FAMOUS STORIES
FROM FOREIGN COUNTRIES
_Other Books by Edna Worthley Underwood_
_SONGS FROM THE PLAINS_
_SONGS OF HAFIZ_
_Translated from the Persian_
FAMOUS STORIES FROM
FOREIGN COUNTRIES
TRANSLATED BY
EDNA WORTHLEY UNDERWOOD
[Illustration]
BOSTON
THE FOUR SEAS COMPANY
1921
_Copyright, 1921, by_
THE FOUR SEAS COMPANY
THE FOUR SEAS PRESS
BOSTON, MASS., U. S. A.
CONTENTS
Page
THE LITTLE BLANCHEFLEURE 9
By Rudolf Hans Bartsch
THE EXCHANGE 31
By Svatopluk Čech
CHAI 41
By Awetis Aharonean
IN PRISON 53
By Awetis Aharonean
THE ELOPEMENT 65
By Alexander Petőfi
SAIDJAH 73
By Multatuli
ABISAG 83
By Jaroslav Vrchlický
THE KING’S CLOTHES 99
By Koloman Mikszáth
WHEN THE BRIGHT NIGHTS WERE 113
By Petri Rosegger
THE POINT OF VIEW 121
By Alexander L. Kielland
MY TRAVELING COMPANION 135
By Pietari Päivärinta
DEDICATED
WITH ESTEEM AND GRATITUDE TO
PROFESSOR CALVIN THOMAS
SCHOLAR AND LINGUIST
THE LITTLE BLANCHEFLEURE
By RUDOLF HANS BARTSCH
BARTSCH
Rudolf Hans Bartsch is the Austrian writer who won the attention of
world critics so quickly by the three books--_Vom sterbenden Rokoko_,
_Elizabeth Kött_, and _Zwölf aus der Steiermark_.
In Vellhagen and Klasing’s Monthly, Dr. Carl Busse says of him:
“Because he is such a creator--by the grace of God--while all that
he writes is so genuine that it seems to have come from some divine
source, we love this Austrian writer. No story teller of to-day
surpasses him in depth of contents, and charm and grace of surface. Few
possess such natural gifts.”
The story we give is from _Vom sterbenden Rokoko_, a book in which he
paints powerful and delightful pictures of the 18th Century.
THE LITTLE BLANCHEFLEURE
My friend Fra̋neli Thaller from Solathurn, was telling me about an old
picture.
From the second hand dealer, Hirschli, by the Hafnersteg, I bought a
picture of the little Marquise Blanchefleure, who, with a great part of
the French nobility--in that year of bad taste, 1792--lost her charming
head. Here in the picture she has her head; and that head has a high
coiffure, and astonishingly arched eyebrows--just as if they had been
drawn by the brush of Watteau--and a merry looking little face. She is
charming, and she fills my heart with longing.
You do not know anything about the little Marquise Blanchefleure, do
you, who was always right? You do not know anything, of course, do you,
of the ridiculous passion of my great grandfather, the Swiss, Thaller,
whose portrait in enamel hangs just below hers, nor of the foolish
actions of the Jacobins, those people devoid of all taste and charm?
No?
Well, the little Marquise Blanchefleure was always right. She was right
to come into this world as a duchess. Remote blood of Savoy--although
somewhat far down in the list of rank of Versailles--but still she
was a little duchess, who one day would blossom out into the merriest
Marquise in the Court of the King. She was right that she was better
than all other creatures in her father’s castles, villages and estates;
better than the music and dance teacher, the overseer, peasant, maid,
ass, ox, serf, and all else that was there. She lived laughing and
merry, and the world bent before her beauty and splendor. Just as the
wind sweeps over grain fields, making them bow and bend, so crowds
of people bent before her; _compliments en mille_. She was right to
marry Marquis Massimel de la Réole de Courtroy, over whose stupidity
the court laughed so that he became indispensable to the king, and was
always present at his _lever_ to ensure good humor for the day. She
had lovers in plenty, men rich enough to gratify all the caprices of a
Blanchefleure.
Her laughing habit of command is illustrated by the following incident.
Every one knows that in the French army it was forbidden--under penalty
of death--to sing the _kuhreihen_. The reason was because the awkward
German children of the Alps--when they heard it sung or played--would
either run away like a herd of cattle, or die of homesickness.
_Zu Strasburg auf der Schanz,
Da ging mein Trau’ren an....
Das Alphorn hört ich drüben wohl austimmen,
Ins Vaterland muszt ich hinüber schwimmen,--
Das ging nicht an._
And my great, great, grandfather, Primus Thaller, sang the _kuhreihen_
in the midst of the streets of Paris! He stood in the courtyard of the
Swiss barracks, where the sand is yellow and glowed in the light of the
setting sun, and where the soldiers were getting ready to go into the
city. This was the way it happened. He had just received a letter from
America, from his brother Quintus, who was six years younger, and had
been a drummer boy in the regiment of the Prince of Orleans. It was the
typical letter of an eighteen year old boy who wrote enthusiastically
of Lafayette, Washington, Freedom, and the rights of the individual.
Young Quintus said that the Regiment of the Lilies would return to
France; over their heads were invisible, prophetic tongues of fire,
which, in France, would burst out into a great conflagration, great
words; Freedom! Equality! Fraternity!
Great words? Freedom, equality? Then my poor, lonesome great
grandfather thought how all this had existed in his own home country
for hundreds of years--in Appenzell, from which village he had come
with the hope of winning fame and gold. And he thought how they were
bringing these ideas from America, across the sea, to proclaim them
new and world astonishing, while in his own little home village, they
flourished quietly. The great laws of the human race are cause neither
for a great intoxication nor a great jubilation. They represent merely
a careful estimating; for the great mass of humanity they are meat,
bread, shelter, hearth, a little sunshine, and green grass, or hard
labor, that the beast of destruction may sleep in safety.
In his home in Appenzell, they already had that which they whispered so
carefully in Paris. He thought of his circumspect uncles, their cows
and calves, their fields and Alps. It is surely the Paradise of the
human race, my dear Switzerland, thought the sergeant--and--thus deep
in thought, without knowing what he was doing, he sang the _kuhreihen_.
There it was and done for.
The news from America had put more rage into people’s hearts than my
honest great, great grandfather Primus could estimate.
For a long time discipline in the army had been neglected. There were
men of his own country in the regiment, and a dozen joined softly the
refrain of my great grandfather’s song, so that the _kuhreihen_ rang
far and loud. No one had sung it before for decades, and therefore no
one had been punished. But now it sounded quite differently than in
the olden days. Not a song of exile and homesickness! No; now it was a
song of defiance. They reveled, and shouted the song. But although my
grandfather stole away when he saw they were destroying the spirit of
his song, and although only a couple of Appenzell cow-herds ran away
and deserted, he was the one who had started it. They arrested him.
According to law, he must be punished with death. The death penalty was
about the only thing that bound the subjects to their king in those
days. I do not know of course whether it is the same way in other
countries to-day.
It was the King’s duty to revive the punishment of the old law. At his
_lever_ he thought earnestly over the fate of my great grandfather,
Primus. When the Marquis Massimel de la Réole de Courtroy approached
him laughing merrily he said: “What shall we do with this fellow,
Primus? He has brought into fashion an old piece of stupidity.”
The Marquis did not really know about the subject of conversation,
so he said impulsively: “Sire, if it is a question of fashion, why
not turn it over to my wife to decide?” The entire court laughed,
and His Majesty, who was an agreeable person, laughed too. He had
procured delay--which was pleasing to him--so the fate of my great,
great grandfather rested in the charming hands of the little Marquise
Blanchefleure, who at that moment was tying the ribbons of the morning
cap of Marie Antoinette. The _lever_ of this enchanting, frivolous
Queen began an hour later, but the Marquis, as husband of his wife,
and messenger of the king, was already there. In the meantime he had
informed himself about the case of Primus Thaller, and explained it to
the Queen and the Marquise. Madame Blanchefleure clapped delightedly
her little hands. A Swiss! How charming! I beg the handsome King of
France to give him to me, to build a Swiss dairy for me in La Réole,
and an Alp, and get me some dappled cows.
The Queen laughed and agreed.
“He must get some real cow-bells, a grey coat with a red waistcoat,
a shepherd’s hat, and blue ribbons the color of the sky. In June our
Imperial Majesty will visit La Réole, and then, on top of the charming
Alp which he has built, we will make him sing the _kuhreihen_, so all
can hear it. Is not that true, beautiful Queen?”
The merry, frivolous Queen laughed and agreed, and the King pardoned
my great, great grandfather, who had been the cause of such a joyful
occurrence. Then Herr Primus had an audience with Madame Blanchefleure,
in order to thank her for his life.
He had proved that he was useless as a soldier. He appeared before
her in the little round hat, and the peasant clothes of Appenzell.
Because of her curiosity and excitement over the situation, Madame
Blanchefleure had cold hands and flaming cheeks. When the pitiful,
awkward, grey figure of the poor cow-herd was ushered in, her breath
stopped. She had pictured to herself a powerful revolutionist and
popular agitator, whose words were flame, and here came a little
commonplace law-book of citizens’ rights; good, honest, quiet, a
regular--“You give me that and I’ll give you this.”
Can you make a guess as to what Madame Blanchefleure did? When he
entered and said to her with great sincerity: “It was good of Your
Grace to turn your attention to a poor fellow like me,” she looked
at his face, because his clothes and his personal appearance were so
unimportant. He had our grey, keen eyes, an honest, narrow face; high
temples, thin nose; only youth gave a sort of gentleness to this
unpleasant Cato-face. He was so unshakable and self-centered, that ten
measures of wine could not change him, nor falling in love, nor the
political upheavals of a period of revolution. He stood in front of her
as the very symbol of reliability, with his two little legs spread wide
apart--an old habit of the Swiss--inherited through generations. But
she observed this commonplace little face and thought:
“I’ll bring him to the point where he shall say of me: _elle me fait
troubler_.” This was the standpoint from which she regarded men.
“But listen to me,” she began amazed, “you! You have sung? But you do
not look in the least like it.”
“I can not sing. I just came to thank you.”
“Then how could you sing your _ranz de vaches_?”
“Oh--it just came--from the inside of me.”
“Were you homesick?”
“No; I only just thought that Appenzell was better than Paris.”
“Good heavens! And you want to go away from here? What have we done to
you? You are slighting us. We, we love you Swiss. You are the honest
little mirror in which we see ourselves just as we are. O please say
something rude to me!”
“I can’t! I don’t know you well enough.”
“O--then you don’t know Paris very well. How is it possible that no one
has fallen in love with you here? In Paris--everyone is loved by some
one. Even soldiers have sweethearts... How can it be that our pretty
children and women have not said a good word to you about Paris? You
have a sweetheart, of course? Or you have several? Perhaps you have too
many?”
But my good great grandfather had no sweetheart in Paris, although he
was a sergeant. He always wanted one with a blond, sunny face, and that
kind he could not find here. The eyes of Parisian women are twinkling
stars shining over secret street corners; they always lure one around a
corner. My great, great grandfather always walked straight ahead.
That he said to her, but of course in the better language which my
honorable great grandfather spoke.
“Good Heaven!” declared Blanchefleure, “how could one make up to you?
Perhaps I should try if I were not married.”
Poor Primus lifted his astonished grey eyes and looked at her, in
order the better to penetrate the meaning behind the silk and ostrich
feathers, glittering clothes, and gilded furniture. He looked deep
and earnestly into the charming, tender little face, so expressive of
unmixed joy, in the gay, opera setting from which it looked out.
He began to feel sad because she was married. She really resembled a
sunbeam.
“Can’t you say anything at all?” begged Blanchefleure.
“_Krüzigts Herrgöttli!_” stammered poor Primus.
“You say you might have tried it with me?”
“What?” she questioned delighted.
Then he spoke French again. “You ought not to play any jokes on a poor
fellow like me.”
“No, of course not,” she laughed. “I was only going to say that it’s a
misfortune for us both. Just think! I haven’t any real sweetheart now,
and I’m just as deserted as you are.”
“But haven’t you the merry Marquis?”
“Why I’m married to him!” she almost sobbed, so convinced was she
of her own misfortune. “Can you understand at all--you who are from
Switzerland where every one chooses as he wishes, what it means to be
born a Princess and to be sold according to appraisement?”
“_Ei, ja_,” nodded Primus. “With us in Appenzell, no peasant who owned
fifty cows would give his girl to a peasant who didn’t own so many.
That is good for the family.”
“How is it?”
“Keeps them from becoming poor.”
“Are you very poor?”
“If I hadn’t been I wouldn’t have become a soldier.”
At this moment the little Marquise asked Herr Primus, if he would
like to set up a dairy for her in La Réole--like those in his home,
in Appenzell. My great grandfather twirled his round hat in his hand
and fought the sternest battle of his life. His honest Swiss mind was
interested in just one thing, how much gold he could get. Twice he
began, looked up in the gay, sunshine face, and for the life of him,
could not get the question out of his mouth. So he said yes without any
conditions. He had even forgotten his Swiss reckoning in this charming
interview. It would have been all over with him in Paris the first of
May in the year 1789.
* * * * *
It was lucky for him that he never saw La Réole. Then a quiet tragedy
would have passed over him and no one been the wiser except Madame
Blanchefleure, who would have found it all very amusing. The terrible,
prodigious Revolution prevented Madame from putting her charming plan
into execution.
That great Lord, Marquis Massimel de la Réole de Courtroy, enjoyed the
distinguished honor of having his head cut off, immediately after the
amiable King, which occurrence--no matter what scorners may say--cost
him his life. This act was one of the proofs of the equality of all
men, because the Revolution said so. Madame Blanchefleure in spite of
the sweetest of tears, together with hundreds of the friends who had
idled with her in those golden gardens of Versailles, was imprisoned
in the dungeon of the Temple, along with the flower of the nobility
of witty, elegant France. Professors, academicians, fashionable
painters, enchanting poets. In fact the choicest spirits of France
were here. A company composed entirely of men of noble birth, of
men of distinguished career, whose important heredity made them
dangerous--(The Revolution had a sharp eye for just such people). An
assembly such as only could be found in France--grace, wit, charm,
superior habits of living.
It was a glorious thing, the way they amused themselves here, and the
way they went to death. Madame Blanchefleure was as much at home
with these distinguished spirits, as a butterfly which one shelters
in a hot house from the cold of winter. The death sentence transforms
commonplace people into sad figures of tragedy. But these people--the
most finely constructed the world has ever seen--played it through
like a comedy. They met death defiant and brave, with head erect--_en
rococo_--just as they had lived.
And now about my great grandfather, Primus Thaller! Since that first
of May he had not been able to forget little Blanchefleure, with the
flower face. He thought at first that it was just gratitude on his
part, and carried her picture about as a monk would the likeness of
the Virgin. The great Revolution swept away, along with impertinent,
merry Versailles, and the old nobility, every vestige of the plan for
the dairy at La Réole. But the little Marquise remembered about honest
Primus Thaller who nearly lost his life because of the ancient decree.
He became an officer, a captain upon the spot. He was assigned to a
regiment, all whose distinguished leaders had been killed, and in their
places saloon keepers, errand boys, and street urchins had been put;
in fact all the distinguished do-nothings who had been elevated by the
Revolution. He did not feel very comfortable, but he took the money and
that pleased him. But he kept thinking all the time: “I wonder what has
become of little Blanchefleure?”
Then he heard that the Marquis had been beheaded, and that the little
widow was in the dungeon of the Temple awaiting, perhaps, a similar
end. Ah!--at that thought the winds of freedom began to riot in his
heart! Now he knew that he was in love with her. Now she was a widow!
Now she was poorer than a cow-girl of Appenzell; now he could marry her.
This logic surprised him as much as a mole hill in a meadow where the
bees hum. His brother, who had once belonged to the regiment of the
Prince of Orleans, did duty as watchman in the Temple.
“_Du Quinteli!_ is there with you imprisoned a young woman who wears a
flowered silk, and three ostrich feathers in her hair?”
“No,” replied Lieutenant Quintus, who had once been drummer boy. “I
haven’t seen any one like that! But perhaps she has taken off the
flowered silk. What’s her name?”
Primus told her name and Quintus began to ponder.
“I know her very well--a tidy little woman who said to me one day: “The
Americans do not understand anything of our fine life,” and as I was
about to tickle her under the chin, thinking I knew something about it,
she said: “A man has eyes and a dog has a nose, and that I was not as
good as a dog. From America nothing good can come.””
Just then a noble gentleman, Vicque d’Azur was brought into the Temple.
He had let the soldiers drag him along just any way, but now he heard
the two brothers talking and declared:
“That is true--and it goes still deeper. One can despise this French
Revolution, but one can not help but be afraid of that cold, American,
little-shop-keeper way of thinking. A mind capable of forecasting
facts might indeed make this prophecy: The cultivation of Europe will
perish one day because of this shop-keeper thinking of the United
States. Because of this unfortunate apeing, we shall become just one
of America’s intellectual colonies; not much better than Greece since
Mummius destroyed inelegant Rome. Our artists will become like those
old ones--able only to wave broken wings of longing. The Americans will
then visit with a holy abhorrence the ruins of our life, which was much
too fine for them. Europe was original for the last time in May 1789.”
When he had finished speaking the soldiers shoved him forward.
“Friends,” he said gently,--“I do not need any suggestions from
hostlers,” and disappeared within the dungeon of the Temple.
“What does the fool mean?” queried Quintus.
Primus thought about it, but he couldn’t make it clear. Then he asked
permission to speak to the little citizeness widow, Massimel.
“Go down into the cellar and find her,” laughed Quintus. “I don’t dare
let her come out.”
When he reached the cellar he was amazed, because what he saw surpassed
the power of the imagination. Soft, secretive sounds of violin, flute,
and bass-viol flattered the ear, and slipped along the wet walls, like
a little kitten on a silk dress. They were playing upon instruments
that had been smuggled in. M. Miradoux, first violinist of the Royal
Opera, had the violin; the flute, Vicomte Chantigny, whose breath could
perform just such wonders as the breath of the west wind. With the
tenor-viol the Strasburg canon, Avenarius, had grown humpbacked, and
the contra bass was played by the celebrated Abbé Mervioli of Florence.
A silver bribe--even under the Revolution--could bring golden music
into the dungeons of the Temple.
The delicate serenade of Mozart!
It worked wonders here in the twilight dark--Palaces towered in
their former royal splendor, and graciously listened to the amiable
inspirations of the Salzburg Music-Lord. The old days came back,
charmed into life, in defiance of the _Marseillaise_ and _Carmagnole_.
Around the dungeon walls sat noble lords in silk hose, and ladies in
thread lace, elegant and aristocratic, in the midst of misery--these
captives sacrificed to the fury of the mob. Knee crossed over knee, the
great lords sat, and the ladies, graceful heads resting upon slender
hands--nothing here but illustrious nobles. And over them floated the
fragile melodies of Wolfgang Amadés, graceful and enchanting, like
clouds of incense.
Near the end of the Alegro there comes a passage lovelier than
all the rest of that lovely melody, as if suddenly the player had
remembered a soft, little hand that stroked his cheek. When this
passage came, Herr Primus heard behind him a whispered “_Ah!_” He
whirled about--Blanchefleure. She held up one little hand as a signal
that he should make no noise. Soon the music was over, and while the
lords and ladies stopped to congratulate the players, Captain Thaller
made his honorable proposal for the hand of the poor, pale, charming,
little Blanchefleure. She listened to him with astonishingly arched and
surprised brows, as he began, “Now you are a widow and just as poor as
any cow-girl of Appenzell--thank God.”
“_Oh!_” she exclaimed doubtfully--“_Ah?_”
“Now we soldiers are the whole thing. The Revolution thought it
annihilated the officer--and it made him the Lord God. I’ll take you
out of this hole--Quintus will find a way to do it.”
“Wait,” said Blanchefleure--“there comes the minuet again.”
In fact the musicians began to play again that enchanting melody of the
old days, dancing to which one said more with eyes and finger tips than
the plebian waltz knows. And the frivolous crowd took their places for
the dance.
“Perhaps it is the last minuet,” said apologetically Blanchefleure,
with her graceful laugh. “I should never cease regretting not having
danced it--with you, M. Captain.”
The poor young man looked down at her confused, as she took him by the
hand.
“Don’t be afraid. We have now equality and fraternity. What--don’t you
believe in them?”
The sweet, melancholy, coquettish dance of Frivolity which was about
to die, began. It was the minuet from _Don Giovanni_, and they played
it just before the stroke of fate--impertinent, frivolous and graceful
as the music. As they approached. Primus Thaller continued with his
honorable wooing. “I love you as no other and you must be my wife.”
The teasing, backward movement of this dance of coquetry carried
Blanchefleure away from him. Her eyes laughed, but she said: “What
foolish things you think of. You haven’t any taste, my Friend.”
Again the gentle rhythm of the dance brought them together; their hands
met. “You might have been my lover, down there, in the country--in La
Réole, where the cow-bells preach of nature. I always had my season of
return to nature.”
And she bent back and stepped away from him with coquettish grace,
while the heart of poor Primus raged with flames, as if the great,
destructive Revolution were confined within his own body. Again she
danced back. “But to become Madame Thaller--my dear, good, honest
Friend from Appenzell! What _are_ you thinking of? One could, of
course, kiss you--just for fun! Ah!--it is too bad we could not have
played our comedy in La Réole. A stupid shame! Now we must renounce the
kiss! unless you are willing to put up with kissing my hand?”
They had reached the place in the minuet, where--upon the
stage--Zerlina destroys the sweet frivolity. And, although the gallant
gentlemen, Miradoux, Vicomte Chantigny, Avenarius and Abbé Merivoli
changed the music for a brief uninterrupted return to a merry _da
capo_, Fate ordered the original setting. The door was thrown open and
a harsh saloon keeper’s voice tore in shreds the flowery chains that
bound their dream.
“You--there--citizens and citizenesses! Peace--in the name of the
Republic!”
The dancers knew what this interruption meant. It was the daily reading
of the names of those summoned to court--to hear their sentence read.
Out of the Temple the road lay along a dark street, with only one
little window of exit--into eternity--_the guillotine_. This time the
name of the little citizeness Massimel was read.
“Here!” she called; but her face grew white.
“Are you thinking of my offer of marriage?” asked Primus Thaller
stepping up behind her. The poor, pale Blanchefleure looked at him with
terrified eyes, above which arched her amazing eyebrows.
“Ah!--God, my Friend!” she replied pensively. “You republicans can not
even let us enjoy the dance. Over there in the corner sits my little
maid, who insisted upon being imprisoned with me. Zénobe! Dance on
with this young fellow! Please excuse me on account of this ridiculous
interruption--and take her in my stead. She is a charming child. Adieu,
my Friend!”
And M. Miradoux, the incorrigible of the _ancien regime_, began that
enchanting melody of Mozart, softly, softly--laughing gently, the
couples took their places as before. But little Zénobe did not dare to
join them. She wept for terror, and my great grandfather did not care
to dance with the little maid. He turned his back coldly on them all.
That was the memorable minuet which Captain Primus Thaller danced
with the distinguished nobility of France. It was the last minuet of
the rococo period, and its grace and sweetness was interrupted by
the summons of the tribunal of the Jacobins. Captain Primus, with a
heavy heart, climbed the stairs back to the daylight, and little
Blanchefleure left the dungeon to appear before the tribunal.
The trial room was like a wine shop. Four or five rough men crouched
about, dirty and evil of mind like savage peasant dogs.
“Citizeness Blanchefleure Massimel? Widow?” snarled one of them.
“If that is the way you wish--”
“Formerly of the court of citizeness Antoinette Capet?”
“Of whom are you speaking? _The Queen, you should say!_”
“Ah!--should we? Write that down, Citizen Pouprac. She said Queen.”
“I think that is sufficient,” growled Pouprac. Then he looked up
wickedly.
“Why do you laugh, Citizeness? You are insulting the court! Why do you
laugh?”
“Good Heavens--how you look!” chattered poor, little Blanchefleure, her
face turning deep red.
“When one wears such trousers--as you!” she covered her little face
with her hands and laughed and laughed and laughed.
Pouprac glanced at his trousers which were made of red, white and blue
cotton. They testified to his republican leanings.
He jumped up in a rage, and stood on his short, wide-spread tiger legs.
“You are condemned to death, Citizeness Massimel,” he roared. “You are
condemned because you have insulted the flag of France!”
The little Marquise took her hands down from her face and looked at
him. She sniffed with her little nose, and arched her brows.
“_You_--_you_ would judge me! Go wash yourself--and put on hose--before
you can be of any service whatever to me!”
And she went away. They say she laughed upon the scaffold.
* * * * *
My great grandfather heard that she was not willing to have her hair
cut off.
“Is that really necessary?” she asked. “The heads-man can use my hair
as a handle to hold my head up to show it to the crowd--as is the
custom.”
When the _Sans-culotte_, in his huge apron, stood before her, she
shrugged the sweetest little shoulders and declared: “I don’t care!
I knew, of course, when you came to cut my head off, that you had no
aesthetic sense. And I have always been right.”
After these last inspired words, she died, the poor, little, trembling
woman. She died, and all they who would have wept for her were dead,
too, or preparing to die.
So no one knew what became of beautiful Blanchefleure, who had always
been right. And my poor, great grandfather he had never understood her.
Only I--only I! I understand her, I who bought her picture from the
second-hand dealer--as a sort of revenge upon them of a later day who
did not care to be a great, great grandmother.
Lucky for her that she was not! She remained, instead, young--always
young--and an object of love.
And I can love her as the honorable Primus Thaller loved her--only
better; with more intelligence, with more aesthetic joy.
She was always right, and I long for her to-day.
THE EXCHANGE
By SVATOPLUK ČECH
ČECH
Svatopluk Čech was born in 1846 and ranks as one of the most important
figures of the literature of Bohemia, both in prose and verse.
Among his popular ballads and story telling poems are--_The Lark_, _The
Smith of Lešetin_, _In Shadow of the Linden_, _The Goblet of Youth_.
In prose he has written many stories and sketches distinguished by that
gay and fantastic humor which strikes us as peculiarly the property of
certain south-central races of Europe, such as the Poles, Bohemians,
and Hungarians. These stories by Čech frequently show the light touch
and splendid surface that is characteristic of French prose, with the
addition of a brilliant irony that drives home successfully the point
he wishes to make. Several volumes of stories of merit stand to the
credit of Čech.
THE EXCHANGE
CHAPTER I.
Here is the pocket book of the hero of this story, Mr. Alfred N--. I
ask you to take it and look into it. You see several compartments, and
in them,--_nothing_. We turn the pocket book upside down and shake it.
What falls out? Nothing.
Twilight clings to the corners of the room. The clothes closet yawns
toward us--empty. The bed dreams in vain of luxurious pillows. The
book cases are empty. Poverty grins from every corner. The cold pipe
falls from the hands of the occupant of the room. The bitter smile
disappears; the eyelids close,--the golden dreams have vanished.
Some one knocked softly. Alfred jumped up. Should he open the door?
It was probably a mistake. None of his acquaintances would come to
see him now because they knew he had nothing which they could borrow.
Cautiously he opened the door, being mindful of his worn trousers, and
the pitiful fragment of a coat that hung from his shoulders.
A diminutive man stepped into the room. His neglected appearance fitted
exactly the words he said:
“Old clothes--dear Sir! Aron pays--pays _fine_!”
The bitter smile reappeared on the face of Alfred.
“I have nothing!” he replied to the Jew.
But the Jew did not permit himself to be dismissed so easily.
He pushed his way into the room, and peered inquisitively about.
“Perhaps you’ll find something. Old shoes--books. Aron buys everything,
everything, everything!”
“Look for yourself,” commanded Alfred, bitterly. “Here is the clothes
closet; here are the book cases, here--”
“As God is good, not a thing!” declared the Jew, amazed. “It’s as if it
has just been swept out! Too bad--Young Man! Too bad! Aron pays--pays
_fine_!” At these words he drew from his dirty caftan a leathern
purse and began to shake it. The bright sound of gold rang out; the
alluring voice of the metal, more alluring than the voice of a siren.
Alfred trembled at the sound. His eyes looked greedily upon the dirty
purse. Over the face of the Jew flashed lightning swift a look of
satisfaction. Patting lovingly the fat purse he continued:
“Aron pays--pays _fine_! Aron buys everything, everything, everything!”
“But can’t you see that I haven’t a thing to sell?” demanded Alfred
angrily.
“Certainly the gentleman has _something_--for which Aron will pay many,
many pieces of gold--”
“Stop this humbug, Jew! If you don’t, I’ll throw you down stairs and
straight into Abraham’s bosom!”
“Aron knows what he says,” replied the Jew, in a wheedling, submissive
voice. “The gentleman has a precious jewel for which Aron will pay
whatever the gentleman may ask.”
He plunged his bent fingers into the deep purse. Alfred followed the
gesture with sparkling eyes and replied:
“Speak out! What is it that I can sell to you? What is it that I have
that I know nothing about?”
The Jew came nearer and whispered: “_Character._”
Alfred surveyed him with surprised eyes. “Character? Are you a fool?”
The Jew stepped back, straightened up and spoke boastingly.
“The gentleman is surprised? Well--Aron buys everything; worn out
clothes, the virtue of women, old umbrellas, honor, trash, and the
divine fire of genius, rabbits’ skins--Aron buys the entire world. Why
should he not buy character? Character is a rare thing nowadays--and
valuable. There are plenty of people without character--”
Alfred regarded the speaker with terror. Through the window the last
light of the setting sun penetrated and gave the Jew a sort of ghostly,
inhuman appearance. The purse in his hand became red hot like a coal.
The unkempt hair and beard were changed into threads of gold. Gold
gleamed from every fold of his caftan. It gleamed from his features,
and it was as if two golden ducats shone from his eyes. The Demon of
Gold stood before him, bent of neck, with greedy claw-like fingers,
that were ready to fall upon any prey and crush the life-blood out.
He covered his face with his two hands. When he looked up again the sun
had set, and the Jew had resumed his ordinary appearance. The nimbus of
gold had vanished. “Well, my dear Sir, will you sell your character?
Aron pays--pays _fine_. There is a great sale for character just
now--and not much to meet the demand. Will you sell? Aron will pay you
a prodigious sum.”
The Jew took a ducat from the purse and held it up between his fingers.
Alfred looked longingly toward the shining circle, then he turned his
head away and replied firmly: “No,--I will not sell!”
The Jew shook his head.
“No? By heaven,--a fine character! I’ll give twice as much for it.
Three times--a noble character! No? I’ll make you a millionaire! You
shall dwell in palaces, drink wine of the choicest vintage, kiss the
sweetest lips--”
Alfred looked about as if some beautiful vision floated before him in
space. Then he repeated with a sigh: “I will not sell.”
“Well--just as the gentleman pleases. Keep your character together with
your misery. Aron will keep his gold. I bid you good day.” He threw the
ducats back into the purse, placed it in his caftan, and turned to go
away. In the door he paused and looked back.
“Aron has a good heart. He does not like to leave a man like you in
such misery. Do you know something? I’ll lend you the gold, and you
pledge me your character. How does this offer please the gentleman?”
Alfred meditated. He looked about the room; the closet was empty. The
bed had no pillows. The book cases were empty--everywhere poverty.
He made a despondent gesture. “Well, take it!--I pledge it.” Then he
paused. How could a person pawn his character? That was the dream of a
foolish brain.
“I know what worries the gentleman. And Aron knows help for it, too.”
He took from his pocket some little pill boxes, opened and closed them.
“Look--here is your character,” he replied scornfully, tapping upon the
cover of a box. Alfred looked at the little box. In the dim light he
read the superscription: “Noble characters!”
“Look---see how I classify character--all according to merit.”
“Here you have old fashioned Bohemian characters. They belong to old
people--with long beards. Here are light characters--comparatively
cheap--but not durable. I have to guard them constantly against
changing winds. Sometimes politicians buy these characters for
presents. In this box are found stern, upright characters. They are
often found at army headquarters. But what do you care about them?
You’d rather see the money counted out.” He took out another purse and
piled shining ducats one upon another. Suddenly he paused. “In five
years, at this same hour, Aron will come again, no matter where you may
be. Then if you do not pay me back the sum with interest, the character
belongs to me.”
Alfred nodded. The ghostly Jew grabbed deeper and deeper within the
purse. With fabulous swiftness gold coins were piled up to the ceiling
like great columns of marble. The purse evidently was inexhaustible.
The more gold he took out, the more gold there was in it. God give all
men a purse like this!