JESS

Journal of Estonian

Short Stories

Issue 1 / August 2014

Villane Raamat MTÜ

Tartu, 2014

JESS: Journal of Estonian Short Stories

Print version ISSN 2346-6456

Digital version ISSN 2346-6464

Published by Villane Raamat MTÜ

Printed at the Estonian Printing Museum

JESS Editorial ∙ Edited by James Baxenfield and Tiina Aleman

Iannotti

Illustrations Jaan Škerin

Cover “Amethyst” by Fatima Susanna Dominguez Ortiz

Contents

Foreword i

An Estonian Folktale

“The Northern Frog” 1

Lady Elizabeth Rigby Eastlake

“The Wolves” 21

Sir Stephen George Tallents

“The Silver Cup” 45

Agnieszka Kunz

“The Story of Oliver and Scarymouse” 59

Tina Rowe

[untitled] 67

i

Foreword

In this first issue of JESS, Villane Raamat presents you,

the reader, with a selection of stories that span a number

of centuries, accompanied by original artwork by Jaan

Škerin and a cover image designed by Fatima Sussana

Dominguez Ortiz.

By chance the stories have been arranged in alpha-

betical order by author, assuming that the origin of the

folktale “The Northern Frog” has been lost to the ages;

coming down to us through oral tradition. If the name of

an author to the tale was to be given it could only be

attributed to that amazingly prolific author ‘Anony-

mous’, and again, buy chance, the placement of stories

would still be alphabetical.

Consciously, the stories have been arranged in a

loose chronological order, based upon when they ap-

peared and the amount of time the author (where pre-

sent) spent time in Estonia. Again by chance, this

chronological arrangement presents not only a linear

progression through time but also in content. For the

most part, the contributors to this volume, past and pre-

sent, are foreign to Estonia. Their stories, whether

based-up their experiences or inspired by them, offer an

insight into the changing face of Estonia over time.

JESS

JESS

Journal of Estonian

Short Stories

1

The Northern Frog

An Estonian Folktale

Once upon a time, as old people relate, there existed a

horrible monster which came from the north. It

exterminated men and animals from large districts, and

if nobody had been able to arrest its progress, it might

gradually have swept all living things from the earth.

It had a body like an ox and legs like a frog; that is to

say, two short ones in front, and two long ones behind.

Its tail was ten fathoms long. It moved like a frog, but

cleared two miles at every bound. Fortunately it used to

remain on the spot where it had once alighted for

several years, and did not advance farther till it had

eaten the whole neighbourhood bare. Its body was

entirely encased in scales harder than stone or bronze,

so that nothing could injure it. Its two large eyes shone

like the brightest tapers both by day and night, and

2

3

whoever had the misfortune to meet their glare became

as one bewitched, and was forced to throw himself into

the jaws of the monster. So it happened that men and

animals offered themselves to be devoured, without any

necessity for it to move from its place. The

neighbouring kings offered magnificent rewards to any

one who could destroy the monster by magic or

otherwise, and many people had tried their fortune, but

their efforts were all futile. On one occasion, a large

wood in which the monster was skulking was set on fire.

The wood was destroyed, but the noxious animal was

not harmed in the slightest degree. However, it was

reported among old people that nobody could overcome

the monster except with the help of King Solomon's

Seal, on which a secret inscription was engraved, from

which it could be discovered how the monster might be

destroyed. But nobody could tell where the seal was

now concealed, nor where to find a sorcerer who could

read the inscription.

At length a young man whose head and heart were in

the right place determined to set out in search of the

seal-ring, trusting in his good fortune. He started in the

direction of the East, where it is supposed that the

wisdom of the ancients is to be sought for. After some

years he met with a celebrated magician of the East, and

asked him for advice. The sorcerer answered, “Men

have but little wisdom, and here it can avail you nothing,

but God's birds will be your best guides under heaven, if

you will learn their language. I can help you with it if

you will stay with me for a few days.”

The young man thankfully accepted this friendly

offer, and replied, “I am unable at present to make you

4

any return for your kindness, but if I should succeed in

my enterprise, I will richly reward you for your

trouble.” Then the sorcerer prepared a powerful charm,

by boiling nine kinds of magic herbs which he had

gathered secretly by moonlight. He made the young

man drink a spoonful every day, and it had the effect of

making the language of birds intelligible to him. When

he departed, the sorcerer said, “If you should have the

good luck to find and get possession of Solomon's Seal,

come back to me, that I may read you the inscription on

the ring, for there is no one else now living who can do

so.”

On the very next day the young man found the world

quite transformed. He no longer went anywhere alone,

but found company everywhere, for he now understood

the language of birds, and thus many secrets were

revealed to him which human wisdom would have been

unable to discover. Nevertheless, some time passed

before he could learn anything about the ring. At length

one evening, when he was exhausted with heat and

fatigue, he lay down under a tree in a wood to eat his

supper, when he heard two strange birds with bright

coloured plumage talking about him in the branches.

One of them said, “I know the silly wanderer under the

tree, who has already wandered about so much without

finding a trace of what he wants. He is searching for the

lost ring of King Solomon.” The other bird replied, “I

think he must seek the help of the Hell-Maiden, who

would certainly be able to help him to find it. Even if

she herself does not possess the ring, she must know

well enough who owns it now.” The first bird returned,

“It may be as you say, but where can he find the Hell-

Maiden, who has no fixed abode, and is here to-day and

5

there to-morrow? He might as well try to fetter the

wind.” “I can't say exactly where she is at present,” said

the other bird, “but in three days' time she will come to

the spring to wash her face, as is her custom every

month on the night of the full moon, so that the bloom

of youth never disappears from her cheeks, and her face

never wrinkles with age.” The first bird responded,

“Well, the spring is not far off; shall we amuse ourselves

by watching her proceedings?” “Willingly,” said the

other.

The young man resolved at once to follow the birds

and visit the spring; but two difficulties troubled him. In

the first place, he feared he might be asleep when the

birds set out; and secondly, he had no wings, with which

he could follow close behind them. He was too weary to

lie awake all night, for he could not keep his eyes open,

but his anxiety prevented him from sleeping quietly, and

he often woke up for fear of missing the departure of the

birds. Consequently he was very glad when he looked

up in the tree at sunrise, and saw the bright-coloured

birds sitting motionless with their heads under their

wings. He swallowed his breakfast, and then waited for

the birds to wake up. But they did not seem disposed to

go anywhere that morning; but fluttered about as if to

amuse themselves, in search of food, and flew from one

tree-top to another till evening, when they returned to

roost at their old quarters. On the second day it was just

the same. However, on the third morning one bird said

to the other, “We must go to the spring to-day, to see the

Hell-Maiden washing her face.” They waited till noon,

and then flew away direct towards the south. The young

man's heart beat with fear lest he should lose sight of his

guides. But the birds did not fly farther than he could

6

see, and perched on the summit of a tree. The young

man ran after them till he was all in a sweat and quite

out of breath. After resting three times, the birds reached

a small open glade, and perched on a high tree at its

edge. When the young man arrived, he perceived a

spring in the midst of the opening, and sat down under

the tree on which the birds were perched. Then he

pricked up his ears, and listened to the talk of the

feathered creatures.

“The sun has not set,” said one bird, “and we must

wait till the moon rises and the maiden comes to the

well. We will see whether she notices the young man

under the tree.” The other bird replied, “Nothing

escapes her eyes which concerns a young man. Will this

one be clever enough to escape falling into her net?”

“We will see what passes between them,” returned the

first bird.

Evening came, and the full moon had already risen

high above the wood, when the young man heard a

slight rustling, and in a few moments a maiden emerged

from the trees, and sped across the grass to the spring so

lightly that her feet hardly seemed to touch the ground.

The young man perceived in an instant that she was the

most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his life, and

he could not take his eyes from her.

She went straight to the well, without taking any

heed of him, raised her eyes to the moon, and then fell

on her knees and washed her face nine times in the

spring. Every time she looked up at the moon, and cried

out, “Fair and round-cheeked, as now thou art, may my

beauty likewise endure imperishably.” Then she walked

nine times round the spring, and each time she sang –

7

“Let the maiden's face not wrinkle,

Nor her red cheeks lose their beauty;

Though the moon should wane and dwindle,

May my beauty grow for ever,

And my joy bloom on for ever!”

Then she dried her face with her long hair, and was

about to depart, when her eyes suddenly fell upon the

young man who was sitting under the tree, and she

turned towards him immediately. The young man rose

up to await her approach. The fair maiden drew nearer,

and said to him, “You have exposed yourself to severe

punishment for spying on the private affairs of a maiden

in the moonlight, but as you are a stranger, and came

here by accident, I will forgive you. But you must

inform me truly who you are, and how you came here,

where no mortal has ever before set foot.”

The youth answered with much politeness, “Forgive

me, fair lady, for having offended you without my

knowledge or intention. When I arrived here, after long

wanderings, I found this nice place under the tree, and

prepared to camp here for the night. Your arrival

interrupted me, and I remained sitting here, thinking that

I should not disturb you if I looked on quietly.”

The maiden answered in the most friendly manner,

“Come to our house to-night. It is better to rest on

cushions than on the cold moss.”

The young man hesitated for a moment, uncertain

whether he ought to accept her friendly invitation or to

decline it. One of the birds in the tree remarked to the

other, “He would be a fool if he did not accept her

8

offer.” Perhaps the maiden did not know the language of

birds, for she added, “Fear nothing, my friend. I have

not invited you with any ill intention, but wish you well

with all my heart.” The birds responded, “Go where you

are asked, but beware of giving any blood, lest you

should sell your soul.”

Then the youth went with her. Not far from the

spring they arrived at a beautiful garden, in which stood

a magnificent mansion, which shone in the moonlight as

if the roof and walls were made of gold and silver.

When the youth entered, he passed through very

splendid apartments, each grander than the last;

hundreds of tapers were burning in gold chandeliers,

and everywhere diffused a light like that of day. At

length they reached a room where an elegant supper was

laid out, and two chairs stood at the table, one of silver

and the other of gold. The maiden sat down on the

golden chair, and invited the youth to take the other.

White-robed damsels served up and removed the dishes,

but they spoke no word, and trod as softly as if on cats'

feet. After supper the youth remained alone with the

royal maiden, and they kept up a lively conversation, till

a woman in red garments appeared to remind them that

it was bedtime.

Then the maiden showed the young man to another

room, where stood a silken bed with cushions of down,

after which she retired. He thought he must have gone

to heaven with his living body, for he never expected to

find such luxuries on earth. But he could never

afterwards tell whether it was the delusion of dreams or

whether he actually heard voices round his bed crying

out words which chilled his heart – “Give no blood!”

9

Next morning the maiden asked him whether he

would not like to stay here, where the whole week was

one long holiday. And as the youth did not answer

immediately, she added, “I am young and fair, as you

see yourself, and I am under no one's authority, and can

do what I like. Until now, it never entered my head to

marry, but from the moment when I saw you, other

thoughts came suddenly into my mind, for you please

me. If we should both be of one mind, let us wed

without delay. I possess endless wealth and goods, as

you may easily convince yourself at every step, and thus

I can live in royal state day by day. Whatever your heart

desires, that can I provide for you.”

The cajoleries of the fair maid might well have

turned the youth's head, but by good fortune he

remembered that the birds had called her the Hell-

Maiden, and had warned him to give her no blood, and

that he had received the same warning at night, though

whether sleeping or waking he knew not. He therefore

replied, “Dear lady, do not be angry with me if I tell you

candidly that marriage should not be rushed upon at

racehorse speed, but requires longer consideration. Pray

therefore allow me a few days for reflection, until we

are better acquainted.” "Why not?” answered the fair

maid. “I am quite content that you should think on the

matter for a few weeks, and set your mind at rest.”

Lest the youth might feel dull, the maiden led him

from one part of the magnificent house to another, and

showed him all the rich storehouses and treasure-

chambers, thinking that it might soften his heart. All

these treasures were the result of magic, for the maiden

could have built such a palace with all its contents on

10

any day and at any place with the aid of Solomon's Seal.

But everything was unsubstantial, for it was woven of

wind, and dissolved again into the wind, without leaving

a trace behind. But the youth was not aware of this, and

looked upon all the glamour as reality.

One day the maiden led him into a secret chamber,

where a gold casket stood on a silver table. This she

showed him, and then said, “Here is the most precious

of all my possessions, the like of which is not to be

found in the whole world. It is a costly golden ring. If

you will marry me, I will give it you for a keepsake, and

it will make you the happiest of all mankind. But in

order that the bond of our love should last for ever, you

must give me three drops of blood from the little finger

of your left hand in exchange for the ring.”

The youth turned cold when he heard her ask for

blood, for he remembered that his soul was at stake. But

he was crafty enough not to let her notice his emotion,

and not to refuse her, but asked carelessly what were the

properties of the ring.

The maiden answered, “No one living has been able

to fathom the whole power of this ring, and no one can

completely explain the secret signs engraved upon it.

But, even with the imperfect knowledge of its properties

which I possess, I can perform many wonders which no

other creature can accomplish. If I put the ring on the

little finger of my left hand, I can rise in the air like a

bird and fly whithersoever I will. If I place the ring on

the ring-finger of my left hand, I become invisible to all

eyes, while I myself can see everything that passes

around me. If I put the ring on the middle finger of my

left hand, I become invulnerable to all weapons, and

11

neither water nor fire can hurt me. If I place it on the

index finger of my left hand, I can create all things

which I desire with its aid; I can build houses in a

moment, or produce other objects. As long as I wear it

on the thumb of my left hand, my hand remains strong

enough to break down rocks and walls. Moreover, the

ring bears other secret inscriptions which, as I said

before, no one has yet been able to explain; but it may

readily be supposed that they contain many important

secrets. In ancient times, the ring belonged to King

Solomon, the wisest of kings, and in whose reign lived

the wisest of men. At the present day it is unknown

whether the ring was formed by divine power or by

human hands; but it is supposed that an angel presented

the ring to the wise king.”

When the youth heard the fair one speak in this way,

he determined immediately to endeavour to possess

himself of the ring by craft, and therefore pretended that

he could not believe what he had heard. He hoped by

this means to induce the maiden to take the ring out of

the casket to show him, when he might have an

opportunity of possessing himself of the talisman. But

he did not venture to ask her plainly to show him the

ring. He flattered and cajoled her, but the only thought

in his mind was to get possession of the ring. Presently

the maiden took the key of the casket from her bosom as

if to unlock it; but she changed her mind, and replaced it,

saying, “There's plenty of time for that afterwards.”

A few days later, their conversation reverted to the

magic ring, and the youth said, “In my opinion, the

things which you tell me of the power of your ring are

quite incredible.”

12

Then the maiden opened the casket and took out the

ring, which shone through her fingers like the brightest

sun-ray. Then she placed it in jest on the middle finger

of her left hand, and told the youth to take a knife and

stab her with it wherever he liked, for it would not hurt

her. The youth protested against the proposed

experiment; but, as she insisted, he was obliged to

humour her. At first he began in play, and then in

earnest to try to strike the maiden with the knife; but it

seemed as if there was an invisible wall of iron between

them. The blade would not pierce it, and the maiden

stood before him unhurt and smiling. Then she moved

the ring to her ring-finger, and in an instant she vanished

from the eyes of the youth, and he could not imagine

what had become of her. Presently she stood before him

smiling, in the same place as before, holding the ring

between her fingers.

“Let me try,” said he, “whether I can also do these

strange things with the ring.”

The maiden suspected no deceit, and gave it to him.

The youth pretended he did not quite know what to

do with it and asked, “On which finger must I place the

ring to become invulnerable to sharp weapons?” “On

the ring-finger of the left hand,” said the maiden,

smiling. She then took the knife herself and tried to

strike him, but could not do him any harm. Then the

youth took the knife from her and tried to wound

himself, but he found that this too was impossible. Then

he asked the maiden how he could cleave stones and

rocks with the ring. She took him to the enclosure where

stood a block of granite a fathom high. “Now place the

ring,” said the maiden, “on the thumb of your left hand,

13

and then strike the stone with your fist, and you will see

the strength of your hand.” The youth did so, and to his

amazement he saw the stone shiver into a thousand

pieces under the blow. Then he thought, “He who does

not seize good fortune by the horns is a fool, for when it

has once flown, it never returns.” While he was still

jesting about the destruction of the stone, he played with

the ring, and slipped it suddenly on the ring-finger of his

left hand. Then cried the maiden, “You will remain

invisible to me until you take off the ring again.” But

this was far from the young man's thoughts. He hurried

forwards a few paces, and then moved the ring to the

little finger of his left hand, and soared into the air like a

bird. When the maiden saw him flying away, she

thought at first that this experiment too was only in jest,

and cried out, “Come back, my friend. You see now that

I have told you the truth.” But he who did not return

was the youth, and when the maiden realised his

treachery, she broke out into bitter lamentations over her

misfortune.

The youth did not cease his flight till he arrived,

some days later, at the house of the famous sorcerer who

had taught him the language of birds. The sorcerer was

greatly delighted to find that his pupil's journey had

turned out so successfully. He set to work at once to

read the secret inscriptions on the ring, but he spent

seven weeks before he could accomplish it. He then

gave the young man the following instructions how to

destroy the Northern Frog: – “You must have a great

iron horse cast, with small wheels under each foot, so

that it can be moved backwards and forwards. You must

mount this, and arm yourself with an iron spear two

fathoms long, which you will only be able to wield

14

when you wear the magic ring on the thumb of your left

hand. The spear must be as thick as a great birch-tree in

the middle, and both ends must be sharpened to a point.

You must fasten two strong chains, ten fathoms long, to

the middle of the spear, strong enough to hold the frog.

As soon as the frog has bitten hard on the spear, and it

has pierced his jaws, you must spring like the wind from

the iron horse to avoid falling into the monster's throat,

and must fix the ends of the chains into the ground with

iron posts so firmly that no force can drag them out

again. In three or four days' time the strength of the frog

will be so far exhausted that you can venture to

approach it. Then place Solomon's ring on the thumb of

your left hand, and beat the frog to death. But till you

reach it, you must keep the ring constantly on the ring-

finger of your left hand, that the monster cannot see you,

or it would strike you dead with its long tail. But when

you have accomplished all this, take great care not to

lose the ring, nor to allow anybody to deprive you of it

by a trick.”

Our friend thanked the sorcerer for his advice, and

promised to reward him for his trouble afterwards. But

the sorcerer answered, “I have learned so much magic

wisdom by deciphering the secret inscriptions on the

ring, that I need no other profit for myself.” Then they

parted, and the young man hastened home, which was

no longer difficult to him, as he could fly like a bird

wherever he wished.

He reached home in a few weeks, and heard from the

people that the horrible Northern Frog was already in

the neighbourhood, and might be expected to cross the

frontier any day. The king caused it to be proclaimed

15

everywhere that if any one could destroy the frog, he

would not only give him part of his kingdom, but his

daughter in marriage likewise. A few days later, the

young man came before the king, and declared that he

hoped to destroy the monster, if the king would provide

him with what was necessary; and the king joyfully

consented. All the most skilful craftsmen of the

neighbourhood were called together to construct first

the iron horse, next the great spear, and lastly the iron

chains, the links of which were two inches thick. But

when all was ready, it was found that the iron horse was

so heavy that a hundred men could not move it from its

place. The youth was therefore obliged to move the

horse away alone, with the help of his ring.

The frog was now hardly four miles away, so that a

couple of bounds might carry it across the frontier. The

young man now reflected how he could best deal with

the monster alone, for, as he was obliged to push the

heavy iron horse from below, he could not mount it, as

the sorcerer had directed him. But he unexpectedly

received advice from the beak of a raven, “Mount upon

the iron horse, and set the spear against the ground, and

you can then push yourself along as you would push a

boat from the shore.” The young man did so, and found

that he was able to proceed in this way. The monster at

once opened its jaws afar off, ready to receive the

expected prey. A few fathoms more, and the man and

the iron horse were in the monster's jaws. The young

man shook with horror, and his heart froze to ice, but he

kept his wits about him, and thrust with all his might, so

that the iron spear which he held upright in his hand,

pierced the jaws of the monster. Then he leaped from

the iron horse, and sprang away like lightning as the

16

monster clashed his jaws together. A hideous roar,

which was heard for many miles, announced that the

Northern Frog had bitten the spear fast. When the youth

turned round, he saw one point of the spear projecting a

foot above the upper jaw, and concluded that the other

was firmly fixed in the lower one; but the frog had

crushed the iron horse between his teeth. The young

man now hastened to fasten the chains in the ground, for

which strong iron posts several fathoms long had been

prepared.

The death-struggles of the monster lasted for three

days and three nights, and when it reared itself, it struck

the ground so violently with its tail, that the earth was

shaken for fifty miles round. At length, when it was too

weak to move its tail any longer, the young man lifted a

stone with the help of his ring, which twenty men could

not have moved, and beat the monster about the head

with it until no further sign of life was visible.

Immeasurable was the rejoicing when the news

arrived that the terrible monster was actually dead. The

victor was brought to the capital with all possible

respect, as if he had been a powerful king. The old king

did not need to force his daughter to the marriage, for

she herself desired to marry the strong man who had

alone successfully accomplished what others had not

been able to effect with the aid of a whole army. After

some days, a magnificent wedding was prepared. The

festivities lasted a whole month, and all the kings of the

neighbouring countries assembled to thank the man who

had rid the world of its worst enemy. But amid the

marriage festival and the general rejoicings it was

forgotten that the monster's carcass had been left

17

unburied, and as it was now decaying, it occasioned

such a stench that no one could approach it. This gave

rise to diseases of which many people died. Then the

king's son-in-law determined to seek help from the

sorcerer of the East. This did not seem difficult to him

with the aid of his ring, with which he could fly in the

air like a bird.

But the proverb says that injustice never prospers,

and that as we sow we reap. The king's son-in-law was

doomed to realise the truth of this adage with his stolen

ring. The Hell-Maiden left no stone unturned, night or

day, to discover the whereabouts of her lost ring. When

she learned through her magic arts that the king's son-

in-law had set out in the form of a bird to visit the

sorcerer, she changed herself into an eagle, and circled

about in the air till the bird for which she was waiting

came in sight. She recognised him at once by the ring,

which he carried on a riband round his neck. Then the

eagle swooped upon the bird, and at the moment that

she seized him in her claws she tore the ring from his

neck with her beak, before he could do anything to

prevent her. Then the eagle descended to the earth with

her prey, and they both stood together in their former

human shapes. “Now you have fallen into my hands,

you rascal,” cried the Hell-Maiden. “I accepted you as

my lover, and you practised deceit and theft against me:

is that my reward? You robbed me of my most precious

jewel by fraud, and you hoped to pass a happy life as

the king's son-in-law; but now we have turned over a

new leaf. You are in my power, and you shall atone to

me for all your villainy.” “Forgive me, forgive me,” said

the king's son-in-law. “I know well that I have treated

you very badly, but I heartily repent of my fault.” But

18

the maiden answered, “Your pleadings and your

repentance come too late, and nothing can help you

more. I dare not overlook your offence, for that would

bring me disgrace, and make me a byword among the

people. Twice have you sinned against me: for, firstly,

you have despised my love; and, secondly, you have

stolen my ring; and now you must suffer your

punishment.” As she spoke, she placed the ring on the

thumb of her left hand, took the man on her arm like a

doll, and carried him away. This time she did not take

him to a magnificent palace, but to a cavern in the rocks

where chains were hanging on the walls. The maiden

grasped the ends of the chains and fettered the man hand

and foot, so that it was impossible for him to escape,

and she said in anger, “Here shall you remain a prisoner

till your end. I will send you so much food every day,

that you shall not die of hunger, but you need never

expect to escape.” Then she left him.

The king and his daughter endured a time of terrible

anxiety as weeks and weeks passed by, and the traveller

neither returned nor sent any tidings. The king's

daughter often dreamed that her consort was in great

distress, and therefore she begged her father to assemble

the sorcerers from all parts, in hopes that they might

perhaps be able to give some information respecting

what had happened to him, and how he could be rescued.

All the sorcerers could say was that he was still alive,

but in great distress, and they could neither discover

where he was, nor how he could be found. At length a

famous sorcerer from Finland was brought to the king,

who was able to inform him that his son-in-law was

kept in captivity in the East, not by a human being, but

by a more powerful creature. Then the king sent

19

messengers to the East to seek for his lost son-in-law.

Fortunately they met with the old sorcerer who had read

the inscriptions on Solomon's Seal, and had thus learned

wisdom which was hidden from all others. The sorcerer

soon discovered what he wished to know, and said,

“The man is kept prisoner by magic art in such and such

a place, but you cannot release him without my help, so

I must go with you myself.”

They set out accordingly, and in a few days, led by

the birds, they reached the cavern in the rock where the

king's son-in-law had already languished for seven years

in captivity. He recognised the sorcerer immediately, but

the latter did not know him, he was so much worn and

wasted. The sorcerer loosed his chains by his magic art,

took him home, and nursed and tended him till he had

recovered sufficient strength to set out on his journey.

He reached his destination on the very day that the old

king died, and was chosen king. Then came days of joy

after long days of suffering; and he lived happily till his

end, but he never recovered the magic ring, nor has it

ever since been seen by human eyes.

This is a reproduction of an old story as it appeared

at the time of its publication. From William Forsell

Kirby, The Hero of Esthonia and Other Studies in

the Romantic Literature of that Country, Vol. II

(London: John C. Nimmo, 1895), pp. 237-261.

20

21

The Wolves

Lady Elizabeth Rigby Eastlake

There is a kind of savage luxury, however gorgeous and

costly, which perfectly assimilates with savage life, and

where the eye may pass at one glance from the

pampered inmate of the palace to the wild beast in the

woods, without any sense of inconsistency to the mind.

This may be remarked, more or less, with all oriental

nations. The Indian prince is in keeping with the tiger in

the jungle, the Russian noble with the bear in his forests.

But it is a different and very strange sensation to find

yourself in a country where inward and outward life are

at variance; where the social habits of the one by no

means prepare you for the rude elements of the other;

where nature is wild, and man tame. This is

22

23

conspicuously the case in the north-western part of

Russia, where a German colony, although lords of the

soil for hundreds of years, are still as foreign to it as

they were at first; having originally brought a weak

offset of civilised life into a country for which only the

lineal descendants of the savage were fitted, and having

since then rather vegetated upon the gradually

impoverishing elements they transplanted with them,

than taken root in the gradually improving soil around

them. Life, therefore, in this part of the world passes

with a monotony and security which reminds you of

what, in point of fact, it really is, viz. a remote and

provincial state of German society of the present day.

Both the inclinations and occupations of the colonists

confine them to a narrow range of activity and idea. The

country is too wild, the population too scattered, the

distances too great, the impediments, both of soil and

season, too many for them to become acquainted with

the secrets of the wild nature around them; or rather, not

without a trouble which no one is sufficiently interested

to overcome. They travel much, from place to place,

upon roads bad enough, it is true, but always beaten;

they have no pursuit but mere business or mere pleasure,

and no interest except in what promotes the one or the

other; and, in short, know as little of what goes on in the

huts of the native peasantry, or in the forest and morass

haunts of the native animals, as if they were strangers in

the land, instead of its proprietors. It is, therefore, as we

before remarked, a strange and most unpleasant feeling,

while spending your days in a state of society which

partakes of the security and ease of the present day, to

be suddenly reminded by some accidental circumstance

of a state of nature which recalls the danger and

24

adventure of centuries back.

It was early in the spring, after a long and very

severe winter, when the earth was just sufficiently

softened to admit its stock of summer flowers, though

not sufficiently warmed to vivify them, that the garden

belonging to a country-house situated in this part of

Russia had become the scene of great activity. Hundreds

of leafless plants and shrubs, which has passed their

winter in the darkness and warmth of the house-cellar,

were now brought out to resume their short summer

station, and lay strewed about in various groups,

roughly showing the shape of the bed or border they

were to occupy. The balmy air had also summoned forth

the lovely mistress of the mansion, a delicate flower,

more unsuited to this wintry land even than those which

lay around her, who went from one plant to another,

recognising in the leafless twigs the beautiful flowers

which had been, or were to be, and shifting and

reshifting their places on the fresh bare earth till they

assumed that position which her taste or fancy approved

— just as a fine London or Paris lady may be seen in a

jeweller's shop shifting her loose diamonds, upon a

ground of purple velvet, into the order in which they are

to be finally set. A younger lady was with her — a

cousin by birth and a companion by choice — who had

recently joined her, after a long separation, in a home

foreign to each. Her two children were there also,

beautiful and happy creatures; the elder one glad to be

of use, the younger one delighted to think herself so;

while Lion, an enormous dog, the living image, in size,

colour, and gentleness, of Vandyke's splendid mastiff in

his picture of the children of Charles I., lazily followed

their steps, putting up his huge head whenever a child

25

stooped hers, and laying himself invariably down

exactly where a flower was to be planted.

After spending some time in this occupation, and

having at length marked out the summer-garden to their

satisfaction, the party turned their steps towards the

house, where some beds, close under the windows, had

been planted the preceding evening.

“Lion, Lion!” exclaimed the eldest child, “you

should know better than to come across the fresh-raked

beds,” showing us a tract of large, clumsy footmarks,

which had gone directly over it. “Yes, look at the

mischief you have done, old dog, and be ashamed of

yourself; but keep off now! keep off!” for Lion was

pressing forward with all his weight, snuffing at the

prints with quick-moving nostrils. The lady stooped

eagerly over the animal.

“These are no dog's footprints,” she said; and then,

pointing to more distant traces farther on, “No, no. Oh,

this is horrible! And so fresh too. A wolf has been here!”

She was right; the footmarks were very different

from a dog's —larger and coarser even than the largest

dog's, longer in shape, and with a deeper indentation of

the ball of the foot. It was truly a painful and a fearful

feeling to look at that flower-bed, on which the hand of

man had been so recently employed, now tracked over

by the feet of one of the most savage animals that exists;

and the lady drew back shuddering. And Louisa, for that

was the cousin's name, shuddered too, if not with so real

a sense of fear, yet with a much more unlimited

impression of terror. She was a stranger as much to the

idea as to the sight, and, as she looked up at the window

26

just above — her own bedroom window — with its

peaceful white curtains and swallow's nest at the comer,

and remembered that she had been sleeping within

while the wild beast was trampling beneath, she felt as

if she should never rest easily there again. As for the

children, they both looked terrified at first, chiefly

because their elders did, and then each acted according

to the character within her — Olga, the elder, holding

quietly by her mother's hand, and afraid even to look at

the footprints, though approaching them docilely when

she was bidden; while little Miss Constance, unscrewing

her rosy face from its momentary alarm, trotted with

great glee over the fresh-raked bed, delighted to make

the most of a privilege usually forbidden her, and

discovered new wolf's steps in all directions as fast as

Lion made them.

They now called some of the workmen, who

instantly confirmed their verdict.

“This is an old wolf, Prauer” said a rough, long-

haired, shrewd-looking old peasant, scrutinising the

tracts with Indian-like closeness and sagacity — “this is

an old wolf, he walked so heavily; and here's a wound

he has got to this paw, who knows when, from some

other wolf, or maybe from Lion, — I dare say they are

acquainted,” pointing out to the party a slight

irregularity in the print of one of the hind feet, as if from

a distorted claw. “He was here the beginning of the

morning, that I can see.”

“But where was Lion ?” said the lady, eagerly.

“I went to the mill, Prauer, at sunrise, and took Lion

with me, and by the time we got back the beast must

27

have been off. I saw the old dog snuffing about, but the

heavy dew would stop any scent. The wolves are hungry

now, the waters have driven them up together, and the

cattle are not let out yet. He is not far off, either; we

must keep a sharp look-out. An old wolf like this will

prowl about for days together round the same place, till

he picks up something.”

“Heavens! how dreadful! Constance, come back this

moment,” said the young mother, with an expression of

anxiety which would have touched the roughest heart.

“Who knows where the creature may be now?”

“Never fear, Prauer; he's off to the woods by this

time – plenty of his footmarks to be found there, I

warrant,” pointing to a low, dismal-looking tract of

brushwood, which formed the frontier to an immense

morass, about a werst off. “Never fear old Pertel and old

Lion will take care of the little Preilns. Polle üchtige!

nothing at all, not a hair on their heads shall be hurt,

bless them!”

“Yes, yes, good Pertel,” said the lady, with a nod and

a smile, to the rough creature, “I know that. But under

our very windows! — I never knew them come so near

before.”

“Dreist wie ein wolf — bold as a wolf,” said the

phlegmatic head-gardener, a German; “that's an old

proverb.”

They now returned to the house with minds ready to

take alarm at any sight or sound. The cousin knew not

how much there was or was not to fear; and, though the

lady did, the voice of her maternal anxiety amply made

up for all the silence of her imagination. The children,

28

of course, were not slow in catching the infection; and,

what with fear and what with fun, there was no end to

the wolves that were seen in the course of the next four-

and-twenty hours. Any and every object served their

turn: sheep, foals, and calves; old men and old women;

stunted trees in the distance, and round grey stones near;

not to mention innumerable articles of furniture in

various corners of the house — all stood for wolves; not

only successively, but over and over again. Lion,

however, was the greatest bugbear of all, and the good

old dog could not push open the door, and come lazily

in, with all his claws rattling on the smooth parquête

floor, without setting the children screaming, and

startling the two ladies much more than they liked to

confess.

But this state of things was too inconvenient to last.

A succession of false alarms is the surest cure for false

fears; and, to quote the fable for once in its literal sense,

they were weary of hearing “Wolf!” called.

Nevertheless, they did not undertake long walks without

protection, and never at all in the direction of the morass;

the children were not allowed to wander a step alone;

doors and windows, which otherwise, at this time of the

year, are very much left to please themselves by night as

well as by day, were now every evening punctiliously

closed; and one door especially, next Louisa's bedroom,

at the end of a long corridor, which communicated with

an unfinished addition to the house then in progress,

was always eyed with great distrust. It had no means of

shutting whatsoever. Nightly a bar was talked of, and

daily forgotten; but “Dreist wie ein wolf!” sounded in

Louisa's ears, and she pushed a heavy box firmly against

it.

29

Several days passed away, and the episode of the

wolf's footprints was almost forgotten, when suddenly a

scream and a shout were heard from a kind of baking-

house within view of the windows. Lion started up from

the cool drawing-room floor, where he lay stretched at

full-length, and leaped out of the open window.

Workmen from the new building rushed across the

lawn, each with such implements in their hands as they

had been working with; and out of the baking-house,

followed by a lad, sprung an immense wolf. At first, he

bounded heavily away, and was evidently making for

the wood; but Lion came close upon him, overtook him

in a few seconds, and attacked him with fury. The wolf

turned, and a struggle began. For a while the brave dog

was alone; each alternately seemed to hang with deadly

gripe upon the other, and yells, and snorts, and sharp

howls filled the air. But now the foremost of the

pursuers reached the spot; dog and wolf were so rolled

together, that at first he stayed his blows; but soon a

terrible stroke with the hatchet was given, — another,

and another. The animal relinquished the dog, tried to

turn upon the man, and soon: lay dead at his feet.

Meanwhile, the ladies from the mansion were also

hurrying forward, full of horror for the scene, and of

anxiety for Lion, but unable, in the excitement of the

moment, to keep back. There lay the animal, the ground

ploughed up violently around it, a monstrous and terrific

sight. Death had caught it in the most savage posture, —

the claws all extended, — the hind feet drawn up, the

fore ones stretched forward, — the head turned sharp

round, and the enormous jaws, which seemed as if they

would split the skull asunder, wide open. Nature could

30

hardly show a more repulsive-looking creature — one

which breathed more of the ferocity of the wild beast, or

excited less of the humanity of man; and, as Louisa

looked down at the lifeless carcass, all lean, starved, and

time-worn, with ghastly gashes, where late every nerve

had been strained in defence of that life which God had

given it, entangling doubts came over her mind of the

justice of that Power which could make an animal to be

hated for that which His Will alone had appointed it to

be. But, fortunately for her, she came from a land where,

with all its faults, the stone of sophistry is not given for

the bread of faith; quickly, therefore, came that antidote

thought, which all who seek will find — the sole key to

all we understand not in the moral world — leaving

only a pardonable pity for a creature born to hunt and be

hunted, ordained neither to give nor to find quarter, and

to whom life had apparently been as hard as death had

been cruel. Poor beast! It was a savage wolf all over;

rough, coarse, clumsy, and strong; the hair, or rather

bristles, dusky, wiry, and thin; and not one beauty about

it, except, perhaps, those long, white, sharp teeth, which

had drawn so much blood, and were now tinged with

that of the fine old dog. Lion lay panting beside his dead

enemy, the blood trickling down his throat, on which the

wolf had fixed a gripe which life could not long have

sustained.

The whole history was now heard from the lad.

There had been baking going on that morning in the

outhouse, and he went in to light his pipe. As he blew up

the ashes he saw a great animal close beside him. In the

dark he mistook it for Lion, and put out his hand; but it

rose at once against him with an action not to be

mistaken by a native of these climes; on which he

31

screamed as loud as he could, for his breath stood still,

the poor boy assured them, with fright; and the creature,

taking alarm, rushed out of the door.

“The Prauer may let the little ladies run about now,”

said old Pertel. “That's the same wolf that crossed the

bed last Thursday; I know him by this left hind-foot;”

and he held up a grim limb where an old wound had

turned the claw aside. “He got this in some of his battles;

many a foal yet unborn would have felt it this summer."

And the old man stroked the dead animal with

satisfaction.

They now all left the scene of battle, and

refreshments were given to those who had assisted at it.

Olga proposed giving the boy, who was still trembling

with fright, a glass of sugar and water, this being what

the ladies of this country invariably take when their

nerves are shaken; but her mother suggested that a glass

of brandy would be much more to his taste; and

accordingly he received a dose, which not only restored

the courage he had lost, but lent him a large temporary

stock in addition. Lion, too, was well cared for, and

immensely pitied. The wound on his throat, which was

too close under his own long tongue to be reached by it,

was washed with certain balsams with which this

country abounds; after which, the old dog employed

himself in slobbering over various rents and scratches in

more accessible parts of his body, and finally went fast

asleep, which the children hoped would do him much

good, and, for about two minutes, spoke over him in

whispers, and went round him on tiptoe.

Since the day of the footprints, the lady and her

cousin had carefully refrained from any subject

32

connected with wolves, or wild beasts in general; for the

children's imaginations required to be studiously

tranquillized, and even their own were quite lively

enough without additional stimulus. But now nothing

else was discussed; everything was àpropos of wolves;

and some acquaintances from a distant part of the

country coming in for the evening, the whole time was

passed in telling wolf anecdotes.

The fact of the animal being discovered in the baking

house was soon explained; for it appeared that the wolf,

like the bear, is excessively fond of bread, and that, after

the smell of fresh blood, that of fresh baking is surest to

attract him. A peasant woman, who had just drawn her

hot rye-loaves out of the oven, quitted her cottage for a

few minutes, leaving her two young children playing at

the same bench on which the smoking bread was laid.

Scarcely had she turned her back, when an enormous

wolf sprang in, took no notice of the screaming children,

but snatched a loaf from the bench. The mother, hearing

screams, hastened back, and as she reached the door the

wolf bounded out of it with the hot bread in his jaws. “I

have heard the old woman often tell the tale,” said the

speaker; “and she invariably added, ‘and so I lost my

biggest loaf; but never was there a guest more welcome

to it.’”

Another time, a kitchen-maid, whose office it is to

bake the common rye bread, was carrying the hot loaves,

towards night, across the court, when she met a large

animal which she mistook in the dark for one of the

huge cattle-dogs. But it rose upon her, and she felt the

claws upon her bare arm, ready, at the next moment, to

slit the skin, as is their wont, and rend her down. In her

33

terror, she crammed a loaf into the creature's jaws, and

he made off with the sop, perfectly content.

Upon the whole, it is very difficult to procure

information about the wolf’s habits, or even tidings of

its depredations. The common peasant, who alone

knows anything about the animal, is withheld by

superstition from even mentioning the name of wolf;

and if he mentions him at all, designates him only as the

“old one,” or the “grey one,” or the “great dog;” feeling,

as was also the case in parts of Great Britain with regard

to the fairies, that to call these animals by their true

name is a sure way to exasperate them. This caution

may be chiefly attributed, however, to the popular and

very ancient belief in the “Wär Wolf;”1

not a

straightforward, open-mouthed, plain-spoken beast,

against which the cattle may plunge, and fight, and

defend themselves as best they may, and which either

wounds or kills its prey in a fair and ferocious way; but

that odious combination of human weakness and

decrepitude, with demoniacal power and will, which all

nations who have believed in have most unjustly

persecuted and most naturally hated — in other words, a

bad, miserable old woman leagued body and soul with

1“This mysterious and widely spread superstition – the ware

wolf of England, the loup garrou of France – was especially

current in Germany, where many tales of its terror still exist.

Two warlocks were executed in the year 1810, at Liege, for

having, under the form of ware wolves, killed several

children. They had a boy of twelve years of age with them,

who completed the Satanic trio, and, under the form of a

raven, consumed those portions of the prey which the

warlocks left.” – Grimm's Deutsche Sagen.

34

Satan, who, under the form of a Wär Wolf, paralyses the

cattle with her eye, and from whom the slightest wound

is death. Be this as it may, the superior intelligence of

the upper classes is to this day occasionally puzzled to

account for the fate of a fine young ox, who will be

found in the morning breathing hard, his hide bathed in

foam, and with every sign of fright and exhaustion,

while, perhaps, only one trifling wound will be

discovered on the whole body, which swells and

inflames as if poison had been infused, the animal

generally dying before night. Nor does the mystery end

here; for, on examining the body, the intestines will be

found to be torn as with the claws of a wolf, and the

whole animal in a state of inflammation, which

sufficiently accounts for death.

This same superstition also favours the increase of

this dreadful animal, for the peasant has a strong feeling

against destroying a wolf; says that, if you disturb them,

they will disturb you, and generally attributes the loss of

his foal, or of foal and mother together (a too frequent

occurrence), to the plunder of a wolf's nest by his less

superstitious neighbour. Nevertheless the destruction of

their young is the only way in which an efficient

warfare with the wolf can be carried on, and the

provincial government of this part of Russia wisely

bestows a small reward in money for every pair of

wolves' ears that is brought to the magistrate of the

district; thus setting up one powerful passion in the

human breast against another. But superstition has the

best of it at present, and, perhaps, in the long run, is the

better thing of the two.

The wolves make their nests usually deep in the

35

morasses, a few sticks being dragged together in a small

hollow, or under a juniper-bush, where the young

wolves lie with great jaws, which open wide at the

slightest noise, like; the bill of a young bird, and equally

disproportionate to their size. It is at this season that the

wolves are the most rapacious and dauntless, defying

danger, and facing daylight to provide prey for their

young. In old times, if tradition is to be believed, the

abduction of peasant children for the young wolves was

a thing of no uncommon occurrence, so that the father

of a former day had as little chance of rearing all his

children as the farmer of the present his foals. But now,

with the culture of the land, and the gradual increase of

farming stock, a favourable change has taken place, and

the recent introduction of sheep especially has proved a

great accommodation to both parties. Nevertheless, the

wail of a poor peasant mother for a missing child is still

raised from time to time, though the widely scattered

population, and the remote situation of single villages,

on that account more exposed to such depredations,

allow only the occasional echo of such distress to reach

the ears of the upper classes. The peasant also is an un-

communicative being; the slave of one set of foreigners,

the subject of another, and oppressed by both, he shuts

up his mouth and his heart, and cares little to divulge the

more sacred sorrows of his life to those who are the

authors of almost every other.

The evening visitors, however, related a wonderful

instance which had occurred under their own

knowledge :– A peasant child, just able to trot alone, and

as such left to trot just where it pleased, was carried off

unperceived and unhurt by a she-wolf to her nest at

some distance. The young wolves, however, had just

36

consumed some larger and commoner prey, and knew

when they had had enough; so they let the child lie

among them, and saved it up for another day. The little

creature remained thus through the night, when the old

one quitting the nest again, and the young ones probably

sleeping, it crawled gradually away, as unintentional of

escape as it had been unconscious of danger, and at

length reached the fence of a remote field, where it was

picked up by a labourer and brought to the house of the

narrator. But the innocent child had suffered terribly,

and bore upon its tender body such marks of the wolf's

den as would, so long as it lived, sufficiently attest an

otherwise almost incredible fact. The young wolves had

forborne to devour their prey, but they had tasted it! The

skin of the forehead was licked raw; all the fingers were

more or less injured, but two of them were sucked and

mumbled completely off!

This tale was now followed by another more tragic

and equally true, having taken place only the summer

before upon a neighbouring estate, so that the lady of

the house, her beautiful brow contracted, and her voice

lowered, related it herself to the party. A woman, whose

husband, being a Junker, or something less obnoxious

than a Disponent, lived in a more comfortable way than

the usual run of peasants, though still classing as a

peasant, was washing one day before the door of her

house, with her only child, a little girl of four years old,

playing about close by. Her cottage stood in a lonely

part of the estate, forming almost an island in the midst

of low, boggy ground. She had her head down in the

wash-tub, and, hot and weary, was bending all her

efforts to complete her task, when a fearful cry made her

turn, and there was the child, clutched by one shoulder,

37

in the jaws of a great she-wolf, the other arm extended

to her. The woman was so close that she grasped a bit of

the child's little petticoat in her hand, and with the other

hand, screaming frantically, beat the wolf with all her

force to make it let go its hold. But those relentless jaws

stirred not for the cries of a mother — that gaunt form

cared not for the blows of a woman. The animal set off

at full speed with the child, dragging the mother along,

who clung with desperation to her grasp. Thus they

continued for two or three dreadful minutes, the woman

only just able to hold on. Soon the wolf turned into

some low, uneven ground, and the woman fell over the

jagged trunk of a tree, tearing in her fall the piece of

petticoat, which now only remained in her hand. The

child hitherto had been aware of its mother's presence,

and, so long as she clung; had not uttered a scream; but

now the little victim felt itself deserted, and its screams

resounded through the wood. The poor woman rose in a

moment, and followed over stock and stone, tearing

herself pitiably as she went, yet knowing it not; but the

wolf increased in speed, the bushes grew thicker, the

ground heavier, and soon the screams of the child

became her only guide. Still she dashed on, frantic with

distress, picked up a little shoe which the closing bushes

had rubbed off, saw traces of the child's hair and clothes

on the low, jagged boughs, which crossed the way; but,

oh! the screams grew fainter, then louder, and then

ceased altogether!

“The poor mother saw more on her way, but I can't

tell what that was” said the lady, her voice choked with

horror, and her fair face streaming with tears. Her

hearers did not press to know, for they were chilled

enough already. “And only think” she continued, “of the

38

wretchedness of the poor afflicted creature, when her

husband returned at night and asked for the child. She

told me that she placed the piece of petticoat and the

little shoe before him, but how she told him their great

misery God only knows! she has no recollection. And

now you don't wonder,” she added, “that I shuddered at

seeing those footprints;” and she shuddered again.

“Sometimes I am in terror when my children are longer

out of my sight than usual, and fancy every person that

approaches me is charged with some dreadful

announcement; but God avert this! mistrust is wrong.”

With these words the circle broke up. The long

droshky, like a chaiselongue put upon wheels, came to

the door, and the guests drove off. It was one of those

exquisite nights peculiar to these climes, which the

French aptly term des nuits blanches, — a night, light

without moon, a day shaded without clouds, — the last

glow of the evening and the first grey of morning

melted together; a period when all the luminaries of the

heavens seem to rest their beams without withdrawing

them. The cousins stood at the door, hand in hand,

gazing in the direction which their guests had taken; and

a looker-on might have imagined they were envying

them that calm, cool drive. But they envied them not;

they honoured all that was good in this strange land, and

prized all who were good to them; but a sense of

solitude hung heavy upon them in the society of others,

which only the solitude of their own could dispel. They

had much, also, to say to one another, which a native of

these climes could not comprehend, or would not like.

Not that they said aught that was strange, or wrong, or

unkind; but they spoke as they thought, and they

thought unlike all the world around them. So they

39

lingered beneath that beautiful light, talking calmly of

what was peculiar in their lot, yet not complaining of

the evil, but rather extracting the good; and they spoke,

too, as those speak who have no time to lose, but rather

much to recover, plainly, earnestly, and touchingly,

because so truly; each seeking to give knowledge of her

own mind, and comfort to that of her companion. And

from that which concerned their own hearts individually

they soon passed on to that which concerns every heart

that beats; and thoughts came which all have heard, but

not all have listened to — thoughts which are locked to

some, checked to others, and not even breathed freely to

the most kindred spirit, except at those moments, few

and fleeting, which favour their utterance and suit their

sacredness. They discoursed on the wonderful economy

of happiness in a world full of woe; how, the fewer the

joys, the higher the enjoyment, till the last and highest

of all, true peace of mind, is found to contain every

other. And then they spoke of the blessing of sorrow,

and of the mystery of sin, and turning to her companion

that angel's face, more angelic still in the soft light, and

with a transition of expression peculiar to herself, the

lady added, —

“And sin brought the wolves too, dear one!”

“True, true,” said Louisa; “I thought of that when the

poor beast lay dead at our feet to-day.”

And so they turned and went into the house.

They now took their usual last look at the children,

who slept in opposite cots in the same room. Each lay

the sleeping effigy of her waking self. The eldest,

composed, cool, and orderly; with pale cheek and

40

smooth hair; the limbs straight, the head gently bent, the

bed-clothes lying unruffled upon the regularly heaving

chest; all that was beautiful, gentle, and meek; looking

as if stretched out for a monumental effigy. On the other

side, defying all order and bursting all bounds, was the

little Constance, flushed, tumbled, and awry; the round

arms tossed up, the rosy face flung back, the bed-clothes

pushed off, the pillow flung out, the nightcap one way,

the hair another; all that was disorderly and most lovely

by night — all that was unruly and most winning by day.

“Come, my lovely one, mamma will set all to

rights!” And, with a few magical movements, which the

young mother's hand best knows, the head was raised up,

the limbs smoothed down, the little form adjusted into a

fresh position, and, with sighs and smiles, and a few

murmuring sounds, the blooming creature was fast

asleep again.

“Only think, that poor woman's child was the age of

Constance!”

“Don't think of it,” said Louisa, “it will haunt your

sleep;” and she led her cousin to her room through the

children's, where they parted for the night.

“You need not shut the children's door, nor any as

you go along; the house is oppressively warm, and

Constance is hot.”

Louisa came through two halls and down the

corridor, looked at the door into the new building, and

remembered that the bar had again been forgotten;

pushed the box again up, and then went into her own

room and shut the door.

41

The night, as we have described, was one of those

which seem too good to be passed in sleep. Louisa was

sad and serious, and all without and within tempted her

to watch. But so long as the heaviness of the heart can

yield to that of the head, there is not much that is amiss

in either. By the time, therefore, that she had fully

resolved to lie awake, recalling old griefs and conjuring

up new, past and future, with their cares and fears, had

vanished away, and of the present she knew as little as

the children she had left in their cots.

How long this lasted she knew not, some hours it

seemed, when she was roused by a sound in the

adjoining unfinished building. At first the drowsy senses

paid little attention, and dozed on; but again she was

roused, louder and louder, and, starting up, she shook

off sleep, flew out of bed, and, opening the door, looked

into the dark passage. To her astonishment the door into

the new building was half open; she advanced to shut it,

when again a noise made her turn her head in the

opposite direction; and there — oh, Heavens! the poor

girl's blood froze in her veins — there, stealing down

the passage, its back towards her, was — a wolf! An

exclamation of horror which burst from her lips

disturbed the animal; it turned, and the light from the

half-open door shone on its green eyes and white teeth

as it sprang upon her. With one convulsive bound

Louisa cleared the threshold, dashed her door to, locked

it, barred it, flung a chair against it, and, this done, stood

in a state of agony for which no words exist. She

seemed to see all in a moment; herself safe, but those

children! — those children! not a door closed between

them and those dreadful jaws! She was stupified with

terror and a strange, dinning sound, like her heart's own

42

throbbing filled her ears, and shut out every other sense.

“Dreist wie ein Wolf! — Dreist wie ein Wolf!” she

repeated, mechanically; and then, forcing herself from

the fainting, trance-like feeling that oppressed her, she

thought for one moment that she would follow the wild

beast. Her hand was on the lock, but she looked round

for some weapon of defence. There was not a thing she

could use, — not a stanchion to the window, not a rod to

the bed. Then she listened at the door, and distinctly

heard the trampling claws on the boards. The animal

was still close to her door, and there was time, if she

could keep her senses together, to consider some means

of help. Oh, if she could but have stopped that dinning

sound in her ears! but it came again, beating louder and

louder, and perfectly paralysed her. The effort to open

the window restored her. How she got out she knew not,

but there she was on the damp ground, alone in the open

garden. And now there was no time to be lost; she had

to get round the end of the house, which was half closed

up with bushes, half blocked up with building materials,

stones, and timber. But the night had grown darker; she

could not see the path; she knew that she was losing

time, and yet that all depended on her haste; she felt

fevered with impatience, yet torpid with terror. At length

she disengaged herself from the broken, uneven ground,

and struggled forward. There were the windows of the

children's and her cousin's rooms; she had fancied that

she could reach and open them with her hands, and call

to those within; but how confused was her head! they

belonged to a later part of the house, and were much

higher than her own. She called and called, but her

voice failed, and no one answered; she stooped for a

stone or something to throw up, but only soft grass or

43

moist leaves came into her hand. Suddenly a scream

was heard, it was Constance's voice, — scream over

scream. Frantic with terror, Louisa now dashed to

another part of the house where the servants slept. As

she reached it, a figure came towards her. Thank Heaven,

it was old Pertel! But those screams; — they reached

her louder and louder! She could only ejaculate,

“Weiche Preilns! — Weiche Preilns!” — “The little

ladies — the little ladies!” But he seemed neither to

heed her words nor the dreadful sounds that impelled

them, and took her hand, in peasant fashion, to kiss it.

“Weiche Preilns! — Weiche Preilns!” she reiterated; but

again he took her hand. She struggled, but he held it

firm. She looked down, and there was the fairest, softest

hand locked round hers; she looked up, and there was

the sweetest, gentlest face bent laughing over her.

“I must say, darling, you speak better Esthnish in

your sleep than you do when you are awake. What has

made you sleep so late? Olga has been knocking twice

at your door, — she would not come in unbidden for the

world, — and Constance has been screaming, in one of

her fits of play, till the whole house heard her. And

when I came at last, and took your hand to waken you,

you only knocked it aside, and ejaculated 'Weiche

Preilns!' with such a pitiable expression, that I woke

you with my laughing. How sound you have slept!”

“Slept!” said Louisa, “indeed I have, — such a sleep

as I never wish for again! But I see it all; the wolf of

yesterday — Olga's knocking — Constance's screaming

— your hand!” And she related her dream.

The cousins laughed together, but also thanked God

together that such scenes only exist in dreams. For

44

wolves neither jump up to windows, nor open doors, nor

walk up and down corridors. Nevertheless, a bar was

put on to that door before night.

Lady Elizabeth Rigby Eastlake (1809-1893) was an

English writer, art critic and art historian. She

travelled extensively and resided briefly in Estonia

during 1838-1841, 1844 and 1878. This story was

originally published as “The Wolves of Esthonia”

in Fraser's Magazine, 31 (April 1844), pp. 392-400

and then again in a collection of works by Lady

Elizabeth entitled Livonian Tales (London: John

Murray, 1846), pp. 121-136, under the title that it

appears here.

45

The Silver Cup

Sir Stephen George Tallents

I

I met him first one March night in a farmhouse in

Estonia, behind the Bolshevik front, and of that night I

chiefly remember the cold. I was a war correspondent

then, and had been spending a couple of days in an

armoured train, when one evening, just about sundown,

my host asked if I would like to ride out with him and

have supper with the headquarters’ staff of a

neighbouring regiment. It had been a depressing day of

snow-storms in which our men had failed to dislodge

46

47

the Bolsheviks from a village a few miles ahead of our

train, and I was tired of waiting in a stuffy railway

carriage for an advance. So I agreed gladly, and soon

found myself astride of a shivering pony, waiting for my

host to start and watching a small fire which some of his

men had kindled under shelter of a bank at the forest

edge.

Oh! but it was cold. There was an icy wind blowing

as we cantered behind our guide away from the railway,

uphill through trees and scrub. And when we reached

the top of the hill it met us straight in the face. I felt my

little horse quail before it as we came out into the open,

and I drew down the flaps of my fur cap over my ears to

save them from frostbite. Even so, my feet and my

fingers were soon like ice and, if I had dismounted, I do

not think I could ever have got up again. We struck

presently into a forest track and into partial shelter from

the freezing wind; and at last, after half an hour's riding,

emerged into a clearing set on a knoll, where a sentry in

a sheepskin coat stopped us and walked on with us to

the farm. By a gate he showed us in the failing light two

dead men lying almost concealed by the drifting snow.

Bolsheviks, he said, caught running out of the farm

when it had been taken a couple of days before. The

head of one of them lay uncovered, the fine-featured

face of quite a young boy. For a moment I wondered to

myself how he could have joined that company. And

then we were at the door.

Our escort knocked at the door and a guard opened it

– a ragged fellow with a rifle. The door opened straight

into the living room of the farm, and a knot of officers

sitting at the table stood up as we entered. The wind

48

blew the candle flames about their supper table, and the

movement of the light half disguised their faces.

Through a door at the back of the room I had a glimpse

of a peasant woman, a girl and a very old man, peering

out to see who the new-comers were.

The bearded Colonel of the regiment, a man, I

suppose, of about forty, got up from the head of the

table and shook hands with me. I repeated this formality

– it is the way of the country – with all the officers

present, and then sat down on the Colonel's right, where

the adjutant made way for me. Dinner began, served by

the women of the farm from the adjoining room. There

were two bottles of potato spirit on the table, and from

these we drank each other's health, eating meantime

black bread and butter and some small fish, evidently a

preserve from the sea coast. In the middle of the table

stood a chased silver cup of fine workmanship; and on

my remarking it, my host first pledged me with it, and

then told how it had been captured from the Bolsheviks

ten days before. It must be very old, he said. No doubt

the Reds had looted it from the country house of some

baron. Then, as the restraint of myself and my new

companions melted, we began to talk.

“You didn't expect to find an Englishman here, did

you?” said my host.

I looked up, bewildered.

He indicated with a bend of his head a man sitting

opposite me and to my right, who smiled at the

introduction and bowed slightly and ironically. He was

tall, with prominent cheekbones and light blue eyes set

into a wide forehead, and above it a shock of tawny hair.

49

He might, I thought, be about thirty-five years of age.

“Are you an Englishman?” I said.

“Partly,” he replied, speaking in English with a

noticeable foreign accent. “My father was English, but

my mother was a Russian.”

“Have you ever been in England?” I asked.

“Once,” he said, “when I was a lad. I've been in most

European countries in my time,” he added, smiling.

“We must have a talk some day,” I said in English,

and then turned back to converse in Russian with the

others.

There were sounds of a man knocking the snow off

his boots at the door, and a rifleman with a sheepskin

cap and coat entered and stood to attention inside the

door. Again the flames of the candles bent before the

wind, and I caught the eyes of the Englishman looking

at me across the table, with a sense that he too, like me,

was partly a spectator of what was happening. The other

officers were helping each other to bits of meat and

potato from a dish set down in front of us.

“What is it?” said the Colonel to the new-comer.

“The Bolsheviks drove us out just before dark. We

saw about twenty men, and they've got a machine gun.”

“I'll go for them at daylight,” said the Colonel. “We

must go and see our men,” he added abruptly. “Excuse

me, but the Englishman will keep you company.”

He and the officers filed out into the darkness. My

riding companion went with them. The Englishman and

50

I were left alone. I went across and sat over the fire and

the Englishman joined me.

“How did you come into this country?” I asked him.

“The Bolsheviks destroyed my home. They would

have killed me if they could have caught me. I lived

among them in disguise for a while, and then, as I was

starving, I escaped along the coast and joined the

Estonians. But there's nothing for a man to do in these

parts now, except to fight somebody.”

“And what's the end of it all going to be?”

“God alone knows!” he said. “As long as you treat

Russia as a play, what hope is there for her?”

I laughed, and asked him what he meant.

“Before the war you used to pretend that Russia was

a fairyland. Now you make out she's possessed by

demons. And you're not even content to watch. You

must take sides in the play, just as the crowd watching a

melodrama will always cheer the hero and boo at the

villain. And it's not for nothing that all the poor students

in Moscow used to draw lots for the privilege of

standing in the queue outside the theatre of a bitter

autumn's afternoon. Treat us like characters in a play,

and you may be sure that we're much too fond of the

theatre not to play up to you, while the filth in the

streets of Moscow will go on piling itself up until it

reaches the first-floor windows. For Heaven's sake try

the plan of treating us like ordinary human beings. I

dare say we shan't enjoy it half so much at first,” he

ended up, laughing grimly; “but believe me, no nation

can spend all its time behind the footlights and survive.”

51

“Do you mean to go back to Russia," I said, "or shall

you come to England?”

“To-morrow morning," he said, "I'm for the attack.

What's the good of thinking about anything beyond

that?”

And then his Colonel came in again and it was time

for my friend and me to be gone.

I mounted heavily into the saddle, with difficulty

supporting the weight of my coat. At the corner of the

farm we turned to wave farewell to the lighted door.

Then with collars turned high about our ears we

followed our guide into the darkness of the open country.

The wind had dropped and the distant stars shone faintly

in the sky. The snow glimmered about us. The black fir

trees rose solemnly from the snow. I had the vision of a

vast and peaceful country, dotted miserably and

insignificantly with the frightened hearts of men.

II

It was early autumn before I saw the Englishman again,

and I had settled down in Riga in some rooms I had

found that looked past a warehouse on the river front

towards the wooden bridge. I was living then in a flat

that had belonged once to a Baltic nobleman, now fled

to Berlin or overseas to Scandinavia; and I had a single

servant – a Russian girl with, I fancy, some Balt blood

in her veins, whose home had been in Moscow. She

52

brought me my meals and kept my rooms clean; but we

rarely talked. Once, I remember, when I spoke of the

“Englishman,” she told me some tale that had been

current about him in Moscow – how one night for a

freak he'd bought up all the tables in the Moscow

restaurants, and then had dined in state with a single

companion at one of them. “The Madman” they had

called him in those days. It gave me a clue to his life;

but I did not make out whether she had ever known him

personally. A Lettish officer, too, of my acquaintance

spoke about him one evening as an outlaw on whose

head three armies already had set a price. I gathered that

he had left the Estonians and joined the Letts. But of

himself I saw but little, though I ran up against him once

or twice on the road, when I was wandering about the

country among the troops. At those meetings I had little

chance of talking to him, and, looking back, remember

the setting of them rather than the man. I saw him, for

example, early in the morning of the day on which the

Baltic troops so nearly took Riga. All night long the

retreating Lettish army had defiled back across the

bridge and I, after standing for a while and watching the

silent and dispirited procession of men and carts, had

lain down in my clothes for broken snatches of sleep,

expecting any moment that the enemy would be in the

town. Someone, however, set to and held the further end

of the bridge. I could see, when from time to time I got

up and looked out of the window, the flashes of rifle and

machine-gun fire leaping into the darkness five hundred

yards away across the river, and wondered how the fight

was going. But afterwards no one seemed to know for

certain who had been the hero of the night. Later, in

passing talk, I heard the Englishman's name coupled

53

with the exploit. But, when he came and knocked on my

door the next morning, he told me nothing of the night

or of the part he had played in it – only sat gulping

down a hurried breakfast, silently and with a

preoccupied air, and when he had finished, caught up

his revolver and his steel helmet again and went out,

with a muttered word of thanks, to rejoin his men.

Nearly a month later, I met him one day out in the

country to the west of Dünamünde. Snow – the first

snow of the year – had fallen in the night; and the white

earth, tinged with blue and with the long shadows of the

brief day upon it, was hardly distinguishable at the

horizon from the delicate blue of the autumn sky. I

remember chiefly how strange the world looked that

morning, like a woman in whom the donning of a new

dress had pointed a noble and unsuspected beauty. As I

was watching it from the corner of a wood, the

Englishman passed me with a troop of Lettish cavalry,

eager with the pursuit of the retiring Germans; but I had

no time to do more than wave my hand to him before he

and his company were gone.

A few weeks later I came across him one night just

in front of Mitau. They had told us in Riga that the

German headquarters there had been captured, and I had

pushed out in the hope of being early in the town.

I had ridden out to where a bridge across a frozen

river had been blown up by the retiring enemy, and then

had gone slowly forward on foot along the high road

through the forest, with the red glare of a great fire

glowing ahead of me in the sky. Just outside Mitau I

came upon the headquarters of a Lettish regiment, and

in the kitchen of the country house where they were

54

established found the Englishman bending over a map

in a company of other officers. He was told off, I

learned, to take a report back to Riga, and I, finding that

Mitau was still feebly holding out, arranged to go back

with him. We spoke but little as we trudged back to the

frozen river. The fir trees, dim and mysterious, stood

ranked upon our either hand. From time to time there

met us out of the darkness and the falling snow, men

marching up to the front, silently, with heads bent

forward and packs and rifles slung across their

shoulders. But snow and darkness seemed to separate us

from them, and I at least, in spite of my companion, was

oppressed with loneliness. Both of us, I am sure, were

glad to reach the river, where we mounted and rode

back to Riga.

We crossed the Dwina bridge together, and then my

companion went off with his report to headquarters,

while I went straight to my rooms to prepare for the two

of us. We had been fasting for many hours, and when at

length we sat down to the table, we still talked but little

till we had eaten a good supper and drawn up our chairs

round the open wood fire with a bottle of Grand Marnier,

which I had brought out from England, set between us,

and the silver cup that had been given to me on the night

of our first meeting, standing by its side.

“Well,” said the Englishman, as he settled down into

an arm-chair, threw his feet up against the stove, and,

pouring it out, drank half a cupful of the liqueur, “that's

finished.” And he put down the cup on the table with a

gesture in which there seemed to be no satisfaction, but

only the embittered taste of despair. “I've fought those

fellows,” he cried, and he swept his arm in a circle to

55

the east, “as I've fought the Germans and anyone else I

could find to fight. But sometimes I've felt that if I

stopped fighting for a moment, I should go through the

lines and take my chance of being shot for the sake of

joining them.”

“You've deserved a rest,” said I.

“Rest!” said he. “I can't rest.” And I caught in his

eyes a plain flicker of the same despair with which he

had laid down the silver cup.

I refrained from adding another platitude, and waited

for him to go on.

“Perhaps,” he went on, and for a moment he smiled,

“perhaps it's the curse of my mixed blood. I suppose

you think that I might settle down in the town here now

and take a pension, if this damned Government could

afford it, and hang my trophies on the walls and buy

some furniture from the Jews and marry and grow fat ...

But have you ever seen children trying to run away from

their own shadows? That's me always trying to escape

from the shadow of myself.”

And he blew a great cloud of smoke out into the still

air of the room.

I looked out of the window. Far away across the river

the horizon was still red with the glare of burning farms.

“There'll be peace here now ... perhaps ... for a while.

And about the ashes of those farms they'll try and build

up an imitation of England, with officials and factories

and trade unions, and a host of hungry Jews waiting as

the grey crows wait on the Dwina ice to pick up morsels

as it floats melting down. It may be it was all worth

56

fighting for. It may even be that for a time they will

seem to succeed. But that's a question that I needn't ask.

I'm not one of your reconstructors. I couldn't sit down

peacefully in Riga and help to build all that up again.

My father, you know, was an English doctor” -– I didn't

know, for he had never spoken in detail of his parentage

before – “an English doctor, who left his practice one

autumn morning and fled to Moscow with my mother. A

home was destroyed when I was conceived, and I can

never be anything but an instrument of destruction. My

father died when I was fifteen, but I've not forgotten

some of the things he used to read to me. There was

something about bringing to the world not peace but a

sword. There was something, too, about the poor

inheriting the earth. I've wandered in my time and I've

never come across a country yet that wasn't organised

with the main intention of preventing the poor from

inheriting the earth. And what's the result? All Europe

east of the Rhine in hunger and despair, and west of the

Rhine – towns like I once saw in Lancashire the only

time that I visited my grandfather. Isn't it worth spilling

the blood and destroying the happiness of a generation

in an attempt to devise a better life than that?

“Do you know what it is to be always waiting for

something to happen? I've always been like that; and

when other men have been sitting and playing cards and

smoking and making love and making money,

something within me has always driven me apart to

solitude, feeling that everything about me was unreal

and that there was something yet to come. Often I've

thought that it was my mixed blood that made me

separate, that I was homeless, cursed, like the Jews. But

now the whole world's homeless and I'm solitary no

57

longer. All the breadth of Europe they're coming to meet

me, leaving their cards and their women and their

roubles, hurrying to join a force that they feel is

becoming stronger. Look at those red fires in Courland!

'A few burning farms,' you'll say. Yes, but those few

burning farms are the flares of a dying civilisation.

That's the signal that the world's been waiting for. And

now it's given, be sure that the world will obey it, and

march no one knows where.”

He stopped, and taking a stick from the fireside, bent

forward and lit his pipe. As he sat back in his chair, his

eyes caught the silver cup on the table beside us.

“There's the curse of the world!” he said abruptly.

“What's civilisation meant to us but the fear of those

who drank out of goblets and the hatred of those who

couldn't?”

We sat staring at the piece of silver, till he, seizing

the bottle itself, drained the liqueur that remained in it.

“They told me,” he said, putting the bottle down, “to

go back with a message in the morning. Well, it's nearly

morning already. But why should I rob of its privilege

the one country that is left to put a price on my head?”

And with that, he sprang up and strode across the

room to take up his belt and arms and to put on his

greatcoat. I sat staring at the silver goblet. Outside in the

cold I could hear the stamping of horses on the stones.

Then the door shut. I heard footfalls on the stairs, a

movement among the horses outside, the start of a horse

being mounted; and then, sharp and diminishing, the

steps of horses that moved away quickly down the street.

58

Sir Stephen George Tallents CB, CBE (1884-1958) was

a British civil servant and an expert of public relations.

He was appointed British Commissioner for the Baltic

Provinces in February 1919 and assisted with drawing

up the treaty that established Estonia, Latvia and Lithu-

ania. He also adjudicated the establishment of the bor-

der between Estonia and Latvia, notably in relation to

dividing the city of Valga/Valka. This story originally

appeared in a collection of short stories: Stephen Tal-

lents, The Dancer and Other Tales (London: Constable

& Company Limited, 1922), pp. 96-106.

59

The Story of Oliver and Scarymouse

Agnieszka Kunz

Another rainy day at the museum. Jane hated November

and everything connected to it. ‘The worst time of the

year ever’ – she thought – ‘the rain doesn’t want to go

away to make room for the snow.’ She definitely liked

winter, mostly because of the moment when she got

home, changed her clothes and curled up under a warm

blanket with a cup of tea or hot chocolate. But right now

she just had to survive November and overcome her

hatred for this type of weather.

It had been almost three months since she started to

work at the museum. But this Saturday was different

from the ones she had experienced so far. Somehow

everyone was busy and she was the only one who had

60

61

showed up. While cleaning the floor in the room behind

the studio, she found a really old looking box full of

books. It was not unusual to find books at the museum;

pretty much every room was full of them, discarded

from libraries all over the country. This box was

different though. But she couldn’t say why. Maybe

because it had no label, making it impossible to say

where it came from. Maybe because it was hidden in the

corner of the room. Or maybe because of the drawing of

a plush animal on the top of the box. It looked a little bit

like a mix of a teddy bear and a mouse, drawn by a

small child. She could not resist opening the box. As

soon as she did, all the lights went out. ‘Weird’ – she

thought – ‘I have never seen that happen before.’ She

looked in the office and in the warehouse for a new light

bulb, but couldn’t find any and the closest shop was too

far to walk. She was intrigued by the bizarre drawing.

Jane noticed a small lamp on a table, which seemed to

work. Back in the room, she started to take books out of

the box. All of them were in English and by famous

English authors like Kipling, Huxley and Conan Doyle.

And then she found it. The cover of the book had

exactly the same picture of the strange animal that was

on the outside of the box. “The Story of Oliver and

Scarymouse” was the title. The name of the author was

too blurry to make out and it didn’t appear anywhere

else inside. The cover was damaged and some of the

pages were missing. Apparently it had been read a lot.

On the second page she found a barely visible

dedication written in pencil – “To my dear Alice, don’t

be afraid to pack your backpack.” She sat down cross-

legged on the floor and started to read.

Oliver didn’t want to admit it in front of his travel

62

companion, but he didn’t exactly know where they were

going. When they left home in the morning, all he knew

was that he had to go somewhere. He was sure he would

recognise the place when he got there. He planned to

travel alone, without his parents or his friends Timothy

and Robin, and even without Scarymouse. But he hadn’t

thought of telling Scarymouse not to go with him.

Because even if he had, she probably still would have

followed him, because Scarymouse always did what she

wanted and Oliver had to accept that. Secretly, he hoped

that Scarymouse would find her own way and just leave

him alone because he didn’t need anything or anyone in

his life.

The mouse walked beside Oliver every day, though

most of the time she was actually running with her small

plush legs. ‘People walk too fast’ – she thought – ‘and

they do not look at other smaller creatures.’ She didn’t

want to admit that every night she slept with one eye

open, because she was afraid that Oliver would leave

under the cover of the night and she wouldn't be able to

find him again.

They marched for several hours, during which Oliver

didn’t say a word, and Scarymouse wanted to sing and

dance because of the adventure they were having

together. Maybe it was the greatest adventure of their

lives. ‘It's funny’ – Scarymouse thought – ‘Often, when

people want to do something, they are afraid of other

people’s reactions or ashamed of their own desires. And

yet this is so easy, to just wake up one day and fulfill

your dreams.’

Jane stopped after a few pages because her hands

were shaking. It was already getting late, and dusk and

coldness were breaking into the museum from every

63

corner. She found an old woolen blanket, wrapped it

around herself, and went back to the story.

The journey continued. Oliver still wasn’t talking

much, but at least now he was answering Scarymouse’s

questions.

“Why are you so silent?” - Scarymouse asked,

breaking the silence.

“Because I have nothing to say” – Oliver answered.

“If people only spoke when they had something to

say, the ability to speak would have probably

disappeared by now” – she said. Oliver did not react to

her words.

Night came. Scarymouse didn’t like nights. Well,

maybe she liked them, but only when she slumbered

soundlessly on the shelf in front of Oliver’s bed. At night

the world is scary, shrubs and trees turn into strange

creatures, their boughs into writhing snakes. Nights give

ordinary objects frightening shapes. ‘That is why no one

should be alone at night’ – she thought at the exact

same moment that Oliver said the words out loud.

“No one should be alone at night.”

He covered her with his blanket. And for the first

time since they left home, she was not afraid of the

snakes.

Jane was touched by the story. It reminded her of her

childhood that she spent with his father in the

countryside. Her mother worked as a professor at the

university, and every summer she read books that she

didn’t have time to read during the year. Unfortunately

she didn’t have time for her own daughter, but Jane’s

father tried to make it up to her by organising some day

trips. Jane had her own small backpack, where she

always put a blanket, a box with sandwiches, apples

64

from the garden and her favourite sweater. The trips

stopped when Jane turned 14 and her father died. The

last thing he gave her was a new, bigger backpack for

longer journeys they would have taken.

Her memories were bittersweet and Jane didn’t want

to think any more about her childhood. She took a

breath and went back to the story. Unfortunately a few

of the pages were partly torn out, but she was able to

gather that Oliver and Scarymouse met another

scarymouse on the way, who told them about Scaryland

– the place where all the plush mice live together in

harmony and happiness. And they found it.

Oliver knew that the time for Scarymouse to leave.

But he did not want to let her go because he was afraid

of being alone. And she was too afraid to start a

conversation about leaving because she didn’t want to

hurt him.

And so they left Scaryland after only a few days. This

time, however, they didn’t laugh and joke or even talk

because they were both immersed in their own thoughts.

“You know I like you very much, Scarymouse” – said

Oliver, expressing his feelings for the first time in his life.

“I know” – for the first time in her life she said very

little.

“And I want the best for you.” She did not answer;

she just smiled under her mouse whiskers. “I'm afraid of

being alone and I wanted you to accompany me on the

journey. But now I see how selfish I was. And right now,

your place is not with me but with them in Scaryland.

And I have to let you go.”

Scarymouse’s eyes flashed but she remained silent.

She walked slowly dragging her feet until she

disappeared beyond the horizon. A few minutes later she

65

ran back into her friend’s arms. The hugs lasted a long

time, but in the end Scarymouse went back to the land of

plush mice. Oliver sat down and wept. ‘This is how it is’

– he thought – ‘some people stay with us even though

they don’t want to and some leave because they have

to.’

It was nearly midnight when Jane finished the book.

For a brief moment, she couldn’t get up from the floor.

Then she realised that somewhere in the bottom of her

closet there should be the old backpack she got from her

father. She went home, found it and put “The Story of

Oliver and Scarymouse” inside. And then she went to

sleep.

Agnieszka Kunz: This is the first time a short

story of Agnieszka’s has been published,

although there have been many writing

attempts now hiding in a sock drawer. She

was born in Poland, but for the past two years

she has been sharing her time between the

children centre where she works and the

Printing Museum in Tartu. She is currently

working on her new blog “Tartumania”.

66

67

[untitled]

Tina Rowe

I'm 51 and it surprises me. In April 2014, I spent almost

four days with people in their early 20s. It felt strange to

be in the company of so many adults who had parents

the same age (and even younger) as me. It made me

think about my father because I am coming to the same

age that my father was when he died. I tell people he

had a problem with his heart, and he did, in a kind of

way, he suffered from depression and it beat him. At the

age of 52 on a beautiful autumn day in 1979 he

committed suicide and left us all reeling, guilty and

bereft.

My father was a nice man, but in my eyes he was

always just that. A father. My special kind of adult

whose 6ft bulky presence was all about authority and

68

69

experience. He was from another world that I would

never have to be part of because he was born in the

1920s and that was so long ago those times were in

some ways completely irrelevant. To be honest, I never

considered that he had existed at all until I did.

His death wrecked my education in some respects

and I stopped studying art and started to look at the

world. I have travelled a lot. My father only left the

country on two occasions. First just after the war, when

for some reason or other he was flown to Holland and

he came back with photographs of tulip fields. The

second time he and mother went on one of those strange

cruise lets, from some port in the UK to a port in

Belgium or even Holland again. They did not get off the

ship, but they went away together. That was during the

last good year of his life.

I find it difficult to keep myself moored at home. I

am restless and greedy for other places and ways of

doing things. I've lived in two countries besides the one

I belong to and intend to live abroad again. For the most

part I have done this travelling alone. I started writing

this sitting in an apartment in an old communist bloc in

the Estonian town of Tartu, where I was spending a

month as artist in residence and it smelt just like one I

had lived in in Poland 20 years earlier, I found it kind of

comforting. I could easily have seen my father, given

the opportunity, living the kind of life I had lived though

as a musician rather than a teacher. I could see him

playing the drums or piano in some jazz band, smoking

foreign cigarettes, drinking too much wine and shyly

getting his heart broken by the wrong type of girl.

Whenever I have been abroad, I have always found

70

myself addressing him at some point. Talking about

what I am seeing and feeling because the man I knew

would have been interested. It inevitably ends up with

me being wrapped in a blanket of sadness. He has had

many candles lit in his name, in Europe, in Asia, in

Australasia and North America.

But I could never find a vocabulary about him that

satisfied me because I only saw him as my father. And

then something shifted during the stay in a beautiful

Estonian house in the bleak and pretty Estonian

countryside on the island of Saaremaa. I got so irritated

hearing other people talking young stuff that I left off to

take some photographs of a collapsed house I had seen

from the car when we arrived. During the walk, I found

myself talking about him instead of to him as I usually

do.

My father had mostly just been a person who had

responsibility for me and for the most part acquitted

himself well and with great care. He helped me with

school work, patiently taking me through my times table,

showing me how to progress chords on the piano and to

play by ear. He had taken me to colleges before I left

school to make it easier for me to make my decisions

about my future. Education was extremely important to

him as his own lack of school certificate, scuppered by

the Second World War, had effectively bricked him into

the wall.

At 16, I thought I was a grown up. I had left school, I

was a student and pretty soon I would be away from

home at Camberwell, or Wimbledon or somewhere

similar, learning to be an illustrator, or a print maker,

who knows. Nobody will ever know as it didn't happen

71

because of what he did and I allowed it to dictate what I

did next.

After he died it never occurred to me just how much

I had got from him and how I was letting him down by

allowing myself to become mired in sadness about what

happened. When everybody else was just about ready to

file me under bin, he had kept the faith. After his death

the only part of my college experience that had any

meaning for me was photography with his camera and

that just wasn't an art subject at the end of the 1970s so I

kept it but didn't make the most of it.

I have seen him in the abstract for years, an adult I

loved who died. As if being an adult wasn't what I have

become. But I am an adult; I have been an adult for

years. I made the mistake of thinking I was the most

adult amongst the group this weekend and one of the

things an adult does is listen to younger people and

think to themselves how empty most conversations are

when you are young.

But those conversations are not really empty; they

are just tempered with inexperience. There is none of

the appearance of depth that is really just the sheer

weight of decades. When you are young, the idea of

decades is a survey of constant change. When you are

older, it becomes the gradual layering of more and more

of the same.

1979 is the year that defines me. On 3rd

of May

Margaret Thatcher was swept to power over the rotting

staves of what socialism had become. My god I hated

her. For good reason it turned out. When she died, I

checked my feelings for her, and found those feelings

72

were as profound as they ever were and she wasn't dead

enough.

On the 2nd October 1979, I had a row with my

mother at the breakfast table because I had decided that

I didn't want to stay at art college after only two weeks

and wanted to leave home and live in London. I went to

leave the house without kissing her goodbye. My father

intercepted me at the door, stooped enough that his eyes

were level with mine and said: “Kiss your mother

goodbye please. Kiss your mother goodbye for me.”

Privately, I called myself Judas for a long time for doing

as he asked. But now, I know it would have prevented

nothing had I chosen to ignore him.

Two days in 1979 define me, on one day came a

profound and terrible sadness on another a loathing so

ingrained that I cannot squeeze the slightest drop of

compassion for the wounded and confused husk

Margaret Thatcher became.

At that time I was in some respects still a child. My

politics were unsubtle; my knowledge was not in any

way sophisticated. In truth some of my dearly held

beliefs from that time are not even memories and I can

only stare blankly when I am reminded of some jinks of

the high or low variety that I indulged in. And this is the

thing that coalesced while I was striding down a dirt

track, on an island, closer to a Russia that didn't even

exist when I was young than where I am supposed to be.

I realised that I am still the same person as I was at 16.

But I became aware that I am just a little more than one

year younger than my father was when he died. I have

one foot still in my childhood and it will always be the

same. It was during that walk that my father stopped

73

being just an adult parent to me and the conflicting pulls

of dreaming and responsibility started to make sense.

Tina Rowe: Tina is an artist from the

United Kingdom. She wrote this piece

whilst undertaking an artist residency in

Estonia during spring 2014. You can see

her work at www.tinarowe.co.uk.

74

Made with the support of Siim Sutrop and Taimo Peelo.