figments of imagination

Contents

Foreword iii

1 Whitewashing a Fence 1

2 The Diamond Necklace 7

3 Love Across the Salt Desert 15

4 The Gift of the Magi 23

5 The Needle 29

6 The Enchanted Pool 35

7 The Giraffe Problem 41

8 The Man who Knew Too Much 49

9 uMPiring 53

10 The Bet 59

11 Michelangelo 67

12 God Sees the Truth But Waits 73

13 Dusk 81

14 The Sniper 85

15 The Model Millionaire 89

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ii CONTENTS

Foreword

This compilation of stories has been taken from the book Figmentsof Imagination, the recommended course book for English Litera-ture for the ICSE1 examination in 2003.

The readers of this book will clearly recall this candid collectionof short stories. The writers of these stories comprise both Indianand foreign authors whose writing styles vary a lot. Each of thesestories thus contains a different facet of life. Ranging from the fa-ble like story by Tolstoy, to the symbolic story by O’Henry, to thesharp witted stories by Barry Pain or Flaherty, to Maupassant’s sto-ries with a sting in the tail, this book is an interesting read throughand through.

The digital version of the book is being created with the hopethat it will help its old readers cherish the memories, and continue toencourage future students of English or even readers who appreciatea good story. A heart felt gratitude to Anil Wilson for compilingthis and to IUP2 for publishing it. No copyright infringement isintended in any form.

1ICSE-Indian Certficate of Secondary Education2IUP - Inter University Press.

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iv FOREWORD

Chapter 1

Whitewashing a Fence

Saturday morning had come, and all the summer world was brightand fresh and brimming with life. There was a song in every heart;and if the heart was young the music issued at the lips. There wascheer in every face and a spring in every step. The locust trees werein bloom and the fragrance of the blossoms filled the air. CardiffHill, beyond the village and above it, was green with vegetation,and it lay just far enough away to seem a Delectable Land, dreamyreposeful and inviting.

Tom appeared on the sidewalk with a bucket of whitewash anda long-handled brush. He surveyed the fence. All gladness left himand a deep melancholy settled down upon his spirit. Thirty yards ofboard fence nine feet high! Life to him seemed hollow and existencebut a burden. Sighing he dipped his brush and passed it along thetopmost plank. He repeated the operation; did it again; comparedthe insignificant whitewashed streak with the far-reaching continentof unwhitewashed fence, and sat down on a tree-box discouraged.

Jim came skipping out at the gate with a tin pail. He was singing“Buffalo Gals.”

Bringing water from the town pump had always been hatefulwork in Tom’s eyes, before, but now it did not strike him so. Heremembered that there was company at the pump. White and Negroboys and girls were always there waiting their turns, resting, tradingplaythings, quarreling, fighting, skylarking. And he rememberedthat although the pump was only a hundred and fifty yards off, Jimnever got back with a bucket of water under and hour– and eventhen somebody generally had to go after him.

Tom said, “Say, Jim, I’ll fetch the water if you’ll do some white-washing.”

Jim shook his head, and said, “Can’t, Mars’ Tom. Ole Missis,she tole me I got to go an’ git dis water an’ not stop foolin’ roun’

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2 CHAPTER 1. WHITEWASHING A FENCE

wid anybody. She says she spec’ Mars’ Tom gwine to ax me towhitewash, an’ so she tole me go ’long an’ ’tend to my own business–she ’lowed she’d tend to de white washin’.”

“Oh, never you mind what she said, Jim. That’s the way shealways talks. Gimme the bucket–I won’t be gone only a minute.She won’t ever know.”

“Oh, I dasn’t, Mars’ Tom. Ole Missis she’d take an’tar de headoff’n me. ’Deed she would.”

“She! She never licks anybody. She whacks ’em over the headwith her thimble–but who cares for that, I’d like to know? She talksawful, but talk don’t hurt–anyways it don’t if she don’t cry. Jim I’llgive you a marvel. I’ll give you a white alley!”

Jim began to waver.“White alley, Jim! and it’s a bully taw.”“My! Dat’s a mighty gay marvel, I tell you! But Mars’ Tom, I’s

powerful ’fraid ole Missis–”“And besides if you will, I’ll show you my sore toe.”Jim was only human–this attraction was too much for him. He

put down his pail, took the white alley, and bent over the toe withabsorbing interest while the bandage was being unwound. In an-other moment he was flying down the street with his pail and tin-gling rear. Tom was whitewashing with vigor, and Aunt Polly wasretiring from the field with a slipper in her hand and triumph in hereye.

But Tom’s energy did not last. He began to think of the fun hehad planned for this day, and his sorrows multiplied. Soon the freeboys would come tripping along on all sorts of delicious expeditions,and they would make fun of him for having to work. The verythought of it burnt him like fire. He got out his worldly wealthand examined it– bits of toy, marbles, and trash; enough to buy anexchange of work, maybe, but not half enough to buy so much ashalf an hour of pure freedom. So he returned his straitened meansto his pocket, and gave up the idea of trying to buy the boys.

At this dark an hopeless moment an inspiration burst upon him!It was nothing less than a great, magnificent inspiration.

He took up his brush and went tranquilly to work. Ben Rogershove in sight presently–the very boy, of all boys, whose ridicule hehad been dreading. Ben’s gait was the hop-skip-and-jump–proofenough that his heart was light and his anticipations high. Hewas eating an apple, and giving a long melodious whoop, at in-tervals , followed by a deep-toned ding-dong-dong, ding-dong-dong,for her was personating a steamboat. As he drew near, he slackenedspeed, took the middle of the street, leaned far over to starboard and

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rounded to ponderously and with laborious pomp and circumstance–for he was personating the Big Missouri and he considered himselfto be drawing nine feet of water. He was boat and the captain andengine-bells combined, so he had to imagine himself standing on hisown hurricane-deck giving the orders and executing them: “Stopher, sir! Ting-a-ling-ling!”

The headway ran almost out and he drew up slowly toward thesidewalk. “ Ship up to back! Ting-a-ling-ling!” His arms straight-ened and stiffened down his sides. “ Set her back on the starboard!Ting-a-ling-ling! Chow! Ch-chow-wow! Chow” His right hand,meantime, described stately circles–for it was representing a fortyfeet wheel. “Let her go back on the labboard! Ting-a-ling-ling!Ch-chow-chow!” The left hand began to describe circles. “Stop thestabboard! Ting-a-ling-ling! Stop the labboard! Come ahead on thestarboard! Stop her! Let your outside turn over slow! Ting-a-ling-ling! Chow-ow-ow! Get out that headline! Lively now! Come–outwith your springline–what’re you about there! Take a turn roundthat stump with the bight of it! Stand by that stage now–let hergo! Done with the engines, sir! Ting-a-ling-ling!”

Tom went on whitewashing–paid no attention to the steamboat.Ben stared a moment and then said,“Hi-yi! You’re up a stump, ain’t you!”No answer. Tom surveyed his last touch with the eye of an artist

then he gave his brush another gentle sweep and surveyed the result,as before.

Ben ranged up alongside of him.Tom’s mouth watered for the apple, but he stuck to his work.Ben said, “Hello, old chap, you got to work, hey?”Tom wheeled suddenly and said, “Why, it’s you, Ben! I warn’t

noticing.”“Say–I’m going in a-swimming, I am. Don’t you wish you could?

But of course you’d druther work–wouldn’t you? Course you would!”Tom wheeled suddenly and said, “What do you call work?”“Why, ain’t that work?”Tom resumed his whitewashing and answered carelessly, “Well,

maybe it is , and maybe it ain’t. All I know, is, it suits Tom Sawyer.”“Oh come, now, you don’t mean to let on that you like it?”The brush continued to move.“Like it? Well I don’t see why I oughtn’t to like it? Does a boy

get a chance to white-wash a fence every day?”That put the thing in a new light. Ben stopped nibbling his

apple.


Tom swept his brush daintily back and forth–stepped back tonote the effect–added a touch here and there–criticized the effectagain.

Ben was watching every move and getting more and more inter-ested, more and more absorbed. Presently, he said, “Say, Tom, letme whitewash a little.”

Tom considered, was about to consent, but he altered his mind.“No–no–I reckon it wouldn’t hardly do, Ben. You see Aunt Polly’sawful particular about this fence–right here on the street, you know.If it was the back fence I wouldn’t mind and she wouldn’t. Yes she’sawful particular about this fence. It’s got to be done very careful. Ireckon there ain’t one boy in a thousand, maybe two thousand, thatcan do it the way, it’s got to be done.”

“No–is that so? Oh come on now–lemme just try. Only just alittle–I’d let you if you was me, Tom.”

“Ben, I’d like to, honest Injun; but Aunt Polly–well, Jim wantedto do it but she wouldn’t let him. Sid wanted to do it, and shewouldn’t let Sid. Now don’t you see how I’m fixed? If you was totackle this fence and anything was to happen to it–”

“Oh, shucks, I’ll be just as careful. Now lemme try. Say–I’ll giveyou the core of my apple.”

“Well, here–nom Ben, now don’t. I’m afeard–”“I’ll give you all of it!”Tom gave up the brush with reluctance in his face but alacrity

in his heart. And while the late steamer Big Missouri worked andsweated in the sun, the retired artist sat on a barrel in the shade closeby, dangled his legs, munched his apple, and planned the slaughter ofmore innocents. There was no lack of material; boys happened alongevery little while. The came to jeer, but remained to whitewash.By the time Ben was fagged out, Tom had traded the next chanceto Billy Fisher for a kite, in good repair; and the next chance toBilly Fisher for a kite, in good repair; and when he played outJohnny Miller bought in for a dead rat and a string to swing itwith–and so on, and so on, hour after hour. And when the middleof the afternoon came, from being a poor poverty-stricken boy inthe morning. Tom was literally rolling in wealth. He had, besidesthe things before mentioned, twelve marbles, part of a jew’s harp,a piece of blue bottle glass to look through, a spool cannon, a keythat wouldn’t unlock anything, a fragment of chalk, a glass stopperof a decanter, a kitten with only one eye, a brass door-knob, a dog-collar–but no dog–the handle of a knife, four pieces of orange peel,and a dilapidated old window sash.

He had had a nice good idle time all the while–plenty of company–

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and the fence had three coats of whitewash on it! If he hadn’t ru outof whitewash, he would have bankrupted every boy in the village.

Tom said to himself that it was not such a hollow world after all.He had discovered a great law of human action, without knowingit–namely, that in order to make a man or boy covet a thing, it ison;y necessary to make the thing difficult to attain. If he had beena great wise philosopher, like the writer of this story, he would nowhave comprehended that Work consists of whatever a body is obligedto do, and that Play consists of whatever a body is not obliged to do.And this would help him to understand why constructing artificialflowers or performing on a treadmill is work, while rolling ten-pinsor climbing Mont Blanc is only amusement.

The boy mused awhile over the substantial change which hadtaken place in his worldly circumstance, and then wended towardsheadquarters to report.

-Mark Twain

Chapter 2

The Diamond Necklace

She was one of those pretty, charming young ladies, born, as ifthrough an error of destiny, into a family of clerks. She had nodowry, no hopes, no means of becoming known, appreciated, lovedand married by a man either rich or distinguished; so she allowedherself to marry a petty clerk in the office of the Board of Education.

She was simple not being able to adorn herself; but she was un-happy, as one out of her class; for women belong to no caste, norace; their grace, their beauty, and their charm serving them in theplace of birth and family. Their inborn finesse, their instinctive el-egance, their suppleness of wit are their only aristocracy, makingsome daughters of the people the equal of great ladies.

She suffered incessantly, feeling herself born for all delicacies andluxuries. She suffered from the poverty of her apartment, the shabbywalls, the worn chair, and the faded stuffs. All these things, whichanother woman of her station would not have noticed, tortured andangered her. The sight of the little Breton, who made this humblehome, awoke in her sad regrets and desperate dreams. She thoughtof quiet ante-chambers, with their oriental hangings, lighted by high,bronze torches and of the two great footmen in short trousers whosleep in the large armchairs, made sleepy by the heavy air fromthe heating apparatus. She thought of large drawing-rooms, hungin old silks, of graceful pieces of furniture carrying bric-a-brac ofinestimable value, and of the little perfumed coquettish apartments,made for five-o-clock chats with most intimate friends, men knownand sought after, whose attention all women envied and desired.

When she seated herself for dinner, before the roundtable wherethe tablecloth had been used three days, opposite her husband, whouncovered the tureen with delighted air, saying: “Oh! The goodpotpie! I know nothing better than that-“she would think of theelegant dinners, of the shining silvers, of the tapestries peopling the

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8 CHAPTER 2. THE DIAMOND NECKLACE

walls with ancient personages and rare birds in the midst of fairyforests; she thought of the exquisite food served on marvelous dishes,of the whispered gallantries, listened to with the smile of the sphinx,while eating the rose-colored flesh of the trout or a chickens wing.

She had neither frocks nor jewels, nothing. And she loved onlythose things. She felt that she was made for them. She had such adesire to please, to be sought after, to be clever, and courted.

She had a rich friend, a schoolmate at the convent, whom she didnot like to visit, she suffered so much when she returned. And shewept for whole days from chagrin, from regret, from despair, anddisappointment.

One evening her husband returned elated, bearing in his hand alarge envelope. “Here, he said, “here is something for you.

She quickly tore open the wrapper and drew out a printed cardon which were inscribed these words:

The Minister of Public Instruction and Madame Georges Ram-ponneau ask the honour of Monsieur and Madame Loisels companyMonday evening, January 18, at the Ministers residence.

Instead of being delighted, as her husband hoped, she threw theinvitation spitefully upon the table murmuring: “What do you sup-pose I want with that?

“But, my dearie, I thought it would make you happy. You nevergo out, and this is an occasion, and a fine one! I had a great deal oftrouble to get it. Everybody wishes one, and it is very select; notmany are given to employees. You will see the whole official worldthere.

She looked at him with an irritated eye and declared impatiently:“What do you suppose I have to wear to such a thing as that?

He had not thought of that; he stammered.“Why the dress you wear when we go to the theatre. It seems

very pretty to me-“ He was silent, stupefied, in dismay, at the sightof his wife weeping. Two great tears fell slowly from the corners ofher eyes towards the corners of her mouth. He stammered, “Whatis the matter? What is the matter?

By a violent effort, she had controlled her vexation and respondedin a calm voice, wiping her moist cheeks: “Nothing. Only I have nodress and consequently I cannot go to this affair. Give your cardto some colleague whose wife is better fitted out than I. “Let ussee, Matilda. How much would a suitable costume cost, somethingthat would serve for other ocassions,something very simple.” Shereflected for some seconds, making estimates and thinking of a sumthat she could ask for without bringing with it an immediate refusaland a frightened exclamation from the economical clerk.

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Finally she said, in a hesitating voice:“I cannot tell exactly, but it seems to me that four hundred francs

ought to cover it.” He turned a little pale, for he had saved just thissum to buy a gun so that might be able to join some hunting partiesthe next summer, on the plains of Nanterre, with some friends whowent to shoot larks up there on Sunday. Nevertheless, he answerd:

“Very well. I will give you four hundred francs. But try to havea pretty dress.” The day of the ball approached and Madame Loiselseemed sad, disturbed, anxious. Nevertheless, her dress was nearlyready. Her husband said to her one evening. “What is the matterwith you? You have acted strangely for two or three days.” And sheresponded, “I am vexed not to have a jewel, not one stone, nothingto adorn myself with. I shall have such a poverty-laden look. Iwould prefer not to go to the party.”

He replied: “You can wear some natural flowers. At this seasonthey look very chic. For ten francs you can have two or three mag-nificent roses.” She was not convinced. “No,” she replied, “there isnothing more humiliating than to have a shabby air in the midst ofrich women.” Then her husband cried out: “How stupid we are! Goand find your friend Madame Forestier and ask her to lend you herjewels. You are well enough acquainted with her to do this.”

She uttered a cry of joy. “It is true!” she said, “I had not thoughtof this.” The next day she took herself to her friend’s house andrelated her story of distress. Madame Forestier went to her closetwith the glass doors, took out a large jewel casem brought it , openedit, and said: “Choose, my dear.”

She saw at first some bracelets, then a collar of pearls, then aVenetian cross of gold and jewels and of admirable workmanship.She tried the jewels before the glass, hesitated, but could neitherdecide to take or leave them. Then she asked:

“Have you nothing more?”“Why, yes. Look for yourself, I do not know what will please

you.” Suddenly she discovered, in a black satin box, a superb neck-lace of diamonds, and her heart beat fast with an immoderate de-sire. Her hands trembled as she took them. She placed the abouther throat against her dress, and remained in ecstasy before them.Then she asked in a hesitating voice, full of anxiety:

“Could you lend me this? Only this?”“Why, yes, certainly.”She fell upon the neck of her friend, embraced her with passion,

then went away with her treasure. The night of the ball arrived.Madame Loisel was a great success. She was the prettiest of all,elegant, gracious, smiling and full of joy. All the men noticed her,


asked her name, and wanted to be presented. All the members ofthe Cabinet wished to waltz with her. The minister of Educationpaid her some attention.

She danced with enthusiasm, with passion, intoxicated with plea-sure, thinking of nothing in the triumph of her beauty, in the gloryof her success, in a kind of cloud of happiness composed of all thishomage, and all this admiration, of all these awakened desires, andthis victory so complete and sweet to the heart of woman.

She went home towards four o’clock in the morning. Her husbandhad been half asleep in one of the little ante-rooms since midnight,with three other gentlemen whose wives were enjoying themselvesvery much.

He threw around her shoulders the wraps they had carried for thecoming home, modest garments of everyday wear, whose povertyclashed with the elegance of the ball costume. She felt this andwished to hurry away in order not to be noticed by the other womenwho were wrapping themselves in rich furs.

Loisel retained her:“Wait,” said he, “you will catch a cold outthere. I am going to call a cab.” But she would not listen and de-scended the steps rapidly. When they were in the street, they foundno carriage; and they began to seek for one, hailing the coachmenwhom they saw at a distance.

They walked along towards the Seine, hopeless and shivering.Finally they found on the dock one of those old nocturnal coupesthat one sees in Paris after nightfall. as if they were ashamed oftheir misery by day.

It took them as far as their door in Martyr Street, and they wentwearily up to their apartment. It was all over for her. And on hispart, he remembered that he would have to be in the office by teno’clock.

She removed the wraps from her shoulders before the glass, fora final view of herself in her glory. Suddenly she uttered a cry.Her necklace was not around her neck. Her husband, already halfundressed, asked “What is the matter?”

She turned towards him distractedly:

”I have—I have—I no longer have Madame Forestier’s necklace.”

He arose in dismay:“What! How is that? It is not possible.”

And they looked in the folds of the dress, in the folds of themantle, in the pockets, everywhere. They could not find it.

He asked: “You are sure you still had it on when we left theball?”

“Yes, I felt it in the vestibule as we came out.”

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“But if you had lost it in the street, we should have heard it fall.It must be in the cab.”

“Yes. It is probable. Did you take the number?”“No. And, you, did you notice what it was?”“No.”They looked at each other utterly cast down. Finally Loisel

dressed himself again.“I am going,” said he, “over the track where we went on foot, to

see if i can find it.”And he went. She remained in her evening gown, not having

the force to go to bed, stretched upon a chair, without ambition orthoughts.

Towards seven o’clock her husband returned. He had found noth-ing.

He went to the police and to the cab offices, and put an advertise-ment in the newspapers, offering a reward; he did everything thatafforded them a suspicion of hope.

She waited all day long in a state of bewilderment before thisfrightful disaster. Loisel returned at evening with his face harrowedand pale; and had discovered nothing.

“It will be necessary,” said he, “to write to your friend that youhave broken the clasp of the necklace and that you will have itrepaired. That will give us time to turn around.”

She wrote as he dictated.At the end of a week they had lost all hope. And Loisel, older

by fiver year, declared:“We must take measures to replace this jewel.”The next day they took the box which had enclosed it, to the

jeweller whose name was on the inside. He consulted his books:“It is not I, Madame,” said he, ”who sold this necklace; I only

furnished this casket.”Then they went from jeweller to jeweller, seeiking a necklace like

the other one, consulting their memories, and ill, both of them, withchagrin and anxiety.

In a shop of the Palais-Royal, they found a chaplet of diamondswhich seemed to them exactly like the one they had lost. It wasvalued at forty thousand francs. They could get it for thirty-sixthousand.

They begged the jeweller not to sell it for three days. And theymade an arrangement by which they might return it for thirty-fourthousand francs if they found the other one before the end of Febru-ary.


Loisel possessed eighteen thousand francs which his father hadleft him. He borrowed the rest.

He borrowed it, asking for a thousand francs of one, five hundredof another, five louis of this one, and three louis of that one. He gavenotes, made ruinous promises, took money of usurers and the wholerace of lenders. He compromised his whole existence, in fact riskedhis signature, without even knowing whether he could make it goodor not, and harassed by anxiety for the future, by the black miserywhich surrounded him, and by the prospect of all physical privationsand moral tortures, he went to get the new necklace, depositing onthe merchant’s counter thirty-six thousand francs.

When Madame Loisel took back the jewels to Madame Forestier,the latter said in her frigid tone:

“You should have returned them to me sooner for I might haveneeded them.”

She did not open the jewel-box, as her friend feared she would. Ifshe would perceive the substitution, what would she think? Whatshould she say? Should she take her for a robber?

Madame Loisel now knew the horrible life of necessity. She didher part, however, completely, heroically. It was necessary to paythis frightful debt. She would pay it. They sent away the maid; theychanged their lodgings; the rented some rooms under a mansardroof.

She learned the heavy cares of the household, the odious workof a kitchen. She washed the dishes using her rosy nails upon thegreasy pots and the bottoms of the stewpans. She washed the soiledlinen, the chemises and dish-cloths, which she hung on the line todry, she took down the refuse to the street each morning and broughtup the water, stopping at each landing to breathe. And clothed likea woman of the people, she went to the grocer’s, the butcher’s, andthe fruiterer’s with her basket on the arm, shopping, haggling to thelast sous of her miserable money.

Every month it was necessary to renew some notes, thus obtain-ing time and to pay others.

The husband worked evenings, putting the books of some mer-chants in order, and nights he often did copying at five sous a page.And this life lasted for ten years.

At the end of ten years, the had restored all, all, with interest ofthe usurer, and accumulated interest besides.

Madame Loisel seemed old now. She had become a strong, hardwoman, the crude woman of the poor household. Her hair badlydressed, her skirts awry, her hands red, she spoke in a loud tone,and washed the floors with large pails of water. But sometimes,

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when her husband was at the office, she would seat herself beforethe window and think of that evening party of former times, of thatball where she was so beautiful and flattered.

How would it have been if she had not lost that necklace? Whoknows? Who knows? How singular is life, and how full of changes!How small a thing will ruin or save one!

One Sunday, as she was taking a walk in the Champs Elyseesto rid herself of the cares of the week, she suddenly perceived awoman walking with a child. It was Madame Forestier, still young,still pretty, still attractive. Madame Loisel was affected. Shouldshe speak to her? Yes, certainly. And now that she had paid, shewould tell her all. Why not? She approached her. “Good morning,Jeanne.”

Her friend did not recognize her and was astonished to be sofamiliarly addressed by this common personage. She stammered:

“But, Madame–I do not know– you must be mistaken–”“No, I am Matilda Loisel.”Her friend uttered a cry of astonishment. “Oh my poor Matilda!

How have you changed?”“Yes, I have had some hard days since I saw you; and some

miserable ones–and all because of you–”“Because of me? How is that?”“You recall the diamond necklace that you loaned me to wear to

the Commissioner’s ball?”“Yes, very well.”“Well, I lost it.”“How is that, since you returned it to me?”“I returned another to you exactly like it. And it has taken us

ten years to pay for it. You can understand that it was not easy forus who had nothing. But it is finished and I am decently content.”

Madame Forestier stopped short. She said:“You say that you bought a diamond necklace to replace mine?”“Yes. You did not perceive it then. They were just alike.”Ans she smiled with a proud and simple joy. Madame Forestier

was touched and took both hands as she replied:“Oh my poor Matilda. Mine were false. They were not worth

even five hundred francs.”

-Guy De Maupassant

Chapter 3

Love Across the Salt Desert

The drought in Kutch had lasted for three successive years. Evenwhen clouds were sighted they passed by, ignoring the stricken coun-try. The monsoons had, so to speak, forgotten to land. The Rannlay like a paralysed monster, its back covered with scab and scar-tissue and dried blister-skin. The earth had cracked and it lookedas if chunks of it had been baked in a kiln and then embedded inthe soil-crust. The cattle became thin and emaciated. The oxendied. The camel alone survived comfortably, feeding on the bawal,camelthorn. Then one day the clouds rolled in like wineskins andthe lightning crackled and the wineskins burst. Though two yearshave passed since the drought ended, everyone remembers that itfirst rained on the day when Fatimah entered the village. This ishow she came.

What would he not do for her, the daughter of the spice-seller; shewho smelt of cloves and cinnamon, whose laughter had the timbreof ankle-bells, whose eyebrows were like black wisps of the nightand whose hair was the night itself? For her he would cross the saltdesert!

He had stayed the day at Kala Doongar, a black hill capped withbasalt, the highest in Kutch. He had set his camel, Allahrakha,free to crop on the bawal trees. At dusk he paid homage to thefootprints of the Panchmai Pir on the hilltop. He left some foodthere and started beating on his thali, according to the custom here.In a few minutes jackals materialised and gobbled up the food. Thiswas auspicious. If they had not turned up he would have cancelledthe journey. A lamp was lighted in the Pirs honour every night onthe hilltop and the flame could be seen on all the way from Khavda.Over a hundred years earlier the Panchmai Pir had trudged thesesalt wastes serving the people accompanied, as legend had it, by ajackal. Reclusive by habit he used to retire to thorn jungles, where

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16 CHAPTER 3. LOVE ACROSS THE SALT DESERT

apart from his vulpine companions none else dared to disturb hisnocturnal trysts. The custom of feeding the jackals had lingeredsince then.

Najab bowed before the flame and set out. He left behind thecamelthorn shrubs and the area once famous for its savannahs ofstunted grass, but now sere and brown as the desert. He had leftbehind all human habitation, Kuran being the last village. For thenext three days he would not be seeing any bhungas, those one-roommud-houses, circular at the base, but tapering into conical thatch-roofs at the top. Now only the sand-scapes stretched out before him,mile upon mile. Water splashed in the chagals. With the name ofthe Pir on his lips Najab Hussain set forth.

Najab’s diffidence was notorious among his friends. He was knownto have blushed at the mere mention of a girl. A strangely intro-verted lad with dreamy eyes, no one had ever associated him withany act of bravado. His father, Aftab, would say, All that my an-cestors and I have acquired during a hundred years, this lad willsquander away, not because he is a spendthrift but because he willbe too shy to charge money for what he sells!

He had crossed the Rann on four occasions earlier, though hehad turned twenty only a month ago. But each time he had eitheraccompanied his father or that wily old smuggler, Zaman, the vet-eran of a hundred illegal trips to Sind. Each time they had takentendu leaf worth about five hundred, and sold it across the borderfor twelve hundred. But between the pay-off to officials and to theintermediaries who arranged the sale of the biri leaf, to the manwho took the camel out to graze and to the friend or relative whoharboured them, there was precious little left. It was just enoughto buy some used terylene garments or cloves and then it was timeto make the long trek across the desert. It was during one of thesetrips that they had stayed with Kaley Shah, the clove-seller. Heis a distant relative of your mother, his father told Najab. KaleyShah was tall, and well-fleshed and his thick-jowled face had a pur-ple tinge about it as if somewhere along the way it had got stuckwith a discoloured patch. He always wore a tahmat of black andwhite checks. Within a day Najab discovered that the fellow wasan absolute rogue who drove such a cussed bargain that for the firsttime in his hearing his father started mouthing obscenities.

But his daughter Fatimah was a hoor with eyes so bright thatthey would have lit up the darkness of the underworld. She wastaken by this quiet, pleasant young man so ready with his smiles.But she could hardly elicit a word out of him. Fatimah had beenunder pressure to get engaged to someone in the village known for

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his slurred speech and grotesque stammer. Just my luck to run intomutes, she thought. But then, as she caught him staring at her,she laughed back. And in the evening when Fatimah repeated theperformance and her face flooded with excitement as if she daredhim to take the next step, he had flung his arms around her in areckless, dizzy moment. Yes, he would come again, he told her,and saw her start with disbelief for he seemed to have answered herinarticulated question: Would he come again? This time he wouldcome alone with no father to cramp his style. And as he left helooked behind to find her gaze following him, her eyes like a pair ofstorm lanterns in the dark.

Ever since his return Khavda, Najab had been straining to getaway. What was there about the Rann that he did not know? Hecould cross the Rann in the daylight, leave alone starlight, a thingnone of his elders had dared to do! And one morning Aftab waswoken up by a shout from Zaman. What does that old rogue want,he muttered, rubbing his sleepy eyes. Zaman asked about Najab’swhereabouts.

The boy has been sulking of late but he should be around. Any-way, what business is it of yours? The old man did not hide his irri-tation. Who are you trying to fool, Aftab Mian? asked the smuggler.Don’t you know that Allahrakha is also missing?

In these border villages the pattern of life was such that if a manwas absent long with his camel, it was taken for granted that he hadmade a foray across the desert into Pakistan.

Aftab went into the mud enclosure where his camel was kept andfound it empty. His heart sank. He ran into the house to see ifthe bundles of tendu leaf he had bought by him had been taken bythe boy. Oh, the fool! That son of a fool! exclaimed Aftab, almostshaking with fury. He has forgotten to take the leaf with him!

Who are you trying to fool with all this drama? called out Zamanwho was still standing at the door. This son of yours is not asinnocent as the world believes. He is a pig and the son of a pig.

There was no limit to his chagrin. Zaman was a chief’, the manwho kept the Rangers across happy. Any one crossing the Rannwithout his support was running the gauntlet with the law. Andhere this fledgling had blundered in without as much as a word tohim, or a salaam, or a hundred rupee note!

May Allah bring him safely out of this! said the old rogue pi-ously. He means just the opposite, thought Aftab. Nothing wouldplease him more than to see Najab turned into carrion with vultureshovering around.

Don’t worry, Zaman, Allah will see him through! he said testily


and banged the door in the smuggler’s face.As Zaman walked off, Aftab went in to break the news of their

son’s escapade to his wife. She would faint, he thought. He foundher crouching with her back against the mud wall. She did not evenblink in surprise, once.

She just sat there cowering as if he had just slapped her and wasabout to do so again. Allah! She knew it! She knew it all the time!She was waist-deep in this conspiracy along with her son and neverbreathed a word about it.

His eye fell on her bare arm.Where is the gold bangle my father gave you, woman.You need not worry. Najab will return with cloves.The long-striding Allahrakha kept a brisk pace. A strong south

wind drove the tang of the Kori creek back into Najab’s nostrils.He followed the stars, the Milky Way flaked with mica, the GreatBear shambling towards the north. Before dawn he had reached hisdestination, for a sandy elevation palisaded with the bones of deadanimals told him he had arrived at Sarbela, over twenty miles fromKala Doongar. He was already beyond the international boundary.Here he rested. During daylight, movement was impossible. TheIndus Rangers would be looking from their bamboo watch-towers.And in the heat everything became a mirage. A depression in thesand looked like a splash of water, a freak, stunted cactus gave theappearance of a grove, and a camel looked like a huge prehistoricanimal on the move. Any movement was sure to be noticed throughbinoculars.

When the sun came up Najab took his first drink of water fromhis chagal. At noon he had his first meal dry, stale bread with onion.By now thoughts about Fatimah took a vice-like grip over him. Anentire night lay between them, he thought. And the distance wasless than ten miles. The thought of it made him writhe even as thesun started beating its anvil on the desert. A whiff of the tangysouth wind caught his nostrils again. But this time it brought withit a thin, dappled veil of cloud, patches of which lay overlappinglike fish scales. Within an hour this corrugated cloud had covered asubstantial portion of the sky, looking for all the world like a stretchof wind-rippled sand. Yes, this was the time! He got up and shookthe sand from his turban. Even as he harnessed his camel he thoughtthat Allahrakha was looking at him quizzically as if asking what thehell he was up to. At one level of consciousness he knew that thiswas madness. He knew of overworked camels dying of fatigue, ofthe patrolling parties of the B.S.F. and the Indus Rangers and themirage-chequered, trackless wastes of the desert. But he succumbed

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to a rush of blood and the face of Fatimah beckoned him like amirage.

Najab crossed the International Boundary Pillar Number 1066.He knew the track he had to take, bisecting the two posts of theIndus Rangers at Jagatrai and Vingoor. But he strayed ever soslightly, and from their watch-tower they saw through their binoc-ulars this sleek camel, wrapped and distorted by the heat-shimmerinto a lumbering leviathan. An Indian slipping into their territorywith tendu leaf right under their noses, and that too without payingany hush money! They were not going to stand for it. Najab was ina trance now, events flashing past him like figures on a screen. Themile-long chase, the firing from behind, the spent bullets flopping inthe sand and then the rising wind which churned the dust into hiseyes and then rose between the hunter and the hunted. When thedust settled half an hour later he was alone in the Rann.

The next few hours passed in a daze. He was mortally scared thatAllahrakha may die of fatigue. To ease him of his burden he nowstarted walking beside him. Within an hour the salt had scrapedthe callus from his feet and scarred them with agonising cracks.Under a hot tin sky, the Rann was blazing now, throwing up whiteneedles which hurt the eyes. And as the Rann palpitated, it hauntedhim with its mirages, pools of shadow, scooped half-moons of water.Hours of wandering as if in a trance, attempting to lick the recedingedges of the mirage. Then light thinning away, and an hour or twolater, dusk, and a thin plume of smoke rising from a dung-fire. Allahbe praised! He was now within range.

He waited for the night to descend and then struck out hobblingon his toes, for his desert odyssey had cost him his heels. Withinan hour he was at the clove-seller’s door.

Fatimah rose from her bed like a panic-stricken doe as he calledout her name softly through the window bars. It took some anxiousmoments for it to sink in that it was Najab. Her lustrous eyes litup the dark of the room as she opened the door.

Two hours before dawn, Kaley Shah was woken up by the beatconstable banging on the door. A smuggler has come across theRann, Kaley Shah. You wouldn’t know anything about him, wouldyou?

Kasam tumhari, not a sparrow has entered the house, or thevillage. Even the dogs have not been barking tonight. Then headded with a knowing wink, Why should a smuggler come to me?

But the law was not amused. Kaley Shah, he said sardonically,your belly is stuffed full with silver. It would outweigh even the dirtin your heart!


The constable’s words rattled like a sack of empty cans in hishead and prevented him from sleeping.

“You have a guest, said Fatimah as she brought him his tumblerof hot, steaming milk next morning. “It is Najab. He stayed thenight in the cattle shed. For a moment he was terrified. A smugglerin the house, the police prowling all around and he did not evenknow of it! His meeting with Najab had been brief. The wretchedfellow had brought no tenduleaf.

“First you come unannounced, dragging the police behind you,and then I find you have come with nothing. Trading with you isgoing to be a dead loss, son, with the cops on your back and yourhands empty. Najab thought that Kaley Shah’s waist-cloth, with itsblack and white checks looked like a chess board. He would have tomake his moves carefully.

He showed the gold bracelet. “I have come for cloves, Chachajan. And I shall pay in gold. The next two days Kaley Shah wasbusy buying cloves and arranging to get Allahrakha grazed a fewmiles away, by a cowherd. Otherwise the presence of a strangecamel would have let loose a babble of tongues. Najab slept in thecattle-shed in the evening and slipped into Fatimah’s room late atnight.

“They want me to marry Mahfuz Ali, she told him. “He is relatedto us from my mother’s family.”

“Has it never occurred to you to take a ride on Allahrakha acrossthe Rann? She had kept silent and silence was assent. It was assimple as that.

The first lurch of the camel next evening and they were off. Hehad waited with his camel at the outskirts of the village and shehad slipped out after her father had started snoring. The momentwas too big for them and they did not speak. It was only in passingthat she thought of the village she was leaving for good. As for quit-ting one and entering another, she never gave it a thought. Wheredid one have the time for Pakistan and Hindustan when one waseloping with one’s love and crossing the desert which divided, bothphysically and symbolically, the two countries? For her it meantjust a shift in dialect, a smear of Kutchi added and a little of Sindhisandpapered away.

And the camel lurched and bumped onwards and Najab drovehim hard. By the time they reached Sarbela she was exhausted andfell asleep.

She woke up in the afternoon to find the sky overcast. It turnedominous in the evening with depth upon depth of dark-edged nim-bus gathering at the summons of a storm-god. Another night they

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journeyed facing the wind which hurled the sand in their faces. Asthey neared Khavda, the thunder started rolling and reverberatingacross the skies.

Three times during the night Aftab opened the door, thinkinghis son had come. But it was only the wind knocking against thedoor. This time the banging was persistent. When he unlatched thedoor he found Allahrakha shying away from a streak of lightening.Huge, isolated drops of rain were falling, kicking up the dust. Aftabsteeled himself. He would not allow any relief, any expression of joyto show on his face.

“Son, have you brought anything?” he asked, an edge of irondeliberately introduced in his voice.

“Yes,” replied Najab, as he ushered Fatimah in.The rain stormed down and swept away three years of drought.

-K.N.Daruwalla

Chapter 4

The Gift of the Magi

One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all. And sixty cents ofit was in pennies. Pennies saved one and two at a time by bulldoz-ing the grocer and the vegetable man and the butcher until one’scheeks burned with the silent imputation of parsimony that suchclose dealing implied. Three times Della counted it. One dollar andeighty- seven cents. And the next day would be Christmas.

There was clearly nothing to do but flop down on the shabbylittle couch and howl. So Della did it. Which instigates the moralreflection that life is made up of sobs, sniffles, and smiles, withsniffles predominating.

While the mistress of the home is gradually subsiding from thefirst stage to the second, take a look at the home. A furnished flat at$8 per week. It did not exactly beggar description, but it certainlyhad that word on the lookout for the mendicancy squad.

In the vestibule below was a letter-box into which no letter wouldgo, and an electric button from which no mortal finger could coaxa ring. Also appertaining thereunto was a card bearing the name“Mr. James Dillingham Young.”

The ’Dillingham’ had been flung to the breeze during a formerperiod of prosperity when its possessor was being paid $30 per week.Now, when the income was shrunk to $20, though, they were think-ing seriously of contracting to a modest and unassuming D. Butwhenever Mr. James Dillingham Young came home and reached hisflat above he was called “Jim” and greatly hugged by Mrs. JamesDillingham Young, already introduced to you as Della. Which is allvery good.

Della finished her cry and attended to her cheeks with the pow-der rag. She stood by the window and looked out dully at a graycat walking a gray fence in a gray backyard. Tomorrow would beChristmas Day, and she had only $1.87 with which to buy Jim a

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24 CHAPTER 4. THE GIFT OF THE MAGI

present. She had been saving every penny she could for months,with this result. Twenty dollars a week doesn’t go far. Expenseshad been greater than she had calculated. They always are. Only$1.87 to buy a present for Jim. Her Jim. Many a happy hour shehad spent planning for something nice for him. Something fine andrare and sterling–something just a little bit near to being worthy ofthe honor of being owned by Jim.

There was a pier-glass between the windows of the room. Per-haps you have seen a pierglass in an $8 flat. A very thin and veryagile person may, by observing his reflection in a rapid sequence oflongitudinal strips, obtain a fairly accurate conception of his looks.Della, being slender, had mastered the art.

Suddenly she whirled from the window and stood before the glass.her eyes were shining brilliantly, but her face had lost its color withintwenty seconds. Rapidly she pulled down her hair and let it fall toits full length.

Now, there were two possessions of the James Dillingham Youngsin which they both took a mighty pride. One was Jim’s gold watchthat had been his father’s and his grandfather’s. The other wasDella’s hair. Had the queen of Sheba lived in the flat across theairshaft, Della would have let her hair hang out the window someday to dry just to depreciate Her Majesty’s jewels and gifts. HadKing Solomon been the janitor, with all his treasures piled up inthe basement, Jim would have pulled out his watch every time hepassed, just to see him pluck at his beard from envy.

So now Della’s beautiful hair fell about her rippling and shininglike a cascade of brown waters. It reached below her knee and madeitself almost a garment for her. And then she did it up again ner-vously and quickly. Once she faltered for a minute and stood stillwhile a tear or two splashed on the worn red carpet.

On went her old brown jacket; on went her old brown hat. Witha whirl of skirts and with the brilliant sparkle still in her eyes, shefluttered out the door and down the stairs to the street.

Where she stopped the sign read: “Mme. Sofronie. Hair Goodsof All Kinds.” One flight up Della ran, and collected herself, panting.Madame, large, too white, chilly, hardly looked the “Sofronie.”

“Will you buy my hair?” asked Della.“I buy hair,” said Madame. “Take yer hat off and let’s have a

sight at the looks of it.”Down rippled the brown cascade.“Twenty dollars,” said Madame, lifting the mass with a practised

hand.“Give it to me quick,” said Della.

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Oh, and the next two hours tripped by on rosy wings. Forget thehashed metaphor. She was ransacking the stores for Jim’s present.

She found it at last. It surely had been made for Jim and no oneelse. There was no other like it in any of the stores, and she hadturned all of them inside out. It was a platinum fob chain simple andchaste in design, properly proclaiming its value by substance aloneand not by meretricious ornamentation–as all good things shoulddo. It was even worthy of The Watch. As soon as she saw it sheknew that it must be Jim’s. It was like him. Quietness and value–the description applied to both. Twenty-one dollars they took fromher for it, and she hurried home with the 87 cents. With that chainon his watch Jim might be properly anxious about the time in anycompany. Grand as the watch was, he sometimes looked at it onthe sly on account of the old leather strap that he used in place ofa chain.

When Della reached home her intoxication gave way a little toprudence and reason. She got out her curling irons and lightedthe gas and went to work repairing the ravages made by generosityadded to love. Which is always a tremendous task, dear friends–amammoth task.

Within forty minutes her head was covered with tiny, close-lyingcurls that made her look wonderfully like a truant schoolboy. Shelooked at her reflection in the mirror long, carefully, and critically.

“If Jim doesn’t kill me,” she said to herself, “before he takes asecond look at me, he’ll say I look like a Coney Island chorus girl.But what could I do–oh! what could I do with a dollar and eighty-seven cents?”

At 7 o’clock the coffee was made and the frying-pan was on theback of the stove hot and ready to cook the chops.

Jim was never late. Della doubled the fob chain in her hand andsat on the corner of the table near the door that he always entered.Then she heard his step on the stair away down on the first flight,and she turned white for just a moment. She had a habit for sayinglittle silent prayer about the simplest everyday things, and now shewhispered: “Please God, make him think I am still pretty.”

The door opened and Jim stepped in and closed it. He lookedthin and very serious. Poor fellow, he was only twenty-two–and tobe burdened with a family! He needed a new overcoat and he waswithout gloves.

Jim stopped inside the door, as immovable as a setter at thescent of quail. His eyes were fixed upon Della, and there was anexpression in them that she could not read, and it terrified her. Itwas not anger, nor surprise, nor disapproval, nor horror, nor any of


the sentiments that she had been prepared for. He simply stared ather fixedly with that peculiar expression on his face.

Della wriggled off the table and went for him.“Jim, darling,” she cried, “don’t look at me that way. I had my

hair cut off and sold because I couldn’t have lived through Christmaswithout giving you a present. It’ll grow out again–you won’t mind,will you? I just had to do it. My hair grows awfully fast. Say ‘MerryChristmas!’ Jim, and let’s be happy. You don’t know what a nice–what a beautiful, nice gift I’ve got for you.”

“You’ve cut off your hair?” asked Jim, laboriously, as if he hadnot arrived at that patent fact yet even after the hardest mentallabor.

“Cut it off and sold it,” said Della. “Don’t you like me just aswell, anyhow? I’m me without my hair, ain’t I?”

Jim looked about the room curiously.“You say your hair is gone?” he said, with an air almost of idiocy.“You needn’t look for it,” said Della. “It’s sold, I tell you–sold

and gone, too. It’s Christmas Eve, boy. Be good to me, for it wentfor you. Maybe the hairs of my head were numbered,” she went onwith sudden serious sweetness, “but nobody could ever count mylove for you. Shall I put the chops on, Jim?”

Out of his trance Jim seemed quickly to wake. He enfolded hisDella. For ten seconds let us regard with discreet scrutiny someinconsequential object in the other direction. Eight dollars a weekor a million a year–what is the difference? A mathematician or awit would give you the wrong answer. The magi brought valuablegifts, but that was not among them. This dark assertion will beilluminated later on.

Jim drew a package from his overcoat pocket and threw it uponthe table.

“Don’t make any mistake, Dell,” he said, “about me. I don’tthink there’s anything in the way of a haircut or a shave or a sham-poo that could make me like my girl any less. But if you’ll unwrapthat package you may see why you had me going a while at first.”

White fingers and nimble tore at the string and paper. And thenan ecstatic scream of joy; and then, alas! a quick feminine change tohysterical tears and wails, necessitating the immediate employmentof all the comforting powers of the lord of the flat.

For there lay The Combs–the set of combs, side and back, thatDella had worshipped long in a Broadway window. Beautiful combs,pure tortoise shell, with jewelled rims–just the shade to wear in thebeautiful vanished hair. They were expensive combs, she knew, andher heart had simply craved and yearned over them without the

27

least hope of possession. And now, they were hers, but the tressesthat should have adorned the coveted adornments were gone.

But she hugged them to her bosom, and at length she was ableto look up with dim eyes and a smile and say: “My hair grows sofast, Jim!”

And them Della leaped up like a little singed cat and cried, “Oh,oh!”

Jim had not yet seen his beautiful present. She held it out tohim eagerly upon her open palm. The dull precious metal seemedto flash with a reflection of her bright and ardent spirit.

“Isn’t it a dandy, Jim? I hunted all over town to find it. You’llhave to look at the time a hundred times a day now. Give me yourwatch. I want to see how it looks on it.”

Instead of obeying, Jim tumbled down on the couch and put hishands under the back of his head and smiled.

”Dell,” said he, “let’s put our Christmas presents away and keep’em a while. They’re too nice to use just at present. I sold the watchto get the money to buy your combs. And now suppose you put thechops on.”

The magi, as you know, were wise men–wonderfully wise men–who brought gifts to the Babe in the manger. They invented theart of giving Christmas presents. Being wise, their gifts were nodoubt wise ones, possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in caseof duplication. And here I have lamely related to you the uneventfulchronicle of two foolish children in a flat who most unwisely sacri-ficed for each other the greatest treasures of their house. But in alast word to the wise of these days let it be said that of all who givegifts these two were the wisest. O all who give and receive gifts,such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are themagi.

-O’ Henry

Chapter 5

The Needle

‘My good people, nowadays all marriages are arranged by Mr.Love.Young folks fall in love and begin to date. They go out together untilthey start to quarrel and hate each other. In my time we relied onfather and mother and the matchmaker. I myself, did not see myTodie until the wedding ceremony, when he lifted the veil from myface. There he stood with his red beard and disheveled sidelocks. Itwas after Pentecost, but he wore a fur coat as if it was winter. ThatI didn’t faint dead away was a miracle from heaven. I had fastedthrough the long summer day. Still, I wish my best friends no worselife than I had with my husband, he should intercede for me in thenext world. Perhaps I shouldn’t say this, but I can’t wait until oursouls are together again.

“Yes, love-shmuv. What does a young boy or girl know aboutwhat is good for them? Mothers used to know the signs.In Kras-nostaw there lived a woman called Reitze Leah, and when she waslooking for brides for her sons she made sure to drop in on herprospective in-laws early in the morning. If she found that the bedlinens were dirty and the girl in question came to the door withuncombed hair, weary a sloppy dressing gown, that was it. Beforelong everybody in the neighboring villages was onto her, and whenshe was seen in the market place early in the morning, all the younggirls made sure their doors were bolted. She had six able sons.None of the matches she made for them was any good, but that isanother story. A girl maybe be clean and neat before the wedding,but afterwards she becomes a slattern. Everything depends on luck.

‘But let me tell you a story. In Hrubyeshow there lived a rich man.Reb Lemel Wagmeister. In those days we didn’t use surnames, butReb Lemel was so rich that he was always called Wagmeister. Hiswife’s name was Esther Rosa, and she came from the other sideof the Vistula. I see her with my own eyes: a beautiful woman,

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30 CHAPTER 5. THE NEEDLE

with a big city air. She always wore a black-lace mantilla overher wig. Her eyes were dark. She spoke Russian, Polish, German,and maybe even French. She played the piano. Even when thestreets were muddy, she wore high-heeled patent-leather shoes. Oneautumn I saw her hopping from stone to stone like a bird, liftingher skirt with her hands, a real lady. They had an only son, BenZion. He was as like his mother as two drops of water. We weredistant relatives, not on her side but her husband’s. Ben Zion–Benze he was called–had every virtue: he was handsome, clever,learned. He studied the Torah with the rabbi in the daytime and inthe evening a teacher of secular subjects took over. Benze had blackhair and fair complexion, like his mother. When he took a walk inthe summertime wearing his elegant gaberdine with a fashionableslit in the back, and his smart kid boots, all the girls mooned overhim through the windows. Although it is the custom to give dowriesonly to daughters, Benze’s father set aside for his son a sum for tenthousand roubles. What difference did it make to him? Benze washis only heir. They tried to match him with the richest girls inthe province, but Eshter Rosa was very choosy. She had nothingto do, what with three maids, a manservant and a coachman inaddition. So she spent her time looking for brides for Benze. Shehad already inspected the best-looking girls in half of Poland, butnot one she had found without some defect. One wasn’t beautifulenough; another, not sufficiently clever. But what she was lookingfor most was the nobility of character. “Because,” she said, “if awoman is coarse, it is the husband who suffers. I don’t want anywoman to vent her spleen on my Benze.” I was already married atthe time. I married when I was fifteen. Esther Rosa had no realfriend in Hrubyeshow and I became a frequent visitor to her house.She taught me how to knit and embroider and do needlepoint. Shehad golden hands. When the fancy took her, she could make herselfa dress or even a cape. She once made me a dress, just for thefun of it. She had a good head for business as well. Her husbandhardly took a step without consulting her. Whenever she told himto buy or sell a property, Reb Lemel Wagmeister immediately sentfor Lippe the agent and said: “My wife wants to buy or sell suchand such.” She never made a mistake.

‘Well, Benze was already nineteen and not even engaged. In thosedays nineteen was considered an old bachelor. Reb Lemel Wagmeis-ter complained that the boy was being disgraced by his mother’schoosiness. Benze developed pimples on his forehead because heneeded a woman, it was said. We called them passion pimples.

‘One day I came to see Esther Rosa to borrow a ball of yarn.

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And she said to me : “Zeldele, would you like to ride to Zamoscwith me?”

‘ “What will I do in Zamosc?” I asked‘ “What difference does it make?” she replied, “You’ll be my

guest.”‘ Esther Rosa had her own carriage, but this time she went along

with someone else who was going to Zamosc, I guessed that thejourney had something to do with looking for a bride but EstherRosa’s nature was such that one didn’t ask questions. If she werewilling to talk, well and good. If not, you just waited. To make itshort, I went to tell my mother about the trip. No need to ask myhusband. He sat in the study house all day long. When he camehome in the evening, my mother served him supper. In those daysa young Talmud scholar barely knew he had a wife. I don’t believethat he would have recognized me if he met me on the street. Ipacked a dress and a pair of blazooners–I beg your pardon–and Iwas ready for the trip. We were travelling in a nobleman’s carriageand he did the driving himself. Two horses like lions. The road wasdry and smooth as a table. When we arrived in Zamoscm he let usoff not at the marketplace but on a side street where the Gentileslive. Eshther Rosa thanked him and he tipped his hat and wavedhis whip at us good -naturedly. It all look arranged.

‘As a rule,when Esther Rosa travelled any place she dressed aselegantly as a countess. This time she wore a simple cotton dress,and a kerchief over her wig.s IT was summer and she inquired forBerish Lubliner’s dry-goods store.A large store was pointed out tous. Nowadays in a dry-goods store you can only buy yard goods,but in those days they sold everything: thread, wool for knittingmand odds and ends. What didn’t they sell? It was a store as big asa forest, filled with merchandise to the ceiling. At a high desk stooda man writing a ledger, as they do in big cities. I don’t know whathe was, the cashier or the book keeper. Behind a counter stood agirl with black eyes that burned like fire. We happened to be theonly customers in the store, and we approached her. “What can Ido for you?” she asked. “You seem to be strangers.”

‘ “Yes, we are strangers,” said Esther Rosa.‘ “What would you like to see?” the girl asked.‘ “A needle.” said Esther Rosa.‘The moment she heard the word ’needle’, the girl’s face changed

her. Her eyes became angry. “Two women for one needle,” she said.‘Merchants believe that a needle is unlucky. Nobody ever dared

to buy a needle at the beginning of a week, because they knew itmeant the whole week would be unlucky. Even in the middle of


the week the storekeepers did not like to sell needles. One usuallybought a spool of thread, some buttons, and the needle was thrownin without even being mentioned. A needle costs only half a groschenand it was a nuisance to make such small change.

‘ “Yes,” said Esther Rosa. “ All I need is a needle.”‘ The girl frowned but took a box of needles. Esther Rosa

searched through the box and said: “Perhaps you have some otherneedles?”

‘ “What’s wrong with these?” the girl asked impatiently.‘ “Their eyes are too small,” Esther Rosa said, “It will be difficult

to thread them.”‘ “ These are all I have,” the girl said angrily. “ If you can’t see

well, why don’t you buy yourself a pair of eyeglasses?”‘Esther Rosa insisted, “Are you sure you have no others? I must

have a needle with a larger eye.”‘The girl reluctantly pulled out another box and slammed it down

on the counter. Esther Rosa examined several needles and said:“These too have small eyes.”

‘ The girl snatched away the box and screamed: “Why don’t yougo to Lublin and order yourself a special needle with a big eye.”

‘The man at the stand began to laugh. “Perhaps you need asackcloth needle,” he suggested. “Some nerve,” the girl chimed, “tobother people over a half-groschen sale.”

‘Esther Rosa replied: “I have no use for sackcloth or for girlswho are as coarse as sackcloth.” Then she turned to me and said:“Come, Zeldele, they are not our kind.”

The girl turned red in the face and said loudly, “What yokels!Good riddance!”

‘We went out. The whole business had left a bad taste in mymouth. A woman passed by and Esther Rosa asked her the wayto Reb Zelig Izbitzer’s dry-goods store. “Right across the street,”she said, pointing. We crossed the marketplace and entered a storethat was only a third of the size of the first one. Here too therewas a young saleswoman. This one wasn’t dark.; she had red hair.She was not ugly but she had freckles. Her eyes were as green asgooseberries. Esther Rosa asked her if she sold needles. And thegirl replied, “Why not? We sell everything.”

‘ “I’m looking for a needle with a large eye, because I have troublethreading needles,” Esther Rosa said.

‘ “I’ll show you every size we have and you can pick the one thatsuits you best,” the girl replied.

‘I had already guessed what was going on and my heart began tobeat like a thief’s. The girl brought out about ten boxes of needles.

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“Why should you stand?” she said. “Here is a stool. Please beseated.” She also brought a stool for me. It was perfectly clear tome that Esther Rosa was going to test her too.

‘ “Why are the needles all mixed together?” Esther Rosa com-plained. “Each size should be in a different box.”

‘ “When they come from the factory, they are all sorted out,”the girl said apologetically. “But they get mixed up.” I saw EstherRosa was doing her best to make the girl lose her temper. “I don’tsee too well,” Esther Rosa said. “It is dark here.”

‘ “Just one moment and I’ll move the stools to the door. Thereis more light there,” the girl replied.

‘ “Does it pay you to make this effort to just sell a half-pennyneedle?” Esther Rosa asked. And the girl answered: “First of all, aneedle costs only quarter of a penny and then, as the Talmud says,the same law applies to a penny as it does to a hundred guilders.Besides, today you buy a needle and tomorrow you may be buyingsatins for a trousseau.”

‘ “Is that so? then how come the store is empty?” Esther Rosawanted to know. “ Across the street. Berish Lubliner’s store is so fullof customers you can’t find room for a pin between them. I boughtmy materials there but I decided to come here for the needle.”

‘The girl became serious. I was afraid Esther Rosa had overdoneit. Even an angel can lose patience. But the girl said, “Everythingaccording to God’s will.” Esther Rosa made a move to carry on herstool to the door, but the girl stopped her. “Please don’t troubleyourself. I’ll do it.” Esther Rosa interrupted. “Just a moment. Iwant to tell you something.”

‘ “What do you want to tell me?” the girl said setting down thestool.

‘ “My daughter, Mazel Tov!” Esther Rosa called out.The girl turned as white as chalk. “I don’t understand,” she said.‘ “You will be my daughter-in-law,” Esther Rosa announced. “I

am the wife of Reb Lemel Wagmeister of Hrubyeshow. I have comehere to look for a bride for my son. Not to buy a needle. RebBerish’s daughter is like straw mat and you are like silk. You willbe my Benze’s wife, God willing.”

‘ That the girl didn’t faint dead away was a miracle from heaven.Everybody in Zamosc had heard of Reb Lemel Wagmeister. Zamoscis not Lublin. Customers came in and saw what was happening.Esther Rosa took a string of amber beads out of her basket. “Hereis your engagement gift. Bend your head.” The girl lowered her headsubmissively and Esther Rosa placed the beads around her neck. Herfather and mother came running into the store. There was kissing,


embracing, crying. Someone immediately rushed to tell the story toReb Berish’s daughter. When she heard what had happened, sheburst into tears. Her name was Itte. She had a large dowry and wasknown as a shrewd saleswoman. Zelig Izbitzer barely made a living.

‘My good people, it was a match. Esther Rosa wore the pants inthe family. Whatever she said went. And as I said, in those daysyoung people were never asked. An engagement party was held andthe wedding soon after. Zelig Izbitzer could not afford a big wed-ding. he barely could give his daughter a dowry, for he also had twoother daughters, and two sons who were studying in the Yeshiva.But, as you know, Reb Lemel Wagmeister had little need for herdowry. I went to the engagement party and I danced at the wed-ding. Esther Rosa dressed the girl like a princess. She became reallybeautiful. When good luck shines, it shows on the face. Whoeverdid not see that couple standing under the wedding canopy and laterdancing the virtue dance will never know what it means to have joyin children. Afterwards they lived like doves. Exactly to the year,she bore a son.

-Isaac Bashevis Singer

Chapter 6

The Enchanted Pool

The stipulated period of twelve years was drawing to a close.One day, a deer was rubbing itself against a poor brahmana’s fire-

kindling mortar and as it turned to go, the mortar got entangled inits horns and the affrighted animal fled wildly with it into the forest.In those days matches were unknown and fire was kindled with piecesof wood by mechanical friction.

“Alas! The deer is running away with my fire-kindler. Howcan I perform the fire sacrifice?” shouted the brahmana and rushedtowards the Pandavas for help in his extremity.

The Pandavas pursued the animal but it was a magic deer, whichsped in great leaps and bounds, decoying the Pandavas far intothe forest and then disappeared. Worn out by the futile chase, thePandavas sat in great dejection under a banyan tree. Nakula sighed:“We cannot render even this trifling service to the brahmana. Howwe have degenerated!” said he sadly.

Bhima said: “Quite so. When Draupadi was dragged into theassembly, we should have killed those wretches. Is it not because wedid not do so that we have had to suffer all these sorrows?” and helooked at Arjuna sadly.

Arjuna agreed. “I bore in silence the vulgar and insulting bragof that son of the charioteer, doing nothing. So we have deservedlyfallen into this pitiable state.”

Yudhishthira noticed with sorrow that all of them had lost theircheerfulness and courage. He thought they would be more cheerfulwith something to do. He was tormented with thirst and so he saidto Nakula: “Brother, climb that tree and see whether there is anypool or river nearby.”

Nakula climbed the tree, looked around and said: “At a littledistance I see water plants and cranes. There must certainly bewater there.”

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36 CHAPTER 6. THE ENCHANTED POOL

Yudhishthira sent him to fetch some to drink.Nakula was glad when he got to the place and saw there was a

pool. He was very thirsty himself and so thought of quenching histhirst first before taking water in his quiver for his brother. But nosooner did he dip his hand in the transparent water than he hearda voice, which said:

“Do not be rash. This pool belongs to me. O son of Madri,answer my questions and then drink the water.”

Nakula was surprised, but carried away by his intense thirst andheedless of the warning, he drank the water. At once, overcome byirresistible drowsiness, he fell down, to all appearance dead.

Surprised that Nakula had not returned, Yudhishthira sent Sa-hadeva to see what the matter was. When Sahadeva reached thepool and saw his brother lying on the ground, he wondered whetherany harm had come to him. But before looking into the matter fur-ther, rushed irresistibly to the water to quench his burning thirst.

The voice was heard again: “O Sahadeva, this is my pool. Answermy questions and then only may you quench your thirst.”

Like Nakula, Sahadeva also did not heed the warning. He drankthe water and at once dropped down.

Puzzled and worried that Sahadeva also did not return, Yud-hishthira sent Arjuna to see whether the brothers had met with anydanger. “And bring water,” he added, for he was very thirsty.

Arjuna went swiftly. He saw both his brothers lying dead nearthe pool. He was shocked at the sight and felt that they must havebeen killed by some lurking foe.

Though heart-broken with grief and burning with the desire forrevenge, he felt all feelings submerged in a monstrous thirst, whichirresistibly impelled him to the fatal pool. Again, a voice was heard:“Answer my question before you drink the water. This pool is mine.If you disobey me, you will follow your brothers.”

Arjuna’s anger knew no bounds. He cried: “Who are you? Comeand stand up to me, and I will kill you,” and he shot keen-edgedarrows in the direction of the voice. The invisible being laughed inscorn: “Your arrows do but wound the air. Answer my questionsand then you can satisfy your thirst. If you drink the water withoutdoing so, you will die.”

Greatly vexed, Arjuna made up his mind to seek out and grapplewith this elusive foe. But first he had to quench his terrible thirst.Yes, thirst was the enemy he must kill first. So he drank the waterand also fell down dead.

After anxious waiting Yudhishthira turned to Bhima: “Dear brother,Arjuna, the great hero, has also not yet returned. Something ter-

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rible must have happened to our brothers, for our stars are bad.Please seek them out and be quick about it. Also bring water, for Idie of thirst.” Bhima, racked with anxiety, hurried away without aword.

His grief and rage can be imagined when he saw his three brotherslying there dead. He thought: “This is certainly the work of theYakshas. I will hunt them down and kill them. But O! I am sothirsty, I shall first drink water the better to fight them.” And thenhe descended into the pool.

The voice shouted: “Bhimasena, beware. You may drink onlyafter answering my questions. You will die if you disregard mywords.”

“Who are you to dictate to me?” cried Bhima, and he drank thewater avidly, glaring around in defiance. And as he did so, his greatstrength seemed to slip from him like a garment. And he also felldead among his brothers.

Alone, Yudhishthira wailed full of anxiety and thirst. “Have theybeen subjected to a curse or are they wandering about in the forestin a vain search for water or have they fainted or died of thirst?”

Unable to bear these thoughts and driven desperate by an over-powering thirst, he started out to look for his brothers and the pool.

Yudhishthira proceeded in the direction his brothers had takenthrough tracts infested with wild boar and abounding in spotteddear and huge forest birds. Presently he came upon a beautifulgreen meadow, girdling a pool of pellucid water, nectar to his eyes.

But when he saw his brothers lying there like sacred flagpolesthrown pell-mell after a festival, unable to restrain his grief, he liftedhis voice and wept. He stroked the faces of Bhima and Arjuna asthey lay so still and silent there and mourned:

“Was this to be the end of all our vows? Just when our exile isabout to end, you have been snatched away. Even the gods haveforsaken me in my misfortune!”

As he looked at their mighty limbs, now so helpless, he sadlywondered who could have been powerful enough to kill them. Bro-kenly, he reflected: “Surely my heart must be made of steel notto break even after seeing Nakula and Sahadeva dead. For whatpurpose should I continue to live in this world?”

Then a sense of mystery overcame him, for this could be no or-dinary occurrence. The world held no warriors who could overcomehis brothers. Besides, there were no wounds on their bodies whichcould have let out life and their faces were faces of men who sleptin peace and not of those who died in wrath.

There was also no trace of the footprints of an enemy. There


was surely some magic about it. Or, could it be a trick playedby Duryodhana? Might he not have poisoned the water? ThenYudhishthira also descended into the pool, in his turn drawn to thewater by a consuming thirst.

At once the voice without form warned as before: “Your brothersdied because they did not heed my words. Do not follow them.Answer my questions first and then quench your thirst. This poolis mine.”

Yudhishthira knew that these could be none other than the wordsof a Yaksha and guessed what had happened to his brothers. Hesaw a possible way of redeeming the situation.

He said to the bodiless voice: “Please ask your questions.” Thevoice put questions rapidly one after another.

The Yaksha asked: “What makes sun shine every day?”Yudhishthira replied: “The power of Brahman.”The Yaksha asked: “What rescues man in danger?”Yudhishthira replied: “Courage is man’s salvation in danger.”The Yaksha asked: “By the study of which science does man

become wise?”Yudhishthira replied: “Not by studying any sastra does man be-

come wise. It is by association with the great in wisdom that hegets wisdom.”

The Yaksha asked: “What is more nobly sustaining than theearth?”

Yudhishthira replied: “The mother who brings up the childrenshe has borne is nobler and more sustaining than the earth.”

The Yaksha asked: “What is higher than the sky?”Yudhishthira replied: “The father.”The Yaksha asked: “What is fleeter than wind?”Yudhishthira replied: “Mind.”The Yaksha asked: “What is more blighted than withered straw?”Yudhishthira replied: “A sorrow-stricken heart.”The Yaksha asked: “What befriends a traveller?”Yudhishthira replied: “Learning.”The Yaksha asked: “Who is the friend of one who stays at home?”Yudhishthira replied: “The wife.”The Yaksha asked: “Who accompanies a man in death?”Yudhishthira replied: “Dharma. That alone accompanies the

soul in its solitary journey after death.”The Yaksha asked: “Which is the biggest vessel?”Yudhishthira replied: “The earth, which contains all within itself

is the greatest vessel.”The Yaksha asked: “What is happiness?”

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Yudhishthira replied: “Happiness is the result of good conduct.”The Yaksha asked: “What is that, abandoning which man be-

comes loved by all?”Yudhishthira replied: “Pride, for abandoning that man will be

loved by all.”The Yaksha asked: “What is the loss which yields joy and not

sorrow?”Yudhishthira replied: “Anger, giving it up, we will no longer

subject to sorrow.”The Yaksha asked: “What is that, by giving up which, man

becomes rich?”Yudhishthira replied: “Desire, getting rid of it, man becomes

wealthy.”The Yaksha asked: “What makes one a real brahmana? Is it

birth, good conduct or learning? Answer decisively.”Yudhishthira replied: “Birth and learning do not make one a

brahmana. Good conduct alone does. However learned a personmay be he will not be a brahmana if he is a slave to bad habits.Even though he may be learned in the four Vedas, a man of badconduct falls to a lower class.”

The Yaksha asked: “What is the greatest wonder in the world?”Yudhishthira replied: “Every day, men see creatures depart to

Yama’s abode and yet, those who remain seek to live forever. Thisverily is the greatest wonder.”

Thus, the Yaksha posed many questions and Yudhishthira an-swered them all.

In the end the Yaksha asked: “O king, one of your dead brotherscan now be revived. Whom do you want revived? He shall comeback to life.”

Yudhishthira thought for a moment and then replied: “Maythe cloud-complexioned, lotus-eyed, broad-chested and long-armedNakula, lying like a fallen ebony tree, arise.”

The Yaksha was pleased at this and asked Yudhishthira: “Whydid you choose Nakula in preference to Bhima who has the strengthof sixteen thousand elephants? I have heard that Bhima is mostdear to you. And why not Arjuna, whose prowess in arms is yourprotection? Tell me why you chose Nakula rather than either ofthese two.”

Yudhishthira replied: “O Yaksha, dharma is the only shield ofman and not Bhima or Arjuna. If dharma is set at naught, man willbe ruined. Kunti and Madri were the two wives of my father. I amsurviving, a son of Kunti, and so, she is not completely bereaved. Inorder that the scales of justice may be even, I ask that Madri’s son


Nakula may revive.” The Yaksha was pleased with Yudhishthira’simpartiality and granted that all his brothers would come back tolife.

It was Yama, the Lord of Death, who had taken the form of thedeer and the Yaksha so that he might see his son Yudhishthira andtest him. He embraced Yudhishthira and blessed him.

Yama said: “Only a few days remain to complete the stipulatedperiod of your exile in the forest. The thirteenth year will also passby. None of your enemies will be able to discover you. You will suc-cessfully fulfil your undertaking,” and saying this he disappeared.

-C. Rajagopalachari

Chapter 7

The Giraffe Problem

The general public knows little about the Problem Club. Manyare not even aware that it has been in existence for several years.Nor can it be said that the references to it which have appearedfrom time to time in the Press have been very enlightening, or evenreasonably accurate.

For instance, a paragraph in a recent issue of a society paper(which, it may be admitted, is generally well informed) makes var-ious statements as to the Problem Club. It says that the club hasits premises underground in Piccadilly, that a former Premier is amember of it, that all its members are required to swear a mostsolemn oath to act with scrupulous honour in the monthly compe-titions, and that high play frequently goes on. The actual truthis that there are no club premises. The famous but old-fashionedrestaurant that provided two rooms on the first floor for the club’smonthly meetings is not situated in Piccadilly. No Premier has everbeen a member. The story of the solemn oath is even more ab-surd. After all, the members are all gentlemen. They would as soonthink of taking a solemn oath not to cheat at cards or at golf. The”scrupulous honour” is taken for granted. Lastly, there is no highplay in the accepted sense of the term. The amount that a membercan win or lose in the monthly competitions will be stated presently,and any betting on the results is prohibited.

Silly misrepresentations of this kind have caused some annoyance,and it is now though that a discreet but authorised account of somepart of the proceedings of the club would be preferable.

The club consists of twelve members, and the annual subscriptionis one-hundred and thirty-four pounds. Of this sum twenty-fourpounds is alloted to the club expenses, including the club dinnerswhich are held on the first Saturday in every month. Each memberin turn acts as a chairman at one dinner in the year, afterwards

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42 CHAPTER 7. THE GIRAFFE PROBLEM

adjudicating on the problem competition for that month; while atthe other eleven meetings he is himself a competitor, the remainingone hundred and ten pounds of his subscription being treated aseleven entrance fees of ten pounds each. The problems are notof a mathematical nature, and were for some time invented andpropounded by Leonard, the ingenious head waiter of the restaurant.The winner receives the whole of the entrance fees, amounting toone hundred and ten pounds; if there is more than one winner thisamount is divided equally between them. Thus for his investmentof one hundred and ten pounds it is possible that a member mayin one year obtain a return of one thousand two hundred and tenpounds, if he is the sole winner of the eleven competitions, for whichhe is eligible. But the minute-books of the club show that in actualpractice this has never happened; indeed the record, made by Mr.Pusely-Smythe in 1911, is seven wins, and on two occasions, he hadto share the prize with another successful competitor.

It maybe be admitted the club has necessarily been of the natureof a secret society. Some of the problems set have been rather cu-rious, and it has occasionally happened that in the course of theirpractical solution members have been led to do things which mightprejudice them in their domestic or social relations, or even subjectthem to the penalties of the law.

It is permitted to add an account of some of the pre-war meetingsof the club, various natural precautions being taken to prevent thediscovery of the identity of the members.

It was the forty-third meeting meeting of the Problem Club. Din-ner was over, and the members had adjourned to the lofty and com-fortable room where the business of the evening was transacted. Aside-table was suitably equipped with provisions for smokers–all themembers were smokers–and for such other refreshments as mightbe required in the course of the evening. One or two waiters stilllingered–removing a coffee-cup, handing a liquor, or placing an ash-tray and matches conveniently on one of the small tables. A hum ofconversation went on through the blue haze of the cigar-smoke. MrPusely-Smythe, with his usual lugubrious manner,was just comingto the end of a screamingly funny story. Any reference to the com-petition to be settled is by and unwritten law forbidden until thechairman has opened the proceedings, but it was noticeable thatMajor Byles was once more talking of resigning his membership.He was not taken very seriously. He was an original member, and,though he lived in the country for the greater part of the year, hadnever been known to miss a single meeting of the club. His contin-uous bad luck in the competitions had irritated him, but nobody

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believed in his threat of resignation, and it may be doubted if hequite believed in it himself.

The waiters left the room, and Sir Charles Bunford, an elderlygentleman of distinguished appearance, who was chairman for theevening, took his place at his table and arranged his papers. Amongthem the club cheque-book showed temptingly. In accordance withthe club custom by which the chairman at one meeting acted as sec-retary at the next, Dr. Akden took his seat beside Sir Charles andprepared to make a note of the proceedings for the club minute-book.Conversation ceased. The other members seated themselves infor-mally in a semicircle of easy chairs. There was, indeed, a markedabsence of formality at the Problem Club. There was no order ofprecedence. The chairman did not rise when he spoke, nor did mem-bers rise when the answered him.

“Now, gentleman,” Sir Charles began, “we have before us to-night the Giraffe Problem. I will read it out to you as worded byour esteemed friend Leonard: ‘It is required to induce a woman whois unaware of your intention to say to you, “ You ought to have beentaller than a giraffe.” ’Now, of course, I’m not a competitor, but Imust say I’m sorry I’m not. Upon my word, I don’t think Leonardhas ever given us anything quite so easy.”

There were several dissentient voices: “Not a bit of it.” “Can’tagree with you there, Bunford.” “Wish I’d found it so.” “Leonardknew what he was doing this time.”

“Oh., very well,” said Sir Charles smiling. “I should have thoughtthere were a score of conversational openings to which the inevitablereply would be, ‘You ought to have been a giraffe.’ I may be wrong,but still expect that the prize to-night will have to be divided be-tween four or five of you. However we’ll see what luck you’ve had.I’ll begin with you, doctor, and then go on in the direction of thesun and the wine.”

Dr.Alden shook his head. He had a strong head, an alert expres-sion, and a bright eye. “No good,” he said. “There was too much todo in Harley Street this month for me to be able to give the propertime to it. I made an attempt. It has probably cost me the esteemof an excellent woman; these excellent women never think you’reserious except when you’re joking. I gave her the chance to tell meI ought to have been a giraffe, but she never took it. Enough said.Try the next man.”

“The next is our only member of Parliament, Mr. Harding Pope.”“Not competing this month,” said Mr. Pope rather pompously.

“My constituency has made great demands upon me, and I’m unableto defend my entrance fee. Fortunately, the pleasure of the company


in which I find myself is worth far more.”“That’s all right,” said Sir Charles warningly, “but don’t get too

slack. We’ve got a long waiting list. What about you Major Byles?”“My usual luck,” said the Major, “I worked the whole thing out

completely and made all the necessary preparations. I was down atmy cottage at the time. I assure you that during the whole of break-fast one morning I talked about practically nothing except giraffesand the way they can pull down fruit, thanks to their thunderinglong necks. My wife, the children’s governess, and Mrs. Hebor, whowas stopping with us, all heard me, though I can’t say that theyseemed particularly interested. Afterwards my wife and I were inthe garden, and I pointed to a tree full of ripe cherries.”

“ ‘I like fruit,’ I said, ‘I hate climbing trees.’”Now considering the ground-bait that I had been putting down

at breakfast, I consider the betting was ten to one that she wouldreply that I ought to have been a giraffe. Instead of that, she saidthat Wilkins would get them for me, and then seemed surprisedthat I was annoyed. A few minutes later I tried the governess withprecisely the same remark, and she asked me if I would like to havea ladder fetched. (I often wonder what I pay that woman her salaryfor.) Then Mrs.Hebor came out–as dependable a woman as I knowin a general way; you nearly always know what she is going to saybefore she says it–and I told her that I liked cherries, but hatedclimbing to get them.

“ ‘You ought ,’ she began–and this time I thought I really hadgot it–‘to be able to reach some of those without climbing.’

“And after that I gave up. No amount of intelligence can contendagainst luck like that. Matter of fact, I’m tempted to give up thisproblem business altogether.”

“Oh, don’t do that,” said Sir Charles soothingly. “It was hardlines, but we shall see you a prize-winner one of thee days. Now,Mr.Cunliffe, what have you to tell us?”

“I failed,” said the Rev. Septimus Cunliffe, an elderly clericwho specialized in broadmindedness. “Plausible strategy, but dis-appointing results. Nothing of interest to report.”

“Did you do any better, Mr. Matthews?”Mr. Matthews was a man of forty, bald, round-faced, rubicund

, and slightly obese. The task of ordering the club dinners and thewines to be drunk therewith was always left in his hands with a con-fidence which was invariably justified. His knowledge as an epicurewas considerable, and it is possible that his intelligence was less con-siderable, but more than once he had been lucky in a competition.He was the richest man in a club where nobody was very poor, and

45

was good-tempered and popular.“Well, you know,” said Matthews, “ I feel as if I ought to have

won this. At one time it looked as if I simply had it chucked at me.I was talking to Lady Amelia, who does a lot in the East End andis always nosing round for subscriptions.

“ ‘Why do men drink?’ she asked in her blunt way.The question of this competition occurred to me, and it looked

like a good chance. “ ‘Well,’ I said, ‘the pleasure begins in thepalate, but I fancy that it continues in the throat. I often wish Ihad a longer throat.’

“You would hardly have thought she could have missed it, butshe did. Said that she was sure I was not so bad as I made myselfout to be, and milked out a fiver for some rotten ‘good cause.’ ”

“Look here,” said Major Byles, returning from a fruitless visit tothe side-table, “I’ll ask the chairman for a minute’s interval. They’venot put out any seltzer, though they must know that I always takeseltzer with mine.”

“Certainly, Major; certainly. Would somebody kindly touch thebell?”

The seltzer-water was brought and business was resumed.“Your turn next, Jimmy.” said Sir Charles.The Hon. James Feldane, a rather weary young man, said, “Well,

I claim to be a winner, but there’s a shade of doubt about it, andI’ll ask for your ruling. All I can say is that if I don’t touch themoney my luck’s even worse than the Major’s. Like him, I wassystematic about it. My first step was to buy some of the highestcollars that could be got for money–two inches or so too high forme and beastly uncomfortable. I put one of them, and looked like abad freak–something out of a back number of Punch. My next stepwas to call on my married sister. She told me to go home and dressmyself properly, as I knew she would. So I asked in my innocentway what was wrong, and she said I seemed to have mistaken myneck for the Nelson Column.

“ ‘Alluding to my collar?’ I said. ‘Well, I like plenty, I’d wear acollar three feet high if I could.’

“And then my fool of a brother-in-law stuck his oar in, and said,‘You ought to have been a giraffe’; and I’m absolutely certain Dorawould have said it if he hadn’t got in first.

“So there it is–the words were all right, but they were used by aman. Still for some purposes–bankruptcy and things of that kind–aman and his wife count as one, don’t they? What’s the ruling?”

“My ruling,” said Sir Charles, “is that your claim fails. It is re-quired that the words should be used by a woman, and your brother-


in-law is not a woman.”“Yes, I was afraid you’d think so,” said Jimmy, “but it was worth

trying. Anybody want any rotten high collars?”“Now, Mr.Pusely-Smythe was a man of middle age, with dark,

cavernous eyes and an intellectual forehead. He was pale and thin,and was less solemn than he seemed.

“I claim to have won,” he said in a melancholy voice “ My methodwas not the most obvious or direct, and might easily have failed, butthe luck was with me. I must tell you that I happen to know a Mrs.Magsworth, who of late years has given way a good deal to NatureStudy. She haunts the Zoo and Botanical Gardens. She understandsabout the habitat of the hyena, and if cockroaches devour theiryoung, and which end of the tree the onion grows–all that kind ofthing. She is rather severe with people who, as she phrases it , ‘showan abysmal ignorance of the simplest facts,’ She has got a face likea horse though that is not germane to the question. I arranged witha kindly hostess to let me take in Mrs.Magsworth to dinner oneevening–I gather that there was no particular rush for the job.

“I said: ‘I’m so glad to meet you again, Mrs.Margsworth. Withyour knowledge you will be able to settle a point that has beenworrying me for days. My little nephew asked me which was thetallest animal. And, do you know, I couldn’t be quite sure.’

“ ‘Then, Mr.Smythe,’ she said, ‘you ought to have been. A giraffeis much the tallest animal of the mammals.’

“So I claim to have won. She, being a woman ignorant of myintention, was induced to say to me, the words required in the orderrequired and without the interpolation of any other word.”

“But there’s the interpolation of a full stop.” said Mr.HardingPope, and was at once called to order–only the chairman has theright to comment and adjudicate.

Sir Charles took a few moments to consider his decision and thengave the ruling as follows:-

‘ “My ruling is that Mr.Pusely-Smythe’s claim is conditionallyallowed. It is true that Mrs.Magsworth used other words before andafter the words required, but that is not precluded by the termsof the problem. The only other possible objection is that therewas the interpolation of a full stop. Now, there is no full stop inspoken speech: it is represented by a pause. In this case the pauseindicated the end of a sentence. In another case the pause mighthave indicated that woman could not for a moment think of theword giraffe. In that case I am sure that no objection would havebeen raised. Yet there, too, a sign could be used to represent it inprint or writing. Leonard requires certain words in a certain order,

47

but he does not forbid a pause to be made between them. Unlesssome member has induced a woman to use the same words with nopause whatever–which I should rule to be a still better solution–Mr.Pusely-Smythe’s claim is allowed.”

As no other member had met with any success at all, a cheque forone hundred and ten pounds was drawn to the order of Mr.Pusely-Smythe and handed to him with the congratulations of the chair-man.

-Barry Pain

Chapter 8

The Man who Knew TooMuch

I first met Private Quelch at the training depot. A man is liableto acquire in his first week of Army life– together with his uni-form, rifle and equipment – a nickname. Anyone who saw PrivateQuelch, lanky, stooping, frowning through horn-rimmed spectacles,understood why he was known as the Professor. Those who hadany doubts on the subject lost them after five minutes’ conversationwith him.

I remember the first lesson we had in musketry. We stood in anattentive circle while a sergeant, a man as dark and sun-dried asraisins, wearing North-West Frontier ribbons, described the mecha-nism of a Service rifle.

“The muzzle velocity, or speed at which the bullet leaves therifle”, he told us, “is well over two thousand feet per second.”

A voice interrupted. “Two thousand, four hundred and forty feetper second.” It was the Professor.

“That”s right“, the sergeant said without enthusiasm, and wenton lecturing. When he had finished, he put questions to us; and,perhaps in the hope of revenge, he turned with his questions againand again to the Professor. The only result was to enhance theProfessor”s glory. Technical definitions, the parts of the rifle, its useand care, he had them all by heart.

The sergeant asked, “You had any training before?”The Professor answered with a phrase that was to become fa-

miliar to all of us. “No, Sergeant. It’s all a matter of intelligentreading.”

That was our introduction to him. We soon learned more abouthim. He saw to that. He meant to get on, he told us. He had brains.He was sure to get a commission, before long. As a first step, he

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50 CHAPTER 8. THE MAN WHO KNEW TOO MUCH

meant to get a stripe.In pursuit of his ambition he worked hard. We had to give him

credit for that. He borrowed training manuals and stayed up late atnights reading them. He badgered the instructors with questions.He drilled with enthusiasm, and on route marches he was not onlymiraculously tireless but infuriated us all with his horrible hearti-ness. “What about a song, chaps?” is not greeted politely at theend of thirty miles. His salute at the pay table was a model to be-hold. When officers were in sight he would swing his skinny armsand march to the canteen like a Guardsman.

And day in and day out, he lectured to us in his droning, remorse-less voice on every aspect of human knowledge. At first we had acertain respect for him, but soon we lived in terror of his approach.We tried to hit back at him with clumsy sarcasms and practicaljokes. The Professor scarcely noticed; he was too busy working forhis stripe.

Each time one of us made a mistake the Professor would publiclycorrect him. Whenever one of us shone, the Professor outshone him.When, after a hard morning’s work cleaning out our hut, we listenedin silence to the Orderly Officer’s praise, the Professor would breakout with a ringing, dutifully beaming, “Thank you, sir!” And howsuperior, how condescending he was! It was always, “Let me showyou, fellow”, or, “No, you’ll ruin your rifle that way, old man.”

We used to pride ourselves on aircraft recognition. Once, outfor a walk, we heard the drone of a plane flying high overhead.None of us could even see it in the glare of the sun. Without even aglance upward the Professor announced, “That, of course, is a NorthAmerican Harvard Trainer. It can be unmistakably identified by theharsh, engine note, due to the high tip speed of the airscrew.”

What could a gang of louts like us do with a man like that?None of us will ever forget the drowsy summer afternoon which

was such a turning-point in the Professor’s life.We were sprawling contentedly on the warm grass while Corporal

Turnbull was taking a lesson on the hand grenade.Corporal Turnbull was a young man, but he was not a man to be

trifled with. He had come back from Dunkirk with all his equipmentcorrect and accounted for and his pet kitten in his pocket. He wasour hero, and we used to tell each other that he was so tough thatyou could hammer nails into him without his noticing it.

“The outside of a grenade, as you can see,” Corporal Turnbullwas saying, “is divided up into a large number of fragments to assistsegmentation-”

“Forty-four.”

51

“What’s that?” The Corporal looked over his shoulder.“Forty-four segments.” The Professor beamed at him.The Corporal said nothing, but his brow tightened. He opened

his mouth to resume.“And by the way, Corporal.” We were all thunder-struck. The

Professor was speaking again. “Shouldn’t you have started off withthe five characteristics of the grenade? Our instructor at the othercamp always used to, you know.”

In the silence that followed, a dark flush stained the tan of theCorporal’s face. “Here,” he said at last, “you give this lecture!” Asif afraid to say any more, he tossed the grenade to the Professor.Quite unabashed, Private Quelch climbed to his feet and with theair of a man coming into his birthright gave us an unexceptionablelecture on the grenade.

The squad listened in a cowed, horrified kind of silence. Corpo-ral Turnbull stood and watched, impassive except for a searchingintentness of gaze. When the lecture was finished he said, “Thankyou, Private Quelch. Fall in with the others now.” He did not speakagain until we had fallen in and were waiting to be dismissed. Thenhe addressed us.

“As some of you may have heard,” he began deliberately, “theplatoon officer has asked me to nominate one of you for-” He pausedand looked lingeringly up and down the ranks as if seeking finalconfirmation of a decision.

So this was the great moment! Most of us could not help glancingat Private Quelch, who stood rigidly to attention and stared straightin front of him with an expression of self-conscious innocence.

“-for permanent cookhouse duties. I’ve decided that PrivateQuelch is just the man for the job.”

Of course, it was a joke for days afterwards; a joke and joy to allof us.

I remember, though...My friend Trower and I were talking about it a few days later.

We were returning from the canteen to our own hut.Through the open door we could see the three cooks standing

against the wall as if at bay; and from within came the monotonousbeat of a familiar voice.

“Really, I must protest against this abominably unscientific andunhygienic method of peeling potatoes. I need only draw your at-tention to the sheer waste of vitamin values...”

We fled.

-Alexander Baron

52 CHAPTER 8. THE MAN WHO KNEW TOO MUCH

Chapter 9

uMPiring

There was a time when half the city of Calcutta ran away to villagesin Bengal in fear of the Japanese bomb. We too went to a placecalled Atghara. It was about seven miles from Tarakeshwar. Wesaw here the beginning of a great movement that has continued tothe present day: the annual cricket match between Atghara and itsneighbouring village, Bakdeehgi.

Bengal, at that time, still had a few zamindars left. The Sinhasreigned in Atghara; Bakdeeghi was ruled by the Mukherjees. It wassaid that the feud between the two started the day Lord Cornwallisintroduced the zamindari system. However, over the years the vio-lence in their conflict has abated. Since the second world war, theyhave been content to play only a cricket match every year to provetheir individual might. It’s always held during the Christmas week.The members of the two rival families begin to return to their ownvillages a week before the match is to be played.

Bakdeeghi has won 13 times so far, and Atghara has 12 victoriesto their credit. No match has ended in a draw. The game is playedin the ”home-away” system-in the football ground of Bakdeeghi oneyear and the next in the playground of Atghara.

The general public in both places has become quite familiar withthe rules and methods of the games. People clap after a maidenover, and chuckle appreciatively at every cheeky single. The crowdincludes such personalities as the wife of Bakdeeghi’s wicket keeper,Panchu, and the mother of the gigantic fast bowler of Atghara,Chandi (who also happens to be the local doctor’s compounder).

Right from the first year, the home-team had always providedlunch to their opponents. But this tradition came to a grinding haltabout six years ago, after a somewhat unfortunate incident. Thatyear the match was being played at Bakdeeghi. Tragedy struck theplayers of Atghara half-an-hour after lunch. Instead of fielding the

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54 CHAPTER 9. UMPIRING

whole team was seen disappearing one by one behind the bushesthat line the playground. This resulted in Atghara’s defeat andan immediate introduction of the modern Bring Your Own Lunchsystem..

According to the local rules of the match, one umpire had to bepresent from each side. The Maths teacher of the Atghara HighSchool, Buddhadeb Babu, had been acting as umpire for the lastthree years. But this time he shook his head and said, No. The rea-son for his refusal was not difficult to guess. Last year he had upheldBakdeeghi’s appeals for three run-outs and two LBWs, resulting inAtghara’s defeat. For about four months after that, he could notgo out anywhere, he complained–not to any public place, not evento the local market, post office or the health centre. Rumour hadit been that he had received substantial benefits from Bakdeeghi.That the secretary of the Bakdeeghi High School had offered himthe post of the Assistant Headmaster and that Panchu had sent hima tin of pure mustard oil.

Eveb Paramesh Sinha of the famous Sinha family failed to per-suade Buddha Babu, who kept saying, I have always had a cleanchit from my friends and neighbours, even my pupils. And now,look at the price I have had to pay in spite of my honesty. GoodGod, they say I was bribed!”

Luckily for us, shortly before the match was to take place, a Mem-ber of Parliament happened to visit Atghara. One of my friends,Nantu Dutta, suggested that we approach the visiting MP, Mr GopinathGhosh. It was hoped that he would be able to take an impartial deci-sion since he was not related to any family of Atghara or Bakdeeghi.Besides, no one in the entire district would dare to question any de-cision he took.

Gopinath Ghosh accepted our proposal immediately, much to oursurprise. “There is just one little thing I want to point out,” he said,“I have never played cricket in my life and I know nothing about itsrules and regulations.”

“No problem,” said Parameshda, not willing to deprive Atgharaof the glory of having an MP as their umpire, “We still have fourdays in hand. I’ll give you a copy of the Wisden. You will soon havethe rules at our fingertips.”

“All you have to do,” said Nantu, “ is mug them up.”“What is really important,” I said, “is personality. And you

have that in plenty. Why, even ministers are scared to argue withyou,aren’t they?”

Mr. Ghosh smiled lightly and nodded in agreement.We returned, much reassured. And Parameshda and I went the

55

next day, clutching a copy of the Wisden.Parameshda told me. “These politics-wallahs are all the same. If

you offer them a plate of rules and regulations, section by subsection–there’s not a single politician in the world who will not lick it clean!”

A little while later, we were sitting with Mr.Ghosh. “Look at rulenumber 35.” Parameshda said. “A batsman is considered caught outif the fielder holds the ball close to himself. But he is also declaredcaught out if the ball slips between the pads of the wicket-keeper.Isn’t it funny? The two things are not the same, are they?”

“How interesting,” said Mr. Ghosh.Parameshda served the second helping. “The fourth subsection

of rule number 20 says the umpire is not the boundary.”“Thank God. If he was, every batsman would try to hit the

umpire! I must say the people who devised these rules must havebeen quite sensible. Don’t worry–I’ll have no problem in learningthese by heart.”

Three days later, shortly before the match was to begin, we foundMr Ghosh sitting in a chair, engrossed in the Wisden. This was abit disconcerting. Didn’t the main have it all by heart as he hadpromised? And what would the Bakdeeghi team say if they sawhim?

Mr Ghosh beamed as he saw us approach. “Excellent book. I’llstart a motion to include it in the Parliament Library,” he said.

“Sir,” Nantu reminded him, “don’t forget your personality.”We heard footsteps behind us. Patu Mukherjee of Bakdeeghi had

arrived.“Who’s your umpire?” he asked.Parameshda shrugged nonchalantly. “A member of the Parlia-

mentary Subcommittee for Company Law, Mr Gopinath Ghosh.Who’s yours?”

Patu looked crestfallen. “Ours? The same as always, HarishKarmakar.” Harish happened to be the prompter of the BakdeeghiDramatic Society. He was well-known for the composure with whichhe said “Not-out!” even when the ball came straight and hit thestumps.

Bakdeeghi won the toss and allowed us to bat. Gopinath Ghoshwas seen walking towards the stumps with slow, measured steps,exuding personality from every pore. Harish followed him, visiblyshaken.

A stunned silence prevailed among the players of Bakdeeghi.None of the yelled, no one made invalid appeals. Even Malkhandi,whose powerful lungs usually scared birds away, made just one ap-peal in such soft and respectful tone that Mr.Ghosh failed to hear


him. The whole atmosphere was so abnormal that even the Atgharabatsmen began to feel nervous.

However, the innings finally drew to close at 112 runs.Bakdeeghi’s opening batsmen made their appearance, and promptly

one of them was sent back to the pavilion. This batsman, none otherthan Patu Mukherjee, had tried to hit a ball that was outside the off-stump. Atghara’s wicket-keeper caught the ball and made a strongappeal. Patu forgot to argue as Mr.Ghosh’s hand went up, andslowly returned to the pavilion.

The score read 0 for 1.Mr. Ghosh rejected two appeals for LBW in the next over. We

didn’t mind this as his impartiality had been established. The sec-ond wicket fell at 40 runs. It was not very difficult to get the nextsix wickets.

The score stood at 101 for 8. The batsmen at the crease wereAtul Mukherjee (height: 6 feet, weight: 94.5 kgs) and Bishtu Mishir(height: 5 feet, 2 inches, weight: the same).

These two settled down quickly and took Bakdeeghi up to 109.Their supporters began to get noisy as victory seemed within easyreach, with just four runs to win and two wickets in hand.

And then it happened.Parameshda delivered a very slow ball. Mishirji had probably

thought at first of making a sweep to the left.But the ball was soslow that he appeared to get quite confused at the last moment andswung the bat straight at the ball. A catch went up, very high, fromwhat looked like in the middle of the pitch.

Dr Bhuvaneshwar Singi, the homeopath, the worst but the mostenthusiastic fielder of Atgharam was standing between the mid-offand cover point. He ran on to the pitch, palms cupped together,ready to recieve the ball as it fell. Just then Mishirji bellowed toAtul Mukherjee–“Run!”–and proceeded to do so himself, holdingthe bat up like a burnished sword. Atul followed suit, his bat slungover his right shoulder.

Dr Singi, of course, could hear the earth rumble as the totalweight, in the region of 190 kgs, hurtled across the pitch. Being mildand polite by nature, he began to step out of the way. But Chandi’syell shot through the air–“Stupid ass, you’ll miss the catch!”

The doctor hesitated for only a second and then placed himselfonce again between the two human steam-rollers. They ran straightinto him from both sides, just as the ball reached his outstretchedhands. A moment later all three were rolling in the ground. How-ever, in all this confusion, the doctor had not lost his enthusiasm.He extricate his head somehow and uttered a noise that sounded

57

like, “Howzzat?”“Out!” said Mr Ghosh, without the slight hesitation.The two batsmen picked themselves up, dusted each other and

stared at the umpire. The doctor was busy trying to find the piecesof the broken spectacles.

“Out!” said Mr Ghosh again.“Why?” asked Mishirji, once more holding the bat like a sword.“For obstructing the field,” replied Gopinath Ghosh and to ev-

eryone’s astonishment, proceeded to recite rule number 40.This made no sense to Mishirji who did not understand a word

of English. Bewildered, he stared at Atul.“Okay,” said Atul, who happened to be an MA in English.“If

that’s what the rule says, that’s what it must be. But,” he addedin a doubtful tone, “who is out?”

Silence. The players and the spectators gaped collectively at MrGhosh.

But Gopinath Ghosh was silent, too. He had memorized all therules of cricket but the book had not taught him what to do if sucha complex situation arose. Both batsmen had collided and fallen ontop of a fielder. Who then was responsible for the obstruction?

Mr Ghosh, used to taking decisions, now took a quick one.“Both,” he said gravely, raising two fingers.Strangely enough, neither batsmen argued. Both left the field

quietly. Atghara won by three runs.There was a great deal of whispering among the Bakdeeghi sup-

porters, but none came forward to object since no one knew theactual rules in detail.

The epilogue to the story came a week later. Patu Mukherjeestormed into Parameshda’s room one day, a Wisden in his hands.

“I shall sue you!” he cried. “You defeated us simply because yourumpire was an MP! Look read the small print.”

Parameshda squinted at the portion marked in red ink and readaloud, “Only the striker can be declared out.”

“Do you see?” Patu went on. “Only one person can be got ridof. Not both.”

Parameshda opened his mouth to speak, but shut it as Patudropped his bombshell.

“Next time,” said Patu, solemnly. “We shall also arrange forsome uMPiring!”

-Moti Nandy

Chapter 10

The Bet

It was a dark autumn night. The old banker was walking up anddown his study and remembering how, fifteen years before, he hadgiven a party one autumn evening. There had been many clevermen there, and there had been interesting conversations. Amongother things they had talked of capital punishment. The majorityof the guests, among whom were many journalists and intellectualmen, disapproved of the death penalty. They considered that formof punishment out of date, immoral, and unsuitable for ChristianStates. In the opinion of some of them the death penalty ought tobe replaced everywhere by imprisonment for life. “I don’t agree withyou,” said their host the banker. “I have not tried either the deathpenalty or imprisonment for life, but if one may judge a priori, thedeath penalty is more moral and more humane than imprisonmentfor life. Capital punishment kills a man at once, but lifelong impris-onment kills him slowly. Which executioner is the more humane, hewho kills you in a few minutes or he who drags the life out of youin the course of many years?”

“Both are equally immoral,” observed one of the guests, “for theyboth have the same object - to take away life. The State is not God.It has not the right to take away what it cannot restore when itwants to.”

Among the guests was a young lawyer, a young man of five-and-twenty. When he was asked his opinion, he said:

“The death sentence and the life sentence are equally immoral,but if I had to choose between the death penalty and imprisonmentfor life, I would certainly choose the second. To live anyhow is betterthan not at all.”

A lively discussion arose. The banker, who was younger and morenervous in those days, was suddenly carried away by excitement; hestruck the table with his fist and shouted at the young man:

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60 CHAPTER 10. THE BET

“It’s not true! I’ll bet you two million you wouldn’t stay in soli-tary confinement for five years.”

“If you mean that in earnest,” said the young man, “I’ll take thebet, but I would stay not five but fifteen years.”

“Fifteen? Done!” cried the banker. “Gentlemen, I stake twomillion¡‘

“Agreed! You stake your millions and I stake my freedom!” saidthe young man.

And this wild, senseless bet was carried out! The banker, spoiltand frivolous, with millions beyond his reckoning, was delighted atthe bet. At supper he made fun of the young man, and said:

“Think better of it, young man, while there is still time. To metwo million is a trifle, but you are losing three or four of the bestyears of your life. I say three or four, because you won’t stay longer.Don’t forget either, you unhappy man, that voluntary confinementis a great deal harder to bear than compulsory. The thought thatyou have the right to step out in liberty at any moment will poisonyour whole existence in prison. I am sorry for you.”

And now the banker, walking to and fro, remembered all this,and asked himself: “What was the object of that bet? What is thegood of that man’s losing fifteen years of his life and my throwingaway two million? Can it prove that the death penalty is betteror worse than imprisonment for life? No, no. It was all nonsensicaland meaningless. On my part it was the caprice of a pampered man,and on his part simple greed for money ...”

Then he remembered what followed that evening. It was decidedthat the young man should spend the years of his captivity underthe strictest supervision in one of the lodges in the banker’s garden.It was agreed that for fifteen years he should not be free to crossthe threshold of the lodge, to see human beings, to hear the humanvoice, or to receive letters and newspapers. He was allowed to havea musical instrument and books, and was allowed to write letters, todrink wine, and to smoke. By the terms of the agreement, the onlyrelations he could have with the outer world were by a little windowmade purposely for that object. He might have anything he wanted- books, music, wine, and so on - in any quantity he desired bywriting an order, but could only receive them through the window.The agreement provided for every detail and every trifle that wouldmake his imprisonment strictly solitary, and bound the young manto stay there exactly fifteen years, beginning from twelve o’clock ofNovember 14, 1870, and ending at twelve o’clock of November 14,1885. The slightest attempt on his part to break the conditions,if only two minutes before the end, released the banker from the

61

obligation to pay him the two million.For the first year of his confinement, as far as one could judge

from his brief notes, the prisoner suffered severely from lonelinessand depression. The sounds of the piano could be heard continuallyday and night from his lodge. He refused wine and tobacco. Wine,he wrote, excites the desires, and desires are the worst foes of theprisoner; and besides, nothing could be more dreary than drinkinggood wine and seeing no one. And tobacco spoilt the air of hisroom. In the first year the books he sent for were principally of alight character; novels with a complicated love plot, sensational andfantastic stories, and so on.

In the second year the piano was silent in the lodge, and the pris-oner asked only for the classics. In the fifth year music was audibleagain, and the prisoner asked for wine. Those who watched himthrough the window said that all that year he spent doing nothingbut eating and drinking and lying on his bed, frequently yawningand angrily talking to himself. He did not read books. Sometimesat night he would sit down to write; he would spend hours writing,and in the morning tear up all that he had written. More than oncehe could be heard crying.

In the second half of the sixth year the prisoner began zealouslystudying languages, philosophy, and history. He threw himself ea-gerly into these studies - so much so that the banker had enoughto do to get him the books he ordered. In the course of four yearssome six hundred volumes were procured at his request. It was dur-ing this period that the banker received the following letter from hisprisoner:

“My dear Jailer, I write you these lines in six languages. Showthem to people who know the languages. Let them read them. Ifthey find not one mistake I implore you to fire a shot in the garden.That shot will show me that my efforts have not been thrown away.The geniuses of all ages and of all lands speak different languages,but the same flame burns in them all. Oh, if you only knew whatunearthly happiness my soul feels now from being able to understandthem!” The prisoner’s desire was fulfilled. The banker ordered twoshots to be fired in the garden.

Then after the tenth year, the prisoner sat immovably at thetable and read nothing but the Gospel. It seemed strange to thebanker that a man who in four years had mastered six hundredlearned volumes should waste nearly a year over one thin book easyof comprehension. Theology and histories of religion followed theGospels.

In the last two years of his confinement the prisoner read an


immense quantity of books quite indiscriminately. At one time hewas busy with the natural sciences, then he would ask for Byron orShakespeare. There were notes in which he demanded at the sametime books on chemistry, and a manual of medicine, and a novel,and some treatise on philosophy or theology. His reading suggesteda man swimming in the sea among the wreckage of his ship, andtrying to save his life by greedily clutching first at one spar andthen at another.

The old banker remembered all this, and thought:“To-morrow at twelve o’clock he will regain his freedom. By our

agreement I ought to pay him two million. If I do pay him, it is allover with me: I shall be utterly ruined.”

Fifteen years before, his millions had been beyond his reckoning;now he was afraid to ask himself which were greater, his debts or hisassets. Desperate gambling on the Stock Exchange, wild speculationand the excitability whic h he could not get over even in advancingyears, had by degrees led to the decline of his fortune and the proud,fearless, self-confident millionaire had become a banker of middlingrank, trembling at every rise and fall in his investments. “Cursedbet!” muttered the old man, clutching his head in despair “Whydidn’t the man die? He is only forty now. He will take my lastpenny from me, he will marry, will enjoy life, will gamble on theExchange; while I shall look at him with envy like a beggar, andhear from him every day the same sentence: ’I am indebted to youfor the happiness of my life, let me help you!’ No, it is too much!The one means of being saved from bankruptcy and disgrace is thedeath of that man!”

It struck three o’clock, the banker listened; everyone was asleepin the house and nothing could be heard outside but the rustling ofthe chilled trees. Trying to make no noise, he took from a fireproofsafe the key of the door which had not been opened for fifteen years,put on his overcoat, and went out of the house.

It was dark and cold in the garden. Rain was falling. A dampcutting wind was racing about the garden, howling and giving thetrees no rest. The banker strained his eyes, but could see neither theearth nor the white statues, nor the lodge, nor the trees. Going tothe spot where the lodge stood, he twice called the watchman. Noanswer followed. Evidently the watchman had sought shelter fromthe weather, and was now asleep somewhere either in the kitchen orin the greenhouse.

“If I had the pluck to carry out my intention,” thought the oldman, “Suspicion would fall first upon the watchman.”

He felt in the darkness for the steps and the door, and went

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into the entry of the lodge. Then he groped his way into a littlepassage and lighted a match. There was not a soul there. Therewas a bedstead with no bedding on it, and in the corner there was adark cast-iron stove. The seals on the door leading to the prisoner’srooms were intact.

When the match went out the old man, trembling with emotion,peeped through the little window. A candle was burning dimly inthe prisoner’s room. He was sitting at the table. Nothing could beseen but his back, the hair on his head, and his hands. Open bookswere lying on the table, on the two easy-chairs, and on the carpetnear the table.

Five minutes passed and the prisoner did not once stir. Fifteenyears’ imprisonment had taught him to sit still. The banker tappedat the window with his finger, and the prisoner made no movementwhatever in response. Then the banker cautiously broke the sealsoff the door and put the key in the keyhole. The rusty lock gave agrating sound and the door creaked. The banker expected to hear atonce footsteps and a cry of astonishment, but three minutes passedand it was as quiet as ever in the room. He made up his mind to goin.

At the table a man unlike ordinary people was sitting motionless.He was a skeleton with the skin drawn tight over his bones, withlong curls like a woman’s and a shaggy beard. His face was yellowwith an earthy tint in it, his cheeks were hollow, his back long andnarrow, and the hand on which his shaggy head was propped wasso thin and delicate that it was dreadful to look at it. His hair wasalready streaked with silver, and seeing his emaciated, aged-lookingface, no one would have believed that he was only forty. He wasasleep ... In front of his bowed head there lay on the table a sheetof paper on which there was something written in fine handwriting.

“Poor creature!” thought the banker, “he is asleep and most likelydreaming of the millions. And I have only to take this half-deadman, throw him on the bed, stifle him a little with the pillow, andthe most conscientious expert would find no sign of a violent death.But let us first read what he has written here ... ”

The banker took the page from the table and read as follows:’To-morrow at twelve o’clock I regain my freedom and the right

to associate with other men, but before I leave this room and seethe sunshine, I think it necessary to say a few words to you. Witha clear conscience I tell you, as before God, who beholds me, thatI despise freedom and life and health, and all that in your books iscalled the good things of the world.

’For fifteen years I have been intently studying earthly life. It is


true I have not seen the earth nor men, but in your books I havedrunk fragrant wine, I have sung songs, I have hunted stags andwild boars in the forests, have loved women ... Beauties as etherealas clouds, created by the magic of your poets and geniuses, havevisited me at night, and have whispered in my ears wonderful talesthat have set my brain in a whirl. In your books I have climbed tothe peaks of Elburz and Mont Blanc, and from there I have seen thesun rise and have watched it at evening flood the sky, the ocean,and the mountain-tops with gold and crimson. I have watched fromthere the lightning flashing over my head and cleaving the storm-clouds. I have seen green forests, fields, rivers, lakes, towns. I haveheard the singing of the sirens, and the strains of the shepherds’pipes; I have touched the wings of comely devils who flew downto converse with me of God ... In your books I have flung myselfinto the bottomless pit, performed miracles, slain, burned towns,preached new religions, conquered whole kingdoms ...

’Your books have given me wisdom. All that the unresting thoughtof man has created in the ages is compressed into a small compassin my brain. I know that I am wiser than all of you.

’And I despise your books, I despise wisdom and the blessingsof this world. It is all worthless, fleeting, illusory, and deceptive,like a mirage. You may be proud, wise, and fine, but death willwipe you off the face of the earth as though you were no more thanmice burrowing under the floor, and your posterity, your history,your immortal geniuses will burn or freeze together with the earthlyglobe.

’You have lost your reason and taken the wrong path. You havetaken lies for truth, and hideousness for beauty. You would marvelif, owing to strange events of some sorts, frogs and lizards suddenlygrew on apple and orange trees instead of fruit, or if roses began tosmell like a sweating horse; so I marvel at you who exchange heavenfor earth. I don’t want to understand you.

’To prove to you in action how I despise all that you live by, Irenounce the two million of which I once dreamed as of paradise andwhich now I despise. To deprive myself of the right to the money Ishall go out from here five hours before the time fixed, and so breakthe compact ...”

When the banker had read this he laid the page on the table,kissed the strange man on the head, and went out of the lodge,weeping. At no other time, even when he had lost heavily on theStock Exchange, had he felt so great a contempt for himself. Whenhe got home he lay on his bed, but his tears and emotion kept himfor hours from sleeping.

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Next morning the watchmen ran in with pale faces, and told himthey had seen the man who lived in the lodge climb out of the win-dow into the garden, go to the gate, and disappear. The bankerwent at once with the servants to the lodge and made sure of theflight of his prisoner. To avoid arousing unnecessary talk, he tookfrom the table the writing in which the millions were renounced,and when he got home locked it up in the fireproof safe.

-Anton Chekhov

Chapter 11

Michelangelo

Four years had passed since Michelangelo’s return from Florence.And Rome was beginning to bore him.

“You cant find faces in Rome,” Michelangelo grumbled to PopeJulius.“Theres no character in the faces here. They all look alike!”

“And what do you see in my face?” the Pope asked almost injest.

Without even a pause, the artist replied, “A burning candle.”It took a minute for Pope Julius to understand the barbed words.“I think I know what you mean.”he said finally with a smile.

“Im just one more candle that burns at the altar alongside thosethousand others, right?”

Michelangelo was silent.“Angelo”, the Pope continued, for four whole years youve been

looking for Judas. I cant believe that, in this vast universe that theLord has created, where no two faces look alike, you cannot findfaces, cannot discover models. Surely . . . ”

Before the Pope could finish, Michelangelo had walked out.Pope Julius looked pensively at the retreating back of his moody

painter. Four years ago, Pope Julius had commissioned Michelan-gelo for a special task; To paint the frescoes of important eventsfrom the Bible on the walls and ceiling of the Sistine Chapel in St.Peters Basilica. Now they were nearly done. Only the Last Sup-per” remained unfinished and, I dont want any unpleasantness atthis stage,” the Pope murmured to himself. He had not forgottenthe time when Michelangelo was carving the Crucifixion-in wood-forthe Church of the Holy Spirit and he had come excitedly to Julius,saying he had found just the right model. The model was a deadman! The Pope remembered ruefully how the funeral had been heldup for twelve hours.

Bramante, he thought now, yes, Bramante was a great painter,

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too. He, unlike Michelangelo, proudly proclaimed that he conjuredfaces from his imagination. But even the Pope had to admit this-Bramantes faces looked as if they had emerged from a commonmould. According to the Medici, all Bramantes characters bore astrong family resemblance.

Pope Julius had no choice but to dismiss Bramanate and ap-proach Michelangelo.

Four years ago, Michelangelo had started painting the ceiling ofthe Sistine Chapel. He would lie for hours beneath the dome ofthe Sistine Chapel, staring at it and muttering to himself. In thoselime coated brick and mud walls, Angelo was searching for faces.The faces of Jesus and of the Virgin Mary, of Patrick, Yohanna andJudas. He swore he could see their flesh and blood forms. But theirfaces”, he mumbled, ”their faces are buried deep in the verse of theBible! They elude me”, he groaned, ”they continue to elude!”

The Pope had begun to doubt his sanity. Once he had stood veryclose and overheard him. Michelangelo was repeating passages fromthe Bible.

“What exactly are you doing, Angelo?” the Pope had asked cu-riously.

“What?” Angelo had looked up, startled. “Oh Im trying to un-ravel these verses. Maybe then, Ill find the faces. There was a hintof despair in Michelangelos voice. The Pope understood Angelosfrustration. Julius remembered how, during one of his inspection,he had seen that Angelo had drawn several sketches of the AngelGabriel.

“How did you see Gabriel?” he had asked. “He doesnt belong tothis world, either.”

Angelo had looked up to meet the Popes eyes.

“I heard his voice in the Old Testament.”

“Then you must have heard Gods voice, too,” the Pope had joked.

“I heard his silence.”

Angelos words were terse, abrupt. But the Pope had knownwithout the shadow of a doubt that he had chosen the right manfor the task.

“Eccentric,” he had told the Vatican committee. “But he is theonly one who can paint the Sistine Chapel.”

Michelangelo had found Mary with the greatest of ease.

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It had happened long ago, the day he saw his mother carryingtwo pots of water, strung from a bamboo stick on her shoulder.And he had thought, the woman who had borne the Messiah inher womb would have been like his mother, just as thin and frail.He remembered observing his mother with unblinking eyes as hewas warmed the water for his fathers bath. Her face reflected thewarmth of the roaring fire-flushed, burning like molten gold. AndMichelangelo had immediately repaired to his study to sketch theface. Again and again.

That night while she sat in front of the kitchen fire, he had asked,“Mother, why didnt you give birth to Christ?”

“Because,” his mother had said with a wry smile, “I met yourfather. Just look at him lying there. Dead drunk. Go, see to him.”

Michelangelo had sat down to make a large sketch to hang overthe bed so that his father could see what he looked like when in adrunken stupor.

Strangely his mother had liked that sketch and had kept it withher, always. Right till the day she died, she kept telling her son,“Make a statue of your father just as he is in your painting. Helooks so innocent there.” Not knowing what to say, Angelo had al-ways replied. “Every face demands a special kind of marble. I cantfind a marble with a character to match Fathers.”

Ah, but that was a long, long time ago. Michelangelo remem-bered that they were living in Bologna then. He even rememberedvividly the pub at the corner of their street. It was his special haunt.His fathers too.

While his father sat drinking at the bar, Michelangelo sat ona bench outside. He would buy hot peanuts from a nearby vendor,noticing how, every time the man weighed them out, a few would fallto the ground. A naked urchin would scurry across the street, pickup the nuts and give them to the vendor, quietly popping one intohis mouth-one peanut for every time he helped the peanut-seller.Then he would wait for the next customer.

The sight fascinated Angelo. He drew several sketches of thechild. Many years later, while carving the Madonna of Bruges, hehad used those sketches to make the little Jesus, small and naked.

And then the Pope had asked him to paint the frescoes of theSistine Chapel. He had refused at first, telling the Pope point-blankthat he was a sculptor and not a painter. If finally he had agreed toa meeting in Rome it was because there was not a single artist orsculptor he knew who would not have sold himself for that job. It


was the one creation that could ensure him a place in history. Notthat immortality could be reason enough for Michelangelo. He hadcertain other immediate needs in this ephemeral life as well. Mostof all, he needed money to buy Marble.

The Pope had promised him money, but he had never given it.When Michelangelo had reminded him, he had asked testily, “Whydo you love stone so much? Why not canvas and colours?”

“Colours merge,” Michelangelo had retorted. “They lose theiridentity, mix with others. Unlike marble.”

Four years had sped past. Ever since he had started work on thefrescoes in the chapel, his sculpting had come to a standstill. AndAngelo was as bored with colours as he was with Rome. He wantedto finish painting the “Last Supper,” but his imagination failed himeach time it came to the face of Judas, the thirteenth disciple, hewho had betrayed the Messiah for thirty pieces of silver. His was animpossible face to conceive. The Pope too was getting impatient.It was not as if Michelangelo was not working, Julius told himself.He laboured for days, sketching feverishly. He went through his oldsketches, even reworked them. But there was not a single face thatsatisfied him.

Then, one day Michelangelo found himhis Judas!There he was in that small, dingy pub in Rome. A man with

unusually bright, beady eyes. Brimming with restless energy. Spit-ting here and there. Prematurely bald. When he talked, the wordstumbled out fast. Like coins from a torn pocket.

The man sidled up to Angelo asking for change for a florin andended up sharing his bottle. Later, as Michelangelo was leaving, hesaw him at it again. Asking someone else.

It was not difficult for Angelo to persuade him to accompany himto the chapel. He explained that he wanted to use his face as a modelfor Judas. “It will make you immortal, I promise,” Michelangelo saidsolemnly as he lifted the sheets covering the walls and the ceiling.

The man gaped, awestruck. He recovered to ask for a tidy sum.Michelangelo promptly agreed. And, from that day on, the mancame regularly to sit for Michelangelo.

One day, the man stood in Michelangelos studio, browsing througha pile of old sketches. Suddenly, he paused at the picture of theurchin from Bologna.

“Who is this child?” he asked.

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“He used to live in Bologna many years ago,” Michelangelo said.“I gave him the face of little Jesus.”

“Do you remember his name?”“Yes. Marsolini.”The man smiled. He rolled up his sleeve. There was a name

tattooed on his arm-Marsolini.“I am that Jesus,” the man said. “He to whom you are giving

the face of Judas today.”

-Gulzar

Chapter 12

God Sees the Truth ButWaits

In the town of Vladimir lived a young merchant named Ivan DmitrichAksionov. He had two shops and a house of his own.

Aksionov was a handsome, fair-haired, curly-headed fellow, fullof fun, and very fond of singing. When quite a young man he hadbeen given to drink, and was riotous when he had had too much;but after he married he gave up drinking, except now and then.

One summer Aksionov was going to the Nizhny Fair, and as hebade good-bye to his family, his wife said to him, “Ivan Dmitrich,do not start to-day; I have had a bad dream about you.”

Aksionov laughed, and said, “You are afraid that when I get tothe fair I shall go on a spree.”

His wife replied: “I do not know what I am afraid of; all I know isthat I had a bad dream. I dreamt you returned from the town, andwhen you took off your cap I saw that your hair was quite grey.”

Aksionov laughed. “That’s a lucky sign,” said he. “See if I don’tsell out all my goods, and bring you some presents from the fair.”

So he said good-bye to his family, and drove away.When he had travelled half-way, he met a merchant whom he

knew, and they put up at the same inn for the night. They hadsome tea together, and then went to bed in adjoining rooms.

It was not Aksionov’s habit to sleep late, and, wishing to travelwhile it was still cool, he aroused his driver before dawn, and toldhim to put in the horses.

Then he made his way across to the landlord of the inn (who livedin a cottage at the back), paid his bill, and continued his journey.

When he had gone about twenty-five miles, he stopped for thehorses to be fed. Aksionov rested awhile in the passage of the inn,then he stepped out into the porch, and, ordering a samovar to be

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heated, got out his guitar and began to play.Suddenly a troika drove up with tinkling bells and an official

alighted, followed by two soldiers. He came to Aksionov and be-gan to question him, asking him who he was and whence he came.Aksionov answered him fully, and said, “Won’t you have some teawith me?” But the official went on cross-questioning him and askinghim. “Where did you spend last night? Were you alone, or witha fellow-merchant? Did you see the other merchant this morning?Why did you leave the inn before dawn?”

Aksionov wondered why he was asked all these questions, buthe described all that had happened, and then added, “Why do youcross-question me as if I were a thief or a robber? I am travellingon business of my own, and there is no need to question me.”

Then the official, calling the soldiers, said, “I am the police-officerof this district, and I question you because the merchant with whomyou spent last night has been found with his throat cut. We mustsearch your things.”

They entered the house. The soldiers and the police-officer un-strapped Aksionov’s luggage and searched it. Suddenly the officerdrew a knife out of a bag, crying, “Whose knife is this?”

Aksionov looked, and seeing a blood-stained knife taken from hisbag, he was frightened.

“How is it there is blood on this knife?”Aksionov tried to answer, but could hardly utter a word, and

only stammered: “I–don’t know–not mine.” Then the police-officersaid: “This morning the merchant was found in bed with his throatcut. You are the only person who could have done it. The house waslocked from inside, and no one else was there. Here is this blood-stained knife in your bag and your face and manner betray you! Tellme how you killed him, and how much money you stole?”

Aksionov swore he had not done it; that he had not seen themerchant after they had had tea together; that he had no moneyexcept eight thousand rubles of his own, and that the knife was nothis. But his voice was broken, his face pale, and he trembled withfear as though he went guilty.

The police-officer ordered the soldiers to bind Aksionov and toput him in the cart. As they tied his feet together and flung himinto the cart, Aksionov crossed himself and wept. His money andgoods were taken from him, and he was sent to the nearest townand imprisoned there. Enquiries as to his character were made inVladimir. The merchants and other inhabitants of that town saidthat in former days he used to drink and waste his time, but thathe was a good man. Then the trial came on: he was charged with

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murdering a merchant from Ryazan, and robbing him of twentythousand rubles.

His wife was in despair, and did not know what to believe. Herchildren were all quite small; one was a baby at her breast. Takingthem all with her, she went to the town where her husband wasin jail. At first she was not allowed to see him; but after muchbegging, she obtained permission from the officials, and was takento him. When she saw her husband in prison-dress and in chains,shut up with thieves and criminals, she fell down, and did not cometo her senses for a long time. Then she drew her children to her,and sat down near him. She told him of things at home, and askedabout what had happened to him. He told her all, and she asked,“What can we do now?”

“We must petition the Czar not to let an innocent man perish.”His wife told him that she had sent a petition to the Czar, but it

had not been accepted.Aksionov did not reply, but only looked downcast.Then his wife said, “It was not for nothing I dreamt your hair

had turned grey. You remember? You should not have started thatday.” And passing her fingers through his hair, she said: “Vanyadearest, tell your wife the truth; was it not you who did it?”

“So you, too, suspect me!” said Aksionov, and, hiding his face inhis hands, he began to weep. Then a soldier came to say that thewife and children must go away; and Aksionov said good-bye to hisfamily for the last time.

When they were gone, Aksionov recalled what had been said, andwhen he remembered that his wife also had suspected him, he saidto himself, “It seems that only God can know the truth; it is to Himalone we must appeal, and from Him alone expect mercy.”

And Aksionov wrote no more petitions; gave up all hope, andonly prayed to God.

Aksionov was condemned to be flogged and sent to the mines.So he was flogged with a knot, and when the wounds made by theknot were healed, he was driven to Siberia with other convicts.

For twenty-six years Aksionov lived as a convict in Siberia. Hishair turned white as snow, and his beard grew long, thin, and grey.All his mirth went; he stooped; he walked slowly, spoke little, andnever laughed, but he often prayed.

In prison Aksionov learnt to make boots, and earned a littlemoney, with which he bought The Lives of the Saints. He readthis book when there was light enough in the prison; and on Sun-days in the prison-church he read the lessons and sang in the choir;for his voice was still good.


The prison authorities liked Aksionov for his meekness, and hisfellow-prisoners respected him: they called him “Grandfather,” and“The Saint.” When they wanted to petition the prison authoritiesabout anything, they always made Aksionov their spokesman, andwhen there were quarrels among the prisoners they came to him toput things right, and to judge the matter.

No news reached Aksionov from his home, and he did not evenknow if his wife and children were still alive.

One day a fresh gang of convicts came to the prison. In theevening the old prisoners collected round the new ones and askedthem what towns or villages they came from, and what they weresentenced for. Among the rest Aksionov sat down near the newcom-ers, and listened with downcast air to what was said.

One of the new convicts, a tall, strong man of sixty, with a closely-cropped grey beard, was telling the others what be had been arrestedfor.

“Well, friends,” he said, “I only took a horse that was tied to asledge, and I was arrested and accused of stealing. I said I had onlytaken it to get home quicker, and had then let it go; besides, thedriver was a personal friend of mine. So I said, ’It’s all right.’ ’No,’said they, ’you stole it.’ But how or where I stole it they could notsay. I once really did something wrong, and ought by rights to havecome here long ago, but that time I was not found out. Now I havebeen sent here for nothing at all... Eh, but it’s lies I’m telling you;I’ve been to Siberia before, but I did not stay long.”

“Where are you from?” asked some one.“From Vladimir. My family are of that town. My name is Makar,

and they also call me Semyonich.”Aksionov raised his head and said: “Tell me, Semyonich, do you

know anything of the merchants Aksionov of Vladimir? Are theystill alive?”

“Know them? Of course I do. The Aksionovs are rich, thoughtheir father is in Siberia: a sinner like ourselves, it seems! As foryou, Gran’dad, how did you come here?”

Aksionov did not like to speak of his misfortune. He only sighed,and said, “For my sins I have been in prison these twenty-six years.”

“What sins?” asked Makar Semyonich.But Aksionov only said, “Well, well–I must have deserved it!”

He would have said no more, but his companions told the newcom-ers how Aksionov came to be in Siberia; how some one had killeda merchant, and had put the knife among Aksionov’s things, andAksionov had been unjustly condemned.

When Makar Semyonich heard this, he looked at Aksionov, slapped

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his own knee, and exclaimed, “Well, this is wonderful! Really won-derful! But how old you’ve grown, Gran’dad!”

The others asked him why he was so surprised, and where he hadseen Aksionov before; but Makar Semyonich did not reply. He onlysaid: “It’s wonderful that we should meet here, lads!”

These words made Aksionov wonder whether this man knew whohad killed the merchant; so he said, “Perhaps, Semyonich, you haveheard of that affair, or maybe you’ve seen me before?”

“How could I help hearing? The world’s full of rumours. But it’sa long time ago, and I’ve forgotten what I heard.”

“Perhaps you heard who killed the merchant?” asked Aksionov.Makar Semyonich laughed, and replied: “It must have been him

in whose bag the knife was found! If some one else hid the knifethere, ’He’s not a thief till he’s caught,’ as the saying is. How couldany one put a knife into your bag while it was under your head? Itwould surely have woke you up.”

When Aksionov heard these words, he felt sure this was the manwho had killed the merchant. He rose and went away. All thatnight Aksionov lay awake. He felt terribly unhappy, and all sorts ofimages rose in his mind. There was the image of his wife as she waswhen he parted from her to go to the fair. He saw her as if she werepresent; her face and her eyes rose before him; he heard her speakand laugh. Then he saw his children, quite little, as they: were atthat time: one with a little cloak on, another at his mother’s breast.And then he remembered himself as he used to be-young and merry.He remembered how he sat playing the guitar in the porch of theinn where he was arrested, and how free from care he had been. Hesaw, in his mind, the place where he was flogged, the executioner,and the people standing around; the chains, the convicts, all thetwenty-six years of his prison life, and his premature old age. Thethought of it all made him so wretched that he was ready to killhimself.

“And it’s all that villain’s doing!” thought Aksionov. And hisanger was so great against Makar Semyonich that he longed forvengeance, even if he himself should perish for it. He kept repeatingprayers all night, but could get no peace. During the day he did notgo near Makar Semyonich, nor even look at him.

A fortnight passed in this way. Aksionov could not sleep at night,and was so miserable that he did not know what to do.

One night as he was walking about the prison he noticed someearth that came rolling out from under one of the shelves on whichthe prisoners slept. He stopped to see what it was. Suddenly MakarSemyonich crept out from under the shelf, and looked up at Aksionov


with frightened face. Aksionov tried to pass without looking at him,but Makar seized his hand and told him that he had dug a hole underthe wall, getting rid of the earth by putting it into his high-boots,and emptying it out every day on the road when the prisoners weredriven to their work.

“Just you keep quiet, old man, and you shall get out too. If youblab, they’ll flog the life out of me, but I will kill you first.”

Aksionov trembled with anger as he looked at his enemy. Hedrew his hand away, saying, “I have no wish to escape, and youhave no need to kill me; you killed me long ago! As to telling ofyou–I may do so or not, as God shall direct.”

Next day, when the convicts were led out to work, the convoysoldiers noticed that one or other of the prisoners emptied someearth out of his boots. The prison was searched and the tunnelfound. The Governor came and questioned all the prisoners to findout who had dug the hole. They all denied any knowledge of it.Those who knew would not betray Makar Semyonich, knowing hewould be flogged almost to death. At last the Governor turned toAksionov whom he knew to be a just man, and said:

“You are a truthful old man; tell me, before God, who dug thehole?”

Makar Semyonich stood as if he were quite unconcerned, lookingat the Governor and not so much as glancing at Aksionov. Ak-sionov’s lips and hands trembled, and for a long time he could notutter a word. He thought, “Why should I screen him who ruinedmy life? Let him pay for what I have suffered. But if I tell, they willprobably flog the life out of him, and maybe I suspect him wrongly.And, after all, what good would it be to me?”

“Well, old man,” repeated the Governor, “tell me the truth: whohas been digging under the wall?”

Aksionov glanced at Makar Semyonich, and said, “I cannot say,your honour. It is not God’s will that I should tell! Do what youlike with me; I am your hands.”

However much the Governor! tried, Aksionov would say no more,and so the matter had to be left.

That night, when Aksionov was lying on his bed and just begin-ning to doze, some one came quietly and sat down on his bed. Hepeered through the darkness and recognised Makar.

“What more do you want of me?” asked Aksionov. “Why haveyou come here?”

Makar Semyonich was silent. So Aksionov sat up and said, “Whatdo you want? Go away, or I will call the guard!”

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Makar Semyonich bent close over Aksionov, and whispered, “IvanDmitrich, forgive me!”

“What for?” asked Aksionov.“It was I who killed the merchant and hid the knife among your

things. I meant to kill you too, but I heard a noise outside, so I hidthe knife in your bag and escaped out of the window.”

Aksionov was silent, and did not know what to say. Makar Se-myonich slid off the bed-shelf and knelt upon the ground. “IvanDmitrich,” said he, “forgive me! For the love of God, forgive me! Iwill confess that it was I who killed the merchant, and you will bereleased and can go to your home.”

“It is easy for you to talk,” said Aksionov, “but I have sufferedfor you these twenty-six years. Where could I go to now?... Mywife is dead, and my children have forgotten me. I have nowhere togo...”

Makar Semyonich did not rise, but beat his head on the floor.“Ivan Dmitrich, forgive me!” he cried. “When they flogged me withthe knot it was not so hard to bear as it is to see you now ... yetyou had pity on me, and did not tell. For Christ’s sake forgive me,wretch that I am!” And he began to sob.

When Aksionov heard him sobbing he, too, began to weep. “Godwill forgive you!” said he. “Maybe I am a hundred times worse thanyou.” And at these words his heart grew light, and the longing forhome left him. He no longer had any desire to leave the prison, butonly hoped for his last hour to come.

In spite of what Aksionov had said, Makar Semyonich confessed,his guilt. But when the order for his release came, Aksionov wasalready dead.

-Count Leo Tolstoy

Chapter 13

Dusk

Norman Gortsby sat on a bench in the Park, with his back to astrip of bush-planted sward, fenced by the park railings, and theRow fronting him across a wide stretch of carriage drive. HydePark Corner, with its rattle and hoot of traffic, lay immediately tohis right. It was some thirty minutes past six on an early Marchevening, and dusk had fallen heavily over the scene, dusk mitigatedby some faint moonlight and many street lamps. There was a wideemptiness over road and sidewalk, and yet there were many un-considered figures moving silently through the half-light, or dottedunobtrusively on bench and chair, scarcely to be distinguished fromthe shadowed gloom in which they sat.

The scene pleased Gortsby and harmonised with his present mood.Dusk, to his mind, was the hour of the defeated. Men and women,who had fought and lost, who hid their fallen fortunes and deadhopes as far as possible from the scrutiny of the curious, came forthin this hour of gloaming, when their shabby clothes and bowed shoul-ders and unhappy eyes might pass unnoticed, or, at any rate, un-recognised.

A king that is conquered must see strange looks, So bitter a thingis the heart of man.

The wanderers in the dusk did not choose to have strange looksfasten on them, therefore they came out in this bat-fashion, tak-ing their pleasure sadly in a pleasure-ground that had emptied ofits rightful occupants. Beyond the sheltering screen of bushes andpalings came a realm of brilliant lights and noisy, rushing traffic.A blazing, many-tiered stretch of windows shone through the duskand almost dispersed it, marking the haunts of those other people,who held their own in life’s struggle, or at any rate had not had toadmit failure. So Gortsby’s imagination pictured things as he saton his bench in the almost deserted walk. He was in the mood to

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count himself among the defeated. Money troubles did not press onhim; had he so wished he could have strolled into the thoroughfaresof light and noise, and taken his place among the jostling ranks ofthose who enjoyed prosperity or struggled for it. He had failed ina more subtle ambition, and for the moment he was heart sore anddisillusioned, and not disinclined to take a certain cynical pleasurein observing and labeling his fellow wanderers as they went theirways in the dark stretches between the lamp-lights.

On the bench by his side sat an elderly gentleman with a droopingair of defiance that was probably the remaining vestige of self-respectin an individual who had ceased to defy successfully anybody oranything. His clothes could scarcely be called shabby, at least theypassed muster in the half-light, but one’s imagination could not havepictured the wearer embarking on the purchase of a half-crown boxof chocolates or laying out ninepence on a carnation buttonhole.He belonged unmistakably to that forlorn orchestra to whose pipingno one dances; he was one of the world’s lamenters who induceno responsive weeping. As he rose to go Gortsby imagined himreturning to a home circle where he was snubbed and of no account,or to some bleak lodging where his ability to pay a weekly bill wasthe beginning and end of the interest he inspired. His retreatingfigure vanished slowly into the shadows, and his place on the benchwas taken almost immediately by a young man, fairly well dressedbut scarcely more cheerful of mien than his predecessor. As if toemphasize the fact that the world went badly with him the new-corner unburdened himself of an angry and very audible expletiveas he flung himself into the seat.

“You don’t seem in a very good temper,” said Gortsby, judgingthat he was expected to take due notice of the demonstration.

The young man turned to him with a look of disarming franknesswhich put him instantly on his guard.

“You wouldn’t be in a good temper if you were in the fix I’m in,”he said; “I’ve done the silliest thing I’ve ever done in my life.”

“Yes?” said Gortsby dispassionately.“Came up this afternoon, meaning to stay at the Patagonian

Hotel in Berkshire Square,” continued the young man; “when I gotthere I found it had been pulled down some weeks ago and a cinematheatre run up on the site. The taxi driver recommended me toanother hotel some way off and I went there. I just sent a letterto my people, giving them the address, and then I went out to buysome soap - I’d forgotten to pack any and I hate using hotel soap.Then I strolled about a bit, had a drink at a bar and looked atthe shops, and when I came to turn my steps back to the hotel

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I suddenly realised that I didn’t remember its name or even whatstreet it was in. There’s a nice predicament for a fellow who hasn’tany friends or connections in London! Of course I can wire to mypeople for the address, but they won’t have got my letter till to-morrow; meantime I’m without any money, came out with about ashilling on me, which went in buying the soap and getting the drink,and here I am, wandering about with twopence in my pocket andnowhere to go for the night.”

There was an eloquent pause after the story had been told. “Isuppose you think I’ve spun you rather an impossible yarn,” said theyoung man presently,with a suggestion of resentment in his voice.

“Not at all impossible,” said Gortsby judicially; “I remember do-ing exactly the same thing once in a foreign capital, and on that oc-casion there were two of us, which made it more remarkable. Luckilywe remembered that the hotel was on a sort of canal, and when westruck the canal we were able to find our way back to the hotel.”

The youth brightened at the reminiscence. “In a foreign city Iwouldn’t mind so much,” he said; “one could go to one’s Consul andget the requisite help from him. Here in one’s own land one is farmore derelict if one gets into a fix. Unless I can find some decentchap to swallow my story and lend me some money I seem likely tospend the night on the Embankment. I’m glad, anyhow, that youdon’t think the story outrageously improbable.”

He threw a good deal of warmth into the last remark, as thoughperhaps to indicate his hope that Gortsby did not fall far short ofthe requisite decency.

“Of course,” said Gortsby slowly, “the weak point of your storyis that you can’t produce the soap.”

The young man sat forward hurriedly, felt rapidly in the pocketsof his overcoat, and then jumped to his feet.

“I must have lost it,” he muttered angrily.“To lose an hotel and a cake of soap on one afternoon suggests wil-

ful carelessness,” said Gortsby, but the young man scarcely waitedto hear the end of the remark. He flitted away down the path, hishead held high, with an air of somewhat jaded jauntiness.

“It was a pity,” mused Gortsby; “the going out to get one’s ownsoap was the one convincing touch in the whole story, and yet it wasjust that little detail that brought him to grief. If he had had thebrilliant forethought to provide himself with a cake of soap, wrappedand sealed with all the solicitude of the chemist’s counter, he wouldhave been a genius in his particular line. In his particular line geniuscertainly consists of an infinite capacity for taking precautions.”

With that reflection Gortsby rose to go; as he did so an excla-

84 CHAPTER 13. DUSK

mation of concern escaped him. Lying on the ground by the sideof the bench was a small oval packet, wrapped and sealed with thesolicitude of a chemist’s counter. It could be nothing else but acake of soap, and it had evidently fallen out of the youth’s overcoatpocket when he flung himself down on the seat. In another momentGortsby was scudding along the dusk- shrouded path in anxiousquest for a youthful figure in a light overcoat. He had nearly givenup the search when he caught sight of the object of his pursuitstanding irresolutely on the border of the carriage drive, evidentlyuncertain whether to strike across the Park or make for the bustlingpavements of Knightsbridge. He turned round sharply with an airof defensive hostility when he found Gortsby hailing him.

“The important witness to the genuineness of your story hasturned up,” said Gortsby, holding out the cake of soap; “it musthave slid out of your overcoat pocket when you sat down on theseat. I saw it on the ground after you left. You must excuse mydisbelief, but appearances were really rather against you, and now,as I appealed to the testimony of the soap I think I ought to abideby its verdict. If the loan of a sovereign is any good to you - ”

The young man hastily removed all doubt on the subject by pock-eting the coin.

“Here is my card with my address,” continued Gortsby; “anyday this week will do for returning the money, and here is the soap- don’t lose it again it’s been a good friend to you.”

“Lucky thing your finding it,” said the youth, and then, with acatch in his voice, he blurted out a word or two of thanks and fledheadlong in the direction of Knightsbridge.

“Poor boy, he as nearly as possible broke down,” said Gortsby tohimself. “I don’t wonder either; the relief from his quandary musthave been acute. It’s a lesson to me not to be too clever in judgingby circumstances.”

As Gortsby retraced his steps past the seat where the little dramahad taken place he saw an elderly gentleman poking and peeringbeneath it and on all sides of it, and recognised his earlier fellowoccupant.

“Have you lost anything, sir?” he asked.“Yes, sir, a cake of soap.”

-Saki

Chapter 14

The Sniper

The long June twilight faded into night. Dublin lay enveloped indarkness but for the dim light of the moon that shone through fleecyclouds, casting a pale light as of approaching dawn over the streetsand the dark waters of the Liffey. Around the beseiged Four Courtsthe heavy guns roared. Here and there through the city, machineguns and rifles broke the silence of the night, spasmodically, likedogs barking on lonely farms. Republicans and Free Staters werewaging civil war.

On a rooftop near O’Connell Bridge, a Republican sniper laywatching. Beside him lay his rifle and over his shoulders was slunga pair of field glasses. His face was the face of a student, thin andserious, but his eyes had the cold gleam of the fanatic. They weredeep and thoughtful, the eyes of a man who is used to looking atdeath.

He was eating a sandwich hungrily. He had eaten nothing sincemorning. He had been too excited to eat. He finished the sandwich,and, taking a flask of whiskey from his pocket, he took a shortdrought. Then he returned the flask to his pocket. He pausedfor a moment, considering whether he should risk a smoke. It wasdangerous. The flash might be seen in the darkness, and there wereenemies watching. He decided to take the risk.

Placing a cigarette between his lips, he struck a match, inhaledthe smoke hurriedly and put out the light. Almost immediately, abullet flattened itself against the parapet of the roof. The snipertook another whiff and put out the cigarette. Then he swore softlyand crawled away to the left.

Cautiously he raised himself and peered over the parapet. Therewas a flash and a bullet whizzed over his head. He dropped imme-diately. He had seen the flash. It came from the opposite side ofthe street.

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86 CHAPTER 14. THE SNIPER

He rolled over the roof to a chimney stack in the rear, and slowlydrew himself up behind it, until his eyes were level with the top ofthe parapet. There was nothing to be seen–just the dim outline ofthe opposite housetop against the blue sky. His enemy was undercover.

Just then an armored car came across the bridge and advancedslowly up the street. It stopped on the opposite side of the street,fifty yards ahead. The sniper could hear the dull panting of themotor. His heart beat faster. It was an enemy car. He wanted tofire, but he knew it was useless. His bullets would never pierce thesteel that covered the gray monster.

Then round the corner of a side street came an old woman, herhead covered by a tattered shawl. She began to talk to the man inthe turret of the car. She was pointing to the roof where the sniperlay. An informer.

The turret opened. A man’s head and shoulders appeared, look-ing toward the sniper. The sniper raised his rifle and fired. Thehead fell heavily on the turret wall. The woman darted toward theside street. The sniper fired again. The woman whirled round andfell with a shriek into the gutter.

Suddenly from the opposite roof a shot rang out and the sniperdropped his rifle with a curse. The rifle clattered to the roof. Thesniper thought the noise would wake the dead. He stooped to pickthe rifle up. He couldn’t lift it. His forearm was dead.

”Christ,” he muttered, ”I’m hit.”Dropping flat onto the roof, he crawled back to the parapet. With

his left hand he felt the injured right forearm. The blood was oozingthrough the sleeve of his coat. There was no pain–just a deadenedsensation, as if the arm had been cut off.

Quickly he drew his knife from his pocket, opened it by pressingit against the parapet, and ripped open the sleeve. There was asmall hole where the bullet had lodged in the bone. It must havefractured it. He bent the arm below the wound. the arm bent backeasily. He ground his teeth to overcome the pain.

Then taking out his first aid packet, he ripped it open with hisknife. He broke the neck of the iodine bottle and let the bitter liquiddrip into the wound. A violent fit of pain swept through him. Heplaced the cotton pad over the wound and wrapped the bandageover it. He tied the ends with his teeth.

Then he lay still against the parapet, and, closing his eyes, hemade an effort of will to overcome the pain.

In the street beneath all was still. The armored car had retiredspeedily over the bridge, with the machine gunner’s head hanging

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lifeless over the turret. The woman’s corpse lay still in the gutter.The sniper lay still for a long time nursing his wounded arm and

planning escape. Morning must not find him wounded on the roof.The enemy on the opposite roof covered his escape. He must killthat enemy and he could not use his rifle. He had only a revolver todo it. Then he thought of a plan.

Taking off his cap, he placed it over the muzzle of his rifle. Thenhe pushed the rifle slowly upward over the parapet, until the capwas visible from the opposite side of the street. Almost immediatelythere was a report, and a bullet pierced the center of the cap. Thesniper slanted the rifle forward. The cap clipped down into thestreet. Then catching the rifle in the middle, the sniper droppedhis left hand over the roof and let it hang, lifelessly. After a fewmoments he let the rifle drop to the street. Then he sank to theroof, dragging his hand with him.

Crawling quickly to the left, he peered up at the corner of theroof. His trick had succeeded. The other sniper, seeing the cap andrifle fall, thought that he had killed his man. He was now standingbefore a row of chimney pots, looking across, with his head clearlysilhouetted against the western sky.

The Republican sniper smiled and lifted his revolver above theedge of the parapet. The distance was about fifty yards–a hard shotin the dim light, and his right arm was paining him like a thousanddevils. He took a steady aim. His hand trembled with eagerness.Pressing his lips together, he took a deep breath through his nostrilsand fired. He was almost deafened with the report and his arm shookwith the recoil.

Then when the smoke cleared, he peered across and uttered a cryof joy. His enemy had been hit. He was reeling over the parapet inhis death agony. He struggled to keep his feet, but he was slowlyfalling forward as if in a dream. The rifle fell from his grasp, hit theparapet, fell over, bounded off the pole of a barber’s shop beneathand then clattered on the pavement.

Then the dying man on the roof crumpled up and fell forward.The body turned over and over in space and hit the ground with adull thud. Then it lay still.

The sniper looked at his enemy falling and he shuddered. Thelust of battle died in him. He was filled with remorse. The sweatstood out in beads on his forehead. Weakened by his wound andthe long summer day of fasting and watching on the roof, he feltsick at the sight of the shattered body of his dead enemy. His teethchattered, he began to gibber to himself, cursing the war, cursinghimself, cursing everybody.

88 CHAPTER 14. THE SNIPER

He looked at the smoking revolver in his hand, and with an oathhe hurled it to the roof at his feet. The revolver went off with aconcussion and the bullet whizzed past the sniper’s head. He wasfrightened back to his senses by the shock. His nerves steadied. Thecloud of fear scattered from his mind and he laughed.

Taking the whiskey flask from his pocket, he emptied it at adraught. He felt reckless under the influence of the spirit. He decidedto leave the roof now and look for his company commander, toreport. Everywhere around was quiet. There was not much dangerin going through the streets. He picked up his revolver and put itin his pocket. Then he crawled down through the skylight to thehouse underneath.

When the sniper reached the street, he felt a sudden curiosity asto the identity of the enemy sniper whom he had killed. He decidedthat he was a good shot, whoever he was. He wondered if he knewhim. Perhaps he had been in his own company before the split inthe army. He decided to risk going over to have a look at him. Hepeered around the corner into O’Connell Street. In the upper partof the street there was heavy firing, but around here all was quiet.

The sniper darted across the street. A machine gun tore up theground around him with a hail of bullets, but he escaped. He threwhimself face downward beside the corpse. The machine gun stopped.

Then the sniper turned over the dead body and looked into hisbrother’s face.

-Liam O’Flaherty

Chapter 15

The Model Millionaire

Unless one is wealthy there is no use in being a charming fellow.Romance is the privilege of the rich, not the profession of the un-employed. The poor should be practical and prosaic. It is betterto have a permanent income than to be fascinating. These are thegreat truths of modern life which Hughie Erskine never realized.Poor Hughie! Intellectually, we must admit, he was not of much im-portance. He never said a brilliant or even an ill-natured thing in hislife. But then he was wonderfully good-looking, with his crisp brownhair, his clear-cut profile, and his grey eyes. He was as popular withmen as he was with women and he had every accomplishment ex-cept that of making money. His father had bequeathed him hiscavalry sword and a History of the Peninsular War in fifteen vol-umes. Hughie hung the first over his looking-glass, put the secondon a shelf between Ruff’s Guide and Bailey’s Magazine, and livedon two hundred a year that an old aunt allowed him. He had triedeverything. He had gone on the Stock Exchange for six months;but what was a butterfly to do among bulls and bears? He hadbeen a tea-merchant for a little longer, but had soon tired of pekoeand souchong. Then he had tried selling dry sherry. That did notanswer; the sherry was a little too dry. Ultimately he became noth-ing, a delightful, ineffectual young man with a perfect profile andno profession.

To make matters worse, he was in love. The girl he loved wasLaura Merton, the daughter of a retired Colonel who had lost histemper and his digestion in India, and had never found either ofthem again. Laura adored him, and he was ready to kiss her shoe-strings. They were the handsomest couple in London, and had nota penny-piece between them. The Colonel was very fond of Hughie,but would not hear of any engagement.

’Come to me, my boy, when you have got ten thousand pounds

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90 CHAPTER 15. THE MODEL MILLIONAIRE

of your own, and we will see about it,’ he used to say; and Hughielooked very glum in those days, and had to go to Laura for conso-lation.

One morning, as he was on his way to Holland Park, where theMertons lived, he dropped in to see a great friend of his, Alan Trevor.Trevor was a painter. Indeed, few people escape that nowadays. Buthe was also an artist, and artists are rather rare. Personally he wasa strange rough fellow, with a freckled face and a red ragged beard.However, when he took up the brush he was a real master, and hispictures were eagerly sought after. He had been very much attractedby Hughie at first, it must be acknowledged, entirely on account ofhis personal charm. ’The only people a painter should know,’ heused to say, ’are people who are bete and beautiful, people who arean artistic pleasure to look at and an intellectual repose to talk to.Men who are dandies and women who are darlings rule the world,at least they should do so.’ However, after he got to know Hughiebetter, he liked him quite as much for his bright, buoyant spiritsand his generous, reckless nature, and had given him the permanententree to his studio.

When Hughie came in he found Trevor putting the finishingtouches to a wonderful life-size picture of a beggar-man. The beg-gar himself was standing on a raised platform in a corner of thestudio. He was a wizened old man, with a face like wrinkled parch-ment, and a most piteous expression. Over his shoulders was flunga coarse brown cloak, all tears and tatters; his thick boots werepatched and cobbled, and with one hand he leant on a rough stick,while with the other he held out his battered hat for alms.

’What an amazing model!’ whispered Hughie, as he shook handswith his friend.

’An amazing model?’ shouted Trevor at the top of his voice; ’Ishould think so! Such beggars as he are not to be met with everyday. A trouvaille, mon cher; a living Velasquez! My stars! what anetching Rembrandt would have made of him!’

’Poor old chap!’ said Hughie, ’how miserable he looks! But Isuppose, to you painters, his face is his fortune?’

’Certainly,’ replied Trevor, ’you don’t want a beggar to lookhappy, do you?’

’How much does a model get for sitting?’ asked Hughie, as hefound himself a comfortable seat on a divan.

’A shilling an hour.’’And how much do you get for your picture, Alan?’’Oh, for this I get two thousand!’’Pounds?’

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’Guineas. Painters, poets, and physicians always get guineas.’’Well, I think the model should have a percentage,’ cried Hughie,

laughing; ’they work quite as hard as you do.’’Nonsense, nonsense! Why, look at the trouble of laying on the

paint alone, and standing all day long at one’s easel! It’s all verywell, Hughie, for you to talk, but I assure you that there are momentswhen Art almost attains to the dignity of manual labour. But youmustn’t chatter; I’m very busy. Smoke a cigarette, and keep quiet.’

After some time the servant came in, and told Trevor that theframemaker wanted to speak to him.

’Don’t run away, Hughie,’ he said, as he went out, ’I will be backin a moment.’

The old beggar-man took advantage of Trevor’s absence to restfor a moment on a wooden bench that was behind him. He lookedso forlorn and wretched that Hughie could not help pitying him,and felt in his pockets to see what money he had. All he could findwas a sovereign and some coppers. ’Poor old fellow,’ he thought tohimself, ’he wants it more than I do, but it means no hansoms for afortnight’; and he walked across the studio and slipped the sovereigninto the beggar’s hand.

The old man started, and a faint smile flitted across his witheredlips. ’Thank you, sir,’ he said, ’thank you.’

Then Trevor arrived, and Hughie took his leave, blushing a littleat what he had done. He spent the day with Laura, got a charmingscolding for his extravagance, and had to walk home.

That night he strolled into the Palette Club about eleven o’clock,and found Trevor sitting by himself in the smoking-room drinkinghock and seltzer.

’Well, Alan, did you get the picture finished all right?’ he said,as he lit his cigarette.

’Finished and framed, my boy!’ answered Trevor; ’and, by thebye, you have made a conquest. That old model you saw is quitedevoted to you. I had to tell him all about you–who you are, whereyou live, what your income is, what prospects you have–’

’My dear Alan,’ cried Hughie, ’I shall probably find him waitingfor me when I go home. But of course you are only joking. Poor oldwretch! I wish I could do something for him. I think it is dreadfulthat any one should be so miserable. I have got heaps of old clothesat home–do you think he would care for any of them? Why, his ragswere falling to bits.’

’But he looks splendid in them,’ said Trevor. ’I wouldn’t painthim in a frock coat for anything. What you call rags I call romance.What seems poverty to you is picturesqueness to me. However, I’ll


tell him of your offer.’’Alan,’ said Hughie seriously, ’you painters are a heartless lot.’’An artist’s heart is his head,’ replied Trevor; ’and besides, our

business is to realise the world as we see it, not to reform it as weknow it. A chacun son metier. And now tell me how Laura is. Theold model was quite interested in her.’

’You don’t mean to say you talked to him about her?’ saidHughie.

’Certainly I did. He knows all about the relentless colonel, thelovely Laura, and the 10,000 pounds.’

’You told that old beggar all my private affairs?’ cried Hughie,looking very red and angry.

’My dear boy,’ said Trevor, smiling, ’that old beggar, as you callhim, is one of the richest men in Europe. He could buy all Londonto-morrow without overdrawing his account. He has a house in everycapital, dines off gold plate, and can prevent Russia going to warwhen he chooses.’

’What on earth do you mean?’ exclaimed Hughie.’What I say,’ said Trevor. ’The old man you saw to-day in the

studio was Baron Hausberg. He is a great friend of mine, buys allmy pictures and that sort of thing, and gave me a commission amonth ago to paint him as a beggar. Que voulez-vous? La fantaisied’un millionnaire! And I must say he made a magnificent figure inhis rags, or perhaps I should say in my rags; they are an old suit Igot in Spain.’

’Baron Hausberg!’ cried Hughie. ’Good heavens! I gave him asovereign!’ and he sank into an armchair the picture of dismay.

’Gave him a sovereign!’ shouted Trevor, and he burst into a roarof laughter. ’My dear boy, you’ll never see it again. Son affaire c’estl’argent des autres.’

’I think you might have told me, Alan,’ said Hughie sulkily, ’andnot have let me make such a fool of myself.’

’Well, to begin with, Hughie,’ said Trevor, ’it never entered mymind that you went about distributing alms in that reckless way.I can understand your kissing a pretty model, but your giving asovereign to an ugly one–by Jove, no! Besides, the fact is that Ireally was not at home to-day to any one; and when you came in Ididn’t know whether Hausberg would like his name mentioned. Youknow he wasn’t in full dress.’

’What a duffer he must think me!’ said Hughie.’Not at all. He was in the highest spirits after you left; kept

chuckling to himself and rubbing his old wrinkled hands together. Icouldn’t make out why he was so interested to know all about you;

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but I see it all now. He’ll invest your sovereign for you, Hughie, payyou the interest every six months, and have a capital story to tellafter dinner.’

’I am an unlucky devil,’ growled Hughie. ’The best thing I cando is to go to bed; and, my dear Alan, you mustn’t tell any one. Ishouldn’t dare show my face in the Row.’

’Nonsense! It reflects the highest credit on your philanthropicspirit, Hughie. And don’t run away. Have another cigarette, andyou can talk about Laura as much as you like.’

However, Hughie wouldn’t stop, but walked home, feeling veryunhappy, and leaving Alan Trevor in fits of laughter.

The next morning, as he was at breakfast, the servant broughthim up a card on which was written, ’Monsieur Gustave Naudin, dela part de M. le Baron Hausberg.’ ’I suppose he has come for anapology,’ said Hughie to himself; and he told the servant to showthe visitor up.

An old gentleman with gold spectacles and grey hair came intothe room, and said, in a slight French accent, ’Have I the honour ofaddressing Monsieur Erskine?’

Hughie bowed.’I have come from Baron Hausberg,’ he continued. ’The Baron–’’I beg, sir, that you will offer him my sincerest apologies,’ stam-

mered Hughie.’The Baron,’ said the old gentleman with a smile, ’has commis-

sioned me to bring you this letter’; and he extended a sealed enve-lope.

On the outside was written, ’A wedding present to Hugh Erskineand Laura Merton, from an old beggar,’ and inside was a cheque for10,000 pounds.

When they were married Alan Trevor was the best man, and theBaron made a speech at the wedding breakfast.

’Millionaire models,’ remarked Alan, ’are rare enough; but, byJove, model millionaires are rarer still!’

-Oscar Wilde

figments of imagination

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