There was once, nearly eighty years ago, a little boy who went out into
the market-place to spin his top. The little boy’s name was Reuben. He
was not more than three years old, but he swung his little whip as
bravely as anybody and made the top spin so that it was a pleasure to
see it.
On that day, eighty years ago, it was beautiful spring weather. It was
in the month of March, and the town was divided into two worlds; one
white and warm, where the sun shone, and one cold and dark, where it
was in shadow. The whole market-place was in the sun except a narrow
edge along one row of houses.
Now it happened that the little boy, brave as he was, grew tired of
spinning his top and looked about for some place to rest. It was not
hard to find. There were no benches or seats, but every house was
supplied with stone steps. Little Reuben could not imagine anything
better.
He was a conscientious little fellow. He had a vague feeling that his
mother did not like to have him sit on strange people’s steps. His
mother was poor, but just on that account it must never look as if they
wanted to take anything of anybody. So he went and sat on their own
stone steps, for they also lived on the market-place.
The steps lay in the shadow, and it was very cold there. The little
fellow leaned his head against the railing, drew up his legs and made
himself comfortable. For a little while he watched the sunlight dance
out in the market-place and the boys running and spinning tops—then he
shut his eyes and went to sleep.
He must have slept an hour. When he awoke he did not feel so well as
when he fell asleep; everything felt so dreadfully uncomfortable. He
went in to his mother crying, and his mother saw that he was ill and
put him to bed. And in a couple of days the boy was dead.
But that is not the end of his story. It happened that his mother
mourned for him from the depths of her heart with a sorrow which defies
years and death. His mother had several other children, many cares
occupied her time and thoughts, but there was always a corner in her
heart where her son Reuben dwelt undisturbed. He was ever alive to her.
When she saw a group of children playing in the market-place, he too
was running there, and when she went about her house, she believed
fully and firmly that the little boy was still sitting and sleeping out
on those dangerous stone steps. Certainly none of her living children
were so constantly in her thoughts as her dead one.
Some years after his death little Reuben had a sister, and when she
grew to be old enough to run out on the market-place and spin tops, it
happened that she too sat down on the stone steps to rest. But her
mother felt instantly as if some one had pulled her skirt. She came out
and seized the little sister so roughly, when she lifted her up, that
she remembered it as long as she lived.
And as little did she forget how strange her mother’s face was and how
her voice trembled, when she said: “Do you know that you once had a
little brother, whose name was Reuben, and he died because he sat on
these stone steps and caught cold? You do not want to die and leave
your mother, Berta?”
Brother Reuben soon became just as living to his brothers and sisters
as to his mother. She was able to make them see with her eyes and they
too soon saw him sitting out on the stone steps. And it naturally never
occurred to them to sit down there. Yes, whenever they saw any one
sitting on stone steps, or on a stone railing, or on a stone by the
roadside, they felt a prick in their heart and thought of Brother
Reuben.
Besides, Brother Reuben was always placed highest of all the children
when they spoke of him among themselves. For they all knew that they
were a troublesome and fatiguing family, who only gave their mother
care and inconvenience. They could not believe that she would grieve
much at losing any of them. But as she really mourned for Brother
Reuben, it was certain that he must have been much better than they
were.
They would often think: “Oh, if we could only give mother as much joy
as Brother Reuben!” And yet no one knew anything more about him than
that he had played top and caught cold on the stone steps. But he must
have been something wonderful, as their mother had such a love for him.
He was wonderful too; he was more of a joy to his mother than any of
the children. Her husband died and she worked in care and want. But the
children had so strong a faith in their mother’s grief for the little
three-year-old boy, that they were convinced that if he had lived she
would not have mourned over her misfortunes. And every time they saw
their mother weep, they thought that it was because Brother Reuben was
dead, or because they were not like Brother Reuben. Soon enough an
ever-growing desire was born in them to rival their little dead brother
in their mother’s affection. There was nothing that they would not have
done for her, if she had only cared as much for them as for him. And it
was on account of that longing, I think, that Brother Reuben did more
good than any of the other children.
Fancy that when the eldest brother had earned his first money by rowing
a stranger over the river, he came and gave it to his mother without
reserving a penny! Then his mother looked so happy that he swelled with
pride, and could not help betraying how ambitious beyond measure he had
been.
“Mother, am I not now as good as Brother Reuben?” His mother looked at
him questioningly. She seemed as if she was comparing his fresh,
glowing face with the little pale boy out on the stone steps. And she
would have liked to have answered yes, if she had been able, but she
could not.
“I am very fond of you, Ivan, but you will never be like Reuben.”
It was beyond their powers; all the children realized it, and yet they
could not help trying.
They grew up strong and capable; they worked their way up to wealth and
consideration, while Brother Reuben only sat still on his stone steps.
But he still had a start; he could not be overtaken.
And at every success, every improvement, as they by degrees were able
to offer their mother a good home and comfort, it had to be reward
enough for them for their mother to say: “Ah, if my little Reuben could
have seen that!”
Brother Reuben followed his mother through the whole of her life, even
to her deathbed. It was he who robbed the death pangs of their sting,
since she knew that they bore her to him. In the midst of her greatest
suffering the mother could smile at the thought that she was going to
meet little Reuben.
And so died one whose faithful love had exalted and deified a poor
little three-year-old boy.
But neither was that the end of little Reuben’s story. To all the
brothers and sisters he had become a symbol of their life of endeavor,
of their love for their mother, of all the touching memories from the
years of struggle and failure. There was always something rich and warm
in their voices when they spoke of him.
So he also glided into the lives of the children of his brothers and
sisters. His mother’s love had raised him to greatness, and the great
influence generation after generation.
Sister Berta had a son, who had much to do with Uncle Reuben.
He was four years old the day he sat on the curbstone and stared down
into the gutter. It was full of rain water. Sticks and straws were
carried past in wild swirlings down to the sea. The little boy sat and
looked on with that pleasant calm that people feel in following the
adventurous existence of others, when they themselves are in safety.
But his peaceful philosophizing was interrupted by his mother, who, the
moment she saw him, thought of the stone steps at home and of her
brother.
“Oh, my dear little boy,” she said, “do not sit there! Do you know that
your mamma had a little brother whose name was Reuben, and he was four
years old just like you? He died because he sat on just such a
curbstone and caught cold.”
The little boy did not like being disturbed in his pleasant thoughts.
He sat still and philosophized, while his yellow, curly hair fell down
into his eyes.
Berta would not have done it for any one else, but for her dear
brother’s sake she shook her little boy quite roughly. And so he
learned respect for Uncle Reuben.
Another time this little yellow-haired man had fallen on the ice; he
had been thrown down out of sheer spite by a big, naughty boy, and
there he sat and cried to show how badly he had been treated,
especially as his mother could not be very far off.
But he had forgotten that his mother was first and last Uncle Reuben’s
sister. When she caught sight of Axel sitting on the ice, she did not
come with anything soothing or consoling, but only with that
everlasting:
“Do not sit so, my little boy! Think of Uncle Reuben, who died when he
was five years old, just as you are now, because he sat down in a
snowdrift.”
The boy stood up instantly when he heard her speak of Uncle Reuben, but
he felt a chill in his very heart. How could mamma talk about Uncle
Reuben when her little boy was in such distress! Axel had no objection
to his sitting and dying wherever he pleased, but now it seemed as if
he wished to take his own mamma away from him, and that Axel could not
bear. So he learned to hate Uncle Reuben.
High up on the stairway in Axel’s home was a stone railing, which was
dizzily beautiful to sit on. Far below lay the stone floor of the hall,
and he who sat astride up there could dream that he was being borne
along over abysses. Axel called the balustrade the good steed Grane. On
his back he bounded over burning ramparts into an enchanted castle.
There he sat proud and bold with his long curls waving, and fought
Saint George’s fight with the dragon. And as yet it had not occurred to
Uncle Reuben to want to ride there.
But of course he came. Just as the dragon was writhing in the agony of
death and Axel sat in lofty consciousness of victory, he heard his
nurse call: “Little Axel, do not sit there! Think of Uncle Reuben, who
died when he was eight years old, just as you are now, because he sat
and rode on a stone railing. You must never sit there again.”
Such a jealous old pudding-head, that Uncle Reuben! He could not bear
it, of course, because Axel was killing dragons and rescuing
princesses. If he did not look out, he, Axel, would show that he could
win glory too. If he should jump down to that stone floor and dash his
brains out, he would feel himself thrown into the shade, that big liar.
Poor Uncle Reuben! The poor, good little boy who went to play top out
in the sunny market-place! Now he was to learn what it was to be a
great man.
It was in the country at Uncle Ivan’s. A number of the cousins had
gathered in the beautiful garden. Axel was there, filled with his
hatred of his Uncle Reuben. He was longing to know if he was tormenting
any other besides himself, but there was something which made him
afraid to ask. It was as if he was going to commit some sacrilege.
At last the children were left to themselves. No big people were
present. Then Axel asked if they had ever heard of Uncle Reuben.
He saw how all the eyes flashed and that many small fists were
clenched, but it seemed as if the little mouths had been taught respect
for Uncle Reuben. “Hush!” said the whole crowd.
“No!” said Axel; “I want to know if there is any one else whom he
tortures, for I think he is the most troublesome of all uncles.”
That one brave word broke the dam which had held in the indignation of
those tormented child-hearts. There was a great murmuring and shouting.
So must a crowd of nihilists look when they revile an autocrat.
The poor, great man’s register of sins was unrolled. Uncle Reuben
persecuted the children of all his brothers and sisters. Uncle Reuben
died wherever he chose. Uncle Reuben was always the same age as the
child whose peace he wished to disturb.
And they had to show respect to him, although he was quite plainly a
liar. They might hate him in the most silent depths of their heart, but
overlook him or show him disrespect, no, then they were stopped.
What an air the old people put on when they spoke of him! Had he ever
really done anything so wonderful? To sit down and die was nothing so
surprising. And whatever great thing he may have done, it was certain
that he was now abusing his power. He opposed the children in
everything that they wanted to do, the old scarecrow. He drove them
from a noonday nap in the grass. He had discovered their best hiding
places in the park and forbidden them to go there. His last performance
was to ride on barebacked horses and to drive in the hay-rigging.
They were all sure that the poor thing had never been more than three
years old. And now he fell upon the big children of fourteen and
insisted that he was their age. It was the most provoking thing.
It was perfectly incredible what came to light about him. He had fished
from the dam; he had rowed in the little flat-bottomed boat; he had
climbed up in the willow which hangs over the water, and in which it
was so nice to sit; yes, he had even slept on the powder-horn.
But they were all certain that there was no escape from his tyranny. It
was a relief to have spoken out, but not a remedy. They could not rebel
against Uncle Reuben.
You never would have believed it, but when these children grew to be
big and had children of their own, they immediately began to make use
of Uncle Reuben, just as their parents had done before them.
And their children again, the young people who are growing up now, have
learned their lesson so well, that it happened one summer out in the
country that a five-year-old boy came up to his old grandmother Berta,
who had sat down on the steps while waiting for the carriage:—
“Grandmother once had a brother whose name was Reuben.”
“You are quite right, my little boy,” grandmother said, and stood up
instantly.
That was as much of a sign to the young people as if they had seen an
old Royalist bow before King Charles’s portrait. It made them
understand that Uncle Reuben always must remain great, however he
abused his position, only because he had been so deeply loved.
In these days, when all greatness is so carefully examined, he has to
be used with greater moderation than formerly. The limit for his age is
lower; trees, boats and powder-horns are safe from him, but nothing of
stone which can be sat upon can escape him.
And the children, the children of the day, treat him quite otherwise
than their parents did. They criticise him openly and frankly. Their
parents no longer understand how to inspire blind, terrified obedience.
Little boarding-school girls discuss Uncle Reuben and wonder if he is
anything but a myth. A six-year-old child proposes that he should prove
by experiment that it is impossible to catch a mortal cold on stone
steps.
But that is only a passing mood. That generation in their heart of
hearts is just as convinced of Uncle Reuben’s greatness as the
preceding one and obey him just as they did. The day will come when
those scoffers will go down to the home of their ancestors, try to find
the old stone steps, and raise on it a tablet with a golden
inscription.
They joke about Uncle Reuben for a few years, but as soon as they are
grown and have children to bring up, they will become convinced of the
use and need of the great man.
“Oh, my little child, do not sit on those stone steps! Your mother’s
mother had an uncle whose name was Reuben. He died when he was your
age, because he sat down to rest on just such steps.”
So will it be as long as the world lasts.