“Money for sale?” read the wondering Jasmine. “What can this mean? Some
foolish jest, no doubt.”
Three times the house sped round her; then it quivered and stood still.
She stared at the glass door that held a myriad reflections of herself.
As though her gaze had power to push, it slowly opened. She now saw into
a vast hall, and heard a gentle but compelling voice say: “Come in.”
Trembling, Jasmine walked through the door. The light was dim and
flickering as though from a fire, but no fireplace could be seen. Across
the whole length of the hall ran a counter, such as you see in large
shops, and behind this counter there rose up a wall made of rows of
boxes piled high the one upon the other, and on these boxes were rainbow
letters and figures. Between the boxes and the counter there stood a
tall, sweetly-smiling woman, whose face, though unrecognisable, seemed
somehow familiar to Jasmine.
“I was expecting you, beautiful Jasmine,” spoke the stranger in a voice
that was soft but decided, like the fall of snow. “You would buy money,
would you not?”
“Can one buy money?” faltered Jasmine. “Save _with_ money, and, alas! I
have none.”
“Though you were penniless, yet from me you could purchase boundless
wealth,” replied the stranger. “Behold, a purse,” she continued, holding
up a red-tasselled bag, “which, spend as you may, will always contain
one thousand golden guineas. This purse is yours if in exchange you will
give me one part of yourself.”
“A part of myself?” gasped the astonished Jasmine. “What would you have?
My hair?”
“No,” smiled the woman. “Lovely as are your tresses, in time they would
grow again, and no one may own unlimited wealth and pay no price
therefor. Your beauty shall remain untouched. It is your Sense of Humour
that I require.”
“My Sense of Humour?” laughed Jasmine. “Is that all? Just that part of
me which makes me laugh? Humour? What was it my mother used to call
Humour? I remember—she said it was Man’s consolation sent to him by God
in sign of peace. God’s rainbow in our minds. But with boundless wealth
what need of consolation shall I have? Besides, I have often been told I
had but little Sense of Humour. The more gladly will I give it to you.
The purse, I pray,” and Jasmine held out both her trembling hands.
“Stay a while,” said the solemn, smiling woman. “I must warn you of two
conditions. First, I would have you know, the money this purse yields
can be spent only upon yourself. Would you still have it?”
“Yes! Yes! Yes!” clamoured Jasmine.
“I must also tell you that should you ever repent of your bargain and
wish to buy back the precious sense you sell, it will, alas, not be in
my power to help you. I can never buy back from the person to whom I
have sold. The only chance of recovering your Sense of Humour is, that
another customer, unasked by you, should buy it back with a similar
purse, and I warn you that it may be hard to find anyone willing to give
up boundless wealth for the sake of your laughter.”
“What matter?” exclaimed Jasmine. “Never, never shall I wish to return
my purse.”
“You are determined?” asked the strange saleswoman.
“Yes, yes, yes!”
“Hold out your arms, then.”
Eagerly Jasmine stretched out her arms.
The smiling woman touched her on both her funny-bones, drew forth her
Sense of Humour, laid it away in a box, on which she wrote Jasmine’s
name, and the date, and then placed it on a shelf between two other
boxes.
“Now it is mine, until redeemed by the return of a purse, fellow to this
that I give thee,” said the woman, handing the tasselled red bag to
Jasmine. “And while it is in my careful keeping, this despised sense of
yours will grow and grow. Farewell, Jasmine. Leave me now and go forth
into a bleak world.”
Clasping the marvellous purse to her heart, Jasmine fled from the house
and hastened through the deep, dark forest till she reached the city. At
once she went to the great jewel-merchants, against whose windows she
had often pressed her face in wistful longing.
“I want the biggest pearl necklace you have got,” she cried,
breathlessly bursting into the gorgeous showroom.
“I’m afraid goods of such value can only be supplied in exchange for
ready money,” said the merchant with an uncivil smile.
“How much?” asked Jasmine.
[Illustration]
“Seven thousand guineas.”
Jasmine opened the purse and holding it upside down, shook it.
Glittering guineas poured out in a golden stream, but the purse remained
just as full as before.
As the clinking coins bounded and rolled the merchant’s eyes grew
rounder and rounder, and he had to shout for six small black slaves to
come to help him to count the money, now lying scattered all over his
shop. With the lowest bow he had ever bowed he handed the long rope of
glistening pearls to Jasmine. Feverishly she clasped them round her
throat, where they scarcely showed against the whiteness of her skin.
They reached down to her knees.
“Now some emerald ear-rings, a crown of diamonds, ten ruby bracelets for
each arm, and all the opals you possess!” ordered Jasmine, scattering
guineas as she spoke, and putting on all the jewels as fast as they were
produced.
At last she went away, hung with jewels as a Christmas tree is hung with
ornaments. Proud as a peacock she strutted through the streets, and
everyone laughed at the absurd sight of so many gaudy ornaments crowded
on to one ordinary-sized woman. She heard titters and wondered what
might be the cause of the laughter.
She now went to the grandest Fashion House in the city, ordered one
thousand costly garments, and came out wearing the richest raiment she
had found in stock. Next she bought a most magnificent coach, made of
mother o’ pearl, and sixteen piebald horses to draw it; and then she
engaged an enormous coachman with a face gilt to match his golden
livery.
On her way home she stopped at seven merchants to buy all manner of rare
and costly foods, and before long the great coach was crammed with
dainties. In it were piled every fruit and vegetable that happened to be
then out of season, bottles of wonderful wine, jars of caviare, pots of
roseleaf jam, tiny birds in aspic, and sugar plums of every colour. Last
of all—because it looked so grand and expensive—she bought an immense
wedding-cake, sixteen stories high. The confectioners laughed. They
seemed to think it funny that she should buy the wedding-cake. She
wondered why they were amused.
When Anselm saw his wife stagger into the room, swaying beneath the
weight of so many gaudy jewels, thinking them to be all sham and worn in
jest, he burst into a great roar of laughter.
Annoyed at his merriment, Jasmine told him breathlessly of the
marvellous purse. Her husband laughed and laughed, partly at her story,
partly at her absurd appearance. He laughed until he got hiccoughs.
“Oh, how funny! How funny! What has come over you?” he cried, rolling on
the floor.
“This is no jest, Anselm, I swear; it is the solemn truth. Just look
inside and you will see all the golden coins.”
Incredulously Anselm peered into the bulging purse. He rubbed his eyes.
Slowly his unbelief gave way to amazed joy.
“Praise be to God!” he cried at last. “We’re rich, rich, rich beyond the
dreams of man. Give it to me that I may go and buy gorgeous apparel,
fine horses, and rarest wines.” Feverishly he snatched the purse from
his wife’s hand.
“What’s this?” he cried. “I knew it was some trickery. Your precious
purse is as empty as an egg that has been eaten.” And in truth, the
tasselled bag now dangled from his hand flat and light as a leaf.
“Oh!” screamed Jasmine, in dismay, “give it back to me!” No sooner had
she touched the purse than once more it became rounded and heavy with
the weight of a thousand guineas.
“Praise be to God!” she sighed. “I remember now. The woman from whom I
bought it warned me that the guineas were only for my own use.”
“Tut, tut, that’s very troublesome,” said Anselm ruefully. “But what
matter? You will be able to buy gifts for me. It will come to the same
thing. But, wife, what mean you when you say you _bought_ the purse?
With what can one buy money?”
Jasmine told him of the weird house, the mysterious saleswoman and the
strange bargain she had driven.
“Your Sense of Humour?” cried Anselm. “_Your_ Sense of Humour! Well, she
didn’t get much for her money, did she? Ha! ha! ha!”
With grave eyes Jasmine stared at her husband, offended at his display
of merriment.
Then she said: “You little guess what a banquet I have prepared for you.
Come now and I will show you how I have ransacked the city for its
choicest dainties. Let us now feast.” Together they entered the
dining-hall and at sight of the gorgeous banquet spread before them
Anselm smacked his lips and promised himself great delight.
But bitter disappointment awaited him. For, no sooner did he touch the
iced grape-fruit with which he intended to begin his feast, than,
behold, it shrivelled in his hand, and became an empty rind. With an
oath he stretched out his hand to grasp a goblet of purple wine. It
broke in his hand, and of the rich vintage nothing remained but a stain
on the damask tablecloth.
“Alas!” cried Jasmine. “It seems that with the magic gold I may buy
nothing for your use!”
In truth, everything that poor Anselm touched, before it reached his
eager lips, disappeared like a bubble that has burst. In nothing that
had been purchased with the magic gold could he share. For him, all the
rich viands were spread in vain, and finally, he was obliged to fall
back on their accustomed fare of bread and cheese and last Friday’s
mutton.
“’Tis funny to watch one’s wife quaffing the wines one dreams of and to
be on prison-fare oneself,” laughed Anselm, trying to make the best of
things.
“Funny?” asked his wife. “Why is it funny? I think it is very sad. These
humming birds and this sparkling juice of the grape are most delicious.”
To keep up his spirits Anselm, who was famed for his wit, cracked many
jokes, but no smile ever lifted the corners of Jasmine’s perfect mouth;
no twinkle appeared in the depth of her great green eyes. Discouraged at
last, Anselm fell into silent sulks, whilst his wife continued to eat
and drink, until a stitch came in both her sides.
Days passed. Every evening, Jasmine, clad in new raiment and gorgeous
jewels, regaled herself with rich dainties.
“Alas, husband!” she cried one night, “I have no pleasure in feasting
that you cannot share.”
“In truth, this is no life!” angrily exclaimed Anselm. “To sit at a
banquet one may not taste with a wife who cannot see one’s jokes. I can
bear it no longer. Why should not I seek this strange woman and make the
same bargain? If husband and wife may not share their jokes, they must
at least share their dinner. Tell me quickly where I may find this
‘Bargain House.’”
Jasmine told her husband the way through the deep, dark forest, and
early the next morning he set forth in search of the mysterious
building. An hour’s walking brought him within sight of just such a
house as his wife had described. It moved nearer, sped three times
around him and then stood still. As he stared at it, the door slowly
opened, the gentle, commanding voice bade him enter, and there stood the
tall, smiling woman of his wife’s description.
“Good morning, Anselm,” she said, in the voice that was soft like the
fall of snow. “Would you have a purse that shall always bear a thousand
guineas?”
“Indeed I would!” cried Anselm. “Have you one for me?”
“Yes, if you consent to my terms.”
“What is it that you want? My Sense of Humour? Of what use is it to me
now? I will gladly part with it.”
“No,” said the woman. “’Tis not your Sense of Humour I require of you,
it is your Sense of Beauty.”
“Take what you will from me,” cried Anselm. “I care not so I have one of
those wondrous purses.”
“Listen first, Anselm,” said the woman, and solemnly, as she had warned
Jasmine, so she warned him that the magic money could be spent on none
save himself, and that the sense he sold could be bought back only by
the owner of such another purse.
“Remember, you can never reclaim it yourself,” she repeated.
“I care not! I care not!” exclaimed Anselm. “Quick, the purse!”
“Come hither,” said the woman, “and close your eyes.” Gently she touched
him on both eyelids, and drew forth his Sense of Beauty. Then she handed
him a red-tasselled bag exactly the same as Jasmine’s and as heavy with
golden guineas.
“Now farewell, Anselm. Go forth into a bleak world.”
Wild with joy and excitement, Anselm dashed from the Bargain House and
hastened through the deep, dark forest to that part of the city where
dwelt the grandest merchants. Here he bought gorgeous apparel, costly
wines, and magnificent horses. Astride the finest of the horses, a
gleaming chestnut, said to be the swiftest steed alive, he then rode
home through the forest. As he went, he met an old man clad in wretched
rags, who looked very hungry and tired. Feeling pleased with life Anselm
plunged his hand into the magic purse, and, drawing forth a golden
guinea, flung it at the poor man, who joyfully stooped to pick it up.
But no sooner had his hand touched the coin than it vanished. Anselm
remembered the woman’s warning.
[Illustration: “ANSELM DREW FORTH A GOLDEN GUINEA”]
“Sorry, my good fellow,” he said, shamefacedly handing the beggar two
coppers—all that he could find in his old purse.
“Thanks, noble master. Now I can buy bread for my supper. I never
thought to eat to-night.”
“For one who sups on dry bread you look strangely cheerful,” said
Anselm. “At what can you rejoice?”
“’Tis the beauty of the sunset, master. It seems to warm my heart. Never
have I seen one like to it in glory. Who could look and not be
comforted?”
And, in truth, a radiant smile lit up the old man’s suffering face as he
gazed on the flaming splendours of the western sky. Anselm turned and
looked where the beggar pointed, but he could see nothing that seemed
worth the turning of the head, and with a shrug of the shoulders he rode
home.
Now Jasmine, rejoicing that Anselm would share her feasting, arrayed
herself that she might look her fairest for their banquet. She brushed
her red-gold hair until it shone, and gazed at herself in the mirror
until her beauty glowed. Then she attired herself in a dress of
dragon-flies’ wings, covered all over with hearts made of tiny little
diamonds like dewdrops.
“Never, never have I looked so fair. When Anselm sees me he will love me
more than ever. How joyfully we shall feast together, and how glad am I
that he will no longer want me to laugh at the things he says! I shall
love him far more without his Sense of Humour.”
Her heart beat as she heard footsteps hastening up the stairs. Radiant
with excitement in burst Anselm. “I’m rich!” he cried. “Rich! rich!
Rejoice with me, Jasmine.”
Grey disappointment crushed into Jasmine’s heart, for not one word did
her husband say of her especial beauty or her wonderful dress.
“There’s nothing like wealth!” he cried. “How did we ever endure our
poverty? And fancy, I met a beggar-man, who said he was cheerful because
he looked at the sunset! Ha! ha! ha!”
“Why do you laugh, Anselm? Have you then not sold your Sense of Humour?
How came you then by that purse?”
“No. I may still laugh. I have but parted with my Sense of Beauty.”
“Your Sense of Beauty?” echoed Jasmine, icy fear entering her heart. “Is
that why your eyes no longer seek my face?”
“Why ever do you look so doleful?” laughed Anselm. “Let us hasten down
and feast. My lips thirst for the wines I have bought.”
Trembling, Jasmine pleaded: “Look on my face, husband, the face you have
so often called your glory. What think you of my face to-night?”
“Your face? Let me look. It seems all right: two eyes, one nose, one
mouth. Yes, it seems just as other faces are.”
It was with a sad heart poor Jasmine sat at the feast that night. Loving
her husband, she rejoiced to see him revel, but that he should no longer
gaze at her with the admiration which had been her delight was pain past
bearing. Anselm enjoyed his feasting, but the wine made jokes rise in
his mind, to flutter from his lips, and it vexed him that no smile ever
widened his wife’s mouth, set for ever in still solemnity.
Days, weeks, months passed. Anselm and Jasmine now lived in a gorgeous
palace. They were clad in the finest raiment and they feasted like
emperors, but in their hearts all was becoming as dust and ashes.
“Ah me!” sighed Jasmine. “I know now why it was that I longed for
wealth. It was that I might add to my beauty and see even more
admiration in my beloved’s eyes. Of what use to me are my gorgeous
gowns, my jewels, my flower-like face, since Anselm no longer delights
to see me.”
And for Anselm the pleasures of feasting and luxurious living soon
palled. His wife could not laugh at his jokes, and in the wide world
there was nothing for him to admire. Neither sunsets, nor courage, nor
self-sacrifice. He could see no beauty in any face, thought or action.
Lost to him were the delights of Poetry and all the loveliness of
Nature.
“What is there in life,” he cried, “but feasting and laughter? If only
Jasmine could join with me in mocking at the absurdities of Man!”
Desperately he strove to restore laughter to his mirthless wife. He
engaged a thousand jesters and promised a fortune to him who should make
her laugh. Everything human beings consider funny was shown to her.
Orange peel was plentifully scattered outside the palace windows, and
aged men encouraged to walk past, that they might step on the orange
peel and fall. Then, by means of huge bellows purposely placed, their
hats were blown from off their heads, in the hope that Jasmine would
smile to see the poor old fellows vainly chasing their own headgear. But
all in vain. Nothing amused Jasmine, neither physical misfortune nor the
finest wit. Her mouth remained set. Daily Anselm laughed louder and
longer, but into his laughter an ugly bitterness had come. It was now
the laughter of mockery, no longer softened by admiration.
During that summer a child was born to Jasmine. For years she had longed
for a baby, but now that the funny little creature squirmed in her arms,
yawning, and making faces, she thought it merely ugly and turned from it
in disgust.
A few months later the coachman’s wife gave birth to a baby, and Jasmine
went to visit her. She found her by the fire, nursing a red, hairless,
wrinkled daughter that seemed to Jasmine the ugliest morsel in all the
world. In speechless horror she stared at it. Opening wide its shapeless
mouth, the baby stretched its tiny arms and gave a great yawn. With a
joyful laugh, the mother clutched it to her heart. “Oh, you darling,
darling!” she cried. “Could anyone not love anything so _funny_?”
“Is Love then born of Laughter?” cried poor Jasmine, and, full of bitter
envy, she rushed from the room.
That same year a terrible war was waged and thousands of soldiers went
forth to die. One day, Jasmine gazed out of the window. Brave music was
playing, and with colours flying, a gallant host of youths marched past,
their weeping mothers and sweethearts waving farewell.
“A disgusting sight, is it not?” said Anselm. “All these boys striding
off to be killed simply because their foolish kings have quarrelled!”
“Yes,” replied Jasmine, her eyes full of tears. “But beautiful, too.”
“Beautiful?” jeered her husband with a harsh, discordant laugh. “You
fool! What beauty can there be in senseless sacrifice?” And, as now
often happened, these two fell into loud and bitter wrangling.
Thus daily life became more and more unbearable to Anselm and Jasmine.
In spite of all their wealth, boredom pressed heavily upon them. Since
she could not laugh, and he could not admire, to both the world seemed
full of senseless suffering.
“I can no longer bear this life,” said Jasmine, one day. “Of what use is
the beauty to which Anselm is blind? I will seek the Bargain House and
buy back the Sense he sold. He will still have his purse with which to
buy the luxuries he loves.” And forth she went into the deep, dark
forest.
An hour later, Anselm exclaimed:
“I can no longer bear this life. I will buy back Jasmine’s humour that
at least we may together mock at this senseless life. She will still
have her purse to buy the fineries she loves.” And forth he went into
the deep, dark forest.
That evening Jasmine returned without her magic purse, rejoicing that
her husband would once more delight in her beauty. She went to say good
night to her little son, who lay in his cot, struggling to draw his tiny
toes up into his mouth. The window was open. Suddenly he stretched forth
his arms towards the shining moon. It looked so good to suck; he longed
to grasp it. He struggled and bubbled and clutched, his crinkled face
growing crimson with effort. How funny he looked! Suddenly, Jasmine
found herself laughing—laughing—laughing until her whole body shook, and
happy peals broke through her astonished lips. “Oh, you darling, darling
little joke,” she cried, joyfully kissing her child.
At that moment in rushed Anselm, and stood transfixed at the dazzling
beauty of his wife.
“Jasmine, Jasmine,” he cried, “what has happened. Why are you so
dazzlingly beautiful?”
“Because I have no longer a magic purse. I have bought you back your
Sense, husband.”
“You too?” cried Anselm; “and I have bought back your laughter.”
“Then we are both poor! Oh, how funny!” cried Jasmine, her laughter
growing louder and louder as they fell into one another’s arms.
Thus Anselm and Jasmine parted with their magic purses, and had to work
for their daily bread, but they lived happily ever afterwards in a world
that was blessedly beautiful and blessedly funny.
[Illustration]