 First Love by Emilia Pardo-Bazan, recorded for Love Stories Volume 1 by Nemo. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. First Love How old was I then, eleven or twelve years? More probably thirteen, for before then is too early to be seriously in love. But I won't venture to be certain, considering that in southern countries the heart matures early if that organ is to blame for such perturbations. If I do not remember well when, I can at least say exactly how. My first love revealed itself. I was very fond, as soon as my aunt had gone to church to perform her evening devotions, of slipping into her bedroom and roving her chest of drawers, which she kept in admirable order. Those drawers were to me a museum. In them I always came across something rarer or antique, which exhaled in archaic and mysterious scent the aroma of the sandalwood fans which perfumed her white linen. Thin cushions of satin now faded, knitted mittens carefully wrapped in tissue paper, prints of saints, sewing materials, a reticule of blue velvet embroidered with bugles, and amber and silver rosary would appear from the corners. I used to ponder over them and return them to their place, but one day I remember as well as if it were today in the corner of the top drawer and lying on some collars of old lace, I saw something gold glittering. I put in my hand unwittingly crumbled lace and drew out a portrait, an ivory miniature, about three inches long in a frame of gold. I was struck at first sight, a sunbeam streamed to the window and fell upon the alluring form which seemed to wish to step out of its dark background and come towards me. It was the most lovely creature, such as I had never seen except in the dreams of my adolescence. The lady of the portrait must have been some twenty-odd years. She was no simple maiden, no half-opened rosebud, but a woman in the full respludancy of her beauty. Her face was oval, but not too long, her lips full, half open and smiling. Her eyes cast a languishing side glance and she had a dimple on her chin as it formed by the tip of Cupid's playful finger. Her headdress was strange but elegant, a compact group of curls plastered cone-wise one over the other covered her temples, and a basket of braided hair rose on the top of her head. This old-fashioned headdress, which was trussed up from the nape of her neck, disclosed all the softness of her fresh young throat, on which the dimple of her chin was reduplicated more vaguely and delicately. As for the dress, I do not venture to consider whether our grandmothers were less modest than our wives are, or if the confessors of pastimes were more indulgent than those of the present. I am inclined to thank the latter. For seventy years ago women prided themselves on being Christian-like and devout, and would not have disobeyed the director of their conscience, and so grave and important a matter. What is undeniable is that if in the present day any lady were to present herself in the garb of the lady of the portrait there would be a scandal. For from her waist which began at her armpits, upwards she was only veiled by light folds of diaphanous gauze which marked out, rather than covered, two mountains of snow, between which meandered a thread of pearls. With further lack of modesty she stretched out two rounded arms worthy of Juno, ending in finely molded hands. When I say hands, I am not exact. For strictly speaking only one hand could be seen, and that held a richly embroidered handkerchief. Even today I am astonished at the startling effect which the contemplation of that miniature produced upon me, and how I remained in ecstasy, scarcely breathing, devouring the portrait with my eyes. I had already seen here and there prints representing beautiful women. It often happened that in the illustrated papers in the mythological engravings of our dining room or in a shop window that a beautiful face or harmonious and graceful figure attracted my precociously artistic gaze. But the miniature encountered in my aunt's drawer, apart from its great beauty, appeared to me as if animated by a subtle and vital breath. You could see it was not the caprice of a painter, but the image of a real and actual person of flesh and blood. The warm and rich tone of the tints made you surmise that the blood was tepid beneath that mother of pearl's skin. The lips were slightly parted to disclose the enameled teeth, and to complete the illusion there ran round the frame a border of natural hair, chestnut in color, wavy and silky, which had grown on the temples of the original. As I have said, it was more than a copy. It was the reflection of a living person, from whom I was only separated by a wall of glass. I seized it, breathed upon it, and it seemed to me that the warmth of the mysterious deity communicated itself to my lips and circulated through my veins. At this moment I heard footsteps in the corridor. It was my aunt returning from her prayers. I heard her asthmatic cough and the dragging of her gouty feet. I had only just time to put the miniature into the drawer, shut it, and approach the window, adopting an innocent and indifferent attitude. My aunt entered noisily, for the cold of the church had exasperated her guitar, now chronic. Upon seeing me, her wrinkled eyes brightened, and giving me a friendly tap with her withered hand. She asked me if I had been turning over her drawers as usual. Then with a chuckle. Wait a bit, wait a bit, she added, I have something for you, something you will like. And she pulled out of her vast pocket a paper bag, and out of the bag three or four gum locenges, sticking together in a cake which gave me a feeling of nausea. My aunt's appearance did not invite one to open one's mouth and devour these sweets. The course of years, her loss of teeth, her eyes dimmed to an unusual degree, the sprouting of a mustache or bristles on her sunken-in mouth, which was three inches wide, dull gray locks fluttering above her sallow temples, a neck flaccid and livid as the crest of the turkey went in a good temper. In short, I did not take the locenges, a feeling of indignation, a manly protest rose in me, and I said forcibly, I do not want it, I don't want it. You don't want it? What a wonder! You who are grittier than a cat! I am not a little boy, I exclaimed, drawing myself up and standing on tiptoes. I don't care for sweets. My aunt looked at me half good-humoredly and half ironically, and at last, giving away to the feeling of amusement I caused her, burst out laughing, by which she disfigured herself and exposed the horrible anatomy of her jaws. She laughed so heartily that her chin and nose met, hiding her lips and emphasizing two wrinkles, or rather, two deep furrows, and more than a dozen lines on her cheeks and eyelids. At the same time her head and body shook with laughter. Until at last her cough began to interrupt the burst, and between laughing and coughing the old lady involuntarily spluttered all over my face, humiliated and full of disgust. I escaped rapidly thence to my mother's room, where I washed myself with soap and water, and began to muse on the lady of the portrait, and from that day and hour I could not keep my thoughts from her. As soon as my aunt went out to slip into her room, open the drawer, bring out the miniature, and lose myself in contemplation, was the work of a minute. I didn't of looking at it, I fancied that her languishing eyes, through the voluptuous veiling of her eyelashes were fixed in mine, and that her white bosom heaved. I became ashamed to kiss her, imagining she would be annoyed at my audacity, and only pressed her to my heart or held her against my cheek. All my actions and thoughts referred to the lady. I behaved towards her with a most extraordinary refinement and super-delicacy. Before entering my aunt's room and opening the long fur drawer, I washed, combed to my hair, and tidied myself, as I have seen since is usually done before repairing to a love appointment. I often happen to meet in the street other boys of my age, very proud of their slip of a sweet heart, who would exultingly show me love letters, photographs, and flowers, and who asked me if I hadn't a sweetheart with whom to correspond. A feeling of inexplicable bashfulness tied my tongue, and I only replied with an enigmatic and haughty smile, and when they questioned me as to what I thought of the beauty of their little maidens, I would shrug my shoulders and disdainfully call them ugly mugs. One Sunday I went to play in the house of some little girl cousins, really very pretty, the eldest of whom was not yet fifteen. We were amusing ourselves, looking into a stereoscope, when suddenly one of the little girls, the youngest, who counted twelve summers at most, secretly seized my hand, and in some confusion and blushing as red as a brazier, whispered in my ear. Like this. At the same time I felt in the palm of my hand something soft and fresh, and saw that it was a rosebud with its green foliage. Little girl ran away smiling and casting aside glance at me, but I, with a puritanism worthy of Joseph, cried out to my turn, take this! And I threw the rosebud at her nose, a rebuff which made her tearful and petish with me the whole afternoon, and for which she is not, pardon me, even now, though she is married and has three children. The two were three hours which my aunt spent morning and evening together at church, being too short for my admiration of the entrancing portrait. I resolved at last to keep the miniature in my pocket, and went about all day hiding myself from people just as if I had committed some crime. I fancied that the portrait, from the depth of its prison of cloth, could see all my actions, and I arrived at such a ridiculous extremity that if I wanted to scratch myself, pull up my sock, or do anything else not in keeping with the idealism of my chaste love, I first drew out the miniature, put it in a safe place, and then considered myself free to do whatever I wanted. In fact, since I had accomplished the theft, there was no limit to my vagaries. At night I hid it under the pillow, and slept in an attitude of defence. The portrait remained near the wall, I outside, and I woke a thousand times, fearing somebody would come to bereave me of my treasure. At last I drew it from beneath the pillow, and slipped it between my night-shirt and left breast, on which the following day could be seen the imprint of the chasing of the frame. The contact of the dear miniature gave me delicious dreams. The lady of the portrait, not an effigy, but in her natural size and proportions, alive, graceful, affable, beautiful, would come towards me to conduct me to her palace by a rapid and flying train. Of sweet authority she would make me sit on a stool at her feet, and would pass her beautifully molded hand over my head, caressing my brow, my eyes and loose curls. I read to her out of a big missile, or played the lute, and she dained to smile, thanking me for the pleasure which my reading and songs gave her. At last romantic reminiscences overflowed in my brain, and sometimes I was a page, and sometimes a troubadour. With all these fanciful ideas the fact is that I began to grow thin, quite perceptibly, which was observed with great disquietude in my parents and my aunt. In this dangerous and critical age of development everything is alarming, said my father, who is used to read books of medicine, and anxiously studied my dark eyelids, my dull eyes, my contracted and pale lips, and above all the complete lack of appetite which had taken possession of me. Playboy, eat boy, he would say to me, and I replied to him dejectedly. I don't feel inclined. They began to talk of distractions, offered to take me to the theatre, stopped my studies, and gave me foaming new milk to drink. Afterwards they poured cold water over my head and back to fortify my nerves, and I noticed that my father at table or in the morning when I went to his bedroom to bid him good morning would gaze at me fixedly for some little time, and would sometimes pass his hand down my spine, feeling the vertebrae. I hypocritically lowered my eyes, resolved to die rather than confess my crime. As soon as I was free from the affectionate solicitude of my family, I found myself alone with my lady of the portrait. At last, to get nearer to her, I thought I would do away with a cold crystal. I trembled upon putting this into execution, but at last my love prevailed over the vague fear with which such a profanation filled me, and with skillful cunning I succeeded in pulling away the glass and exposing the ivory plate. As I pressed my lips to the painting, I could scent the slight fragrance of the border of hair. I imagined to myself, even more realistically, that it was a living person whom I was grasping with my trembling hands. A feeling of faintness overpowered me, and I fell unconscious on the sofa, tightly holding the miniature. When I came to my senses I saw my father, my mother and my aunt, all bending anxiously over me. I read their terror and alarm in their faces. My father was feeling my pulse shaking his head and murmuring. His pulse is nothing but a flutter. You can scarcely feel it. My aunt, with her claw-like fingers, was trying to take the portrait for me, and I was mechanically hiding it and grasping it more firmly. But, my dear boy, let go, you were spoiling it, she exclaimed. Don't you see you are smudging it? I'm not scolding you, my dear. I will show it to you as often as you like, but don't destroy it. Let go, you are injuring it. Let him have it, begged my mother. The boy is not well. Of all things to ask, replied the old maid. Let him have it, and who will paint another like this, or make me as I was then? Today nobody paints miniatures, it is the thing of the past. And I also am a thing of the past, and I am not what is represented there. My eyes dilated with horror. My fingers released their hold on the picture. I don't know how I was able to articulate. You? The portrait? Is you? Don't you think I am as pretty now, boy? One is better looking at twenty-three than it, than it. I don't know what, for I have forgotten how old I am. My head drooped, and I almost fainted again. Anyway, my father lifted me in his arms onto the bed, and made me swallow some tablespoons of port. I recovered very quickly, and never wished to enter my aunt's room again. End of First Love by Amelia Pardo-Bazan The Song of the Blackbird by Lord Dunsaney. Read for Love Stories Volume 1 by Michelle Frye, Battenridge, Louisiana, in August 2019. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Song of the Blackbird As the poet passed the thorn tree, the blackbird sang, However do you do it, the poet said, for he knew bird language. It was like this, said the blackbird. It really was the most extraordinary thing. I made that song last spring. It came to me all of a sudden. There was the most beautiful she-blackbird that the world has ever seen. Her eyes were blacker than lakes are at night, her feathers were blacker than the night itself, and nothing was as yellow as her beak. She could fly much faster than the lightning. She was not an ordinary she-blackbird. There has never been any other like her at all. I did not dare go near her because she was so wonderful. One day last spring when it got warm again. It had been cold. We ate berries. Things were quite different then, but spring came and it got warm. One day I was thinking how wonderful she was, and it seemed so extraordinary to think that I should ever have seen her. The only really wonderful she-blackbird in the world. That I opened my beak to give a shout, and then this song came. And there had never been anything like it before, and luckily I remembered it. The very song that I sang just now. But what is so extraordinary, the most amazing occurrence of that marvelous day, was that no sooner had I sung the song than that very bird, the most wonderful she-blackbird in the world, flew right up to me and sat quite close to me on the same tree. I never remember such wonderful times as those. Yes, the song came in a moment, and as I was saying, shh, and an old wanderer walking with a stick came by, and the blackbird flew away. And the poet told the old man the blackbird's wonderful story. That song knew, said the wanderer, not a bit of it. God made it years ago. All the blackbirds used to sing it when I was young. It was new then. End of THE SONG OF THE BLACKBIRD by Lord Bensaini. ANGELA, AN INVERTED LOVE STORY by William Schwenk Gilbert. Read for Love Stories Volume 1 by Chad Horner from Liverpool. This is a Liverpool Box recording. All Liverpool Box recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LiverpoolBox.org. ANGELA, AN INVERTED LOVE STORY by William Schwenk Gilbert. The Sentry Magazine, September 1890. I am a poor, paralysed fellow who, for many years past, has been confined to a bed or a sofa. For the last six years I have occupied a small room, giving on to one of the side canals of Phyllis, and having no one about me but a deaf old woman who makes my bed and tends to my food, and there I eke out a purring-come of about £30 a year by making watercolour drawings of flowers and fruit. They are the cheapest models in Venice, and these I send to a friend in London who sells them to a dealer for small sums. But on the whole, I am happy and content. It is necessary that I should describe the position of my room rather minutely. Its only window is about five feet above the water of the canal, and above it the house projects some six feet, and overhangs the water, the projecting portion being supported by stout piles driven into the bed of the canal. This arrangement has the disadvantage, among others, of so limiting my upward view, that I am unable to see more than about ten feet of the height of the house immediately opposite to me, although by reaching as far out of the window as my infirmity will permit, I can see for a considerable distance up and down the canal, which does not exceed 15 feet in width. But although I can see but little of the material house opposite, I can see its reflection upside down in the canal, and I take a good deal of inverted interest in such of its inhabitants, as show themselves, from time to time, always upside down on its balconies and at its windows. When I first occupied my room about six years ago, my attention was directed to the reflection of a little girl of 13 or so, as nearly as I could judge, who passed every day on a balcony just above the upward range of my limited field of view. She had a glass of flowers and a crucifix on a little table by her side, and as she sat there, in fine weather, from early morning until dark, working assiduously all the time, I concluded that she earned her living by needlework. She was certainly an industrious little girl, and as far as I could judge by her upside down reflection, neat in her dress and pretty. She had an old mother, an invalid, who, on warm days, would sit on the balcony with her, and it interested me to see the little maid wrap the old lady in shawls, and bring pillows for her chair, and a stool for her feet. And every now and again lay down her work and kiss and fondle the old lady for half a minute, and then take up her work again. Time went by, and as the little maid grew up her reflection grew down, and at last she was quite a little woman of, I suppose, 16 or 17. I can only work for a couple of hours or so in the brightest part of the day, so I had plenty of time on my hands in which to watch her movements, and sufficient imagination to weave a little romance about her, and to endow her with a beauty which, to a great extent, I had to take for granted. I saw, or fancy that I could see, that she began to make an interest in my reflection, which of course she could see as I could see hers. And one day, when it appeared to me that she was looking right at it, that is to say, when her reflection appeared to be looking right at me, I tried at the desperate experiment of nodding to her, and to my intense delight her reflection nodded and replied, and so our two reflections became known to one another. It did not take me very long to fall in love with her, but a long time passed before I could make up my mind to do more than nod to her every morning, when the old woman moved me from my bed to the sofa at the window, and again in the evening when the little maid left the balcony for that day. One day, however, when I saw her reflection looking at mine, I nodded to her and threw a flower into the canal. She nodded several times in return, and I saw her direct her mother's attention to the incident. Then every morning I threw a flower into the water for good morning, and another in the evening for good night, and I soon discovered that I had not altogether thrown them in vain, for one day she threw a flower to join mine, and she laughed and clapped her hands when she saw the two flowers join forces and float away together, and then every morning and every evening she threw her flower when I threw mine, and when the two flowers met she clapped her hands and so did I, but when they were separated as they sometimes were, owing to one of them having met an obstruction which did not catch the other, she threw up her hands in a pretty affectation of despair, which I tried to imitate but in an English and unsuccessful fashion, and when they were rudely run down by a passing gondola, which happened not unfrequently, she pretended to cry, and I did the same, then in pretty pantomime she would point downwards to the sky to tell me that it was destiny that had caused the shipwreck of our flowers, and I, in pantomime not nearly so pretty, would try to convey to her that destiny would be kinder next time, and that perhaps tomorrow our flowers would be more fortunate, and so the innocent courtship went on, one day she showed me her crucifix and kissed it, and thereupon I took a little silver crucifix that always stood by me and kissed that, and so she knew that we were one in religion, one day the little maid did not appear on her balcony, and for several days I saw nothing of her, and although I threw my flowers as usual, no flower came to keep it company, however after a time she reappeared, dressed in black, and crying often, and then I knew that the poor child's mother was dead, and as far as I knew she was alone in the world, the flowers came no more for many days, nor did she show any sign of recognition but kept her eyes on her work, except when she placed her handkerchief to them, and opposite to her was the old lady's chair, and I could see that from time to time, she would lay down her work and gaze at it, and then a flood of tears would come to her early, but at last one day she roused herself to nod to me, and then her flower came day by day, and my flower went forth to join it, and with varying fortunes the two flowers sailed away as of yore, but the darkest day of all to me was when a good-looking young gondolier standing right end, uppermost, in his gondola, where I could see him in the flesh, where it is craft, alongside the house, and stood talking to her as she sat on the balcony, they seemed to speak as old friends, indeed as well as I could make out, he held her by the hand during the whole of their interview, which lasted quite half an hour, eventually he pushed off and left my heart heavy within me, but I soon took heart of grace, for as soon as he was out of sight the little maid threw two flowers growing on the same stem, an allegory of which I could bake nothing until it broke upon me that she meant to convey to me that he and she were brother and sister, and that I had no cause to be sad, and thereupon I nodded to her cheerily, and she nodded to me and laughed aloud, and I laughed in return, and all went on again as before, then came a dark and dreary time, for it became necessary that I should undergo treatment, that confined me absolutely to my bed for many days, and I worried and fredded to think that the little maid and I should see each other no longer, and were still that she would think that I had gone away without even hinting to her that I was going, and I lay awake at night wondering how I could let her know the truth, the fifty plans flitted through my brain, all appearing to be feasible enough at night, but absolutely wild and impracticable in the morning, one day, and it was a bright day indeed for me, the old woman who tended me told me that a gondolier had inquired whether the English senor had gone away or had died, and so I learned that the little maid had been anxious about me, and that she had sent her brother to inquire, and the brother had no doubt taken to her the reason of my protracted absence from the window, from that day and ever after during my three weeks of bedkitting, a flower was found every morning on the ledge of my window, which was within easy reach of anyone in the boat, and when at last a day came when I could be moved, I took my accustomed place on my sofa at the window, and the little maid saw me and stood on her head, so to speak, and clapped her hands upside down with the delight that was as eloquent as my right end up the light could be, and so the first time the gondolier passed my window I beckoned to him, and he pushed alongside and told me with many bright smiles that he was glad indeed to see me well again, and I thanked him and the sister for their many kind thoughts about me during my retreat, and I then learnt from him that her name was Angela, and that she was the best and purest maiden in all Venice, and that anyone might think himself happy indeed who could call her sister, but that he was happier, even than her brother, for he was to be married to her, and indeed they were to be married the next day, thereupon my heart seemed to swell to bursting, and the blood rushed through my veins so that I could hear it, and nothing else for a while, and managed at last to stammer forth some words of awkward, congratulation, and he left me, singing merrily, after asking permission to bring his bride to see me at the morrow as they returned from church, of course it he, my Angela, has known you very long ever since she was a child, and she has often spoken to me of the pure Englishman who was a good Catholic, and he lay all day long for years and years on a sofa at a window, and she had said over and over again how dearly she wished she could speak to him and comfort him, and one day, when he threw a flower into the canal, she asked me whether she might throw another, and I told her yes, for he would understand that it meant sympathy for one sorely afflicted, and so I learned that it was pity, and not love, except indeed such love as is akin to pity that prompted her to interest herself in my welfare, and there was an end of it all, for the two flowers that I thought were on one stem were two flowers tied together, but I could not tell that, and they were meant to indicate that she and the gondolier were affianced lovers, and my expressed pleasure at this and will delight at her, for she took it to mean that I rejoiced in her happiness, and the next day the gondolier came with a train of other gondoliers all decked in their holiday garb, and on his gondola sat Angela happy and blushing at her happiness, then he and she entered the house in which I dwelt and came into my room, and it was strange indeed, after so many years of inversion, to see her with her head above her feet, and then she wished me happiness and a speedy restoration to good health, which could never be, die in broken words, and with tears in my eyes, gave her the little silver crucifix that had stood by my bed or my table for so many years, and Angela took it perfectly, and crossed herself and kissed it, and so departed with her delighted husband, and as I heard the song of the gondoliers, as they went their way, the song dying away, in the distance as the shadows of the sun dine, closed around me, I felt that they were singing the requiem of the only love that had ever entered my heart, and of Angela an inverted love story by William Swink Gilbert. The Woman and the Cat by Marcel Prévoe, recorded for Love Stories Volume 1 by Nemo, this is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Yes, said our old friend Tribudo, a man of culture and a philosopher, which is a combination rarely found among army surgeons. Yes, the supernatural is everywhere. It surrounds us and hems us in and permeates us. If science pursues it, it takes flight and cannot be grasped. Our intellect resembles those ancestors of ours who clear to find us. A few acres of forest, whenever they approached the limits of their clearing, they heard low growls and saw gleaming eyes everywhere circling them about. I myself have had the sensation of having approached the limits of the unknown several times in my life, and on one occasion in particular. A young lady, present, interrupted him. Doctor, you are evidently dying to tell us a story. Come now, begin! The Doctor bowed. No, I am not in the least anxious, I assure you. I tell this story as seldom as possible, for it disturbs those who hear it, and it disturbs me also. However, if you wish, here it is. In 1863 I was a young physician stationed at Orléans. And that patrician city, full of aristocratic old residences, is difficult to find bachelor apartments. And, as I like both plenty of air and plenty of room, I took up my lodging on the first floor of a large building situated just outside the city near Saint-Uvère. It had been originally constructed to serve as the warehouse, and also as the dwelling of a manufacturer of rugs. In course of time the manufacturer had failed, and this big barrack that he had built, falling out of repair through lack of tenants, had been sold for a song with all its furnishings. The purchaser hoped to make a future profit out of his purchase, for the city was growing in that direction. And, as a matter of fact, I believe that at the present time the house is included within the city limits. When I took up my quarters there, however, the mansion stood alone on the verge of the open country, at the end of a struggling street in which a few stray houses produced at dusk the impression of a jaw from which most of the teeth had fallen out. I leased one half of the first floor, an apartment of four rooms. For my bedroom and my study, I took the two that had fronted on the street. In the third room I set up some shelves for my wardrobe, and the other room I left empty. This made a very comfortable lodging for me, and I had, for a sort of promenade, a broad balcony that ran along the entire front of the building, or rather one half of the balcony, since it was divided into two parts. Please note this carefully, by a fan of ironwork, over which, however, one could easily climb. I had been living there for about two months, when, one night in July on returning to my rooms, I saw with a good deal of surprise a light shining through the windows of the other apartment on the same floor, which I had supposed to be uninhabited. The effect of this light was extraordinary. It lit up with a pale, yet perfectly distinct reflection, parts of the balcony, the street below, and a bit of the neighboring fields. I thought to myself, aha, I have a neighbor. The idea indeed was not altogether agreeable, for I had been rather proud of my exclusive proprietorship. On reaching my bedroom I passed noiselessly out upon the balcony, but already the light had been extinguished. So I went back into my room, and sat down to read for an hour or two. From time to time I seemed to hear about me as though within the walls light footsteps, but after finishing my book I went to bed, and speedily fell asleep. About midnight I suddenly awoke with a curious feeling that something was standing beside me. I raised myself in bed, lit a candle, and this is what I saw. In the middle of the room stood an immense cat gazing upon me with phosphorescent eyes, and with its back slightly arched. It was a magnificent angora, with long fur and a fluffy tail, and of remarkable color, exactly like that of the yellow silk that one sees in cocoons. So that, as the light gleamed upon its coat, the animals seemed to be made of gold. It slowly moved toward me on its velvety paws, softly rubbing its sinuous body against my legs. I leaned over to stroke it, and it permitted my caress, purring, and finally leaping upon my knees. I noticed then that it was a female cat, quite young, that she seemed disposed to permit me to pet her as long as ever I would. Finally, however, I put her down upon the floor, and tried to induce her to leave the room, but she leaped away from me and hid herself somewhere among the furniture. Though as soon as I had blown out my candle, she jumped upon my bed. Being sleepy, however, I didn't molest her, but dropped off into a doze, and the next morning when I awoke in broad daylight I could find no sign of the animal at all. Truly, the human brain is a very delicate instrument, and one that is easily thrown out of gear. Before I proceed, just sum up for yourselves the facts that I have mentioned. A light scene and presently extinguished in an apartment supposed to be uninhabited, and a cat of remarkable color, which appeared and disappeared in a way that was slightly mysterious. Now, there isn't anything very strange about that, is there? Very well. Imagine now that these unimportant facts are repeated day after day and under the same conditions throughout a whole week, and then, believe me, they become of importance enough to impress the mind of a man who is living all alone and to produce in him a slight disquietude such as I spoke of in commencing my story. And such as is always caused when one approaches the sphere of the unknown. The human mind is so formed that it always unconsciously applies the principle of the causa-sufficiency. For every series of facts that are identical, it demands a cause, a law, and a vague dismay seizes upon it when it is unable to guess this cause and to trace out this law. I am no coward, but I have often studied the manifestation of fear in others from its most purile form in children up to its most tragic phrase in Mad Men. I know that it is fed and nourished by uncertainties, although when one actually sets himself to investigate the cause, this fear is often transformed into simple curiosity. I made up my mind, therefore, to ferret out the truth. I questioned my caretaker and found that he knew nothing about my neighbors. Every morning an old woman came to look after the neighboring apartment. My caretaker had tried to question her, but either she was completely deaf or else she was unwilling to give him any information, for she had refused to answer a single word. Nevertheless I was able to explain satisfactorily the first thing that I had noted, that is to say the sudden extinction of the light at the moment when I entered the house. I had observed that the windows next to mine were covered only by long lace curtains, and, as the two balconies were connected, my neighbor, whether man or woman, had no doubt a wish to prevent any indiscreet inquisitiveness on my part, and therefore had always put out the light on hearing me come in. To verify this supposition I tried a very simple experiment which succeeded perfectly. I had a cold supper brought in one day about noon by my servant, and that evening I did not go out. When darkness came on I took my station near the window. Presently I saw the balcony shining with the light that streamed through the windows of the neighboring apartment. At once I slipped quietly out upon my balcony and stepped softly over the ironwork that separated the two parts. Although I knew that I was exposing myself to a positive danger, either of falling and breaking my neck, or of finding myself face to face with a man, I experienced no perturbation. Reaching the lighted window, without having made the slightest noise, I found it partly open. Its curtains, which for me were quite transparent since I was on the dark side of the window, made me wholly invisible to anyone who should look toward the window from the interior of the room. I saw a vast chamber furnished quite elegantly, though it was obviously out of repair and lighted by a lamp suspended from the ceiling. At the end of the room was a low sofa upon which was reclining a woman who seemed to me to be both young and pretty. Her loosened hair fell over her shoulders in a rain of gold. She was looking at herself in a handmaire, patting herself, passing her arms over her lips and twisting about her supple body with a curiously feline grace. Every movement that she made caused her long hair to ripple and glistening undulations. As I gazed upon her I confess that I felt a little troubled, especially when all of a sudden the young girl's eyes were fixed upon me, strange eyes, eyes of a phosphorescent green that gleamed like the flame of a lamp. I was sure that I was invisible, being on the dark side of a curtained window. That was simple enough, yet, nevertheless, I felt that I was seen. The girl, in fact, uttered a cry, and then turned and buried her face in the sofa pillows. I raised the window, rushed into the room toward the sofa, and leaned over the face that she was hiding. As I did so, being really very remorseful, I began to excuse and to accuse myself, calling myself all sorts of names and begging pardon for my indiscretion. I said that I deserved to be driven from her presence, but begged not to be sent away without at least a word of pardon. For a long time I pleaded thus without success, but at last she slowly turned, and I saw that her fair young face was stirred with just the faintest suggestion of a smile. When she caught a glimpse of me, she murmured something of which I did not then quite get the meaning. It is you, she cried out, it is you. As she said this, and I looked at her, not knowing yet exactly what to answer, I was harassed by the thought, where on earth have I already seen this face, this look, this very gesture? Little by little, however, I found my tongue, and after saying a few more words in apology for my unpardonable curiosity and getting brief but not offended answers, I took leave of her, and, retiring through the window by which I had come, went back to my own room. Arriving there, I sat a long time by the window in the darkness, charmed by the face that I had seen, and yet singularly disquieted. This woman so beautiful, so amiable, living so near to me, who said to me, it is you, exactly as though she had already known me, who spoke so little, who answered all my questions with evasion. Excited in me, a feeling of fear. She had indeed told me her name, Linda, and that was all. I tried in vain to drive away the remembrance of her greenish eyes, which in the darkness seemed still to gleam upon me, and of those glints which, like electric sparks, shone in her long hair whenever she stroked it with her hand. Finally, however, I retired for the night, but scarcely was my head upon the pillow when I felt some moving body descend upon my feet. The cat had appeared again. I tried to chase her away, but she kept returning again and again, until I ended by resigning myself to her presence, and just as before. I went to sleep with a strange companion near me, yet my rest this time was a troubled one, and broken by strange and fitful dreams. Have you ever experienced the sort of mental obsession which gradually causes the brain to be mastered by some single absurd idea, an idea almost insane, and one which your reason and your will alike repel, but which nevertheless gradually blends itself with your thought, fastens itself upon your mind, and grows and grows. I suffered cruelly in this way on the days that followed my strange adventure. Nothing new occurred, but in the evening, going out upon the balcony, I found Linda standing upon her side of the iron fan. We chatted together for a while in the half-darkness, and as before I returned to my room to find that in a few moments the golden cat appeared, leaped upon my bed, made a nest for herself there, and remained until the morning. I knew now to whom the cat belonged. Her Linda had answered that very same evening, am I speaking of it? Oh yes, my cat. Doesn't she look exactly as though she were made of gold? As I said, nothing new had occurred, yet nevertheless a vague sort of terror began little by little to master me, and to develop itself in my mind. At first merely as a bit of foolish fancy, and then as a haunting belief that dominated my entire thought, so that I perpetually seemed to see a thing which it was in reality quite impossible to see. Why, it's easy enough to guess, interrupted the young lady who had spoken at the beginning of a story. Linda and the cat were the same thing. Trebordo smiled. I should not have been quite so positive as that, he said, even then, but I cannot deny that this ridiculous fancy haunted me for many hours when I was endeavoring to snatch a little sleep amid the insomnia that a two-active brain produced. Yes, there were moments when these two beings with greenish eyes, sinuous movements, golden hair, and mysterious ways seemed to me to be blended into one, and to be merely the double manifestation of a single entity. As I said, I saw Linda again and again, but in spite of all my efforts to come upon her unexpectedly, I never was able to see them both at the same time. I tried to reason with myself, to convince myself that there was nothing really inexplicable in all this, and I ridiculed myself for being afraid both of a woman and of a harmless cat. In truth, at the end of all my reasoning, I found that I was not so much afraid of the animal alone or of the woman alone, but rather of a sort of quality which existed in my fancy and inspired me with a fear of something that was incorporeal, fear of a manifestation of my own spirit, fear of a vague thought which is, indeed, the very worst of fears. I began to be mentally disturbed. After long evenings spent in confidential and very unconventional chats with Linda, in which little by little my feelings took on the color of love, I passed long days of secret torment such as incipient maniacs must experience. Gradually, a resolve began to grow up in my mind, a desire that became more and more important in demanding a solution of this unceasing and tormenting doubt. And the more I cared for Linda, the more it seemed absolutely necessary to push this resolve to its fulfillment. I decided to kill the cat. One evening, before meeting Linda on the balcony, I took out of my medical cabinet a jar of glycerin and a small bottle of hydrocyanic acid. Together, with one of those little pencils of glass which chemists use in mixing certain corrosive substances. That evening, for the first time, Linda allowed me to caress her. I held her in my arms and passed my hand over her long hair, which snapped and crackled under my touch in a succession of tiny sparks. As soon as I regained my room, the golden cat as usual appeared before me. I called her to me. She rubbed herself against me with arched back and extended tail, purring the while with her greatest amiability. I took the glass pencil in my hand, moistened the point in the glycerin, and held it out to the animal, which licked it with her long red tongue. I did this three or four times, but the next time I dipped the pencil in the acid. The cat, unhesitatingly, touched it with her tongue, and in an instant she became rigid. In a moment after, a frightful totanic convulsion caused her to leap thrice into the air and then to fall upon the floor with a dreadful cry, a cry that was truly human. She was dead. With a perspiration starting from my forehead and with trembling hands, I threw myself upon the floor beside the body that was not yet cold. The starting eyes had a look that froze me of horror. The blackened tongue was thrust out between the teeth. The limbs exhibited the most remarkable contortions. I mustered all my courage with a violent effort of will. Took the animal by the paws and left the house. Hurring down the silent street, I proceeded to the keys along the banks of the Loire, and, unreaching them, threw my burden into the river. Until daylight I roamed around the city just where I know not, and not until the sky began to grow pale and then to be flushed with light that I at last have the courage to return home. As I laid my hand upon the door I shivered. I had a dread of finding there still living, as in the celebrated tale of Poe, the animal that I had so lately put to death. But now my room was empty. I fell half-fainting upon my bed, and for the first time I slept, with a perfect sense of being all alone, asleep like that of a beast or of an assassin, until evening came. Someone here interrupted, breaking in upon the profound silence in which we had been listening. I can guess the end. Linda disappeared at the same time as the cat. You see perfectly well, replied Tripodeau, that there exists between the facts of the story a curious coincidence since you are able to guess so exactly their relation. Yes, Linda disappeared. They found in her apartment her dresses, her linen, all even to the night robe that she was to have worn that night. But there was nothing that could give the slightest clue to her identity. The owner of the house had let the apartment to Mademoiselle Linda, concert singer. He knew nothing more. I was summoned before the police magistrate. I had been seen on the night of her disappearance roaming about with a distracted air in the vicinity of the river. Luckily the judge knew me. Luckily also, he was a man of no ordinary intelligence. I related to him privately the entire story, just that I've been telling it to you. He dismissed the inquiry. Yet I may say that very few have ever had so narrow an escape as mine from a criminal trial. For several moments the silence of the company was unbroken. Finally a gentleman, wishing to relieve the tension, cried out. Come now, doctor. Confess that this is really all fiction that you merely want to prevent these ladies from getting any sleep tonight. Troubardeau bowed stiffly, his face unsmiling and a little pale. You may take it as you will, he said. End of The Woman and the Cat by Marcel Prévo. Love in a Fog by Hester Coldwell Oakley. Read for Love Stories, Volume 1 by Kevin S. This is a LibriVox recording, while LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Love in a Fog From time to time other figures emerged with an uncanny suddenness from the darkness, and passed with as unnatural swiftness into it again, like the unreal phantoms of a lantern slide. We are no other than a moving row of magic shadow shapes that come and go, quoted Brewster with the pleasure that accompanies an aptly remembered phrase. The pleasure that with him never pawled, as it so often does, for want of an appreciative listener other than oneself. And then having caught up that string of oriental pearls in the middle, he felt along for the seceding beads until the beautiful fatalism, more impressive in that loneliness than ever before, seemed to lessen his habitual self-reliance. Until now the thought of being lost never entered his head, although he had been walking in that confusing and absolute gloom for over a quarter of an hour. He stood quite still and tried to think out the compass, grasping in rueful and credulous amusement as wave after wave of bewildered uncertainty swept over him. It was just at this moment, as he so stood, trying to realize that he, Ralph Brewster, hunter and art and woodsman was more hopelessly turned about in the most familiar part of London than he had ever been in the depth of the forest primeval, that a distinct quick call smote him from somewhere beyond in the muffly fog. It came again. Help me! Come to me, someone! A woman's voice unmistakably, unmistakably to the voice of a refined woman, holding in it to Brewster's ear, an ear curiously sensitive where voices were concerned, a strange mingling of fright and command. Yes, he called in reply, trying to brush away the choking cloud with impatient hands. Hold on, I'm coming. Speak again so that I can place you. In answer the haunting voice sounded once more, this time seemingly ahead and a little to the right. Here I am. Come at once, please. The imperative note was even more distinguishable, and Brewster steered toward the sound with outstretched, groping arms. In a minute he called again. Where are you now? And this time the response came more faintly from the left. Here can you not find me? It's command more insistent than ever. For heaven's sake, Brewster shouted, keep still if you don't want me to lose you altogether. Don't move a single step and call to me steadily. His voice now held in a parent of ring, and the woman evidently recognized its masterfulness, for she did as he commanded, and again Ralph plunged forward toward the intangible sweetness of the calling voice. A London fog is almost as deceptive to ears as to eyes, and thus it happened that before the object of his search seemed to the man's hearing close at hand, his groping hands touched something which loomed up with such suddenness out of the obscurity that a rather sharp collision was inevitable. Brewster drew back apologetically, and the girl, for it was only a girl, uttered an exclamation of indignant surprise, followed by a little ripple of inconsistent and voluntary laughter, checked as soon as born. Oh, she said, I'm very glad you have found me at last. What a long time you were about it. I've been lost for quite an hour in this frightful fog, and I must get home at once. I should have found you sooner, Brewster retorted, somewhat resentfully, for her tone suggested a calm dissension unbearable under the circumstances. But you must have moved, did you not, after I first called? Of course I did, the girl replied with spirit. I tried to come to meet you. Oh, that is fatal in a fog, Brewster exclaimed. Two people drift apart at once if they play it cross purposes like that. For between calls they may be moving in exactly opposite directions. The only way is to remain stationary, as a foghorn, the girl suggested brightly, with a keen quick glance at her companion. In spite of the dusky dimness in which he was partially shrouded, though close at her side, both his voice and bearing convinced her that the man was a gentleman in whom she might trust, and her manner changed a trifle, although the condescension was still slightly noticeable. Exactly, Brewster agreed gravely, then courteously, I rather fear I am lost myself, but I may be able to be of some assistance to you. It is a frightful night for a woman to be out alone, and dangerous as well. Where do you wish to go? The implied disapproval of this remark seemed to sting the girl to an explanation in spite of herself. She began with an increased haughtiness, to the metropolis. Surely it cannot be very far. I came out early this afternoon to the National Gallery, and while there sent my companion off on an errand. She was to return in an hour at four o'clock, but after I grew tired of looking at the pictures and found the time was up, of course, impatiently, I could wait no longer, and so I started home. But the fog surely by that time it must have been very thick. You should never have attempted. Yes, she admitted unwillingly, it was thick, and it grew worse so rapidly, but what would you do with a pretty oddly foreign gesture? I could wait no longer, I knew the way, and who could have dreamed it would so soon become like this? A shade of mischievous regret crept into her voice as she added, as if to herself, how they will scold, oh Natalie, she too is lost out here. That is what kept her. I thought it could be nothing but sudden death, she grumbled so, at leaving me. But turning abruptly, you will take me home, sir, as quickly as possible, will you not? You may be sure of that, returned Ralph, again slightly nettle'd. Where in the world lay the charm of staying out longer than was necessary in a cold dank fog, with this pert, self-willed schoolgirl he should like to know? He asked himself the question angrily, and was surprised to find another self-recognizing that, absurd as it might seem, there was a distinct charm. But why do we not move on, then? With a sudden surrender to the humor of the situation, Brewster broke into a laugh. Move on, he said. Yes, we might, if you only knew in which direction to move. The girl watched him a minute, and then joined in. The laugh cleared the mental atmosphere, if not the material one. Then Brewster asked, how long have you been calling when I came? Only a minute, I could not bear to speak sooner. I did not know who might answer, and I thought I must find my way in time. It is such a short distance, you know. I'm sure I started right at first, but then, after a time, I came to such a dreadful place, all noisy men and wagons, and it was then that I became so turned around and hopelessly tangled, I suppose, for pretty soon I found myself here. Apparently in a place where there was nobody. I stood it as long as I could, and then I could not bear it any longer. It was unspeakable, the loneliness. I called, and then you answered. Yes, her voice was marvelously sympathetic in its flexible changes. Brewster could trace every gradation of her experience. The arrogant self-confidence of her departure. The shrinking disgust at the rough, clamoring crowd. The desperate, overmastering sensation of loneliness, and finally the passionate relief at his answer to her appeal. The hint of this last feeling thrilled him swiftly, and he felt all at once an immeasurable desire and capacity to move mountains, in order that this delicate, high-bred girl beside him might walk, unobstructed, henceforth. Unfortunately no mountains were at hand, only the thog, grem, relentless, omnipresent, like a mellow, dramatic ghost, the clutch of whose clammy fingers, no power other than the elements, could shake off. But her words gave him a clue. I say he exclaimed gladly. See here, you must have been wandering about in a circle around the square. That would account for there being so few people. If that's the case, we'll soon find her bearings. Yes, I started out from the Oxford and Cambridge Club 15 minutes or so ago, and so far as I can make out, I've been heading east ever since. Walking rather slowly that ought to bring me by now just about to Trafalgar Square. Nonsense, his companion declared. I could hardly be so stupid as to walk around in a circle. It is unreasonable. Oh, but I assure you it's not unreasonable, and the least Brewster protested. It's what every inexperienced person does when lost. It's the most natural thing in the world. We'll move forward slowly, and if I'm right, as I begin to think I must be, we'll soon strike something that will prove it. Move forward accordingly they did, cautiously, for the fog was like a dense wall, behind which no fate seemed too subtle or fearsome to lurk. And sure enough, before long they did meet a line in the path, a lancir line, by which token Brewster knew at once that Nelson's column was at hand, a vantage point from which to base further calculations. Here we are, he exclaimed joyfully, this is better luck than I dared hope for. If we had struck any of these other old duffers whose pedestals are alike as peas, it would have been as complicated as the highest sort of mathematics, as it is the problem simple as ABC. I do not really see that we are so much better off than before, the girl answered, with a sort of triumphant willfulness. As I remember it, there are four lines, are there not? And consequently four sides to Nelson's column. How do you know which side this is then? It seems to me that there are just three chances to one against our starting out in the right direction from here. Then it's simply a case of if at first you don't secede, try, try, try again, Ralph retorted, with rising good humor. This is my plan. The column is in the center of the square, east and west, but it is very near to the curb on the south side, while the southeast line, if my architectural head doesn't play me false, points directly toward Northumberland Avenue, which as you know is the street we're after. So you see, all we have to do is start straight ahead from the side we're on and walk about 20 paces. Then if we don't come to the curb, do as the king of France did, march back again, and begin all over from another side, until we do strike it. Do you see? Yes, she saw with a quick grasp of his points that delighted Brewster as did, still more the girlish gusto and abandon which she entered into the whole thing. He grasped one end of her slim little umbrella, telling her to hold to the crook behind him, while he made wild lunges ahead with his cane, because as he said, you never can tell what lucis naturae you may meet with at any minute in a London fog. They both shuddered at the thought of the way she might have pitched headlong down the steps that connect the curious stone terraces of Trafalgar Square. In the heat of this discussion during the second voyage of exploration from the column, they lost count of their steps and before they knew it were confronted with a pedestal, which Brewster declared must be that of General Gordon, who had embraced the opportunity of the fog to move up and hobnob with Nelson, since it had surely never been so close before. They faced about, and he made for the column again in secret, perturbation lest they had been turned about and bumped into one of the other statues, in which case their friendly vantage point would not be forthcoming. But he was relieved to find he was right, and there had been no more serious mistake than in the extra number of steps they had taken. Out again for the third time. Ralph felt as if they were two children playing at nothing more responsible or arduous than a game of blind man's bluff, and when at the fourth venture they finally found the long lost curb, with a unanimous exclamation which triumph and regret were ridiculously blended. The man had a keen sensation that they might claim to be old, old friends by this time, as become those who have grown up together through a long, happy youth. Back for the last time to the column steps to the left of which, facing the curb, crouches the southeast lion, gazing with stony eyes down Northumberland Avenue. Good for Nelson, ejaculated Brewster, to have beaten Napoleon's fleet was nowhere beside overcoming a London fog. And the girl laughed merrily, he has always been one of my heroes, I shall appreciate him more than ever after this. When they started slowly on again, she asked, gently as if touched by his patient persistence and clever planning, I hope I'm not taking you greatly out of your way, it would be such a pity. And Brewster answered with a joyous ring in his voice, not the least, why, we're close neighbors, isn't it odd I'm staying at the Victoria right next to you. You see, it was the very luckiest thing in the world by running across to you, I should never have gotten my own bearings without your hints. How good you are to put it so, I think the indebtedness is all on my side. I was foolish, she admitted, with a degree of mental surprise at the concession which would have amazed Ralph Brewster, simply because he could not have comprehended it. To him owning to a fault was the most natural and immediate outcome of its recognition. But who could have dreamed of this, she went on. Oh, what a country this England of yours, it would kill me, I could not breathe in it. Faw! But it is not my England, Brewster answered, laughy at the vivid disdain of her voice. I'm an American, you know, and that accounts for my stupidity in dealing with this sort of thing. If I'd been a Britisher, I should have had you home long ago, I daresay. He ended with a mental reservation, thank heaven I'm not then, which if revealed might in turn have been a surprise to his companion. She looked up, interestingly, America, she said. I might have known it, but why were you so surprised then? I thought it was a custom over there for women to do exactly as they pleased, to go out and about alone and unprotected at any hour. Oh, how I have longed for the freedom of it all at times. She ended with a note of worry in this that caught Brewster's quick ear. You are then, I am a German, she answered, with a sort of finality that somehow checked the further questioning which rose to Ralph's lips. As they reached the street on which the metropolis stands, a huge stray lumbered up suddenly out of the blackness behind him and with a quick backward motion of his arm, trained years before to pull stroke on his varsity eight, Ralph caught the girl from her feet and lifted her around in front of him, out of the way of the uncouth and mammoth thing. When they moved on, he reached out and drew her arm up through his, holding it firmly to his side. While around them, all around them, the blessed, the kindly fog shut down again, separating them from the rest of the world, leaving him in a new world of his own, with this one woman in whose presence he was conscious of a restfulness that was akin to nothing, perhaps so much as the glad surprise of quiet, deep, harbored waters after a stormy uncertainty. And now for a while they did not speak at all, but Brewster knew by a sort of sixth sense that her silence held no estrangement. They moved on as if in a dream. Was it indeed anything else? The isolation, the unreality of past or future of anything but the intense, all sufficing present. The complete disconnection with any fellowship beyond the limitless one of the other dream figure at his side. That figure so vital and real where it touched him closely, but fading itself at the farther points into unsubstantiality. Where but in a dream could one find such conditions? Just before they reached the hotel, the girl turned, pointing to a light which flashed by them only to be swallowed up, the next instant into nothingness again. What are those, she said, those lights. I have noticed them at intervals ever since we started. A sudden temptation rose in Brewster's heart, grappled with his speech, and was worsted. He had yielded tacitly to one already, but he would at least be honest with her now. There was a dread, however, in his eyes as he looked down at her. Those are the Link Boys, he said seriously. The Link Boys, you repeat it, questioningly? Yes, the Link Boys, you continued unsparingly. The men who carry about light at torches and make it their business to find people who were lost in the London fogs and show them to their destination. Unconsciously, he was repeating the phraseology of the London guidebook, but his eyes held hers as he spoke. Then you, when you, when we were lost, she faltered, you might all the time, you might. Yes, I might have hailed one and he would have led us home in half the time, or I'll alert it out. It was cat-ish, it was dishonorable in me, but I forgive me. I, he stopped for he felt rather than saw that his companion was smiling. It was better so, she said, with a sweet light graciousness, was most thoughtful. I should so much have preferred you to bring me home quietly like this, than to have come in, how do you say, the torchlight procession? In another instant they had reached the entrance, and with his swift return to everydayness, Brewster found his exalted sensations replaced by the most lusty and prosaic hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness. The girl drew her arm from his with a quick determination and lifted her face. As she did so, and he saw it clearly for the first time, in the subdued glare, the man was struck by its expression, sort of hopeless weariness, inconsistent with its use in extreme fairness. No, do not come any further, she said gently, when he made as if to accompany her up the steps. Please, I do not wish it, it only remains for me to thank you. Indeed, I do thank you. She continued hesitatingly, but with a deeper note, which lent a new gravity and dignity to her beautiful voice. You have spared me great trouble, and you saved my life, I think, at the time when the wagon. I am glad to owe my life to you, I am glad to have known you. I wish I too had been born in America. Will you not tell me your name, that I may remember my good friend? Brewster fumbled eagerly in his pocket, and handed her his card. It was nothing, it was everything. I mean, I am so glad, he murmured confusedly, for the happiness her words gave him impeded speech. So glad to have been of the least service. They were standing at the foot of the hotel steps, a little to the side where she had stopped him. People were jostling by them, in and out of the warm, brilliantly lighted hallway beyond, against the brightness of which her slender figure was silhouetted tenderly, making a soft halo about her shadowed face. Behind them lay the fog, in the sphinx-like depths of which the man fancied that he had found an answer to the riddle of his life. He held out both hands. Your name, he said, disconnectedly. This is only Alphvita's saying. I must see you again. I, the girl, seemed surprised at the impetuous gesture. But the next instant she laid her hand confidingly in his eager ones. Then she straightened and drew them gently away. Her names came softly. My name is Alexandrine Hennabog. Goodbye, my friend, I thank you always, she said, and then was gone up the steps. For a minute or two he stood where she had left him, gazing stupidly after her. Then he pulled himself together with a short happy laugh and, turning, groped his way back through the fog to his own hotel. Arrived there in the friendly seclusion of his own room, he paced up and down in a sort of exaltation. His passage had been engaged for the following Saturday, but he had thought of that as he came in and had wired from the hotel office giving up his stateroom. How exalted now to think how completely he was his own master. Appreciating the good fortune of his singular aloneness as never before. What was to hinder if he chose to follow this fogmaid, his willowess, through all the world? Plans? Her plan should be his. As for him he would make no plans. In forthwith he set to work at the most tempting architecture in the world. Castle building. How it all haunted him, every turn of her head, every intonation of her voice. Why his impression of the girl was as vivid as if he had known her all his life. As indeed he had, he told himself convincingly, for life had only begun with him, from the moment he had heard that calling name. Alexandrine. How perfectly it suited her, the beginning of it, stately and imperious, with a tender, playful, diminutive ending. The whole nameful of dignity and strength. Yet so womanly. In a bold. Ah, that was not so good. Two German praps. An American name would be better. He laughed at himself again, for his own eager boyishness. Glad of his youth, glad of his wealth and good name, that he might use them all as helps in winning her. He must be patient, oh yes, in circumspect, and not let her dream at first, or frighten her by the suddenness of it all. He would invent excuses. He would employ Machiavellian adroitness in explaining his presence, his behavior. Yes, he would be patient. Tomorrow he would wait to present himself till afternoon. He would leave her the whole morning free, a morning, a month rather, but he would leave it to her, free, in the afternoon at four, or possibly free. Possibly at two, he would call, and so on, and so on. Till far into the morning, which he had so generously resolved to abnegate. Accordingly, the next day he killed time in numerous ways. He read the newspaper, and then caught himself wondering what deduce there was in it anyway. Then he took a piece of paper, and grew intensely absorbed over a rough map of their journeyings in the fog the night before, living every step of the way over again. But oh, there is another crime I haven't mentioned yet. He quoted under his breath when he came to Nelson's column. I stole the third trip, my lady. I wonder if it occurred to you that General Gordon could have directed us without the extra excursion. He labeled the plan, map of a world, and then tucked it tenderly away in his wallet. Smiling to himself as he speculated how long it would be before he would dare to tell her about it, to show it to her. After this he dressed with more care and temper than he had ever before expended, fuming at his man and then sending him out of the room, the proud and forgiving possessor of an all but brand new suit of clothes and a top hat. Subsequently he made his way over to High Park, where he strode up and down the row in the mellow October sunshine, and his equality was the sole legacy of yesterday's fog. As he walked there in the soft kindly air, watching the people with amiable benevolence and universal overflowing good will towards men, which he himself would have described as doting, there was a sudden stir and then an open carriage came bowling rapidly along, a very fine carriage, in fact a most noticeable carriage with a curiously familiar coat of arms on paneling and trappings. As it came toward him, Brewster recognized the princess of Wales who sat on the back seat, beside a very stately old individual whose breasts so glitter with insignia that one naturally inferred he must be a very important individual indeed. Then as they flashed quickly past, the face of a girl on the front seat with her back to the horses arrested his carelessly interested eye and burned itself with its inner consciousness. A girl with a slender, beautifully clad figure with a cloud of light, wind-blown hair and a small flower-like face on which was stamped, the expression of bored weariness which Ralph had noticed once in the eyes of his fogmaiden of the night before. Just at that instant she caught sight of the man leaning forward, helplessly from the fringe of pedestrians. The bored look vanished and a sudden brilliant flush swept across her face for a second, and left it tense and paler than before, as she bent forward over the side of the carriage with an indescribably pathetic gesture of recognition. Brewster had just sense enough left to remain uncovered until they had disappeared, but his own face was white as he turned to a gentlemanly looking Englishman to sit beside him and asked unsteadily, can you tell me the name of that lady on the front seat of the carriage which has just passed? The Englishman looked with a slow curiosity into the eager questioning eyes which he afterwards decided belonged to one of those aristocracy worshippers from the other side, then good-naturedly and with a keen relish himself with the title morsel under his tongue, isn't she beautiful, he said? Didn't you recognize her? Why, that was her serene highness, Alexandrine, Princess of Saxe Visenac and Countess of Hennabog, End of Love in a Fog by Hester Coldwell Oakley. A Sentimental Romance by Alexander Cooprin Read for Love Stories Vol. 1 by Anne Fletcher, 2019 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. A Sentimental Romance My dearest friend, here I am at our sanatorium by the sea, just as I was last spring. Even my room is the same. Only during the winter the wallpaper has been changed and there's a slight smell of paste still in the room. I don't know how other people feel, but this smell always brings back to me that sweet, gentle melancholy which is so indissolubly linked with the memories of childhood. Perhaps it's clung to me ever since my school days. I remember how in the old times they used to bring me back after the long summer holidays. As you pass through the quite familiar dormitory, the classrooms, the corridors and everywhere, you detect the smell of paste, of fresh paint, of lime and varnish, and you feel with a sense of troubled melancholy that you are again stepping over a new border of life and you vaguely regret the past that has been left on the other side. Gray, ordinary unpleasant, but endlessly dear, just because it is the past and will never, never repeat itself. Oh, that past! What a mysterious, untranslatable charm it retains over one's soul. Even to you, my dearest, I only dare to write because I feel since the morning under the spell of last year's memories. I'm sitting at this moment at the writing-table, but I have only to lift my eyes from it to see the sea. That very sea with which you and I, dear remember, were so poetically in love. But even without looking up I can feel it. It seems to be rising in a level dark blue shroud right up to the middle of my window, which is wide open. Over it is the blue sky, quite cloudless and solemnly calm. And under the window an apple tree is in bloom. One of its branches spreading out covered all over with delicate blossoms, transparently white in the sunlight and faintly pink in the shade, peeps in over the sill. When a faint wind stirs from the sea, it rocks slightly, as though bowing to me in a friendly greeting, and scarcely audibly rustles against the green barred shutter. I gaze at it and can never get enough of the swan-like movements of this white branch covered with bloom, which so softly with such exquisite precision outlines itself gracefully against the deep, strong, joyful blue of the sea. And I simply want to cry, so touched am I at its unsophisticated beauty. Our sanatorium is drowned, forgive this antiquated comparison, in the white waves of pear trees, apple trees, almond trees and apricot trees, all in bloom. They say that in the language of the old inhabitants, the Chequeses, this exquisite little seaside village was called the White Fiancé. What a delightful and fitting name! There seems to emanate from it an atmosphere of coloured language and eastern poetry, an atmosphere as if something taken straight out of the song of songs of King Solomon. The garden paths are covered with light white petals, and when the wind blows the trees seem to be snowing in slowly falling heavy flakes. These light snowflakes fly into my room, cover the writing table and fall on my dress and my hair, and I can't, besides I have no wish, to rid myself of these memories which agitate me and make my head turn like some old aromatic wine. It was last spring, the third or fourth day after your arrival at the sanatorium. The morning was just as quiet, cool and gleaming. We were sitting on the south veranda, I in the rocking chair covered with a pale blue sail-cloth. Do you remember that armchair? And you on the balustrade, leaning against the corner post and holding it with one hand. My God, even now after writing these lines, I stopped, closed my eyes for a few seconds with my hand over them, and again in front of me with extraordinary vividness came to me your face of those days, thin, pale, with fine, distinguished features, a coil of dark hair hanging carelessly over the white forehead and with those deep, sad eyes. I can visualise even that pensive and absent-minded smile which used just to touch your lips when you said looking dreamily at the falling petals of the white flowers the apple trees are shedding their blossom and the spring is only at its very start. Why does this swift, expansive bloom of the sudden spring always awaken me such a maladive feeling of distress and unfulfillment? No later than yesterday it seems I was watching with emotion the first swelling buds and today the flowers are already scattering and you know that tomorrow will come the cold autumn. Isn't it like our own lives? In youth you live only on hope. You think that now at once something great and absorbing will seize hold of you and then suddenly you seem to wake up and you see that nothing is left but memories and regret for the past and you yourself are unable to tell at what precise period your real life swept by a full, consciously beautiful life. You see how well I remember your words everything associated with you is imprinted on my soul in bright relief and I treasure it, admire and delight in it as a miser does in his gold. I confess even that I have come here exclusively to see once more, even from the window a morsel of our sea, our sky to smell the fine aroma of the apple trees in flower to hear in the evening the dry chatter of the crickets and to live endlessly over again in imagination those naive, pale memories at whose faintness a healthy person would laugh aloud those healthy people with their rough appetite for life their depths of strong sensation permitted them by their strong bodies and indifferent prodigality of soul they cannot even imagine those untranslatably delicate inexplicably complex shades of moods through which we pass we who are condemned almost from our birth to the monotonous vegetation of the hospital the health resort and the sanatorium here everything is as it used to be only you are not here, my dear friend and teacher of course you can guess that through the newspapers I have heard of your recovery and that you are back again in your university chair our dear doctor, as fond of life as ever has confirmed this news, his face glowing with pleasure doubtless he attributes your cure to his system of hot baths his theories of diet as you know I don't believe in either treatment but all the same I was ready to kiss this kindly and naive egoist for his news of your health he on the contrary is not at all pleased with me I saw it in the way he shook his head wrinkling his lips and breathing hard through his nose with that preoccupied seriousness of his while he was listening to my chest and tapping it finally he advised me to go somewhere in the real south to Mentone or even Cairo advised me with an awkward and jocular prudence which was a poor mask for the anxiety that kept peeping out from his eyes visibly he's afraid of the bad impression that my death will create among his patients and he wants to save them this unpleasantness I shall be very sorry to prejudice in voluntarily the good reputation of his establishment but all the same I do consider myself entitled to the luxury of dying in this particular place sanctified by the poignant charm of early autumn all the more because this will happen much sooner than he expects perhaps even before the last white petals of my apple tree have fled I will confess to you as a secret that already I cannot go beyond the veranda and even that is very difficult though I still have the courage to answer the doctor's anxious interrogative looks with an insouciant smile but don't think I'm complaining to you in the selfish hope of arousing compassion for myself no, I merely want to avail myself of the right that a dying human being has to discuss what healthy people are silent about from conventional shyness besides, I want to tell you that death does not frighten me and that it is to you my dear friend and only to you that I owe this philosophic quietude I understand now perfectly your words death is the simplest and most normal of all the phenomena of life man comes into this world and lives exclusively through chance but he dies only through inevitable law this beautiful aphorism has become to me now particularly clear yes, you have taught me a great deal without you I should never have reached those slow, delicate delights produced by a book one has just read, a deep and beautiful thought from a creative mind inspired music, the beauty of sunset, the aroma of a flower and this first of all the soul communion of two refined natures in which owing to serious illness nervous receptivity reaches a point of exaltation and mutual understanding passes into a silent clairvoyance do you remember our long unhurried walks along the seashore under the perpendicular rays of the sun in those burning lazy midday hours when everything seems to die in helpless lassitude and the waves just rustle and whiz onto the hot yellow sand and go back into the dazzling sea leaving behind a moist, dented edging which disappears just as quickly as the traces of one's breath on glass do you remember how we used to hide from the doctor who allowed no one to be out of doors after sunset and steal out onto the terrace in the warm moonlit nights the moonlight would cut through the espalier of the dense vineyard and lie on the floor and the white wall like a pattern of light fantastic lace in the darkness we couldn't see but only guess at each other and the timid whispers in which we had to speak gave even to the simplest words a deep intimate, agitating significance do you remember how on the rainy days when the sea was enveloped in a fog all day long and there was in the air a smell of wet sand, of fish and refreshed leaves we used to tiptoe into my cosy room and read Shakespeare just a little at a time like Rio Gourmet's tasting the savour of every page reveling in every spark from this great mind which for me became deeper and deeper and still more penetrating under your guidance these books in their soft covers of tender green Morocco are still with me now on certain pages of them here and there are sharp nail marks and when I look at these remaining symbols which remind me so vividly of your vehement nervous enthusiasm for the beauties and abysses of this Shakespearean genius I am overcome by a quiet somber emotion do you remember how endlessly I could repeat this question but I'm beginning to be tired already and I've still so much to say to you of course you can imagine that here in the sanatorium I'm condemned to perpetual silence the usual stereotype sentences which are invalids exchange when they are compelled to meet at breakfast dinner and tea drive me frantic they always talk about the same things today one of them has had a bath two degrees lower than the day before another has eaten a pound more of grapes a third has climbed a steep slope leading to the sea without stopping and imagine without even being out of breath they discuss their maladies at length with egotistic enjoyment sometimes in disgusting detail unfailingly each wishes to persuade the rest that no one else can possibly have such extraordinary complications of cruel suffering it is a tragedy when two competitors meet even if it is only a question of a simple headache scornful shrugs come into play ironical half-hidden smiles and haughty expressions and the most icy glances oh what's this you're telling me about your headache that's really funny I can imagine what you would have said if you had endured once the cruel pain that I suffer every day here illness is a cause of pride and rivalry a fantastic warrant for an odd self-respect a sort of decoration in a way however I have noticed this sort of thing among healthy people but here among sick people it becomes dreadful repulsive and incredible that's why I'm always pleased when I find myself at last alone in my cosy impregnable little corner but no I'm not alone with me there are always you and my love there I've said the word and it didn't burn my lips at all as it always does in novels but I don't even know myself if one can call this quiet pale half-mystical feeling love I'm not going to conceal from you the fact that girls of our class have a much more definite and realistic comprehension of love than is suspected by their parents who watch modern flirtations through their fingers at school one talks a great deal on this subject and curiosity gives it a kind of mysterious exaggerated and even monstrous significance from novels and the stories of married friends we learn about mad kisses burning embraces about nights of delight voluptuousness and goodness knows what all this we assimilate instinctively half-consciously and probably according to individual temperament depravity and perspicacity more or less clearly in that sense my love is not love but a sentimental and amusing play of the imagination sickly puny and weak from my very childhood I've always had a horror of everything in which one way or another physical force rough health and the joy of life displayed themselves a horse ridden quickly the sight of a workman with an enormous weight on his back a big crowd a loud shriek an excessive appetite or a strong odor all this makes me wince or arouses in me disgusted antipathy and these are exactly the feelings that I experience when my thoughts are confronted by the real sensual love of healthy people with its heavy inept shameless details but if one is to call the exclusively soul union of two people when the feelings and thoughts of one of them through some mysterious current transmit themselves to the other when words yield place to silent glances when a scarcely perceptible shiver of the eyelids or the pale ghost of a smile in the eyes say sometimes so much more than a long confession of love between ordinary folk I'm using your actual expression when through the mere meeting of each other's eyes at table or in a drawing room at the arrival of a newcomer or at a stupidity that has just been uttered two people without words know how to share an impression in a word if relations of this kind can be called love then I may boldly say that not only I but each of us has loved the other and not even with that love which one calls mockingly brother's love I know this because I have a very clear recollection of one instance the one instance at which I'm afraid of blushing when I talk about it it happened on the broken cliff over the sea in the vineyard summer house which is still calls just as it was last year with faded sentimentality the arbor of love it was a quiet peaceful morning and the sea seemed green with just that alternation of bright and pale green that certain species of malachite have sometimes over its quiet surface there would creep an uneven purple spot the shadow of a cloud I had not slept well the night before and I'd got up feeling broken with a headache and my nerves overstrung at breakfast I'd quarrelled with the doctor not so much because he'd forbidden me to bathe in the open sea as on account of his self-assertive and radiant health when I complained to you about him in the arbor I burst out crying do you remember the incident? you were disconcerted and you were saying disconnected but kind caressing words cautiously stroking my head as if I were a child this sympathy was too much for me and I leaned my head on your shoulder and then you kissed me again and again on the temple and on the cheek and I must confess I knew I should blush at this part of my letter that these kisses not only were not repugnant but even gave me a pleasant purely physical pleasure like the sensation of a light warm wave running over the whole of my body from head to foot but this was the only instance of that kind you my friend said more than once that for people like us exhausted consumptives chastity was not so much a virtue as a duty all the same this love gleaming through my sad sunset was so pure so tender so beautiful in its very malady I remember when I was quite a little schoolgirl lying in the infirmary an enormous empty dreadfully high room lying there for some reason or other apart from the rest of the sick ones and being intolerably bored and then my attention happened to be caught by a simple but wonderful thing beyond the window in the moss covered recess moss grew almost all over the saliences of that old pre-catherin wall a flower had sprouted it was a real hospital flower with a corolla like a tiny yellow star and a long thin pale green little stalk I couldn't tear my eyes from it and felt for it a sort of pitiful pensive love my own beloved one this weak sick yellow little flower it is my love for you there this is all I wish to tell you goodbye I know my letter will slightly touch you and the thought of this pleases me beforehand for with a love like this actually like this no one has probably ever loved you or ever will love you it is true that I have one wish to see you in that mysterious hour when the veil will begin to lift itself from my eyes not to cling to you in senseless terror but so that in that moment when the will weakens in the moment of involuntary fear which who knows will perhaps seize me you might press my hand tightly and say to me with your beautiful eyes courage my friend a few more seconds and you will know all but I shall resist this temptation I shall seal my letter at once write the address and you will receive it a few days after I have crossed the enigmatic border of knowledge my last feeling will be one of deep gratitude to you who have illumined my last days with love goodbye don't be anxious about me feel well eh I've closed my eyes and over my body there runs once more a sweet warm wave as then in the vineyard arbor my head swims so quietly and pleasantly goodbye End of a Sentimental Romance by Alexander Kuprin Cupid, Masquerader by Melville Chater read for Love Stories Volume 1 by Anita Sloma Martinez this is a LibriVox recording while LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Cupid, Masquerader Dickey was a sentimentalist he fell in and out of love as naturally and harmlessly as small boys fall in and out of a skating-pond Dickey's flights were erratic as those of a badly teed golf ball also like the ball he was continually smacking up against a bunker once for instance just as he was starting for a dreamy stroll in the park his sister, arriving from a tea new, booted and agonized household him off to make an engagement at Madame Musée Albert's the foot of sister was by no means too large for her shoe her shoe, she explained was a trifle too small for her foot oh well mused Dickey a sentimentalist like myself has no business in the park anyway heaven knows I'm bad enough elsewhere I look in a greasy pawn shop and reflect that if I bought that old violin and traced it back its owner might prove to be the one I take a prosaic swooping elevator and imagine that she is waiting at the 23rd story I change at 50th street for a Harlem train and am suddenly seized with the conviction that she is standing on the 59th street platform I lift up the receiver and tremble to think I detect her in the voice which says 4786 Cortland busy so perhaps its just as well for I defy even myself to ring sentiment out of a handed foot hospital mademoiselle Albert did not keep a place she conducted an establishment when you walked up one flight of moss green carpet garnished with silver stair rods between two fat rails of burnished brass you suspected as much when the plate glass door was opened by a moss green silver button boy with Albert emblazoned on his collar and you perceived that you were in the midst of a color scheme possibly you sang your voice and felt for a visiting card Dickie stepped into a long room carpeted in moss green upon one side of which stretched voluminous curtains of the same shade hung on brass rods through whose crevices could be seen glimpses of hair dressing opposite ran a row of white thin legged tables each scattered with glistening instruments and surmounted by a green glorified pin cushion upon one of which lay the hand of a gentleman who was trying to look as if he weren't married while over his fingertips spent queenly creature trying to look as if she didn't know otherwise another queen is scanced behind a showcase of powder puffs hair comb switches and other feminine intimacies greeted Dickie with a dazzling smile and told him that mademoiselle albert was engaged as he waited in the luxuriously couched ante room there sounded through the partition a plaintive little drawl that caught him across the chest as agreeably as a deep inhalation from his favorite pipe oh quick mademoiselle albert pleaded the drawl my foot feels like jelly cav's foot that hasn't gelled a wretched printer's boy no wonder they're called devils was wheeling along a big iron thing of type or negatives or something they use on newspapers then just as I passed over went to the barrow and out dropped the thing and smashed pieces on my new patent leathers the devil wept and called it pie and he must have been thinking of my toes for you'll find them in just that condition in the lower left hand corner of my boot whereupon fell eloquent silence punctuated by eyes and oars and ouches which rung every inch of sentimental dickies six foot two suddenly he thrust hands and pockets turned pettishly away and frowned out of the window he scowled down on the pavement he steered across the street he glanced up at a patch of blue sky as he gazed thereon his face slowly softened and settled into dreaminess mechanically he slipped a hand into his coat pocket and drew forth a Turkish slipper a cheap todry of there red embroidered with gold as it lay on his extended palm Dickie sank his head clutched his chin and gazed with knitted brows he smoothed his fingers lightly almost caressingly over the little slipper and his perplexed look deepened into meditation abstractedly lifting his head he caught in the mirror opposite a full-length snapshot of his lovelorn pose and expression he started his hands fell and he eyed himself in sour disgust ugh he grunted sentimentalist maudlin weak-eyed sentimentalist why can't you fall in love just once in the ordinary sensible way what were you doing last winter with the annual masquerade of the department store's employees sentimentalizing of course and supposing that Mini or Mimi or Marie or whatever her name might have been was dressed in Turkish costume with a yashmak over her face and her eyes peering out atop large impensive why sentimentality of course brown eyed dime novel sentimentality and you must beg her to dance though she wasn't dancing at all and asked where she worked where at she very properly fled in confusion and you must fancy you could discern in her a certain inborn superiority over the rest all of which was errant sentimentality and afterward when you tracked her to the carriage-step where she dropped her slippers of course you must pick them up and keep one with some confusion to Cinderella and you must haunt the department stores for the next three months moaning around after every brown eye till even the little cash girls giggled as you passed of course and all for what for some blessed damazelle of the bargain counter some snub-nosed Diana with a pencil through her back hair ah, you ass for a silent moment Dickie and his reflection glowered ferociously at each other then he squared his shoulders and crushing the slipper in a tense grip slowly shook at himself a revengeful forefinger I'll make an end of you, sir now henceforth and forever not another vagary not a single dribblet of sentiment and if it's necessary for the common sense welfare of your soul I'll pick you out of fat widow with six children proposed by telegraph buried by telephone and go honeymooning in an automobile and shaking in his reflection's face the fist which gripped the slipper he turned resolutely away there was the fireplace but burning leather smells almost as rank to heaven as sentimentality there was the window but some other fool might pick up this oriental talisman and inherit the curse Dickie quietly slipped the shoe back into his pocket fantastic even in the flush of his resolution he had decided to give it to the first barefooted person he saw he smiled complacently thanks ever so much broken the drawl from the next room my toes seem to be on quite firmly again now if you could lend me something to hop downstairs in some old shoe or slipper as mademoiselle albert stepped forth there flashed upon Dickie through the half open door the black silk silhouette of a small foot and ankle the hand that is the foot of fate he gasped and intercepting mademoiselle albert he explained spasmodically I heard allow me will this do as she passed in holding forth the slipper Dickie saw the seated figure lean quickly forward then rise with a little cry following after he suddenly halted trembling beneath a pair of large brown eyes mademoiselle is faint cried mademoiselle albert and when mademoiselle next opened her eyes she found a tall person kneeling before her with a slipper in his hand of course it was town talk and of course thanks to the matchmakers they met that winter in a coutillion at which the favors were of course guilt sceptres and glass slippers and shortly after but of course end of Cupid Masquerader by Melville Chater