 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information and to find out how you can volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. THE ADVENTURE OF THE DIING DETECTIVE by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle Mrs. Hudson, the landlady of Sherlock Holmes, was a long-suffering woman. Not only was her first floor flat invaded at all hours by throngs of singular and often undesirable characters, but her remarkable lodger showed an eccentricity and irregularity in his life which must of sorely tried her patience. His incredible untidiness, his addiction to music at strange hours, his occasional revolver practice within doors, his weird and often malodorous scientific experiments, and the atmosphere of violence and danger which hung around him made him the very worst tenant in London. On the other hand, his payments were princely. I have no doubt that the house might have been purchased at the price which Holmes paid for his rooms during the years that I was with him. The landlady stood in the deepest awe of him and never dared to interfere with him, however outrageous his proceedings might seem. She was fond of him, too, for he had a remarkable gentleness and courtesy in his dealings with women. He disliked and distrusted the sex, but he was always a chivalrous opponent. Seeing how genuine was her regard for him I listened earnestly to her story when she came to my rooms in the second year of my married life, and told me the sad condition to which my poor friend was reduced. "'He's dying, Dr. Watson,' said she. For three days he has been sinking, and I doubt if he will last the day. He would not let me get a doctor. This morning, when I saw the bones sticking out of his face and his great bright eyes looking at me, I could stand no more of it. "'With your lever without it, Mr. Holmes, I am going for a doctor this very hour,' said I. "'Let it be Watson, then,' said he. "'I wouldn't waste an hour in coming to him, sir. Or you may not see him alive.' I was horrified, for I had heard nothing of his illness. I need not say that I rushed from my coat in my hat. As I drove back I asked for the details. There is little I can tell you, sir. He has been working at a case down at Rother Hith, in an alley near the river, and he has brought this illness back with him. He took to his bed on Wednesday afternoon and has never moved since. For those three days neither food nor drink passed his lips. "'Good God! Why did you not call in a doctor?' He wouldn't have it, sir. You know how masterful he is. I don't dare to disobey him. But he's not long for this world, as you'll see for yourself the moment you set eyes on him.' He was indeed a deplorable spectacle. In the dim light of a foggy November day the sick room was a gloomy spot, but it was a gaunt, wasted face, staring at me from the bed which sent a chill to my heart. His eyes had the brightness of fever. There was a hectic flush upon either cheek, and dark crusts clung to his lips. The thin hands upon the coverlet twitched incessantly. His voice was croaking and spasmodic. He lay listlessly as I entered the room. But the sight of me brought a gleam of recognition to his eyes. "'Well, Watson, we seem to have fallen upon evil days,' said he in a feeble voice. But with something of his old carelessness of manner. "'My dear fellow!' I cried, approaching him. "'Stand back! Stand right back!' said he with a sharp imperviousness, which I had associated only with moments of crisis. If you approach me, Watson, I shall order you out of this house. But why? Because it is my desire. Is that not enough?' "'Yes, Mrs. Hudson was right. He was more masterful than ever. It was pitiful, however, to see his exhaustion. I only wish to help,' I explained. "'Exactly. You will help best by doing what you are told.' "'Certainly, Holmes.' He relaxed the austerity of his manner. "'You are not angry,' he asked, gasping for breath. "'Poor devil! How could I be angry when I saw him lying in such a plight before me?' "'It's for your own sake, Watson,' he croaked. "'For my sake!' "'I know what is the matter with me. It is a coolly disease from Sumatra, a thing that the Dutch knew more about than we, though they have made little of it up to date. One thing only is certain. It is infallibly deadly, and it is horribly contagious. He smoke now with a feverish energy, the long hands twitching and jerking as he motioned me away. Contagious by touch, Watson, that's it, by touch. Keep your distance, and all is well.' "'Good heavens, Holmes! Do you suppose that such a consideration weighs with me of an instant?' It would not affect me in the case of a stranger. Do you imagine it would prevent me from doing my duty to soul the friend?' Again I advanced, but he repulsed me with a look of furious anger. If you will stand there, I will talk. If you do not, you must leave the room. I have so deep a respect for the extraordinary qualities of Holmes, that I have always deferred to his wishes, even when I least understood them. But now all my professional instincts were aroused. Let him be my master elsewhere. I at least was in a sick room. "'Holmes,' said I. "'You are not yourself. A sick man is but a child, and so I will treat you. Whether you like it or not, I will examine your symptoms and treat you for them.' He looked at me with venomous eyes. "'If I am to have a doctor, whether I will or not, let me at least have someone in whom I have confidence,' said he. "'Then you have none in me. In your friendship, certainly. But facts are facts, Watson, and after all you are only a general practitioner with very limited experience and mediocre qualifications. It is painful to have to say these things, but you leave me no choice. I was bitterly hurt. Such a remark is unworthy of you, Holmes. It shows me very clearly the state of your own nerves. But if you have no confidence in me, I would not intrude my services. Let me bring Sir Jasper Meek, or Penrose Fisher, or any of the best men in London. But someone you must have—and that is final. If you think that I am going to stand here and see you die without either helping you myself or bringing in anyone else to help you, then you have mistaken your man.' "'You mean well, Watson,' said the sick man, with something between a sob and a groan. Shall I demonstrate your own ignorance? What would you know, pray, of Tapa Newly Fever? Would you know of the black Formosa corruption? I have never heard of either. There are many problems of disease, many strange pathological possibilities in the East, Watson. He paused to reach sentence to collect his failing strength. I have learned so much more during recent researches which have a medical criminal aspect. It was in the course of them that I contracted this complaint. You can do nothing.' "'Possibly not. But I happen to know that Dr. Ainstree, the greatest living authority upon tropical disease, is now in London. All remonstrance is useless, Holmes. I am going this instant to fetch him. I turned resolutely to the door. Never have I had such a shock. In an instant, with a tiger spring, the dying man had intercepted me. I heard the sharp snap of a twisted key. The next moment he had staggered back to his bed, exhausted and panting, after one tremendous outflame of energy. He won't take the key from me by force, Watson. I've got you, my friend.' Here you are, and here you will stay until I will otherwise. But I'll humor you. You've only my own good at heart. Of course I know that very well. You shall have your way, but give me time to get my strength. Not now, Watson. Not now. It's four o'clock. At six you can go. This is insanity, Holmes. Only two hours, Watson. I promise you will go at six. Are you content to wait? I seem to have no choice. None in the world, Watson. Thank you. I need no help in arranging the clothes. You will please keep your distance. Now, Watson, there is one other condition that I would make. You will seek help, not from the man you mention, or from the one that I choose, by all means. The first three sensible words that you've uttered, since you entered this room, Watson. You will find some books over there. I am somewhat exhausted. I wonder how a battery feels when it pours electricity into a non-conductor. At six, Watson, we resume our conversation. But it was destined to be resumed long before that hour, and in circumstances which gave me a shock, hardly second to that caused by spring to the door. I had stood for some minutes looking at the silent figure in the bed. His face was almost covered by the clothes and he appeared to be asleep. Then, unable to settle down to reading, I walked slowly around the room, examining the pictures of celebrated criminals with which every wall was adorned. Finally, in my aimless preambulation I came to the mantelpiece, a litter of pipes, tobacco pouches, syringes, pen knives, revolver cartridges, and other debris was scattered over it. In the midst of these was a small black and white ivory box with a sliding lid. It was a neat little thing, and I had stretched out my hand to examine it more closely, when it was a dreadful cry that he gave, a yell which might have been heard down the street. My skin went cold, and my hair bristled at that horrible scream. As I turned, I caught a glimpse of the convulsed face and frantic eyes. I stood paralyzed with the little box in my hand. Put it down, down this instant, Watson, this instant, I say. His head sank back upon the pillow, and he gave a deep sigh of relief as I replaced the box upon the mantelpiece. I hate to have my things touched, Watson. You know that I hate it. You fidget me beyond endurance. You, a doctor, you are enough to drive a patient into an asylum. Sit down, man, and let me have my rest. The incident left a most unpleasant impression upon my mind. The violent and causeless excitement, followed by this brutality of speech, so far removed from his usual suavity, showed me how deep was the disorganization of his mind. Of all runes, that of a noble mind is the most deplorable. I sat in silent ejection until the stipulated time had passed. He seemed to have been watching the clock as well as I, for it was hardly six before he began to talk with the same feverish animation as before. Now Watson, said he, have you any change in your pocket? Yes. Any silver? A good deal. How many half-crowns? I have five. Ah, too few. Too few. How very unfortunate, Watson. However, such as they are, you can put them in your watch pocket, and all the rest of your money in your left trouser pocket. Thank you. It will balance you so much better like that. This was raving insanity. He shuddered, and again made a sound between a cough and a sob. You will now light the gas, Watson, but you will be very careful that not for one instant shall it be more than half-on. I implore you to be careful, Watson. Thank you. That is excellent. No, you need not draw the blind. Now you will have the kindness to place some letters and papers upon this table within my reach. Thank you. Now some of that litter from the mantelpiece. Excellent, Watson. There is a sugar tongs there. Kindly place that small ivory box with its assistance. Place it here among the papers. Good. You can now go and fetch Mr. Culverton Smith of Thirteen Lower Burke Street. To tell the truth, my desire to fetch a doctor had somewhat weakened, for poor Holmes was so obviously delirious that it seemed dangerous to leave him. However, he was as eager now to consult the person named as he had been obstinate in refusing. I never heard the name, said I. Possibly not, my good Watson. It may surprise you to know that the man upon earth who is best versed in this disease is not a medical man, but a planter. Mr. Culverton Smith is a well-known resident of Sumatra, now visiting London. An outbreak of the disease upon his plantation, which was distant from medical aid, caused him to study it himself, with some rather far-reaching consequences. He is a very methodical person, and I did not desire you to start before six, because I was well aware that you would not find him in his study. If you could persuade him to come here and give us the benefit of his unique experience of this disease, the investigation of which has been his dearest hobby, I cannot doubt that he could help me. I gave Holmes's remarks as a consecutive whole, and will not attempt to indicate how they were interrupted by gaspings for breath, and those clutchings of his hands which indicated the pain from which he was suffering. His appearance has changed for the worse during the few hours that I had been with him. Those hectic spots were more pronounced. The eyes shone more brightly out of darker hollows, and a cold sweat glimmered upon his brow. He still retained, however, the jaunty gallantry of his speech. To the last gasp he would always be the master. You will tell him exactly how you left me, said he. You will convey the very impression which is in your mind, a dying man, a dying and delirious man. Indeed, I cannot think why the whole bed of the ocean is not one solid mass of oysters. So prolific the creatures seem. Ah, I am wondering. Strange how the brain controls the brain. What was I saying, Watson? My directions for Mr. Culverton Smith. Ah, yes, I remember. My life depends upon it. Plead with him, Watson. There is no good feeling between us, his nephew, Watson. I had suspicions of foul play, and I allowed him to see it. The boy died horribly. He has a grudge against me. You will soften him, Watson. Beg him, pray him, get him here by any means. He could save me. Only he. I will bring him in a cab if I have to carry him down to it. You will do nothing of the sort. You will persuade him to come. And then you will return in front of him. Make any excuse so as not to come with him. Don't forget, Watson. You won't fail me. You never did fail me. No doubt there are natural enemies which limit the increase of the creatures. You and I, Watson, we have done our part. Shall the world then be overrun by oysters? No, no. Horrible. You'll convey all that is in your mind. I left him full of the image of this magnificent intellect babbling like a foolish child. He had handed me the key, and with a happy thought I took it with me lest he should lock himself in. Mrs. Hudson was waiting, trembling and weeping, in the passage. Behind me, as I passed from the flat, I heard Holmes's high, thin voice and some delirious chant. Below, as I stood whistling for a cab, a man came on me through the fog. How is Mr. Holmes, sir, he asked. It was an old acquaintance, Inspector Morton, of Scotland Yard, dressed in unofficial tweeds. He is very ill, I answered. He looked at me in a most singular fashion. Had it not been too fiendish, I could have imagined that the gleam of the fan-light showed exultation in his face. I heard some rumour of it, said he. The cab had driven up, and I left him. Lower Burke Street proved to be a line of fine houses lying in the vague borderland between Notting Hill and Kensington. The particular one, at which my cab-man pulled up, had an air of smug and demure respectability in its old-fashioned iron railings, its massive folding door, and its shining brasswork. All was in keeping with a solemn butler, who appeared framed in the pink radiance of a tinted electrical light behind him. Yes, Mr. Culverton Smith is in. Dr. Watson, very good, sir, I will take up your card. My humble name and title did not appear to impress Mr. Culverton Smith. Through the half-open door I heard a high, petulant, penetrating voice. Who is this person? What does he want? Dear me, Staples, how often have I said that I am not to be disturbed in my hours of study? There came a gentle flow of soothing explanation from the butler. Well, I won't see him, Staples. I can't have my work interrupted like this. I am not at home. Say so. Tell him to come in the morning, if he really must see me. Again the gentle murmur. Well, well, give him that message. He can come in the morning, or he could stay away. My work must not be hindered. I thought of Holmes tossing upon his bed of sickness and counting the minutes, perhaps, until I can bring help to him. It was not a time to stand upon ceremony. His life depended upon my promptness. Before the apologetic butler had delivered his message I had pushed past him and was in the room. With a shrill cry of anger, a man rose from a reclining chair beside the fire. I saw a great yellow face, coarse-grained and greasy, with heavy double chin, and two solid menacing grey eyes which glared at me from under tufted and sandy brows. A high bald head had a small velvet smoking cap posed coquettishly upon one side of its pink curve. The skull was of enormous capacity, and yet as I looked down I saw to my amazement that the figure of the man was small and frail, twisted in the shoulders and back like one who has suffered from rickets in his childhood. What's this? he cried in a high screaming voice. What is the meaning of this intrusion? Didn't I send you word that I would see you tomorrow morning? I'm sorry, said I. But the manner cannot be delayed, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. The mention of my friend's name had an extraordinary effect upon the little man. The look of anger passed in an instant from his face. Features became tense and alert. Have you come from Holmes? He asked. I've just left him. What about Holmes? How is he? He's desperately ill. That is why I have come. The man motioned me to a chair, and turned to resume his own. As he did so I caught a glimpse of his face in the mirror over the masterpiece. I could not have sworn that it was set in a malicious and abominable smile. Yet I persuaded myself that it must have been some nervous contraction which I had surprised, for he turned to me an instant later with genuine concern upon his features. I'm sorry to hear this, said he. I only know Mr. Holmes through some business dealings which we have had. But I have every respect for his talents and his character. He is an amateur of crime, as I am of disease. For him the villain, for me the microbe. There are my prisons, he continued, pointing to a row of bottles and jars which stood upon a side-table. Among those gelatin cultivations some of the very worst offenders in the world are now doing time. It was an account of your special knowledge that Mr. Holmes desired to see you. He has a high opinion of you, and thought that you were the one man in London who could help him. The little man started, and the jaunty smoking-clap slid to the floor. Why? he asked. Why should Mr. Holmes think that I could help him in his trouble? Because of your knowledge of Eastern diseases. But why should he think that this disease he has contracted is Eastern? Because in some professional inquiry he has been working among Chinese sailors down in the docks. Mr. Culverton Smith smiled pleasantly, and picked up his smoking-cap. Oh, that's it. Is it?" said he. I trust the matter is not so grave as you suppose. How long has he been ill? About three days. Is he delirious? Occasionally. That sounds serious. It would be inhuman not to answer his call. I very much resent any interruption to my work, Dr. Watson. But this case is certainly exceptional. I will come with you at once. I remembered Holmes's injunction. I have another apartment, said I. Very good. I will go alone. I have a note of Mr. Holmes's address. You can rely upon my being there within half an hour, at most. It was with a sinking heart that I re-entered Holmes's bedroom. For all that I knew the worst might have happened in my absence. To my enormous relief he had improved greatly in the interval. His appearance was as ghastly as ever. But all trace of delirium had left him, and he spoke in a feeble voice. It was true. But even more than his usual Christmas and Lucidity. Well, did you see Watson? Yes, he is coming. Admirable, Watson. Admirable. You are the best of messengers. He wished to return with me. That would never do, Watson. That would be obviously impossible. Did he ask what hailed me? I told him about the Chinese in the East End. Exactly. Well, Watson, you have done all that a good friend could. You can now disappear from the scene. I must wait and hear his opinion, Holmes. Of course you must. But I have reason to suppose that this opinion would be very much more frank and valuable if he imagines that we are alone. There is just room behind the head of my bed, Watson. My dear Holmes, I fear there is no alternative, Watson. The room does not lend itself to concealment, which is as well, as it is the less likely to arouse suspicion. But just there, Watson, I fancy that it could be done. Suddenly he sat up with a rigid intentness upon his haggard face. There are the wheels, Watson. Quick, man, if you love me, and don't budge, whatever happens, whatever happens, do you hear? Don't speak. Don't move. Just listen with all your ears. Then in an instant his sudden axis of strength departed, and his masterful purposeful talk droned away into the low, vague murmurings of a semi-delirious man. From the hiding-place into which I had been so swiftly hustled, I heard the footfalls upon the stair, with the opening and the closing of the bedroom door. Then, to my surprise, there came a long silence, broken only by the heavy breathings and gaspings of the sick man. I could imagine that our visitor was standing by the bedside and looking down at the suffering. At last that strange hush was broken. Holmes! he cried. Holmes! in the insistent tone of one who awakens a sleeper. Can't you hear me, Holmes? There was a rustling, as if he had shaken the sick man roughly by the shoulder. Is that you, Mr. Smith? Holmes whispered. I hardly dared hope that you would come. The other laughed. I could imagine not, he said, and yet you see I am here. Calls of fire, Holmes. Calls of fire. It is very good of you, very noble of you. I appreciate your special knowledge. Our visitor sniggered. You do. You are fortunately the only man in London who does. Do you know what is the matter with you? The same. Ah! you recognize your symptoms. Only too well. Well, I shouldn't be surprised, Holmes. I shouldn't be surprised if it were the same. A bad look out for you if it is. Poor Victor was a dead man on the fourth day. A strong, hearty young fellow. Give us certainly, as you said, very surprising that you should have contracted and out of the way Asiatic disease in the heart of London, a disease too of which I made such a very truly special study. Singular coincidence Holmes. Very smart of you to notice it, but rather uncharitable to suggest that it was cause and effect. I knew that you did it. Oh, you did, did you? Well, you couldn't prove it anyhow. But what do you think of yourself spreading reports about me like that, and then crawling to me for help the moment you are in trouble? What sort of game is that, eh? I heard the rest being labored breathing of the sick man. Give me the water. You're precious near your end, my friend. But I won't want you to go until I have had a word with you. That's why I give you water. Then don't slop it about. That's right. Can you understand what I say? Holmes groaned. Do what you can for me. Let bygones be bygones, he whispered. I'll put the words out of my head. I swear I will. Only cure me, and I'll forget it. Forget what? Well, about Victor Savage's death. You go as good as admitted just now that you had done it. I'll forget it. You can forget it or remember it just as you like. I don't see you in the witness box. Quite another shaped box, my good Holmes, I assure you. It matters nothing to me that you should know how my nephew died. It's not him we are talking about. It's you. Yes, yes. The fellow who came for me—I've forgotten his name—said that you contracted it down in the East End among the sailors. I can only account for it so. You are proud of your brains, Holmes. Are you not? Think yourself smart, don't you? You came across someone who was smarter this time. Now cast your mind back, Holmes. Can you think of no other way you could have gotten this thing? I can't think. My mind is gone. For heaven's sake, help me. Yes, I will help you. I'll help you to understand just where you are and how you got there. I'd like to know, before you die, give me something to ease my pain. Painful, is it? Yes, the Coolies used to do some squealing towards the end. Takes you as cramp, I fancy. Yes, yes, it is cramp. Well, can hear what I say anyhow. Listen now. Can you remember any unusual incident in your life just about the time your symptoms began? No. No. Nothing. Think again. I'm too illeth to think. Well then, let me help you. Did anything come by post? By post. A box by chance? I'm fading. I'm gone. Listen, Holmes. There was a sound as if he was shaking the dying man. And it was all that I could do to hold myself quiet in my hiding-place. You must hear me. You shall hear me. Do you remember a box, an ivory box? It came on Wednesday. You opened it. Do you remember? Yes, yes, I opened it. There was a sharp spring inside it, some joke. It was no joke, as you will find to your cost. You fool! You would have it, and you have got it. Who asked you to cross my path? If you have left me alone, I would not have hurt you. I remember, Holmes gasped, the spring. It drew blood. This box. This on the table. The very one by George. And it may as well leave the room in my pocket. There goes your last shred of evidence. But you have the truth now, Holmes. And you could die with the knowledge that I killed you. You knew too much of the fate of Victor Savage, so I have sent you to share it. You are very near the end, Holmes. I will sit here and I will watch you die. Holmes' voice had sunk to an almost inaudible whisper. What is that? said Smith. Turn up the gas. Ah, the shadows began to fall. Do they? Yes, I will turn it up, that I may see you the better. He crossed the room and the light suddenly brightened. Is there any other little service that I can do for you, my friend? A match and a cigarette. I nearly called out in my joy and my amazement. He was speaking in his natural voice. A little weak, perhaps, but the very voice I knew. There was a long pause and I felt that Culverton Smith was standing in silent amazement looking down at his companion. What's the meaning of this? I heard him saying at last in a dry, rasping tone. The best way of successfully acting apart is to be it, said Holmes. I gave you my word that for three days I have tasted neither food nor drink until you were good enough to pour me out that glass of water. But it is the tobacco which I find most irksome. Ah, here are some cigarettes. I heard the striking of a match. This is very much better. Aloha! Aloha! Do you hear the step of a friend? There were footfalls outside. The door opened and Inspector Morton appeared. All is in order, and this is your man, said Holmes. The officer gave the usual cautions. I arrest you on the charge of the murder of one Victor Savage. And you might add of the attempted murder of one Sherlock Holmes, replied my friend with a chuckle. To save an invalid trouble, Inspector, Mr. Culverton Smith was good enough to give our signal by turning up the gas. By the way, the prisoner has a small box in the right hand pocket of his coat, which it would be as well to remove. Thank you. I would handle it gingerly, if I were you. Put it down there. It may play its part in the trial. There was a sudden rush and a scuffle, followed by the clash of iron and a cry of pain. You'll only get yourself hurt, said the Inspector. Stand still, will you? There was the click of the closing handcuffs. A nice trap! cried the high snarling voice. It will bring you into the dark, Holmes, not me. He asked me to come here to cure him. I was sorry for him, and I came. Now he will pretend, no doubt, that I have said anything which he may invent which will corroborate his insane suspicions. You can lie as you like, Holmes. My word is always as good as yours. Good heavens! cried Holmes. I had totally forgotten him. My dear Watson, I owe you a thousand apologies, to think that I should have overlooked you. I need not introduce you to Mr. Culverton Smith, since I understand that you met somewhat earlier in the evening. Have you the cab below? I will follow you when I am dressed, for I may be of some use at the station. I never needed it more, said Holmes, as he refreshed himself with a glass of claret and some biscuits in the intervals of his toilet. However, as you know, my habits are irregular, and such a feat means less to me than to most men. It was very essential that I should impress Mrs. Hudson with the reality of my condition, since she was to convey it to you, and you in turn to him. You won't be offended, Watson. You will realize that among your many talents dissimulation finds no place, and that if you had shared my secret you would never have been able to impress Smith with the urgent necessity of his presence, which was the vital point of the whole scheme. Knowing his vindictive nature, I was perfectly certain that he would come to look upon his handiwork. But your appearance, Holmes, your ghastly face! Three days of absolute fast does not improve one's beauty, Watson. For the rest, there is nothing which a sponge may not cure. With Vaseline upon one's forehead, Belladonna in one's eyes, rouge over the cheekbones, and crusts of beeswax round one's lips, a very satisfying effect can be produced. Malingering is a subject upon which I have sometimes thought of writing a monograph. A little occasional talk about half-crowns, oysters, or any other extraneous subject produces a pleasing effect of delirium. But why would you not let me near you, since there was in truth no infection? Can you ask, my dear Watson, do you imagine that I have no respect for your medical talents? Could I fancy that your astute judgment would pass a dying man who, however weak, had no rise of pulsar temperature? At four yards I could deceive you. If I failed to do so, who would bring my smith within my grasp? No, Watson. I would not touch that box. You can just see if you look at its sideways where the sharp spring, like a viper's tooth, emerges as you open it. I dare say it was by some such device at poor savage who stood between this monster and a reversion was done to death. My correspondence, however, is, as you know, a varied one, and I somewhat upon my guard against my packages which reach me. It was clear to me, however, that by pretending that I had really succeeded in his design I might surprise a confession. The pretense I have carried out with the thoroughness of the true artist. Thank you, Watson. You must help me on with my coat. When we have finished at the police station I think that something nutritious at Simpson's would not be out of place. End of The Adventures of the Dying Detective by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information and to find out how you can volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by Westwinds12 Butterfly by Hans Christian Andersen The butterfly wished to procure a bride for himself. Of course, one of the flowers a pretty little one. He looked about him. Each one sat quietly and thoughtfully on her stock, as a young maiden should sit when she is not a fianced. But there were many of them, and it was a difficult matter to choose amongst them. The butterfly could not make up his mind, so he flew to the daisy. The French call her Magarite. They know that she can tell fortunes, and she does this when lovers pluck off leaf after leaf and ask her at each one a question about the beloved one. How does he love me? With all his heart? With sorrow? Above all? Cannot refrain from it? Quite secretly. A little bit? Not at all? Or questions to the same import? Each one asks in his own language. The butterfly flew towards her and questioned her. He did not pluck off the leaves, but kissed each separate one, thinking that, by so doing, he would make himself more agreeable to the good creature. Sweet Magarite Daisy said he, Of all the flowers you are the wisest woman. You can prophecy. Tell me, shall I obtain this one or that one? Which one? If I but know this, I can fly to the charming one at once and pay my court. Magarite did not answer. She could not bear to be called a woman, for she was a young girl, and when one is a young girl, one is not a woman. He asked again, he asked a third time, but as she did not answer a single word, he questioned her no more and flew away without further parlay, intent on his courtship. It was early springtime, and there was an abundance of snowdrops and crocuses. They are very neat, said the butterfly. Pretty little confirmed ones, but a little green. He, like all young men, looked at older girls. From thence he flew to the Anemones, but he found them a little too sentimental. The tulips, too showy. The broom, not of a good family. The linden blossoms, too small. Then they had so many relations, as to the apple blossoms. Why, to look at them, you would think them as healthy as roses. But today they blossom and tomorrow, if the wind blows, they drop off. A marriage with them would be too short. The pea blossom pleased him most. She was pink and white, she was pure and refined, and belonged to the housewifely girls that looked well, and still can make themselves useful in the kitchen. He had almost concluded to make love to her, when he saw hanging near to her a pea pod with its white blossom. Who is that? asked he. That is my sister, said the pea blossom. How now! Is that the way you look when older? This terrified the butterfly, and he flew away. The honeysuckles were hanging over the fence, young ladies with long faces and yellow skins, but he did not fancy their style of beauty. Yes, but which did he like? Ask him. The spring passed, the summer passed, and then came the autumn. The flowers appeared in their most beautiful dresses, but of what avail was this? The butterfly's fresh youthful feelings had vanished. In old age the heart longs for fragrance, and dahlias and ghillie flowers are scentless. So the butterfly flew to the mint. She has no flower at all, but she is herself a flower, for she is fragrant from head to foot, and each leaf is filled with perfume. I shall take her. But the mint stood stiff and still, and at last said, Friendship, but nothing more. I am old, and you are old. We can live very well, for one another. But to marry? No. Do not let us make fools of ourselves in our old age. So the butterfly obtained no one. The butterfly remained a bachelor. Many violent and transient showers came late in the autumn. The wind blew so coldly down the back of the old willow trees, that it cracked within them. It did not do to fly about in summer garments, for even love itself would then grow cold. The butterfly, however, preferred not to fly out at all. He had by chance entered a doorway, and there was a fire in the stove. Yes, it was just as warm there as in summertime. There he could live. Life is not enough, said he. One must have sunshine, liberty, and a little flower. He flew against the window panes, was seen, was run through by a pin and placed in a curiosity box. One could not do more for him. Now I am also seated on a stalk like a flower, said the butterfly. It is not so comfortable after all, but it is as well as being married, for then one is tied down. He consoled himself with this. What a wretched consolation, said the flower that grew in the pot in the room. One cannot entirely trust to flowers that grow in pots, thought the butterfly. They have too much intercourse with men. The End of the Butterfly by Hans Christian Andersen This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information and to find out how you can volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Garden of Paradise by Hans Christian Andersen, read by West Winds 12. There was once a king's son. Nobody had so many or such beautiful books as he had. He could read about everything which had ever happened in this world and see it all represented in the most beautiful pictures. He could get information about every nation and every country, but as to where the Garden of Paradise was to be found, not a word could be discovered, and this was the very thing he thought most about. His grandmother had told him, when he was quite a little fella and was about to begin his school life, that every flower in the Garden of Paradise was a delicious cake, and that the pistols were full of wine. In one flower history was written. In another, geography or tables. You had only to eat the cake and you knew the lesson. The more you ate, the more history, geography and tables you knew. All this he believed then, but as he grew older and wiser and learnt more, he easily perceived that the delights of the Garden of Paradise must be far beyond all this. Oh, why did Eve take of the tree of knowledge? Why did Adam eat the forbidden fruit? If it had only been I, it would not have happened. Never would sin have entered the world. This is what he said then, and he still said it when he was seventeen. His thoughts were full of the Garden of Paradise. He walked into the wood one day. He was alone, for that is his greatest pleasure. Evening came on, the clouds drew up and it rained as if the whole heaven had become a sluice from which the water poured in sheets. It was as dark as it is otherwise in the deepest well. Now he slipped on the wet grass, and then he fell on the bare stones which jutted out of the rocky ground. Everything was dripping, and at last the poor prince hadn't got a dry thread on him. He had to climb over huge rocks where the water oozed out of the thick moss. He was almost fainting. Just then he heard a curious murmuring and saw in front of him a big lighted cave. A fire was burning in the middle, big enough to roast a stag, which was in fact being done. A splendid stag, with its huge antlers, was stuck on a spit, being slowly turned around between the hewn trunks of two fir trees. An oldish woman, tall and strong enough to be a man dressed up, sat by the fire throwing on logs from time to time. Come in, by all means, she said. Sit down by the fire, so that your clothes may dry. There is a shocking draft here, said the prince, as he sat down on the ground. It will be worse than this when my sons come home, said the woman. You are in the cavern of the winds. My sons are the four winds of the world. Do you understand? Who are your sons, asked the prince? Well, that's not so easy to answer when the question is stupidly put, said the woman. My sons do as they like. They are playing rounders now with the clouds up there in the great hall, and she pointed up into the sky. Oh, indeed, said the prince, you seem to speak very harshly, and you are not so gentle as the women I generally see about me. Oh, I daresay they have nothing else to do. I have to be harsh if I am to keep my boys under control. But I can do it, although they are a stiff-necked lot. Do you see those four sacks hanging on the wall? They are just as frightened of them as you used to be of the cane behind the looking-glass. I can double the boys up, I can tell you, and then they have to go into the bag. We don't stand upon ceremony, and there they have to stay. They can't get out to play their tricks until it suits me to let them. But here we have one of them. It was the north wind who came in with an icy blast. Great hailstones peppered about the floor, and snowflakes drifted in. He was dressed in bare-skin trousers and jacket, and he had a seal-skin cap drawn over his ears. Long icicles were hanging from his beard. And one hailstone after another dropped down from the collar of his jacket. Don't go straight to the fire, said the prince. You might easily get chilbains. Chilbains, said the north wind, with a loud laugh. Chilblains, they are my greatest delight. What sort of a feeble creature are you? How did you get into the cave of the winds? He is my guest, said the old woman, and if you are not pleased with that explanation you may go into the bag. Now you know my opinion. This had its effect, and the north wind told them where he came from, and where he had been for the last month. I come from the Arctic seas, he said. I have been on Bering Island with the Russian walrus hunters. I sat at the helm and slept when they sailed from the North Cape. And when I woke, now and then, the stormy petrels were flying about my legs. They are queer birds. They give a brisk flap of their wings, and then keep them stretched out and motionless. And even then they have speed enough. Prey, don't be too long winded, said the mother of the winds. So at last you got to Bering Island. It's perfectly splendid. There you have a floor to dance upon, as flat as a pancake. Half thawed snow, with moss. There were bones of foils and polar bears lying about. They looked like the legs and arms of giants covered with green mold. One would think that the sun had never shown in them. I gave a little puff to the fog so that one could see the shed. It was a house built of wreckage and covered with the skins of whales. The flesh side was turned outwards. It was all red and green. A living polar bear sat on the roof growling. I went to the shore and looked at the bird's nests. I looked at the unfledged young ones screaming and gaping. Then I blew down thousands of their throats and they learned to shut their mouths. Lowered down the walruses were rolling about like monster maggots with pigs' heads and teeth a yard long. You're a good storyteller, my boy, said his mother. It makes my mouth water to hear you. Then there was a hunt. The harpoons were plunged into the walruses' breasts and the steaming blood spurred it out of them like fountains over the ice. Then I remembered my part of the game. I blew up and made my ships, the mountain-high icebergs, nip the boats. Few how they whistled and how they screamed, but I whistled louder. They were obliged to throw the dead walruses' chests and ropes out upon the ice. I shook the snowflakes over them and let them drift southward to taste the salt water. They will never come back to Bering Island. Then you've been doing evil, said the mother of the winds. What good I did, the others may tell you, said he. But here we have my brother from the west. I like him best of all. He smells of the sea and brings a splendid cool breeze with him. Is that the little Zephyr? asked the prince. Yes, certainly it is Zephyr, but he is not so little as all that. He used to be a pretty boy once, but that's gone by. He looked like a wild man of the woods, but he had a patted hat on so as not to come to any harm. He carried a mahogany club cut in the American mahogany forests. It could not be anything less than that. Where do you come from? asked his mother. From the forest wildernesses, he said, where the thorny creepers make a fence between every tree, where the water snake lies in the wet grass, and where human beings seem to be superfluous. What did you do there? I looked at the mighty river, saw where it dashed over the rocks and dust, and flew with the clouds to carry the rainbow. I saw the wild buffalo swimming in the river, but the stream carried him away. He floated with the wild duck, which soared into the sky at the rapids, but the buffalo was carried over with the water. I liked that, and blew a storm, so that the primeval trees had to sail too, and they were whirled about like shavings. And you have done nothing else? asked the old woman. I have been turning somersaults in the savannas, patting the wild horse, and shaking down coconuts. Oh yes, I have plenty of stories to tell, but one need not tell everything. You know that very well, old woman, and then he kissed his mother so heartily that she nearly fell backwards. He was indeed a wild boy. South wind appeared now in a turban and a flowing Bedouin's cloak. It is fearfully cold in here, he said, throwing wood on the fire. It is easy to see that the north wind got here first. It is hot enough here to roast a polar bear, said the north wind. You are a polar bear yourself, said the south wind. Do you want to go into the bag, asked the old woman? Sit down on that stone, and tell us where you have been. In Africa, mother, he answered, I have been chasing the lion with the hotentots in Kefirland. What grass there is on those plains? As green as an olive, the gunu was dancing about, and the ostriches ran races with me, but I am still the fastest. I went to the desert with its yellow sand. It looks like the bottom of the sea. I met a caravan. They were killing their last camel to get water to drink. But it wasn't much they got. The sun was blazing above and the sand burning below. There were no limits to the outstretched desert. Then I brod into the fine loose sand and whirled it up in great columns. That was a dance. I should have seen how despondently the dromedary stood, and the merchant drew his caftan over his head. He threw himself down before me as if I had been Allah, his God. Now they are buried, and there is a pyramid of sand over them all. When I blow it away, sometimes the sun will bleach their bones, and then the travelers will see that people have been there before. Otherwise you would hardly believe it in the desert. Then you have only been doing harm, said the mother, into the bag you go. And before he knew where he was, she had the south wind by the waist and in the bag. It rolled about in the ground, but she sat upon it, and then it had to be quiet. Your sons are lively fellows, said the prince. Yes indeed, she said. But I can master them. It was the east wind, and he was dressed like a Chinaman. Oh, have you come from that quarter, said the mother? I thought you had been in the Garden of Paradise. I am only going there tomorrow, said the east wind. It will be a hundred years tomorrow since I have been there. I have just come from China, where I danced around the porcelain tower, till all the bells jingled. The officials were flogged in the streets, the bamboo canes were broken over their shoulders, and they were all people ranging from the first to the ninth rank. They shrieked many thanks, father and benefactor. But they didn't mean what they said. And I went on ringing the bells and singing, Tsing Tsang Tsu. You are quite uproarious about it, said the old woman. It's a good thing you are going to the Garden of Paradise tomorrow. It always has a good effect on your behavior. Mind you, drink deep of the well of wisdom and bring a little bottle home to me. That I will, said the east wind. But why have you put my brother from the south into the bag? Out with him. He must tell me about the phoenix. The princess always wants to hear about that bird when I call every hundred years. Open the bag, then you'll be my sweetest mother, and I'll give you two pockets full of tea, as green and fresh as when I picked it. Well, for the sake of the tea, and because you are my darling, I will open my bag. She did open it, and the south wind crept out, but he was quite crestfallen because the strange prince had seen his disgrace. Here is a palm leaf for the princess. Said the south wind. The old phoenix, the only one in the world, gave it to me. He scratched his whole history on it with his bill for the hundred years of his life, and she can read it for herself. I saw how the phoenix set fire to his nest himself and sat on it while it burnt, like the widow of a Hindu. Oh, how the dry branches crackled, how it smoked, and what a smell there was. At last it all burst into flame. The old bird was burnt to ashes, but his egg lay glowing in the fire. It broke with a loud bang, and the young one flew out. Now it rules over all the birds, and it is the only phoenix in the world. He bit a hole in the leaf I gave you. That is his greeting to the princess. Let us have something to eat now, said the mother of the winds, and they all sat down to eat the roast stag, and the prince sat by the side of the east wind, so they soon became good friends. I say, said the prince, just tell me who is this princess, and where is the Garden of Paradise? Oh, said the east wind, if that is where you want to go, you must fly with me to-morrow. But I may as well tell you that no human being has been there since Adam and Eve's time. You know all about them, I suppose, from your Bible stories. Of course, said the prince. When they were driven away, the Garden of Eden sank into the ground, but it kept its warm sunshine, its mild air, and all its charms. The queen of the fairies lives there. The island of Bliss, where death never enters, and where living is a delight, is there. Get in my back to-morrow, and I will take you with me. I think I can manage it. But you mustn't talk now. I want to go to sleep. When the prince woke up in the early morning, he was not a little surprised to find that he was already high above the clouds. He was sitting on the back of the east wind, who was holding him carefully. They were so high up that woods and fields, rivers and lakes looked like a large colored map. Good morning, said the east wind. You may as well sleep a little longer, for there is not much to be seen in this flat country below us, unless you want to count the churches. They looked like chalk dots on the green board. He called the fields and meadows the green board. It was very rude of me to leave without saying goodbye to your mother and brothers, said the prince. One is excused when one is asleep, said the east wind, and they flew on faster than ever. You could mark their flight by the rustling of the trees as they passed over the woods, and whenever they crossed a lake, or the sea, the waves rose and the great ships dipped low down in the water, like floating swans. Towards evening the large towns were amusing, as it grew dark, with all their lights twinkling now here, now there, just as when one burns a piece of paper and sees all the little sparks, like children coming home from school. The prince clapped his hands, but the east wind told him he had better leave off and hold tight, or he might fall and find himself hanging onto a church steeple. The eagle in the great forest flew swiftly, but the east wind flew more swiftly still. The Cossack on his little horse sped fast over the plains, but the prince sped faster still. Now you can see the Himalayas, said the east wind. They are the highest mountains in Asia. We shall soon reach the Garden of Paradise. They took a more southerly direction, and the air became scented with spices and flowers. Figs and pomegranates grew wild, and the wild vines were covered with blue and green grapes. They both descended here, and stretched themselves on the soft grass, where the flowers nodded to the wind, as much as to say, Welcome back. Are we in the Garden of Paradise now? asked the prince. No, certainly not, answered the east wind. But we shall soon be there. Do you see that wall of rock and the great cavern where the wild vine hangs like a big curtain? We have to go through there. Wrap yourself up in your cloak. The sun is burning here, but a step farther on it is icy cold. The bird which flies past the cavern has one wing out here, in the heat of summer, and the other is there in the cold of winter. So that is the way to the Garden of Paradise? said the prince. Now they entered the cavern. Oh, how icily cold it was! But it did not last long. The east wind spread his wings, and they shone like the brightest flame. But what a cave it was! Large blocks of stone from which the water dripped, hung over them in the most extraordinary shapes. At one moment it was so low and narrow that they had to crawl on hands and knees. The next it was as wide and lofty as if they were in the open air. It looked like a chapel of the dead, with mute organ pipes and petrified banners. We seemed to be journeying along Death's road to the Garden of Paradise, said the prince. But the east wind never answered a word. He only pointed before them where a beautiful blue light was shining. The blocks of stone above them grew dimmer and dimmer, and at last they became as transparent as a white cloud in the moonshine. The air was also deliciously soft, as fresh as on the mountaintops, and as scented as down among the roses in the valley. A river ran there as clear as the air itself, and the fish in it were like gold and silver. Purple eels, which gave out blue sparks with every curve, gambled about in the water, and the broad leaves of the water lilies were tinged with the hues of the rainbow. While the flower itself was like a fiery orange flame, nourished by the water, just as oil keeps a lamp constantly burning. A firm bridge of marble, as delicately and skillfully carved as if it were lace and glass beads, led over the water to the island of Bliss, where the Garden of Paradise bloomed. The east wind took the prince in his arms and bore him over. The flowers and leaves there sang all the beautiful old songs of his childhood, but sang them more wonderfully than any human voice could sing them. Were these palm trees or giant water plants growing here? The prince had never seen such rich and mighty trees. The most wonderful climbing plants hung in wreaths, such as were only to be found pictured in gold and colors on the margins of old books of the saints, or entwined among their initial letters. It was the most extraordinary combination of birds, flowers, and scrolls. Close by on the grass stood a flock of peacocks with their brilliant tails outspread. Yes indeed, it seemed so, but when the prince touched them he saw that they were not birds, but plants. They were big dock-leaves, which shone like peacock's tails. Lions and tigers sprang like agile cats among the green hedges, which were scented with the blossom of the olive, and the lion and the tiger were tame. The wild dove, glistening like a pearl, beat the lion's mane with his wings, and the antelope, otherwise so shy, stood by nodding, just as if he wanted to join the game. The fairy of the garden now advanced to meet them. Her garments shone like the sun, and her face beamed like that of a happy mother rejoicing over her child. She was young and very beautiful, and was surrounded by a band of lovely girls, each with a gleaming star in her hair. When the east wind gave her the inscribed leaf from the phoenix, her eyes sparkled with delight. She took the prince's hand and led him into her palace, where the walls were the color of the brightest tulips in the sunlight. The ceiling was one great shining flower, and the longer one gazed into it, the deeper the calyx seemed to be. The prince went to the window, and looking through one of the panes saw the tree of knowledge with the serpent and Adam and Eve standing by. Are they not driven out? he asked, and the fairies smiled and explained that time had burned a picture into each pane, but not of the kind one usually sees. They were alive, the leaves and the trees moved, and the people came and went like the reflections in a mirror. He looked through another pane, and he saw Jacob's dream, with the ladder going straight up into heaven, and angels with great wings were fluttering up and down. All that had ever happened in this world lived and moved on these window panes. Only time could imprint such wonderful pictures. The fairies smiled and led him into a large lofty room, the walls of which were like transparent paintings of faces, one more beautiful than the other, these were millions of the blessed who smiled and sang, and all their songs melted into one perfect melody. The highest ones were so tiny that they seemed smaller than the very smallest rosebud, no bigger than a pinpoint in a drawing. In the middle of the room stood a large tree with handsome drooping branches, golden apples, large and small, hung like oranges among its green leaves. It was the tree of knowledge of whose fruit Adam and Eve had eaten, from every leaf hung a shining red drop of dew, it was as if the tree wept tears of blood. Now let us get into the boat, said the fairy. We shall find refreshment on the swelling waters. The boat rocks, but it does not move from the spot. All the countries of the world will pass before our eyes. It was a curious sight to see the whole coast move. Here came lofty snow-clad elps with their clouds and dark fir trees. The horn echoed sadly among them, and the shepherd yodeled sweetly in the valleys. Then banyan trees bent their long, droopy branches over the boat. Black swans floated on the water, and the strangest animals and flowers appeared on the shore. This was New Holland, the fifth portion of the world, which glided past them with a view of its blue mountains. They heard the song of priests, and saw the dances of the savages to the sound of drums and pipes of bone. The pyramids of Egypt reaching to the clouds with fallen columns and Sphinxes half buried in sand next sailed past them. Then came Aurora Borealis blazing over the peaks of the north. They were fireworks which could not be imitated. The prince was so happy, and he saw a hundred times more than we have described. Can I stay here always? he asked. That depends upon yourself, answered the fairy. If you do not, like Adam, allow yourself to be tempted to do what is forbidden, you can stay here always. I will not touch the apples on the tree of knowledge, said the prince. There are thousands of other fruits here as beautiful. Test yourself, and if you are not strong enough, go back with the east wind who brought you. He is going away now, and will not come back for a hundred years. The time will fly in this place like a hundred hours, but that is a long time for temptation and sin. Every evening, when I leave you, I must say, come with me, and I must beckon to you. But stay behind, do not come with me, for with every step you take, your longing will grow stronger. You will reach the hall where grows the tree of knowledge. I sleep beneath its fragrant drooping branches. You will bend over me, and I must smile. But if you press a kiss upon my lips, paradise will sink deep down into the earth, and it will be lost to you. The sharp winds of the wilderness will whistle around you. The cold rain will drop from your hair. Sorrow and labor will be your lot. I will remain here, said the prince. And the east wind kissed him on the mouth and said, Be strong, then we shall meet again in a hundred years. Farewell, farewell. And the east wind spread his great wings. They shone like poppies at the harvest time, or the northern lights in a cold winter. Goodbye, goodbye, whispered the flowers. Storks and pelicans flew in a line, like waving ribbons, conducting him to the boundaries of the garden. Now we begin our dancing, said the fairy. At the end, when I dance with you, as the sun goes down, you will see me beckon to you, and cry, come with me, but do not come. I have to repeat it every night for a hundred years. Every time you resist, you will grow stronger, and at last you will not even think of following. Tonight is the first time. Remember my warning. And the fairy led him into a large hall of white transparent lilies. The yellow stamens in each formed a little golden harp which echoed the sound of strings and flutes. Lovely girls, slender and lysome, dressed in floating gauze which revealed their exquisite limbs, gliding in the dance and saying of the joy of living that they would never die and that the garden of paradise would bloom forever. The sun went down and the sky was bathed in golden light which gave the lilies the effect of roses and the prince-drank of the foaming wine handed to him by the maidens. He felt such joy as he had never known before. He saw the background of the hall opening where the tree of knowledge stood in a radiance which blinded him. The song proceeding from it was soft and lovely, like his mother's voice, and she seemed to say, my child, my beloved child. Then the fairy beckoned to him and said so tenderly, come with me, that he rushed towards her forgetting his promise, forgetting everything on the very first evening that she smiled and beckoned to him. The fragrance in the scented air around grew stronger, the harps sounded sweeter than ever, and it seemed as if the millions of smiling heads in the hall where the tree grew nodded and sang, one must know everything, man is lord of the earth, they were no longer tears of blood which fell from the tree, it seemed to him that they were red shining stars. Come with me, come with me, spoke those trembling tones, and at every step the prince's cheeks burnt hotter and hotter, and his blood coarsed more rapidly. I must go, he said. It is no sin, I must see her asleep, nothing will be lost if I do not kiss her, and that I will not do. My will is strong. The fairy dropped her shimmery garment, drew back the branches, and a moment after was hidden within their depths. I have not sinned yet, said the prince, nor will I, then he drew back the branches. There she lay asleep already, beautiful, as only the fairy in the Garden of Paradise can be. She smiled in her dreams, he bent over her and saw the tears welling up under her eyelashes. Do you weep for me, he whispered? Weep not, beautiful maiden. I only now understand the full bliss of Paradise. It surges through my blood and through my thoughts. I feel the strength of the angels and of everlasting life in my mortal limbs. If it were to be everlasting night to me, a moment like this were worth it, and he kissed away the tears from her eyes. His mouth touched hers. Then came a sound like thunder, louder and more awful than he had ever heard before, and everything around collapsed. The beautiful fairy, the flowery Paradise, sank deeper and deeper. The prince saw it sink into the darkness of night. It shone, far off, like a little tiny twinkling star. The chill of death crept over his limbs. He closed his eyes and lay long as if dead. The cold rain fell on his face and the sharp wind blew around his head, and at last his memory came back. What have I done, he sighed? I have sinned like Adam. Sinned so heavily that Paradise has sunk low beneath the earth, and he opened his eyes. He could still see the star, the faraway star, which twinkled like Paradise. It was the morning star in the sky. He got up and found himself in the wood, near the cave of the winds, and the mother of the winds set by his side. She looked angry and raised her hand. So, soon as the first evening, she said, I thought as much, if you were my boy you should go into the bag. He shall soon go there, said Death. He was a strong old man, with a scythe in his hand and great black wings. He shall be laid in a coffin, but not now. I only mark him, and then leave him for a time to wander about on the earth to expiate his sin and to grow better. I will come some time. When he least expects me, I shall come back, lay him in a black coffin, put it on my head, and fly to the skies. The garden of Paradise blooms there too, and if he is good and holy, he shall enter into it. But if his thoughts are wicked, and his heart is still full of sin, he will sink deeper in his coffin than Paradise sank, and I shall only go once in every thousand years to see if he is to sink deeper or to rise to the stars. The twinkling star is up there. The End The Garden of Paradise by Hans Christian Andersen