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VOLUME III: CLASSIC TALES AND OLD-FASHIONED STORIES
HAMILTON WRIGHT MABIE, Editor
DANIEL EDWIN WHEELER, Assistant Editor
New York
The University Society Inc.
Publishers
1909
YOUNG FOLKS' TREASURY
In 12 Volumes
HAMILTON WRIGHT MABIE, Editor
EDWARD EVERETT HALE, Associate Editor
PARTIAL LIST OF EDITORS AND CONTRIBUTORS
HAMILTON WRIGHT MABIE
Editor
EDWARD EVERETT HALE
Associate Editor
DANIEL EDWIN WHEELER
Managing Editor
Partial List of Contributors, Assistant Editors and Advisers:
NICHOLAS MURRAY BUTLER, President Columbia University.
WILLIAM R. HARPER, Late President Chicago University.
Hon. THEODORE ROOSEVELT, Ex-President of the United States.
Hon. GROVER CLEVELAND, Late President of the United States.
JAMES CARDINAL GIBBONS, American Roman Catholic prelate.
LAWRENCE J. BURPEE, Librarian Ottawa Public Library; author of
"Canadian Life in Town and Country," etc.
BLISS CARMAN, poet, essayist, and editor.
THOMAS B. FLINT, Clerk House of Commons, Canada; editor "Parliamentary
Practice and Procedure."
AGNES C. LAUT, author "Lords of the North," "Hudson's Bay Company,"
etc.
BECKLES WILLSON, author of "The Romance of Canada," "Life and Letters
of James Wolfe," etc.
EDWARD W. BOK, editor "Ladies' Home Journal."
HENRY VAN DYKE, author, poet, and Professor of English Literature,
Princeton University.
LYMAN ABBOTT, author, editor of "The Outlook."
JACOB A. RIIS, author and journalist.
EDWARD EVERETT HALE, JR., Professor at Union College.
CHARLES G.D. ROBERTS, writer of animal stories.
JANET H. KELMAN, author "Stories from the Crusades," "A Book of
Butterflies," etc.
VAUTIER GOLDING, author "Life of Henry M. Stanley," etc.
LENA DALKEITH, author "A Book of Beasts," "Stories from French
History," etc.
H.E. MARSHALL, author "A Child's History of England." "History of
English Literature," etc.
JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS, creator of "Uncle Remus."
GEORGE CARY EGGLESTON, novelist and journalist.
WILLIAM BLAIKIE, author of "How to Get Strong and How to Stay So."
JOSEPH JACOBS, folklore writer and editor of the "Jewish
Encyclopedia."
Mrs. VIRGINIA TERHUNE ("Marlon Harland"), author of "Common Sense in
the Household," etc.
A.D. INNES, author "England Under the Tudors," "England's Industrial
Development," etc.
EDMUND F. SELLAR, author "Life of Nelson," etc.
MARY MACGREGOR, author "King Arthur's Knights," etc.
JEANIE LANG, author "Life of General Gordon," etc.
Rev. THEODORE WOOD, F.E.S., writer on natural history.
MARGARET E. SANGSTER, author of "The Art of Home-Making," etc.
HERBERT T. WADE, editor and writer on physics.
JOHN H. CLIFFORD, editor and writer.
ERNEST INGERSOLL, naturalist and author.
IDA PRENTICE WHITCOMB, author of "Young People's Story of Music,"
"Heroes of History," etc.
MARK HAMBOURG, pianist and composer.
Mme. BLANCHE MARCHESI, opera singer and teacher.
ELBRIDGE S. BROOKS, author "Historic Boys," etc.
PAULINE C. BOUVE, author "Stories of American Heroes for Boys and
Girls," etc.
CONTENTS
Introduction
CLASSIC TALES
Don Quixote
By Miguel Cervantes. Adapted by John Lang
I. HOW DON QUIXOTE WAS KNIGHTED
II. HOW DON QUIXOTE RESCUED ANDRES; AND HOW HE RETURNED HOME
III. HOW DON QUIXOTE AND SANCHO PANZA STARTED ON THEIR SEARCH FOR
ADVENTURES; AND HOW DON QUIXOTE FOUGHT WITH THE WINDMILLS
IV. HOW DON QUIXOTE WON A HELMET; HOW HE FOUGHT WITH TWO ARMIES; AND
HOW SANCHO'S ASS WAS STOLEN
V. HOW DON QUIXOTE SAW DULCINEA
VI. HOW DON QUIXOTE FOUGHT WITH A LION; AND HOW HE DEFEATED THE MOORS
VII. THE BATTLE WITH THE BULLS; THE FIGHT WITH THE KNIGHT OF THE WHITE
MOON; AND HOW DON QUIXOTE DIED
Gulliver's Travels: Voyage to Lilliput
By Jonathan Swift. Adapted by John Lang
I. GULLIVER'S BIRTH AND EARLY VOYAGES
II. GULLIVER IS WRECKED ON THE COAST OF LILLIPUT
III. GULLIVER IS TAKEN AS A PRISONER TO THE CAPITAL OF LILLIPUT
IV. GULLIVER IS FREED, AND CAPTURES THE BLEFUSCAN FLEET
V. GULLIVER'S ESCAPE FROM LILLIPUT AND RETURN TO ENGLAND
The Arabian Nights
Adapted by Amy Steedman
I. ALADDIN AND THE WONDERFUL LAMP
II. THE ENCHANTED HORSE
III. SINDBAD THE SAILOR
The Iliad of Homer
Adapted by Jeanie Lang
I. THE STORY Of WHAT LED TO THE SIEGE OF TROY
II. THE COUNCIL
III. THE FIGHT BETWEEN PARIS AND MENELAUS
IV. HECTOR AND ANDROMACHE
V. HOW PATROCLUS FOUGHT AND DIED
VI. THE ROUSING OF ACHILLES
The Odyssey of Homer
Adapted by Jeanie Lang
I. WHAT HAPPENED IN ITHACA WHILE ODYSSEUS WAS AWAY
II. HOW ODYSSEUS CAME HOME
Robinson Crusoe
By Daniel Defoe. Adapted by John Lang
I. HOW ROBINSON FIRST WENT TO SEA; AND HOW HE WAS SHIPWRECKED
II. ROBINSON WORKS HARD AT MAKING HIMSELF A HOME
III. THE EARTHQUAKE AND HURRICANE; AND HOW ROBINSON BUILT A BOAT
IV. ROBINSON BUILDS A SECOND BOAT, IN WHICH HE IS SWEPT OUT TO SEA
V. ROBINSON SEES A FOOTPRINT ON THE SAND, FINDS A CAVE, AND RESCUES
FRIDAY
VI. ROBINSON TRAINS FRIDAY AND THEY BUILD A LARGE BOAT; THEY RESCUE
TWO PRISONERS FROM THE CANNIBALS
VII. ARRIVAL OF AN ENGLISH SHIP: ROBINSON SAILS FOR HOME
Canterbury Tales
By Geoffrey Chaucer. Adapted by Janet Harvey Kelman
I. DORIGEN
II. EMELIA
III. GRISELDA
The Pilgrim's Progress
By John Bunyan. Adapted by Mary Macgregor
Tales from Shakespeare
By Charles and Mary Lamb
I. THE TEMPEST
II. A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM
OLD-FASHIONED STORIES
Simple Susan
By Maria Edgeworth. Adapted by Louey Chisholm
I. QUEEN OF THE MAY
II. BAD NEWS
III. SUSAN'S GUINEA-FOWL
IV. SUSAN VISITS THE ABBEY
V. SUSAN'S PET LAMB
VI. THE BLIND HARPER
VII. GOOD NEWS
VIII. BARBARA VISITS THE ABBEY
IX. A SURPRISE FOR SUSAN
X. BARBARA'S ACCIDENT
XI. THE PRIZE-GIVING
XII. ATTORNEY CASE IN TROUBLE
XIII. SUSAN'S BIRTHDAY
Limby Lumpy
The Sore Tongue
By Jane Taylor
Eyes and No Eyes, or The Art of Seeing
By John Aikin and Mrs. Barbauld
Prince Life
By G.P.R. James
The Fruits of Disobedience, or The Kidnapped Child
Dicky Random, or Good Nature Is Nothing Without Good Conduct
Embellishment
By Jacob Abbott
The Oyster Patties
Two Little Boys
By Thomas Day
I. THE GOOD-NATURED LITTLE BOY
II. THE ILL-NATURED LITTLE BOY
The Purple Jar
By Maria Edgeworth
The Three Cakes
By Armand Berquin
Amendment
Trial
By John Aikin and Mrs. Barbauld
A Plot of Gunpowder: An Old Lady Seized for a Guy
Ascribed to William Martin ("Peter Parley")
Uncle David's Nonsensical Story About Giants and Fairies
By Katherine Sinclair
The Inquisitive Girl
Busy Idleness
By Jane Taylor
The Renowned History of Little Goody Two-Shoes
Ascribed to Oliver Goldsmith
INTRODUCTION
I. HOW AND ABOUT LITTLE MARGERY AND HER BROTHER
II. HOW AND ABOUT MR. SMITH
III. HOW LITTLE MARGERY OBTAINED THE NAME OF GOODY TWO-SHOES, AND
WHAT HAPPENED IN THE PARISH
IV. HOW LITTLE MARGERY LEARNED TO READ, AND BY DEGREES TAUGHT OTHERS
V. HOW LITTLE TWO-SHOES BECAME A TROTTING TUTORESS, AND HOW SHE
TAUGHT HER YOUNG PUPILS
VI. HOW THE WHOLE PARISH WAS FRIGHTENED
VII. CONTAINING AN ACCOUNT OF ALL THE SPIRITS OR THINGS SHE SAW IN THE
CHURCH
VIII. OF SOMETHING WHICH HAPPENED TO LITTLE MARGERY TWO-SHOES IN A
BARN, MORE DREADFUL THAN THE GHOST IN THE CHURCH; AND HOW SHE
RETURNED GOOD FOR EVIL TO HER ENEMY, SIR TIMOTHY
IX. HOW LITTLE MARGERY WAS MADE PRINCIPAL OF A COUNTRY COLLEGE
(Part Two.) The Renowned History of Mrs. Margery Two-Shoes
I. OF HER SCHOOL, HER USHERS, OR ASSISTANTS, AND HER MANNER OF
TEACHING
II. A SCENE OF DISTRESS IN A SCHOOL
III. OF THE AMAZING SAGACITY AND INSTINCT OF A LITTLE DOG
IV. WHAT HAPPENED AT FARMER GROVE'S, AND HOW SHE GRATIFIED HIM FOR
THE USE OF HIS ROOM
V. THE CASE OF MRS. MARGERY
VI. THE TRUE USE OF RICHES
ILLUSTRATIONS
VOLUME III
THE HORSE FLEW THROUGH THE AIR
"PAY AT ONCE, YOU SCOUNDREL"
HORSE AND MAN WERE SENT ROLLING ON THE GROUND
THE BULLS HAD RUN RIGHT OVER HIM AND ROZINANTE
HE FOUND THAT HIS ARMS AND LEGS WERE TIGHTLY FASTENED TO THE GROUND
GULLIVER IN LILLIPUT
ON THIS OCCASION, GULLIVER ATE MORE THAN USUAL
ALADDIN AND THE MAGICIAN
HINDBAD WAS CARRYING A VERY HEAVY LOAD
FROM FAR AND WIDE DID THE GREEK HOSTS GATHER
ANDROMACHE IN CAPTIVITY
TELEMACHUS KNELT WHERE THE GRAY WATER BROKE ON THE SAND
THE ESCAPE FROM THE SHIPWRECK
HE SAW THE MARK OF A NAKED FOOT ON THE SAND
ROBINSON RAN TO THE WHITE PRISONER AND CUT HIS BONDS
ALAS! OF ALL THE SHIPS I SEE, IS THERE NEVER ONE THAT WILL BRING MY
LORD HOME?
THE CURTAIN AT THE DOORWAY WAS DRAWN ASIDE
THEN DID CHRISTIAN DRAW HIS SWORD
MIRANDA WATCHING THE STORM
THE FAIRIES SING TITANIA TO SLEEP
BENDING DOWN A BRANCH OF THE LABURNUM-TREE
"IT WON'T DO," SAID BARBARA, TURNING HER BACK
"AND HERE'S HER CROWN!" CRIED ROSE
SHE SPOKE OF WHAT SHE DID NOT UNDERSTAND
HE WAS WANTED TO HOLD THE JUG OF MILK
HE TOOK THE CURRANT TART, AND ... THREW IT AT HIS NURSE
ROSAMOND RAN UP TO IT WITH AN EXCLAMATION OF JOY
WIDOW DOROTHY CAREFUL MADE A CURTSEY
THE GOAT DASHED IN AMONG THEM AND THE CHAIR WAS UPSET
EACH OF MY VISITORS IS QUITE AN EXCLUSIVE
IF LOUISA RECEIVED A NOTE, SHE CAREFULLY LOCKED IT UP
(Many of the illustrations in this volume are reproduced by special
permission of E.P. Dutton & Company, owners of American rights.)
INTRODUCTION
I
CLASSIC TALES
After our boys and girls have read the first half of this volume,
containing selected and simplified stories from some of the greatest
books of all time, their authors will cease to be merely names. Homer,
Shakespeare, Chaucer, Cervantes and Bunyan will be found here as
familiar and easy in style as "Cinderella" or "The Three Bears." True
enough, the first word in "Classic Tales" may look somewhat alarming
to the eyes of youthful seekers after romance and adventure, but we
challenge them to turn to any one of these selections from immortal
masterpieces and not become spellbound and, moreover, impatient for
more. And, believing now that they have grown very much interested in
these famous books, of course we also believe they want to learn
something about them.
Following the order of our stories we must begin with "Don Quixote."
Its author wrote it under great difficulties and distress; but one
would never think so, as it is full of laughable doings. When you read
our selections you must not think that Don Quixote was merely a silly
old man, for indeed he was a very noble gentleman and tried with all
his might to do what he believed to be his duty, and in no act of his
life was there ever a stain of dishonor or of meanness. As for his
queer fancies, you will find in your own experience that many things
are not as they seem.
Next comes one of Gulliver's voyages. Under all this account of a tiny
race of people there is fun poked at government and its ministers.
But we do not concern ourselves with such matters--all we think about
is the wonderful deeds of Gulliver in the land of the Lilliputians. Do
not think such people are impossible, for did not Stanley, the
explorer, find in Africa a race of dwarfs so little that he called
them pygmies? And perhaps when some of our young readers grow up,
they, too, may discover small folks in the world.
In regard to the "Arabian Nights," from which we give you three choice
stories, you ought to know the way they came to be told. Once upon a
time, a Sultan of Arabia thought that all women were of not much use,
so every day he married a new wife, and before twenty-four hours were
over he ordered that she have her head cut off. One brave woman
thought of a clever plan by which she could end this cruelty. She went
to the palace and offered to marry the Sultan, and that night she
began to tell him such fascinating stories that when morning came he
still wished to hear more. He commanded that she should not be
beheaded until all her stories were told. Then for a thousand and one
nights, night after night, she gave him fresh stories, and by the end
of that time the Sultan had fallen very much in love with her.
Naturally, they lived happily forever after. Perhaps these three
stories which we have selected will compel you to seek out all the
rest, and if you do, we are quite sure you will not wonder that the
brave lady won the heart of the wicked Sultan and made him good.
From the "Iliad" and the "Odyssey" of Homer, we have given you some
soul-stirring happenings. Several thousand years ago these stories
were sung by a blind minstrel named Homer. Some day you may read
Homer's sublime poetry in the original Greek, and the selections which
we give you will help you to remember the stories when you are
struggling with that difficult language.
Parts of the old favorite "Robinson Crusoe" follow the Grecian tales,
and we trust its simple language will make the little ones love it
more than ever. You will remember that Defoe wrote this nearly two
hundred years ago. Everybody liked long stories in those days, but we
have all heard children of to-day ask when a somewhat lengthy book
would end, no matter how interesting, and many grown-ups are guilty
of reading the close of a story before they have gone very far in it.
So with that in mind we have put down in brief form most of Robinson
Crusoe's important adventures during his twenty-eight years on the
desert island.
Here we also give three splendid stories from Chaucer's "Canterbury
Tales," which were supposedly told to one another by a party of
pilgrims on their way to Canterbury. According to our gentle author,
who was one of them, they stopped over night at a house in England
called the Tabard Inn, and here they passed the hours repeating fine
stories. Afterward Chaucer wrote these down in a book in quaint old
English. One might look at these words all day long and not know in
the least what what some of them meant, though they do hold such
beautiful tales.
Now about "Pilgrim's Progress." More than two hundred years ago a
tinker named John Bunyan was in jail, but one night this poor man left
his prison and wandered into the land of dreams. There he saw
wonderful sights and heard marvelous things, and as there was no one
to listen to his dream, John Bunyan wrote it down, and had it made
into a book. And this he called "The Pilgrim's Progress." It was about
the journey and adventures of a pilgrim and his companions. In our
version we have given most of the dream, but when the boys and girls
grow older they will want to read it all in Bunyan's own language, and
we hope this account will lead them to do so.
Shakespeare is a magic name to grown-ups, but to children it does not
mean much. All they know is, that sometimes this name is spelled on
the back of one fat volume, sometimes on three, sometimes on a dozen
or more, but of the inside they know almost nothing, and when they
hear persons say that Shakespeare is the greatest writer that ever
lived, they wonder about it. If they take down a volume containing one
of his plays, they think it very dull, but here in simple language we
present the stories of two of the most fairy-like and beautiful plays,
as retold for children by Charles and Mary Lamb.
DANIEL EDWIN WHEELER.
II
OLD-FASHIONED STORIES
There is much truth in the saying that "old things are best, old books
are best, old friends are best." We like to connect in thought our
best-loved books and our best-loved friends. A good friend must have
some of the wisdom of a good book, though good books often talk to us
with wisdom and also with humor and courtesy greater than any living
friend may show. "Sometimes we think books are the best friends; they
never interrupt or contradict or criticise us."
Every year in our own country about ten thousand books are published.
Most of them die in early life. Three hundred years from now every one
of this year's ten thousand books will be dead and forgotten, except
possibly thirty or forty. The very best books do not die young. The
books written about three hundred years ago that are read to-day--like
Shakespeare's plays--are as a rule the books that deserve to live
forever. And, "Gentle Reader," if you are wise you will see _why_ the
old books are best: they are the wheat, and the winds of time have
blown only the chaff away.
Is it not strange that in the olden times so few poems or books or
stories were written for children? The "Iliad," the stories of King
Arthur, the "Canterbury Tales," and "Gulliver's Travels" and "Robinson
Crusoe," were written for men and women.
But happily this is the children's age, and now nearly half of all the
books written are written for children. You must remember, however,
that all boys and girls are children--in the eyes of the law--till
they are twenty-one years old.
We know a little boy who read last week a very modern story. The book
was bound in red cloth. It had a gilt top and very modern pictures
drawn by a great artist and printed in three or four colors. How
different from the books of one hundred years ago, with their black
covers and queer pictures!
This story read by the little New York boy last week has been read by
many little boys in Iowa, and by many little girls in Georgia. It
tells about an orphan boy who was "bound out" to a farmer who treated
him cruelly. He ran away to the Rocky Mountain region, where he had
many adventures with robbers and Indians and blizzards. He was strong
and heroic; he could shoot straight and ride the swiftest horses, and
nothing ever hurt him very much.
This, as I have said, is a modern story. It does not tell the reader
to be truthful and good. It just tells him a story of thrilling
adventures and daring escapes from danger. But the old-fashioned story
is different; and now we are getting close to our subject.
I will tell you all about the old-fashioned stories in a moment; but I
must remind you that these old stories were written about a hundred
years ago. They were usually written to teach a moral lesson. Dear old
John Aikin, or his sister Anna Letitia Barbauld, or Maria Edgeworth,
or Jane Taylor would say some morning--at any rate, so it seems to
me--"I will write a story to-day to teach boys and girls to be
industrious." And so "Busy Idleness" was written. Or one of these old
authors would decide to write a story the main object of which was to
teach little girls not to be too curious, and so "The Inquisitive
Girl" was written. Both of these stories, and many others equally
good, are found in this volume.
I could really tell you many interesting things about these
old-fashioned stories but I will do something better--urge you to read
them yourself. They are quaint, delightful, and entertaining stories,
besides teaching a moral. You boys and girls should read every one of
them, and then read them again, out loud, to your mothers or to
anybody else who will listen.
Among all the old-fashioned stories in this volume I find only one
that seems to me "really funny," and that is "Uncle David's
Nonsensical Story about the Giants and Fairies." Think of a giant so
tall that "he was obliged to climb up a ladder to comb his own hair."
But this bit of humor is not so good as a very modern nonsense-story
entitled "The Giant's Shoes," which I read the other day, and from
which the Managing Editor permits me to quote this little passage:
"The Giant slept for three weeks at a time, and two days after he
woke his breakfast was brought to him, consisting of bright brown
horses sprinkled on his bread and butter. Besides his boots, the Giant
had a pair of shoes, and in one of them his wife lived when she was at
home; on other occasions she lived in the other shoe. She was a
sensible, practical kind of woman, with two wooden legs and a
clothes-horse, but in other respects not rich. The wooden legs were
kept pointed at both ends, in order that if the Giant were
dissatisfied with his breakfast, he might pick up any stray people
that were within reach, using his wife as a fork; this annoyed the
inhabitants of the district, so that they built their church in a
southwesterly direction from the castle, behind the Giant's back, that
he might not be able to pick them up as they went in. But those who
stayed outside to play pitch-and-toss were exposed to great danger and
sufferings."
G.J.B.
CLASSIC TALES
DON QUIXOTE
By MIGUEL CERVANTES
ADAPTED BY JOHN LANG
I
HOW DON QUIXOTE WAS KNIGHTED
Some three or four hundred years ago, there lived in sunny Spain an
old gentleman named Quixada, who owned a house and a small property
near a village in La Mancha.
With him lived his niece, a housekeeper, and a man who looked after
Quixada's farm and his one old white horse, which, though its master
imagined it to be an animal of great strength and beauty, was really
as lean as Quixada himself and as broken down as any old cab horse.
Quixada had nothing in the world to do in the shape of work, and so,
his whole time was taken up in reading old books about knights and
giants, and ladies shut up in enchanted castles by wicked ogres. In
time, so fond did he become of such tales that he passed his days, and
even the best part of his nights, in reading them. His mind was so
wholly taken up in this way that at last he came to believe that he
himself lived in a land of giants and of ogres, and that it was his
duty to ride forth on his noble steed, to the rescue of unhappy
Princesses.
In the lumber-room of Quixada's house there had lain, ever since he
was born, a rusty old suit of armor, which had belonged to his
great-grandfather. This was now got out, and Quixada spent many days
in polishing and putting it in order.
Unfortunately, there was no more than half of the helmet to be found,
and a knight cannot ride forth without a helmet.
So Quixada made the other half of strong pasteboard; and to prove that
it was strong enough, when finished, he drew his sword and gave the
helmet a great slash. Alas! a whole week's work was ruined by that one
stroke; the pasteboard flew into pieces. This troubled Quixada sadly,
but he set to work at once and made another helmet of pasteboard,
lining it with thin sheets of iron, and it looked so well that, this
time, he put it to no test with his sword.
Now that his armor was complete, it occurred to him that he must give
his horse a name--every knight's horse should have a good name--and
after four days thought he decided that "Rozinante" would best suit
the animal.
Then, for himself, after eight days of puzzling, he resolved that he
should be called Don Quixote de la Mancha.
There was but one thing more. Every knight of olden time had a lady,
whom he called the Mistress of his Heart, whose glove he wore in his
helmet; and if anybody dared to deny that this lady was the most
beautiful woman in the whole world, then the knight made him prove his
words by fighting.
So it was necessary that Don Quixote should select some lady as the
Mistress of his Heart.
Near La Mancha there lived a stout country lass, for whom some years
before Don Quixote had had a kind of liking. Who, therefore, could
better take the place of Mistress of his Heart? To whom could he
better send the defeated knights and ogres whom he was going out to
fight? It was true that her name. Aldonza Lorenzo, did not sound like
that of a Princess or lady of high birth; so he determined in future
to call her Dulcinea del Toboso. No Princess could have a sweeter
name!
All being now ready, one morning Don Quixote got up before daylight,
and without saying a word to anybody, put on his armor, took his
sword, and spear, and shield, saddled "Rozinante," and started on his
search for adventures.
But before he had gone very far, a dreadful thought struck him. He had
not been knighted! Moreover, he had read in his books that until a
knight had done some great deed, he must wear white armor, and be
without any device or coat of arms on his shield. What was to be done?
He was so staggered by this thought that he almost felt that he must
turn back. But then he remembered that he had read how adventurers
were sometimes knighted by persons whom they happened to meet on the
road. And as to his armor, why, he thought he might scour and polish
that till nothing could be whiter. So he rode on, letting "Rozinante"
take which road he pleased, that being, he supposed, as good a way as
any of looking for adventures.
All day he rode, to his sorrow without finding anything worth calling
an adventure.
At last as evening began to fall, and when he and his horse were both
very weary, they came in sight of an inn. Don Quixote no sooner saw
the inn than he fancied it to be a great castle, and he halted at some
distance from it, expecting that, as in days of old, a dwarf would
certainly appear on the battlements, and, by sounding a trumpet, give
notice of the arrival of a knight. But no dwarf appeared, and as
"Rozinante" showed great haste to reach the stable, Don Quixote began
to move towards the inn.
At this moment it happened that a swineherd in a field near at hand
sounded his horn to bring his herd of pigs home to be fed. Don
Quixote, imagining that this must be the dwarf at last giving notice
of his coming, rode quickly up to the inn door, beside which it
chanced that there stood two very impudent young women, whom the
Knight imagined to be two beautiful ladies taking the air at the
castle gate.
Astonished at the sight of so strange a figure, and a little
frightened, the girls turned to run away. But Don Quixote stopped
them.
"I beseech ye, ladies, do not fly," he said. "I will harm no one,
least of all maidens of rank so high as yours."
And much more he said, whereat the young women laughed so loud and so
long that Don Quixote became very angry, and there is no saying what
he might not have done had not the innkeeper at that moment come out.
This innkeeper was very fat and good-natured, and anxious not to
offend anybody, but even he could hardly help laughing when he saw Don
Quixote. However, he very civilly asked the Knight to dismount and
offered him everything that the inn could provide.
Don Quixote being by this time both tired and hungry, with some
difficulty got off his horse and handed it to the innkeeper (to whom
he spoke as governor of the castle), asking him to take the greatest
care of "Rozinante," for in the whole world there was no better steed.
When the landlord returned from the stable, he found Don Quixote in a
room, where, with the help of the two young women, he was trying to
get rid of his armor. His back and breastplates had been taken off,
but by no means could his helmet be removed without cutting the green
ribbons with which he had tied it on, and this the Knight would not
allow.
There was nothing for it, therefore, but to keep his helmet on all
night, and to eat and drink in it, which was more than he could do
without help. However, one of the young women fed him, and the
innkeeper having made a kind of funnel, through it poured the wine
into his mouth, and Don Quixote ate his supper in great peace of mind.
There was but one thing that still vexed him. He had not yet been
knighted.
On this subject he thought long and deeply, and at last he asked the
innkeeper to come with him to the stable. Having shut the door, Don
Quixote threw himself at the landlord's feet, saying, "I will never
rise from this place, most valorous Knight, until you grant me a
boon."
The innkeeper was amazed, but as he could not by any means make Don
Quixote rise, he promised to do whatever was asked.
"Then, noble sir," said Don Quixote, "the boon which I crave is that
to-morrow you will be pleased to grant me the honor of knighthood."
The landlord, when he heard such talk, thought that the wisest thing
he could do was to humor his guest, and he readily promised. Thereupon
Don Quixote very happily rose to his feet, and after some further talk
he said to the innkeeper that this night he would "watch his armor" in
the chapel of the castle, it being the duty of any one on whom the
honor of knighthood was to be conferred, to stand on his feet in the
chapel, praying, until the morning. The innkeeper, thinking that
great sport might come of this, encouraged Don Quixote, but as his own
chapel had lately--so he said--been pulled down in order that a better
might be built, he advised Don Quixote to watch that night in the
courtyard. This was "lawful in a case where a chapel was not at hand.
And in the morning," he said, "I will knight you."
"Have you any money?" then asked the innkeeper.
"Not a penny," said Don Quixote, "for I never yet read of any knight
who carried money with him."
"You are greatly mistaken," answered the innkeeper. "Most knights had
squires, who carried their money and clean shirts and other things.
But when a knight had no squire, he always carried his money and his
shirts, and salve for his wounds, in a little bag behind his saddle. I
must therefore advise you never in future to go anywhere without
money."
Don Quixote promised to remember this. Then taking his armor, he went
into the inn yard and laid it in a horse-trough.
Backwards and forwards, spear in hand, he marched in the moonlight,
very solemnly keeping his eyes on his armor, while the innkeeper's
other guests, laughing, looked on from a distance.
Now it happened that a carrier who lodged at the inn came into the
yard to water his mules, and this he could not do while the armor lay
in the horse-trough. As Don Quixote saw the man come up, "Take heed,
rash Knight," he cried. "Defile not by a touch the armor of the most
brave knight-errant that ever wore a sword."
But the mule-driver took no notice of Don Quixote. He picked up the
armor and threw it away.
Don Quixote no sooner saw this than, raising his eyes to heaven, and
calling on his Lady Dulcinea del Toboso, he lifted up his spear with
both hands and gave the mule-driver such a whack over the head that
the man fell down senseless. Then, picking up his armor and putting it
back in the horse-trough, he went on with his march, taking no further
notice of the poor mule-driver.
Soon up came another carrier who also wanted to water his mules.
Not a word did Don Quixote say this time, but he lifted up his spear
and smote so heavily that he broke the man's head in three or four
places. The poor wretch made such an outcry that all the people in the
inn came running, and the friends of the two carriers began to pelt
Don Quixote with stones. But drawing his sword, and holding his shield
in front of him, he defied them all, crying, "Come on, base knaves!
Draw nearer if you dare!"
The landlord now came hurrying up and stopped the stone-throwing;
then, having calmed Don Quixote, he said that there was no need for
him to watch his armor any longer; to finish the ceremony it would now
be enough if he were touched on the neck and shoulders with a sword.
Don Quixote was quite satisfied, and prayed the innkeeper to get the
business over as quickly as possible, "for," said he, "if I were but
knighted, and should see myself attacked, I believe that I should not
leave a man alive in this castle."
The innkeeper, a good deal alarmed at this, and anxious to get rid of
him, hurried off and got the book in which he kept his accounts, which
he pretended was a kind of book of prayer. Having also brought the two
young women, and a boy to hold a candle, he ordered Don Quixote to
kneel. Then muttering from his book, as if he were reading, he
finished by giving Don Quixote a good blow on the neck, and a slap on
the back, with the flat of a sword. After this, one of the young women
belted the sword round the newly made knight's waist, while the other
buckled on his spurs, and having at once saddled "Rozinante." Don
Quixote was ready to set out.
The innkeeper was only too glad to see him go, even without paying for
his supper.
II
HOW DON QUIXOTE RESCUED ANDRES; AND HOW HE RETURNED HOME
As he rode along in the early morning light, Don Quixote began to
think that it would be well that he should return home for a little,
there to lay in a stock of money and of clean shirts, and he turned
his willing horse's head in the direction of his village.
But ere he had gone far on his way, coming from a thicket he fancied
that he heard cries of distress.
"Certainly these are the moans of some poor creature in want of help,"
thought Don Quixote. "I thank Heaven for so soon giving me the chance
to perform my duty as a knight."
And he rode quickly towards the sounds. No sooner had he reached the
wood than he saw a horse tied to a tree, and bound to another was a
lad of fifteen, all naked above the waist. By his side stood a
countryman beating him with a strap, and with every blow calling out,
"I'll teach you to keep your eyes open, you young scamp. I'll teach
you to keep your mouth shut."
The boy howled with pain. Quickly Don Quixote rode up to the man.
"Sir Knight," said he angrily, "I would have thee to know that it is
an unworthy act to strike one who cannot defend himself. Mount thy
steed, therefore, take thy spear, and I will teach thee that thou art
a coward."
The countryman gave himself up for lost, and he gasped out very humbly
that the boy was his servant, through whose carelessness many of the
sheep that he should have watched had been lost, and that therefore he
was giving him a sound beating. "And," said he, "because I beat him
for his carelessness, he says I do it to cheat him out of his wages."
"What!" shouted Don Quixote, "do you dare to lie to me? By the sun
above us, I have a mind to run you through with my spear. Pay the boy
this instant, and let him go free. What does he owe you, boy?"
The boy said that the man owed him nine months' wages.
"Pay at once, you scoundrel, unless you want to be killed," roared Don
Quixote.
The poor man, trembling with fear, said that there was a mistake; he
did not owe nearly so much, and besides, he had no money with him. But
if Andres would go home with him he would pay every penny.
"Go home with him!" cried the boy. "I know a trick worth two of that.
No sooner will he have me home than he'll take the skin off me. No,
no, not I!"
"He will not dare to touch you," said the Knight. "I command him, and
that is enough. If he swears by his order of knighthood to do this
thing, I will let him go, and he will pay you your wages."
"Of course I will," said the man. "Come along with me. Andres, and I
swear I'll give you all I owe."
"Remember, then, what you have promised, for I am Don Quixote de la
Mancha, the righter of wrongs, and it is at your peril to disobey me."
So saying, Don Quixote clapped spurs to his horse, and galloped off
through the trees.
The countryman watched till the Knight was out of sight. Then,
turning, he said "Come, my lad, and I'll pay thee what I owe, and
more."
"Ay," answered the boy, "see that you do, for if you do not, that
brave man will come back and make you."
"I dare swear that," said the man. "And just to show how much I love
you, I am going to increase the debt, so that I may pay you more. Come
here!"
And with that he caught the boy by the arm, tied him again to the
tree, and belted him till his arm was tired.
"Now go," he said, "and tell your righter of wrongs. I wish I had
flayed you alive, you young whelp."
And so ended Don Quixote's first attempt to right wrongs.
As the Knight cantered along, very well pleased with himself, about
two miles from where he had freed the boy he saw riding towards him
six men, each shading himself under a large umbrella. With them were
four mounted servants, and three on foot.
No sooner did Don Quixote see this party than it struck him that here
was the chance for which, above all others, he had been longing.
Posting himself in the middle of the road, he waited till the men were
at no great distance. Then, "Halt!" shouted he. "Let all know that no
man shall pass further till he owns that in the whole world there is
no damsel more beautiful than the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso."
"But," said the men (who were merchants of Toledo, on their way to buy
silks), "we do not know the lady. We have never seen her. How then can
we say that she is beautiful?"
"What!" roared Don Quixote in a terrible rage, "not know the beauteous
Lady Dulcinea del Toboso! That only makes matters worse. Do you dare
to argue?"
And with that he couched his spear, drove his spurs into "Rozinante,"
and rode furiously at the nearest merchant.
What he would have done it is not possible to say. But as he galloped,
it chanced that "Rozinante" stumbled and fell heavily, rolling Don
Quixote over and over. There the Knight lay helpless, the weight of
his armor preventing him from rising to his feet. But as he lay, he
continued to cry out at the top of his voice, "Stop, you rascals! Do
not fly. It is my horse's fault that I lie here, you cowards!"
One of the grooms, hearing his master called a rascal and a coward,
thereupon ran up and snatched away Don Quixote's spear, which he broke
in pieces. Then with each piece he belabored the poor Knight till the
broken lance flew into splinters. The merchants then rode away,
leaving Don Quixote lying where he fell, still shouting threats, but
quite unable to rise.
There he was found by a man who knew him well, and who with great
difficulty mounted him on his donkey and took him home. When at last
they reached Don Quixote's house, the poor Knight was put to bed,
where he lay for many days, raving, and very ill.
During this time the Curate of the village and the Barber came and
burned nearly all the books which Don Quixote had so loved.
"For," said they, "it is by reading these books that the poor
gentleman has lost his mind, and if he reads them again he will never
get better."
So a bonfire was made of the books, and the door of Don Quixote's
study was bricked up.
When the Knight was again able to go about, he made at once for his
study and his beloved books. Up and down the house he searched without
saying a word, and often he would stand where the door of the study
used to be, feeling with his hands and gazing about. At last he asked
his housekeeper to show him the study.
"Study!" cried the woman, "what study? There is no study in this house
now, nor any books."
"No," said his niece. "When you were away, a famous enchanter came
along, mounted on a dragon, and he went into your study. What he did
there we know not. But after a time he flew out of the roof, leaving
the house full of smoke, and ever since then we have not been able to
find either books or study."
"Ha!" said Don Quixote. "That must have been Freston. He is a famous
enchanter, and my bitter enemy. But when I am again well I shall get
the better of him."
III
HOW DON QUIXOTE AND SANCHO PANZA STARTED ON THEIR SEARCH FOR
ADVENTURES; AND HOW DON QUIXOTE FOUGHT WITH THE WINDMILLS
For some weeks the poor Knight stayed very quietly at home. But he had
not forgotten the things for which he had come back to his village.
There was a farm laborer who lived near by, a fat, good-natured,
simple man. To him Don Quixote talked long and often, and made many
promises; among others that if he would but come with him as squire,
he should be made governor of any island which the Knight might happen
to conquer during his search after adventures.
This seemed so grand a thing to the man (whose name was Sancho Panza),
that he willingly promised to come.
Having got together some money, and having made other preparations,
Don Quixote and Sancho Panza one dark night stole out of the village
without a word to any one, and began their adventures.
Don Quixote rode "Rozinante;" Sancho Panza was mounted on an ass. That
his squire should ride an ass at first troubled the Knight not a
little, for in none of his books could he remember to have read of
any squire being so mounted. However, he gave Sancho leave to bring
the ass, thinking that in no great time a better mount would surely be
found for him.
As they rode along in the cool of the morning, Sancho Panza spoke to
his master about their journey, and asked him to be sure not to forget
his promise about the governorship of the island.
"It may even happen," answered Don Quixote, "that I may by some
strange chance conquer a kingdom. And then presently, I may be able to
crown thee King."
"Why," said Sancho, "if by some such miracle as your worship speaks
of, I am made a King, then would my wife be Queen?"
"Certainly," answered Don Quixote, "who can doubt it?"
"I doubt it," replied Sancho, "for I think if it should rain kingdoms
upon the face of the earth, not one of them would sit well on my
wife's head. For I must tell you, sir, she's not worth two brass jacks
to make a Queen of. No, no! countess will be quite good enough; that's
as much as she could well manage."
"Nay," said Don Quixote, "leave the matter in the hands of Providence,
and be not tempted by anything less than the title of Viceroy."
Thus talking, they came over the brow of a hill, and looking down on
the plain below, Don Quixote saw there thirty or forty windmills.
"Ha!" cried he. "Fortune directs our affairs better than we ourselves
could do. Look yonder, friend Sancho, there are at at least thirty
outrageous giants whom I must now fight."
"Giants!" gasped Sancho Panza, "what giants?"
"Those whom you see over there with their long arms," answered Don
Quixote. "Some of that horrible race, I have heard, have arms near two
leagues in length."
"But, sir," said Sancho, "these are no giants. They are only
windmills, and the things you think are arms are but their sails,
whereby the wind drives them."
"That is but a sign," answered Don Quixote, "whereby one may see how
little you know of adventures. I tell you they are giants: and I shall
fight against them all. If you are afraid, go aside and say your
prayers."
So saying, and without paying any heed to the bawlings of Sancho
Panza, he put spurs to his horse and galloped furiously at the
windmills, shouting aloud, "Stand, cowards! stand your ground, and fly
not from a single Knight."
Just at this moment the wind happened to rise, causing the arms of the
windmills to move.
"Base scoundrels!" roared the Knight, "though you wave as many arms as
the giant Briareus, you shall pay for your pride."
And with couched lance, and covering himself with his shield, he
rushed "Rozinante" at top speed on the nearest windmill. Round whirled
the sails, and as Don Quixote's lance pierced one of them, horse and
man were sent rolling on the ground. There Sancho Panza came to help
his sorely bruised master.
"Mercy o' me!" cried Sancho, "did not I tell you they were windmills?"
"Peace, friend Sancho," answered Don Quixote. "It is the fortune of
war. I know very well it is that accursed wizard Freston, the enemy
who took from me my study and my books, who has changed these giants
into windmills to take from me the honor of the victory. But in the
end I shall yet surely get the better of him."
"Amen! say I" quoth Sancho: and heaving the poor Knight on to his
legs, once more he got him seated on "Rozinante."
As they now rode along, it was a great sorrow to Don Quixote that his
spear had been broken to pieces in this battle with the windmill.
"I have read," said he to Sancho, "that a certain Spanish knight,
having broken his sword in a fight, pulled up by the roots a huge
oak-tree, or at least tore down a great branch, and with it did such
wonderful deeds that he was ever after called 'The Bruiser.' I tell
you this because I intend to tear up the next oak-tree we meet, and
you may think yourself fortunate that you will see the deeds I shall
perform with it."
"Heaven grant you may!" said Sancho. "But, an' it please you, sit a
little more upright in your saddle; you are all to one side. But that,
mayhap, comes from your hurts?"
"It does so," answered Don Quixote, "and if I do not complain of the
pain, it is because a knight-errant must never complain of his wounds,
though they be killing him."
"I have no more to say," replied Sancho. "Yet Heaven knows I should be
glad to hear your honor complain a bit, now and then, when something
ails you. For my part, I always cry out when I'm hurt, and I am glad
the rule about not complaining doesn't extend to squires."
That night they spent under the trees, from one of which Don Quixote
tore down a branch, to which he fixed the point of his spear, and in
some sort that served him for a lance. Don Quixote neither ate nor
slept all the night, but passed his time, as he had learned from his
books that a knight should do, in thoughts of the Lady Dulcinea. As
for Sancho Panza, he had brought with him a big bottle of wine, and
some food in his wallet, and he stuffed himself as full as he could
hold, and slept like a top.
As they rode along next day, they came to the Pass of Lapice.
"Here, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "is the spot where adventures should
begin. Now may we hope to thrust our hands, as it were, up to the very
elbows in adventures. But remember this! However sore pressed and in
danger I may be when fighting with another knight, you must not offer
to draw your sword to help me. It is against the laws of chivalry for
a squire to attack a knight."
"Never fear me, master," said Sancho. "I'll be sure to obey you; I
have ever loved peace. But if a knight offers to set upon me first,
there is no rule forbidding me to hit him back, is there?"
"None," answered Don Quixote, "only do not help me."
"I will not," said Sancho. "Never trust me if I don't keep that
commandment as well as I do the Sabbath."
IV
HOW DON QUIXOTE WON A HELMET; HOW HE FOUGHT WITH TWO ARMIES; AND HOW
SANCHO'S ASS WAS STOLEN
Many were the adventures that now befell Don Quixote and Sancho Panza.
In the very first, wherein he fought with a man from Biscay, whom he
left lying in a pool of blood, Don Quixote lost part of his helmet,
and had the half of one of his ears sliced off by the Biscayan's
sword. The accident to the helmet was a great grief to him, and he
swore an oath that until he had taken from some other knight as good a
helmet as that which was now made useless to him, he would never again
eat his food on a table-cloth.
One day as they rode along a highway between two villages Don Quixote
halted and looked eagerly at something.
"Sancho," said he, "dost thou not see yonder knight that comes riding
this way on a dapple-gray steed, with a helmet of gold on his head?"
"Not a thing can I see," answered Sancho, "but a fellow on just such
another ass as mine, with something that glitters on top of his head."
"Can you not see," asked Don Quixote, "that it is a helmet? Do you
stand back, and let me deal with him. Soon now shall I possess myself
of the helmet that I need."
Now, in those far-away days, when doctors were few, if anybody needed
to be bled for a fever or any other illness (for it was then thought
that "letting blood" was the cure for most illnesses), it was the
custom for the barber to bleed the sick person. For the purpose of
catching the blood that ran from a vein when it had been cut, a brass
dish was carried, a dish with part of it cut away from one side, so
that it might the more easily be held close to the patient's arm or
body. A small dish like this you may sometimes still see hanging as a
sign at the end of a pole outside barbers' shops. Barbers in those
days of old were called barber-surgeons, for the reason that they bled
people, as well as shaved them or cut their hair.
And the truth of the matter was this, that the man whom Don Quixote
now believed to be a knight, wearing a golden helmet, was a barber
riding on his ass to bleed a sick man. And because it was raining, he
had put his brass dish on his head, in order to keep his new hat from
being spoiled.
Don Quixote did not wait to speak to the man, but, couching his lance,
galloped at him as hard as "Rozinante" could go, shouting as he rode,
"Defend thyself, base wretch!"
The barber no sooner saw this terrible figure charging down on him,
than, to save himself from being run through, he flung himself on to
the ground, and then jumping to his feet, ran for his life, leaving
his ass and the brass basin behind him. Then Don Quixote ordered
Sancho to pick up the helmet.
"O' my word," said Sancho, as he gave it to his master, "it is a fine
basin."
Don Quixote at once put it on his head, saying, "It is a famous
helmet, but the head for which it was made must have been of great
size. The worst of it is that at least one-half of it is gone. What is
the fool grinning at now?" he cried, as Sancho laughed.
"Why, master," answered Sancho, "it is a barber's basin."
"It has indeed some likeness to a basin," said Don Quixote, "but I
tell you it is an enchanted helmet of pure gold, and for the sake of a
little wretched money some one has melted down the half of it. When we
come to a town where there is an armorer, I will have it altered to
fit my head. Meantime I shall wear it as it is."
As they rode along one day talking of many things, Don Quixote beheld
a cloud of dust rising right before them.
"Seest thou that cloud of dust, Sancho?" he asked. "It is raised by a
great army marching this way."
"Why, master," said Sancho, "there must be two armies there, for
yonder is just such another cloud of dust."
The knight looked, and was overjoyed, believing that two armies were
about to meet and fight in the plain.
"What are we to do, master?" asked Sancho.
"Do!" said Don Quixote, "why, what can we do but help the weaker side?
Look yonder, Sancho, that knight whom thou seest in the gilded armory
with a lion crouching at the feet of a lady painted on his shield,
that is the valiant Laurcalco. That other, the giant on his right,
Brandabarbaran." And he ran over a long list of names of knights whom
he believed that he saw.
Sancho listened, as dumb as a fish; but at last he gasped. "Why,
master, you might as well tell me that it snows. Never a knight, nor a
giant, nor a man can I see."
"How!" answered Don Quixote, "canst thou not hear their horses neigh,
and their drums beating?"
"Drums!" said Sancho. "Not I! I hear only the bleating of sheep."
"Since you are afraid," said the Knight, "stand aside, and I will go
by myself to fight."
With that, he galloped down on to the plain, shouting, leaving Sancho
bawling to him, "Hold, sir! Stop! For Heaven's sake come back. As sure
as I'm a sinner, they are only harmless sheep. Come back, I say."
But Don Quixote, paying not the least heed, galloped on furiously and
charged into the middle of the sheep, spearing them right and left,
trampling the living and the dead under "Rozinante's" feet. The
shepherds, finding that he took no notice of their shouts, now hurled
stones at him from their slings, and one big stone presently hit the
Knight fair in his ribs and doubled him up in the saddle.
Gasping for breath, with all speed Don Quixote got from his wallet a
bottle filled with a mixture he had made, a mixture which he firmly
believed to be a certain cure for all wounds. Of this he took a long
gulp, but just at that moment another big stone hit him such a rap on
the mouth that the bottle was smashed into a thousand pieces, and half
of his teeth were knocked out.
Down dropped the Knight on the ground, and the shepherds thinking that
he was killed, ran away, taking with them seven dead sheep which he
had slain.
Sancho Panza found his master in a very bad way, with nearly all the
teeth gone from one side of his mouth, and with a terrible pain under
his ribs.
"Ah! master," he said, "I told you they were sheep. Why would not you
listen to me?"
"Sheep! Sancho. No, no! There is nothing so easy for a wizard like
Freston as to change things from one shape to the other. I will wager
if you now mount your ass and ride over the hill after them, you will
find no sheep there, but the knights and squires come back to their
own shape, and the armies marching as when we first saw them."
Now, after this and many other adventures (about which, perhaps, you
may some day read for yourself), Don Quixote and Sancho Panza rode
away into the mountains, for the Knight was sorely in need of a quiet
place in which to rest.
So weary were he and his squire, that one night, when they had ridden
into a wood, and it chanced that the horse and the ass stood still,
both Don Quixote and Sancho Panza fell sound asleep without even
getting out of their saddles. There sat the Knight, leaning on his
lance; and Sancho, doubled over the pommel, snored as loud as if he
had been in a four-post feather bed.
It happened that a wandering thief saw them as he passed.
"Now," thought he, "I want something to ride upon, for I'm tired of
walking in these abominable mountains. Here's a chance of a good ass.
But how am I to get it, without waking its master?"
Very quietly he cut four long sticks. One after the other he placed
these under each side of Sancho's saddle; then loosening the girths,
he gradually raised the sticks till the saddle was clear of the
animal's back.
Gently, in the moonlight, he led the tired ass away, and Sancho,
undisturbed, snored on.
When it was broad daylight, the squire awoke, and without opening his
eyes, stretched himself. Down fell the sticks; down with a terrible
bump fell Sancho.
"Body o' me!" he yelled, "where is my ass?" And with many tears he
searched high and low, but no ass was then to be found, nor for many
months afterwards. And how at last Sancho got back the ass you must
read for yourself in the History of Don Quixote. For yourself, too,
you must read of Don Quixote's adventures in the mountains; how he
there did penance; and of many other things, till at last the Curate
and the Barber of La Mancha took him home in a cart which the Knight
believed to be an enchanted chariot.
V
HOW DON QUIXOTE SAW DULCINEA
Now a third time did Don Quixote set off on his search for adventures,
and as he and Sancho Panza rode again away from their village, it
seemed to Don Quixote that certainly it was his duty as a
knight-errant to visit the Mistress of his Heart, the beautiful
Dulcinea.
It was midnight when they reached Toboso, and the whole town was
still, everybody in bed and asleep.
"Lead me to her palace, Sancho," said Don Quixote.
"Palace?" cried Sancho, "What palace do you mean? Body o' me! When
last I saw her, she lived in a little cottage in a blind alley. And
even if it were a palace, we can't go and thunder at the door at this
time o' night."
"When we find it, I will tell thee what to do. But, here! What is
this?" said the Knight, riding up to a huge building, and knocking at
the door. "This indeed, without doubt, must be her palace."
But it was only the great Church of Toboso. Hunt as he would, he found
no Dulcinea's palace, and as morning began to break, Sancho persuaded
him to come and rest in a grove of trees two miles outside the town.
From there Sancho was again sent to look for Dulcinea, bearing many
messages from his sorrowful master.
"Cheer up, sir," said Sancho. "I'll be back in a trice. Don't be cast
down. Faint heart never won fair lady."
And Sancho rode away, leaving the Knight sitting on his horse, very
full of melancholy. But he had not ridden far, when, turning round and
finding that his master was no longer in sight, the squire dismounted,
and lying down under a shady tree, began to think the matter over.
"Friend Sancho," said he to himself, "what's this you are doing?"
"Why, hunting for a Princess, who, my master says, is the Sun of
Beauty, and all sorts of other fine things, and who lives in a King's
palace, or great castle, somewhere or other."
"And how are you going to find her?"
"Why, it's like looking for a needle in a bundle of hay, to look for
Dulcinea all over Toboso. My master's mad, there's no doubt of that;
and perhaps I'm not very much better, for they say birds of a feather
flock together. But if he's so mad as to mistake windmills for giants,
and flocks of sheep for armies, why, it shouldn't be so very hard to
make him believe that the first country lass I meet is the Lady
Dulcinea. If he won't believe, I'll swear it, and stand to it, so that
he'll think some of those wicked wizards of his have played another
trick on him, and have changed her into some other shape just to spite
him."
Having thus settled his plans, Sancho lay there till the evening, so
that his master might think that all the day had been spent in going
to and from Toboso, and in looking for Dulcinea.
As luck would have it, just as he mounted his ass to ride back to Don
Quixote, he spied coming that way three country lasses mounted on
asses. As soon as Sancho saw the girls, he made haste to get to his
master.
"What news, Sancho?" asked the Knight. "Has your fortune been good?"
"Ay, marry has it, sir," answered Sancho, "you have no more to do but
to clap spurs to 'Rozinante' and get into the open fields, and you'll
meet my Lady Dulcinea del Toboso with two of her damsels coming to see
you."
"Blessed Heaven!" cried the Knight. "What do you say, my dear Sancho?
Is it possible?"
"Possible!" said Sancho. "Why should I play a trick on you? Come, sir,
and you will see her presently, all dressed up and decked with jewels.
Her damsels and she are all covered with diamonds, and rubies, and
cloth of gold. And what is more, they are riding three flea-bitten
gambling hags, the like of which won't be seen again."
"Ambling nags, thou meanest, Sancho," said Don Quixote.
"Well, well, master, gambling hags or ambling nags, it's all one and
the same thing. Any way, I'm sure I never set eyes on more beautiful
ladies than those that sit upon them."
"Let us be moving then, Sancho. And as a reward for your good news, I
promise you the very best things I get in our next adventure. And if
that is not enough, then I will give you the three colts that I have
at home in La Mancha."
"Thank you for the colts," said Sancho. "As for the other things, I'm
not sure that they will be worth so very much."
They were now out of the wood, and could see the three country lasses
at a little distance.
Don Quixote looked long towards Toboso, but seeing no one anywhere but
these girls, he was much troubled in his mind, and asked Sancho if he
were sure that the Princess had left the city.
"Left the city!" cried Sancho. "Why where are your eyes, sir? In the
name of wonder, do you not see her and her maidens coming towards us
now, as bright as the sun at midday?"
"I see nothing, Sancho, but three country wenches riding on asses."
"Now Heaven help me," cried Sancho, "is it possible that you can
mistake three what do you call 'ems--ambling nags as white as snow,
for three asses! Pull my beard out by the roots if it is not so."
"Believe me, Sancho, they are asses."
"Come, sir," answered Sancho, "do but clear your eyes, and go and
speak to the Mistress of your Heart, for she is near you now."
So saying, Sancho hurried up to one of the girls, and, jumping off his
ass, fell on his knees before her, gabbling a lot of nonsense.
Don Quixote followed, and also knelt down, gazing with doubting and
sorrowful eyes on the creature that Sancho had told him was the
beautiful Dulcinea. He was lost in wonder, for she was a flat-nosed,
blubber-cheeked, bouncing country girl, and Don Quixote could not
utter a word.
"Come! get out of the way," screamed the girl, "and let us go about
our business. We're in a hurry."
"Rise, Sancho," said Don Quixote when he heard the girl's voice. "I am
now convinced that misfortune has not yet finished with me. O most
beautiful lady! a spiteful enchanter puts mists before my eyes, and
hides from me your loveliness."
"My grandmother take him!" cried the girl. "Listen to his gibberish!
Get out of the way, and let us alone." And kicking her donkey in the
ribs, she galloped away with her friends. Don Quixote followed them
long with his eyes.
"O the spite of those wicked enchanters!" he sighed, "to turn my
beautiful Dulcinea into so vile a shape as that: to take from her the
sweet and delicate scent of fragrant flowers, and give to her what she
has. For, to tell the truth, Sancho, she gave me such a whiff of raw
onions that it was like to upset me altogether."
"O the vile and evil-minded enchanters!" cried Sancho. "Oh that I
might see the lot of you threaded on one string, and hung up in the
smoke like so many herrings." And Sancho turned away to hide his
laughter.
Don Quixote rode on, very sad, and letting "Rozinante" go where he
pleased.
VI
HOW DON QUIXOTE FOUGHT WITH A LION; AND HOW HE DEFEATED THE MOORS
As Don Quixote and Sancho Panza went along, they were overtaken by a
gentleman in a fine green coat, who rode a very good mare. This
gentleman stared very hard at Don Quixote, and the two began to speak
together about knight-errantry, and were so interested in what they
were saying, that Sancho took the opportunity of riding over to ask
for a little milk from some shepherds, who were milking their ewes
near at hand.
While he was thus away from his master, a wagon, on top of which
fluttered little yellow and red flags, came along the road towards
them. Don Quixote at once imagined this to be some new adventure, and
he called to Sancho for his helmet. At the moment, Sancho was
bargaining with the shepherds for some curds. Hearing his master call,
he had not time to wait till the shepherds could give him a bowl in
which to carry them, and not wishing to lose his bargain (for he had
paid the shepherds), he poured the curds into the Knight's helmet, and
galloped off to see what his master wanted.
"Give me my helmet," said Don Quixote, "for if I know anything of my
business, here is an adventure for which I must be ready."
The gentleman in green, hearing what Don Quixote said, looked
everywhere, but he could see nothing except the wagon coming towards
them, and as that had on it the King of Spain's colors, he thought
that no doubt it was one of his Majesty's treasure-vans. He said as
much to Don Quixote, but the Knight answered: "Sir, I cannot tell
when, or where, or in what shape, my enemies will attack me. It is
always wise to be ready. Fore-warned is fore-armed. Give me my helmet,
Sancho!"
Snatching it out of Sancho's unwilling hands, he clapped it on his
head without looking into it.
"What is this, Sancho?" he cried, as the whey ran down his face. "What
is the matter with me? Is my brain melting, or am I breaking out in a
cold sweat? If I am, it is not from fear. This must be a dreadful
adventure that is coming. Quick. Sancho! give me something to wipe
away the torrent of sweat, for I am almost blinded."
Without a word, Sancho handed to his master a cloth. Don Quixote dried
himself, and then took off his helmet to see what it was that felt so
cold on his head.
"What is this white stuff?" said he, putting some of the curds to his
nose. "Sancho, you vile traitor, you have been putting curds in my
helmet!"
"Curds!--I?" cried Sancho. "Nay, the devil must have put them there.
Would I dare to make such a mess in your helmet, sir? It must have
been one of those vile enchanters. Where could I get curds? I would
sooner put them in my stomach than in your helmet."
"Well, that's true, I dare say," said Don Quixote. "There's something
in that."
Then again he put on the helmet, and made ready for the adventure.
"Now come what may, I dare meet it," he cried.
The wagon had now come near to them. On top was seated a man, and the
driver rode one of the mules that drew it. Don Quixote rode up.
"Whither go ye, my friends?" said he. "What wagon is this, and what
have you in it? What is the meaning of the flags?"
"The wagon is mine," said the driver, "and I have in it a lion that is
being sent to the King, and the flags are flying to let the people
know that it is the King's property."
"A lion!" cried Don Quixote, "Is it a large one?"
"The biggest I ever saw," said the man on top of the wagon. "I am the
keeper, and I have had charge of many lions, but I never saw one so
large as this. Pray get out of the way, sir, for we must hurry on to
our stopping-place. It is already past his feeding-time; he is
beginning to get hungry, and they are always savage when they are
hungry."
"What!" cried Don Quixote, "lion whelps against me! I'll let those
gentlemen know who send lions this way, that I am not to be scared by
any of their lions. So, Mr. Keeper, just jump down and open his cage,
and let him out. In spite of all the enchanters in the world that have
sent him to try me, I'll let the animal see who Don Quixote de la
Mancha is."
Up ran Sancho to the gentleman in green.
"O good, dear sir," he cried, "don't let my master get at the lion, or
we shall all be torn to pieces."
"Why," said the gentleman, "is your master so mad that you fear he'll
set upon such a dangerous brute."
"Oh no, sir, he's not mad; he's only rash, very, very rash," cried
Sancho.
"Well," said the gentleman, "I'll see to it," and up he went to Don
Quixote, who was trying to get the keeper to open the cage.
"Sir," said he, "knight-errants ought not to engage in adventures from
which there is no hope of coming off in safety. That is more like
madness than courage. Besides, this is the King's wagon; it will
never do to stop that. And after all, the lion has not been sent
against you; it is a present to the King."
"Pray, sir," cried Don Quixote, "will you attend to your own business?
This is mine, and I know best whether this lion has been sent against
me or not. Now you, sir," he cried to the keeper, "either open that
cage at once, or I'll pin you to your wagon with my spear."
"For mercy's sake, sir," cried the driver, "do but let me take my
mules out of harm's way before the lion gets out. My cart and my mules
are all I have in the world, and I shall be ruined if harm comes to
them."
"Take them out quickly, then," said Don Quixote, "and take them where
you please."
On this the driver made all the haste he could to unharness his mules,
while the keeper called aloud, "Take notice, everybody, that it is
against my will that I am forced to let loose the lion, and that this
gentleman here is to blame for all the damage that will be done. Get
out of the way, everybody: look out for yourselves."
Once more the gentleman in green tried to persuade Don Quixote not to
be so foolish, but the Knight only said, "I know very well what I am
doing. If you are afraid, and do not care to see the fight, just put
spurs to your mare and take yourself where you think you will be
safe."
Sancho now hurried up, and with tears in his eyes begged his master
not to put himself in so great danger, but Don Quixote only said,
"Take yourself away, Sancho, and leave me alone. If I am killed, go,
as I have so often told you, to the beautiful Dulcinea, and tell
her--you know what to tell her."
The gentleman in green, finding that words were thrown away on Don
Quixote, now quickly followed the driver, who had hastily taken his
mules as far away as he could beyond the brow of the hill. Sancho
hurried after them at the top speed of his ass, kicking him in the
ribs all the while to make him go even faster, and loudly bewailing
his master's coming death. The keeper made one more attempt to turn
Don Quixote from his folly, but again finding it useless, very
unwillingly opened the cage door.
Meantime the Knight had been thinking whether it would be best to
fight the lion on foot or on horseback, and he had made up his mind to
fight on foot, for the reason that "Rozinante" would probably be too
much afraid to face the lion. So he got off his horse, drew his sword,
and holding his shield in front of him, marched slowly up to the cage.
The keeper, having thrown the door wide open, now quickly got himself
out of harm's way.
The lion, seeing the cage open, and Don Quixote standing in front,
turned round and stretched out his great paws. Then he opened his
enormous mouth, and, letting out a tongue as long as a man's arm,
licked the dust off his face. Now rising to his feet, he thrust his
head out of the door and glared around with eyes like burning coals.
It was a sight to make any man afraid; but Don Quixote calmly waited
for the animal to jump out and come within reach of his sword.
The lion looked at him for a moment with its great yellow eyes--then,
slowly turning, it strolled to the back of the cage, gave a long,
weary yawn, and lay quietly down.
"Force him to come out," cried Don Quixote to the keeper, "beat him."
"Not I," said the man. "I dare not for my life. He would tear me to
pieces. And let me advise you, sir, to be content with your day's
work. I beseech you, go no further. You have shown how brave you are.
No man can be expected to do more than challenge his enemy and wait
ready for him. If he does not come, the fault and the disgrace are
his."
"'Tis true," said the Knight. "Shut the door, my friend, and give me
the best certificate you can of what you have seen me do; how you
opened the door, and how I waited for the lion to come out, and how he
turned tail and lay down. I am obliged to do no more."
So saying, Don Quixote put on the end of his spear the cloth with
which he had wiped the curds from his face, and began to wave to the
others to come back.
"I'll be hanged," cried Sancho when he saw this signal, "if my master
has not killed the lion." And they all hurried up to the wagon where
the keeper gave them a long account of what had happened, adding,
that when he got to court he would tell the King of Don Quixote's
bravery.
"If his Majesty should happen to ask who did this thing, tell him,"
said Don Quixote, "that it was the Knight of the Lions, for that is
the name by which I shall now call myself."
Sancho and his master now rode with the gentleman in green to his
house, where they stopped some days, to the great contentment of
Sancho. And of the wedding at which they were present, of the feast
where Sancho so greatly enjoyed himself, as well as of other matters,
you must read for yourself.
When the Knight and his squire again began their travels, it chanced
that they stopped one night at an inn. To this inn, while Don Quixote
was outside, waiting for supper, there came a man, all dressed in
chamois leather, and wearing over his left eye, and part of his face,
a green patch.
"Have you any lodgings, landlord?" he cried in a loud voice; "for here
comes the fortune-telling ape, and the great puppet-show of
Melisendra's Deliverance."
"Why, bless me!" cried the innkeeper, "if here isn't Master Peter. Now
we shall have a merry night of it. You are welcome, with all my heart.
Where is the ape, Peter?"
"Coming presently," said Master Peter. "I only came on before to see
if lodgings were to be had."
"Lodgings!" cried the landlord. "Why, I'd turn out the Duke of Alva
himself rather than you should want room. Bring on the monkey and the
show, for I have guests in the inn to-night who will pay well to see
the performance."
"That's good news," said Peter, going off to hurry up his cart.
"Who is this Peter?" asked Don Quixote.
"Why, sir," answered the landlord, "he has been going about the
country this long time with his play of Melisendra and Don Gayferos,
one of the very best shows that ever was seen. Then he has the
cleverest ape in the world. You have only to ask it a question and it
will jump on its master's shoulder and whisper the answer in his ear,
and then Master Peter will tell you what it says. It's true, he isn't
always right, but he so often hits the nail on the head that we
sometimes think Satan is in him."
Don Quixote no sooner saw the ape, than he marched up to it, and asked
a question.
"Ah!" said Master Peter, "the animal can't tell what is going to
happen; only what has already happened."
"I wouldn't give a brass centesimo," cried Sancho, "to know what is
past. Who can tell that better than myself? Tell me what my wife
Teresa is doing at home just now."
Master Peter tapped his shoulder: the ape at once sprang on to it, and
putting its head at his ear, began to chatter--as apes do--for a
minute. Then it skipped down again, and immediately Master Peter ran
to Don Quixote and fell on his knees before him.
"O glorious restorer of knight-errantry!" he cried, "who can say
enough in praise of the great Don Quixote de la Mancha, the righter of
wrongs, the comfort of the afflicted and unhappy?"
Don Quixote was amazed at these words, for he was certain that he was
unknown to any one at the inn. He did not guess that Master Peter was
a clever rogue, who, before giving a performance, always made it his
business to find out about those who were likely to be looking on.
As for Sancho, he quaked with fear.
"And thou, honest Sancho," went on Master Peter, "the best squire to
the best knight in the world, be not unhappy about your wife. She is
well, and at this moment is dressing flax. By the same token, she has
at her left hand, to cheer her, a broken-mouthed jug of wine."
"That's like enough," said Sancho.
"Well," cried Don Quixote, "if I had not seen it with my own eyes,
nothing should have made me believe that apes have the gift of second
sight. I am in very truth the Don Quixote de la Mancha that this
wonderful animal has told you about."
But he was not quite pleased at the idea of the ape having such
powers, and taking Sancho aside he spoke to him seriously on the
subject.
While they spoke, the showman came to tell them that the puppet-show
was now ready to begin, and Don Quixote and Sancho went into the room
where it stood, with candles burning all round it. Master Peter got
inside in order to move the puppets, and a boy standing in front
explained what was going on.
The story that was acted by the puppets was that of a certain Don
Gayferos, who rescued his wife Melisendra from captivity by the Moors
in the city of Saragossa. Melisendra was imprisoned in the castle, and
the story goes that Don Gayferos, when riding past, in his search,
spied her on the balcony. Melisendra, with the help of a rope, lets
herself down to her husband, mounts behind him, and the two gallop
away from the city. But Melisendra's flight has been noticed, and the
city bells ring an alarm. The Moors rush out like angry wasps, start
in pursuit, and the capture and death of Don Gayferos and Melisendra
seem certain.
Don Quixote listened and looked with growing excitement and anger, but
when he saw the Moors gallop in pursuit and about to close on Don
Gayferos and Melisendra, he could keep quiet no longer. Starting up,
"It shall never be said," cried he, "that in my presence I suffered
such a wrong to be done to so famous a knight as Don Gayferos. Stop
your unjust pursuit, ye base rascals! Stop! or prepare to meet me in
battle."
Then, drawing his sword, with one spring he fell with fury on the
Moors, hacking some in pieces, beheading others, and sending the rest
flying into every corner. And had not Master Peter ducked and squatted
down on the ground behind part of the show, Don Quixote would
certainly have chopped off his head also.
"Hold! hold, sir!" cried Master Peter, "for mercy's sake, hold! These
are not real Moors. You will ruin me if you destroy my show."
But Don Quixote paid not the slightest heed. He went on slashing and
hacking till the whole show was a wreck. Everybody ran to get out of
harm's way, and the ape scampered, chattering, on to the roof of the
house. Sancho himself quaked with fear, for he had never before seen
his master in such a fury.
All the puppet Moors being now cut to pieces, Don Quixote became
calmer, saying aloud, "How miserable had been the fate of poor Don
Gayferos and Melisendra his wife if I had not been in time to save
them from those infidel Moors! Long live knight-errantry!"
"Ay, ay," moaned Master Peter in a doleful voice, "it may live long
enough. As for me, I may as well die, for I am a ruined man and a
beggar now."
Sancho Panza took pity on the showman.
"Come, come! Master Peter," said he, "don't cry. Don't be cast down.
My master will pay you when he comes to know that he has done you an
injury."
"Truly," said Peter, "if his honor will pay for my puppets.'ll ask no
more."
"How!" cried Don Quixote. "I do not see that I have injured you, good
Master Peter."
"Not injured me!" cried Master Peter. "Do but look at those figures
lying there, all hacked to bits."
"Well," said Don Quixote, "now I know for certain a truth I have
suspected before, that those accursed enchanters do nothing but put
before my eyes things as they are, and then presently after change
them as they please. Really and truly gentlemen, I vow and protest
that all that was acted here seemed to me to be real. I could not
contain my fury, and I acted as I thought was my duty. But if Master
Peter will tell me the value of the figures, I will pay for them all."
"Heaven bless your worship!" whined Master Peter. But had Don Quixote
known that this same Master Peter was the very man who stole Sancho
Panza's ass, perhaps he might have paid him in another way.
VII
THE BATTLE WITH THE BULLS; THE FIGHT WITH THE KNIGHT OF THE WHITE
MOON; AND HOW DON QUIXOTE DIED
Soon after this, Don Quixote and Sancho Panza rode forth in search of
other adventures.
They had ridden no great way when they happened upon some young people
who had gaily dressed themselves as shepherds and shepherdesses, and
were having a picnic in the woods. These people invited Don Quixote
and Sancho to join their feast.
When they had eaten and drunk, the Knight rose, and said that there
was no sin worse than that of ingratitude, and that to show how
grateful he was for the kindness that had been shown to him and to
Sancho, he had only one means in his power.
"Therefore," said he, "I will maintain for two whole days, in the
middle of this high road leading to Saragossa, that these ladies here,
disguised as shepherdesses, are the most beautiful damsels in the
world, except only the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso, the mistress of
my heart."
So, mounting "Rozinante" he rode into the middle of the highway and
there took his stand, ready to challenge all comers. He had sat there
no long time when there appeared on the road coming towards him a
number of riders, some with spears in their hands, all riding very
fast and close together. In front of them thundered a drove of wild
bulls, bellowing and tossing their horns. At once all the shepherds
and the shepherdesses ran behind trees, but Don Quixote sat bravely
where he was.
When the horsemen came near, "Get out of the way!" bawled one of them.
"Stand clear, or these bulls will have you in pieces in no time."
"Halt, scoundrels!" roared the Knight. "What are bulls to Don Quixote
de la Mancha, if they were the fiercest that ever lived? Stop,
hangdogs!"
But the herdsmen had no time to answer, nor Don Quixote to get out of
the way had he wanted to do so, for before any one knew what was
happening, the bulls had run right over him and "Rozinante," leaving
them and Sancho and "Dapple," his ass, stunned and bruised, rolling in
the dust.
As soon as Don Quixote came to his senses he got up in great haste,
stumbling here and falling there, and began to run after the herd.
"Stop, you scoundrels!" he bawled. "Stop! It is a single knight that
defies you."
But no one took the least notice of him, and he sat sadly down on the
road, waiting till Sancho brought "Rozinante" to him. Then master and
man went on their way, Don Quixote sore ashamed of his defeat, hurt as
much in mind as in body.
That evening they dismounted at the door of an inn, and put up
"Rozinante" and "Dapple" in the stable. Sancho asked the landlord what
he could give them for supper.
"Why," said the man, "you may have anything you choose to call for.
The inn can provide fowls of the air, birds of the earth, and fishes
of the sea."
"There's no need for all that," said Sancho. "If you roast a couple of
chickens it will be enough, for my master eats but little, and for
myself, I have no great appetite."
"Chickens?" said the host. "I am sorry I have no chickens just now.
The hawks have killed them all."
"Well, then, roast us a pullet, if it be tender."
"A pullet? Well, now, that is unlucky. I sent away fifty to the market
only yesterday. But, putting pullets aside, ask for anything you
like."
"Why, then," said Sancho, pondering, "let us have some veal, or a bit
of kid."
"Sorry sir, we are just out of veal and kid also. Next week we shall
have enough and to spare."
"That helps us nicely," said Sancho. "But at any rate, let us have
some eggs and bacon."
"Eggs!" cried the landlord. "Now didn't I tell him I had no hens or
pullets, and how then can I have eggs? No, no! Ask for anything you
please in the way of dainties, but don't ask for hens."
"Body o' me!" said Sancho, "let us have something. Tell me what you
have, and have done."
"Well, what I really and truly have is a pair of cow-heels that look
like calves'-feet, or a pair of calves'-feet that look like cow-heels.
You can have that and some bacon."
"They are mine," cried Sancho. "I don't care whether they are feet or
heels."
And as Don Quixote had supper with some other guests who carried with
them their own cook and their own larder, Sancho and the landlord
supped well on the cow-heels.
Some days after this, the Knight and his squire reached Barcelona.
Neither of them had ever before been near the sea, and the galleys
that they saw in the distance being rowed about in the bay sorely
puzzled Sancho, who thought that the oars were their legs, and that
they must be some strange kind of beast.
Now, one morning, when Don Quixote rode out, fully armed as usual, to
take the air on the seashore, he saw a knight riding towards him,
armed like himself, and having a bright moon painted on his shield. As
soon as this knight came within hearing he halted, and in a loud voice
called out:
"Illustrious Don Quixote de la Mancha, I am the Knight of the White
Moon, of whose doings you may have heard. I am come to fight with you
and to make you own that the Lady of my Heart, whoever she may be, is
more beautiful by far than the Lady Dulcinea del Toboso. Which truth,
if you will confess, I will not slay you. And if we fight, and I
should conquer you, then I ask no more than that you shall go to your
own home, and for the space of one year give up carrying arms or
searching for adventures. But if you should conquer me, then my head
shall be at your disposal, my horse and arms shall be your spoils, and
the fame of my deeds shall be yours. Consider what I say, and let your
answer be quick."
Don Quixote was amazed at hearing these words.
"Knight of the White Moon," said he very solemnly, "the fame of whose
doings has not yet come to my ears, I dare swear that thou hast never
seen the beautiful Dulcinea, for hadst thou ever viewed her, thou
wouldst have been careful not to make this challenge. The sight of her
would have made thee know that there never has been, nor can be,
beauty to match hers. And therefore, without giving thee the lie, I
only tell thee thou art mistaken. I accept your challenge, on your
conditions, and at once, except that I am content with the fame of my
own deeds, and want not yours. Choose then whichever side of the field
you please, and let us set to."
The two knights then turned their horses to take ground for their
charge, but at this moment up rode, with some friends, the Governor of
the city of Barcelona, who knew Don Quixote, and who fancied that
perhaps this was some new trick being played on him. The Governor,
seeing both knights ready to turn for their charge, asked the Knight
of the White Moon what was the cause of the combat, and having heard
his answer, could not believe that the affair was not a joke, and so
stood aside.
Instantly the two knights charged at top speed. But the horse of the
Knight of the White Moon was by far the bigger and heavier and faster,
and he came with such a shock into poor old "Rozinante" that Don
Quixote and his horse were hurled to the ground with terrible force,
and lay stunned and helpless. In a moment the Knight of the White Moon
was off his horse and holding his spear at Don Quixote's throat.
"Yield, Sir Knight!" he cried, "or you are a dead man."
Don Quixote, sorely hurt, but with steadfast look, gasped in a faint
voice:
"I do not yield. Dulcinea del Toboso is the most beautiful woman in
the whole world. Press on with your spear, Sir Knight, and kill me."
"Nay," said the Knight of the White Moon. "That will I not do. I am
content if the great Don Quixote return to his home for a year, as we
agreed before we fought."
And Don Quixote answered very faintly that as nothing was asked of him
to the hurt of Dulcinea, he would carry out all the rest faithfully
and truly. The Knight of the White Moon then galloped away toward the
city, where one of the Governor's friends followed him, in order to
find out who he was. The victorious knight was Samson Carrasco, who,
some months before, had fought with and had been beaten by Don
Quixote. And he explained to the Governor's friend that all he wanted
in fighting was, not to harm Don Quixote, but to make him promise to
go home, and stop there for a year, by which time he hoped that his
madness about knight-errantry might be cured.
They raised Don Quixote and took off his helmet. His face was very
pale, and he was covered with a cold sweat. "Rozinante" was in as bad
plight as his master, and lay where he had fallen. Sancho, in great
grief, could speak no word, and knew not what to do; to him it was all
as a bad dream.
Don Quixote was carried on a stretcher to the town, where for a week
he lay in bed without ever raising his head, stricken to the soul by
the disgrace of his defeat.
Sancho tried to comfort him.
"Pluck up your heart and be of good cheer, sir," he cried, "and thank
Heaven you have broken no bones. They that give must take. Let us go
home and give up looking for adventures."
"After all, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "it is only for a year. After
that I can begin again, and perhaps then I may be able to make thee an
Earl."
"Heaven grant it" said Sancho.
So when the Knight was once more able to move they set out for home,
Don Quixote riding "Rozinante" Sancho walking, for "Dapple" carried
the armor.
But all the way Don Quixote did not recover from his melancholy, and
when at last they reached his village:
"Help me to bed," he said, "for I think that I am not very well."
He was put to bed, and carefully nursed. But a fever had taken hold of
him, and for many days Sancho Panza never left his master's bedside.
On the sixth day, the doctor told him he was in great danger. Don
Quixote listened very calmly, and then asked that he might be left by
himself for a little--he had a mind to sleep. His niece and Sancho
left the room weeping bitterly, and Don Quixote fell into a deep
sleep.
When he awoke, with a firm voice he cried:
"Blessed be God! My mind is is now clear, and the clouds have rolled
away which those detestable books of knight-errantry cast over me. Now
can I see their nonsense and deceit. I am at the point of death, and I
would meet it so that I may not leave behind me the character of a
madman. Send for the lawyer, that I may make my will."
Excepting only a small sum of money which he gave to Sancho Panza, he
left all to his niece.
Thereafter he fell back in bed, and lay unconscious and without
movement till the third day, when death very gently took him.
So died Don Quixote de la Mancha, a good man and a brave gentleman to
the end.
GULLIVER'S TRAVELS
_VOYAGE TO LILLIPUT_
By JONATHAN SWIFT
ADAPTED BY JOHN LANG
I
GULLIVER'S BIRTH AND EARLY VOYAGES
Two hundred years ago, a great deal of the world as we now know it was
still undiscovered; there were yet very many islands, small and great,
on which the eyes of white men had never looked, seas in which nothing
bigger than an Indian canoe had ever sailed.
A voyage in those days was not often a pleasant thing, for ships then
were very bluff-bowed and slow-sailing, and, for a long voyage, very
ill-provided with food. There were no tinned meats two hundred years
ago, no luxuries for use even in the cabin. Sailors lived chiefly on
salt junk, as hard as leather, on biscuit that was generally as much
weevil as biscuit, and the water that they drank was evil-smelling and
bad when it had been long in the ship's casks.
So, when a man said good-by to his friends and sailed away into the
unknown, generally very many years passed before he came back--if ever
he came back at all. For the dangers of the seas were then far greater
than they now are, and if a ship was not wrecked some dark night on an
unknown island or uncharted reef, there was always the probability of
meeting a pirate vessel and of having to fight for life and liberty.
Steam has nowadays nearly done away with pirates, except on the China
coast and in a few other out-of-the-way places. But things were
different long ago, before steamers were invented; and sailors then,
when they came home, had many very surprising things to tell their
friends, many astonishing adventures to speak of, among the strange
peoples that they said they had met in far-off lands. One man, who saw
more wonderful things than any one else, was named Lemuel Gulliver,
and I will try to tell you a little about one of his voyages.
Gulliver was born in Nottinghamshire, and when he was only fourteen
years old he was sent to Emanuel College, Cambridge. There he remained
till he was seventeen, but his father had not money enough to keep him
any longer at the University. So, as was then the custom for those who
meant to become doctors, he was bound apprentice to a surgeon in
London, under whom he studied for four years. But all the time, as
often as his father sent him money, he spent some of it in learning
navigation (which means the art of finding your way across the sea,
far from land). He had always had a great longing to travel, and he
thought that a knowledge of navigation would be of use to him if he
should happen to go a voyage.
After leaving London, he went to Germany, and there studied medicine
for some years, with the view of being appointed surgeon of a ship.
And by the help of his late master in London, such a post he did get
on board the "Swallow" on which vessel he made several voyages. But
tiring of this, he settled in London, and, having married, began
practise as a doctor.
He did not, however, make much money at that, and so for six years he
again went to sea as a surgeon, sailing both to the East and to the
West Indies.
Again tiring of the sea, he once more settled on shore, this time at
Wapping, because in that place there are always many sailors, and he
hoped to make money by doctoring them.
But this turned out badly, and on May 4, 1699, he sailed from Bristol
for the South Seas as surgeon of a ship named the "Antelope."
II
GULLIVER IS WRECKED ON THE COAST OF LILLIPUT
At first, everything went well, but after leaving the South Seas, when
steering for the East Indies, the ship was driven by a great storm far
to the south. The gale lasted so long that twelve of the crew died
from the effects of the hard work and the bad food, and all the others
were worn out and weak. On a sailing ship, when the weather is very
heavy, all hands have to be constantly on deck, and there is little
rest for the men. Perhaps a sail, one of the few that can still be
carried in such a gale, may be blown to ribbons by the furious wind,
and a new one has to be bent on.
The night, perhaps, is dark, the tattered canvas is thrashing with a
noise like thunder, the ship burying her decks under angry black seas
every few minutes. The men's hands are numb with the cold and the wet,
and the hard, dangerous work aloft. There is no chance of going below
when their job is done, to "turn in" between warm, dry blankets in a
snug berth. Possibly even those who belong to the "watch below" may
have to remain on deck. Or, if they have the good fortune to be
allowed to go below, they may no sooner have dropped off asleep
(rolled round in blankets which perhaps have been wet ever since the
gale began) than there is a thump, thump overhead, and one of the
watch on deck bellows down the forecastle-hatch, "All hands shorten
sail." And out they must tumble again, once more to battle with the
hungry, roaring seas and the raging wind. So, when there has been a
long spell of bad weather, it is no wonder that the men are worn out.
And when, as was the case with Gulliver's ship, the food also is bad,
it is easy to understand why so many of the crew had died.
It was on the 5th of November, the beginning of summer in latitudes
south of the equator. The storm had not yet cleared off, and the
weather was very thick, the wind coming in furious squalls that drove
the ship along at great speed, when suddenly from the lookout man came
a wild cry--"Breakers ahead!"
But so close had the vessel come to the rocks before they were seen
through the thick driving spray, that immediately, with, a heavy
plunge, she crashed into the reef, and split her bows.
Gulliver and six of the crew lowered a boat and got clear of the wreck
and of the breakers. But the men were so weak from overwork that they
could not handle the boat in such a sea, and very soon, during a
fierce squall, she sank. What became of the men Gulliver never knew,
for he saw none of them again. Probably they were drowned at once,
for they were too weak to keep long afloat in a sea breaking so
heavily.
And indeed, Gulliver himself was like to have been lost. He swam till
no strength or feeling was left in his arms and legs, swam bravely,
his breath coming in great sobs, his eyes blinded with the salt seas
that broke over his head. Still he struggled on, utterly spent, until
at last, in a part where the wind seemed to have less force, and the
seas swept over him less furiously, on letting down his legs he found
that he was within his depth. But the shore shelved so gradually that
for nearly a mile he had to wade wearily through shallow water, till,
fainting almost with fatigue, he reached dry land.
By this time darkness was coming on, and there were no signs of houses
or of people. He staggered forward but a little distance, and then, on
the short, soft turf, sank down exhausted and slept.
When he woke, the sun was shining, and he tried to rise; but not by
any means could he stir hand or foot. Gulliver had fallen asleep lying
on his back, and now he found that his arms and legs were tightly
fastened to the ground. Across his body were numbers of thin but
strong cords, and even his hair, which was very long, was pegged down
so securely that he could not turn his head.
All round about him there was a confused sound of voices, but he could
see nothing except the sky, and the sun shone so hot and fierce into
his eyes that he could scarcely keep them open.
Soon he felt something come gently up his left leg, and forward on to
his breast almost to his chin. Looking down as much as possible, he
saw standing there a very little man, not more than six inches high,
armed with a bow and arrows.
Then many more small men began to swarm over him. Gulliver let out
such a roar of wonder and fright that they all turned and ran, many of
them getting bad falls in their hurry to get out of danger. But very
quickly the little people came back again.
This time, with a great struggle Gulliver managed to break the cords
that fastened his left arm, and at the same time, by a violent wrench
that hurt him dreadfully, he slightly loosened the strings that
fastened his hair, so that he was able to turn his head a little to
one side. But the little men were too quick for him, and got out of
reach before he could catch any of them.
Then he heard a great shouting, followed by a shrill little voice that
called sharply, "_Tolgo phonac_," and immediately, arrows like needles
were shot into his hand, and another volley struck him in the face.
Poor Gulliver covered his face with his hand, and lay groaning with
pain.
Again he struggled to get loose. But the harder he fought for freedom,
the more the little men shot arrows into him, and some of them even
tried to run their spears into his sides.
When he found that the more he struggled the more he was hurt,
Gulliver lay still, thinking to himself that at night at least, now
that his left hand was free, he could easily get rid of the rest of
his bonds. As soon as the little people saw that he struggled no more,
they ceased shooting at him; but he knew from the increasing sound of
voices that more and more of the little soldiers were coming round
him.
Soon, a few yards from him, on the right, he heard a continued sound
of hammering, and on turning his head to that side as far as the
strings would let him, he saw that a small wooden stage was being
built. On to this, when it was finished, there climbed by ladders four
men, and one of them (who seemed to be a very important person, for a
little page boy attended to hold up his train) immediately gave an
order. At once about fifty of the soldiers ran forward and cut the
strings that tied Gulliver's hair on the left side, so that he could
turn his head easily to the right.
Then the person began to make a long speech, not one word of which
could Gulliver understand, but it seemed to him that sometimes the
little man threatened, and sometimes made offers of kindness.
As well as he could, Gulliver made signs that he submitted. Then,
feeling by this time faint with hunger, he pointed with his fingers
many times to his mouth, to show that he wanted something to eat.
They understood him very well. Several ladders were put against
Gulliver's sides, and about a hundred little people climbed up and
carried to his mouth all kinds of bread and meat. There were things
shaped like legs, and shoulders, and saddles of mutton. Very good they
were, Gulliver thought, but very small, no bigger than a lark's wing;
and the loaves of bread were about the size of bullets, so that he
could take several at a mouthful. The people wondered greatly at the
amount that he ate.
When he signed that he was thirsty, they slung up on to his body two
of their biggest casks of wine, and having rolled them forward to his
hand they knocked out the heads of the casks. Gulliver drank them both
off at a draught, and asked for more, for they held only about a small
tumblerful each. But there was no more to be had.
As the small people walked to and fro over his body, Gulliver was
sorely tempted to seize forty or fifty of them and dash them on the
ground, and then to make a further struggle for liberty. But the pain
he had already suffered from their arrows made him think better of it,
and he wisely lay quiet.
Soon another small man, who from his brilliant uniform seemed to be an
officer of very high rank, marched with some others on to Gulliver's
chest and held up to his eyes a paper which Gulliver understood to be
an order from the King of the country. The officer made a long speech,
often pointing towards something a long way off, and (as Gulliver
afterwards learned) told him that he was to be taken as a prisoner to
the city, the capital of the country.
Gulliver asked, by signs, that his bonds might be loosed. The officer
shook his head and refused, but he allowed some of his soldiers to
slack the cords on one side, whereby Gulliver was able to feel more
comfortable. After this, the little people drew out the arrows that
still stuck in his hands and face, and rubbed the wounds with some
pleasant-smelling ointment, which so soothed his pain that very soon
he fell sound asleep. And this was no great wonder, for, as he
afterwards understood, the King's physicians had mixed a very strong
sleeping draught with the wine that had been given him.
Gulliver awoke with a violent fit of sneezing, and with the feeling of
small feet running away from off his chest.
Where was he? Bound still, without doubt, but no longer did he find
himself lying on the ground. It puzzled him greatly that now he lay on
a sort of platform. How had he got there?
Soon he began to realize what had happened; and later, when he
understood the language, he learned all that had been done to him
while he slept. Before he dropped asleep, he had heard a rumbling as
of wheels, and the shouts of many drivers. This, it seemed, was caused
by the arrival of a huge kind of trolley, a few inches high, but
nearly seven feet long, drawn by fifteen hundred of the King's largest
horses.
On this it was meant that he should be taken to the city. By the use
of strong poles fixed in the ground, to which were attached many
pulleys, and the strongest ropes to be found in the country, nine
hundred men managed to hoist him as he slept. They then put him on the
trolley, where they again tied him fast.
It was when they were far on their way to the city that Gulliver
awoke. The trolley had stopped for a little to breathe the horses, and
one of the officers of the King's Guard who had not before seen
Gulliver, climbed with some friends up his body. While looking at his
face, the officer could not resist the temptation of putting the point
of his sword up Gulliver's nose, which tickled him so that he woke,
sneezing violently.
III
GULLIVER IS TAKEN AS A PRISONER TO THE CAPITAL OF LILLIPUT
The city was not reached till the following day, and Gulliver had to
spend the night lying where he was, guarded on each side by five
hundred men with torches and bows and arrows, ready to shoot him if he
should attempt to move.
In the morning, the King and all his court, and thousands of the
people, came out to gaze on the wonderful sight. The trolley, with
Gulliver on it, stopped outside the walls, alongside a very large
building which had once been used as a temple, but the use of which
had been given up owing to a murder having been committed in it.
The door of this temple was quite four feet high and about two feet
wide, and on each side, about six inches from the ground, was a small
window. Inside the building the King's blacksmiths fastened many
chains, which they then brought through one of these little windows
and padlocked round Gulliver's left ankle. Then his bonds were cut,
and he was allowed to get up. He found that he could easily creep
through the door, and that there was room inside to lie down.
His chains were nearly six feet long, so that he could get a little
exercise by walking backwards and forwards outside. Always when he
walked, thousands of people thronged around to look at him; even the
King himself used to come and gaze by the hour from a high tower which
stood opposite.
One day, just as Gulliver had crept out from his house and had got on
his feet, it chanced that the King, who was a very fine-looking man,
taller than any of his people, came riding along on his great white
charger. When the horse saw Gulliver move it was terrified, and
plunged and reared so madly that the people feared that a terrible
accident was going to happen, and several of the King's guards ran in
to seize the horse by the head. But the King was a good horseman, and
managed the animal so well that very soon it got over its fright, and
he was able to dismount.
Then he gave orders that food should be brought for Gulliver, twenty
little carts full, and ten of wine; and he and his courtiers, all
covered with gold and silver, stood around and watched him eating.
After the King had gone away the people of the city crowded round, and
some of them began to behave very badly, one man even going so far as
to shoot an arrow at Gulliver which was not far from putting out one
of his eyes. But the officer in command of the soldiers who were on
guard ordered his men to bind and push six of the worst behaved of the
crowd within reach of Gulliver, who at once seized five of them and
put them in his coat pocket. The sixth he held up to his mouth and
made as if he meant to eat him, whereupon the wretched little creature
shrieked aloud with terror, and when Gulliver took out his knife, all
the people, even the soldiers, were dreadfully alarmed. But Gulliver
only cut the man's bonds, and let him run away, which he did in a
great hurry. And when he took the others out of his pocket, one by
one, and treated them in the same way, the crowd began to laugh. After
that the people always behaved very well to Gulliver, and he became a
great favorite. From all over the kingdom crowds flocked to see the
Great Man Mountain.
In the meantime, as Gulliver learned later, there were frequent
meetings of the King's council to discuss the question of what was to
be done with him. Some of the councilors feared lest he might break
loose and cause great damage in the city. Some were of opinion that to
keep and feed so huge a creature would cause a famine in the land, or,
at the least, that the expense would be greater than the public funds
could bear; they advised, therefore, that he should be killed--shot in
the hands and face with poisoned arrows. Others, however, argued that
if this were done it would be a very difficult thing to get rid of so
large a dead body, which might cause a pestilence to break out if it
lay long unburied so near the city.
Finally, the King and his council gave orders that each morning the
surrounding villages should send into the city for Gulliver's daily
use six oxen, forty sheep, and a sufficient quantity of bread and
wine.
It was also commanded that six hundred persons should act as his
servants; that three hundred tailors were to make for him a suit of
clothes; and that six professors from the University were to teach him
the language of the country.
When Gulliver could speak the language, he learned a great deal about
the land in which he now found himself. It was called Lilliput, and
the people, Lilliputians. These Lilliputians believed that their
kingdom and the neighboring country of Blefuscu were the whole world.
Blefuscu lay far over the sea, to these little people dim and blue on
the horizon, though to Gulliver the distance did not seem to be more
than a mile. The Lilliputians knew of no land beyond Blefuscu. And as
for Gulliver himself, they believed that he had fallen from the moon,
or from one of the stars; it was impossible, they said, that so big a
race of men could live on the earth. It was quite certain that there
could not be food enough for them. They did not believe Gulliver's
story. He must have fallen from the moon!
Almost the first thing that Gulliver did when he knew the language
fairly well, was to send a petition to the King, praying that his
chains might be taken off and that he might be free to walk about. But
this he was told could not then be granted. He must first, the King's
council said, "swear a peace" with the kingdom of Lilliput, and
afterwards, if by continued good behavior he gained their confidence,
he might be freed.
Meantime, by the King's orders, two high officers of state were sent
to search him, Gulliver lifted up these officers in his hand and put
them into each of his pockets, one after the other, and they made for
the King a careful list of everything found there.
Gulliver afterward saw this inventory. His snuff-box they had
described as a "huge silver chest, full of a sort of dust." Into that
dust one of them stepped, and the snuff, flying up in his face, caused
him nearly to sneeze his head off. His pistols they called "hollow
pillars of iron, fastened to strong pieces of timber," and the use of
his bullets, and of his powder (which he had been lucky enough to
bring ashore dry, owing to his pouch being water-tight), they could
not understand, while of his watch they could make nothing. They
called it "a wonderful kind of engine, which makes an incessant noise
like a water-wheel." But some fancied that it was perhaps a kind of
animal. Certainly it was alive.
All these things, together with his sword, which he carried slung to a
belt round his waist, Gulliver had to give up, first, as well as he
could, explaining the use of them. The Lilliputians could not
understand the pistols, and to show his meaning, Gulliver was obliged
to fire one of them. At once hundreds of little people fell down as if
they had been struck dead by the noise. Even the King, though he stood
his ground, was sorely frightened. Most of Gulliver's property was
returned to him; but the pistols and powder and bullets, and his
sword, were taken away and put, for safety, under strict guard.
As the King and his courtiers gained more faith in Gulliver, and
became less afraid of his breaking loose and doing some mischief,
they began to treat him in a more friendly way than they had hitherto
done, and showed him more of the manners and customs of the country.
Some of these were very curious.
One of the sports of which they were most fond was rope-dancing, and
there was no more certain means of being promoted to high office and
power in the state than to possess great cleverness in that art.
Indeed, it was said that the Lord High Treasurer had gained and kept
his post chiefly through his great skill in turning somersaults on the
tight rope. The Chief Secretary for private affairs ran him very
close, and there was hardly a Minister of State who did not owe his
position to such successes. Few of them, indeed, had escaped without
severe accidents at one time or another, while trying some specially
difficult feat, and many had been lamed for life. But however many and
bad the falls, there were always plenty of other persons to attempt
the same or some more difficult jump.
Taught by his narrow escape from a serious accident when his horse
first saw Gulliver, the King now gave orders that the horses of his
army, as well as those from the Royal stables, should be exercised
daily close to the Man Mountain. Soon they became so used to the sight
of him that they would come right up to his foot without starting or
shying. Often the riders would jump their chargers over Gulliver's
hand as he held it on the ground; and once the King's huntsman, better
mounted than most of the others, actually jumped over his foot, shoe
and all--a wonderful leap.
Gulliver saw that it was wise to amuse the King in this and other
ways, because the more his Majesty was pleased with him the sooner was
it likely that his liberty would be granted. So he asked one day that
some strong sticks, about two feet in height, should be brought to
him. Several of these he fixed firmly in the ground, and across them,
near the top, he lashed four other sticks, enclosing a square space of
about two and a half feet. Then to the uprights, about five inches
lower than the crossed sticks, he tied his pocket-handkerchief, and
stretched it tight as a drum.
When the work was finished, he asked the King to let a troop exercise
on this stage. His Majesty was delighted with the idea, and for
several days nothing pleased him more than to see Gulliver lift up the
men and horses, and to watch them go through their drill on this
platform. Sometimes he would even be lifted up himself and give the
words of command; and once he persuaded the Queen, who was rather
timid, to let herself be held up in her chair within full view of the
scene. But a fiery horse one day, pawing with his hoof, wore a hole in
the handkerchief, and came down heavily on its side, and after this
Gulliver could no longer trust the strength of his stage.
IV
GULLIVER IS FREED, AND CAPTURES THE BLEFUSCAN FLEET
By this time Gulliver's clothes were almost in rags. The three hundred
tailors had not yet been able to finish his new suit, and he had no
hat at all, for that had been lost as he came ashore from the wreck.
So he was greatly pleased one day when an express message came to the
King from the coast, saying that some men had found on the shore a
great, black, strangely-shaped mass, as high as a man; it was not
alive, they were certain. It had never moved, though for a time they
had watched, before going closer. After making certain that it was not
likely to injure them, by mounting on each other's shoulders they had
got on the top, which they found was flat and smooth, and, by the
sound when stamped upon, they judged that it was hollow. It was
thought that the object might possibly be something belonging to the
Man Mountain, and they proposed by the help of five horses to bring it
to the city.
Gulliver was sure that it must be his hat, and so it turned out. Nor
was it very greatly damaged, either by the sea or by being drawn by
the horses over the ground all the way from the coast, except that two
holes had been bored in the brim, to which a long cord had been fixed
by hooks. Gulliver was much pleased to have it once more.
Two days after this the King took into his head a curious fancy. He
ordered a review of troops to be held, and he directed that Gulliver
should stand with his legs very wide apart, while under him both horse
and foot were commanded to march. Over three thousand infantry and one
thousand cavalry passed through the great arch made by his legs,
colors flying and bands playing. The King and Queen themselves sat in
their State Coach at the saluting point, near to his left leg, and all
the while Gulliver dared not move a hair's-breadth, lest he should
injure some of the soldiers.
Shortly after this, Gulliver was set free. There had been a meeting of
the King's Council on the subject, and the Lord High Admiral was the
only member in favor of still keeping him chained. This great officer
to the end was Gulliver's bitter enemy, and though on this occasion he
was out-voted, yet he was allowed to draw up the conditions which
Gulliver was to sign before his chains were struck off.
The conditions were:
First, that he was not to quit the country without leave granted under
the King's Great Seal.
Second, that he was not to come into the city without orders; at which
times the people were to have two hours' notice to keep indoors.
Third, that he should keep to the high roads, and not walk or lie down
in a meadow.
Fourth, that he was to take the utmost care not to trample on anybody,
or on any horses or carriages, and that he was not to lift any persons
in his hand against their will.
Fifth, that if at any time an express had to be sent in great haste,
he was to carry the messenger and his horse in his pocket a six-days'
journey, and to bring them safely back.
Sixth, that he should be the King's ally against the Blefuscans, and
that he should try to destroy their fleet, which was said to be
preparing to invade Lilliput.
Seventh, that he should help the workmen to move certain great stones
which were needed to repair some of the public buildings.
Eighth, that he should in "two moons' time" make an exact survey of
the kingdom, by counting how many of his own paces it took him to go
all round the coast.
Lastly, on his swearing to the above conditions, it was promised that
he should have a daily allowance of meat and drink equal to the amount
consumed by seventeen hundred and twenty-four of the Lilliputians, for
they estimated that Gulliver's size was about equal to that number of
their own people.
Though one or two of the conditions did not please him, especially
that about helping the workmen (which he thought was making him too
much a servant), yet Gulliver signed the document at once, and swore
to observe its conditions.
After having done so, and having had his chains removed, the first
thing he asked was to be allowed to see the city (which was called
Mildendo). He found that it was surrounded by a great wall about two
and a half feet high, broad enough for one of their coaches and four
to be driven along, and at every ten feet there were strong flanking
towers.
Gulliver took off his coat, lest the tails might do damage to the
roofs or chimneys of the houses, and he then stepped over the wall and
very carefully walked down the finest of the streets, one quite five
feet wide. Wherever he went, the tops of the houses and the attic
windows were packed with wondering spectators, and he reckoned that
the town must hold quite half a million of people.
In the center of the city, where the two chief streets met, stood the
King's Palace, a very fine building surrounded by a wall. But he was
not able to see the whole palace that day, because the part in which
were the royal apartments was shut off by another wall nearly five
feet in height, which he could not get over without a risk of doing
damage.
Some days later he climbed over by the help of two stools which he
made from some of the largest trees in the Royal Park, trees nearly
seven feet high, which he was allowed to cut down for the purpose. By
putting one of the stools at each side of the wall Gulliver was able
to step across. Then, lying down on his side, and putting his face
close to the open windows, he looked in and saw the Queen and all the
young Princes. The Queen smiled, and held her hand out of one of the
windows, that he might kiss it. She was very pleasant and friendly.
One day, about a fortnight after this, there came to call on him,
Reldresal, the King's Chief Secretary, a very great man, one who had
always been Gulliver's very good friend. This person had a long and
serious talk with Gulliver about the state of the country.
He said that though to the outward eye things in Lilliput seemed very
settled and prosperous, yet in reality there were troubles, both
internal and external, that threatened the safety of the kingdom.
There had been in Lilliput for a very long time two parties at bitter
enmity with each other, so bitter that they would neither eat, drink,
nor talk together, and what one party did, the other would always try
to undo. Each professed to believe that nothing good could come from
the other. Any measure proposed by the party in power was by the other
always looked upon as foolish or evil. And any new law passed by the
Government party was said by the Opposition to be either a wicked
attack on the liberties of the people, or something undertaken solely
for the purpose of keeping that party in, and the Opposition out, of
power. To such a pitch had things now come, said the Chief Secretary,
entirely owing to the folly of the Opposition, that the business of
the kingdom was almost at a standstill.
Meantime the country was in danger of an invasion by the Blefuscans,
who were now fitting out a great fleet, which was almost ready to sail
to attack Lilliput. The war with Blefuscu had been raging for some
years, and the losses by both nations of ships and of men had been
very heavy.
This war had broken out in the following way. It had always been the
custom in Lilliput, as far back as history went, for people when
breaking an egg at breakfast to do so at the big end. But it had
happened, said the Chief Secretary, that the present King's
grandfather, when a boy, had once when breaking his egg in the usual
way, severely cut his finger. Whereupon his father at once gave strict
commands that in future all his subjects should break their eggs at
the small end.
This greatly angered the people, who thought that the King had no
right to give such an order, and they refused to obey. As a
consequence no less than six rebellions had taken place: thousands of
the Lilliputians had had their heads cut off, or had been cast into
prison, and thousands had fled for refuge to Blefuscu, rather than
obey the hated order.
These "Big endians," as they were called, had been very well received
at the Court of Blefuscu, and finally the Emperor of that country had
taken upon himself to interfere in the affairs of Lilliput, thus
bringing on war.
The Chief Secretary ended the talk by saying that the King, having
great faith in Gulliver's strength, and depending on the oath which he
had sworn before being released, expected him now to help in defeating
the Blefuscan fleet.
Gulliver was very ready to do what he could, and he at once thought of
a plan whereby he might destroy the whole fleet at one blow. He told
all his ideas on the subject to the King, who gave orders that
everything he might need should be supplied without delay. Then
Gulliver went to the oldest seamen in the navy, and learned from them
the depth of water between Lilliput and Blefuscu. It was, they said,
nowhere deeper than seventy _glumgluffs_ (which is equal to about six
feet) at high water, and there was no great extent so deep.
After this he walked to the coast opposite Blefuscu, and lying down
there behind a hillock, so that he might not be seen should any of the
enemy's ships happen to be cruising near, he looked long through a
small pocket-telescope across the channel. With the naked eye he could
easily see the cliffs of Blefuscu, and soon with his telescope he made
out where the fleet lay--fifty great men-of-war, and many transports,
waiting for a fair wind.
Coming back to the city, he gave orders for a great length of the
strongest cable, and a quantity of bars of iron. The cable was little
thicker than ordinary pack-thread, and the bars of iron much about the
length and size of knitting-needles. Gulliver twisted three of the
iron bars together and bent them to a hook at one end. He trebled the
cable for greater strength, and thus made fifty shorter cables, to
which he fastened the hooks.
Then, carrying these in his hand, he walked back to the coast and
waded into the sea, a little before high water. When he came to
mid-channel, he had to swim, but for no great distance.
As soon as they noticed Gulliver coming wading through the water
towards their ships, the Blefuscan sailors all jumped overboard and
swam ashore in a terrible fright. Never before had any of them seen or
dreamt of so monstrous a giant, nor had they heard of his being in
Lilliput.
Gulliver then quietly took his cables and fixed one securely in the
bows of each of the ships of war, and finally he tied the cables
together at his end. But while he was doing this the Blefuscan
soldiers on the shore plucked up courage and began to shoot arrows at
him, many of which stuck in his hands and face. He was very much
afraid lest some of these might put out his eyes; but he remembered,
luckily, that in his inner pocket were his spectacles, which he put
on, and then finished his work without risk to his eyes.
On pulling at the cables, however, not a ship could he move. He had
forgotten that their anchors were all down. So he was forced to go in
closer and with his knife to cut the vessels free. While doing this he
was of course exposed to a furious fire from the enemy, and hundreds
of arrows struck him, some almost knocking off his spectacles. But
again he hauled, and this time drew the whole fifty vessels after him.
The Blefuscans had thought that it was his intention merely to cast
the vessels adrift, so that they might run aground, but when they saw
their great fleet being steadily drawn out to sea, their grief was
terrible. For a great distance Gulliver could hear their cries of
despair.
When he had got well away from the land, he stopped in order to pick
the arrows from his face and hands, and to put on some of the ointment
that had been rubbed on his wounds when first the Lilliputians fired
into him. By this time the tide had fallen a little, and he was able
to wade all the way across the channel.
The King and his courtiers stood waiting on the shore. They could see
the vessels steadily drawing nearer, but they could not for some time
see Gulliver, because only his head was above water. At first some
imagined that he had been drowned, and that the fleet was now on its
way to attack Lilliput.
There was great joy when Gulliver was seen hauling the vessels; and
when he landed, the King was so pleased that on the spot he created
him a _Nardac_, the highest honor that it was in his power to bestow.
His great success over the Blefuscans, however, turned out to be but
the beginning of trouble for Gulliver. The King was so puffed up by
the victory that he formed plans for capturing in the same way the
whole of the enemy's ships of every kind. And it was now his wish to
crush Blefuscu utterly, and to make it nothing but a province
depending on Lilliput. Thus, he thought, he himself would then be
monarch of the whole world.
In this scheme Gulliver refused to take any part, and he very plainly
said that he would give no help in making slaves of the Blefuscans.
This refusal angered the King very much, and more than once he
artfully brought the matter up at a State Council. Now, several of the
councilors, though they pretended to be Gulliver's friends so long as
he was in favor with the King, were really his secret enemies, and
nothing pleased these persons better than to see that the King was no
longer pleased with him. So they did all in their power to nurse and
increase the King's anger, and to make him believe that Gulliver was a
traitor.
About this time there came to Lilliput ambassadors from Blefuscu,
suing for peace. When a treaty had been made and signed (very greatly
to the advantage of Lilliput), the Blefuscan ambassadors asked to see
the Great Man Mountain, of whom they had heard so much, and they paid
Gulliver a formal call. After asking him to give them some proofs of
his strength, they invited him to visit their Emperor, which Gulliver
promised to do.
Accordingly, the next time that he met the King, he asked, as he was
bound to do by the paper he had signed, for permission to leave the
country for a time, in order to visit Blefuscu. The King did not
refuse, but his manner was so cold that Gulliver could not help
noticing it. Afterwards he learned from a friend that his enemies in
the council had told the King lying tales of his meetings with the
Blefuscan ambassadors, which had had the effect of still further
rousing his anger.
It happened too, most unfortunately, at this time, that Gulliver had
offended the Queen by a well-meant, but badly-managed, effort to do
her a service, and thus he lost also her friendship. But though he was
now out of favor at court, he was still an object of great interest to
every one.
V
GULLIVER'S ESCAPE FROM LILLIPUT AND RETURN TO ENGLAND
Gulliver had three hundred cooks to dress his food and these men, with
their families, lived in small huts which had been built for them near
his house.
He had made for himself a chair and a table. On to this table it was
his custom to lift twenty waiters, and these men then drew up by ropes
and pulleys all his food, and his wine in casks, which one hundred
other servants had in readiness on the ground. Gulliver would often
eat his meal with many hundreds of people looking on.
One day the King, who had not seen him eat since this table had been
built, sent a message that he and the Queen desired to be present that
day while Gulliver dined. They arrived just before his dinner hour,
and he at once lifted the King and Queen and the Princes, with their
attendants and guards, on to the table.
Their Majesties sat in their chairs of state all the time, watching
with deep interest the roasts of beef and mutton, and whole flocks of
geese and turkeys and fowls disappear into Gulliver's mouth. A roast
of beef of which he had to make more than two mouthfuls was seldom
seen, and he ate them bones and all. A goose or a turkey was but one
bite.
Certainly, on this occasion, Gulliver ate more than usual, thinking by
so doing to amuse and please the court.
But in this he erred, for it was turned against him. Flimnap, the Lord
High Treasurer, who had always been one of his enemies, pointed out to
the King the great daily expense of such meals, and told how this huge
man had already cost the country over a million and a half of _sprugs_
(the largest Lilliputian gold coin). Things, indeed, were beginning to
go very ill with Gulliver.
Now it happened about this time that one of the King's courtiers, to
whom Gulliver had been very kind, came to him by night very privately
in a closed chair, and asked to have a talk, without any one else
being present.
Gulliver gave to a servant whom he could trust orders that no one else
was to be admitted, and having put the courtier and his chair upon the
table, so that he might better hear all that was said, he sat down to
listen.
Gulliver was told that there had lately been several secret meetings
of the King's Privy Council, on his account. The Lord High Admiral
(who now hated him because of his success against the Blefuscan
fleet), Flimnap, the High Treasurer, and others of his enemies, had
drawn up against him charges of treason and other crimes. The courtier
had brought with him a copy of these charges, and Gulliver now read
them.
It was made a point against him that, when ordered to do so by the
King, he had refused to seize all the other Blefuscan ships. It was
also said that he would not join in utterly crushing the empire of
Blefuscu, nor give aid when it was proposed to put to death not only
all the Big endians who had fled for refuge to that country, but all
the Blefuscans themselves who were friends of the Big-endians. For
this he was said to be a traitor.
He was also accused of being over-friendly with the Blefuscan
ambassadors; and it was made a grave charge against him that though
his Majesty had not given him written leave to visit Blefuscu, he yet
was getting ready to go to that country, in order to give help to the
Emperor against Lilliput.
There had been many debates on these charges, said the courtier, and
the Lord High Admiral had made violent speeches, strongly advising
that the Great Man Mountain should be put to death. In this he was
joined by Flimnap, and by others, so that actually the greater part of
the council was in favor of instant death by the most painful means
that could be used.
The less unfriendly members of the council, however, while saying that
they had no doubt of Gulliver's guilt, were yet of the opinion that,
as his services to the kingdom of Lilliput had been great, the
punishment of death was too severe. They thought it would be enough if
his eyes were put out. This, they said, would not prevent him from
being still made useful.
Then began a most excited argument, the Admiral and those who sided
with him insisting that Gulliver should be killed at once.
At last the Secretary rose and said that he had a middle course to
suggest. This was, that Gulliver's eyes should be put out, and that
thereafter his food should be gradually so reduced in quantity that in
the course of two or three months he would die of starvation. By which
time, said the Secretary, his body would be wasted to an extent that
would make it easy for five or six hundred men, in a few days, to cut
off the flesh and take it away in cart-loads to be buried at a
distance. Thus there would be no danger of a pestilence breaking out
from the dead body lying near the city. The skeleton, he said, could
then be put in the National Museum.
It was finally decided that this sentence should be carried out, and
twenty of the King's surgeons were ordered to be present in three
days' time to see the operation of putting out Gulliver's eyes
properly done. Sharp-pointed arrows were to be shot into the balls of
his eyes.
The courtier now left the house, as privately as he had come, and
Gulliver was left to decide what he should do.
At first he thought of attacking the city, and destroying it. But by
doing this he must have destroyed, with the city, a great many
thousands of innocent people, which he could not make up his mind to
do.
At last he wrote a letter to the Chief Secretary, saying that as the
King had himself told him that he might visit Blefuscu, he had decided
to do so that morning.
Without waiting for an answer, he set out for the coast, where he
seized a large man-of-war which was at anchor there, tied a cable to
her bow, and then putting his clothes and his blanket on board, he
drew the ship after him to Blefuscu. There he was well received by the
Emperor. But as there happened to be no house big enough for him, he
was forced, during his stay, to sleep each night on the ground,
wrapped in his blanket.
Three days after his arrival, when walking along the seashore, he
noticed something in the water which looked not unlike a boat
floating bottom up. Gulliver waded and swam out, and found that he was
right. It was a boat. By the help of some of the Blefsucan ships, with
much difficulty he got it ashore. When the tide had fallen, two
thousand of the Emperor's dockyard men helped him to turn it over, and
Gulliver found that but little damage had been done.
He now set to work to make oars and mast and sail for the boat, and to
fit it out and provision it for a voyage.
While this work was going on, there came from Lilliput a message
demanding that Gulliver should be bound hand and foot and returned to
that country as a prisoner, there to be punished as a traitor. To this
message the Emperor replied that it was not possible to bind him; that
moreover the Great Man Mountain had found a vessel of size great
enough to carry him over the sea, and that it was his purpose to leave
the Empire of Blefuscu in the course of a few weeks.
Gulliver did not delay his work, and in less than a month he was ready
to sail.
He put on board the boat the carcasses of one hundred oxen and three
hundred sheep, with a quantity of bread and wine, and as much meat
ready cooked as four hundred cooks could prepare.
He also took with him a herd of six live black cows and two bulls, and
a flock of sheep, meaning to take them with him to England, if ever he
should get there. As food for these animals he took a quantity of hay
and corn.
Gulliver would have liked to take with him some of the people, but
this the Emperor would not permit.
Everything being ready, he sailed from Blefuscu on 24th September
1701, and the same night anchored on the lee side of an island which
seemed to be uninhabited. Leaving this island on the following
morning, he sailed to the eastward for two days. On the evening of the
second day he sighted a ship, on reaching which, to his great joy, he
found that she was an English vessel on her way home from Japan.
Putting his cattle and sheep in his coat-pockets, he went on board
with all his cargo of provisions. The captain received him very
kindly, and asked him from whence he had come, and how he happened to
be at sea in an open boat.
Gulliver told his tale in as few words as possible. The captain stared
with wonder, and would not believe his story. But Gulliver then took
from his pockets the black cattle and the sheep, which of course
clearly showed that he had been speaking truth. He also showed gold
coins which the Emperor of Blefuscu had given him, some of which he
presented to the captain.
The vessel did not arrive at the port of London till April, 1702, but
there was no loss of the live stock, excepting that the rats on board
carried off and ate one of the sheep. All the others were got safely
ashore, and were put to graze on a bowling-green at Greenwich, where
they throve very well.
THE ARABIAN NIGHTS
ADAPTED BY AMY STEEDMAN
I
ALADDIN AND THE WONDERFUL LAMP
Far away on the other side of the world, in one of the great wealthy
cities of China, there once lived a poor tailor called Mustapha. He
had a wife whom he loved dearly and an only son whose name was
Aladdin.
But, sad to say, although the tailor was good and industrious, his son
was so idle and bad that his father and mother did not know what to do
with him. All day long he played in the streets with other idle boys,
and when he grew big enough to learn a trade he said he did not mean
to work at all. His poor father was very much troubled, and ordered
Aladdin to come to the workshop to learn to be a tailor, but Aladdin
only laughed, and ran away so swiftly that neither his father nor
mother could catch him.
"Alas!" said Mustapha sadly, "I can do nothing with this idle boy."
And he grew so sad about it, that at last he fell ill and died.
Then the poor widow was obliged to sell the little workshop, and try
to make enough money for herself and Aladdin by spinning.
Now it happened that one day when Aladdin was playing as usual with
the idle street boys, a tall, dark, old man stood watching him, and
when the game was finished he made a sign to Aladdin to come to him.
"What is thy name, my boy?" asked this old man, who, though he
appeared so kind, was really an African Magician.
"My name is Aladdin," answered the boy, wondering who this stranger
could be.
"And what is thy father's name?" asked the Magician.
"My father was Mustapha the tailor, but he has been dead a long time
now," answered Aladdin.
"Alas!" cried the wicked old Magician, pretending to weep, "he was my
brother, and thou must be my nephew. I am thy long-lost uncle!" and he
threw his arms round Aladdin's neck and embraced him.
"Tell thy dear mother that I will come and see her this very day," he
cried, "and give her this small present." And he placed in Aladdin's
hands five gold pieces.
Aladdin ran home in great haste to tell his mother the story of the
long-lost uncle.
"It must be a mistake," she said, "thou hast no uncle."
But when she saw the gold she began to think that this stranger must
be a relation, and so she prepared a grand supper to welcome him when
he came.
They had not long to wait before the African Magician appeared,
bringing with him all sorts of fruits and delicious sweets for desert.
"Tell me about my poor brother," he said, as he embraced Aladdin and
his mother. "Show me exactly where he used to sit."
Then the widow pointed to a seat on the sofa, and the Magician knelt
down and began to kiss the place and weep over it.
The poor widow was quite touched, and began to believe that this
really must be her husband's brother, especially when he began to show
the kindest interest in Aladdin.
"What is thy trade?" he asked the boy.
"Alas!" said the widow, "he will do nothing but play in the streets."
Aladdin hung his head with shame as his uncle gravely shook his head.
"He must begin work at once," he said. "How would it please thee to
have a shop of thy own? I could buy one for thee, and stock it with
silks and rich stuffs."
Aladdin danced with joy at the very idea, and next day set out with
his supposed uncle, who bought him a splendid suit of clothes, and
took him all over the city to show him the sights.
The day after, the Magician again took Aladdin out with him, but this
time they went outside the city, through beautiful gardens, into the
open country. They walked so far that Aladdin began to grow weary, but
the Magician gave him a cake and some delicious fruit and told him
such wonderful tales that he scarcely noticed how far they had gone.
At last they came to a deep valley between two mountains, and there
the Magician paused.
"Stop!" he cried, "this is the very place I am in search of. Gather
some sticks that we may make a fire."
Aladdin quickly did as he was bid, and had soon gathered together a
great heap of dry sticks. The Magician then set fire to them, and the
heap blazed up merrily. With great care the old man now sprinkled some
curious-looking powder on the flames, and muttered strange words. In
an instant the earth beneath their feet trembled, and they heard a
rumbling like distant thunder. Then the ground opened in front of
them, and showed a great square slab of stone with a ring in it.
By this time Aladdin was so frightened that he turned to run home as
fast as he could, but the Magician caught him, and gave him such a
blow that he fell to the earth.
"Why dost thou strike me, uncle?" sobbed Aladdin.
"Do as I bid thee," said the Magician, "and then thou shalt be well
treated. Dost thou see that stone? Beneath it is a treasure which I
will share with thee. Only obey me, and it will soon be ours."
As soon as Aladdin heard of a treasure, he jumped up and forgot all
his fears. He seized the ring as the Magician directed, and easily
pulled up the stone.
"Now," said the old man, "look in and thou wilt see stone steps
leading downwards. Thou shalt descend those steps until thou comest to
three great halls. Pass through them, but take care to wrap thy coat
well round thee that thou mayest touch nothing, for if thou dost, thou
wilt die instantly. When thou hast passed through the halls thou wilt
come into a garden of fruit-trees. Go through it until thou seest a
niche with a lighted lamp in it. Put the light out, pour forth the
oil, and bring the lamp to me."
So saying the Magician placed a magic ring upon Aladdin's finger to
guard him, and bade the boy begin his search.
Aladdin did exactly as he was told and found everything just as the
Magician had said. He went through the halls and the garden until he
came to the lamp, and when he had poured out the oil and placed the
lamp carefully inside his coat he began to look about him.
He had never seen such a lovely garden before, even in his dreams. The
fruits that hung upon the trees were of every color of the rainbow.
Some were clear and shining like crystal, some sparkled with a crimson
light and others were green, blue, violet, and orange, while the
leaves that shaded them were silver and gold. Aladdin did not guess
that these fruits were precious stones, diamonds, rubies, emeralds,
and sapphires, but they looked so pretty that he filled all his
pockets with them as he passed back through the garden.
The Magician was eagerly peering down the stone steps when Aladdin
began to climb up.
"Give me the lamp," he cried, stretching his hand for it.
"Wait until I get out," answered Aladdin, "and then I will give it
thee."
"Hand it up to me at once," screamed the old man angrily.
"Not till I am safely out," repeated Aladdin.
Then the Magician stamped with rage, and rushing to the fire threw on
it some more of the curious powder, uttered the same strange words as
before, and instantly the stone slipped back into its place, the earth
closed over it, and Aladdin was left in darkness.
This showed indeed that the wicked old man was not Aladdin's uncle. By
his magic arts in Africa he had found out all about the lamp, which
was a wonderful treasure, as you will see. But he knew that he could
not get it himself, that another hand must fetch it to him. This was
the reason why he had fixed upon Aladdin to help him, and had meant,
as soon as the lamp was safely in his hand, to kill the boy.
As his plan had failed he went back to Africa, and was not seen again
for a long, long time.
But there was poor Aladdin shut up underground, with no way of
getting out! He tried to find his way back to the great halls and the
beautiful garden of shining fruits, but the walls had closed up, and
there was no escape that way either. For two days the poor boy sat
crying and moaning in his despair, and just as he had made up his mind
that he must die, he clasped his hands together, and in doing so
rubbed the ring which the Magician had put upon his finger.
In an instant a huge figure rose out of the earth and stood before
him.
"What is thy will, my master?" it said. "I am the Slave of the Ring,
and must obey him who wears the ring."
"Whoever or whatever you are," cried Aladdin, "take me out of this
dreadful place."
Scarcely had he said these words when the earth opened, and the next
moment Aladdin found himself lying at his mother's door. He was so
weak for want of food, and his joy at seeing his mother was so great,
that he fainted away, but when he came to himself he promised to tell
her all that had happened.
"But first give me something to eat," he cried, "for I am dying of
hunger."
"Alas!" said his mother, "I have nothing in the house except a little
cotton, which I will go out and sell."
"Stop a moment," cried Aladdin, "rather let us sell this old lamp
which I have brought back with me."
Now the lamp looked so old and dirty that Aladdin's mother began to
rub it, wishing to brighten it a little that it might fetch a higher
price.
But no sooner had she given it the first rub than a huge dark figure
slowly rose from the floor like a wreath of smoke until it reached the
ceiling, towering above them.
"What is thy will?" it asked. "I am the Slave of the Lamp, and must do
the bidding of him who holds the Lamp."
The moment the figure began to rise from the ground Aladdin's mother
was so terrified that she fainted away, but Aladdin managed to snatch
the lamp from her, although he could scarcely hold it in his own
shaking hand.
"Fetch me something to eat," he said in a trembling voice, for the
terrible Genie was glaring down upon him.
The Slave of the Lamp disappeared in a cloud of smoke, but in an
instant he was back again, bringing with him a most delicious
breakfast, served upon plates and dishes of pure gold.
By this time Aladdin's mother had recovered, but she was almost too
frightened to eat, and begged Aladdin to sell the lamp at once, for
she was sure it had something to do with evil spirits. But Aladdin
only laughed at her fears, and said he meant to make use of the magic
lamp and wonderful ring, now that he knew their worth.
As soon as they again wanted money they sold the golden plates and
dishes, and when these were all gone Aladdin ordered the Genie to
bring more, and so they lived in comfort for several years.
Now Aladdin had heard a great deal about the beauty of the Sultan's
daughter, and he began to long so greatly to see her that he could not
rest. He thought of a great many plans, but they all seemed
impossible, for the Princess never went out without a veil, which
covered her entirely. At last, however, he managed to enter the palace
and hide himself behind a door, peeping through a chink when the
Princess passed to go to her bath.
The moment Aladdin's eyes rested upon the beautiful Princess he loved
her with all his heart, for she was as fair as the dawn of a summer
morning.
"Mother," he cried when he reached home, "I have seen the Princess,
and I have made up my mind to marry her. Thou shalt go at once to the
Sultan, and beg him to give me his daughter."
Aladdin's mother stared at her son, and then began to laugh at such a
wild idea. She was almost afraid that Aladdin must be mad, but he gave
her no peace until she did as he wished.
So the next day she very unwillingly set out for the palace, carrying
the magic fruit wrapped up in a napkin, to present to the Sultan.
There were many other people offering their petitions that day, and
the poor woman was so frightened that she dared not go forward, and so
no one paid any attention to her as she stood there patiently holding
her bundle. For a whole week she had gone every day to the palace,
before the Sultan noticed her.
"Who is that poor woman who comes every day carrying a white bundle?"
he asked.
Then the Grand Vizier ordered that she should be brought forward, and
she came bowing herself to the ground.
She was almost too terrified to speak, but when the Sultan spoke so
kindly to her she took courage, and told him of Aladdin's love for the
Princess, and of his bold request, "He sends you this gift," she
continued, and opening the bundle she presented the magic fruit.
A cry of wonder went up from all those who stood around, for never had
they beheld such exquisite jewels before. They shone and sparkled with
a thousand lights and colors, and dazzled the eyes that gazed upon
them.
The Sultan was astounded, and spoke to the Grand Vizier apart.
"Surely it is fit that I should give my daughter to one who can
present such a wondrous gift?" he said....
Now when three months were ended, Aladdin's mother again presented
herself before the Sultan, and reminded him of his promise, that the
Princess should wed her son.
"I ever abide by my royal word," said the Sultan; "but he who marries
my daughter must first send me forty golden basins filled to the brim
with precious stones. These basins must be carried by forty black
slaves, each led by a white slave dressed as befits the servants of
the Sultan."
Aladdin's mother returned home in great distress when she heard this,
and told Aladdin what the Sultan had said.
"Alas, my son!" she cried, "thy hopes are ended."
"Not so, mother," answered Aladdin. "The Sultan shall not have long to
wait for his answer."
Then he rubbed the magic lamp, and when the Genie appeared, he bade
him provide the forty golden basins filled with jewels, and all the
slaves which the Sultan had demanded.
Now when this splendid procession passed through the streets on its
way to the palace, all the people came out to see the sight, and stood
amazed when they saw the golden basins filled with sparkling gems
carried on the heads of the great black slaves. And when the palace
was reached, and the slaves presented the jewels to the Sultan, he
was so surprised and delighted that he was more than willing that
Aladdin should marry the Princess at once.
"Go, fetch thy son," he said to Aladdin's mother, who was waiting
near. "Tell him that this day he shall wed my daughter."
But when Aladdin heard the news he refused to hasten at once to the
palace, as his mother advised. First he called the Genie, and told him
to bring a scented bath, and a robe worked in gold, such as a King
might wear. After this he called for forty slaves to attend him, and
six to walk before his mother, and a horse more beautiful than the
Sultan's, and lastly, for ten thousand pieces of gold put up in ten
purses.
When all these things were ready, and Aladdin was dressed in his royal
robe, he set out for the palace. As he rode along on his beautiful
horse, attended by his forty slaves, he scattered the golden pieces
out of the ten purses among the crowd, and all the people shouted with
joy and delight. No one knew that this was the idle boy who used to
play about the streets but they thought he was some great foreign
Prince.
Thus Aladdin arrived at the palace in great state, and when the Sultan
had embraced him, he ordered that the wedding feast should be prepared
at once, and that the marriage should take place that day.
"Not so, your Majesty," said Aladdin; "I will not marry the Princess
until I have built a palace fit for the daughter of the Sultan."
Then he returned home, and once more called up the Slave of the Lamp.
"Build me the fairest palace ever beheld by mortal eye," ordered
Aladdin. "Let it be built of marble and jasper and precious stones. In
the midst I would have a great hall, whose walls shall be of gold and
silver, lighted by four-and-twenty windows. These windows shall all be
set with diamonds, rubies, and other precious stones, and one only
shall be left unfinished. There must also be stables with horses, and
slaves to serve in the palace. Begone, and do thy work quickly."
And lo! in the morning when Aladdin looked out, there stood the most
wonderful palace that ever was built. Its marble walls were flushed a
delicate pink in the morning light, and the jewels flashed from every
window.
Then Aladdin and his mother set off for the Sultan's palace, and the
wedding took place that day. The Princess loved Aladdin as soon as she
saw him, and great were the rejoicings throughout the city.
The next day Aladdin invited the Sultan to visit the new palace, and
when he entered the great hall, whose walls were of gold and silver
and whose windows were set with jewels, he was filled with admiration
and astonishment.
"It is the wonder of the world," he cried. "Never before have mortal
eyes beheld such a beautiful palace. One thing alone surprises me. Why
is there one window left unfinished?"
"Your Majesty," answered Aladdin, "this has been done with a purpose,
for I wished that thine own royal hand should have the honor of
putting the finishing touch to my palace."
The Sultan was so pleased when he heard this, that he sent at once for
all the court jewelers and ordered them to finish the window like the
rest.
The court jewelers worked for many days, and then sent to tell the
Sultan that they had used up all the jewels they possessed, and still
the window was not half finished. The Sultan commanded that his own
jewels should be given to complete the work; even when these were used
the window was not finished.
Then Aladdin ordered the jewelers to stop their work, and to take back
all the Sultan's jewels as well as their own. And that night he called
up the Slave of the Lamp once more, and bade him finish the window.
This was done before the morning, and great was the surprise of the
Sultan and all his workmen.
Now Aladdin did not grow proud of his great riches but was gentle and
courteous to all, and kind to the poor, so that the people all loved
him dearly. He fought and won many battles for the Sultan, and was the
greatest favorite in the land.
But far away in Africa there was trouble brewing for Aladdin. The
wicked old Magician who had pretended to be Aladdin's uncle found out
by his magic powers that the boy had not perished when he left him
underground, but had somehow managed to escape and become rich and
powerful.
"He must have discovered the secret of the lamp," shrieked the
Magician, tearing his hair with rage. "I will not rest day or night
until I shall have found some way of taking it from him."
So he journeyed from Africa to China, and when he came to the city
where Aladdin lived and saw the wonderful palace, he nearly choked
with fury to see all its splendor and richness. Then he disguised
himself as a merchant, and bought a number of copper lamps, and with
these went from street to street, crying, "New lamps for old."
As soon as the people heard his cry, they crowded round him, laughing
and jeering, for they thought he must be mad to make such an offer.
Now it happened that Aladdin was out hunting, and the Princess sat
alone in the hall of the jeweled windows. When, therefore, she heard
the noise that was going on in the street outside, she called to her
slaves to ask what it meant.
Presently one of the slaves came back, laughing so much that she could
hardly speak.
"It is a curious old man who offers to give new lamps for old," she
cried. "Did any one ever hear before of such a strange way of
trading?"
The Princess laughed too, and pointed to an old lamp which hung in a
niche close by.
"There is an old enough lamp," she said. "Take it and see if the old
man will really give a new one for it."
The slave took it down and ran out to the street once more, and when
the Magician saw that it was indeed what he wanted, he seized the
Magic Lamp with both his hands.
"Choose any lamp you like," he said, showing her those of bright new
copper. He did not care now what happened. She might have all the new
lamps if she wanted them.
Then he went a little way outside the city, and when he was quite
alone he took out the Magic Lamp and rubbed it gently. Immediately the
Genie stood before him and asked what was his will.
"I order thee to carry off the palace of Aladdin, with the Princess
inside, and set it down in a lonely spot in Africa."
And in an instant the palace, with every one in it, had disappeared,
and when the Sultan happened to look out of his window, lo! there was
no longer a palace to be seen.
"This must be enchantment," he cried.
Then he ordered his men to set out and bring Aladdin to him in chains.
The officers met Aladdin as he was returning from the hunt, and they
immediately seized him, loaded him with chains, and carried him off to
the Sultan. But as he was borne along, the people gathered around him,
for they loved him dearly, and vowed that no harm should befall him.
The Sultan was beside himself with rage when he saw Aladdin, and gave
orders that his head should be cut off at once. But the people had
begun to crowd into the palace, and they were so fierce and
threatening that he dared not do as he wished. He was obliged to order
the chains to be taken off, and Aladdin to be set free.
As soon as Aladdin was allowed to speak he asked why all this was done
to him.
"Wretch!" exclaimed the Sultan, "come hither, and I will show thee."
Then he led Aladdin to the window and showed him the empty space where
his palace had once stood.
"Think not that I care for thy vanished palace," he said. "But where
is the Princess, my daughter?"
So astonished was Aladdin that for some time he could only stand
speechless, staring at the place where his palace ought to have been.
At last he turned to the Sultan.
"Your Majesty," he said, "grant me grace for one month, and if by that
time I have not brought back thy daughter to thee, then put me to
death as I deserve."
So Aladdin was set free, and for three days he went about like a
madman, asking every one he met where his palace was. But no one could
tell him, and all laughed at his misery. Then he went to the river to
drown himself; but as he knelt on the bank and clasped his hands to
say his prayers before throwing himself in, he once more rubbed the
Magic Ring. Instantly the Genie of the Ring stood before him.
"What is thy will, O master?" it asked.
"Bring back my Princess and my palace," cried Aladdin, "and save my
life."
"That I cannot do," said the Slave of the Ring. "Only the Slave of the
Lamp has power to bring back thy palace."
"Then take me to the place where my palace now stands," said Aladdin,
"and put me down beneath the window of the Princess."
And almost before Aladdin had done speaking he found himself in
Africa, beneath the windows of his own palace.
He was so weary that he lay down and fell fast asleep; but before
long, when day dawned, he was awakened by the song of the birds, and
as he looked around his courage returned. He was now sure that all his
misfortunes must have been caused by the loss of the Magic Lamp, and
he determined to find out as soon as possible who had stolen it.
That same morning the Princess awoke feeling happier than she had felt
since she had been carried off. The sun was shining so brightly, and
the birds were singing so gaily, that she went to the window to greet
the opening day. And who should she see standing beneath her window
but Aladdin!
With a cry of joy she threw open the casement and the sound made
Aladdin look up. It was not long before he made his way through a
secret door and held her in his arms.
"Tell me, Princess," said Aladdin, when they had joyfully embraced
each other many times, "what has become of the old lamp which hung in
a niche of the great hall?"
"Alas! my husband," answered the Princess, "I fear my carelessness has
been the cause of all our misfortunes."
Then she told him how the wicked old Magician had pretended to be a
merchant, and had offered new lamps for old, and how he had thus
managed to secure the Magic Lamp.
"He has it still," she added, "for I know that he carries it always,
hidden in his robe."
"Princess," said Aladdin, "I must recover this lamp, and thou shalt
help me. To-night when the Magician dines with thee, dress thyself in
thy costliest robes, and be kind and gracious to him. Then bid him
fetch some of the wines of Africa, and when he is gone, I will tell
thee what thou shalt do."
So that night the Princess put on her most beautiful robes, and looked
so lovely and was so kind when the Magician came in, that he could
scarcely believe his eyes. For she had been sad and angry ever since
he had carried her off.
"I believe now that Aladdin must be dead," she said, "and I have made
up my mind to mourn no longer. Let us begin our feast. But see! I grow
weary of these wines of China, fetch me instead the wine of thy own
country."
Now Aladdin had meanwhile prepared a powder which he directed the
Princess to place in her own wine-cup. So when the Magician returned
with the African wine, she filled her cup and offered it to him in
token of friendship. The Magician drank it up eagerly, and scarcely
had he finished when he dropped down dead.
Then Aladdin came out of the next chamber where he had hidden himself,
and searched in the Magician's robe until he found the Magic Lamp. He
rubbed it joyfully, and when the Genie appeared, ordered that the
palace should be carried back to China, and set down in its own place.
The following morning, when the Sultan rose early, for he was too sad
to take much rest, he went to the window to gaze on the place where
Aladdin's palace had once stood. He rubbed his eyes, and stared wildly
about.
"This must be a dream," he cried, for there stood the palace in all
its beauty, looking fairer than ever in the morning light.
Not a moment did the Sultan lose, but he rode over to the palace at
once, and when he had embraced Aladdin and his daughter, they told him
the whole story of the African Magician. Then Aladdin showed him the
dead body of the wicked old man, and there was peace between them once
more.
But there was still trouble in store for Aladdin. The African Magician
had a younger brother who also dealt in magic, and who was if possible
even more wicked than his elder brother.
Full of revenge, this younger brother started for China, determined
to punish Aladdin and steal the Magic Lamp for himself. As soon as he
arrived he went in secret to the cell of a holy woman called Fatima,
and obliged her to give him her robe and veil as a disguise. Then to
keep the secret safe he killed the poor woman.
Dressed in the robe and veil, the wicked Magician walked through the
streets near Aladdin's palace, and all the people as he passed by
knelt and kissed his robe, for they thought he was indeed the holy
woman.
As soon as the Princess heard that Fatima was passing by in the
street, she sent and commanded her to be brought into the hall, and
she treated the supposed holy woman with great respect and kindness,
for she had often longed to see her.
"Is not this a fine hall?" she asked, as they sat together in the hall
of the jeweled windows.
"It is indeed most beautiful," answered the Magician, who kept his
veil carefully down, "but to my mind there is one thing wanting. If
only thou couldst have a roc's egg hung in the dome it would be
perfect."
As soon as the Princess heard these words she became discontented and
miserable, and when Aladdin came in, she looked so sad that he at once
asked what was the matter.
"I can never be happy until I have a roc's egg hanging from the dome
of the great hall," she answered.
"In that case thou shalt soon be happy," said Aladdin gaily, and
taking down the lamp, he summoned the Genie.
But when the Slave of the Lamp heard the order his face grew terrible
with rage, and his eyes gleamed like burning coals.
"Vile wretch!" he shrieked, "have I not given thee all thy wishes, and
now dost thou ask me to kill my master, and hang him as an ornament in
thy palace? Thou deservest truly to die; but I know that the request
cometh not from thine own heart, but was the suggestion of that wicked
Magician who pretends to be a holy woman."
With these words the Genie vanished, and. Aladdin went at once to the
room where the Princess was awaiting him.
"I have a headache," he said. "Call the holy woman, that she may place
her hand upon my forehead and ease the pain."
But the moment that the false Fatima appeared Aladdin sprang up and
plunged his dagger into that evil heart.
"What hast thou done?" cried the Princess. "Alas! thou hast slain the
holy woman."
"This is no holy woman," answered Aladdin, "but an evil Magician whose
purpose was to destroy us both."
So Aladdin was saved from the wicked design of the two Magicians, and
there was no one left to disturb his peace. He and the Princess lived
together in great happiness for many years, and when the Sultan died
they succeeded to the throne, and ruled both wisely and well. And so
there was great peace throughout the land.
II
THE ENCHANTED HORSE
It was New Year's day in Persia, the most splendid feast-day of all
the year, and the King had been entertained, hour after hour, by the
wonderful shows prepared for him by his people. Evening was drawing on
and the court was just about to retire, when an Indian appeared,
leading a horse which he wished to show to the King. It was not a real
horse, but it was so wonderfully made that it looked exactly as if it
were alive.
"Your Majesty," cried the Indian, as he bowed himself to the ground,
"I beg thou wilt look upon this wonder. Nothing thou hast seen to-day
can equal this horse of mine. I have only to mount upon its back and
wish myself in any part of the world, and it carries me there in a few
minutes." Now the King of Persia was very fond of curious and clever
things, so he looked at the horse with great interest.
"It seems only a common horse," he said, "but thou shalt show us what
it can do."
Then he pointed to a distant mountain, and bade the Indian to fetch a
branch from the palm-trees which grew near its foot.
The Indian vaulted into the saddle, turned a little peg in the horse's
neck, and in a moment was flying so swiftly through the air that he
soon disappeared from sight. In less than a quarter of an hour he
reappeared, and laid the palm-branch at the King's feet.
"Thou art right," cried the King; "thy enchanted horse is the most
wonderful thing I have yet seen. What is its price? I must have it for
my own."
The Indian shook his head.
"Your Majesty," he said, "this horse can never be sold for money, but
can only be exchanged for something of equal value. It shall be thine
only if thou wilt give me instead the Princess, your daughter, for my
wife."
At these words the King's son sprang to his feet.
"Sire," he cried, "thou wilt never dream of granting such a request."
"My son," answered the King, "at whatever cost I must have this
wonderful horse. But before I agree to the exchange, I would wish thee
to try the horse, and tell me what thou thinkest of it."
The Indian, who stood listening to what they said, was quite willing
that the Prince should try the Enchanted Horse, and began to give him
directions how to guide it. But as soon as the Prince was in the
saddle and saw the peg which made the horse start, he never waited to
hear more. He turned the screw at once, and went flying off through
the air.
"Alas!" cried the Indian, "he has gone off without learning how to
come back. Never will he be able to stop the horse unless he finds the
second peg."
The King was terribly frightened when he heard the Indian's words,
for, by this time, the Prince had disappeared from sight.
"Wretch," he cried, "thou shalt be cast into prison, and unless my son
returns in safety, thou shalt be put to death."
Meanwhile the Prince had gone gaily sailing up into the air until he
reached the clouds, and could no longer see the earth below. This was
very pleasant, and he felt that he had never had such a delicious ride
in his life before. But presently he began to think it was time to
descend. He screwed the peg round and round, backwards and forwards,
but it seemed to make no difference. Instead of coming down he sailed
higher and higher, until he thought he was going to knock his head
against the blue sky.
What was to be done? The Prince began to grow a little nervous, and he
felt over the horse's neck to see if there was another peg to be found
anywhere. To his joy, just behind the ear. He touched a small screw,
and when he turned it, he felt he was going slower and slower, and
gently turning round. Then he shouted with joy as the Enchanted Horse
flew downwards through the starry night, and he saw, stretched out
before him, a beautiful city gleaming white through the purple mantle
of the night.
Everything was strange to him, and he did not know in what direction
to guide the horse, so he let it go where it would, and presently it
stopped on the roof of a great marble palace. There was a gallery
running round the roof, and at the end of the gallery there was a door
leading down some white marble steps.
The Prince began at once to descend the steps, and found himself in a
great hall where a row of black slaves were sleeping soundly, guarding
the entrance to a room beyond.
Very softly the Prince crept past the guards, and lifting the curtain
from the door, looked in.
And there he saw a splendid room lighted by a thousand lights and
filled with sleeping slaves, and in the middle, upon a sofa, was the
most beautiful Princess his eyes had ever gazed upon.
She was so lovely that the Prince held his breath with admiration as
he looked at her. Then he went softly to her side, and, kneeling by
the sofa, gently touched her hand. The Princess sighed and opened her
eyes, but before she could cry out, he begged her in a whisper to be
silent and fear nothing.
"I am a Prince," he said, "the son of the King of Persia. I am in
danger of my life here, and crave thy protection."
Now this Princess was no other than the daughter of the King of
Bengal, who happened to be staying alone in her summer palace outside
the city.
"I will protect thee," said the Princess kindly, giving him her hand.
Then she awoke her slaves and bade them give the stranger food and
prepare a sleeping-room for him.
"I long to hear thy adventures and how thou camest here," she said to
the Prince, "but first thou must rest and refresh thyself."
Never before had the Princess seen any one so gallant and handsome as
this strange young Prince. She dressed herself in her loveliest robes,
and twined her hair with her most precious jewels, that she might
appear as beautiful as possible in his eyes. And when the Prince saw
her again, he thought her the most charming Princess in all the world,
and he loved her with all his heart. But when he had told her all his
adventures she sighed to think that he must now leave her and return
to his father's court.
"Do not grieve," he said, "I will return in state as befits a Prince,
and demand thy hand in marriage from the King thy father."
"Stay but a few days ere thou goest," replied the Princess. "I cannot
part with thee so soon."
The Prince was only too willing to wait a while, and the Princess
entertained him so well with feasts and hunting-parties that day after
day slipped by, and still he lingered.
At last, however, the thought of his home and his father's grief made
him decide to return at once.
"My Princess," he said, "since it is so hard to part, wilt thou not
ride with me upon the Enchanted Horse? When we are once more in Persia
our marriage shall take place, and then we will return to the King thy
father."
So together they mounted the Enchanted Horse and the Prince placed his
arm around the Princess and turned the magic peg. Up and up they flew
over land and sea, and then the Prince turned the other screw, and
they landed just outside his father's city. He guided the horse to a
palace outside the gates, and there he left the Princess, for he
wished to go alone to prepare his father.
Now when the Prince reached the court he found every one dressed in
brown, and all the bells of the city were tolling mournfully.
"Why is every one so sad?" he asked of one of the guards.
"The Prince, the Prince!" cried the man. "The Prince has come back."
And soon the joyful news spread over the town, and the bells stopped
tolling and rang a joyful peal.
"My beloved son!" cried the King, as he embraced him. "We thought thou
wert lost for ever, and we have mourned for thee day and night."
Without waiting to hear more, the Prince began to tell the King all
his adventures, and how the Princess of Bengal awaited him in the
palace outside the gates.
"Let her be brought here instantly," cried the King, "and the marriage
shall take place to-day."
Then he ordered that the Indian should be set free at once and allowed
to depart with the Enchanted Horse.
Great was the surprise of the Indian when, instead of having his head
cut off as he had expected, he was allowed to go free with his
wonderful horse. He asked what adventures had befallen the Prince, and
when he heard of the Princess who was waiting in the palace outside
the gates, a wicked plan came into his head.
He took the Enchanted Horse, and went straight to the palace before
the King's messengers could reach it.
"Tell the Princess," he said to the slaves, "that the Prince of Persia
has sent me to bring her to his father's palace upon the Enchanted
Horse."
The Princess was very glad when she heard this message, and she
quickly made herself ready to go with the messenger.
But alas! as soon as the Indian turned the peg and the horse flew
through the air, she found she was being carried off, far away from
Persia and her beloved Prince.
All her prayers and entreaties were in vain. The Indian only mocked at
her, and told her he meant to marry her himself.
Meanwhile the Prince and his attendants had arrived at the palace
outside the gates, only to find that the Indian had been there before
them and had carried off the Princess.
The Prince was nearly beside himself with grief, but he still hoped
to find his bride. He disguised himself as a dervish and set off to
seek for her, vowing that he would find her, or perish in the attempt.
By this time the Enchanted Horse had traveled many hundreds of miles.
Then, as the Indian was hungry, it was made to descend into a wood
close to a town of Cashmere.
Here the Indian went in search of food, and when he returned with some
fruit he shared it with the Princess, who was faint and weary.
As soon as the Princess had eaten a little she felt stronger and
braver, and as she heard horses galloping past, she called out loudly
for help.
The men on horseback came riding at once to her aid, and she quickly
told them who she was, and how the Indian had carried her off against
her will. Then the leader of the horsemen, who was the Sultan of
Cashmere, ordered his men to cut off the Indian's head. But he placed
the Princess upon his horse and led her to his palace.
Now the Princess thought that her troubles were all at an end, but she
was much mistaken. The Sultan had no sooner seen her than he made up
his mind to marry her, and he ordered the wedding preparations to be
begun without loss of time.
In vain the Princess begged to be sent back to Persia. The Sultan only
smiled and fixed the wedding-day. Then when she saw that nothing would
turn him from his purpose, she thought of a plan to save herself. She
began talking all the nonsense she could think of and behaving as if
she were mad, and so well did she pretend, that the wedding was put
off, and all the doctors were called in to see if they could cure her.
But whenever a doctor came near the Princess she became so wild and
violent that he dared not even feel her pulse, so none of them
discovered that she was only pretending.
The Sultan was in great distress, and sent far and near for the
cleverest doctors. But none of them seemed to be able to cure the
Princess of her madness.
All this time the Prince of Persia was wandering about in search of
his Princess, and when he came to one of the great cities of India, he
heard every one talking about the sad illness of the Princess of
Bengal who was to have married the Sultan. He at once disguised
himself as a doctor and went to the palace, saying he had come to cure
the Princess.
The Sultan received the new doctor with joy, and led him at once to
the room where the Princess sat alone, weeping and wringing her hands.
"Your Majesty," said the disguised Prince, "no one else must enter the
room with me, or the cure will fail."
So the Sultan left him, and the Prince went close to the Princess, and
gently touched her hand.
"My beloved Princess," he said, "dost thou not know me?"
As soon as the Princess heard that dear voice she threw herself into
the Prince's arms, and her joy was so great that she could not speak.
"We must at once plan our escape," said the Prince. "Canst thou tell
me what has become of the Enchanted Horse?"
"Naught can I tell thee of it, dear Prince," answered the Princess,
"but since the Sultan knows its value, no doubt he has kept it in some
safe place."
"Then first we must persuade the Sultan that thou art almost cured,"
said the Prince. "Put on thy costliest robes and dine with him
to-night, and I will do the rest."
The Sultan was charmed to find the Princess so much better, and his
joy knew no bounds when the new doctor told him that he hoped by the
next day to complete the cure.
"I find that the Princess has somehow been infected by the magic of
the Enchanted Horse," he said. "If thou wilt have the horse brought
out into the great square, and place the Princess upon its back, I
will prepare some magic perfumes which will dispel the enchantment.
Let all the people be gathered together to see the sight, and let the
Princess be arrayed in her richest dress and decked with all her
jewels."
So next morning the Enchanted Horse was brought out into the crowded
square, and the Princess was mounted upon its back. Then the disguised
Prince placed four braziers of burning coals round the horse and threw
into them a perfume of a most delicious scent. The smoke of the
perfume rose in thick clouds, almost hiding the Princess, and at that
moment the Prince leaped into the saddle behind her, turned the peg,
and sailed away into the blue sky.
But as he swept past the Sultan, he cried aloud, "Sultan of Cashmere,
next time thou dost wish to wed a Princess, ask her first if she be
willing to wed thee."
So this was the manner in which the Prince of Persia carried off the
Princess of Bengal for the second time. The Enchanted Horse never
stopped until it had carried them safely back to Persia, and there
they were married amid great rejoicings.
But what became of the Enchanted Horse? Ah! that is a question which
no one can answer.
III
SINDBAD THE SAILOR
In the city of Bagdad, far away in Persia, there lived a poor man
called Hindbad. He was a porter, and one hot afternoon, as he was
carrying a very heavy load, he stopped to rest in a quiet street near
a beautiful house which he had never seen before. The pavement outside
was sprinkled with rose-water, which felt very cool and pleasant to
his hot, weary feet, and from the open windows came the most delicious
scents which perfumed all the air.
Hindbad wondered who lived in this beautiful house, and presently he
went up to one of the splendidly dressed servants, who was standing at
the door, and asked to whom it belonged. The servant stared in
amazement.
"Dost thou indeed live in Bagdad and knowest not my master's name?" he
said. "He is the great Sindbad the Sailor, the man who has sailed all
round the world, and who has had the most wonderful adventures under
the sun."
Now Hindbad had often heard of this wonderful man and of his great
riches, and as he looked at the beautiful palace and saw the
splendidly dressed servants it made him feel sad and envious. As he
turned away sighing, to take up his load again, he looked up into the
blue sky, and said aloud:
"What a difference there is between this man's lot and mine. He has
all that he wants, and nothing to do but to spend money and enjoy a
pleasant life, while I have to work hard to get dry bread enough to
keep myself and my children alive. What has he done that he should be
so lucky, and what have I done that I should be so miserable?"
Just then one of the servants touched him on the shoulder, and said to
him: "My noble master wishes to see thee, and has bidden me fetch thee
to him."
The poor porter was frightened at first, for he thought some one might
have overheard what he had been saying, but the servant took his arm
and led him into the great dining-hall. There were many guests seated
round the table, on which was spread a most delicious feast, and at
the head of the table sat a grave, stately old man with a long white
beard. This was Sindbad the Sailor. He smiled kindly on poor
frightened Hindbad, and made a sign that he should come and sit at his
right hand. Then all the most delicious things on the table were
offered by the servants to Hindbad, and his glass was filled with the
choicest wine, so that he began to feel it must all be a dream.
But when the feast was over Sindbad turned to him and asked him what
it was he had been saying outside the window just before he came in.
Then Hindbad was very much ashamed, and hung his head as he answered:
"My lord, I was tired and ill-tempered, and I said foolish words,
which I trust thou wilt now pardon."
"Oh," replied Sindbad, "I am not so unjust as to blame thee. I am
indeed only sorry for thee. But thou wert wrong in thinking that I
have always led an easy life, and that these riches came to me without
trouble or suffering. I have won them by years of toil and danger."
Then turning to his other guests he said, "Yes, my friends, the tale
of my adventures is enough to warn every one of you never to go in
search of wealth. I have never told you the story of my voyages, but
if you will listen I will begin this very night."
So the servants were ordered to carry home the porter's load, that he
might stay in Sindbad's palace that evening and listen to the story.
"My father left me a great deal of money when I was a young man, but I
spent it so quickly and foolishly that I began to see it would soon
all be gone. This made me stop and think, for I did not like the idea
of being poor. So I counted up all the money that remained, and made
up my mind that I would trade with it. I joined a company of
merchants, and we set sail in a good ship, meaning to go from place to
place, and sell or exchange our goods at whatever towns we stopped.
And so began my first voyage.
"For the first few days I could think of nothing but the heaving of
the waves; but by and by I began to feel better, and never again was I
at all unhappy upon the sea. One afternoon, when the wind had suddenly
dropped and we were lying becalmed, we found ourselves near a little
low green island, which looked like a meadow, and only just showed
above the sea. The captain of the ship gave us permission to land, and
presently we were all enjoying ourselves on the green meadow. We
walked about for some time and then sat down to rest, and some of us
set to work to light a fire, that we might make our evening meal.
"But scarcely had the fire begun to burn, when we heard loud shouts
from the ship warning us to come back at once, for what we had taken
to be an island was indeed the back of a sleeping whale. My companions
all rushed to the boats, but before I could follow them the great
monster dived down and disappeared, leaving me struggling in the
water.
"I clung to a piece of wood which we had brought from the ship to make
the fire, and I could only hope that I would soon be picked up by my
companions. But alas! there was so much confusion on board that no one
missed me, and as a wind sprang up the captain set sail, and I was
left alone at the mercy of the waves.
"All night long I floated, and when morning came I was so tired and
weak that I thought I must die. But just then a great wave lifted me
up and threw me against the steep side of an island, and to my joy I
managed to climb the cliff and rest on the green grass above.
"Soon I began to feel better, and as I was very hungry I went to look
for something to eat. I found some plants which tasted good, and a
spring of clear water, and having made a good meal, I walked about the
island to see what I would find next.
"Before long I came to a great meadow where a horse was tied, and as I
stood looking at it, I heard men's voices which sounded as if they
came from under the earth. Then from an underground cave a man
appeared, who asked me who I was and where I came from. He took me
into the cave where his companions were, and they told me they were
the grooms belonging to the King of the island, whose horses they
brought to feed in the meadow. They gave me a good meal, and told me
it was very lucky that I had come just then, for next day, they meant
to return to their master, and would show me the way, which I could
never have found for myself.
"So we set off together early next morning, and when we reached the
city I was very kindly received by the King. He listened to the story
of my adventures, and then bade his servants see that I wanted for
nothing.
"As I was a merchant I took great interest in the shipping, and often
went down to the quay to see the boats unload. One day when I was
looking over a cargo which had just been landed, what was my
astonishment to see a number of bales with my own name marked on them.
I went at once to the captain and asked him who was the owner of these
bales of goods.
"'Ah!' replied the captain, 'they belonged to a merchant of Bagdad
called Sindbad. But he, alas! perished in a dreadful way soon after we
sailed, for with a number of people belonging to my ship he landed on
what looked like a green island, but which was really the back of a
great sleeping whale. As soon as the monster felt the warmth of the
fire which they had lighted on his back, he woke up and dived below
the sea. Many of my men were drowned, and among them poor Sindbad. Now
I mean to sell his goods that I may give the money to his relations
when I find them.'
"'Captain,' said I, 'these bales are mine, for I am that Sindbad who
thou sayest was drowned.'
"'What wickedness there is in the world,' cried the captain. 'How
canst thou pretend to be Sindbad when I saw him drowned before my
eyes?'
"But presently, when I had told him all that had happened to me, and
when the other merchants from the ship knew me to be the true Sindbad,
he was overjoyed, and ordered that the bales should be at once given
to me.
"Now I was able to give the King a handsome present, and after I had
traded with my goods for sandal-wood, nutmegs, ginger, pepper and
cloves, I set sail once more with the kind old captain. On the way
home I was able to sell all my spices at a good price, so that when I
landed I found I had a hundred thousand sequins.
"My family were delighted to see me again, and I soon bought some land
and built a splendid house, in which I meant to live happily and
forget all the troubles through which I had passed."
Here Sindbad ended the story of his first voyage. He ordered the music
to strike up and the feast to go on, and when it was over he gave the
poor porter Hindbad a hundred gold pieces and told him to come back at
the same time next evening if he wished to hear the tale of the second
voyage.
Hindbad went joyfully home, and you can imagine how happy the poor
family were that night.
Next evening he set out once more for Sindbad's house, dressed in his
best clothes. There he enjoyed a splendid supper as before, and when
it was over Sindbad said:
"I was very happy for some time at home, but before long I began to
grow weary of leading an idle life. I longed to be upon the sea again,
to feel the good ship bounding over the waves, and to hear the wind
whistling through the rigging.
"So I set to work at once and bought all kinds of goods that I might
sell again in foreign lands, and then, having found a suitable ship, I
set sail with other merchants, and so began my second voyage.
"We stopped at many places, and sold our goods at a great profit, and
all went well until one day when we landed on a new island. It was a
most beautiful place, fair as the garden of Eden, where exquisite
flowers made a perfect rainbow of color and delicious fruits hung in
ripe clusters above.
"Here, under the shadow of the tree, I sat down to rest and to feast
my eyes upon all the loveliness around. I ate the food I had brought
with me, drank my wine, and then closed my eyes. The soft music of the
stream which flowed close by was like a song in my ears, and, before I
knew what I was doing, I fell asleep.
"I cannot tell how long I slept, but when at last I opened my eyes, I
could not see my companions anywhere, and when I looked towards the
sea, to my horror I found the ship was gone. It was sailing away, a
white speck in the distance, and here was I, left alone upon this
desert island. I cried aloud and wrung my hands with grief, and wished
with all my heart that I had stayed safely at home. But what was the
use of wishing that now?
"So I climbed into a high tree, and looked around to see if I could by
any means find a way of escape from the island. First I looked towards
the sea, but there was no hope for me there, and then I turned and
looked inland. The first thing that caught my eye was a huge white
dome, that seemed to rise from the center of the island, unlike
anything I had ever seen before.
"I climbed down the tree, and made my way towards the white dome as
quickly as I could, but when I reached it, it puzzled me more than
ever. It was like a great smooth ball, much too slippery to climb, and
into it there was no door or entrance of any sort. I walked round and
round it, wondering what it could be, when suddenly a dark shadow fell
upon everything and it grew black as night.
"I gazed upwards in great fear, and knew that the shadow was cast by a
great bird with outspread wings hovering over the place where I stood
and shutting out heaven's light. As I looked, it suddenly came
swooping down, and sat upon the white dome.
"Then it flashed into my mind that this must be the bird which I had
heard sailors talk of, called a roc, and the smooth white ball must be
its egg.
"Quick as thought, I unbound my turban, and twisted it into a rope.
Then I wound it round and round my waist, and tied the two ends
tightly round the roc's leg, which was close to where I stood.
"'It will fly away soon, and carry me away with it off this desert
island,' I said to myself joyfully.
"And sure enough, before very long I felt myself lifted off the
ground, and carried up and up until it seemed as if we had reached the
clouds. Then the huge bird began to sink down again, and when it
reached the ground I quickly untied my turban, and set myself free.
"I was so small, compared to the roc, that it had never even noticed
me, but darted off towards a great black object lying near, which it
seized with its beak and carried off. Imagine my horror when I looked
again and saw other dark objects, and discovered that they were great
black snakes.
"Here was I, in a deep valley, with mountains rising sheer up on every
side, and nothing to be seen among the rocks but those terrible black
snakes.
"'Oh!' I cried, 'why did I ever try to leave the desert island? I have
indeed only come into worse misfortune.'
"As I looked around, I noticed that the ground was strewn with
sparkling stones, which seemed to quiver with light, and when I looked
nearer, I found they were diamonds of extraordinary size, although
lying about like common pebbles. At first I was delighted, but they
soon ceased to please me, for I feared each moment I might be seized
by one of the terrible snakes.
"These snakes were so large that they could easily have swallowed an
elephant, and although they lay quiet during the day, and hid
themselves for fear of the roc, at night they came out in search of
food. I managed to find a cave among the rocks before nightfall, and
there I sat in fear and trembling until morning, when I once more went
out into the valley.
"As I sat thinking what I should do next, I saw a great piece of raw
meat come bounding down into the valley, from rock to rock. Then
another piece followed, and another, until several large pieces lay at
my feet.
"Then I remembered a tale which travelers had told me about the famous
Diamond Valley. They said that every year, when the young eagles were
hatched, merchants went to the heights above, and rolled down great
pieces of raw meat into the valley. The diamonds on which the meat
fell would often stick into the soft flesh, and then when the eagles
came, and carried off the meat to feed their young ones, the merchants
would beat them off their nests, and take the diamonds out of the
meat.
"I had never believed this wonderful tale, but now indeed I knew it to
be true, and felt sure that I was in the famous Diamond Valley.
"I had quite given up all hope of escape, for there was no possible
way of climbing out of the valley, but as I watched the eagles carry
off the lumps of raw meat, I thought of a plan, and hope revived.
"First of all I searched around, and filled all my pockets with the
biggest diamonds I could find. Then I chose out the largest piece of
meat and fastened myself securely to it, with the rope made out of my
turban. I knew that the eagles would soon come for more food, so I lay
flat on the ground, with the meat uppermost, and holding on tightly, I
waited for what would happen next. I had not long to wait before a
gigantic eagle came swooping down. It seized the meat and carried it
and me swiftly up, until it reached its nest high among the mountain
rocks. And no sooner had it dropped me into the nest, than a man
climbed out from behind the rock, and with loud cries frightened the
eagle away. Then this man, who was the merchant to whom the nest
belonged, came eagerly to look for his piece of meat. When he saw me,
he started back in surprise and anger.
"'What doest thou here?' he asked roughly. 'How dost thou dare to try
and steal my diamonds?'
"'Have patience,' I answered calmly, 'I am no thief, and when thou
hast heard my story thou wilt pity and not blame me. As for diamonds,
I have some here which will more than make up to thee for thy
disappointment.'
"Then I told him and the other merchants all my adventures, and they
cast up their eyes to heaven in surprise at my courage, and the
wonderful manner in which I had managed to escape so many dangers.
Pulling out a handful of diamonds, I then passed the precious stones
round among them, and they all declared them to be the finest they had
ever seen.
"'Thou shalt choose one, to make up for thy disappointment,' I said to
the merchant who had found me.
"'I will choose this small one,' he replied, picking out one of the
least of the glistening heap.
"I urged him to take a larger one, but he only shook his head.
"'This one will bring me all the wealth I can desire,' he said, 'and I
need no longer risk my life seeking for more.'
"Then we all set off for the nearest port, where we found a ship ready
to carry us home. We had many adventures on the way, but at last we
reached our journey's end, and when I had sold my diamonds, I had so
much money that I gave a great deal to the poor, and lived in even
greater splendor than before."
Here Sindbad paused, and ordered that another hundred gold pieces
should be given to Hindbad, and that he should depart. But next
evening when the guests had all assembled and Hindbad had also
returned, Sindbad began once more to tell them a story of his
adventures.
"This time," began Sindbad, "I stayed at home for the space of a whole
year, and then I prepared to set out on another voyage. My friends and
relations did all in their power to prevent my going, but I could not
be persuaded, and before long I set sail in a ship which was about to
make a very long voyage.
"Nothing went well with us from the beginning. We were driven out of
our course by storms and tempests, and the captain and pilot knew not
where we were. When at last they found out in which direction we had
drifted, things seemed in a worse state than ever. We were alarmed to
see the captain suddenly pull off his turban, tear the hair from his
beard, and beat his head as if he were mad.
"'What is the matter?' we asked, gathering round him.
"'Alas!' he cried, 'we are lost. The ship is now caught in a dangerous
current from which nothing can save her and us. In a very few moments
we shall all be dashed to pieces.'
"No sooner had he spoken than the ship was carried along at a
tremendous speed straight on to a rocky shore which lay at the foot of
a steep mountain.
"But although the ship was dashed to pieces, we all managed to escape,
and were thrown with our goods and some provisions high on to the
rocky strip of shore. Here we found the scattered remains of many
wrecks, and quantities of bones bleached white in the sun.
"'We may prepare ourselves for death,' said the captain mournfully.
'No man has ever escaped from this shore, for it is impossible to
climb the mountain behind us, and no ship dare approach to save us.'
"But nevertheless he divided the provisions among us, that we might
live as long as possible.
"One thing that surprised me greatly was a river of fresh water which
flowed out of the mountain, and, instead of running into the sea,
disappeared into a rocky cavern on the other side of the shore. As I
gazed into the mouth of this cavern I saw that it was lined with
sparkling gems, and that the bed of the river was studded with rubies
and diamonds and all manner of precious stones. Great quantities of
these were also scattered around, and treasures from the wrecked ships
lay in every corner of the shore.
"One by one my companions died as they came to the end of their food,
and one by one I buried them, until at last I was left quite alone. I
was able to live on very little, and so my food had lasted longer.
"'Woe is me!' I cried, 'who shall bury me when I die? Why, oh! why was
I not content to remain safe and happy at home?'
"As I bemoaned my evil fate I wandered to the banks of the river, and
as I watched it disappear into the rocky cave a happy thought came to
me. Surely if this stream entered the mountain it must have an opening
somewhere, and if I could only follow its course I might yet escape.
"Eagerly I began to make a strong raft of the wood and planks which
were scattered all over the shore. Then I collected as many diamonds
and rubies and as much wrecked treasure as my raft would hold, and
took my last little store of food. I launched the raft with great
care, and soon found myself floating swiftly along until I disappeared
into the dark passage of the cavern.
"On and on I went through the thick darkness, the passage seeming to
grow smaller and narrower until I was obliged to lie flat on the raft
for fear of striking my head. My food was now all gone, and I gave
myself up for lost, and then mercifully I fell into a deep sleep which
must have lasted many hours. I was awakened by the sound of strange
voices, and jumping up, what was my joy to find I was once more in
heaven's sunshine.
"The river was flowing gently through a green, pleasant land, and the
sounds I had heard were the voices of a company of negroes who were
gently guiding my raft to the bank.
"I could not understand the language these negroes spoke, until at
last one of their number began to speak to me in Arabic.
"Peace be to thee!' he said. 'Who art thou, and whence hast thou come?
We are the people of this country, and were working in our fields when
we found thee asleep upon the raft. Tell us, then, how thou hast come
to this place.'
"I pray thee, by Allah." I cried, 'give me food, and then I will tell
thee all.'
"Then the men gave me food, and I ate until my strength returned and
my soul was refreshed, and I could tell them of all my adventures.
"'We must take him to the King,' they cried with one voice.
"Then they told me that the King of Serendib was the richest and
greatest king on earth, and I went with them willingly, taking with me
my bales and treasures.
"Never had I seen such splendor and richness as at the court of the
King of Serendib, and great was his kindness towards me. He listened
to the tale of my adventures with interest, and when I begged to be
allowed to return home, he ordered that a ship should be made ready at
once. Then he wrote a letter with his own hand to the Caliph, our
sovereign lord, and loaded me with costly gifts.
"Thus, when I arrived at Bagdad, I went at once to the court of the
Caliph, and presented the letter and the gift which the King had sent.
"This gift was a cup made out of a single ruby lined inside with
precious stones, also a skin of the serpent that swallows elephants,
which had spots upon its back like pieces of gold, and which could
cure all illnesses.
"The Caliph was delighted with the letter and the gift.
"'Tell me, O Sindbad,' he said, 'is this King as great and rich as it
is reported of him?'
"'O my Lord,' I said, 'no words can give you an idea of his riches.
His throne is set upon a huge elephant and a thousand horsemen ride
around him, clad in cloth of gold. His mace is of gold studded with
emeralds, and indeed his splendor is as great as that of King
Solomon.'
"The Caliph listened attentively to my words, and then, giving me a
present, he allowed me to depart. I returned home swiftly to my family
and friends, and when I had sold my treasures and given much to the
poor, I lived in such peace and happiness that my evil adventures soon
seemed like a far-off dream."
So Sindbad finished the story, and bade his guests return the next
evening as usual. And next day, when all the guests were once more
seated at the table and had finished their feasting, Sindbad began the
story of his last voyage.
"I had now made up my mind that nothing would tempt me to leave my
home again, and that I would seek for no more adventures.
"One day, however, as I was feasting with my friends, one of my
servants came to tell me that a messenger from the Caliph awaited my
pleasure.
"'What is thy errand?' I asked when the messenger was presented to me.
"'The Caliph desires thy presence at once,' answered the messenger.
"Thus was I obliged to set out immediately for the palace.
"'Sindbad,' said the Caliph, when I had bowed myself to the ground
before him, 'I have need of thy services. I desire to send a letter
and a gift to the King of Serendib, and thou shalt be the bearer of
them.'
"Then indeed did my face fall, and I became pale as death.
"'Commander of the Faithful,' I cried, 'do with me as thou wilt, but I
have made a vow never to leave my home again.'
"Then I told him all my adventures, which caused him much
astonishment. Nevertheless, he urged me to do as he wished, and seeing
that there was no escape, I consented.
"I set sail at the Caliph's command, and after a good voyage I at last
reached the island of Serendib, where I received a hearty welcome. I
told the officers of the court what my errand was, and they led me to
the palace, where I bowed myself to the ground before the great King.
"'Sindbad,' he said kindly, 'thou art welcome. I have often thought of
thee, and wished to see thy face again.'
"So I presented the Caliph's letter, and the rich present he had sent,
which pleased the King well. When a few days had passed, I begged to
be allowed to depart, and after receiving many gifts I once more set
sail for home.
"But alas! the return journey began badly. We had not sailed many
days, when we were pursued by pirates, who captured the ship, and took
prisoners all those who were not killed. I, among others, was carried
ashore and sold by a pirate to a rich merchant.
"'What is thy trade?' asked the merchant when he had bought me.
"'I am a merchant,' I answered, 'and know no trade.'
"'Canst thou shoot with a bow and arrow?' asked my master.
"This I said I could do, and putting one in my hand he led me out to a
great forest and bade me climb into a high tree.
"'Watch there,' he said, 'until thou shalt see a herd of elephants
pass by. Then try to shoot one, and if thou art fortunate, come at
once and tell me.'
"All night I watched, and saw nothing, but in the morning a great
number of elephants came thundering by, and I shot several arrows
among them. One big elephant fell to the ground, and lay there while
the rest passed on; so, as soon as it was safe, I climbed down and
carried the news to my master. Together we buried the huge animal and
marked the place, so that we might return to fetch the tusks.
"I continued this work for some time, and killed many elephants, until
one night I saw to my horror that the elephants, instead of passing
on, had surrounded the tree in which I sat, and were stamping and
trumpeting, until the very earth shook. Then one of them seized the
tree with his trunk, and tore it up by the roots, laying it flat on
the ground.
"I was almost senseless with terror, but the next moment I felt myself
gently lifted up by an elephant's trunk, and placed on his back. I
clung on with all my might, as the elephant carried me through the
forest, until at last we came to the slope of a hill, which was
covered with bleached bones and tusks.
"Here the elephant gently laid me down, and left me alone. I gazed
around on this great treasure of ivory, and I could not help wondering
at the wisdom of these animals. They had evidently brought me here to
show me that I could get ivory without killing any more of their
number. For this, I felt sure, was the elephants' burying-place.
"I did not stay long on the hill, but gathering a few tusks together I
sped back to the town, that I might tell my tale to the merchant. 'My
poor Sindbad,' he cried, when he saw me, I thought thou wert dead, for
I found the uprooted tree, and never expected to look upon thy face
again.'
"Great was his delight when I told him of the Hill of Ivory, and when
we had gone there together, and he saw for himself the wonders I had
described, he was filled with astonishment.
"'Sindbad,' he cried, 'thou too shalt have a share of this great
wealth. And first of all I shall give thee thy, freedom. Until now,
year by year have all my slaves been killed by the elephants, but now
we need no longer run any risks, for here is ivory enough to enrich
the whole island.'
"So I was set free, and loaded with honors, and when the trade winds
brought the ships that traded in ivory, I bade good-by to the island,
and set sail for home, carrying with me a great cargo of ivory and
other treasures.
"As soon as I landed I went to the Caliph, who was overjoyed to see
me.
"'Great has been my anxiety, O Sindbad,' he said, 'for I feared some
evil had befallen thee.'
"When, therefore, I had told him of my adventures, he was the more
astonished, and ordered that all my story should be written in letters
of gold, and placed among his treasures.
"Then I returned to my own house, and ever since have remained at home
in peace and safety."
Thus Sindbad finished the story of his voyages, and turning to
Hindbad, he said: "And now, friend Hindbad, what dost thou think of
the way I have earned my riches? Is it not just that I should live in
enjoyment and ease?"
"O my lord," cried Hindbad, bowing before Sindbad, and kissing his
hand, "great have been thy labors and perils, and truly dost thou
deserve thy riches. My troubles are as nothing compared to thine. Long
mayest thou live and prosper!"
Sindbad was well pleased with this answer, and he ordered that Hindbad
should dine every day at his table, and receive his golden pieces, so
that all his life he might have reason to remember the adventures of
Sindbad the Sailor.
THE ILIAD OF HOMER
ADAPTED BY JEANIE LANG
I
THE STORY OF WHAT LED TO THE SIEGE OF TROY
In the deep forest that clothes Mount Ida, not far from the strong
city of Troy, Paris, son of King Priam, watched his father's flocks by
night.
Suddenly through the dim woods he saw a light, as if the golden sun
and silver moon shone both together.
And, lo! in the radiance of this light there stood before him the
three fairest of the godesses--queenly Hera, wise Athene, and lovely
Aphrodite.
Like music stealing through the trees came the soft voice of Hera:
"Of all mortal men thou art the most beautiful, Paris, and to thee do
we come for judgment. Tell us which of us is the fairest of all, and
to that one whom thou so deemest, give this golden apple."
So spake Hera, and placed in the hand of Paris an apple of purest
gold.
Again she spake: "If to me, Hera, queen of goddesses, and wife of
mighty Zeus, king of all the gods, thou dost grant the prize of
loveliness, Power immeasurable shall be thine. King shalt thou be of
the lands where the gray dawn rises, and king even to where the red
sun goes down. A hundred peoples shall call thee lord."
She was silent, and the voice of Athene, fair and pure as a silver
moonbeam, broke the stillness of the starless night.
"To me award the prize," she said, "and wise as the gods shalt thou
be. With me as thy friend and guide, all things will be possible to
thee."
Last of all, standing in a rosy light, as of the dawning sunlight in
the spring, spoke Aphrodite.
"What are Power and Wisdom, fair Paris?" she pled. "Wisdom and Power
bring no joy at last. I will give thee Love, and for thy wife thou
shalt have the fairest woman in all the world."
And Paris, the melody of her voice still in his ears, as he gazed
spellbound on her face of wondrous beauty, handed to Aphrodite the
golden prize.
So was it that the wrath of the gods came upon Paris, son of Priam.
For Hera and Athene, filled with rage, vowed to be revenged upon Paris
and all his race, and made all the gods pledge themselves to aid them
in their vengeance.
Across far seas sailed Paris, with Aphrodite as his guide, to Sparta,
where Menelaus was king.
A brave king was Menelaus, and happily he lived in his kingdom with
Helen, his queen, fairest of all women. One child they had, a little
maid, Hermione.
When to Sparta there came Paris, with eyes blue as the sea, and hair
that gleamed like gold on his purple robe, gallant and brave, and more
beautiful than any mortal man, glad was the welcome that he had from
Menelaus.
And when Paris gazed on Helen's face, he knew that in all the world
there was no woman half so fair as the wife of Menelaus.
Then did Aphrodite cast her magic upon Helen.
No longer did she love her husband, nor did she remember little
Hermione, her own dear child.
When Paris spoke to her words of love, and begged her to flee with
him, and to be his wife, she knew only that she loved Paris more than
all else. Gladly she went with him, and in his red-prowed ship
together they sailed across the green waves to Troyland, where Mount
Ida showed her snowy crown high above the forests.
An angry man was Menelaus when he found that Paris had stolen from him
the fair wife who was to him as his own heart.
To his elder brother Agamemnon, overlord of all the Greeks, he went
and told his grievous tale.
And from far and wide did the Greek hosts gather, until a hundred
thousand men and eleven hundred fourscore and six ships were ready to
cross the seas to Troyland.
Many were the heroes who sailed away from Greece to punish Paris and
his kin, and to bring back fair Helen to her own land.
Few there were who came home, for ten long years of woe and of
spilling of blood came to the men of Greece and of Troy from the fatal
beauty of Helen the queen.
II
THE COUNCIL
That night both gods and men slept long; only Zeus, king of the gods,
lay wakeful, pondering in his heart how best he might do honor to
Achilles. "I shall send a Dream to beguile Agamemnon," at length he
resolved.
Then did he call to a Dream, for by Dreams the gods sent their
messages to mortal men.
"Go now, thou evil Dream," said Zeus, "go to where Agamemnon sleeps in
his tent near to his fleet ships, and tell him every word as I shall
tell it thee. Bid him call to arms with speed his warriors, for now he
shall take the strong city of Troy."
To the tent of Agamemnon sped the Dream. Taking the form of the old
warrior who had striven to make peace between Agamemnon and Achilles,
the Dream stooped over the sleeping warrior, and thus to him it spoke:
"Sleepest thou, Agamemnon? Ill fits it for the overlord of so mighty a
host to sleep all through the night. From Zeus I come, and to thee he
sends this message: 'Call to arms with speed thy warriors, Agamemnon,
for now shalt thou take the strong city of Troy.'"
Off then sped the Dream, winging its way like a strip of gray mist
aloft to Mount Olympus.
Then Agamemnon awoke from sleep, and the voice of the Dream still rang
in his ears.
Speedily he arose from his bed, donned his fair tunic, cast around him
his great cloak, and bound his sandals on his feet. Then over his
shoulder he cast his silver-studded sword, and with the scepter of his
house, token of his overlordship, in his hand, he went down to where
the Greek ships lay, and called a council together.
To his lords he told what had befallen him as they slept.
"Call to arms!" had been the message from Zeus. "Call to arms! for
victory shall be thine."
Then said the old warrior in whose likeness the Dream had come:
"My friends, had any other told us this dream we might deem it false;
but to our overlord the Dream hath come. Let us then call our men to
arms."
So did all the lords follow his counsel, and quickly did the Greeks
obey their summons. Like bees that pour from out their nests in some
hollow rock, and fly to where the spring flowers grow most sweet, even
so did the warriors pour forth from their ships and their huts by the
sea. Loudly they shouted as they came, till all the earth echoed. Nine
heralds sought to quiet them, but it was long before they would cease
their noise, and sit silent to listen to the voice of Agamemnon their
lord.
Then did Agamemnon prove his people. "Ill hath Zeus dealt with us, my
friends," he said. "To us he promised ere we sailed hither that
victory should be ours. But nine years have passed away, and our
ships' timbers have rotted, and the rigging is worn. In our halls our
wives and children still sit awaiting us, yet are we no nearer victory
than we were on the day that we came hither. Come then, let us flee
with our ships to our dear native land, for never shall Troy be ours."
So spake Agamemnon, and stirred the hearts of all that had not heard
his secret council.
As the high sea-waves are swayed by the winds that rush upon them from
the east and from the south, even so the Greek host was swayed. And
even as the west wind sweeps over a cornfield and all the ears bow
down before the blast, so were the warriors stirred.
Shouting, they hastened down to their ships. And the dust rose up in
clouds from under their hurrying feet.
Quickly did they prepare their ships, and gladly did they make them
ready to sail homeward across the bright salt sea.
Then would the Greeks have returned, even though fate willed it not.
But Hera spoke to Athene.
"Shall we indeed allow the Greeks thus to flee homeward?" she cried.
"Shame it will be to us if Helen is left, in Troy, and Paris goes
unpunished. Haste, then, and with thy gentle words hold back the men
from setting forth in their ships for their own homeland."
Down from the peaks of Olympus darted the bright-eyed Athene, clown to
where the dark ships were being dragged to the launching ways.
By his ship stood Odysseus of the many devices, and heavy of heart was
he.
As one who speaks aloud the thoughts of another, so then to Odysseus
spake the fair goddess who was ever his guide.
"Will ye indeed fling yourselves upon your ships and flee homeward to
your own land?" she said. "Will brave Odysseus leave Helen, for whose
sake so many Greeks have died, to be the boast of the men of Troy?
Hasten, then, and suffer not the Greeks to drag their ships down to
the sea."
At the sound of the voice of Athene, Odysseus cast away his mantle and
ran to meet Agamemnon. From him he received the scepter of
overlordship, and bearing it he went among the ships.
Whenever he saw a chief, he would say to him with gentle words:
"Good sir, it fits thee ill to be a coward. Stay, now, for thou
knowest not what is the will of Agamemnon. He is only making trial of
thee. Hold back then thy people, and anger him not."
But when Odysseus met a common man hasting to the ships, with his
scepter he smote him, saying:
"Sit still, sir, and listen to the words of thy betters. No warrior
art thou, but a weakling. One king only hath Zeus given to us. Hearken
then to the will of Agamemnon!"
Thus did Odysseus rule the people, driving them back from the ships to
where sat Agamemnon.
And the noise they made in returning was as the noise of mighty waves
of the sea, when they crash upon the beach and drive their roaring
echoes far abroad.
Silence came upon them as they sat themselves down before Agamemnon
and their lords. Upon all but one did silence fall. Thersites,
bandy-legged, round-shouldered, lame of one foot, with ugly head
covered with scanty stubble, most ill-favored of all men in the host,
would not hold his peace.
Shrilly he poured his upbraidings upon Agamemnon.
"What lackest thou now?" he cried. "Surely thy huts are full of the
spoils we have brought to thee each time we have taken a town. What
more dost thou want? Soft fools, women, not men, are ye Greeks, else
would ye return home now with the ships, and leave this fellow here in
Troyland gorging himself on the spoils for which he himself hath never
fought. To brave Achilles hath he done dishonor, a far better man than
he!"
Straight to the side of Thersites came the goodly Odysseus.
"Hold thy peace," he sternly said. "Plainly I tell thee that if ever
again I find thee raving as thou hast raved now, I myself will strip
off thy mantle and tunic, with shameful blows beat thee out of the
assembly, and send thee back weeping to the ships."
So spake Odysseus, and with his scepter smote Thersites on his back
and shoulders. And Thersites bowed down, and big tears fell from his
eyes, and a bloody weal from the golden scepter stood up from his
back. Amazed he sat down, and in pain and amazement he wiped away a
tear. The others, though they were sorry, laughed at his bewilderment.
"Many are the good deeds of Odysseus," said they, "but never did he do
a better deed than when he stopped the tongue of this prating railer."
Then spake Odysseus, scepter in hand.
"Surely it is the wish of the Greeks to make thee the most despised of
all kings, great Agamemnon," he said, "for like young children or
mourning women do they wail that they must go home. Nine years have
we stayed in this land, and small wonder is it that we long for our
homes again. Yet shameful would it be to wait so long and to return
with empty hands. Be of good heart, my friends, and wait a little, for
surely Troy shall be ours. Do ye forget, on the day that we set sail
for Troyland, the mighty portent that we saw? As we offered sacrifices
to the gods beneath a fair plane-tree whence flowed clear water, a
snake, blood-red on the back and dreadful to look upon, glided from
beneath the altar and darted to the tree. On the tree's topmost bough
was a sparrow's nest, and in it eight tender nestlings, over which the
mother bird spread her wings. Pitifully did the little ones cheep as
the snake swallowed them all, and pitifully cried the mother as she
fluttered over her nestlings. But of her, too, did the snake lay hold,
coiling himself round her and crushing her life out. Then did the god
who sent this sign show us that a sign from the gods in truth it was,
for he turned the snake into stone. And Chalcas, our soothsayer, told
us then the meaning of the sign. 'Nine years,' said he--for nine birds
did the snake slay--'shall ye fight in Troyland, but in the tenth year
the city shall fall before you.' So then, let us abide here, until we
have taken the great city!"
When Odysseus had ceased to speak, the Greeks shouted aloud, until the
ships echoed the praises of the goodly Odysseus.
Then said Agamemnon:
"Go now, all of you, and eat, that ye may be ready for battle. Let
each man sharpen well his spear and see to his shield, and see to it
that the horses are well fed and the chariots prepared. And whomsoever
I see minded to stay far away from the fight, beside the ships here by
the sea, for him shall there be no hope hereafter, but he shall be
food for dogs and for birds of prey."
And when Agamemnon had spoken, the shouts of the Greeks were as the
thunder of mighty breakers on a reef when the winds blow high.
Quickly then they scattered, and kindled fires, and made their evening
meal, and offered sacrifices to the gods, praying for escape from
death in the coming battle.
To Zeus did Agamemnon offer his sacrifice and to the mighty god he
prayed:
"Great Zeus, god of the storm-cloud, let not the sun set nor the
darkness fall until I have laid low the palaces of Troy and burned
down its walls with fire."
So he prayed, but as yet Zeus heeded not his prayer. Then did the
Greeks gather themselves together to battle, and among them went the
bright-eyed Athene, urging on each one, and rousing in each man's
heart the joy of strength and of battle.
As the red and golden blaze of a fire that devours a mighty forest is
seen from afar, so was seen from afar the dazzling gleam of their
bronze armor as they marched.
Like wild geese and cranes and swans that in long-drawn strings fly
tirelessly onward, so poured they forth, while the earth echoed
terribly under the tread of men and horses.
As flies that swarm in the spring when the herdsmen's milk-pails are
full, so did the Greeks throng to battle, unnumbered as the leaves and
the flowers upon which they trod in the flowery plain by the banks of
the river Scamander.
III
THE FIGHT BETWEEN PARIS AND MENELAUS
To meet the great Greek host came the men of Troy. With loud shouting
and clamor they came, noisy as the flocks of cranes that fly to
far-off seas before the coming of winter and sudden rain.
But in silence marched the Greeks, shoulder to shoulder, their hearts
full of courage.
Like the mist that rolls from the crest of the mountains until no man
can see in front of him further than the cast of a stone, so did the
dust rise in clouds under the tread of the warriors' feet as they
marched across the plain.
Front to front did the two armies stand at last, and from the Trojan
ranks strode forth Paris the godlike, he who robbed Menelaus of her
who was to him most dear.
From the shoulders of Paris swung a panther's skin. He bore a curved
bow and sword, and, brandishing two bronze-headed spears, he
challenged all the chieftains of the Greek host to fight him, man to
man, in mortal fight.
As a hungry lion rejoices to see a great-horned stag coming to be his
prey, even so did Menelaus rejoice when he saw Paris, the
golden-haired and blue-eyed, stride proudly forth.
Straightway, in his armor, did Menelaus leap from his chariot to the
ground.
But when Paris saw him to whom he had done so sore a wrong, his heart
was smitten.
As a man who, in a mountain glen, suddenly sees a deadly snake and
shrinks away from it with shaking limbs, even so did Paris shrink back
among his comrades.
Scornfully did Hector his brother behold him.
"Fair in face thou art!" said Hector, "but shamed I am by thee! I ween
these long-haired Greeks make sport of us because we have for champion
one whose face and form are beautiful, but in whose heart is neither
strength nor courage. Art thou a coward? and yet thou daredst to sail
across the sea and steal from her husband the fair woman who hath
brought us so much harm. Thou shalt see what sort of warrior is he
whose lovely wife thou hast taken. Thy harp and thy golden locks and
fair face, and all the graces given to thee by Aphrodite, shall count
for little when thou liest in the dust! Cowards must we Trojans be,
else thou hadst been stoned to death ere this, for all the evil thou
hast wrought."
Then answered Paris:
"No word hast thou said that I do not deserve, brave Hector. Yet scorn
not the gifts of golden Aphrodite, for by his own desire can no man
win the love and beauty that the goddess gives. But let me now do
battle with Menelaus. Make the Trojans and the men of Greece sit down,
while Menelaus and I fight for Helen. Let him who is conqueror have
her and all that is hers for his own, and let the others take an oath
of friendship so that the Greeks may depart in peace to their own
land, and in peace the Trojans dwell in Troy."
Greatly did Hector rejoice at his brother's word. His spear grasped
by the middle, he went through the Trojan ranks and bid the warriors
hold back.
But as he went, the Greeks shot arrows at brave Hector and cast
stones.
"Hold! hold! ye Greeks," called Agamemnon. "Hector of the glancing
helm hath somewhat to say to us."
In silence, then, the two armies stood, while Hector told them the
words of Paris his brother.
When they had heard him, Menelaus spoke:
"Many ills have ye endured," he said, "for my sake and because of the
sins of Paris. Yet now, I think, the end of this long war hath come.
Let us fight, then, and death and fate shall decide which of us shall
die. Let us offer sacrifice now to Zeus, and call hither Priam, King
of Troy. I fear for the faith of his sons, Paris and Hector, but Priam
is an old man and will not break faith."
Then were the Greeks and the Trojans glad. They came down from their
chariots, and took off their arms, and laid them on the ground, while
heralds went to tell Priam and to fetch lambs and a ram for the
sacrifice.
While they went, Hera sent to Troy Iris, her messenger, in the guise
of the fairest daughter of Priam.
To the hall where Helen sat came lovely Iris. And there she found
Helen, fairest of women, her white arms swiftly moving back and
forward as she wove a great purple web of double wool, and wrought
thereon pictures of many battles of the Greeks and the men of Troy.
"Come hither, dear lady," said Iris, "and see a wondrous thing. For
they that so fiercely fought with each other, now sit in silence. The
battle is stayed; they lean upon their shields, and their tall spears
are thrust in the earth by their sides. But for thee are Menelaus and
Paris now going to fight, and thou shalt be the wife of the
conqueror."
So spake lovely Iris, and into the sleeping heart of Helen there came
remembrance, and a hungry longing for her old home, and for Menelaus,
and her father and mother, and for little Hermione, her child.
The tears rolled down her cheeks, but quickly she hid her face with a
veil of fair linen, and hastened out, with her two handmaidens, to the
place where the two armies lay.
At the Scaean gates sat Priam and other old warriors.
As Helen, in her fair white robes, drew near, the old men marveled at
her loveliness.
"Small wonder is it," said they, "that Trojans and Greeks should
suffer hardships and lay down their lives for one so beautiful. Yet
well would it be for her to sail away upon the Greek ships rather than
stay here to bring trouble upon us now, and upon our children
hereafter."
Then Priam called to Helen:
"Come hither, dear child, and sit beside me, that thou may'st see the
man who once was thy husband, and thy kinsmen, and thy friends. No
blame do I give to thee for all our woes, but only to the gods who
have chosen thee to be the cause of all this bloodshed."
Then did Priam ask her the names of the mighty heroes who stood by
their spears in the Grecian ranks, and Helen, making answer to him,
said:
"Dear father of Paris, my lord, would that I had died ere I left my
own land and my little child, and all those that I loved, and followed
thy son hither. Agamemnon, a goodly king and a mighty spearsman, is
the Greek warrior whose name thou dost ask. Brother of him who was my
husband is he. Ah! shameless me, who did leave mine own."
Of Odysseus also, and of many another warrior of great stature and
brave looks, did Priam make inquiry. And Helen told him all she knew,
while tears of longing stood in her eyes.
"My two brethren, Castor, tamer of horses, and Polydeuces, the skilful
boxer, I do not see," she said; "mayhap they have not crossed the
sea." For she knew not that her two brothers lay dead in her own
beautiful land.
Then was the sacrifice to Zeus offered, and the vows made between
Agamemnon and Priam, King of Troy.
When the sacrifice and vows were accomplished, Priam in haste mounted
his chariot and drove away.
"Verily will I return to windy Ilios," said the old man, "for I cannot
bear to watch the fight between Menelaus and my own dear son. But
only Zeus and the gods know which one of them is to fall."
Then Hector and Odysseus marked out a space for the fight, and into a
bronze helmet Hector placed two pebbles and shook them in the helmet,
looking behind him. And the pebble of Paris leapt out the first, so
that to him fell the lot to cast first his spear of bronze.
Then did Paris arm himself. Greaves of beauteous fashioning he placed
upon his legs, and fastened them with silver ankle-clasps. Over his
shoulders he put his silver-studded sword of bronze and his great
shield. On his head he placed a helmet with nodding crest of
horsehair, and in his hand he grasped his strong spear. In like manner
did Menelaus arm himself.
One moment did they stand face to face, wrath and hatred in their
hearts, their spears gripped firm in their hands.
Then did Paris hurl his spear and smite the shield of Menelaus. But
the shield was strong and the spear could not pierce it.
His hand lifted up for the cast, Menelaus looked upwards and called to
Zeus.
"Grant me revenge, great Zeus!" he cried. "On him that hath done me
grievous wrong, grant me vengeance, so that all men hereafter may
shudder to wrong one who hath treated him as his honored guest."
Then hurled he his mighty spear. Through the bright shield it went,
and through the shining breastplate, tearing the tunic of Paris on his
thigh. But Paris swerved aside, and so escaped death.
Then Menelaus drew his silver-studded sword and drove it crashing down
upon the helmet of Paris. But in four pieces was the sword shattered,
and fell from the hand of Menelaus.
"Surely art thou the most cruel of all the gods, Zeus!" angrily he
cried. "My spear is cast in vain, and my sword shattered, and my
vengeance is still to come!"
So saying, he leapt upon Paris. By the crest on his helmet he seized
him, and, swinging him round, he dragged him towards the Greek host.
The embroidered strap beneath the helmet of Paris strangled him, and
so he would have shamefully died, had not Aphrodite marked his plight.
Swiftly did she burst the leather strap, and the helmet was left
empty in the grasp of Menelaus.
Casting the empty helmet, with a swing, to his comrades, Menelaus
sprang back, ready, with another spear, to slay his enemy.
But Aphrodite snatched Paris up, and in thick mist she hid him, and
bore him away to his own home. Like a wild beast Menelaus strode
through the host, searching for him. But no Trojan would have hidden
him, for with a bitter hatred did the men of Troy hate Paris, most
beautiful of mortal men.
Then said Agamemnon:
"Hearken to me, ye Trojans. Now hath Menelaus gained the victory. Give
us back Helen, and all that is hers, and pay me the recompense that ye
owe me for all the evil days that are gone."
So spake he, and glad were the shouts of the Greeks as they heard the
words of their king.
IV
HECTOR AND ANDROMACHE
From where the battle still raged went Hector, son of Priam. At the
oak-tree by the gates of Troy there came running to meet him wives and
daughters of those who fought. For eagerly did they long for tidings
of many a warrior who now lay dead on the field.
When he reached the beautiful, many-pillared palace of his father, his
mother came to meet him.
His hand she took in hers, and gently spoke she to him.
"Art thou wearied that thou hast left the battle, Hector, my son?" she
said. "Let me bring thee wine that thou may'st be refreshed and yet
gain strength."
"Bring me no wine, dear mother," said Hector, "lest it take from me
the strength and courage that I have. Rather go thou to the temple of
Athene and offer her sacrifices, beseeching that she will have mercy
on Troy and on the wives of the Trojans and their little children. So
may she hold back Diomedes the destroyer. I go to Paris--would that he
were dead!"
And the mother of Hector straightway, with other old women, the
mothers of heroes, offered sacrifices and prayers to Athene. But
Athene paid no heed.
To the palace of Paris, his mighty bronze spear in his hand, then
strode Hector.
Paris, the golden-haired, sat in a room with Helen, idly handling his
shining shield and breastplate and curved bow.
In bitter scorn spoke Hector to his brother.
"Our people die in battle for thy sake!" he cried, "while here thou
sittest idle. Up then, ere the enemies that thou hast made for us burn
our city to the ground!"
And Paris answered:
"Justly dost thou chide me, Hector. Even now hath Helen urged me to
play the man and go back to battle. Only let me put on my armor, and
soon will I overtake thee."
Never a word did Hector answer him.
But to Hector did Helen then speak:
"Brother Hector," she said, "unworthy am I to be sister of thine.
Would that I had died on the day I was born, or would that the gods
who have brought me this evil had given me for a husband one who was
shamed by reproach and who feared dishonor. Rest thee here, my
brother, who hast suffered so much for the sake of wretched me and for
the sin of Paris. Well I know that for us cometh punishment of which
men will sing in the far-off years that are yet to come."
"Of thy love, ask me not to stay, Helen," answered Hector. "For to
help the men of Troy is my whole heart set, and they are now in want
of me. But rouse this fellow, and make him hasten after me. I go now
to see my dear wife and my babe, for I know not whether I shall return
to them again."
In his own house Hector found not his fair wife Andromache, nor their
little babe.
"Whither went thy mistress?" he asked in eagerness of the
serving-women.
"Truly, my lord," answered one, "tidings came to us that the Trojans
were sorely pressed and that with the Greeks was the victory. So then
did Andromache, like one frenzied, hasten with her child and his nurse
to the walls that she might see somewhat of what befell. There, on the
tower, she stands now, weeping and wailing."
Back through the streets by which he had come then hastened Hector.
And as he drew near the gates, Andromache, who had spied him from
afar, ran to meet him.
As, hand clasped in hand, Andromache and Hector stood, Hector looked
silently at the beautiful babe in his nurse's arms, and smiled.
Astyanax, "The City King," those of Troy called the child, because it
was Hector his father who saved the city.
Then said Andromache:
"Dear lord, thy courage will bring thee death. Hast thou no pity for
this babe nor for thy wife, who so soon shall be thy widow? Better
would it be for me to die if to thee death should come. For if I lose
thee, then sorrow must for evermore be mine. No father nor mother have
I, and on one day were my seven brothers slain. Father and mother and
brother art thou to me, Hector, and my dear loved husband as well.
Have pity now, and stay with thy wife and thy little child."
"All these things know I well, my wife," answered Hector, "but black
shame would be mine were I to shrink like a coward from battle. Ever
it hath been mine to be where the fight was fiercest, and to win glory
for my father's name, and for my own. But soon will that glory be
gone, for my heart doth tell me that Troy must fall. Yet for the
sorrows of the Trojans, and of my own father and mother and brethren,
and of the many heroes that must perish, grieve I less bitterly than
for the anguish that must come upon thee on that day when thou no
longer hast a husband to fight for thee and a Greek leads thee away a
prisoner. May the earth be heaped up high above me ere I hear thy
crying, Andromache!"
So spake Hector, and stretched out his arms to take his boy.
But from his father's bronze helmet with its fiercely nodding plume of
horsehair the babe shrank back in terror and hid his face in his
nurse's breast. Then did the little City King's father and his sweet
mother laugh aloud, and on the ground Hector laid his helmet, and
taking his little son in his arms he kissed him and gently dandled
him. And as he did so, thus Hector prayed to Zeus and all the gods:
"O Zeus and all ye gods, grant that my son may be a brave warrior and
a great king in Troyland. Let men say of him when he returns from
battle, 'Far greater is he than his father,' and may he gladden his
mother's heart."
Then did Hector lay his babe in Andromache's arms, and she held him to
her bosom, smiling through her tears.
Full of love and pity and tenderness was the heart of Hector, and
gently he caressed her and said:
"Dear one, I pray thee be not of over-sorrowful heart. No man shall
slay me ere the time appointed for my death hath come. Go home and
busy thyself with loom and distaff and see to the work of thy maidens.
But war is for us men, and of all those who dwell in Troyland, most of
all for me."
So spake Hector, and on his head again he placed his crested helmet.
And his wife went home, many times looking back to watch him she loved
going forth to battle, with her eyes half blinded by her tears.
Not far behind Hector followed Paris, his armor glittering like the
sun, and with a laugh on the face that was more full of beauty than
that of any other man on earth. Like a noble charger that has broken
its bonds and gallops exultingly across the plain, so did Paris stride
onward.
"I fear I have delayed thee," he said to his brother when he overtook
him.
"No man can speak lightly of thy courage," answered Hector, "only thou
hast brought shame on thyself by holding back from battle. But now let
us go forward, and may the gods give the Greeks into our hands."
So went Hector and Paris together into battle, and many a Greek fell
before them on that day.
V
HOW PATROCLUS FOUGHT AND DIED
While round the dark ships of Greece the fierce fight raged, Achilles,
from afar, listened unmoved to the din of battle, and watched with
stony eyes the men of Greece as they fell and died on the reddened
ground.
To him came Patroclus.
"Why dost thou weep, Patroclus?" asked Achilles. "Like a fond little
maid art thou that runs by her mother's side, plucking at her gown,
hindering her as she walks, and with tearful eyes looking up at her
until the mother lifts her in her arms. Like her, Patroclus, dost thou
softly weep."
Then Patroclus, heavily groaning, made answer:
"Among the ships lie the bravest and best of the men of Greece, sore
wounded or dead. Pitiless art thou, Achilles, pitiless and
unforgiving. Yet if thou dost still hold back from the battle, give
me, I pray thee, thine armor, and send me forth in thy stead.
Perchance the Trojans may take me for the mighty Achilles, and even
now the victory be ours."
Then said Achilles, and heavy was his heart within him:
"These Greeks took from me my well-won prize, Patroclus. Yet let the
past be past; no man may keep his anger for ever. I have said that
until the men of Troy come to burn my own ships I will hold me back
from the battle. But take you my armor; lead my men in the fight, and
drive from the ships the men of Troy. But to others leave it to chase
them across the plain."
Even as Achilles spoke, the strength of mighty Ajax had come to an
end, and with furious rush did the Trojans board the ships. In their
hands they bore blazing torches, and up to the sky rushed the fiercely
roaring flames.
Then cried Achilles, smiting his thighs:
"Haste thee, Patroclus! They burn the ships! Arm thyself speedily, and
I will call my men!"
Corslet and shield and helmet did Patroclus swiftly don, and girded on
the silver-studded sword and took two strong lances in his hand.
In the chariot of Achilles he mounted, and Automedon, best and bravest
of charioteers, took the reins.
Swift as the wild west wind were Bayard and Piebald, the two horses of
Achilles, and in the side harness was Pedasus, a horse only less swift
than they.
Gladly did the men of Achilles meet his call to arms, for fierce as
wolves were they.
"Many times hast thou blamed me," cried Achilles, "because in my
wrath I kept ye back from battle. Here for ye now is a mighty fight,
such as ye love."
To battle they went, and while Patroclus led them forth, Achilles in
his tent offered up an offering to Zeus.
Like wasps that pour forth from their nests by the wayside to sting
the boys who have stoned them, so now did the Greeks swarm from their
ships.
Before the sword of Patroclus fell a mighty warrior, and when the men
of Troy saw the shining armor of Achilles in his own chariot their
hearts sank within them.
Out of the ships were they driven, the fire was quenched, and back to
the trench rolled the tide of battle. In the trench writhed many a
horse and many a man in dying agonies. But clear across it leaped the
horses of Achilles, and close to the walls of Troy did Patroclus drive
brave Hector before him.
His chariot then he turned, and headed off the fleeing Trojans,
driving them down to the ships. Before the furious rush of his swift
steeds, other horses were borne off their feet, other chariots cast in
ruins on the ground, and men crushed to death under his wheels. Chief
after chief did Patroclus slay. A mighty destroyer was he that day.
One only of the chiefs of Troy kept his courage before the destroyer
who wore the shining arms of Achilles.
"Shame on ye!" cried Sarpedon to his men, "whither do ye flee? I
myself will fight this man who deals death and destruction to the
Trojan host."
From their chariots leaped Sarpedon and Patroclus.
With the first cast of his spear Patroelus missed Sarpedon, but slew
his charioteer. Then did Sarpedon cast, and his spear whizzed past
Patroclus, and smote the good horse Pedasus. With a dreadful scream
Pedasus fell, kicking and struggling, in the dust. This way and that
did the other two horses plunge and rear, until the yoke creaked and
the reins became entangled. But the charioteer leaped down, with his
sword slashed clear the traces from Pedasus, and the horses righted
themselves.
Once again did Sarpedon cast his spear, and the point flew over the
left shoulder of Patroclus. But Patroclus missed not. Through the
heart of Sarpedon sped the fiercely hurled spear, and like a slim tree
before the axe of the wood-cutter he fell, his dying hands clutching
at the bloody dust.
Furious was the combat then over the body of Sarpedon. One brave
warrior after another did Patroclus lay dead.
And more terrible still was the fight because in the ranks of the men
of Troy there fought now, in all-devouring wrath, the god Apollo.
Nine men, good warriors all, did Patroclus slay; then, waxing bolder,
he tried to climb the very walls of Troy.
Three times did Apollo thrust him back, and when, a fourth time, he
attacked, the god cried aloud to him in anger, warning him not to dare
so much.
Against Patroclus did Hector then drive his war-horses, but Patroclus,
leaping from his chariot, hurled at Hector a jagged stone. In the eyes
it smote the charioteer of Hector, and the slain man dropped to the
ground.
"How nimble a man is this!" jeered Patroclus. "How lightly he diveth!
Were this the sea, how good an oyster-seeker would this fellow be!"
Then from his chariot leaped Hector and met Patroclus, and the noise
of the battle was as the noise of a mighty gale in the forest when
great trees fall crashing to the ground.
When the sun went down, victory was with the Greeks. Three mighty
charges did Patroclus make, and each time he slew nine men. But when,
a fourth time, he charged, Apollo met him. In thick mist he met him,
and Patroclus knew not that he fought with a god. With a fierce
down-stroke from behind, Apollo smote his broad shoulders, and from
off his head the helmet of Achilles fell with a clang, rattling under
the hoofs of the horses. Before the smiting of the god, Patroclus
stood stricken, stupid and amazed. Shattered in his hands was the
spear of Achilles, and his mighty shield clanged on the ground.
Ere he could know who was the smiter, a Trojan ally drove a spear
between his shoulders, and Patroclus, sore wounded, fell back.
Marking his dismay, Hector pressed forward, and clean through his
body drove his bronze spear. With a crash Patroclus fell.
"Thou that didst boast that thou wouldst sack my town, here shall
vultures devour thee!" cried Hector.
And in a faint voice Patroclus made answer:
"Not to thee do I owe my doom, great Hector. Twenty such as thou would
I have fought and conquered, but the gods have slain me. Yet verily I
tell thee that thou thyself hast not long to live. Even now doth Death
stand beside thee!"
As he spoke, the shadow of Death fell upon Patroclus. No more in his
ears roared the din of battle; still and silent for ever he lay.
VI
THE ROUSING OF ACHILLES
Fierce had been the fight before Patroclus died. More fiercely yet it
raged when he lay dead.
From his body did Hector take the arms of Achilles, and the dead
Patroclus would the Trojans fain have dragged to their city, there to
bring shame to him and to all the Greek host.
But for him fought the Greeks, until the earth was wet with blood and
the very skies echoed the clang of battle.
To Achilles came Antilochos, a messenger fleet of foot.
"Fallen is Patroclus!" he cried, "and around his naked body do they
fight, for his armor is held by Hector."
Then did Achilles moan aloud. On the ground he lay, and in his hair he
poured black ashes. And the sound of his terrible lament was heard by
his mother, Thetis, the goddess, as she sat in her palace down under
the depths of the green sea.
Up from under the waves swiftly came she to Achilles, and tenderly did
she listen while he poured forth to her the tale of the death of his
dear comrade.
Then said Thetis:
"Not long, methinks, shall Hector glory in the armor that was thine,
for Death presseth hard upon him. Go not forth to battle, my son,
until I return, bearing with me new and fair armor for thee."
But when Thetis had departed, to Achilles in his sorrow came Iris,
fair messenger of the gods.
"Unto windy Ilios will the Trojans drag the body of Patroclus unless
thou comest now. Thou needst not fight, Achilles, only show thyself to
the men of Troy, for sore is the need of Patroclus thy friend."
Then, all unarmed, did Achilles go forth, and stood beside the trench.
With a mighty voice he shouted, and at the sound of his voice terror
fell upon the Trojans. Backward in flight they went, and from among
the dead did the Greeks draw the body of Patroclus, and hot were the
tears that Achilles shed for the friend whom he had sent forth to
battle.
All that night, in the house of the Immortals, resounded the clang of
hammer on anvil as Hephaistus, the lame god, fashioned new arms for
Achilles.
Bronze and silver and gold he threw in his fire, and golden
handmaidens helped their master to wield the great bellows, and to
send on the crucibles blasts that made the ruddy flames dance.
No fairer shield was ever borne by man than that which Hephaistus made
for Achilles. For him also he wrought a corslet brighter than a flame
of fire, and a helmet with a golden crest.
And in the morning light did Thetis dart down from snowy Olympus,
bearing in her arms the splendid gift of a god.
Glad was Achilles as he put on the armor, and terrible was his war-cry
as he roused the Greek warriors. No man, however sore his wounds, held
back when the voice of Achilles called him to the fight once again.
Wounded was Agamemnon, overlord of the Greeks, but forth also came he.
And there, while the sun rose on many a warrior who would fight no
more, did Achilles and Agamemnon speak as friends once again, their
long strife ended.
Hungry for war, with Achilles as their leader, did the Greeks then
meet the Trojans on the plain. And as a fierce fire rages through the
forest, its flames driven by the wind, so did Achilles in his wrath
drive through the host of Troy.
Down to the Scamander he drove the fleeing Trojans, and the water
reddened with blood, as he smote and spared not.
Merciless was Achilles; pitilessly did he exult as one brave man after
another was sent by him to dye red the swift flood of the Scamander.
At length, at his lack of mercy, did even the river grow wrathful.
"Choked is my stream with dead men!" it cried, "and still thou
slayest!"
But when Achilles heeded not, in fierce flood the river up-rose
against him, sweeping the slain before it, and in furious spate
seeking to destroy Achilles. But as its waves smote against his
shield, Achilles grasped a tall elm, and uprooting it, cast it into
the river to dam the torrent. For the moment only was the angry river
stayed. In fear did Achilles flee across the plain, but with a mighty
roar it pursued him, and caught him.
To the gods then cried Achilles, and to his aid came Athene, and close
to the walls of Troy again did Achilles chase the Trojan men.
From the city walls old Priam saw the dreadful things Achilles
wrought.
And when, his armor blazing like the brightest stars of the sky, he
drew near, and Hector would have gone to meet him, in grief did Priam
cry to his dearly loved son:
"Hector, beloved son, I pray thee go not alone to meet this man;
mightier far than thou is he."
But all eager for the fight was Hector. Of all the men of Troy he
alone still stood unafraid. Then did the mother of Hector beseech him
to hold back from what must surely mean death. Yet Hector held not
back, but on his shining shield leaned against a tower, awaiting the
coming of the great destroyer.
And at last they met, face to face, spear to spear. As a shooting-star
in the darkness so flashed the spear of Achilles as he hurled it home
to pierce the neck of Hector. Gods and men had deserted Hector, and
alone before the walls of Troy he fell and died.
Thus ended the fight.
For twelve days did the Greek host rejoice, and all through the days
Hector's body lay unburied. For at the heels of swift horses had the
Greeks dragged him to the ships, while from the battlements his mother
and his wife Andromache watched, wailing in agony, with hearts that
broke.
Then at length went old Priam to the camp of the Greeks. And before
Achilles he fell, beseeching him to have mercy and to give him back
the body of his son.
So was the heart of Achilles moved, and the body of Hector ransomed;
and with wailing of women did the people of Troy welcome home their
hero.
Over him lamented his old mother, for of all her sons was he to her
most dear, and over him wept, with burning tears, his wife Andromache.
And to his bier came Helen, and with breaking heart did she sob forth
her sorrow:
"Dearest of my brothers," she said, "from thee have I heard neither
reproach nor evil word. With kind words and gentle heart hast thou
ever stood by me. Lost, lost is my one true friend. No more in
Troyland is any left to pity me."
On lofty funeral pyre then laid they the dead Hector, and when the
flames had consumed his body his comrades placed his white bones in a
golden urn, and over it with great stones did they raise a mighty
mound that all might see where he rested.
Yet still was the warfare between Greeks and Trojans not ended.
To Achilles death came in a shaft from the bow of Paris. By a poisoned
arrow driven at venture and at dark midnight from the bow of an
outcast leper was fair Paris slain. While winter snow lay white on
Ida, in Helen's arms did his life ebb away.
Then came there a day when the Greeks burned their camp and sailed
homeward across the gray water.
Behind them they left a mighty horse of wood, and the men of Troy came
and drew it into the city as trophy and sign of victory over those who
had made it. But inside the horse were hidden many of the bravest
warriors of Greece, and at night, when the Trojans feasted, the Greeks
came out of their hiding-place and threw open the gates.
And up from the sea came the Greek host, and in fire and in blood fell
the city of Troy.
Yet did not Helen perish. Back to his own kingdom by the sea Menelaus
took her, to reign, in peace, a queen, she who had brought grief and
death to so many, and to the city of Troy unutterable woe.
THE ODYSSEY OF HOMER
ADAPTED BY JEANIE LANG
I
WHAT HAPPENED IN ITHACA WHILE ODYSSEUS WAS AWAY
While Odysseus was fighting far away in Troyland, his baby son grew to
be a big boy. And when years passed and Odysseus did not return, the
boy, Telemachus, grew to be a man.
Telemachus loved his beautiful mother, Penelope, but his heart always
longed for the hero father whom he could only dimly remember. As time
went on, he longed more and more, for evil things came to pass in the
kingdom of Odysseus.
The chiefs and lords of Ithaca admired Penelope for her beauty. They
also coveted her money and her lands, and when Odysseus did not
return, each one of these greedy and wicked men wished to marry her
and make his own all that had belonged to brave Odysseus.
"Odysseus is surely dead," they said, "and Telemachus is only a lad
and cannot harm us."
So they came to the palace where Penelope and Telemachus lived, and
there they stayed, year in, year out, feasting and drinking and
wasting the goods of Odysseus. Their roughness and greed troubled
Penelope, but still more did they each one daily torment her by rudely
asking: "Wilt thou marry me?"
At last she fell on a plan to stop them from talking to her of
marriage.
In the palace hall she set up a great web, beautiful and fine of woof.
Then she said, "When I have finished weaving this robe I shall give
you my answer."
Each day she worked at it, but each night, when the wooers slept, she
undid all that she had done during the day. So it seemed to the wooers
as if the robe would never be finished.
Penelope's heart was heavy, and heavy, too, was the heart of
Telemachus. For three weary years, while Odysseus was imprisoned on
the island of Calypso, the mother and son pined together.
One day Telemachus sat at the door of the palace sadly watching the
wooers as they drank and reveled. He was thinking of the brave father
that he feared was dead, when there walked up to the door of the
courtyard a stranger dressed like a warrior from another land.
The stranger was the goddess Athene. At the same time that she gained
leave from the gods to set Odysseus free, they had agreed that she
should go to Ithaca and help Telemachus. But she came dressed as a
warrior, and not as a beautiful, gray-eyed, golden-haired goddess with
golden sandals on her feet.
Telemachus rose up and shook her kindly by the hand, and led her into
the hall. He took from her the heavy bronze spear that she carried,
and made her sit down on one of the finest of the chairs, in a place
where the noise of the rough wooers should not disturb her.
"Welcome, stranger," he said. "When thou hast had food, then shalt
thou tell us in what way we can help thee."
He then made servants bring a silver basin and golden ewer that she
might wash her hands, and he fetched her food and wine of the best.
Soon the wooers entered, and noisily ate they and drank, and roughly
jested.
Telemachus watched them and listened with an angry heart. Then, in a
low voice, he said to Athene:
"These men greedily eat and drink, and waste my father's goods. They
think the bones of Odysseus bleach out in the rain in a far land, or
are tossed about by the sea. But did my father still live, and were he
to come home, the cowards would flee before him. Tell me, stranger,
hast thou come from a far-off country? Hast thou ever seen my father?"
Athene answered: "Odysseus still lives. He is a prisoner on a
sea-girt island, but it will not be long ere he escapes and comes
home. Thou art like Odysseus, my son. Thou hast a head like his, and
the same beautiful eyes."
When Athene spoke to him so kindly and so hopefully, Telemachus told
her all that was in his heart. And when the wickedness and greed of
the wooers was made known to her, Athene grew very angry.
"Thou art in sore need of Odysseus," she said. "If Odysseus were to
come to the door now with lance in hand, soon would he scatter those
shameless ones before him."
Then she told Telemachus what he must do.
"To-morrow," said she, "call thy lords to a council meeting, and tell
the wooers to return to their homes."
For himself, she told him to fit out a ship with twenty oars-men, that
he might sail to a land where he should get tidings of his father.
"Thou art tall and handsome, my friend," she said. "Be brave, that
even in days to come men may praise thy name."
"Thou speakest as a father to a son. I will never forget what thou
hast said," said Telemachus.
He begged Athene to stay longer, and wished to give her a costly gift.
But she would not stay, nor accept any present. To Telemachus she had
given a gift, though he did not know it. For into his heart she had
put strength and courage, so that when she flew away like a beautiful
bird across the sea she left behind her, not a frightened, unhappy
boy, but a strong, brave man.
The wooers took no notice of the comings and goings of the strange
warrior, so busy were they with their noisy feast. As they feasted a
minstrel played to them on his lyre, and sang a song of the return of
the warriors from Troyland when the fighting was over.
From her room above, Penelope heard the song, and came down. For a
little, standing by the door, she listened. Then she could bear it no
longer, and, weeping, she said to the minstrel:
"Sing some other song, and do not sing a song of return from Troyland
to me, whose husband never returned."
Then Telemachus, in a new and manly way that made her wonder, spoke to
his mother:
"Blame not the minstrel, dear mother," he said. "It is not his fault
that he sings sad songs, but the fault of the gods who allow sad
things to be. Thou art not the only one who hast lost a loved one in
Troyland. Go back to thy room, and let me order what shall be, for I
am now the head of the house."
In the same fearless, manly way he spoke to the wooers:
"Ye may feast to-night," he said; "only let there be no brawling.
To-morrow meet with me. For once and for all it must be decided if ye
are to go on wasting my goods, or if I am to be master of my own house
and king in mine own land."
The wooers bit their lips with rage, and some of them answered him
rudely; but Telemachus paid no heed, and when at last they returned to
their houses, he went upstairs to his own room. The old woman who had
nursed him when he was a child carried torches before him to show him
the way. When he sat down on his bed and took off his doublet, she
folded and smoothed it and hung it up. Then she shut the door with its
silver handle, and left Telemachus, wrapped in a soft fleece of wool,
thinking far into the night of all that Athene had said to him.
When day dawned he dressed and buckled on his sword, and told heralds
to call the lords to a council meeting. When all were assembled he
went into the hall. In his hand he carried a bronze spear, and two of
his hounds followed him, and when he went up to his father's seat and
sat down there, the oldest men gave place to him. For Athene had shed
on him such a wondrous grace that he looked like a young god.
"Never since brave Odysseus sailed away to Troyland have we had a
council meeting," said one old lord. "I think the man who hath called
this meeting is a true man--good luck go with him! May the gods give
him his heart's desire."
So good a beginning did this seem that Telemachus was glad, and,
burning to say all that had been in his heart for so long, he rose to
his feet and spoke.
Of the loss of his father he spoke sadly, and then, with burning
words, of the cowardly wooers, of their feastings and revelings and
wasting of his goods, and of their insolence to Penelope and himself.
When he had thus spoken in rage and grief, he burst into tears.
For a little there was silence, then one of the wooers said angrily:
"Penelope is to blame, and no other. For three years she has deceived
us. 'I will give you my answer when I have finished weaving this
robe,' she said, and so we waited and waited. But now that three years
have gone and a fourth has begun, it is told us by one of her maids
that each night she has undone all she has woven during the day. She
can deceive us no longer. She must now finish the robe, and tell us
whom she will marry. For we will not leave this place until she has
chosen a husband."
Then, once again, with pleading words, Telemachus tried to move the
hearts of the wooers.
"If ye will not go," at last he said, "I will ask the gods to reward
you for your wickedness."
As he spoke, two eagles flew, fleet as the wind, from the mountain
crest. Side by side they flew until they were above the place of the
council meeting. Then they wheeled about, darted with fury at each
other, and tore with their savage talons at each other's heads and
necks. Flapping their great wings, they then went swiftly away and
were lost in the far distance.
Said a wise old man: "It is an omen. Odysseus will return, and woe
will come upon the wooers. Let us make an end of these evil doings and
keep harm away from us."
"Go home, old man," angrily mocked the wooers. "Prophesy to thine own
children. Odysseus is dead. Would that thou hadst died with him. Then
thou couldst not have babbled nonsense, and tried to hound on
Telemachus in the hope that he may give thee a gift."
To Telemachus they said again:
"We will go on wasting thy goods until Penelope weds one of us."
Only one other beside the old man was brave enough to speak for
Telemachus. Fearlessly and nobly did his friend Mentor blame the
wooers for their shamelessness. But they jeered at him, and laughed
aloud when Telemachus told them he was going to take a ship and go to
look for his father.
"He will never come back," said one, "and even were Odysseus himself
to return, we should slay him when he came."
Then the council meeting broke up, and the wooers went again to revel
in the palace of Odysseus.
Down to the seashore went Telemachus and knelt where the gray water
broke in little white wavelets on the sand.
"Hear me," he cried, "thou who didst speak with me yesterday. I know
now that thou art a god. Tell me, I pray thee? how shall I find a ship
to sail across the misty sea and find my father? For there is none to
help me."
Swiftly, in answer to his cry, came Athene.
"Be brave. Be thy father's son," she said. "Go back to thy house and
get ready corn and wine for the voyage. I will choose the best of all
the ships in Ithaca for thee, and have her launched, and manned by a
crew, all of them willing men."
Then Telemachus returned to the palace. In the courtyard the wooers
were slaying goats and singeing swine and making ready a great feast.
"Here comes Telemachus, who is planning to destroy us," they mocked.
"Telemachus, who speaks so proudly--- angry Telemachus."
Said one youth:
"Who knows but what if he goes on a voyage he will be like Odysseus,
and never return. Then will we have all his riches to divide among
ourselves, and his house will belong to the man who weds Penelope."
Telemachus shook off the jeering crowd, and went down to the vaulted
chamber where his father's treasures were kept. Gold and bronze lay
there in piles, and there were great boxes of splendid clothes, and
casks of wine. The heavy folding doors of the treasure chamber were
shut day and night, and the old nurse was the keeper of the treasures.
Telemachus bade her get ready corn and wine for the voyage.
"When my mother has gone to rest I will take them away," he said, "for
this night I go to seek my father across the sea."
At this the old nurse began to cry.
"Do not go, dear child," she wailed. "Thou art our only one, and we
love thee so well. Odysseus is dead, and what canst thou do, sailing
far away across the deep sea? As soon as thou art gone, those wicked
men will begin to plot evil against thee. Do not go. Do not go. There
is no need for thee to risk thy life on the sea and go wandering far
from home."
"Take heart, nurse," said Telemachus. "The goddess Athene has told me
to go, so all will be well. But promise me not to tell my dear mother
that I am gone until she misses me. For I do not wish to mar her fair
face with tears."
The nurse promised, and began to make ready all that Telemachus
wished.
Meantime Athene, in the likeness of Telemachus, found a swift-sailing
ship, and men to sail it. When darkness fell, she sent sleep on the
wooers and led Telemachus down to the shore where his men sat by their
oars.
To the palace, where every one slept and all was still and quiet,
Telemachus brought his men. None but the old nurse knew he was going
away, but they found the food and wine that she had got ready and
carried it down to the ship. Then Athene went on board, and Telemachus
sat beside her. A fresh west wind filled the sails and went singing
over the waves. The dark water surged up at the bow as the ship cut
through it. And all night long and till the dawn, the ship sailed
happily on her way.
At sunrise they came to land, and Athene and Telemachus went on shore.
The rulers of the country welcomed them and treated them well, but
could tell nothing of Odysseus after the siege of Troy was over.
Athene gave Telemachus into their care, then, turning herself into a
sea-eagle, she flew swiftly away, leaving them amazed because they
knew she must be one of the gods.
While Telemachus sought for news of his father in this kingdom, and
the kingdoms near it, the wooers began to miss him at their feasts.
They fancied he was away hunting, until, one day, as they played games
in front of the palace, the man whose ship Athene had borrowed came to
them.
"When will Telemachus return with my ship?" he asked.
"I need it that I may cross over to where I keep my horses. I wish to
catch one and break him in."
When the wooers heard from him that Telemachus had sailed away with
twenty brave youths, in the swiftest ship in Ithaca, they were filled
with rage.
At once they got a ship and sailed to where they might meet Telemachus
in a strait between Ithaca and another rocky island.
"We will slay him there," said they. "We will give him a woful end to
his voyage in search of his father."
When Penelope heard this, and knew that her son was perhaps sailing to
his doom, her heart well-nigh broke. She wept bitterly, and reproached
her maidens with not having told her that Telemachus had gone.
"Slay me if thou wilt," said the old nurse, "but I alone knew it.
Telemachus made me promise not to tell thee, that thy fair face might
not be marred by weeping. Do not fear, the goddess Athene will take
care of him."
Thus she comforted her mistress, and although she lay long awake that
night, Penelope fell asleep at last. In her dreams Athene came to her
and told her that Telemachus would come safely home, and so Penelope's
sad heart was cheered.
While she slept the wooers sailed away in a swift, black ship, with
spears in their hands and murder in their hearts. On a little rocky
isle they landed until the ship of Telemachus should pass, and there
they waited, that they might slay him when he came.
II
HOW ODYSSEUS CAME HOME
While yet Telemachus sought news of his father, Odysseus was well-nigh
home. On that misty morning when he found himself in Ithaca, and did
not know it, because the gray fog made everything seem strange and
unfriendly, Odysseus was very sad as he sat beside the moaning sea.
Then came Athene, and drove the mist before her, and Odysseus saw
again the land that he loved, and knew that his wanderings were past.
She told him the tale of the wooers, and of the unhappiness of
Penelope and Telemachus, and the heart of Odysseus grew hot within
him.
"Stand by me!" he said to the goddess. "If thou of thy grace wilt help
me, I myself will fight three hundred men."
"Truly I will stand by thee," said Athene, "and many of the greedy
wooers shall stain the earth with their blood."
She then told Odysseus how the wooers were to be destroyed, and
Odysseus gladly agreed to her plans. First she made him hide far in
the darkness of the cave, under the olive-tree, all the gold and
bronze ornaments and beautiful clothes that had been given to him in
the land of Nausicaa.
Then she touched him with her golden wand. In a moment his yellow hair
fell off his head; his bright eyes were dim; his skin was withered and
wrinkled, and he had a stooping back and tottering legs like a feeble
old man. His clothes of purple and silver she changed into torn and
filthy old rags, and over his shoulders she threw the old skin of a
stag with the hair worn off.
"Go now," said Athene, "to where thy faithful swineherd sits on the
hill, watching his swine as they grub among the acorns and drink of
the clear spring. He has always been true to thee and to thy wife and
son. Stay with him and hear all that he has to tell, and I will go and
fetch home Telemachus."
"When thou didst know all, why didst thou not tell Telemachus?" asked
Odysseus. "Is he, too, to go wandering over stormy seas, far from his
own land?"
"Telemachus will be a braver man for what he has gone through," said
Athene. "No harm shall come to him, although the wooers in their black
ship wait to slay him."
Then Athene flew across the sea, and Odysseus climbed up a rough track
through the woods to where the swineherd had built himself a hut. The
hut was made of stones and thorn-branches, and beside it were sties
for the swine made in the same way. The wooers had eaten many swine at
their daily feasts, but thousands remained. These the swineherd
tended, with three men and four fierce dogs to help him.
At an open space on the hill, from whence he could look down at the
woods and the sea, Odysseus found the swineherd sitting at the door of
his hut making himself a pair of sandals out of brown ox-hide.
When the swineherd's dogs saw a dirty, bent old man toiling up the
hill, they rushed at him, barking furiously. Up they leapt on him and
would have torn him to pieces if their master had not cast away his
ox-hide, dashed after them, scolded them and beaten them, and then
driven them off with showers of stones.
"If my dogs had killed thee I should have been for ever ashamed," he
said to Odysseus, "and without that I have enough sorrow. For while my
noble master may be wandering in a strange land and lacking food, I
have to feed his fat swine for others to eat."
So speaking, he led Odysseus to his hut. He laid some brushwood on the
floor, spread over it the soft, shaggy skin of a wild goat, and bade
Odysseus be seated. Then he went out to the sties, killed two sucking
pigs, and roasted them daintily. When they were ready he cut off the
choicest bits and gave them to Odysseus, with a bowl of honey-sweet
wine.
While Odysseus ate and drank, the swineherd talked to him of the greed
and wastefulness of the wooers, and in silence Odysseus listened,
planning in his heart how he might punish them.
"Tell me thy master's name," he said at length. "I have traveled in
many lands. Perchance I may have seen him, and may give thee news of
him."
But the swineherd answered:
"Each vagrant who comes straying to the land of Ithaca goes to my
mistress with lying tales of how he has seen or heard of my master.
She receives them all kindly, and asks many questions, while tears run
down her cheeks. You, too, old man, would quickly make up a story if
any one would give thee some new clothes. My master is surely dead,
and wherever I may go I shall never again find a lord so gentle."
Then said Odysseus:
"My friend, I swear to thee that Odysseus shall return. In this year,
as the old moon wanes and the new is born, he shall return to his
home."
When the other herds returned that evening they found Odysseus and
their master still deep in talk. At night the swineherd made a feast
of the best that he had, and still they talked, almost until dawn. The
night was black and stormy, and a drenching rain blotted out the moon,
but the swineherd, leaving Odysseus lying in the bed he had made for
him, with his own thick mantle spread over him, went outside and lay
under a rock that sheltered him from the storm, keeping guard on the
white-tusked boars that slept around him. And Odysseus knew that he
had still at least one servant who was faithful and true.
While Odysseus dwelt with the swineherd, Athene sought Telemachus and
bade him hasten home. Speedily Telemachus went back to his ship and
his men. The hawsers were loosed, the white sail hauled up, and Athene
sent a fresh breeze that made the ship cut through the water like a
white-winged bird. It was night when they passed the island where the
wooers awaited their coming, and in the darkness none saw them go by.
By daybreak they reached Ithaca, and Telemachus, as Athene had bidden
him, sent on the men to the harbor with the ship, but made them put
him ashore on the woody coast near the swineherd's dwelling.
With his bronze-shod spear in his hand, Telemachus strode up the rocky
path. Odysseus and the swineherd had kindled a fire, and were
preparing the morning meal, when Odysseus heard the noise of
footsteps. He looked out and saw a tall lad with yellow hair and
bright eyes, and a fearless, noble face. "Surely here is a friend," he
said to the swineherd. "Thy dogs are not barking, but jump up and fawn
on him."
The swineherd looked, and when he saw his young master he wept for
joy.
"I thought I should never see thee more, sweet light of my eyes," he
said. "Come into my hut, that I may gladden my heart with the sight of
thee."
He then spread before him the best he had, and the three men ate
together. Although Odysseus seemed only a poor, ragged, old beggar,
Telemachus treated him with such gentleness and such courtesy that
Odysseus was proud and glad of his noble son. Soon Telemachus sent the
swineherd to tell Penelope of his safe return, and while he was gone
Athene entered the hut. She made herself invisible to Telemachus, but
beckoned to Odysseus to go outside.
"The time is come for thee to tell thy son who thou art," she said,
and touched him with her golden wand.
At once Odysseus was again a strong man, dressed in fine robes, and
radiant and beautiful as the sun.
When he went back into the hut Telemachus thought he was a god.
"No god am I," said Odysseus; "I am thy father, Telemachus."
And Odysseus took his son in his arms and kissed him, and the tears
that he had kept back until now ran down his cheeks. Telemachus flung
his arms round his father's neck, and he, too, wept like a little
child, so glad was he that Odysseus had come home.
All day they spoke of the wooers and plotted how to slay them.
When the swineherd returned, and Athene had once more changed Odysseus
into an old beggar-man, he told Telemachus that the wooers had
returned, and were so furious with Telemachus for escaping from them,
that they were going to kill him next day.
At this Telemachus smiled to his father, but neither said a word.
Next morning Telemachus took his spear and said to the swineherd:
"I go to the palace to see my mother. As for this old beggar-man, lead
him to the city, that he may beg there."
And Odysseus, still pretending to be a beggar, said:
"It is better to beg in the town than in the fields. My garments are
very poor and thin, and this frosty air chills me; but as soon as I am
warmed at the fire and the sun grows hot, I will gladly set out."
Down the hill to the city strode Telemachus. When he came to the
palace, his old nurse, whom he found busy in the hall, wept for joy.
And when Penelope heard his voice, she came from her room and cast her
arms round him and kissed his face and his eyes, and said, while tears
ran down her cheeks:
"Thou art come, sweet light of my eyes. I thought I should never see
thee more."
Then Telemachus, looking like a young god, with his spear in his hand
and his two hounds following at his heels, went to the hall where the
wooers sat. To his friend Mentor he told his adventures, but he looked
on the wooers with silence and scorn.
Soon Odysseus and the swineherd followed him to the city. A beggar's
bag, all tattered, was slung round the shoulders of Odysseus. In his
hand he carried a staff. Men who saw him, tattered and feeble, mocked
at him and his guide. But Odysseus kept down the anger in his heart,
and they went on to the palace. Near the doorway, lying in the dirt,
thin and old and rough of coat, lay Argos, the dog that long ago had
been the best and fleetest that had hunted the hares and deer with
Odysseus.
When he heard his master's voice he wagged his tail and tried to crawl
near him. But he was too feeble to move. He could only look up with
loving, wistful eyes that were almost blind, and thump his tail
gladly. So glad was he that his faithful heart broke for joy, and
before Odysseus could pat his head or speak a kind word to him, old
Argos rolled over dead.
There were tears in the eyes of Odysseus as he walked past the body of
his friend. He sat down on the threshold leaning on his staff, and
when Telemachus sent him bread and meat from his table he ate
hungrily. When the meal was over he went round the hall begging from
the wooers. Some gave him scraps of broken meats, others called him
hard names and bade him begone, and one of them seized a footstool and
struck him with it.
But Odysseus still kept down the anger in his heart, and went back to
his seat on the threshold with his beggar's bag full of the scraps
that had been given to him.
As he sat there, a common beggar, well known for his greed and
impudence, came to the palace.
"Get thee hence, old man," said he to Odysseus, "else I shall knock
all thy teeth from thy head."
More, too, he said, rudely and roughly, and at last he struck
Odysseus.
Then Odysseus could bear no more, and smote him such a blow on his
neck that the bones were broken, and he fell on the ground with blood
gushing from his mouth. Odysseus dragged him outside by the heels, and
propped him, with his staff in his hands, against the courtyard wall.
"Sit there," he said, "and scare off dogs and swine."
The wooers laughed and enjoyed the sport, and gave gifts of food to
the sturdy old beggar, as they took Odysseus to be. All evening they
feasted and drank, but when night fell they went to their own homes.
When they were gone Odysseus and Telemachus carried all the helmets
and swords and sharp-pointed spears that stood in the hall, away to
the armory and hid them there.
Then Telemachus went to his room to rest, but Odysseus sat in the hall
where the servants were clearing away the remains of the feast. While
he sat there, Penelope came with her maids and rested on a chair In
front of the glowing wood fire on which the servants had piled fresh
logs.
She talked kindly and gently to the old beggar-man, and bade the old
nurse bring water to wash his weary feet.
Now, once long ago, a wild boar that he hunted had torn the leg of
Odysseus with his tusk, and as the old nurse washed his feet she saw
the scar. In a moment she knew her master, and cried out. The brazen
bath fell with a clang on the floor, and the water was spilt.
"Thou art Odysseus," she said; "I did not know thee, my dear child,
until I found the scar."
Penelope must have heard her glad cry, had not Athene at that moment
made her deep in thoughts of other things. Quickly Odysseus bade the
old nurse be silent, and the old woman obeyed him.
Before Penelope went to rest she said sadly to Odysseus: "I feel that
the end is drawing near. Soon I shall be parted from the house of
Odysseus. My husband, who was always the best and bravest, used to set
up the twelve axes ye see standing here, and between each axe he shot
an arrow. I have told the wooers that I shall marry whichever one of
them can do the like. Then I shall leave this house, which must be for
ever most dear to me."
Then answered the old beggar-man: "Odysseus will be here when they
shoot. It will be Odysseus who shoots between the axes."
Penelope, longing for his words to be true, went up to her room and
lay crying on her bed until her pillows were wet. Then Athene sent
sleep upon her eyelids and made her forget all her sorrows.
Odysseus, too, would have tossed all night wide awake, with a heart
full of anger and revenge, had not Athene gently laid her hands on his
eyes and made him fall asleep.
Next day the wooers came to the palace, and with rough jest and rude
word they greeted Odysseus.
"Who harms this man must fight with me," said Telemachus, and at that
the wooers shouted with laughter.
But a stranger who sat among them cried out in a voice of fear:
"I see your hands and knees shrouded in blackness! I see your cheeks
wet with tears! The walls and the pillars drip blood; the porch is
full of shadows, and pale ghosts are hastening out of the gray mist
that fills the palace."
At this the wooers laughed the more, for they thought the man was mad.
But, as in a dream, he had seen truly what was to come to pass.
Weeping, Penelope then brought forth from the armory the great bow
with which Odysseus had shot in years that were past. Her heart was
full of love for Odysseus, and she could not bear to wed another.
Telemachus then threw aside his red cloak and ranged out the bronze
axes.
One by one the wooers tried to move the great bow and make it drive a
swift arrow before it. One by one they failed.
And when it seemed as if no man there was strong enough to move it,
Odysseus took it in his hands, and between each axe he shot an arrow.
When the last arrow was shot he tore off his rags, and in a voice that
rang through the palace he cried to Telemachus: "Now is it time to
prepare supper for the wooers! Now, at last, is this terrible trial
ended. I go to shoot at another mark!"
With that he shot an arrow at the wooer who had ever been the most
insolent and the most cruel. It smote him in the throat, his blood
dripped red on the ground, and he fell dead.
The others gave a great cry of rage, but Odysseus looked at them with
burning eyes, and with a voice that made them tremble he cried:
"Ye dogs! ye said I should never return, and, like the traitors ye
are, ye have wasted my goods and insulted my queen. But now death has
come for you, and none shall escape."
In vain did the cowards, their faces pale with fear, beg for mercy.
Mercy there was none that day. It was useless for those who drew their
swords and rushed on Odysseus to try to slay him, for ere their swords
could touch him, his bow had driven sharp arrows into their hearts.
One of the servants of the palace treacherously climbed into the
armory and brought spears and shields and helmets for the wooers. But
even that did not daunt Odysseus and his son. Telemachus, with his
spear, slew man after man. When his arrows were done Odysseus also
snatched a spear, and they fought side by side. Beside them fought the
swineherd and one other man, and they all fought the more fearlessly
because, all the time, Athene put fresh courage in their hearts.
There were four men to very many others when that fight began. When it
was ended the floor ran with blood, and Odysseus, like a lion at bay,
stood with the dead bodies of the wooers piled in heaps around him and
his face and hands stained with blood.
When all lay dead, the old nurse gave a great cry of joy.
"Rejoice in thy heart, old nurse," said Odysseus. "It is an unholy
thing to rejoice openly over slain men."
The nurse hastened to Penelope's room.
"Penelope, dear child!" she cried, "Odysseus is come home, and all the
wooers lie dead."
At first Penelope would not believe her. Too good did it seem to be
true. Even when she came down and saw Odysseus leaning against a tall
pillar in the light of the fire, she would not believe what her own
eyes saw.
"Surely, mother, thy heart is as hard as stone," said Telemachus.
"Dost thou not know my father?"
But Penelope saw only a ragged beggar-man, soiled with the blood of
the men he had slain, old and ugly and poor.
Then Athene shed her grace upon Odysseus, and once more he was tall
and strong and gallant to look upon, with golden hair curling like
hyacinth flowers around his head. And Penelope ran to him and threw
out her arms, and they held each other close and wept together like
those who have suffered shipwreck, and have been tossed for long by
angry seas, and yet have won safely home at last.
And when the sun went down that night on the little rocky island of
Ithaca in the far seas, the heart of Odysseus was glad, for he knew
that his wanderings were ended.
ROBINSON CRUSOE
By DANIEL DEFOE
ADAPTED BY JOHN LANG
I
HOW ROBINSON FIRST WENT TO SEA; AND HOW HE WAS SHIPWRECKED
Long, long ago, before even your grandfather's father was born, there
lived in the town of York a boy whose name was Robinson Crusoe. Though
he never even saw the sea till he was quite a big boy, he had always
wanted to be a sailor, and to go away in a ship to visit strange,
foreign, far-off lands; and he thought that if he could only do that,
he would be quite happy.
But his father wanted him to be a lawyer, and he often talked to
Robinson, and told him of the terrible things that might happen to him
if he went away, and how people who stopped at home were always the
happiest. He told him, too, how Robinson's brother had gone away, and
had been killed in the wars.
So Robinson promised at last that he would give up wanting to be a
sailor. But in a few days the longing came back as bad as ever, and he
asked his mother to try to coax his father to let him go just one
voyage. But his mother was very angry, and his father said, "If he
goes abroad he will be the most miserable wretch that ever was born. I
can give no consent to it."
Robinson stopped at home for another year, till he was nineteen years
old, all the time thinking and thinking of the sea. But one day when
he had gone on a visit to Hull, a big town by the sea, to say good-by
to one of his friends who was going to London, he could not resist the
chance. Without even sending a message to his father and mother, he
went on board his friend's ship, and sailed away.
But as soon as the wind began to blow and the waves to rise, poor
Robinson was very frightened and seasick, and he said to himself that
if ever he got on shore he would go straight home and never again
leave it.
He was very solemn till the wind stopped blowing. His friend and the
sailors laughed at him, and called him a fool, and he very soon
forgot, when the weather was fine and the sun shining, all he had
thought about going back to his father and mother.
But in a few days, when the ship had sailed as far as Yarmouth Roads
on her way to London, they had to anchor, and wait for a fair wind. In
those days there were no steamers, and vessels had only their sails to
help them along; so if it was calm, or the wind blew the wrong way,
they had just to wait where they were till a fair wind blew.
While they lay at Yarmouth the weather became very bad, and there was
a great storm. The sea was so heavy and Robinson's ship was in such
danger, that at last they had to cut away the masts in order to ease
her and to stop her from rolling so terribly. The Captain fired guns
to show that his ship wanted help. So a boat from another ship was
lowered, and came with much difficulty and took off Robinson and all
the crew, just before their vessel sank; and they got ashore at last,
very wet and miserable, having lost all their clothes except what they
had on.
But Robinson had some money in his pocket, and he went on to London by
land, thinking that if he returned home now, people would laugh at
him.
In London he made friends with a ship's captain, who had not long
before come home from a voyage to the Guinea Coast, as that part of
Africa was then called; and the Captain was so pleased with the money
he had made there, that he easily persuaded Robinson to go with him on
his next voyage.
So Robinson took with him toys, and beads, and other things, to sell
to the natives in Africa, and he got there, in exchange for these
things, so much gold-dust that he thought he was soon going in that
way to make his fortune.
And therefore he went on a second voyage.
But this time he was not so lucky, for before they reached the African
coast, one morning, very early, they sighted another ship, which they
were sure was a pirate. So fast did this other vessel sail, that
before night she had come up to Robinson's ship, which did not carry
nearly so many men nor so many guns as the pirate, and which therefore
did not want to fight; and the pirates soon took prisoner Robinson and
all the crew of his ship who were not killed, and made slaves of them.
The pirate captain took Robinson as his own slave, and made him dig in
his garden and work in his house. Sometimes, too, he made him look
after his ship when she was in port, but he never took him away on a
voyage.
For two years Robinson lived like this, very unhappy, and always
thinking how he might escape.
At last, when the Captain happened one time to be at home longer than
usual, he began to go out fishing in a boat two or three times a week,
taking Robinson, who was a very good fisher, and a black boy named
Xury, with him.
One day he gave Robinson orders to put food and water, and some guns,
and powder and shot, on a big boat that the pirates had taken out of
an English ship, and to be ready to go with him and some of his
friends on a fishing trip.
But at the last moment the Captain's friends could not come, and so
Robinson was told to go out in the boat with one of the Captain's
servants who was not a slave, and with Xury, to catch fish for supper.
Then Robinson thought that his chance to escape had come.
He spoke to the servant, who was not very clever, and persuaded him to
put more food and water on the boat, for, said Robinson, "we must not
take what was meant for our master." And then he got the servant to
bring some more powder and shot, because, Robinson said, they might as
well kill some birds to eat.
When they had gone out about a mile, they hauled down the sail and
began to fish. But Robinson pretended that he could not catch anything
there, and he said that they ought to go further out. When they had
gone so far that nobody on shore could see what they were doing,
Robinson again pretended to fish. But this time he watched his chance,
and when the servant was not looking, came behind him and threw him
overboard, knowing that the man could swim so well that he could
easily reach the land.
Then Robinson sailed away with Xury down the coast to the south. He
did not know to what country he was steering, but cared only to get
away from the pirates, and to be free once more.
Long days and nights they sailed, sometimes running in close to the
land, but they were afraid to go ashore very often, because of the
wild beasts and the natives. Many times they saw great lions come
roaring down on to the beach, and once Robinson shot one that he saw
lying asleep, and took its skin to make a bed for himself on the boat.
At last, after some weeks, when they had got south as far as the great
cape that is called Cape Verde, they saw a Portuguese vessel, which
took them on board. It was not easy for Robinson to tell who he was,
because he could not talk Portuguese, but everybody was very kind to
him, and they bought his boat and his guns and everything that he had.
They even bought poor Xury, who, of course, was a black slave, and
could be sold just like a horse or a dog.
So, when they got to Brazil, where the vessel was bound, Robinson had
enough money to buy a plantation; and he grew sugar and tobacco there
for four years, and was very happy and contented for a time, and made
money.
But he could never be contented for very long. So when some of his
neighbors asked him if he would go in a ship to the Guinea Coast to
get slaves for them, he went, only making a bargain that he was to be
paid for his trouble, and to get some of the slaves to work on his
plantation when he came back.
Twelve days after the ship sailed, a terrible storm blew, and they
were driven far from where they wanted to go. Great, angry, foaming
seas broke over the deck, sweeping everything off that could be moved,
and a man and a boy were carried overboard and drowned. No one on the
ship expected to be saved.
This storm was followed by another, even worse. The wind howled and
roared through the rigging, and the weather was thick with rain and
flying spray.
Then early one morning land was dimly seen through the driving rain,
but almost at once the vessel struck on a sand-bank. In an instant the
sails were blown to bits, and flapped with such uproar that no one
could hear the Captain's orders. Waves poured over the decks, and the
vessel bumped on the sand so terribly that the masts broke off near
the deck, and fell over the side into the sea.
With great difficulty the only boat left on the ship was put in the
water, and everybody got into her. They rowed for the shore, hoping to
get perhaps into some bay, or to the mouth of a river, where the sea
would be quiet.
But before they could reach the land, a huge gray wave, big like the
side of a house, came foaming and thundering up behind them, and
before any one could even cry out, it upset the boat, and they were
all left struggling in the water.
Robinson was a very good swimmer, but no man could swim in such a sea,
and it was only good fortune that brought him at last safely to land.
Big wave after big wave washed him further and further up the beach,
rolling him over and over, once leaving him helpless, and more than
half drowned, beside a rock.
But before the next wave could come up, perhaps to drag him back with
it into the sea, he was able to jump up and run for his life.
And so he got safely out of the reach of the water, and lay down upon
the grass. But of all on board the ship, Robinson was the only one who
was not drowned.
II
ROBINSON WORKS HARD AT MAKING HIMSELF A HOME
When he had rested a little, Robinson got up and began to walk about
very sadly, for darkness was coming on; he was wet, and cold, and
hungry, and he did not know where to sleep, because he was afraid of
wild beasts coming out of the woods and killing him during the night.
But he found that he still had his knife in his pocket, so he cut a
big stick to protect himself with. Then he climbed into a tree which
had very thick leaves, and there he fixed himself among the branches
as well as he could, and fell sound asleep.
In the morning when he awoke, the storm was past, and the sea quieter.
To his surprise, he saw that the ship had been carried in the night,
by the great seas, much nearer to the shore than she had been when the
boat left her, and was now lying not far from the rock where Robinson
had first been washed up.
By midday the sea was quite calm, and the tide had gone so far out
that he could walk very near to the ship. So he took off his clothes
and swam the rest of the way to her. But it was not easy to get on
board, because the ship was resting on the sand, and lay so high out
of the water that Robinson could not reach anything by which he could
pull himself up.
At last, after swimming twice round the vessel, he saw a rope hanging
over, near the bow, and by its help he climbed on board.
Everything in the stern of the ship was dry, and in pretty good order,
and the water had not hurt the provisions much. So he took some
biscuits, and ate them as he looked about, and drank some rum, and
then he felt better, and stronger, and more fit to begin work.
First of all, he took a few large spars of wood, and a spare topmast
or two, that were on the deck. These he pushed overboard, tying each
with a rope to keep it from drifting away. Then he went over the side
of the ship, and tied all the spars together so as to make a raft, and
on top he put pieces of plank across. But it was long before he could
make the raft fit to carry the things he wanted to take on shore.
At last, after much hard work, he got on to it three of the seamen's
chests, which he had broken open, and emptied, and he filled these
with bread, and rice, and cheese, and whatever he could find to eat,
and with all sorts of things that he thought he might need. He found,
too, the carpenter's tool-chest, and put it on the raft; and nothing
on the whole ship was of more use to him than that.
Then he set about looking for clothes, for while he had been on the
ship, the tide had risen and had washed away his coat and waistcoat
and shirt, which he had left lying on the sand.
Guns and pistols also, and powder and shot, he took, and two rusty old
cutlasses.
Now the trouble was to reach land, for the raft had no mast nor sail
nor rudder, and was too heavy and clumsy to be pulled by Robinson with
the broken oars that he had found. But the tide was rising, and slowly
she drifted nearer and nearer, and at last was carried up the mouth of
a little river which Robinson had not seen when he was on shore.
There was a strong tide running up, which once carried the raft
against a point of land, where she stuck for a time, and very nearly
upset all the things into deep water. But as the tide rose higher,
Robinson was able to push her into a little bay where the water was
shallow and the ground beneath flat, and when the tide went out there
she was left high and dry, and he got everything safely ashore.
The next thing that Robinson did was to climb a hill, that he might
see what sort of country he was in, and find out if there were any
other people in it. But when he got to the top, he saw to his sorrow
that he was on an island, with no other land in sight except some
rocks, and two smaller islands far over the sea. There were no signs
of any people, and he saw nothing living except great numbers of
birds, one of which he shot. But it was not fit to eat, being some
kind of hawk.
After this, with the chests and boards that he had brought on shore,
he made a kind of hut to sleep in that night, and he lay there on the
sand very comfortably.
Day by day now for some time Robinson swam out to the ship, and made
fresh rafts, loading them with many stores, powder and shot, and lead
for bullets, seven muskets, a great barrel of bread, three casks of
rum, a quantity of flour, some grain, a box of sugar, sails and ropes
and twine, bags of nails, and many hatchets. With one of the sails he
made himself a good tent, in which he put everything that could be
spoiled by rain or sun. Around it he piled all the casks and other
heavy things, so that no wild beast could very easily get at him.
In about a fortnight the weather changed; it blew very hard one
night, and in the morning the ship had broken up, and was no more to
be seen. But that did not so much matter, for Robinson had got out of
her nearly everything that he could use.
Now Robinson thought it time to find some better place for his tent.
The land where it then stood was low and near the sea, and the only
water he could get to drink tasted rather salt. Looking about, he
found a little plain, about a hundred yards across, on the side of a
hill, and at the end of the plain was a great rock partly hollowed
out, but not so as quite to make a cave. Here he pitched his tent,
close to the hollow place in the rock. Round in front of the tent he
drove two rows of strong stakes, about eighteen inches apart,
sharpened at top; and he made this fence so strong that when it was
finished he was sure that nothing could get at him, for he left no
door, but climbed in and out by a ladder, which he always hauled up
after him.
Before closing up the end, Robinson hauled inside this fence all his
stores, his food and his guns, his powder and shot, and he rigged
inside a double tent, so better to keep off the hot sun and the rain.
Then he began to dig into the rock, which was not very hard, and soon
behind his tent he had a cave in which he thought it wise to stow his
gunpowder, about one hundred and forty pounds in all, packed in small
parcels; for, he thought, if a big thunderstorm were to come, a flash
of lightning might explode it all, and blow him to bits, if he kept
the whole of it in his tent.
Robinson was now very comfortable, and as he had saved from the wreck
two cats and a dog, he did not feel quite so lonely. He had got, also,
ink and pens and paper, so that he could keep a diary; and he set up a
large wooden cross, on which he cut with his knife the date of his
landing on the island--September 30, 1659; and every day he cut a
notch on the post, with a longer one each Sunday, so that he might
always know how the months and years passed.
As for food, he found that there were many goats on the island, and
numbers of pigeons, and he had no difficulty in shooting as many as he
needed.
But now he saw that his tent and cave were too small for all the
things he had stowed in them, so he began to make the cave bigger,
bringing out all the rock and soil that he cut down, and making with
it a kind of terrace round the inside of his stockade. And as he was
sure that there were no wild beasts on the island to harm him, he went
on tunneling to the right hand till he broke through the rock outside
his fence.
Then he began to hang things up against the side of the cave, and he
even made shelves, and a door for the outside entrance. This was a
very difficult job, and took him a long time; for, to make a board, he
was forced to cut down a whole tree, and chop away with his axe till
one side was flat, and then cut at the other side till the board was
thin enough, when he smoothed it with his adze. But in this way, out
of each tree he would only get one plank. He made for himself also a
table and a chair, and finally got his castle, as he called it, in
very good order.
With all his care, however, there was one thing that he forgot, and
that was, when he had made the cave so much bigger, to prop it, so as
to keep the roof from falling in. And so one day he got a terrible
fright, and was nearly killed, by a huge bit of the soft rock which
fell and buried many of his things. It took weeks of hard work
afterwards to clear away the fallen rubbish, and to cut beams strong
enough to prop the roof.
Every day, all this time, he used to climb up the hill and look around
over the lonely waters, hoping, always hoping, that some morning he
might see the sails of a ship that would take him home. But none ever
came, and sometimes the tears ran down his cheeks because of the
sorrow he felt at being so utterly alone. At times even, he thought in
his misery that if he only had any kind of a boat, it would be better
to sail away, and chance reaching other land, rather than to stop
where he was. By and by, however, he grew less unhappy, for he had
plenty of work to do.
III
THE EARTHQUAKE AND HURRICANE; AND HOW ROBINSON BUILT A BOAT
Now about this time, when Robinson had been some months on the island,
heavy and constant rain began to fall, and sometimes weeks would pass
without a single dry day. He found that instead of there being spring,
summer, autumn, and winter, as in England, the seasons in his island
were divided into the wet and the dry. There was no cold weather, no
winter. It chanced that just before this first rain began, Robinson
had emptied out some refuse from bags which had once held rice, and
other grain, and he had forgotten all about having emptied them. So he
was very much astonished to find, some time afterwards, both barley
and rice growing near his tent, in the shade of the rock. The ears,
when ripe, he kept to sow again, and from this very small beginning,
in the course of a few seasons, he had a great quantity of grain, both
for food and for sowing. But this meant every year much hard work, for
he had no plow nor harrow, and all the ground had to be dug with a
clumsy spade, made from a very hard, heavy wood that grew on the
island.
At first Robinson could not grind the grain that he grew, nor make
bread from it. If he could have found a large stone, slightly hollow
on top, he might, by pounding the grain on it with another round
stone, have made very good meal. But all the stones he could find were
too soft, and in the end he had to make a sort of mill of hard wood,
in which he burnt a hollow place, and on that he pounded the grain
into meal with a heavy stick.
Baking he did by building a big fire, then raking away the ashes, and
putting the dough on the hot place, covered with a kind of basin made
of clay, over which he heaped the red ashes. In this way very good
bread can be made.
Before the rainy season was over, and just after he had finished the
fence round his tent, one day when Robinson was at work in the cave,
all of a sudden the earth began to fall from the roof, and the strong
props he had put in cracked in a way which frightened him terribly. At
the same time there was a curious moaning, rumbling noise, that he
could not understand. He rushed out, and so afraid was he that the
roof was falling in, and that he should be buried, that he got over
the fence and began to run.
But he was even more frightened when he found that all the ground was
shaking. Then he knew that this was an earthquake.
Three times there came violent shocks; a huge rock about half a mile
away fell with a great noise like thunder, and the sea was churned up
as if by a whirlwind. Robinson was sick with the movement of the
ground, and trembling with the dread of being swallowed by the earth
as it cracked and gaped; and after the noise and shaking were over, he
was too frightened to go back to his tent, but sat where he was, all
the time expecting another shock.
Suddenly a furious wind began to blow, tearing up trees by the roots,
and lashing the water till nothing could be seen but foam and flying
spray. The air was full of branches and leaves torn off by the
hurricane, and birds in hundreds were swept helpless out to sea. In
about three hours, as suddenly as it had begun, the wind fell, and
there was a dead calm, followed by rain such as Robinson had never
before seen, which soaked him to the skin, and forced him to return to
the cave, where he sat in great fear.
For long after this he was very uneasy, and made up his mind to shift
his quarters as soon as he could find a better place for his tent. But
the earthquake had one good result, for what remained of the wreck was
again thrown up by the sea, and Robinson got more things out of it
which were useful to him, and for days he worked hard at that. One
day, too, when he was on his way to the remains of the ship, he came
on a large turtle, which he killed, and this gave him plenty of good
food, for besides the flesh, there were, inside the animal, many eggs,
which she had come to the shore to lay in the sand, as is the habit of
turtles, and which Robinson thought were even better than hen's eggs.
Now a few days after he had got so wet in the heavy rain, though the
weather was hot, Robinson felt very cold and shivery, and had pains
all over his body, and at night he dreamed terrible dreams. The
following day, and many days, he lay very ill with fever and ague, and
hardly knew what he was doing. So weak was he, that he believed he was
dying, and there was no one to give him water to quench his thirst,
nor to help him in any way. His only medicine was rum, in which he had
soaked tobacco. It was very nasty, and made him sick, but it also
made him sleep for more than a whole day and a night, and he woke much
better, and able to walk about a little, though for a fortnight he was
too weak to work. From this illness he learned not to go out more than
he could help during the rainy season.
When he was again quite strong, Robinson started to explore the island
better than he had yet done, and he found many things growing, of
which he made great use afterwards, tobacco, sugar-cane, and all
manner of fruits, among them grapes, which he used to dry to raisins
in the sun in great quantities.
Near the spot where the most fruit grew, he built a hut, and round it,
for safety, he put a double fence made of stakes cut from some of the
trees near at hand. During the next rainy season these stakes took
root, and grew so fast that soon nothing of the hut could be seen from
outside the hedge, and it made so good a hiding-place, that Robinson
cut more stakes of the same kind, and planted them outside the fence
around his first dwelling; and in a year or two that also was quite
hidden from view. The twigs of this tree, too, were good for making
baskets, of which he had been in great need.
When he had finished all this work, he started again to go over the
rest of the island, and on his way across, from a hill, the day being
very clear, he saw high land a great way off over the water, but
whether it was another island, or the coast of America, he could not
be sure.
When he reached the other side of his island Robinson found the beach
covered with turtles in astonishing numbers, and he thought how much
better off he would have been if he had been cast ashore here, for not
only would the turtles have supplied him with plenty of food, but
there were far more birds than on the part of the island where he had
been living, and far more goats.
During the journey back to his castle he caught a young parrot, which,
after a long time, he taught to speak and to call him by his name. It
was so long since he had heard any voice, that it was a comfort to
listen even to a parrot talking.
Now, the sight which Robinson had had of the far distant land raised
in him again the great longing to get away from this island where he
had been so long alone, and he wished greatly for a boat. He went over
to the remains of the boat in which he and the others had tried to
come ashore when their ship struck on the sand-bank, and which had
been flung far up on the beach by the sea, and he worked for weeks
trying to repair her and to get her into the water. But it was all of
no use; he could not move her.
Then, he thought, "I'll cut down a tree, and make a new boat." This he
fancied would be easy, for he had heard how the Indians make canoes by
felling a tree and burning out the inside. "If they can do it, then
surely I can do it even better," he thought. So he looked about, and
chose a huge tree which stood about a hundred yards from the water,
and with great labor in about three weeks he had cut it down.
Four months Robinson worked at this boat, thinking all the time of
what he would do when he reached the far distant land, and much
pleased with himself for the beautiful boat he was making. Day after
day he trimmed and shaped it, and very proud he was when it was
finished and lay there on the ground, big enough to carry twenty men.
Then he started to get her into the water. But that was quite another
thing. By no means in his power could he move her an inch, try as he
might. She was far too big. Then he began to dig a canal from the sea
to the boat; but before he had got much of that work done, he saw
clearly that there was so much earth to dig away, that, without some
one to help him, it must take years and years before he could get the
water to the boat. So he gave it up, and left her to lie and rot in
the sun and the rain--a great grief to him.
IV
ROBINSON BUILDS A SECOND BOAT, IN WHICH HE IS SWEPT OUT TO SEA
By the time that Robinson had been four years on the island, all his
clothes had become very ragged, and he had hardly anything that could
be called a hat. Clothes he must have, for he could not go naked
without getting his skin blistered by the hot sun, and he was afraid
of getting a sunstroke if he went about without a hat.
Now he had kept all the skins of the goats, and other animals, such as
hares and foxes, that he had shot; and from these, after many
failures, at last he made a hat and coat of goatskin, and a pair of
short trousers, all with the hair outside, so as to shoot off the wet
when it rained. The hat was very tall, and came to a sharp peak on
top, and it had a flap which hung down the back of his neck. Robinson
also, with much trouble, made of the skins an umbrella which he could
open and shut; and if his clothes and his umbrella, and especially his
hat, were not very good to look at, they were useful, and he could now
go about in any weather.
During the next five years nothing out of the common happened, and
Robinson's time was mostly taken up with the getting of food, the
yearly sowing and reaping of his crops, and the curing of his raisins.
But towards the end of that time he made another attempt to build a
boat, and this time he made one much smaller than the first, and
though it took him nearly two years to finish, in the end he got her
into the sea. She was not big enough for him to try to sail in to the
far-off land that he had seen, and he used her only for cruising about
the shores of his own island, and for fishing. In her he fixed a
little mast, on which he rigged a small sail, made from a bit of one
of the old ship's sails, and, using a paddle to steer with, he found
that she sailed very well. Over the stern he fixed his big umbrella,
to shade him from the sun, like an awning.
Eager to go all round the island, one day Robinson put a lot of food
on board, and, taking his gun, started on a voyage. All went well till
he came to the east end of the island, where he found that a ledge of
rocks, and beyond that a sand-bank, stretched out to sea for eight or
nine miles. Robinson did not like the idea of venturing so far in a
boat so small, and he therefore ran the boat ashore, and climbed a
hill, to get a good view of the rocks and shoals before going near
them. From the hill, he saw that a strong current was sweeping past
the sand-bank, which showed just clear of the water, and on which the
sea was breaking; but he thought there was an eddy which would swing
him safely round the point, without bringing him near the breakers.
However, that day and the next, there was a good deal of wind blowing
in the direction contrary to the current, which, of course, raised a
sea too big for a small boat, so Robinson stopped on shore where he
was.
On the third day it was calm, and he set off. But no sooner had he
come abreast of the sand-bank than he found himself in very deep
water, with a current running like a mill-race, which carried the boat
further and further away from the land, in spite of all that he could
do with his paddle. There was no wind, and the sail was useless.
Now he gave himself up for lost, for the harder he worked, only the
further away seemed the boat to be swept. The island was soon so far
off that Robinson could hardly see it, and he was quite exhausted with
the hard struggle to paddle the boat against the current. He was in
despair, and giving up paddling, left the boat to drift where she
would. Just then a faint puff of wind touched his cheek, and Robinson
hurriedly hoisted his sail. Soon a good breeze blew, which carried him
past a dangerous reef of rocks. Here the current seemed to divide, the
part in which he now was began to swing round towards the island, and
he plucked up heart again, and with his paddle did all he could to
help the sail. Robinson felt like a man who is set free after he has
been told that he must die; he could almost have wept for joy. Miles
and miles he sailed, steadily getting nearer to the land, and late in
the evening at last he got ashore, but on the other side of the point
that he had tried to round in the morning. He drew up his boat on the
shore of a little cove that he found, and when he had made her fast,
so that the tide could not carry her away, there among the trees he
lay down, and slept sound, quite worn out.
In the morning he again got on board, and coasted along close inshore,
till he came to a bay with a little river running into it, which made
a very good harbor for the boat. Here he left her, and went on foot.
Soon he found that he was not far from a spot that he had once before
visited, and by afternoon he arrived at the hut which he called his
country-house. Robinson got over the fence by the ladder, as usual,
pulling it up after him, and then he lay down to rest in the shade,
for he was still very weary from the hard work of the day before. Soon
he fell asleep. But what was his surprise in a little time to be
awakened by a voice calling, "Robin! Robin Crusoe! where are you?"
At first he thought he was dreaming. But still the voice went on
calling:
"Where are you, Robin?"
Up he jumped, trembling with fright and wonder, for it was so long
since he had heard any voice but his own that he fancied it must be
something more than human that he now listened to. But no sooner had
he risen than he saw, sitting on the tree near to him, his parrot,
which must have flown all the way from Robinson's other house, where
it had been left. It was talking away at a great rate, very excited at
again seeing its master, and Robinson hardly knew whether to be more
relieved or disappointed that it was only the bird that had called
him.
For about a year after this Robinson kept to his own side of the
island, and employed his time chiefly in working on his land, and in
making dishes and pots of clay. These he had now learned to burn
properly. Pipes, too, he made, and they were a great comfort to him,
for he managed to cure very good tobacco from the wild plants that
grew around. And as he feared lest his powder might begin to run
short, he thought much over ways whereby he could trap goats for food,
instead of shooting them. After many trials, the best plan, he
decided, was to dig holes, which he covered with thin branches and
leaves, on which he sprinkled earth, so that when anything heavy
passed over, it must fall into the pit. By this means he caught many,
and the kids he kept and tamed, so that in no great time he had quite
a large herd of goats. These he kept in various small fields, round
which from time to time he had put fences.
V
ROBINSON SEES A FOOTPRINT ON THE SAND, FINDS A CAVE, AND RESCUES
FRIDAY
All this time Robinson had never gone near his canoe, but now the
longing came on him to go over to where he had left her, though he
felt that he should be afraid again to put to sea in her. This time,
however, when he got to the hill from which he had watched the set of
the current the day that he had been carried out to sea, he noticed
that there was no current to be seen, from which he concluded that it
must depend on the ebb and flow of the tide. Still, he was afraid to
venture far in the canoe, though he stopped some time at his
country-house, and went out sailing very often.
One day when Robinson was walking along the sand towards his boat,
suddenly, close to the water, he stopped as if he had been shot, and,
with thumping heart, stood staring in wonder and fear at something
that he saw. The mark of a naked foot on the sand! It could not be his
own, he knew, for the shape was quite different. Whose could it be?
He listened, he looked about, but nothing could he hear or see. To the
top of a rising ground he ran, and looked all around. There was
nothing to be seen. And though he searched everywhere on the beach for
more footmarks, he found none.
Whose footprint could it be? That of some man, perhaps, he thought,
who might come stealing on him out from the trees, or murder him while
he slept.
Back to his house he hurried, all the way in a state of terror,
starting every now and again and facing round, thinking he was being
followed, and fancying often that a stump or a bush was a man, waiting
to spring on him. That night he slept not at all, and so shaken was
his nerve that every cry of a night-bird, even every sound made by an
insect or a frog, caused him to start with fear, so that the
perspiration ran down his brow.
As day followed day, however, and nothing happened, Robinson began to
be less uneasy in his mind, and went about his usual work again. But
he strengthened the fence round his castle, and cut in it seven small
loopholes, in which, fixed on frames, he placed loaded muskets, all
ready to fire if he should be attacked. And some distance from the
outside of the fence he planted a thick belt of small stakes, so that
in a few years' time a perfect thicket of trees and bushes hid all
trace of his dwelling.
Years passed quietly, and nothing further happened to disturb
Robinson, or to make him think more of the footprint that had
frightened him so much. But he kept more than formerly to the interior
of the island, and lost no chance of looking for good places to hide
in, if he should ever need them. And he always carried a cutlass now,
as well as his gun and a couple of pistols.
One day it chanced, however, that he had gone further to the west of
the island than he had ever done before, and, looking over the sea, he
fancied that he saw, at a great distance, something like a boat or a
long canoe, but it was so far off that he he could not be sure what it
was. This made him determine that always in future he would bring with
him to his lookout-place the telescope which he had saved from the
wreck.
The sight of this supposed boat brought back his uneasiness to some
extent, but he went on down to the beach, and there he saw a sight
which filled him with horror. All about the shore were scattered men's
skulls and bones, and bits of burnt flesh, and in one place were the
remains of a big fire. Robinson stood aghast, feeling deadly sick. It
was easy for him to know the meaning of the terrible sight. It meant
that cannibals had been there, killing and eating their prisoners; for
when the natives of some parts of the world go to war, and catch any
of their enemies, it is their habit to build a fire, then to kill the
prisoners and feast on their roasted bodies, eating till they can eat
no more. Sometimes, if the man they are going to eat is too thin, they
keep him, and feed him up, till they think he is fat enough.
Now Robinson knew all this, though he had never yet met any cannibals.
And when he looked around he saw many bones lying about. They were so
old that it seemed certain to him that all those years he had been
living on an island which was a regular place for the natives to come
to for such feasts. Then he saw what a mercy it was that he had been
wrecked on the other side of the island, to which, he supposed, the
cannibals never came, because the beach was not so good for them to
land on.
Full of horror, Robinson hurried back to his house, and for almost two
years he never again came near that part of the island where the bones
lay, nor ever visited his boat. But all the time he kept thinking how
he might some day kill those cannibals while they were at their feast,
and perhaps save some of the poor men whom they had not yet killed.
Now one day when Robinson was down in the bottom of the valley,
cutting thick branches to burn for charcoal, he cleared away some
undergrowth at the foot of a great rock, in which, near the ground,
there was a sort of hole, or opening. Into this hole Robinson
squeezed, not very easily, and found himself in a cave of good size,
high enough, at least, to stand up in. It was quite dark, of course,
to him coming in from the sunlight, and he turned his back to the
entrance to feel his way further in, when suddenly, from the back of
the cave he saw two great fiery eyes glaring at him. His very hair
bristled with fright, for he could only think that it must be the
Devil at least that he saw; and through the mouth of the cave he fled
with a yell.
But when he got into the bright sunshine he began to feel ashamed of
his panic, and to reason with himself that what he had seen must be
only his own fancy. So, taking up a big burning branch from his fire,
in he went again.
Before Robinson had taken three steps he stopped, in almost as great a
fright as at first. Close to him he heard a great sigh, as if of some
one in pain, then a sound like a muttering, as of words that he could
not understand; again another deep sigh. Cold sweat broke out all over
him, and he stepped back trembling, yet determined this time not to
run away.
Holding his torch well over his head, he looked around, and there on
the floor of the cave lay a huge old he goat, gasping for breath,
dying, seemingly of mere old age.
He stirred him with his toe to see if he could get him out of the
cave, but the poor beast could not rise, and Robinson left him to die
where he was.
Now that he had got over his fright, Robinson looked carefully about
him. The cave was small, not more than twelve feet across at its
widest, but he noticed at the far end another opening. This was so low
down, however, that he had to creep on his hands and knees to get in,
and without a better light than the burning torch, he could not see
how far it went. So he made up his mind to come again.
Robinson had long before this made a good supply of very fair candles
from the tallow of the goats he had killed, and next day he returned
to the cave with six of these, and his tinder-box to light them with.
In those days there were no matches, and men used to strike a light
with a flint and steel, and tinder, which was a stuff that caught fire
very easily from a spark.
Entering the cave, Robinson found, on lighting a candle, that the goat
was now dead. Moving it aside, to be buried later, he went down on his
hands and knees, and crawled about ten yards through the small
passage, till at last he found himself in a great chamber, the roof of
which was quite twenty feet high. On every side the walls reflected
the light of his candle, and glittered like gold, or almost like
diamonds, he thought. The floor was perfectly dry and level, even on
the walls there was no damp, and Robinson was delighted with his
discovery. Its only drawback was the low entrance; but, as he decided
to use the cave chiefly as a place to retreat to if he should ever be
attacked, that was in reality an advantage, because one man, if he had
firearms could easily defend it against hundreds.
At once Robinson set about storing in it all his powder, except three
or four pounds, all his lead for making bullets, and his spare guns
and muskets. When moving the powder, he thought he might as well open
a barrel which had drifted ashore out of the wreck 'after the
earthquake, and though water had got into it, there was not a great
deal of damage done, for the powder had crusted on the outside only,
and in the inside there was about sixty pounds weight, quite dry and
good. This, with what remained of the first lot, gave him a very large
supply, enough to last all his life.
For more than two-and-twenty years Robinson had now been in the
island, and he had grown quite used to it, and to his manner of
living. If he could only have been sure that no savages would come
near him, he felt almost that he would be content to spend all the
rest of his days there, to die at last, as the goat he found in the
cave had died, of old age.
At times, when his spirits were more than usually low, when the burden
of the lonely years pressed most heavily upon him, Robinson used to
think that surely if the savages could come to his land, he could go
to theirs. How far did they come? Where was their country? What kind
of boats had they? And so eager to go was he sometimes, that he forgot
to think of what he would do when he got there, or what would become
of him if he fell into the hands of the savages. His mind was utterly
taken up with the one thought of getting to the mainland, and even his
dreams were of little else.
One night, when he had put himself almost into a fever with the
trouble of his mind, he had lain long awake, tossing and moaning, but
at last he had fallen asleep. And he dreamed, not as he had usually
done of late, that he was sailing to the mainland, but that as he was
leaving his castle in the morning he saw on the shore two canoes and
eleven savages landing, and that they had with them another man, whom
they were just about to kill and eat, when suddenly the prisoner
jumped up and ran for his life. And in his dream Robinson fancied that
the man came running to hide in the thicket round the castle, and that
thereupon he went out to help him. Then in the dream, the savage
kneeled down, as if begging for mercy, and Robinson took him over the
ladder into the castle, saying to himself, "Now that I've got this
fellow, I can certainly go to the mainland, for he will show me what
course to steer, and where to go when we land." And he woke, with the
joyful feeling that now at last all was well. But when he was wide
awake, and knew that it was only a dream after all, poor Robinson was
more cast down than ever, and more unhappy than he had been during all
the years he had lived on the island.
The dream had, however, this result; that he saw his only plan to get
away was, if possible, to rescue some day one of the prisoners whom
the cannibals were about to kill, and in time get the man to help him
to navigate his canoe across the sea.
With this idea, he set himself to watch, more closely than ever he had
done before, for the savages to land, and during more than a year and
a half he went nearly every day to his lookout-place, and swept the
sea with his telescope, in the hope of seeing canoes coming. But none
came, and Robinson was getting terribly tired of the constant watch.
Still he did not give up, for he knew that sooner or later the savages
would land again.
Yet many months passed, and still they did not come, till one morning,
very early, almost to his surprise, he saw no fewer than five canoes
hauled up on the shore on his own side of the island. The savages who
had come in them were nowhere to be seen. Now, he knew that always
from four to six men came in each canoe, which meant that at least
twenty, and perhaps as many as thirty men had landed.
This was a greater number than he cared to face, so he kept inside his
castle, in great doubt what to do, but ready to fight, in case they
should attack him.
When he had waited a long time and still could hear nothing of the
savages, he climbed up his ladder and got to the top of the rock,
taking great care not to show himself against the skyline. Looking
through his glass, he saw that there were at least thirty savages,
dancing wildly round a fire.
As he looked, some of the men left the others, and going over to the
canoes dragged from' them two prisoners. One of these almost at once
fell forward on his face, knocked down from behind, as it seemed to
Robinson, with a wooden club, and two or three of the cannibals at
once cut him open to be ready for cooking, while for a moment or two
they left the other prisoner standing by himself.
Seeing a chance of escape, the man made a dash for his life, running
with tremendous speed along the sands straight for that part of the
beach near Robinson's castle.
Now this alarmed Robinson very much, for it seemed to him that the
whole of the savages started after the prisoner. He could not help
thinking it likely that, as in his dream, this man would take shelter
in the thicket round the castle, in which case Robinson was likely
soon to have more fighting than he would relish, for the whole body of
the cannibals would be on him at once.
As he watched the poor man racing for life, however, he was relieved
to see that he ran much faster than his pursuers, of whom only three
continued to run after him. If he could hold out for another mile or
two there was little doubt that he would escape. Between the castle
and the runners was the creek up which Robinson used to run his rafts
from the wreck, and when the escaped prisoner came to that, he plunged
in, and though the tide was full, with less than thirty powerful
strokes he reached the other side, and with long easy strides
continued his run. Of the men in pursuit, two also plunged in and swam
through, but less quickly than the man escaping, being more blown with
running, because of what they had eaten before starting. The third man
stopped altogether, and went back the way he came.
Seeing the turn things were taking, it seemed to Robinson that now had
come his chance to get a servant, and he resolved to try to save the
life of the man who was fleeing from the cannibals. At once he hurried
down the ladder, snatched up his two guns, and running as fast as he
could, got between the man and his pursuers, calling out to him at the
same time to stop. The man looked back, and the sight of Robinson
seemed to frighten him at first as much as did the men who were trying
to catch him. But Robinson again spoke, and signed to him with his
hand to come back, and in the meantime went slowly towards the other
men, who were now coming near. Then, rushing at the foremost, he
knocked him senseless with the butt of his gun, for it seemed to him
safer not to fire, lest the noise should bring the other cannibals
around.
The second man, seeing his comrade fall, hesitated, and stopped, but
Robinson saw when nearer to him that the savage had in his hands a bow
and arrow with which he was just about to shoot. There was then no
choice but to fire first, which Robinson did, killing the man on the
spot.
Thereupon the man who had been chased by the others was so terrified
by the flash and noise of the gun, and at seeing his enemy fall dead,
that he stood stock still, trembling, and it was with great difficulty
that Robinson coaxed him to come near. This at last he did, stopping
every few paces and kneeling down. At length, coming close to
Robinson, he again knelt, kissed the ground, and taking hold of
Robinson's foot, set it on his head as it rested on the sand.
While this was going on, Robinson noticed that the savage whom he had
knocked down had begun to move, and to come to his senses. To this he
drew the attention of the man whom he had rescued, who said some words
that Robinson could not understand, but which sounded pleasant to an
ear that had heard no voice but his own for more than twenty-five
years. Next he made a motion with his hand, as if asking for the
cutlass that hung at Robinson's belt, and when the weapon was given to
him he ran at his enemy, and with one clean blow cut off his head.
Then, laughing, he brought the head, and laid it with the cutlass at
Robinson's feet.
But what caused most wonder to the man was how the savage whom
Robinson shot had been killed at so great a distance, and he went to
look as the body, turning it over and over, and looking long at the
wound in the breast that the bullet had made, evidently much puzzled.
Robinson then turned to go away, beckoning to the savage to follow,
but the man made signs that he would bury the two bodies in the sand,
so that the others might not find them if they followed. With his
hands he soon scraped holes deep enough to cover the bodies, and in
less than a quarter of an hour there was hardly a trace left of what
had happened.
Calling him away, Robinson now took him, not to his castle, but to the
cave, where he gave him food and water; and then he made signs for him
to lie down and rest, pointing to a bundle of rice straw.
Soon the man was sound asleep. He was, Robinson thought, a handsome
and well-made man; the muscles of his arms and back and legs showed
great strength, and all his limbs were beautifully formed. As near as
Robinson could guess, he was about twenty-six years of age, with a
good and manly face, and long black hair. His nose and lips were like
those of a European, and his teeth were white and even. In color he
was not black, but of a sort of rich chocolate brown, the skin shining
with health, and pleasant to look upon.
VI
ROBINSON TRAINS FRIDAY, AND THEY BUILD A LARGE BOAT; THEY RESCUE TWO
PRISONERS FROM THE CANNIBALS
In a little while Robinson began to speak to him, and to try to teach
him things. First he made him understand that his name was to be
"Friday" (that being the day of the week when Robinson had saved him
from a horrible death). Then he taught him the meaning of "Yes," and
"No," and to call Robinson "Master."
Friday showed great quickness in learning. He seemed to be happy and
contented, and free from trouble, except that the clothes which
Robinson made him wear gave him at first great discomfort, for in
those warm parts of the world the natives are not used to clothes, but
always go about naked.
The day following that on which Robinson had saved Friday, they went
out together to see if there were any signs of the cannibals still
being on the island, but it was evident that they had gone away
without troubling about the two men whom Robinson had killed.
For some time Robinson did not trust Friday, and did not allow him to
sleep in the same part of his castle with himself, but kept him at
night in a little tent outside the fence.
Friday was quite faithful, never sulky nor lazy, but always merry, and
ready to do anything that Robinson told him.
At first when they went out in the woods together, Friday was
terrified each time that Robinson's gun was fired. He had never seen
anything like it, and it was more than he could understand how things
could be killed merely by the noise and the flash of fire.
Friday told Robinson much about his country, and about his people, who
he said were Caribs. And a great way "beyond the moon," by which he
meant to the west, he said that white men lived who had beards such as
Robinson wore. These white men, he said, had killed very many natives,
from which Robinson fancied that they must be Spaniards, who about
that time were very cruel to the people whose countries they had
taken.
Robinson asked if Friday could tell him how he might get over to where
the white men lived, and Friday said it would be very easy, if they
had a big canoe, and again Robinson began to make plans and to hope to
escape from the island.
Some time after this Robinson and Friday chanced to be on the high
hill at the east end of the island. The day was very clear. Friday
gazed long over the sea, and then began to jump and dance, pointing to
the dim blue coast. "There my country! See! There my people live!" he
said, his eyes sparkling with joy, and an eager light on his face.
After this, for a time Robinson was not easy in his mind about Friday.
He had little doubt that if he could get back to his tribe, he would
soon forget all he had been taught, might even return with a hundred
or two of his friends, and kill and eat his master. But in this
Robinson was very unjust to Friday, who had no such thoughts in his
mind as those of which he was suspected. And this Robinson soon found
out. One day he asked Friday if he would not be glad to be once more
in his own land.
"Yes" said Friday; "very glad."
"Would you eat man's flesh again?"
"No, never," said Friday.
Then Robinson asked why he did not go back. Friday said he would go if
Robinson came too.
Then Robinson, who thought if he could reach other white men, he would
finally reach England, began to build a boat in which to leave the
island. Together he and Friday went to work to fell a tree, and Friday
soon showed that he knew far better than Robinson the kind of tree
best suited for boat-making. Robinson showed him how to use tools, and
in a little more than a month the boat was finished. After the boat
was put into the water, Robinson was astonished at Friday's skill in
paddling so large a canoe.
"Will she do to go over in?" he asked, and Friday, grinning, said,
"Yes, even if big wind blow." But Robinson did not mean to depend on
paddling, and fitted the boat with a mast, sails and rudder.
Twenty-six years had passed since Robinson came to the island, and he
still went on digging and sowing. One morning he sent Friday down to
the beach for a turtle. Back he came in a great hurry, crying out,
"Master! Master! over yonder, one, two, three canoe." Loading his
guns, Robinson gave them to Friday to carry, while he armed himself
with muskets, a cutlass, and a hatchet.
When all was ready he went up the hill with his telescope, and saw
that there were in all twenty-one savages, with three prisoners, one
of whom was a white man.
Robinson knew the savages had landed on the island to kill and eat
their prisoners, so he resolved to prevent them if possible. To get at
the savages without being seen, they had to go nearly a mile out of
their way, and being heavily laden they could not go very fast.
Reaching the place, they saw, from behind a clump of bushes, the white
man bound hand and foot on the sand. There was no time to lose, and
their first shot killed three and wounded five of the savages.
Snatching up fresh guns, both fired again, before the savages who were
not hurt could get on their feet, for they were so taken by surprise,
that the poor wretches hardly knew what was happening. This time only
two dropped, but many more were wounded.
While Friday kept on firing, Robinson ran to the white prisoner and
cut his bonds. The man said he was a Spaniard and began to thank
Robinson for what he had done. Robinson handed him the cutlass and a
pistol, telling him, if he had any strength left, to go and do what he
could against the savages. As soon as the man got the weapons in his
hands, he ran with fury at the cannibals and cut two down, and with
equal fury attacked the rest. With the Spaniard to help them, Robinson
and Friday were soon able to clear the place of these dreadful
cannibals, many of whom jumped into the sea.
Friday advised Robinson to take a canoe and go after them lest they
return with hundreds of others to avenge the death of their friends.
So the two ran to the beach and began to shove off a canoe. But to
their surprise, on the bottom of the canoe lay another prisoner, an
old man, tied so hard, neck and heels, that even when his bonds were
cut he could not move.
No sooner did Friday look at him and hear him speak, than he began to
dance and shout and laugh, and then kneeling down, rubbed noses with
the savage (which is what these folks do instead of kissing each
other), and he was so excited that for some time he could not explain
what was the matter. As soon as he could speak, he told Robinson that
the man whom they had found was his father.
Both Friday's father and the Spaniard, who was worn out with fighting,
had to be carried up to the castle.
No cannibals were ever again known to visit this island.
VII
ARRIVAL OF AN ENGLISH SHIP; ROBINSON SAILS FOR HOME
Soon after this Robinson had a long talk with the Spaniard, who told
him how he and his comrades had been wrecked four years since, on that
part of the coast where Friday's tribe lived. He said that they were
well treated by the natives, but that they were put to very great
straits now for want of clothes, that their powder was finished, and
that they had lost all hope of ever getting back to their own country.
He himself, he said, had been captured in one of the many small wars
that are always taking place among the various tribes.
It struck Robinson that it might be possible for him to get these men
over to his island, provided that he could be sure of their good
faith, and that when they came, they did not take the island from him
by treachery. It was a risk, he thought, but then, if he got so many
men, it would not be difficult to build a small ship that could carry
them all to England.
So he asked the Spaniard if he would promise, and if he thought he
could get his comrades to take an oath that, if Robinson helped them,
they would look on him as their captain, and would swear to obey him
in all things. The Spaniard readily promised for himself, and said
that he was sure his comrades would keep faith.
It was arranged, therefore, that in about six months, when the next
harvest was reaped, and there would be plenty of food for so many
extra men, the Spaniard and Friday's father should go over to the
mainland in one of the canoes which had been taken from the savages.
Meantime, all hands set about the curing of very large quantities of
raisins, and much other work was done to be in readiness for the
coming of these men.
When the harvest was reaped, Robinson gave the Spaniard and Friday's
father each a musket and a supply of powder and bullets, and loaded
the canoe with food, enough to last them and the others about a
fortnight, and the two men set off for the mainland in fine weather,
and with a fair wind.
It was about eight days after this, and when Robinson had begun to
look out for their return, that one morning very early, when Robinson
was asleep, Friday came running in, shouting, "Master! Master! They
come." Up jumped Robinson, and hurrying on his clothes, ran out.
Looking towards the sea, he soon made out a sailing-boat making for
the shore, coming from the south end of the island, but still some
miles away. This was not the direction from which the Spaniard and his
comrades would come, nor were they likely to be in a sailing-boat. So
Robinson took his telescope, and went to the top of the hill to see if
he could make out who were on board, before they landed.
Hardly had he got on to the hill when he noticed a ship at anchor some
distance from the shore. She looked like an English vessel, he
thought, and the boat like an English long-boat.
This was a wonderful sight to Robinson, but yet he was not easy in his
mind. It was not a part of the world where an English ship was likely
to come, because in those days they were nearly all Spanish vessels
that traded in these seas, and the English and Spaniards were bitter
enemies. What could an English ship be doing here? There had been no
storm to drive her out of her course.
Robinson feared that if she was English there must be something wrong
about her. Perhaps, he thought, she was a pirate. So he was careful
not to show himself or Friday.
Presently, as he watched, he saw the men in the boat run her ashore
and draw her up on the beach, about half a mile from his castle. When
they had landed, he could easily see through his glass that they were
Englishmen.
There were eleven men, but three of them had their hands tied behind
their backs, and were evidently prisoners. When the first four or five
men had jumped ashore, they brought out these three, all the while
ill-treating them, and behaving as if they meant to kill their
prisoners. Friday was sure that they meant to eat them.
Soon, without further harming the three men, the others scattered
about among the trees near the shore, leaving the three sitting on the
ground very sad-looking, but with their hands now untied.
At the time the boat was run aground, it was just high-water, and the
two sailors who had been left in charge of her, and who had evidently
been drinking too much rum, went to sleep, and never noticed that the
tide was going out. When they woke, the boat was high and dry, and
with all the strength of the whole crew they could not move her,
because the sand at that part of the beach was very soft. This did not
seem to trouble any of them very much, for Robinson heard one of the
sailors shout, "Let her alone, Jack, can't ye? She'll float next
tide."
All forenoon Robinson watched, and when the hottest time of the day
had come, he noticed the sailors throw themselves down under the
trees, and go to sleep, some distance away from the three prisoners.
Then Robinson and Friday, taking their muskets and pistols, stole down
cautiously behind the three men, to try to speak to them without the
others knowing.
Robinson had put on his goatskin coat and the great hairy hat that he
had made for himself; and with his cutlass and pistols in his belt,
and a gun over each shoulder, he looked very fierce.
The men did not see him till he spoke, and they were so startled by
his wild look, and by the sight of two men armed to the teeth, that
they nearly ran away. But Robinson told them not to be alarmed; he was
an Englishman, and a friend, and would help them if they would show
him how it could be done.
Then they explained to him what had happened. One of the three was
Captain of the ship that lay at anchor off the island. Of the others,
one was mate of the ship, and the third man was a passenger. The crew
had mutinied, the Captain told Robinson, and had put him and the other
two in irons, and the ringleaders in the mutiny had proposed to kill
them. Now they meant to leave them on the island to perish.
The Captain was so astonished at finding anybody there who proposed to
help him, that he said in his wonder: "Am I talking to a man, or to an
angel from heaven?"
"If the Lord had sent an angel, sir," said Robinson, "he would
probably have come better clothed."
Then he asked if the boat's crew had any firearms, and was told that
they had only two muskets, one of which was left in the boat. "The
rest should be easy, then," Robinson said; "we can either kill them
all, or take them prisoners, as we please."
The Captain was unwilling to see the men killed, for he said if two of
the worst of them were got rid of, he believed the rest would return
to their duty.
Robinson made a bargain that if he saved the Captain from the
mutineers, and recovered the ship, he and Friday were to be taken home
to England in her, free of cost; and to this the Captain and the
others agreed.
Then Robinson gave each of them a musket, with powder and ball, after
which the Captain and the mate and the passenger marched towards the
spot where the mutinous sailors lay asleep. One of the men heard them
advance, and turning round, saw them, and cried out to his companions.
But it was too late, the mate and the passenger fired, and one of the
ringleaders fell dead. A second man also fell, but jumped up
immediately and called to the others to help him. But the Captain
knocked him down with the butt of his musket, and the rest of the
men, seeing Robinson and Friday coming, and knowing they had no chance
against five armed men, begged for mercy. Three others who had been
straying about among the trees came back on hearing the shots, and
were also taken, and thus the whole crew of the boat was captured.
The Captain and Robinson now began to think how they might recover the
ship. There were on board, the Captain said, several men on whom he
thought he could depend, and who had been forced by the others into
the mutiny against their wills. But it would be no easy thing to
retake the ship, for there were still twenty-six men on board, and as
they were guilty of mutiny, all of them, if taken back to England,
would most likely be hanged. Thus they were certain to make a fight
for it.
The first thing that Robinson and the others now did was to take
everything out of the boat--oars, and mast, and sail, and rudder; then
they knocked a hole in her bottom, so that she could not float. While
they were doing this, and drawing her still further up on the beach,
they heard first one gun and then another fired by the ship as signals
to the boat to return.
As she of course did not move, Robinson saw through his glass another
boat with ten men on board, armed with muskets, leave the ship, coming
to bring the others back.
This was serious enough, for now Robinson and his party had to make
plans whereby they might capture also this fresh boat's crew.
Accordingly, they tied the hands of all the men they had first taken,
and sent the worst of them to the cave under the charge of Friday and
of one of the men that the Captain said was to be trusted, with orders
to shoot any who tried to give an alarm or to escape. Then Robinson
took his party and the rest of the prisoners into the castle, where,
from the rock, they watched for the landing of the second boat.
The Captain and mate were very nervous, and despaired of taking this
fresh body of men, but Robinson was quite confident of success, and
put heart into them by his cheerfulness.
Of the prisoners in his castle, there were two whom the Captain
believed to be honest men, and on their promising solemnly to keep
faith, and to fight for him, Robinson released them.
The crew of the second boat, when they landed, were terribly
surprised to find the first boat empty and stove in, and they were
seen anxiously consulting what to do. Then they hallooed and fired
volleys. Getting no reply, they were evidently alarmed, for they all
jumped into their boat and began to pull off to the ship. In a few
minutes, however, they seemed to change their minds, for again they
landed, this time leaving three men in charge of the boat, and keeping
her in the water. The other seven came ashore, and started in a body
across the island to look for their lost comrades. But they did not
care to go far, and soon stopped, again firing volleys and hallooing.
Getting again no reply, they began to march back to the sea. Whereupon
Robinson ordered Friday and the mate to go over the creek to the west
and halloo loudly, and wait till the sailors answered. Then Friday and
the mate were to go further away and again halloo, thus gradually
getting the men to follow them away from shore.
This plan succeeded very well, for when the sailors, thinking they
heard their missing friends hail, ran to find them, their way was
stopped by the creek, over which they had to get the boat to carry
them. They took with them, then, one of the three men whom they had
left in the boat, and ordered the others to moor the boat to a tree,
and remain there.
This was just what Robinson wanted. And, moreover, one of the men
played still further into his hands, for he left the boat and lay down
under a tree to sleep. On him the Captain rushed, and knocked him down
as he tried to rise to his feet, whereupon the sailor left in the boat
yielded, and more readily that he had joined the mutineers very
unwillingly, and was now glad of the chance to rejoin his Captain.
Meantime Friday and the mate, by hallooing and answering, drew the
rest of the boat's crew from hill to hill through the woods, till at
last they had got them so far astray that it was not possible for them
to find their way back before dark. When they did get back to where
the boat had been left, and found the men whom they had left in her
gone, they were in a terrible fright.
It was not difficult for Robinson and his men to surround them, and
it chanced that the boatswain of the ship, who was the greatest
villain of the lot, and the chief cause of all the trouble, walked in
the darkness close to the Captain, who jumped up and shot him dead.
The others then surrendered, believing what they were told, that they
were surrounded by fifty armed men. All begged hard for their lives,
and a few whom the Captain said he could trust were set at liberty on
promising to help retake the ship. The others were bound and put in
the cave.
Robinson and Friday remained on shore to look after the prisoners,
while the Captain and the mate and the passenger, with those of the
crew who were trustworthy, having patched up the damaged boat, pulled
off in her and in the other to the ship, which they reached about
midnight. When they were a short distance off, the Captain made one of
the crew hail the ship and say that they had brought off the boat and
the men they had gone in search of. Then both boats ran alongside at
once, one on each side of the vessel, and before the mutineers knew
what was happening they were overpowered, one or two of them being
killed. Only one of the Captain's party was hurt, the mate, whose arm
was broken by a musket-ball.
As soon as the ship was secured, the Captain ordered seven guns to be
fired, that being the signal he had agreed to make to let Robinson
know if he succeeded in taking the ship.
Robinson's stay in the island had now come to an end, after more than
twenty-eight years, for in a few days he and Friday sailed for England
in the ship. Some of the mutineers were left on the island, and were
afterwards joined by the Spaniard and his comrades, for whom Robinson
left a letter.
Robinson did not forget, when he left, to take with him the money and
gold bars he had got from the wreck of the Spanish ship, and he took
also, as a memento, the goatskin coat and the great hairy hat. But the
Captain was able before the ship sailed to give him proper clothing,
the wearing of which at first put him to dreadful discomfort.
The voyage was a long one, but they sighted the English coast at last.
It was thirty-five years since Robinson had set foot in England. And
that morning, when at last, after the weary years of exile, he again
saw his native land, he laid his head down on his arms and cried like
a child.
And, may be, you too some day may know the joy of coming home, out of
the land of bondage.
CANTERBURY TALES
By GEOFFREY CHAUCER
ADAPTED BY JANET HARVEY KELMAN
I
DORIGEN
Once upon a time a young knight, whose name was Arviragus, dwelt in
Brittany. In the same country lived a beautiful lady called Dorigen.
And the knight loved the lady.
For years Arviragus did not know whether she loved him or not. She was
a great lady and very fair, and he was afraid to ask her. But she knew
that he loved her, for when he rode past her window on his way to the
wars, she could see her colors streaming from his helmet. At first she
did not think much of this, for many knights fought for love of her;
but as she heard of new and greater deeds that this noble knight did
year by year, she began to care for him a great deal. When she thought
of his goodness and of the honor in which he held her, she knew that
there was no one else that she could love as she loved Arviragus. And
when Arviragus knew that she loved him and was willing to be his wife,
his heart was full of joy. So greatly did he wish to make Dorigen
happy with him, that he said to her that he would obey her and do what
she wished as gladly all his life as he had done while he was trying
to win her love. To this she replied:
"Sir, since in thy great gentleness thou givest me so high a place, I
pray to God that there may never be strife between us two by any fault
of mine. Sir, I will be thy true and humble wife until I die!"
Then Arviragus took his bride home with him to his castle by the sea.
He honored Dorigen as much as he had done before his marriage, and
tried to fulfil her wishes in everything. Dorigen was just as eager to
please Arviragus as he was to please her, and they were happy together
in all their work and play.
Arviragus stayed quietly at home for a year, but after that he grew
restless. He felt that no true knight had a right to live on quietly
at home, with nothing to do except to order his castle and to hunt. So
he sailed away to England that he might win honor and renown in the
wars there.
Dorigen stood by the castle and watched his sails disappear in the
north. Poor Dorigen! her husband was gone, and she did not know if he
would ever come back to her. For weeks she wept and mourned. At night
she could not rest, and by day she would not eat. All the things that
she had cared most to do were now dull and worthless to her because
Arviragus was away.
Her friends saw her sorrow, and tried to comfort her in every way they
could. When they found she would not be comforted, they spoke harshly
to her, and told her that it was very wrong of her to kill herself
with sorrow, when Arviragus hoped to come home again strong and
famous. Then they began to comfort her again, and to try to make her
forget her sadness.
After a long time Dorigen's sorrow began to grow quieter. She could
not have lived if she had always felt her grief as deeply as she did
at first. Indeed, as it was, this sorrow would have broken her heart,
if letters had not come from Arviragus. They brought her tidings of
his doings, and of the glory he had won. But what comforted her most
was that they told her that he would soon return.
When Dorigen's friends saw that she was less hopeless, they begged her
to come and roam with them to drive away the last of her dark fears.
This she did. Often she walked with them by the edge of the cliffs on
which her castle stood. But there she saw the white ships and the
brown barges sailing, one north, another south, to the havens for
which they were bound. Then she would turn away from her friends and
say to herself:
"Alas! of all the ships I see, is there never one that will bring my
lord home? Then should I need no comfort. My heart would be cured of
this bitter smart."
At times as she sat and thought, she leaned down and looked over the
brink of the cliffs. But, when she saw the grisly, black rocks, her
very heart trembled within her. Then she would sink down on the grass
and wail:
"O God, men say Thou hast made nothing in vain, but, Lord, why hast
Thou made these black, grisly rocks? No man nor beast is helped by
them in all the world. Rocks have destroyed a hundred thousand men,
and which of all Thy works is so fair as man? No doubt wise men will
say, 'All is for the best.' But, oh Thou God, who makest the winds to
blow, keep Thou my lord! And--would to God that these black rocks were
sunk in the deep for his sake! They slay my heart with fear."
Dorigen's friends saw that the sea brought back her sorrow. They led
her then by rivers and springs, and took her to every lovely place
they knew, from which there was no glimpse of the sea.
In the valley, to landward of the castle, lay many beautiful gardens.
One day in May, when the soft showers of spring had painted in
brightest colors the leaves and flowers, they spent the whole day in
the fairest of these gardens. They had games there, and they dined
under a spreading tree. The breath of the fresh green leaves and the
sweet scent of the flowers blew round them.
After dinner they began to dance and sing--every one except Dorigen.
She had no heart to sing, and she would not dance because, of all who
joined in the dance, not one was Arviragus. But, though she would not
dance, she watched her friends and sometimes forgot her sorrow for a
little.
Among the dancers there was a young squire named Aurelius. He was much
beloved because he was young, and strong, and handsome. Men thought
him wise and good, but he was not always wise and good.
When the dancing was over, Aurelius came up to Dorigen and asked her
to give him a beautiful jewel that she wore on her breast. He said to
her, "Madam, of what use is thy jewel to thee when thou wearest it on
thy bosom? Give it to me, and I will share with thee the price of it."
Dorigen turned and gazed at him.
"Is this what thou dost wish? I knew not what thou didst mean when
thou didst look at me, but now I know. Listen, this is all I have to
say to thee. I shall never part with my jewel, not though I were in
rags and without food."
Then she remembered how Arviragus had loved to see her wear her jewel,
as she always did, on a chain of gold that he had given to her on her
wedding day. She thought of the sea that separated him from her, and
of the cruel black rocks, and said in play:
"Aurelius, I will freely give thee my jewel when thou dost remove
every rock on the shore from end to end of Brittany."
Then her anger at the selfishness of Aurelius rose again, and she bade
him begone.
"Madam," he said, "it is impossible to move the rocks."
With that word he turned away, and went home to his own house. There
his brother Austin found him in a trance, for Aurelius wished
Dorigen's jewel more than he wished anything else on earth, and the
thought that he could not get it made him so sad that he became dazed.
Austin carried him to bed, and tried to soothe him in his grief and
vexation.
The jewel that Aurelius wished to get from Dorigen was no common one.
It had been given to her at her birth. It was clear as crystal, but
far more rare, and it shone in the daylight like the sun. When Dorigen
was a little child her mother told her of this wonderful stone. She
told her that it would bring her joy and peace and the love of all who
were good and true, if she kept it bright and pure; but that, if she
ever gave it away, she would lose her youth and her beauty, and would
be hidden away from all her friends and left alone in the world.
Dorigen shuddered at the thought of parting with her jewel. She did
not know how her mother's words could come to pass, if she did give it
away, nor by what magic power she could be so lost that no one who
loved her could find her again. But she was sure that what her mother
had said must be true.
And that was why Dorigen was so angry with Aurelius. She knew that he
must have heard what sorrow she would suffer if she gave him her
jewel, for all the court knew the story of the wonderful stone.
Not long after this, Arviragus came home. He had won more honor than
before, and was now the very flower of chivalry. I cannot tell you how
great the joy was, with which he greeted Dorigen, nor how soon she
forgot her fears of the sea and the grisly rocks.
For two years, while they lived a joyful life together, Aurelius lay
in bed unable to rise, with no one to take care of him except his
brother Austin. This brother mourned over Aurelius in secret and wept
at his unhappy fate, till one day he remembered a book of magic that
he had seen when he was a student in Orleans. In that book he had read
of the strange ways in which Magicians can make things seem what they
are not. His heart leapt up. He said to himself, "My brother shall be
cured. I am sure I have heard of stranger things than that the rocks
should seem to vanish. Once I heard of a Magician who made every one
believe that a great brown barge was rowing up and down a sheet of
water inside the hall of a castle! If he could do that, then surely we
shall be able to find a Magician who will make those black rocks seem
to vanish. Then Dorigen will have to keep her promise and give
Aurelius her wonderful jewel."
Austin then ran to his brother's room and told him about the book of
magic at Orleans. No sooner had Aurelius heard him than he leapt out
of bed. In less time than one would think possible he was ready to
start on the long ride to Orleans.
When they came near the city they met a Magician. They knew him to be
a Magician because of the strange look in his eyes, and because of his
curious dress. When they rode up to him he bowed before them and
wished them "Good day." Then he began to tell them why they had come
to Orleans. Aurelius wondered how it was that this stranger knew so
much about him and his errand. He thought he must be a very wise man
indeed, and leaping from his horse in surprise and joy, he went home
with the Magician to his house. His brother went too.
The house was the finest that Aurelius had ever seen. When he entered
the study he looked in wonder at the rows of books that lined the
walls, and at the quaint pictures and the strange old armor.
In one corner a curious light burned. It was not like the light of a
lamp or of a candle, but cold and blue. Above it hung a map of the
stars, and other strange drawings. Below the light stood a table, and
on it lay a great book which was chained to the wall.
Austin saw Aurelius look at this book. He whispered to him, "It is the
same book from which I read long ago."
This corner with its blue light made Aurelius frightened. A shudder
passed over him when he saw the Magician cross over into the circle of
the light and wave his wand.
In a moment Aurelius forgot all about the Magician and his own fear,
for he and his brother saw before them the edge of a forest with a
park stretching from the trees far, far away.
The sun shone, and the branches waved a little in the breeze. In the
park the brothers saw herds of deer. Beautiful animals they were, with
the highest antlers deer ever had. At first the deer fed in peace and
safety. Then archers, clad in green, came to the edge of the forest.
They glided out and in among the trees to see where they could best
take aim with their arrows. When the archers had let their arrows fly,
hounds broke out from behind them, and soon there was not one living
deer of all the herd left in sight.
In a moment a calm river flowed where the park had been. In the
shallow water at the river's edge tall herons stood. They watched for
the little fishes that swam in the river. Again, into this quiet place
a hunter came. He had no arrows. He had no dogs. But on his wrist he
had an iron bracelet to which one end of a chain was fastened. The
other end of the chain was round a hawk's foot, and the hawk sat on
his master's wrist. When the hunter came near the river he loosed the
chain from the bird's foot. The hawk flew over the river and swooped
down among the herons. In a moment they had all vanished.
Aurelius had scarcely time to sigh, when the river itself was gone,
and a plain lay where it had been. There he saw the knights of King
Arthur's Table jousting. Beautiful ladies sat and watched the
struggle, and one more fair than all held the prizes the knights might
win.
Then the figures of the knights began to grow dim and uncertain. The
plain changed into a great hall where knights and ladies danced.
Everything was bright and sparkling. Mirrors lined the walls, and
their cut edges flashed back the light that fell on them. As Aurelius
watched the dance, he started. There, before him, more beautiful than
ever, was Dorigen. His heart gave a great leap, for, as he watched
her, he saw that she no longer wore her jewel. In his delight he
swayed to the music of the dance. Clap! clap! went the Magician's
hands, and all was gone.
The great room that had seemed so splendid to Aurelius when he entered
it, looked cold and plain now when he returned to it from fairyland.
The Magician called his servant and asked for supper. Then he led the
brothers away and feasted them royally.
After supper the three men began to talk about what the Magician
should get from Aurelius if he made the rocks vanish. The Magician
said, "I cannot take less than a thousand pounds, and I am not sure if
I can do it for that!" Aurelius was too delighted to bargain about
what the cost would be. He said gladly: "What is a thousand pounds? I
would give thee the whole round world, if I were lord of it. The
bargain is made. Thou shalt be paid in full. But do not delay. Let us
start to-morrow morning without fail."
"Thou mayest count on me to-morrow," said the Magician.
They went to bed, and Aurelius slept soundly and well; because of the
hope he had that the Magician would make the rocks vanish.
Next morning they rose early. It was Christmas time, and the air was
cold and frosty as they rode away. The very sunlight was pale, and the
trees were bare. When they reached home the neighbors gathered round
and wished them a Merry Christmas. "Noel, Noel," they said, but they
would not have done so had they known what sorrow the riders brought
to their beautiful lady Dorigen.
For many days the Magician worked with his maps and figures. Aurelius
waited impatiently. There was nothing for him to do except to make the
Magician as comfortable as he could, and to show him as much kindness
as possible.
One morning Aurelius looked from his window towards the sea. He saw
the Magician standing on the shore. As Aurelius gazed out to sea, the
rocks vanished from north to south. His heart stood still. Then he
rushed out and away to the edge of the cliffs for fear some rocks
might still lie close to the land. But no, there was not one.
He went to meet the Magician and fell at his feet with the words,
"Thanks to thee, my lord, thanks to thee, my cares are gone!"
After he had thanked the Wise Man, he hurried away to meet Dorigen.
When he saw her he trembled. She was so pure and beautiful. His heart
sank. Then he looked out to sea and saw the smooth surface of the
water, and he grew selfish again.
Dorigen came quietly on. She had not noticed that the rocks had
vanished, for Arviragus was safe on land, and she did not fear the sea
any more. She had almost forgotten Aurelius and his selfish, greedy
words. It was more than two years since she had seen him, and she had
not heard of him since then.
She started back when he greeted her. Before she had time to speak he
said, "My lady, give me thy jewel."
He saw Dorigen's face grow cold and angry, and said, "Think well lest
thou break thy word, for, madam, thou knowest well what thou didst
say. In yonder garden in the month of May thou didst promise to give
me thy jewel when I should move the rocks. I speak to save thine
honor. I have done as thou didst command me. Go thou and see if thou
wilt, but well I know the rocks are vanished."
He left her then. She stood still, white and sick. She had never
dreamt that such a trap as this could close on her.
"Alas," she said, "that such a thing could happen! I never thought a
thing so strange and unheard-of could come to pass!"
Home she went in sadness and dismay. She was so weak with fear that
she could scarcely walk. She had to suffer her sorrow alone for three
days, for Arviragus was away, and she would tell no one but him. Her
ladies saw her distress, but they could not comfort her. To herself
she moaned, "Alas, O Fortune, I lay the blame on thee; thou hast so
bound me in thy chain, that I see no help nor escape save only in
death."
Arviragus came home on the third day after the rocks had vanished. He
came at night, so he noticed nothing strange about the shore. Though
every one was talking of the curious thing that had happened, no one
liked to tell him. They knew he would not like to hear of it. He would
think his country was bewitched.
Arviragus looked for Dorigen in the hall. When he could not see her
there, he hurried to her room, to make sure that she was safe and
well. As he sprang up the broad staircase, the sheath of his sword and
the spurs at his heels clanked harshly on the stone steps.
Dorigen heard him, but, instead of going to meet him, she buried her
head deeper in her cushions and wept. Arviragus crossed the room to
where she sat, and knelt before her. He drew her hands from her eyes
and said, "Dorigen, what is it? Why dost thou weep like this, my
beloved?"
For a little time Dorigen's tears only fell the faster, then she said
brokenly: "Alas, that ever I was born! I have said it! Arviragus! I
have promised!"
"What hast thou promised, my wife?"
Then Dorigen told Arviragus all that had happened; told him that she
had promised to give her jewel to Aurelius when he would take all the
rocks away.
Arviragus leapt up and went to the window. The moon had burst through
a cloud, and everything was bright and clear. He looked away north, as
Dorigen had so often looked to watch for his coming. In the moonlight
Arviragus saw the sea lie smooth and cold. His eyes swept the skyline.
It seemed as as if all the rocks had sunk into his heart, it was so
heavy.
He turned towards Dorigen, and saw how great was her sorrow.
Then he said very gently: "Is there aught else than this, that thou
shouldst weep, Dorigen?"
"Nay, nay, this is indeed too much already," she sighed.
"Dear wife," he said, "something as wonderful as the sinking of the
rocks may happen to save us yet. God grant it! But whether or not,
thou must keep thy troth. I had rather that my great love for thee
caused me to die, than that thou shouldest break thy promise. Truth is
the highest thing that man may keep."
Then his courage broke down, and he began to sob and weep along with
Dorigen.
Next morning he was strong and brave again. He said to Dorigen, "I
will bear up under this great sorrow."
He bade her farewell, and she set out with only a maid and a squire to
follow her.
Arviragus could not bear to see Dorigen as she went down from the
castle, so he hid himself in an inner room. But some one saw her go
out. It was Aurelius. For three days he had watched the castle gate to
see what she did, and where she went. He came forward and said,
"Whither goest thou?"
Dorigen was almost mad with misery, but she said bravely, "To thee, to
keep my troth, and give my jewel to thee, as my husband bids me. Alas!
alas!"
Aurelius was full of wonder when he heard this. He began to be sorry
for Dorigen, and for Arviragus the worthy knight, who would rather
lose his wife than have her break her word. He could be cruel no
longer.
"Madam," he said, "say to thy lord Arviragus that since I see his
great honor and thy sad distress, I had rather bear my own sorrow than
drive thee away from him and all thy friends. I give thee back thy
promise. I shall never trouble thee more. Farewell, farewell! thou
truest woman and best that I have ever seen."
Down on her knees, on the roadway, fell Dorigen to thank Aurelius. Her
blessing followed him as he turned and left her.
But how can I tell of Dorigen's return? She seemed to be treading on
air. When she reached the room where her husband sat with his head
sunk on his arms, she paused. She had not known the greatness of his
love till then. He looked old and forlorn after the night of sorrow.
She spoke, and he raised his eyes to gaze on her, as if she had been a
lady in a dream. But when she told him all, when he knew that she was
there herself, and for always, he could not speak for joy.
Aurelius wished he had never been born when he thought of the thousand
pounds of pure gold that he owed to the Magician.
He said to himself, "What shall I do? I am undone! I must sell my
house and be a beggar. I will not stay here and make my friends
ashamed of me, unless I can get the Magician to give me time. I will
ask him to let me pay him part of my debt year by year till all is
paid. If he will, my gratitude will know no bounds, and I will pay him
every penny I owe."
With a sore heart he went to his coffer and took out five hundred
pounds of gold. These he took to the Wise Man, and begged him to grant
him time to pay the rest.
"Master," said he, "I can say truly, I never yet failed to keep a
promise. My debt shall be paid to thee, even if I go begging in rags.
But if thou wilt be so gracious as to allow me two years, or three, in
which to pay the, rest, I will rejoice. If not, I must sell my house;
there is no other way."
When the Magician heard this he said, "Have not I kept my promise to
thee?"
"Yes, certainly, well and truly!"
"Hast thou not thy jewel?"
"No, no," said Aurelius, and sighed deeply.
"Tell me, if thou mayest, what is the cause of this?"
"Arviragus in his honor had rather die in sorrow and distress than
that his wife should break her word. Dorigen would rather die than
lose her husband and wander alone on the earth. She did not mean to
give me her promise. She thought the rocks would never move. I pitied
them so much that I gave her back her promise as freely as she brought
her jewel to me. That is the whole story!"
The Magician answered, "Dear brother, you have each behaved nobly.
Thou art a squire, he is a knight, but by God's grace I can do a noble
deed as well as another. Sir, thou art free from thy debt to me, as
free as if thou hadst this moment crept out of the ground, and hadst
never known me till now. For, sir, I will not take a penny from thee
for all my skill, nor for all my work. It is enough! Farewell! Good
day to thee!"
Whereupon the Magician bowed once and again, mounted his horse, and
rode away.
Dorigen and Arviragus were walking on the cliffs as the Magician
parted from Aurelius. They noticed the two men, and when the horseman
rode away they saw a strange white mist rise from the sea and follow
the rider.
Dorigen caught her husband's arm, for there, there, out at sea, and
close by the cliffs, were the rocks, grisly and black and fearsome as
before. The sunlight fell on her jewel, and it shone more brightly
than of old, nor did its light ever grow dim in all the happy years
that followed.
II
EMELIA
Emelia the Radiant lived in a great castle in Athens.
Hippolyta, Emelia's sister, had once been queen of the Warrior Women,
and had led her armies to battle. But Emelia had never fought in these
battles. When she was still a child, Duke Theseus of Athens had fought
with Hippolyta and conquered her. Instead of sending his royal captive
to prison, Theseus married her, and took her home to Athens with him.
When he took her there, he took Emelia with her. He was very kind to
them both, and the castle in Athens was a happy home for Hippolyta and
her little sister.
As Emelia grew up she became most beautiful. She was more graceful
than a lily on its stem, and the flush on her cheeks was more delicate
than the hue of the rose-petals in the old Greek castle garden. Her
golden hair fell in heavy masses round her face, and lay in a great
plait down her back. It caught all the light that fell on it, and sent
it out again to make glad the hearts of those who looked on her. So
men called her Emelia the Radiant, and all who met her smiled for joy
at the sight of so beautiful a maid.
One May morning Emelia went into the castle garden to bathe her face
in the early dew. Everything was dim and gray in the twilight. She
looked up at the great dungeon tower which overshadowed the garden,
and thought of the two young princes who were prisoners there. Duke
Theseus had brought them from Thebes. He was very proud of them, and
would not give them up, although the people of their land offered to
give him gold and jewels for their ransom. The princes were cousins,
and were the last of the royal line of Thebes. In the stillness Emelia
murmured their names to herself, "Palamon and Arcite, Palamon and
Arcite. How miserable they must be in their narrow cell!" she thought.
Then she sighed that life should be so sad for them while it was so
bright for her!
As she roamed up and down and gathered roses white and red to make a
garland for her hair, the sun broke through the mist and shone into
the garden. Once more she raised her eyes to the tower. This time she
did not look at it, but at the sunlit clouds beyond. The light from
the east fell on her. Her hair shone like gold, and her face was
radiant with happiness.
Palamon at that moment came to the narrow iron-barred window through
which alone he and his cousin could see the sky and the fields and the
city. He saw the morning light fall on the fair buildings of Athens,
and on the plains and hills beyond. Then a glad song which burst from
Emelia's happy heart floated up to him. He looked down. Before him
stood the maiden bathed in sunlight.
She seemed to him the very Spirit of Beauty. He thought of all the joy
and life and freedom that he could never have. He started back from
the window and cried aloud.
His cousin Arcite sprang from his couch and said, "My cousin, what
aileth thee? I pray thee that thou bear our imprisonment in patience.
Sad it is in truth, but we must abide it. We can do nought else."
But Palamon said: "Thou art mistaken. Prison walls drew not that cry
from me. An arrow hath entered my heart through mine eye, and I am
wounded. What life can give is bound up for me in the fairness of a
maiden who roams in yonder garden. Be she Spirit or woman I know not!
But this I know, was never woman nor Spirit half so fair before."
"Spirit of Beauty," he cried, "if thou choosest to take the form of a
radiant woman here before me in this garden, pity my wretchedness!
Save us from this prison, and if that may not be, have pity on our
country and help our fallen friends."
Arcite pressed forward and leant over Palamon's shoulder. The window
was only a narrow slit, and the wall through which it was cut was
thick, so it was not easy for Arcite to see into the garden. At last
he caught a glimpse of Emelia.
"Oh, how lovely she is!" he said. "I shall die of my wish to serve
her. Most beautiful of maidens she is, truly."
When Palamon heard this, he turned on Arcite, looked coldly at him and
asked, "Sayest thou so in earnest or in jest?"
"Nay, truly in earnest, my cousin; I have little will to jest!"
Palamon looked fiercely at him and said, "Little honor to thee then!
Hast thou forgotten thine oath of truest brotherhood to me, and mine
to thee? Hast thou forgotten thy promise to help me in all I do? How,
then, canst thou dream of claiming to love my lady? This thou shalt
not do, false Arcite! I loved her first, and told thee, and thou must
help me to win her if ever we escape. Thine honor demands this of
thee. Otherwise thou art no true knight."
But Arcite drew himself up scornfully and said, "Rather it is thou
that art false! A moment ago thou didst not know whether she were
maiden or Spirit! I loved her first for what she is, and told thee as
my brother! But even if thou hadst loved her first, could I, because
of that, refuse to love the fairest of maidens? Besides, why should we
strive? Thou knowest too well that thou shalt never win her smile, nor
yet shall I! These prison walls so thick and black leave no hope for
us. We fight as did the fabled dogs for the bone. They fought all day,
yet neither won. There came a kite while they raged, and carried off
the bone. Love thou the maid if thou wilt. I shall love her till I
die."
The prison had been narrow and bare and cold before, but now it seemed
ten times more dismal. The world from which it shut them in was so
much more sweet because of the maiden who dwelt there, and the
friendship for each other which had cheered them through many evil
days was broken.
But Emelia the Radiant sang her gay songs and stepped lightly among
the flowers, with never another thought of the weary eyes that watched
her.
One day the greatest friend that Duke Theseus of Athens had, came to
see him. This friend had known Arcite in Thebes, and had loved the
handsome boy. He begged Theseus to forgive him, and to let him go
free. Theseus was glad to find something he could do to please his
dear friend, so one morning he took him with him to the prison where
Palamon and Arcite were. The attendants could scarcely follow, for the
royal robes filled all the dingy little space! A streak of light from
the window fell on the Duke's mantle and his jewels. They looked
strangely bright in that dark room beside the faded clothes of the two
young prisoners.
Arcite and the friend of Theseus greeted each other joyously, and the
heart of Arcite beat wildly with hope, but when he heard the words of
Theseus the Duke it sank like lead.
"Arcite," said he, "by the desire of my friend, I grant to thee thy
freedom. I grant it on one condition only. Thou must wander away far
beyond my kingdom. If ever thou art seen for one moment on any
furthest corner of my land, that moment shall be thy last. By the
sword thou shalt die."
Homeward to Thebes sped Arcite with a sad heart.
"Woe is me for the day that I was born!" he moaned; "woe is me that
ever I knew the friend of Theseus! Had he not known me, I might even
now be gazing on the maiden I serve, from the window in the Duke's
tower. Ah, Palamon, thou art the victor now! Day by day thou gazest on
her, and kind fortune may grant to thee thy freedom and her favor
while I am banished for ever! Ah, why do we complain against our
fortune? We know that we seek happiness, but know not the road
thither! Think how I dreamt and longed for freedom, and thought that
if I were only out of prison my joy would be perfect. Behold, my
freedom is my banishment, and my hope my undoing!"
As for Palamon, when he saw that Arcite was gone, he made the great
tower walls re-echo with his howls of misery. The very fetters on his
ankles were wet with his salt tears.
"Alas," he groaned, "Arcite, my cousin, thou hast borne off the prize
in this strife of ours! Thou walkest now at liberty in Thebes. Little
thou thinkest of me and of my sorrow! Strong thou art, and wise.
Doubtless thou art even now gathering together the people of Thebes to
invade this land and win the sister of the Duke for thy wife, while I
die here in this prison like a caged lion. The prison walls heed my
weeping and my wailing not at all."
He could not even rejoice in the sight of Emelia when she walked in
the garden, so fearful was he lest Arcite should win her.
Meanwhile Arcite passed his days in Thebes in grief. He wandered about
alone, and wailed and made moan to himself. He cared not to eat, and
sleep forsook him. His spirits were so feeble that the sound of music
brought fresh tears to his eyes. He grew gaunt and thin, and his voice
was hollow with sadness.
At last, when he was nearly dazed with sorrow, he dreamt one night
that a beautiful winged boy with golden curls stood before him. "Go
thou to Athens," said the boy; "the end of all thy sorrow awaits thee
there!"
Arcite started up wide awake and said, "I will to Athens, to my lady.
It were good even to die in her presence."
He caught up a mirror. He had not cared to look in one for many
months, but now that he meant to return to his lady, he wished to see
if he looked strong and young as ever. At first he was shocked to see
how great a change had passed over his face. Then he thought, "If I do
not say who I am, I may live unknown in Athens for years. Then I shall
see my lady day by day."
Quickly he called to him a squire, and told him all his will, and
bound him to keep his name a secret and to answer no questions about
himself or his master. Then Arcite sent his squire to find clothes
such as the laborers in Athens wore. When he returned, Arcite and he
put on the clothes and set out by the straight road to Athens.
In Athens no one took any notice of the two poor men.
Before they came to the castle the squire left his master and found a
house to live in, where he could do Arcite's bidding at any time. But
Arcite hurried on to the courtyard gate. There he waited till the
master of the servants who waited on Emelia came out. Then he said to
him, "Take me, I pray thee, into thy service. Drudge I will and draw
water, yea, and in all thou dost command I will obey."
The master of the servants asked Arcite what was his name.
"Philostrate, my lord," said Arcite, and as "Philostrate" he entered
that part of the castle where Emelia's home was.
He could hew wood and carry water well, but he was not long left to do
such rough work. The master of the house saw that whatever he trusted
to Philostrate's care was rightly done, so he gave him less humble
work to do, and made him a page in the house of Emelia. The lords and
ladies of the castle began to notice what a gentle and kind page this
Philostrate was. They spoke to Theseus about him, and said that he
deserved to have a higher place that he might show his goodness and
courage in knightly deeds. To please them, Theseus made him one of his
own squires.
Seven years passed away, and Palamon was still in prison. This year,
however, in the May-time, a friend of his, who heard where he was,
helped him to escape. During the short night he fled as fast as he
could, but when the early dawn began to break he strode tremblingly to
a grove of trees, that he might hide there all day. When the darkness
fell once more he meant to go on again to Thebes, there to gather his
old armies to make war on Theseus. He wished either to win Emelia or
to die. He cared little for his life if he might not spend it with
her.
As Palamon lay beside a bush in the grove, he watched the sunbeams
drying up the dew drops on the leaves and flowers near him, and
listened to the joyous song of a lark that poured forth its welcome to
the morning.
The same lark that Palamon heard awakened Arcite. He was now the chief
knight in the Duke's house, and served him with honor in peace and
war. He sprang up and looked out on the fresh green fields. Everything
called to him to come out. He loosed his horse from the stall and
galloped over hill and dale. He came to the edge of a grove, and tied
up his steed to a tree. Then he wandered down a woodland path to
gather honeysuckle and hawthorn to weave a garland for himself. Little
he thought of the snare into which he was walking. As he roamed he
sang--
"O May, of every month the queen,
With thy sweet flowers and forests green,
Right welcome be thou, fair fresh May."
The grove was the one in which Palamon lay beside a pool of water.
When he heard the song of Arcite, cold fear took hold on him. He did
not know that it was Arcite who sang, but he knew that the horse must
belong to a knight of the court, and he crouched down to the ground
lest he should be seen and taken back to prison.
Soon Arcite's joyous mood passed away, and he grew sorrowful. He
sighed and threw himself down not far from the spot where Palamon lay.
"Alas, alas!" said Arcite, "for the royal blood of Thebes! Alas that I
should humbly serve my mortal enemy! Alas that I dare not claim my
noble name, but must be known, forsooth, as Philostrate, a name worth
not a straw! Of all our princely house not one is left save only me
and Palamon, whom Theseus slays in prison. Even I, free though I am,
am helpless to win Emelia. What am I to her but an humble squire?"
Palamon was so angry when he heard this, that he forgot his own
danger. He started out from his hiding-place and faced Arcite.
"False Arcite," he cried, "now art thou caught indeed! Thou hast
deceived Duke Theseus and hast falsely changed thy name, hast thou?
Then surely I or thou must die. I will suffer no man to love my lady,
save myself alone. For I am Palamon, thy mortal foe. I have no weapon
in this place, for only last night did I escape from prison. Yet I
fear thee not. Thou shalt die, or thou shalt cease to love my lady.
Choose as thou wilt!"
Then Arcite rose up in his wrath and drew his sword. He said, "Were it
not that thou art ill and mad with grief, and that thou hast no
weapon here, thou shouldest never step from where thou standest. I
deny the bond thou claimest! Fool! how can I help thee to win the lady
I fain would wed myself? But because thou art a worthy knight and a
gentle, and art ready to fight for thy lady, accept my promise.
To-morrow I will not fail to wait for thee here without the knowledge
of any other. Also I will bring armor and weapons for thee and me, and
thou shalt choose of them what thou wilt, ere I arm myself! Food and
drink will I bring to thee this night into the grove. If so be that
thou slay me here to-morrow, then indeed thou mayest win thy lady if
thou canst!"
Then Palamon answered, "Let it be so."
Next morning Arcite rode to the wood alone. He met Palamon on the
woodland path where the flowers he had gathered the day before lay
withered on the ground. No word nor greeting passed between them, but
each helped to arm the other in silence. As the buckles were tightened
and the armor slipped into its place, the color came and went in the
faces of the two princes. They deemed that this would be the last of
all fights to one of them.
When they were ready they fenced together for a little, and then the
real fight began. So fierce was it that the men seemed like wild
animals in their rage. Palamon sprang at Arcite like a strong lion,
and Arcite glanced aside and darted at him again like a cruel tiger.
In the midst of this they heard a sound of the galloping of horses
that brought the royal hunters to the spot. In a moment the sword of
Theseus flashed between the fighters, and his voice thundered out,
"Ho! no more, on pain of death. Who are ye who dare to fight here
alone, with none to see justice done?"
The princes turned and saw Theseus, Duke of Athens. Behind him rode
Hippolyta with her sister, Emelia the Radiant, and many knights and
ladies.
Palamon answered the Duke's question swiftly, before Arcite had time
to speak. "Sire, what need of words? Both of us deserve death. Two
wretches are we, burdened with our lives. As thou art a just judge,
give to us neither mercy nor refuge, but slay us both. Thou knowrest
not that this knight, Philostrate, is thy mortal foe, whom thou hast
banished. He is Arcite, who hath deceived thee for that he loveth
Emelia. And I too love her. I too am thy mortal foe, for I am Palamon,
and I have broken from my prison. Slay us then, here before fair
Emelia."
"That is easily granted," said Theseus. "Ye judge yourselves. Ye shall
die."
Then the queen began to weep, and Emelia too. They were sad to think
that these two princes should die so young, and all for the service
they wished to do to the queen's sister.
The other ladies of the court begged the Duke to forgive the fighters.
"Have mercy, sire," they urged, "on us women, and save the princes!"
At first Theseus was too angry to listen to them, but soon he thought
that he would have done as the princes had done, if he had been in
their place, so he said, "Arcite and Palamon, ye could both have lived
in peace and safety in Thebes, yet love has brought you here to Athens
into my power, who am your deadly foe. Here then for the sake of
Hippolyta, my queen, and of Emelia the Radiant, our dear sister, I
forgive you both. Promise never to make war on my land, but to yield
me your friendship evermore." Joyfully the princes promised this, and
thanked the Duke for his grace.
Then Theseus said, "Both of you are noble. Either might wed Emelia the
Radiant, but she cannot wed you both. Therefore I appoint a tournament
in this place a year hence. Come here then, ye Princes of Thebes, each
of you, with a hundred knights of the bravest, and that one of you,
who shall slay or capture the other, he shall wed Emelia."
Whose face could be brighter than was Palamon's when he heard those
words, and who could step more lightly than did Arcite? Every one
thanked the Duke for his kindness to the princes, while they rode off
to Thebes with high hopes and light hearts.
When the day of the tournament came, great buildings stood in a circle
on the plain beside the grove. Within them stretched an immense arena
in which the knights must fight. Great marble gates opened on to the
space at either side.
Palamon and Arcite found it easy to bring a hundred knights to Athens.
So splendid were the preparations for the tournament that every one
was eager to fight in it.
Emelia alone was sad as the day of the fighting came nearer. Her
maidens heard her say, "Oh that I might not wed at all! I love the
free life of the woods. I love to hunt, and to ride, and to roam. Why
cannot Palamon and Arcite love each other as they used to do long ago,
and leave me free?"
On the morning of the tournament Duke Theseus and his queen sat with
Emelia on a high seat overlooking the lists. When the trumpet sounded,
Arcite and his knights rode in through the western gate. His red
banner shone bright against the white marble pillars. At the same
moment Palamon entered from the east, and his white banner floated out
against the blue sky.
Soon the heralds ceased galloping up and down, and the whole space was
left to the warriors.
The trumpets sounded "Advance," and the fray began. Through the bright
sunshine they fought, advancing here, and beaten back there, till at
last Palamon was hurled from his horse and taken prisoner.
The trumpets sounded, and all stood still while Theseus called out,
"Ho! no more. All is over. Arcite of Thebes khall wed Emelia." Then
the people shouted till it seemed that the great marble gates would
fall.
In the eagerness of the fight Emelia had begun to like the warriors
who fought for her, and her liking grew ever stronger as they showed
their worth. When Arcite rode towards her with glowing face she was
proud of him, and leant forward to welcome him gladly.
But as he galloped, his horse started aside and he was thrown to the
ground. He was too much hurt to rise. So he was lifted by his knights
and carried to the palace. There he was cared for in every way, but
nothing could save him.
Before he died, he called for Emelia and Palamon.
"No words can tell the sorrow I bear because I must leave thee, my
lady! Alas, death tears me from thee! Farewell, my wife! farewell, my
Emelia! Ah, take me softly in thine arms, and listen while I speak!
For years I have had strife with my dear cousin Palamon. Yet now I say
to thee, in all this world I never have met with one so worthy to be
loved as Palamon, that hath served thee, and will serve thee, his life
long. Ah, if ever thou dost wed, let it be Palamon!"
His voice began to fail. "Emelia!" he said, and died.
Emelia mourned sadly for her valiant knight. As for Palamon, all his
old love for Arcite came back, and he wept for him as bitterly as he
had bewailed his own sorrow in the dungeon.
When all the Greeks had ceased to mourn for Arcite, Palamon still
grieved for the death of his friend, and for the strife that had been
between them.
After two years Theseus sent one day for Palamon and Emelia. Palamon
came to the court in his black robes of mourning; but Emelia was
dressed in white, as she had been on the May morning in the garden
years before. She had ceased to mourn for Arcite, and was Emelia the
Radiant once more.
Palamon caught his breath. He had not seen her since they parted after
Arcite's death.
Duke Theseus said, "Sister, I desire thee now to take the noble knight
Palamon to be thy husband. Have pity on his long service, and accept
him."
Then he said to Palamon, "It will not need much speech to gain thy
consent! Come, take thy lady by the hand."
Then, in the presence of all the court, they were wed. When all was
over, Emelia fled from the noise and tumult of the hall, and beckoned
to Palamon to follow. Out at the great hall doors she led him, and
down the pathway to the garden beneath the tower. When he joined her,
she pointed to the dungeon window, and told him of the day when she
had looked at the prison in the morning mist, and murmured to herself
the names of the captive princes, "Palamon and Arcite, Palamon and
Arcite."
But it was not till many years of joyous life had passed over their
home that Palamon told Emelia that he had seen her first on that very
morning when she had thought so sadly of his misery.
III
GRISELDA
Once upon a time there lived a fair young girl whose name was
Griselda. Her home was in an Italian village. There she dwelt in a
lowly cottage with her father, Janicola. He was too old and weak to
work for her, or even for himself.
All round the village lay the fruitful fields and vineyards of the
plain, and on the slopes near grew olive-trees laden with fruit. Far
in the distance rose the snow-capped mountains of the North.
Even in so rich a land it was not easy for this young Griselda to make
her father's life as pleasant as she would have wished it to be. She
lived plainly and barely. She was busy all day long. Now she was
herding a few sheep on the broken ground near the village, and
spinning as she watched her flock. Again she fetched the water from
the well or gathered roots and herbs from which to make drugs.
Griselda was not unhappy though her life was hard, because she was so
glad that she could serve her father and show her love to him,
forgetting about herself and her own wishes.
One day as she sat watching her sheep her eyes fell on the white
towers of a castle that stood not far from the village where she
lived. It was the castle of the Marquis Walter, who was lord of all
that land. Griselda looked kindly at the white towers. She thought
that their master was the best and greatest man in the world. She knew
that he was kind also, and courteous. When she saw him ride towards
her, her face lighted up, and she rose to courtesy to him. She hoped
he would draw up his horse beside her, and greet her, and ask for her
father Janicola.
This morning, as she looked at the castle, she saw a company of men
hurrying along the road that led to its gate. Farmers were there in
dull and homely clothes, and knights in armor that flashed back the
sunlight, and lords in gay colors that glanced and gleamed among the
olive-trees under the blue Italian sky.
Griselda knew why they were going to Lord Walter, and she wondered
what they would do and say when they reached him. She could not go
after them, for her sheep would have wandered away if she had left
them.
When the men that Griselda had watched reached the courtyard gate,
they met Lord Walter. He was on horseback ready for the hunt. The
foremost of the company prayed him to grant them a little time that
they might tell him why they had come.
Lord Walter threw the reins to a squire, and led his people into the
great hall of the castle. There he seated himself in state to listen
to their grievance whatever it might be.
Then the same man who had spoken before said to him:
"Noble Marquis, thy generous kindness in times past giveth us courage
to come before thee. Truly, sire, thou and all thou dost art so dear
to us that, save in one thing, we cannot wish for better fortune than
to live under thy government. One thing alone disturbs the peace of
thy faithful people. Though thou art young and strong, yet age creeps
on! Time flies and waits for no man. Death threatens young and old
alike. We pray thee, sire, that thou wilt wed, for if swift death
should lay thee low ere a son be born to thee, then alack for us and
for our children! In the power of a stranger then would lie our fair
lands and even our lives. Grant us this boon, noble Marquis, and, if
thou wilt, we will choose for thee a wife. Noble shall she be, and
good, so that thou shalt have honor and gladness in thy wedding."
Then the Marquis said:
"My people, loyal and true, ye ask of me that which I thought not to
grant, for the free life of the forest and the hunt pleaseth me well.
Yet will I do this thing that ye desire. Only to me myself must fall
the choice of her whom I will wed. On you I lay this command that, be
she who she may, yet shall ye honor her as if she were an Emperor's
daughter through all her life. Nor shall ye raise one word against the
maiden of my choice. Unless ye agree to this, I will not wed!"
Gladly the people promised. But ere they left the Marquis, they begged
him to fix a day for the marriage lest he should put off too long. The
Marquis granted their request, and farmers, knights, and lords trooped
joyfully home.
When the morning of the day that was fixed for the wedding came, the
castle of the Marquis was gaily decorated. Flags floated out from the
towers, and garlands trailed over the doorway and the gate. Within in
the great hall a royal feast was spread, and there lay royal robes and
gems.
In the courtyard and on the terraces lords and ladies stood in groups.
Wonder and doubt were on every face. The wedding-feast was prepared,
the guests were come, but there was no bride.
A trumpet sounded "to horse," and all was hurry and noise. Then Lord
Walter rode out through the castle gate. He was followed by bearers,
who carried the beautiful robes and gems that had lain in the hall.
They rode out by the same road along which Griselda had watched the
people go to ask the Marquis to wed, many months before. Now she saw
the bridal train ride down from the castle. "Ah," she said, "they ride
this way to fetch the bride. I shall work more busily than ever to-day
that I may be free to stand and watch Lord Walter's fair bride as the
riders return with her to the castle!"
Then she went to the well to fetch water. When she came back she found
Lord Walter at her father's door. In the narrow lane beside the
cottage stood lords and ladies, while their horses impatiently pawed
the ground.
Quickly Griselda set her pitcher in a trough near the cottage door,
and knelt before the Marquis to hear his will.
"Where is thy father?" Lord Walter asked.
"Close at hand, my Lord," said Griselda, and went to bring him without
delay.
"My faithful servant," said Lord Walter to the old man, "grant me thy
daughter for my wife!"
Janicola knew not what to say for surprise. At last he answered, "My
will is thine! Do as thou wilt, my own dear Lord!"
"Then must I ask Griselda if she will be my wife; but stay thou by us.
Thou shalt hear her answer."
Griselda was amazed. She did not know what the meaning of Lord
Walter's visit was, and when she stood before him her face was full
of fear. Her wonder was very great when she heard him say:
"Griselda, I am come for thee. Thee only will I wed. Thy father also
is willing. But ere thou tell me whether or no thou wilt be my bride,
listen to the demand I make. Art thou ready to obey me in everything,
and to let me do to thee evil or good as I will without so much as
turning to me a frowning face?"
This seemed a strange request to Grisdda, but she loved and trusted
Lord Walter so truly that she said:
"Lord, I am not worthy of this honor. Verily in all things thy will
shall be mine. Life is sweet, but I will die rather than displease
thee."
"Enough, Griselda!" he said.
Then Lord Walter turned to the courtiers and the people of the village
who had gathered round:
"Behold my wife! Let all show their love to me by the honor and love
they bear to her."
The ladies of the court were commanded to take off Griselda's old
clothes and to array her in the costly robes they had brought with
them. They did not like to touch the poor soiled clothes she wore, nor
to move about in the little cottage with their sweeping gowns; but the
gentleness of Griselda made it pleasant to help her. They caught up
Griselda's royal robes with great clasps of gold set with gems, and
put a crown on her beautiful hair.
She came out and stood in the low doorway, where she had so often
stood before. But now the people scarcely knew her: she looked so fair
in her new robes and with the love-light shining in her eyes.
Lord Walter did not wait till he reached the castle. He was married to
Griselda at her father's cottage door. The villagers gathered round
and gazed at the simple wedding. They saw Lord Walter put a great ring
on Griselda's finger, and lift her on to a milk-white steed. Then they
led her with joy towards the castle. Wedding-bells rang out gladly
across the plain, and ever as the wedding-party drew near to the white
towers with their floating flags, happy bands of people came to meet
and welcome Griselda.
Very soon the fame of Lord Walter's beautiful wife spread through the
land. Nor was it only for her beauty that men praised her. Gracious
she was and wise, able to rule her home, and to bend fiery spirits to
her will.
From all the countryside men came to her in trouble. Every one
rejoiced in the good fortune that had come to their land, and some
even called her an angel from heaven come to right all wrong.
After some time a daughter was born to Griselda. Then she thought she
was the happiest woman in the world. She thought of the care that she
would give her child as she grew up, and of Lord Walter's delight in
his little daughter when the time should come that she could talk and
ride with him.
But before the baby was a year old, all Griselda's dreams were broken.
Lord Walter said to himself, "It is easy for Griselda to keep her
promise when I ask of her nothing that is not just and right. How can
I trust her until I know that she will obey me in everything? I wonder
whether she would be patient still if I hurt our little daughter."
These thoughts came back to his mind so often that at last he resolved
to try Griselda's patience by taking away her baby from her.
One evening Griselda was playing with her little child. The baby
laughed in her arms and looked sweeter than ever. At that moment the
curtain at the doorway was drawn aside and Lord Walter came into the
room. His face was sad and drawn, and as Griselda looked up at him she
feared that some great blow had fallen on him, or that some enemy had
entered the country.
Lord Walter said to her:
"Griselda, thou hast not forgotten the day on which I brought thee
from thy father's lowly cottage to this my castle. Although thou art
most dear to me, thou art not dear to my nobles. They say that it is
hard that they should serve one so lowly born as thou. Since thy
daughter was born they have said this more and more, I doubt not. As
thou knowest, my will is to live with my people in joy and peace.
Therefore must I do to my child not as I wish myself, but as my
nobles wish. Show then to me the obedience that thou didst promise to
show when thou wert wed in the village street."
As Griselda heard these words she made no moan. Neither did she let
the pain that caught at her heart be seen in her face. When she could
speak, she said:
"Lord, we are thine! My child is thine. I also am thine. With thine
own thou mayest ever do as pleaseth thee best."
The Marquis was full of joy because of the patience and humbleness of
Griselda; but he appeared to be sad, and left her with a troubled
face.
Soon after this, Griselda started as she heard a heavy footstep on the
stairway. Then an evil-looking man walked into the quiet room.
"Madam," he said, "I must obey my lord's will. He bids me take this
child. Thou knowest we must obey, although we may complain and mourn."
Then the soldier took the child so roughly that it seemed as if he
would kill it before her. Griselda said:
"Pray, sir, do thou suffer me to kiss my child ere it die." He gave it
back to her. Gently she gathered it in her arms. She blessed it, and
lulled it, and kissed it. Then she said in her sweet voice: "Farewell,
my child, I shall see thee never again. The blessing of Him who died
on a cross of wood for us, rest on thee. To Him I give thy soul, my
little one! To-night thou must die because of me."
To the rough soldier she said:
"Take again the child and obey my Lord. But if it please my Lord, then
of thy kindness bury thou the little body where no cruel bird nor
beast can harm it!"
But in silence the soldier carried away the child.
Then Lord Walter looked to see if Griselda would fret or be less kind
to him. He watched, but could see no change in her. She was as busy
and loving and cheerful as ever. Neither in earnest nor in play did
she name her child.
After four years a son was born to Griselda. The people were very glad
because there was now an heir to rule the land at the death of Lord
Walter. Griselda too was happy, though her heart longed for the
little maid who might have been playing with her brother.
When the boy was two years old, Lord Walter began to wish once more to
try the patience of Griselda.
This time he said to her:
"Wife, I have told thee before how ill the people bear our marriage.
Now that a son is born they are more wrathful than before. My heart is
weary with the thought of their complaints. They say, 'When Lord
Walter is gone, the grandson of Janicola shall rule us!' Therefore I
shall do with my son as I did with his sister. Be patient, I pray
thee."
"Thou art my Lord," said Griselda. "My will and my freedom lie in my
father's cottage with the poor soiled clothes I left there on the day
thou didst bring me hither. Could I know thy will before thou didst
tell it to me, it would be done, though it were death to do it. Life
cannot compare with thy love."
Lord Walter looked down to the ground. He could not look at his wife
lest he should not have heart to do as he wished.
Again the rude soldier came to Griselda. He was even harsher than
before, and carried off the child without a kind word to the patient
mother.
When the little boy was gone, the people said very bitter things about
Lord Walter. The love they had given him before was turned into hatred
because he had treated his beautiful wife so unkindly, and because he
had murdered his children.
Though Lord Walter saw this, he wished to try his wife once more. He
knew that he could send away his wife and marry another if he got a
letter from the Pope to say that he might. He sent a messenger to
Rome, where the Pope lived. This messenger was told to bring back a
letter, not from the Pope, but as like one of his as possible.
The letter came. It said that because of the anger of Lord Walter's
people at the lowly birth of his wife Griselda, the Marquis might send
her away and marry another.
The news of the letter spread throughout the land. Every one believed
that it had really come from the Pope.
Griselda's heart was very sore when she heard of this letter. But she
went on quietly with each day's work. She did not even speak of the
letter to her husband.
At last Lord Walter spoke before all his court, and with no knightly
gentleness.
"Griselda," he said, "there is no freedom in the life of one who
rules. I may not act after my own wish as any laborer on my land may
do. As thou knowest, my people hate thy presence, and demand of me
that I wed another. The Pope's letter thou hast heard. Return then,
swiftly and without complaint, to thy father's cottage, for already my
bride cometh hither."
"My Lord, it is no new thought to me, that I am unworthy to be thy
servant--far more unworthy to be thy wife. In this great house of
which thou didst make me queen, I have not acted as mistress, but only
as lowly handmaid to thee. For these years of thy kindness, I thank
thee. Gladly do I go to my father's house. There he tended me when I
was but a child. Now I will stay with him till death enters the
cottage door. To thee and to thy bride be joy. To her I willingly
yield the place where I have been so happy. Since thou, who once wert
all my joy, wilt have me go, I go!"
Lord Walter turned away in sadness. He could scarcely speak for pity,
but he held to his purpose.
Then Griselda drew her wedding-ring from her finger, and laid it down.
Beside it she put the gems that Lord Walter had given her. Her
beautiful robes she laid aside. In the simplest gown she could find,
and with head and feet all bare, Griselda went down through the olive
trees towards her father's house.
Many of Lord Walter's people followed her, weeping and bewailing the
fickleness of fortune. Griselda did not turn to them, nor speak, nor
weep. She quietly went on her way.
When the tidings reached her father, he wished that he had never been
born, so sad was he in the sorrow of his beautiful daughter. He
hastened out to meet her, and wrapped her tenderly in her old cloak,
and led her home with tears.
Griselda spoke no word of complaint, nor did she speak of her former
happiness. Once more she tended the sheep on the common. Once more she
carried water from the well. Once more she thought first of her
father.
After some weeks Lord Walter sent for Griselda. She went to the castle
and greeted him humbly as of old. She showed no grudge because of his
unkindness.
"Griselda," he said, "thou knowest, as doth no other, how all this
castle should be ordered for my pleasure. Stay thou then, and have all
in readiness for the fair young bride whom I shall wed to-morrow. It
is my will that she be welcomed royally."
"My whole desire is to serve thee, my Lord. Neither weal nor woe shall
ever make me cease to love thee with all my heart."
At once Griselda took control of all who worked in the castle. Of them
all she was the neatest and the quickest. Soon every room in the tower
was sweet and clean. The great hall was decked for the wedding-feast,
and the table glittered with silver.
Early next morning many horsemen came to the castle. Among them was a
beautiful girl dressed in a shimmering white robe. Near her rode a
charming boy younger than the maiden. Round them were many nobles, and
a guard of soldiers, who had brought them to Lord Walter's court.
The people crowded round the gates. So charmed were they with the fair
young maid, that some of them forgot their love for Griselda, and were
ready to welcome the bride whose coming caused her so much sorrow.
Still Griselda moved about the castle in her old worn clothes. She
went to the gate to welcome the bride. Then she received the guests
and greeted each of them according to his degree.
The stranger nobles wondered who Griselda could be. She was so wise
and gentle, and yet so meanly dressed.
Before the feast began, Lord Walter called Griselda to him. Then he
asked her, "What dost thou think of my wife? Is she beautiful?"
"Never have I seen a fairer," said Griselda. "Joy be with you both
evermore! But oh! I beg of thee, torment not this child as thou didst
me. She has been tenderly cared for. She could not bear what I have
borne."
When Lord Walter saw her great patience, and thought of the pain he
had caused her, his heart went out to her in great pity, and he
cried, "It is enough, Griselda; fear no more, nor be thou longer sad.
I have tried thy faith and thy sweetness, as faith and sweetness have
never before been tried."
His arms were around her, and he kissed her. Griselda looked at him in
wonder. She could not understand.
"Griselda," he said, "thou art my wife. I have no other. This is thy
daughter; her brother is my heir. Thine are they both. Take them
again, and dream not that thou art bereft of thy children."
When Griselda heard all this she fainted away in her great joy. When
she woke again she called her children to her. Timidly they came, but
soon they were caught close to her breast. While she fondled them, and
kissed them, her hot tears of joy fell on their fair faces, and on
their hair. Then she looked at Lord Walter, and said, "Death cannot
harm me now, since thou lovest me still." Then she turned back to the
children.
"Oh tender, oh dear, oh little ones, my children! Your sorrowful
mother thought that cruel dogs or other fearsome beasts had torn you!
but God has kept you safe."
Once again the ladies of the court dressed Griselda in royal robes.
Once again they set a golden crown upon her head. Once again the
wedding-ring slipped into its own place on her finger.
Ere she entered the hall of feasting again, swift messengers had
brought her old father, Janicola, to the castle, never to leave it
again.
Then Griselda sat with her children beside her husband. To her feet
came lords and nobles, peasants and farmers, eager to kiss her hand
and to show the joy they felt in her return.
Never had the walls of the castle reechoed the laughter of so glad a
people. All day long till the stars shone in the cool clear sky the
feasting went on.
For Griselda this was the first of many happy days, happier than she
had known before.
In her home sounded the gay voices of happy children as they played
with, and cared for, the old grandfather whom their mother loved so
dearly. And ever as she moved about the castle she met the eyes of
Lord Walter, that told her again and yet again that he trusted her
utterly.
THE PILGRIM'S PROGRESS
By JOHN BUNYAN
ADAPTED BY MARY MACGREGOR
As I slept I dreamed a dream. I dreamed, and behold, I saw a man
clothed with rags, standing in a certain place, with his face away
from his own house, a book in his hand, and a great burden upon his
back. I looked, and saw him open the book, and read therein, and as he
read, he wept and trembled. His fear was so great that he brake out
with a mournful cry, saying, "What shall I do?"
In this plight therefore he went home, and did all he could to hide
his distress from his wife and children. But he could not be silent
long, because his trouble increased. Wherefore at length he began to
talk to his wife and children thus: "O my dear wife," said he, "and
you my children, I am in despair by reason of a burden that lieth
heavy on me. Moreover I am for certain told that this our city will be
burned with fire from heaven, when both myself, with thee, my wife,
and you, my sweet babes, shall be ruined, except some way of escape
can be found." At this his wife and children were sore amazed, not
because they believed that what he had said to them was true, but
because they thought he must be ill to talk in so strange a way.
Therefore, as it was evening, and they hoped sleep might soothe him,
with all haste they got him to bed. But the night was as troublesome
to him as the day, wherefore instead of sleeping he spent it in sighs
and tears.
So when the morning was come, they asked him how he did. He told them,
"Worse and worse," and began to talk to them again in the same strange
manner, but they began to be careless of his words. They also thought
to drive away his fancies by harsh and rough behavior to him.
Sometimes they would mock, sometimes they would scold, and sometimes
they would quite neglect him. Wherefore he began to stay in his room
to pray for and pity them, and also to comfort his own misery. He
would also walk alone in the fields, sometimes reading and sometimes
praying, and thus for some days he spent his time.
Now I saw in my dream that when he was walking in the fields, he was
reading his book and greatly distressed in mind. And as he read, he
burst out crying, "What shall I do to be saved?" I saw also that he
looked this way and that way, as if he would run. Yet he stood still,
because, as I saw, he could not tell which way to go. I looked then,
and saw a man, named Evangelist, coming to him, who asked, "Wherefore
dost thou cry?"
He answered, "Sir, I see by the book in my hand that I am condemned to
die, and after that to be judged. And I find I am not willing to die,
nor able to be judged."
Then said Evangelist, "Why not willing to die, since in this life you
are so unhappy?"
The man answered, "Because I fear this burden will sink me lower than
the grave, and the thought of that makes me cry."
Then said Evangelist, "If this be thy fear, why standest thou still?"
He answered, "Because I know not whither to go."
So Evangelist gave him a parchment roll, and there was written within,
"Fly from the wrath to come." The man therefore read it, and looking
upon Evangelist very carefully, said, "Whither must I fly!"
Then said Evangelist, pointing with his finger over a very wide field,
"Do you see yonder Wicket-gate?"
The man said, "No."
"Well," said the other, "do you see yonder shining light?"
He said, "I think I do."
Then said Evangelist, "Keep that light in thine eye, and go up
directly thereto, so shalt thou see the gate. When thou knockest, it
shall be told thee what thou shalt do."
So I saw in my dream that the man began to run. Now he had not run far
from his own door when his wife and children, seeing it, began to cry
after him to return. But the man put his fingers in his ears, and ran
on, crying, "Life, life, eternal life!" So he looked not behind him,
but fled towards the middle of the plain. The neighbors also came out
to see him run. And as he ran some mocked, others threatened, and some
cried after him to return. Among those that did so were two that were
resolved to fetch him back by force. The name of the one was
Obstinate, and the name of the other was Pliable. Now by this time the
man was got a good distance from them, but they had made up their
minds to follow him, which they did, and in a little time overtook
him.
Then said the man, "Neighbors, wherefore are you come?"
They said, "To persuade you to go back with us."
But he said, "That can by no means be. You dwell in the City of
Destruction, the place where I was born. Be content, good neighbors,
and go along with me."
"What!" said Obstinate, "and leave our friends and our comforts behind
us!"
"Yes," said Christian, for that was his name.
"What do you seek, since you leave all the world to find it?" said
Obstinate.
"I seek a treasure that never fades away. It is laid up in heaven and
is safe there," said Christian. "Read it so, if you will, in my book."
"Tush!" said Obstinate, "away with your book. Will you go back with us
or no?"
"No, not I," said the other, "because I have just set out."
"Come then, Neighbor Pliable, let us turn again and go home without
him."
Then said Pliable, "If what the good Christian says is true, the
things he looks after are better than ours. My heart makes me wish to
go with him. But, my good Christian, do you know the way you are
going?"
"I am directed by a man, whose name is Evangelist, to speed me to a
little gate that is before us, where we shall be told about the way."
"Come then, good neighbor," said Pliable, "let us be going." Then they
went both together.
"And I will go back to my place," said Obstinate. "I will be no
companion of such mistaken and foolish fellows."
Now I saw in my dream that when Obstinate was gone back, Christian and
Pliable went talking over the plain. "I will tell you what my book
says of the country to which we are going, and of the people we shall
meet there," said Christian.
"But do you think the words of your book are certainly true?" said
Pliable.
"Yes," said Christian, "for it was written by Him who cannot lie."
"Well," said Pliable, "tell me about this country."
"In this country," said Christian, "we shall live for ever. There are
crowns of glory to be given us, and garments that will make us shine
like the sun."
"This is excellent," said Pliable; "and what else?"
"There shall be no more crying nor sorrow, for He that is the Owner of
the place will wipe all tears from our eyes," said Christian.
"And what companions shall we have there?" asked Pliable.
"There we shall be with those that will dazzle your eyes to look on.
There also you shall meet with thousands and tens of thousands that
have gone before us to that place. None of of them are hurtful, but
loving and holy. In a word, there shall we see some with their golden
crowns, there we shall see maidens with golden harps, there we shall
see men that here were cut in pieces, burnt in flames, eaten by
beasts, and drowned in the seas, all for the love they bare to the
Lord of this place. Now they are all well, and clothed with beautiful
garments."
And as Pliable heard of the excellence of the country and of the
company to which they were going, he said, "Well, my good companion,
glad I am to hear of these things. Come on, let us go with more
speed."
"I cannot go as fast as I would by reason of this burden that is on my
back," said Christian.
Now I saw in my dream that just as they ended their talk, they drew
nigh to a bog that was in the midst of the plain, and they being
heedless did both fall suddenly into it. The name of this bog was the
Slough of Despond. Here therefore they struggled for a time, being
grievously covered with dirt. And Christian, because of the burden
that was on his back, began to sink in the mire. Then said Pliable,
"Ah, Neighbor Christian, where are you now?"
"Truly," said Christian, "I do not know."
At this Pliable began to be offended, and said angrily, "Is this the
happiness you have told me of all this while? If I get out again with
my life, you shall possess the wonderful country alone."
And with that he gave a desperate struggle or two, and got out of the
mire on that side of the bog which was next to his own house. So away
he went, and Christian saw him no more. Wherefore Christian was left
to tumble in the Slough of Despond alone. But still he tried to
struggle to that side of the Slough that was further from his own
house, and next to the Wicket-gate. But he could not get out because
of the burden that was upon his back.
And I beheld in my dream that a man came to him, whose name was Help,
and asked him what he did there. "Sir," said Christian, "I was bid to
go this way by a man called Evangelist, who directed me also to yonder
gate, and as I was going thither I fell in here."
"Why did you not look for the steps?" said Help.
"I was so full of fear," answered Christian, "that I fled the next way
and fell in."
Then said Help, "Give me thy hand." So Christian gave him his hand,
and he drew him out and set him upon sound ground, and bid him go on
his way.
Now in my dream I stepped up to the man that plucked Christian out,
and said:
"Sir, wherefore, since over this place is the way from the City of
Destruction to the Wicket-gate, is it that this Slough is not mended,
that poor travelers might go over in more safety?"
And he said to me, "This place cannot be mended, yet it is not the
pleasure of the King that it should remain so bad. His laborers also
have for more than sixteen hundred years been employed on this patch
of ground, in the hope that it might perhaps be mended. There has
been swallowed up here twenty thousand cartloads of the best material
in the attempt to mend the place. But it is the Slough of Despond
still; and still will be so, when they have done all they can. It is
true that there are some good and strong steps even through the very
midst of this mire. But men through the dizziness of their head miss
the steps and so tumble into the mire, but the ground is good when
they have once got in at the gate."
Then I saw in my dream that by this time Pliable was got home to his
house. So his neighbors came to visit him, and some of them called him
wise man for coming back, and some called him fool for going with
Christian. Others again did mock at his cowardliness, saying, "Surely
since you began to go, you need not have been so base as to have given
out for a few difficulties." So Pliable sat like a coward among them.
Now as Christian was walking alone, he espied one afar off, come
crossing over the field to meet him. The gentleman's name was Mr.
Worldly Wiseman. He dwelt in a very great town, close by the one from
which Christian came. This man, then, meeting with Christian, began
thus to enter into some talk with him: "How now, good fellow, whither
are you going in this burdened manner?"
"A burdened manner indeed," said Christian. "I am going, sir, to
yonder Wicket-gate before me, for there, I am told, I shall be put
into a way to be rid of my heavy burden."
"Hast thou a wife and children?" asked Mr. Worldly Wiseman.
"Yes, but I am so laden with this burden that I cannot take that
pleasure in them as formerly."
"Will you hearken to me if I give thee counsel?"
"If it be good, I will, for I stand in need of good counsel."
"I would advise thee, then, that thou with all speed get thyself rid
of thy burden, for thou wilt never be contented till then."
"That is what I seek for, even to be rid of this heavy burden, but get
it off myself I cannot, nor is there any man living in our country who
can take it off my shoulders. Therefore I am going this way, as I told
you, that I may be rid of my burden."
"Who bid thee go this way to be rid of thy burden?"
"A man that appeared to me a very great and honorable person. His
name, as I remember, is Evangelist."
"He has given thee foolish counsel. There is not a more dangerous and
troublesome way in the world than is that unto which he hath directed
thee. Thou hast met with some danger already, for I see the mud of the
Slough of Despond is upon thee. Hear me, I am older than thou. Thou
art likely to meet with, in the way which thou goest, painfulness,
hunger, nakedness, sword, lions, dragons, darkness, and death."
"Why, sir, this burden upon my back is more terrible to me than all
these things."
"But why wilt thou seek for ease this way, seeing so many dangers
attend it? Hadst thou but patience to listen, I could direct thee how
to get what thou desirest, without the danger that thou in this way
wilt run thyself into."
"Sir, I pray that thou wilt tell me this secret."
"Why, in yonder village there dwells a gentleman, who is very wise,
and who has skill to help men off with burdens like thine from their
shoulders. To him thou mayest go to be helped at once. His house is
not quite a mile from this place, and if thou dost not desire to go
back to the City of Destruction, as indeed I would not wish thee, thou
mayest send for thy wife and children to come to thee to this village.
There are houses now standing empty, one of which thou mayest have
without great cost. Food is there also, cheap and good, and what will
make thy life the more happy is, that thou shalt live beside honest
neighbors, in respect and comfort."
Now the Christian puzzled, but he thought, "If what Mr. Worldly
Wiseman says is true, my wisest plan is to take his advice."
"Sir," said Christian, "which is my way to this honest man's house?"
"Do you see yonder high hill?"
"Yes, very well."
"By that hill you must go, and the first house you come to is his."
So Christian turned out of his way to go to the house for help. But
behold, when he was now close to the hill, it seemed so steep, and
also that side of it that was next the wayside did hang so much over,
that Christian was afraid to venture farther, lest the hill should
fall on his head. Wherefore he stood still, and knew not what to do.
Also his burden now seemed heavier to him than while he was in his
way. There came also flashes of fire out of the hill, that made
Christian afraid that he should be burned. Here therefore he did quake
for fear. And now he began to be sorry that he had taken Mr. Worldly
Wiseman's counsel. Then he saw Evangelist coming to meet him, at the
sight also of whom he began to blush for shame. So Evangelist drew
nearer and nearer, and coming up to him, he looked upon him with a
severe and dreadful countenance.
"What dost thou here, Christian?" said he. At which words Christian
knew not what to answer, wherefore at first he stood speechless before
him. Then said Evangelist, "Art not thou the man I found crying
without the walls of the City of Destruction?"
"Yes," said Christian, "I am the man."
"Did I not direct thee the way to the little Wicket-gate?"
"Yes," said Christian.
"How is it, then, that thou art so quickly turned out of the way?"
"I met with a gentleman as soon as I had got over the Slough of
Despond, who told me that in yonder village I might find a man who
could take off my burden."
"What was he like?"
"He looked like a gentleman, and talked much to me, and got me at last
to believe his words. So I came hither, but when I beheld this hill
and how it hangs over the way, I suddenly stood still lest it should
fall on my head."
"What said that gentleman to you?"
"Why, he asked me whither I was going, and if I had a wife and
children, and he bid me make speed to get rid of my burden. And I
said, 'I am going to yonder gate to be told how I may get rid of it.'
"So he said he would show me a better and a shorter way, and not so
full of difficulties as the way that you directed me. But when I came
to this place, I stopped for fear of danger, and now I know not what
to do!" So Christian stood trembling before Evangelist.
Then said Evangelist, "Give heed to the things I shall tell thee. Mr.
Worldly Wiseman sought to turn thee out of the way and to bring thee
into danger. In yonder village has no man ever yet got rid of his
burden, nor is he ever likely to lose it there. Therefore, Mr. Worldly
Wiseman and his friend are deceivers, and cannot help thee."
After this there came words and fire out of the mountain under which
Christian stood. Now Christian looked for nothing but death, and began
to cry out, saying he would he had never met Mr. Worldly Wiseman or
that he had never listened to him. Then he turned to Evangelist and
said, "Sir, what do you think? Is there any hope? May I now go back
and go up to the Wicket-gate? Or shall I be sent back from the gate
ashamed? I am sorry I have listened to this man's counsel, but may my
sins be forgiven?"
Evangelist said to him, "Thy sin is very great. Thou hast left the
good way and walked in forbidden paths. Yet will the man at the gate
receive thee, for he has good will for men. Only," said he, "take heed
that thou turn not aside again."
Then did Christian prepare to go back. And Evangelist, after he had
kissed him, gave him one smile, and bid him Godspeed. So Christian
went on with haste, neither spake he to any man by the way. Even if
any one spoke to him, he would not venture an answer. He walked like
one that was all the while treading on forbidden ground, and could by
no means think himself safe, till again he had got into the way which
he had left to follow Mr. Worldly Wiseman's counsel. So in process of
time Christian got up to the gate. Now over the gate there was
written, "Knock, and it shall be opened unto you." He knocked
therefore more than once or twice. At last there came a grave person
to the gate, named Good-will. He asked who was there, and whence he
came, and what he desired.
"I am a sinner," said Christian; "I come from the City of Destruction,
but am going to Mount Zion. I am told that by this gate is the way
thither, and I would know if you are willing to let me in."
"I am willing with all my heart," said Good-will, and he opened the
gate. So when Christian was stepping in, the other gave him a pull.
"Why do you do that?" said Christian.
Then Good-will told him, "A little distance from this gate a strong
castle has been built, of which Beelzebub is the captain. And he and
those that are with him shoot arrows at those that come up to this
gate, hoping they may die before they enter in."
So when Christian had come in, Good-will asked him who had directed
him to the gate.
"Evangelist bid me come here and knock, as I did. And he said that
you, sir, would tell me what I must do."
Then Good-will said, "Come a little way with me, good Christian, and I
will teach thee about the way thou must go. Look before thee; dost
thou see this narrow way? That is the way thou must go, and it is as
straight as a rule can make it. This is the way thou must go."
"But," said Christian, "are there no turnings, nor windings, by which
a stranger may lose his way?"
"Yes, there are many ways join this, but they are crooked and wide.
Thou mayest know the right from the wrong way, for the right way is
always strait and narrow."
Then I saw in my dream that Christian asked him if he could not help
him off with his burden that was upon his back. For as yet he had not
got rid of it, nor could he get it off without help. But Good-will
said, "Thou must be content to bear it, until thou comest to a place
where stands a Cross, for there it will fall from thy back of itself."
Then Christian be |
