him, how should she hide herself? 
 He was incorporated with all her doubt and suffering, but 
 without bitterness, without rancor. All that she suffered 
 bound her more closely to him, and he was never absent from 
 her thoughts. 
 
 In her housekeeping Rebecca was as careful and attentive 
 as ever, but in everything that she did she caught a glimpse 
 of him. Countless places in the house and garden reminded 
 her of him : she saw him in the doorway, — it was there he 
 stood when he spoke to her first ; but on Kongshongen she 
 had not been again, — it was there he had put his arm round 
 her waist and kissed her. 
 
 The priest thought much and sorrowfully over his daughter's 
 
400 TEE GARDEN OF TME PARSONAGE. 
 
 condition ; but every time he remembered the doctor's sugges- 
 tion he shook his head indignantly. How could he think that 
 the nimble hand of a cunning fencer should pierce the good 
 armor with which he had provided her ? 
 
 If the spring had been late, autumn had come early. One 
 warm summer evening it began to rain ; the next day it rained 
 also, then it rained unceasingly for eleven days and nights, the 
 weather growing colder and colder all the time. At last it 
 cleared up, but the next night there were four degrees of cold 
 of E^aumur. The leaves sparkled on the bushes and trees 
 till the high wind strewed them over the ground. It was the 
 young autumn wind who was trying his strength ; in the win- 
 ter, when he had full-grown lungs, he would play with tiles 
 and chimney-shafts. All the force on the farm was busy 
 housing the grain and the straw. The oat-straw lay in heaps 
 in the court-yard, and the wind, catching up straws, whirled 
 them round in a merry dance. 
 
 A sparrow sat on the top of the dog-kennel. He had drawn 
 his head between his feathers, winked with his eyes, and seemed 
 to be nodding ; but in reality he was watching where they were 
 storing the grain. He had been in the great sparrow council 
 in the spring, and had chattered and screamed as much as any 
 of them. But since then he had become reasonable, and 
 thought of his wife and children, and how nice it is to have 
 something in reserve for the winter. 
 
 Ansgarius was looking joyfully forward to the winter, to 
 dangerous expeditions in snow-storms, and pitch-dark nights, 
 with crashing breakers. He was already using the thin ice 
 which covered the little water-pools, as he made all his tin 
 soldiers march over it, with two brass cannon. He took part, 
 however, against the expedition, by stamping with his foot till 
 the ice gave way, and the whole army disappeared in the pud- 
 dle. Only one cannon-wheel was to be seen. Then he swung 
 his cap and shouted hurrah ! 
 
 " What are you shouting for?" said the priest, who was 
 crossing the yard. 
 
 " I am playing Austerlitz," said Ansgarius, with a radiant 
 face. 
 
 The father went on, but he sighed deeply, he did not un- 
 derstand his own children. Kebecca sat in the sunshine, on 
 a bench in the garden. She was looking across the heath, 
 
THE GARDEN OF THE PARSONAGE. 401 
 
 which was covered with dark purple flowers, though the fields 
 were turning pale at the approach of autumn. 
 
 The lapwings had assembled, and were silently executing 
 flying manoeuvres before undertaking their journey ; and all 
 the strand birds had come to travel with them. Even the 
 lark had taken courage and sought travelling companions 
 among other gray migratory birds. But the gull was quiet : 
 it did not intend to go away. 
 
 All was so still, and only a faint breath of air was stirring. 
 Both colors and sounds were growing feebler at the approach 
 of winter, and that was in harmony with her own mood. She 
 was tired, and dreaded the long, dead winter. She knew that 
 her winter would be longer than that of the. others, and she 
 began even to dread the spring. The birds would return and 
 sing the old songs with new voices, and up on the Kong- 
 shongen her mother's violets would once more stand in blue 
 clusters. It was there he had put his arm around her waist 
 and kissed her many, many times. 
 
 85* 
 
ALEXANDER LAPUSMA. 
 
 A PBAGMENT OF THE HISTORY OF MOLDAVIA, TRANSLATED 
 FROM THE ROUMAN, 
 
 BY MES. PKANOES C. HBNDEESON. 
 
 Jacob Eraclid, surnamed the tyrant, was murdered by 
 Stefan Tomsa, who governed the land until he was overthrown 
 by Alexander Lapushna. This prince, who had been obliged to 
 flee to Constantinople, succeeded in raising troops, and, having 
 twice defeated the army of the tyrant, set to work to drive the 
 usurper Stefan out of the country. The latter would, however, 
 not have lost the throne if his bojars had not betrayed him. 
 Alexander entered Moldavia with an army of seven thousand 
 spahis and three thousand volunteers. Besides, he had an 
 imperial order to the Khan of the Tartars to give him any as- 
 sistance he might require. 
 
 One day Lapuishna was riding alongside of the prime minister, 
 Bogdan. Both were armed from head to foot, and mounted 
 on fine Turkish stallions. 
 
 " What do you think, Bogdan," said the prince, after a long 
 silence ; " do you seem to have accomplished anything ?" 
 
 " Your grace may rest assured of that," replied the courtier ; 
 " the land is groaning under Stefan's yoke. The whole army 
 will come over to you, if you promise the soldiers better pay. 
 The bojars, all those whom he has left alive, will join you as 
 soon as they find that you are strong enough to protect them 
 against their master, as it is only the fear of death which pre- 
 vents them from revolting at once." 
 
 " May God grant that I shall never have to do what Prince 
 402 
 
ALEXANDER LAPVSHNA. 403 
 
 Mircea did in the mountains. I tell you I know our bojars, I 
 have lived among them." 
 
 Conversing thus they reached Tecuci, where they meant to 
 rest a while in the shade. 
 
 '' Master," said an executor, drawing near, " some bojars have 
 arrived and demand an audience." 
 
 " Bring them in," replied Alexander. 
 
 Four bojars immediately entered the tent where he was sit- 
 ting, surrounded by his bojars and captains. Two of the new- 
 comers were young men, two were older. Their names were 
 Motoc, prime minister ; Veverita, secretary of state ; General 
 Spancioc, and Stroioi. 
 
 Drawing near to Prince Alexander they inclined their heads 
 to the ground, but without kissing the hem of his garment, as 
 was customary. 
 
 " You are welcome, bojars," said the prince, forcing a smile. 
 
 " Long life to your grace," was their answer. 
 
 " I have heard," said Alexander, " of the troubles in the 
 land, and am come to quiet them, and I expect to be received 
 with open arms." 
 
 " Your grace is much mistaken," said Motoc. " The coun- 
 try is quiet, and our people have sent us to beg you to retrace 
 your steps, and to leave the country." 
 
 " If you do not want me, I want you," said Alexander, and 
 his blue eyes shone like lightning. " If you do not love me, I 
 love you ; and I will free you from a usurper, whether you 
 will or not. You might as well ask the Danube to run back- 
 wards towards its source. Do you understand me ?" 
 
 " They do not cut oif the heads of ambassadors," quietly 
 remarked Spancioc ; " it is our duty to tell you the truth. 
 The bojars are determined to take refuge in Hungary and in 
 Poland (or to hide in the mountains), where they have rela- 
 tions and friends. You bring an army of strangers into this 
 poor country, and make war upon us, and think you are doing 
 us a favor because ou^ Lord Stefan Tomsa " 
 
 " Tomsa ! How dare you speak thus ?" said Bogdan, putting 
 his hand on the hilt of his sword. " I would like to knock 
 your teeth down your throat. That rascal of a Tomsa, indeed !" 
 
 " Call not the anointed of the Lord a rascal," said Veverita. 
 
 " Am I not the Lord's anointed as well as he ?" said Alex- 
 ander. " Whom have I oppressed ? Whose blood have I spilt ?" 
 
404 ALEXANDER LAPVSENA. 
 
 " Your grace must see," said Stroioi, " that there is great 
 clanger of your pagan hordes pillaging the land. With what 
 are you going to satisfy their rapacity?" 
 
 '.' With 1/our goods," replied the prince, " not with the money 
 of the poor peasants, whom you have already drained nearly 
 dry. But enough of this, bojars ; return to him who sent you, 
 and tell him to be on his guard, lest I should make flutes out 
 of his bones, and cover drums with his skin." 
 
 The three other bojars marched out with downcast looks, 
 but Motoc remained. 
 
 " For what have you remained?" said Alexander. 
 
 " Master ! master !" said Motoc, falling on his knees, " have 
 pity on our poor country ! Dismiss your army of infidels, 
 and trust to our own Moldavians, who will not suffer a hair to 
 fall from your head 1" 
 
 " It seems," replied the prince, " that you do not know me, 
 or you think I do not know you. Kemember the Moldavian 
 proverb, — ' The wolf changes his hair, but not his nature.' 
 Veverita is an old enemy of mine. Spancioc is young, but 
 I like his daring. Stroici is like g, child, who, if you threaten 
 it, has recourse to a lie. But you, Motoc, you have grown 
 old in the business, you flatter your masters, but you betrayed 
 Eraolid, and now you would sell Tomsa ; but you must remem- 
 ber that you are not standing before a fool. As soon as I saw 
 you I knew you had come to deceive me, but I will not stain 
 my sword with your blood. You may be useful to me, as the 
 maledictions of the people will fall upon 7/our head." 
 
 Motoc kissed his hand, imitating the dog who licks the hand 
 which strikes it, instead of biting. He knew that Alexander 
 did not love traitors, and he was glad even to be tolerated. 
 
 Tomsa was too indolent to defend himself against his enemies, 
 and fled to Wallachia, so that the prince found no impedi- 
 ments in his way. Everywhere the people came to meet 
 him with joy and gladness, hoping to find in him a good mas- 
 ter. He had not yet shown the dark side of his character. 
 The bojars trembled, and with good cause. The people hated 
 them, and the new master did not love them. 
 
 Alexander had no sooner got possession of the land than he 
 ordered all the strong fortresses to be burnt in that part of 
 Moldavia, so as to prevent the discontented from seeking 
 shelter within their walls. It was also a great blow at the 
 
ALEXANDER LAPVSHNA. 405 
 
 feudal power of the bojars. He was not, however, satisfied 
 with this, but seized the least cause of complaint against one 
 of their number, as a pretext for having his head cut off, and 
 nailed over his own gate, where it remained till it rotted. No 
 one dared to raise hand or voice against him. He was always 
 surrounded by a guard of Albanians, Servians, and Hunga- 
 rians. These men, who had fled from their country for 
 diverse crimes, were not only protected by Alexander, but well 
 paid. The Moldavian army was placed under creatures of his 
 own, who did pretty much as they pleased. 
 
 One day he was alone in the hall of his palace. He 
 was walking up and down, after a long consultation with 
 Motoc, who had been received into high favor. He seemed 
 uneasy, but perhaps it was only because he was meditating 
 new murders. Suddenly a side door opened, and Lady Kus- 
 canda entered the hall. The chroniclers tell us that after the 
 death of her father, the good Petru Rares, she remained in 
 a tender age, under the guardianship of two older brothers, 
 Iliam and Stefan. The former succeeded his father on the 
 throne, but after a short apd scandalous reign, he went to 
 Constantinople, where he turned Mahometan, leaving the 
 crown to his brother Stefan. He was even worse than Iliam ; 
 he tried to compel the Roman Catholics to abjure their religion, 
 and reduced many wealthy families of that persuasion to 
 absolute poverty. The bojars joined these in a plot to kill 
 him, as if they had delayed doing so, they would certainly all 
 have been killed by him. No one was allowed to live with 
 him, except his sister, as he did not apprehend any attempt 
 to assassinate him, and the bojars, who were standing near 
 him in his tent, cut the ropes to prevent him from escaping, 
 and, falling upon him, killed him. 
 
 The murderers gave the crown to one Talde, who was the 
 only male relation of Petru Rares left, and under him they 
 opposed the progress of Alexander. This prince defeated 
 him, and took him prisoner, and, after cutting off his nose, 
 compelled him to enter a monastery. Ruscanda being now 
 the only surviving member of Petru Rares's family, Alexander 
 forced her to marry him, hoping she would give him some of 
 the popularity her extreme beauty had won for her. 
 
 When Lady Ruscanda entered she was attired with an ele- 
 gance befitting the daughter, sister, and wife of a sovereign. 
 
406 ALEXANDER LAPVSHNA. 
 
 Over a skirt of cloth of gold she wore a jacket of blue 
 velvet, with a border of ermine. A girdle of gold was 
 round her waist, fastened by a clasp, rich with precious stones, 
 and on the hooks of her necklace of coins were hung rows of 
 large pearls. Her ermine headdress was adorned by flowers 
 made of emeralds, and from under this cap her hair fell upon 
 her shoulders in two thick plaits, according to the fashion of 
 that time. Truly she was fair to look upon, though she was 
 sad and pensive, reminding one of a flower withered by 
 excessive heat. 
 
 Drawing near to the prince, she bent her head and kissed 
 his hand. He put his arm round her waist and made her sit 
 down on his knee, and kissed her on the forehead. 
 
 " What is it, fair lady," said he ; " what weighty matter has 
 brought thee out so early on a f§te-day?" 
 
 " The tears of the widows whom you have made, which 
 have fallen on my hands. God and the holy Virgin will 
 demand of you an account of the blood you have spilt." 
 
 Alexander withdrew his arm, and Ruscanda fell down at 
 his feet. 
 
 " Oh, my lord 1" cried she, " think how many widows 
 and orphans you have made, how many rich men you have 
 reduced to poverty. Can you not abdicate and give up 
 all ? There is no longer any war ; the country is quiet and 
 submissive. Remember that death comes to all alike, and after 
 death is the day of judgment. Enter a monastery, then you 
 will not have to stand alone before an angry God." 
 
 " Fool 1" screamed Alexander, jumping to his feet. For a 
 moment he seemed about to strangle her with her own girdle ; 
 but controlling himself with difficulty, he bent over her, and, 
 forcing himself to speak calmly, he said, " My lady ! never 
 let me hear such silly words from your mouth again, as there 
 is no knowing what might happen. Has not the church 
 made saints of men who were worse than I am ? Be quiet 
 for the sake of our expected child." 
 
 " It is for our child's sake that I will not have the curses 
 of widows and orphans resting on our heads. Yesterday, as I 
 was driving out, a woman with five children stopped my car- 
 riage. ' Look there,' said she, pointing to a ghastly head, 
 rotting over a doorway, ' see what your husband has done to 
 mine. Yes, that is my husband, and the father of these little 
 
ALEXANDER LAPUSHNA. 407 
 
 ones.' Oh ! master, I am frightened, that bloody head is 
 ever before my eyes !" 
 
 " What do you fear ?" said Alexander, smiling. 
 
 " I am afraid that if you cease spilling blood and cutting 
 off heads, your turn will come next." 
 
 " Don't worry yourself," replied Alexander. " I will give 
 them a fright." 
 
 " How can you do that ?" 
 
 "You shall see to-morrow; but now, dear lady, go home 
 and set your house in order, and prepare a banquet worthy of 
 bojars." 
 
 Lady Ruscanda went out, and, after kissing her hus- 
 band's hand, he accompanied her to the door, and called 
 his squire. " Order the carriage and dress me," said he to 
 him. 
 
 He knew that the bojars would be assembled in the cathe- 
 dral to hear mass, as this was a saint's day. When Alexan- 
 der entered the cathedral the holy service had begun, and the 
 bojars were assembled. Contrary to his usual habit, he was 
 attired with lordly pomp. He wore the crown of the Palealogues, 
 and over a Polish dolman of crimson velvet, a rich Turkish 
 pelisse. He wore no other arms than a sword suspended to a 
 belt of gold. 
 
 After mass, Alexander left his seat, and bowed to the pic- 
 ture of the saint, then approaching the reliquary of St. John, 
 he prostrated himself with great humility, and kissed the 
 holy relics. They relate that in that moment the prince's 
 face was as yellow as a lemon, and that the lid of the reliquary 
 nearly flew open. 
 
 After performing this act of worship the prince mounted 
 his throne again, and, turning to the bojars, he said, — 
 
 " My lords and nobles, I have come here to-day to confess 
 my sins. I have shed a great deal of blood, but God only 
 knows how deeply I regret it, and how I abhor myself for it. 
 I know you thirst for vengeance, but I am here to propose a 
 cessation of hostilities. I would like to be a good shepherd 
 to this flock, as the prophet says, ' I will strike the shepherd 
 and disperse the flock.' My lord nobles, I wish henceforth 
 to live in peace and in brotherly love with all men, for the 
 law of love says, ' Thou shalt love even those who hate thee.' 
 We are all mortal, and beg our Lord Jesus Christ [here he 
 
408 ALEXANDER LAPV8HNA. 
 
 crossed himself] to forgive us our offences, as we forgive those 
 who have offended us." 
 
 Having finished this extraordinary harangue, he bowed 
 right and left, and invited the bojars to come that evening to 
 celebrate their reconciliation in a banquet at the palace. 
 
 " The Lord be with your grace," replied all the bojars, ex- 
 cept two. These were young men who were leaning thought- 
 fully against a monument, without any one's having noticed 
 them. These were Spanmoc and Stroici. 
 
 "Are you going?" said one of the older bojars after the 
 crowd had dispersed. 
 
 " No," replied Spancioc ; " and I would advise you not to 
 trust yourself at the prince's table." 
 
 Great preparations were made at court for the banquet. 
 The news had spread quickly that Alexander had made peace 
 with the bojars. These rejoiced greatly over the turn affairs 
 had taken, and at the prospect of being restored to their former 
 high positions at court ; but the populace cared but little about 
 the matter. The people had recognized the rule of Prince 
 Alexander, and it made no difference to them whether Motoc 
 or another governed under him. They were sure to be op- 
 pressed in any way. 
 
 At the appointed hour the bojars came. Each one was at- 
 tended by two or three servants. They were surprised to see 
 the court-yard full of armed men. Some would gladly have 
 turned back, but the guards at the gate denied them egress. 
 Eour loaded cannon commanded the approach, but that might 
 be only to celebrate the occasion. 
 
 When all the bojars were assembled, — forty-seven in num- 
 ber, — they were desired to take their seats. Alexander sat at 
 the head of the table, the logafet Trotusan was at his right 
 hand, and Minister Motoc at his left. After all had smoked, 
 the dishes were brought in. 
 
 In Moldavia at that time they had " not introduced many 
 foreign dishes. After a borshut (a sour soup) came diverse 
 boiled meats and vegetables swimming in butter, then a Turk- 
 ish pilan, and lastly fried cakes. The table-cloth and napkins 
 were. of fine homespun linen, but the dishes, plates, and gob- 
 lets were of solid silver. Jugs filled with costly wines were 
 ranged along the walls ; and behind every bojar stood a servant 
 of the prince, armed to the teeth. Wine stood by every place, 
 
ALEXANDER LAPVSHNA. 409 
 
 and the meats were boiled in wine. The bojars began to drink ; 
 and it was not long before the strong wines began to work. 
 The bojars bowed low and shouted, " Long live Prince Alex- 
 ander !" and the thunder of the cannon answered them from 
 the court-yard. 
 
 When the prince was about to leave the table Veverita 
 rose, goblet in hand, and bowing low, said, " Your grace ! 
 may God grant you to govern the land many years in peace, 
 if you govern well ; but if you oppress the people and weaken 
 the bojars " 
 
 Before he could finish a man-at-arms stepped up to him and 
 felled him with a club. " Ah I you insult your master !" cried 
 he. " To the rescue, my men I" 
 
 In a moment all the servants of the bojars ran in, drawing 
 their knives ; but the captain of the body-guards ordered his 
 men to attack them, and they were obliged to withdraw. 
 Then they charged the bojars. One may imagine the horror 
 of the scene. The bojars had gone in good faith, without 
 suspicion and without arms. The older ones died quietly, 
 making the sign of the cross ; but the younger ones defended 
 themselves with whatever they could lay hold of. Chairs, 
 plates, and table-knives became dangerous weapons in their 
 hands. Some of the wounded, as they were about to fall, bit 
 with such fury into the throats of their assailants that these 
 died of suffocation. More than one sold his life dearly, and 
 many of the guards were killed, but there was not one of the 
 forty-seven bojars who escaped. During the carnage the 
 prince was standing in the embrasure of a window, laughing. 
 He had a tight hold of the hand of Motoc, whose hair was 
 standing on end with horror, and whose teeth were chattering. 
 The floor of the banqueting-room was covered with blood, 
 mixed with the red wine from the jugs which had been broken 
 in the fight. 
 
 When the guards had finished their bloody work within, 
 they went out into the court-yard and attacked the servants, 
 but some of those forced the gates and fled. The fearful 
 tidings were carried to the houses of the bojars, and spread 
 like wildfire among the populace. A large party of men, 
 headed by the relations of the murdered men, marched up 
 to the palace and began to chop the gate with their axes. 
 The tumult was increasing every moment, and the soldiers, 
 
 86 
 
410 ALEXANDER LAPUSHNA. 
 
 who were all stupefied with drink, could offer but little re- 
 sistance. 
 
 Alexander sent his squire to ask what the poeple wanted ; 
 and, turning to Motoc, said to him, " Do you not think I did 
 well to rid the country of all these wicked men ?" 
 
 " Your grace has acted wisely," replied the flatterer ; " and 
 I had even thought of suggesting something of the kind, but 
 your grace was beforehand with me. You have done well to 
 cut off their heads, seeing — as how." 
 
 " What say you ?" interrupted Alexander. " Would it not 
 be well to order the cannon to be fired on the populace ?" 
 
 " Yes, yes ; by all means, fire on the common people, — who 
 cares for them ; but it is really a pity for the bojars ; they 
 are all gone !" 
 
 "I expected just such an answer from you," said the 
 prince, severely. 
 
 In the mean time the squire was parleying with the people 
 at the gate. " What is it you want, my good friends," said 
 he. 
 
 " The head of the traitor Motoc," replied the people. 
 
 " What do they want ?" said Alexander, as the man-at-arms 
 returned. 
 
 " The head of the prime minister Motoc," was his reply. 
 
 " What ?" said Motoc, jumping as if he had trod upon a 
 snake. " You did not hear well, comrade, or you are joking. 
 Of what use would my head be to them ? You did not hear 
 aright." 
 
 " Yes, he did," said the prince. " Listen, you can hear 
 them now." And in truth the cries of the people were dis- 
 tinctly heard, — " Give us Motoc, we want the head of Motoc !" 
 
 " Oh ! holy Virgin !" cried Motoc, " do not abandon me ! 
 Deliver me from this danger, and I swear to give your church 
 a silver image like the one which works miracles at the mon- 
 astery. Gracious master ! you surely will not listen to the 
 people. I am a real bojar, and what are they but common 
 men ?" 
 
 " They are common, but they are many," said Alexander, 
 coldly. " Would it not be ridiculous in me to prefer one to 
 
 " Oh, have pity on me !" said Motoc, who understood but 
 too well that there was no hope for him. " Have pity on my 
 
ALEXANDER LAPUSHNA. 411 
 
 wife and children ! Give me a confessor !" and he pulled out 
 his beard by the roots, as he groaned and lamented. 
 
 " Stop that," said the prince ; " and die like a Koman. 
 What could a confessor do for you ? Ton are a robber and a 
 traitor. All Moldavia knows that. Holloo 1 take him and give 
 him to the people, and say that it ia thus Alexander rewards 
 traitors." 
 
 The squire and the captain of the guards immediately seized 
 Motoc. He wished to defend himself, but what could his old 
 arm do against the two strong young men who held him ? In 
 his struggles his foot slipped on the bloody pavement, and he 
 fell on his face. The two men picked him up, and carried him 
 out more dead than alive. They opened the gate and gave 
 him to the waiting crowd outside, saying, "It is thus Prince 
 Alexander rewards traitors." 
 
 " Long life to his grace, the prince !" shouted the crowd ; 
 and they went off, carrying their victim with them. 
 
 While the miserable Motoc was dying in this way. Prince 
 Alexander was busy cutting off, with a large carving-knife, 
 the heads of the murdered bojars. His attendants threw the 
 headless bodies out of the window, and the prince made a 
 pyramid of the bloody heads in the middle of the table. 
 Then, after washing his hands, he drew the bolts and bars 
 of the side door, and opening it, went into his wife's apart- 
 ments. 
 
 Lady Ruscanda had been on her knees before the holy Icon 
 (image) since the beginning of this tragedy. She heard the 
 noise, but did not know what it meant, and dared not leave 
 her rooms, to which the customs of the day confined her, and 
 her servants had no wish to risk their own lives by going to 
 the scene of the affray. The good lady had a great dread of 
 popular fury, and when Alexander entered the room she ex- 
 claimed, " Praise be to the Mother of God that I see you 
 alive ! Oh ! I have been horribly afraid." 
 
 " You may remember I promised you a remedy for fear ; 
 come with me, my lady." 
 
 " But those screams, those yells which I heard ?" 
 
 " Oh ! that is nothing. The servants had got into a quar- 
 rel, but they have settled it among themselves." Speaking 
 thus, he took Ruscanda's hand and led her to the banqueting 
 room. 
 
412 ALEXANDER LAPUSHNA. 
 
 As soon as the fearfiil spectacle met her eyes, she gave a 
 wild scream and fainted. 
 
 " Woman will be woman," said Alexander, smiling. " A 
 trifle makes them happy, and a trifle frightens them ;" and he 
 carried her back to her apartments. He returned presently, 
 and said to the captain of the guards, " See that all those heads 
 are properly fastened on the walls ; and you" — to his squire — 
 " go and fetch me Spancioc and Stroici." 
 
 But Stroici and Spancioc were safe in Nistru. They had 
 passed the frontier before their enemies got sight of them. 
 
 Four years had passed, during which Prince Alexander had 
 faithfully kept the promise he had made to Lady Kuscanda, 
 not to cut off the head of another bojar. But he had indem- 
 nified himself by inflicting upon them all imaginable tortures. 
 He put out the eyes, or cut off the ears, nose, or hands of any 
 one who was accused or even suspected of dissatisfaction. Still 
 he could not feel easy unless he had secured Spancioc and 
 Stroici, who were quietly biding their time in voluntary exile. 
 They had two brothers who held influential positions at the 
 court of Poland, and Alexander greatly feared that they would 
 bring Polish troops into Moldavia; but the two bqjars were 
 too patriotic for that. The prince wrote to them repeatedly, 
 binding himself by the most sacred oaths not to do them any 
 harm if they returned to their own country, but they knew 
 too well what reliance was to be placed upon his oaths. In 
 the mean time he fortified his capital, but he soon was taken 
 with a malignant fever, which made rapid progress. In his 
 accesses of delirium he felt himself surrounded by his victims, 
 who pointed at him with their bloody fingers and threatened 
 him with the judgment of God. 
 
 At last Alexander summoned the metropolitan, the bishcips, 
 and some bojars, and told them that he felt his end was ap- 
 proaching. He humbled himself so far as to ask them to allow 
 his son Bogdan to succeed him on the throne, and to aid him 
 in maintaining himself there. He said that, if he recovered 
 from that sickness, he meant to take the vows in the Slatina 
 monastery, so as to secure the salvation of his soul, and he 
 begged the metropolitan (in case he should not recover) to 
 put a monk's gown on him when he saw him in the agony 
 of 
 
 He could not utter the last word. A violent convulsion 
 
ALEXANDER LAPVSHNA. 413 
 
 shook his frame ; and as his body seemed to be growing cold, 
 the metropolitan and bishops, thinking the end had come, 
 hastened to shave his head and to put a monk's gown on him, 
 giving him the name of Paisie, or Peter, who had denied his 
 Master. Then they proclaimed Bogdan as prince, and saluted 
 Lady Eusoanda as regent during her son's minority, after 
 which they sent couriers to the captains of the army and to 
 the exiles. 
 
 The day was dawning when Stroici and Spancioc returned. 
 They dismounted at the gate and entered the fortress. Save 
 by the sentinels the streets were deserted. They entered the 
 palace without hindrance, and went to the sick-room without 
 meeting any one. They were about to open the door, when 
 they heard a great noise, so they stopped to listen. 
 
 Alexander had awoke from his trance. Opening his eyes 
 he saw two monks standing, one by his pillow, one by his 
 feet, as stiff as two statues of bronze. His own head was cov- 
 ered with a monk's cowl, and long woollen sleeves fell over his 
 hands. Thinking it was all a dream, he closed his eyes again, 
 but even then burning lights, genuflections, cowls, and frocks 
 danced before his eyes. 
 
 "How are you, brother Paisie?" said one of the monks, 
 who saw that the patient had recovered consciousness. These 
 words recalled to the prince what he had said to the metro- 
 politan. The blood rushed rapidly through his veins, and 
 half raising himself in bed, he said, angrily, " What nonsense 
 is this ? So you have been playing tricks with me. Begone, 
 or I shall kill you." He felt by his side for his weapons, and 
 not finding any, he pulled off his cowl and threw it at one of 
 the monks. Hearing his loud and angry voice. Lady Eus- 
 canda entered with her son. She was followed by the metro- 
 politan, the bojars, and the servants; Stroici and Spancioc 
 were still listening at the other door. 
 
 " So you have made a monk of me;" cried Alexander, with 
 a hoarse and frightened voice ; "but you shall not escape me. 
 God knows my revenge shall be a bloody one." 
 
 " Do not blaspheme, miserable man," broke in the metro- 
 politan. " Eemember that you are on your death-bed, and 
 have pity on this innocent woman and on this child, in whom 
 are centred the hopes of Moldavia." 
 
 " Beware, false priest," said the sick man, trying in vain to 
 
414 ALEXANDER LAPUSHNA. 
 
 leave his bed, " hold your tongue. I made you a metropoli- 
 tan, and I will unmake you. I am not a priest. I am still 
 the ruler of this country. I am still Prince Alexander. HoUoo ! 
 my brave guards, kill them all, and do not let one escape. 
 Ah ! I burn ! — water ! water !" and he fell backwards, roaring 
 with rage. 
 
 Lady Buscanda and the metropolitan went out. Stroioi 
 and Spancioc met them at the door. " Lady," said Spancioo, 
 seizing her hand, " that man must die ; here is a powder, put 
 it in his drink." 
 
 " Is it poison ?" said she, growing very red. 
 
 " It is poison," replied Spancioc ; " but if Alexander lives, 
 he will kill your son, who has been put in his place." 
 
 " Oh ! I cannot lose my boy !" said Ruscanda, straining the 
 child passionately to her breast. 
 
 " What do you say, father ?" said the poor woman, turning 
 her weeping eyes to the metropolitan. 
 
 " May the Lord God preserve you, my daughter, from this 
 cruel and wicked man," said the metropolitan. " I am going 
 to prepare for the departure of our new master. I leave you 
 with the old one," and he departed. 
 
 At that moment a servant brought a silver goblet full of 
 water. Ruscanda took it. Spancioc approached her, dropped 
 the poison into the goblet, and pushed her into the prince's 
 room. 
 
 " What is she doing ?" asked Spancioc of Stroici, who was 
 looking through a crack in the door. 
 
 " The lady trembles, — he asks for drink, — she hands him the 
 goblet, — he drinks !" 
 
 Ruscanda came out trembling and looking as pale as a 
 ghost. " You are answerable before God," said she, " for the 
 sin you have made me commit." 
 
 The metropolitan returned and said to the lady, " Who is 
 going to nurse this miserable man ?" 
 
 " We two," replied Spancioc and Stroici, and they went into 
 the sick room. 
 
 Alexander was lying on his back, quiet, but very feeble. 
 When the bojars entered he looked at them long and said, 
 " Who are you, and what do you want?" 
 
 " I am Spancioc." 
 
 « And I am Stroici." 
 
ALEXANDER LAPVSBNA. 415 
 
 " Oh ! my enemies," groaned Alexander. 
 
 " Yes. I am Spancioc, who escaped your bloody claws. I 
 am Spancioc, whom you robbed of everything, forcing his wife 
 and children to beg their bread from door to door." 
 
 " I feel as if I were burning up," said the prince, laying 
 his hand on his stomach. 
 
 " Yes, and you will burn to death. You have taken 
 poison." 
 
 " Oh ! you impious fellow ! You have poisoned me. Oh ! 
 Lord, have mercy upon my soul. Where is your mistress ? 
 Where is my son ?" 
 
 " They have gone away and left you with us." 
 
 " They have gone and left me, and left me with you! Oh ! 
 you have a better heart," said Alexander to Stroici. " Take 
 your sword and deliver me from this torture." 
 
 " I will not soil my noble sword with the blood of a tyrant." 
 
 The pains increased, and the poisoned man was writhing in 
 fearful convulsions. " Oh ! give me water," said he, " I am 
 burning up." 
 
 "Here," said Spancioc, offering him the silver goblet in 
 which were the dregs of the poison ; " drink and refresh 
 yourself." 
 
 " I will not drink," said the sick man, setting his teeth. 
 
 Stroici seized him and held him firmly while Spancioc sepa- 
 rated his teeth with a knife, and, opening his mouth, poured 
 down his throat all that was left in the goblet. Alexander 
 bellowed like a bull which had been wounded with the axe, 
 but not killed, and turned his face to the wall. 
 
 " You do not wish to see us," said the bojars, " but you 
 shall ; that is part of your punishment ;" and seizing him they 
 turned his face round, forcing him to look at them. 
 
 The unfortunate prince had dreadful spasms, foam stood on 
 his lips, and his bloodshot eyes were filled with horror and 
 fixed on his executioners until he gave up the ghost. Such 
 was the sad end of Prince Alexander Lapushna, who 'has left 
 a bloody page in the history of Moldavia. The portraits of 
 himself and family are still to be seen in the Slatina mon- 
 astery. 
 
 THE END.