 The Devil and Tom Walker by Washington Irving. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. A few miles from Boston in Massachusetts, there is a deep inlet winding several miles into the interior of the country from Charles Bay and terminating in a thickly wooded swamp or morass. On one side of this inlet is a beautiful dark grove. On the opposite side, the land rises abruptly from the water's edge into a high ridge on which grow a few scattered oaks of great age and immense size. Under one of these gigantic trees, according to old stories, there was a great amount of treasure buried by kid the pirate. The inlet allowed a facility to bring the money in a boat secretly and at night to the very foot of the hill. The elevation of the place permitted a good lookout to be kept that no one was at hand, while the remarkable trees form good landmarks by which the place might easily be found again. The old stories add, moreover, that the devil presided at the hiding of the money and took it under his guardianship. But this, it is well known, he always does with buried treasure, particularly when it has been ill-gotten. Be that as it may, kid never returned to recover his wealth, being shortly after seized at Boston, sent out to England and there hanged for a pirate. About the year 1727, just at the time that earthquakes were prevalent in New England and shook many tall sinners down upon their knees, there lived near this place Amiga Miserly fellow of the name of Tom Walker. He had a wife as miserly as himself. They were so miserly that they even conspired to cheat each other. Whatever the woman could lay hands on, she hid away. A hen could not cackle, but she was on the alert to secure the new laid egg. Her husband was continually prying about to detect her secret hordes, and many and fierce were the conflicts that took place about what ought to have been common property. They lived in a forlorn looking house that stood alone and had an air of starvation. A few straggling saventries, emblems of sterility, grew near it. No smoke ever curled from its chimney, no traveller stopped at its door. A miserable horse, whose ribs were as articulate as the bars of a gridiron, stalked about a field where a thin carpet of moss, scarcely covering the ragged beds of pudding-stone, tantalised and balked his hunger, and sometimes he would lean his head over the fence, look piteously at the passer-by, and seem to petition deliverance from this land of famine. The house and its inmates had altogether a bad name. Tom's wife was a tall, termigant, fierce of temper, loud of tongue and strong of arm. Her voice was often heard in wordy warfare with her husband, and his face sometimes showed signs that their conflicts were not confined to words. No one ventured, however, to interfere between them. The lonely wayfarer shrank within himself at the horrid clamour and clapper-clawing, eyed the den of discordous scants, and hurried on his way, rejoicing, if a bachelor, in his celibacy. One day the Tom Walker had been to a distant part of the neighbourhood. He took what he considered a shortcut homeward, through the swamp. Like most shortcuts, it was an ill-chosen route. The swamp was thickly grown with great gloomy pines and hemlocks, some of them ninety feet high, which made it dark at noonday, and a retreat for all the owls of the neighbourhood. It was full of pits and quagmires, partly covered with weeds and mosses, where the green surface often betrayed the traveller into a gulf of black, smothering mud. There were also dark and stagnant pools, the abodes of the tadpole, the bullfrog and the water snake, where the trunks of pines and hemlocks lay half-drowned, half-rotting, looking like alligators sleeping in the mire. Tom had long been picking his way cautiously through this treacherous forest, stepping from tuft to tuft of rushes and roots, which afforded precarious footholds among deep sloughs, or pacing carefully like a cat along the prostrate trunks of trees, startled now and then by the sudden screaming of the bittern or the quacking of a wild duck rising on the wing from some solitary pool. At Lent he arrived at a firm piece of ground which ran like a peninsular into the deep bosom of the swamp. It had been one of the strongholds of the Indians during their wars with the first colonists. Here they had thrown up a kind of fort which they had looked upon as almost impregnable and had used as a place of refuge for their scores and children. Nothing remained of the old Indian fort, but a few embankments, gradually sinking to the level of the surrounding earth and already overgrown in part by oaks and other forest trees, the foliage of which formed a contrast to the dark pines and hemlocks of the swamps. It was late in the dusk of evening when Tom Walker reached the old fort and he paused there a while to rest himself. Anyone but he would have felt unwilling to linger in this lonely melancholy place. For the common people had a bad opinion of it, from the stories handed down from the times of the Indian wars when it was asserted that the savages held incantations here and made sacrifices to the evil spirit. Tom Walker, however, was not a man to be troubled with any fears of the kind. He reposed himself for some time on the trunk of a fallen hemlock, listening to the boding cry of the tree toad and delving with his walking stick into a mound of black mould at his feet. As he turned up the soil unconsciously, his staff struck against something hard. He raked it out of the vegetable mould and lo, a cloven skull with an Indian tomahawk buried deep in it lay before him. The rust on the weapon showed the time that it elapsed since this death blow had been given. It was a dreary memento of the fears struggle that had taken place in this last foothold of the Indian warriors. Ha! said Tom Walker as he gave it a kick to shake the dirt from it. Let the skull alone! said a gruff voice. Tom lifted up his eyes and beheld a great black man seated directly opposite him on the stump of a tree. He was exceedingly surprised having neither heard nor seen any one approach and he was still more perplexed on observing as well as the gathering gloom would permit that the stranger was neither Negro nor Indian. It is true he was dressed in a rude Indian garb and had a red belt or sash swaved around his body, but his face was neither black nor copper colour, but swore thee and dingy and begrimed with soot as if he had been accustomed to toil among fires and forges. He had a shock of coarse black hair that stood out from his head in all directions and bore an axe on his shoulder. He scowled for a moment at Tom with a pair of great red eyes. What are you doing on my grounds? said the black man with a hoarse growling voice. Your grounds? said Tom with a sneer. No more your grounds than mine, they belong to the deacon Peabody. Deacon Peabody be damned, as I flatter myself he will be if he does not look more to his own sins and less to those of his neighbours. Look yonder and see how deacon Peabody is fairing. Tom looked in the direction that the stranger pointed and beheld one of the great trees, fair and flourishing without, but rotten at the core and saw that it had been nearly hewn through so that the first high wind was likely to blow it down. On the bark of the tree was scored the name of deacon Peabody, an eminent man who had waxed wealthy by driving shrewd bargains with the Indians. He now looked around and found most of the tall trees marked with the name of some great man of the colony and all more or less scored by the ax. The one on which he had been seated and which had evidently just been hewn down bore the name of Croin's Shield and he recollected a mighty rich man of that name who made a vulgar display of wealth which it was whispered he had acquired by bookeneering. He's just ready for burning! said the black man with a growl of triumph. You see, I'm likely to have a good stock of firewood for winter. But what right have you, said Tom, to cut down deacon Peabody's timber? The right of a prior claim, said the other. This woodland belonged to me long before one of your white-faced rays put foot upon the soil. And pray, who are you? If I may be so bold, said Tom. Oh, I go by various names. I'm the wild huntsman in some countries, the black miner in others. In this neighborhood, I'm known by the name of the black woodsman. I am he to whom the red man consecrated this spot and in honor of whom they now and then roasted a white man by way of sweet-smelling sacrifice. Since the red men have been exterminated by you white savages, I amuse myself by presiding at the persecution of Quakers and Anabaptists. I'm the great patron and prompter of slave dealers and the grandmaster of the Salem, which is... the upshot of all which is that if I mistake not, said Tom sturdily, you are he commonly called Old Scratch. The same at your service, replied the black man with a half-civil nod. Such was the opening of this interview according to the old story, though it has almost too familiar an air to be credited. One would think that to meet with such a singular personage in this wild, lonely place would have shaken any man's nerve, but Tom was a hard-minded fellow, not easily daunted, and he had lived so long with a termigant wife that he did not even fear the devil. It is said that after this commencement they had a long and earnest conversation together, as Tom returned homeward. The black man told him of great sums of money buried by kid the pirate under the oak trees on the high ridge, not far from the morass. All of these were under his command and protected by his power, so that none could find them, but such as propitiated his favour. These he offered to place within Tom Walker's reach, having conceived and a special kindness for him, but they were to be had only on certain conditions. What these conditions were may be easily surmised, though Tom never disclosed them publicly. They must have been very hard, for he required time to think of them, and he was not a man to stick at trifles when money was in view. When they reached the edge of the swamp, the stranger paused. What proof of eye that all you've been telling me is true, said Tom. There's my signature, said the black man, pressing his finger on Tom's forehead, so saying he turned off among the thickets of the swamp, and seemed, as Tom said, to go down, down, down into the earth, until nothing but his head and shoulders could be seen, and so on, until he totally disappeared. When Tom reached home, he found the black print of a finger burned, as it were, into his forehead, which nothing could obliterate. The first news his wife had to tell him was the sudden death of Absalom Crowing Shield, the rich buccaneer. It was announced in the papers with the usual flourish that a great man had fallen in Israel. Tom recollected the tree which his black friend had just hewn down, and which was ready for burning. Ah, let the free-booter roast, said Tom. Who cares? He now felt convinced that all he had heard and seen was no illusion. He was not prone to let his wife into his confidences, but as this was an uneasy secret, he willingly shared it with her. All her avarice was awakened at the mention of hidden gold, and she urged her husband to comply with the black man's terms and secure what would make them wealthy for life. However Tom might have felt disposed to sell himself to the devil, he was determined not to do so to oblige his wife, so he flatly refused, out of the mere spirit of contradiction. Many and bitter were the quarrels they had on the subject, but the more she talked, the more resolute was Tom not to be damned to please her. At length she determined to drive the bargain on her own account, and if she succeeded to keep all the gain to herself, being of the same fearless temper as a husband, she set off for the old Indian fort towards the close of a summer's day. She was many hours absent. When she came back she was reserved and sullen in her replies. She spoke something of a black man whom she had met about twilight hewing at the root of a tall tree. He was sulky, however, and would not come to terms. She was to go again with a propitiatory offering, but what it was she forbore to say. The next evening she set off again for the swamp with her apron heavily laden. Tom waited and waited for her, but in vain. Midnight came, but she did not make her appearance. Morning, noon, night returned, but still she did not come. Tom now grew uneasy for her safety, especially as he found she had carried off in her apron the silver teapot and spoons and every portable article of value. Another night elapsed, another morning came, but no wife. In a word she was never heard of more. What was her real fate nobody knows, in consequence of so many pretending to know? It is one of those facts which has become confounded by a variety of historians. Some asserted that she lost her way among the tangled mazes of the swamp and sank into some pit or slough. Others, more uncharitable, hinted that she had eloped with the household booty and made off to some other province, while others surmised that the tempter had decoyed her into a dismal quagmire, on the top of which her hat was found lying. In confirmation of this, it was said a great black man with an axe on his shoulder was seen late that very evening coming out of the swamp carrying a bundle tied in a Czech apron with an air of surly triumph. The most current and probable story, however, observes that Tom Walker grew so anxious about the fate of his wife and his property that he set out at length to seek both of them at the Indian Fort. During a long summer's afternoon he searched among the gloomy place, but no wife was to be seen. He called her name repeatedly, but she was nowhere to be heard. The bitten alone responded to his voice as he flew screaming by or the bullfrog croaked dolefully from a neighbouring pool. At length, it is said, just in the brown hour of twilight when the owls begin to hoot and the bats to flit about, his attention was attracted by the clamour of carrion crows hovering about a cypress tree. He looked up and beheld a bundle tied in a Czech apron and hanging in the branches of the tree with a great vulture perched hard by as if keeping watch upon it. He leaped with joy, for he recognised his wife's apron and supposed it to contain the household valuables. Let us get hold of the property, said he consolingly to himself, and we will endeavour to do without the woman. As he scrambled up the tree, the vulture spread its wide wings and sailed off, screaming into the deep shadows of the forest. Tom seized the Czech apron, but, woe, full sight, found nothing but a heart and liver tied up in it. Such, according to this most authentic old story, was all that was to be found of Tom's wife. She had probably attempted to deal with the black man as she had been accustomed to deal with her husband. But though a female scold is generally considered a match for the devil, yet in this instance she appears to have had the worst of it. She must have died gay, however, for it is said Tom noticed many prints of cloven feet deeply stamped around the tree and found handfuls of hair that looked as if they'd been plucked from the coarse black shock of the woodsman. Tom knew his wife's prowess by experience. He shrugged his shoulders as he looked at the signs of fear's clapper-clawing. Eh, God! said he to himself. Old scratch must have had a tough time of it. Tom consoled himself for the loss of his property with the loss of his wife, for he was a man of fortitude. He even felt something like gratitude towards the black woodsman who he considered had done him a kindness. He sought therefore to cultivate a further acquaintance with him, but for some time without success the old blacklegs played shy. For whatever people may think he is not always to be had for the calling. He knows how to play his cards when pretty sure of his game. At length it is said when delay had whetted Tom's eagerness to the quick and prepared him to agree to anything rather than not gain the promised treasure, he met the black man one evening in his usual woodsman's dress with his axe on his shoulder, sauntering along the swamp and humming a tune. He affected to receive Tom's advances with great indifference, made brief replies and went on humming his tune. By degrees, however, Tom brought him to business and they began to haggle about the terms on which the former was to have the pirate's treasure. There was one condition which need not be mentioned, being generally understood in all cases where the devil grants favours. But there were others about which, though of less importance, he was inflexibly obstinate. He insisted that the money found through his means should be employed in his service. He proposed therefore that Tom should employ it in the black traffic, that is to say that he should fit out a slave ship. This, however, Tom resolutely refused. He was bad enough in all conscience, but the devil himself could not tempt him to turn slave trader. Finding Tom so squeamish on this point, he did not insist upon it, but proposed instead that he should turn usurer, the devil being extremely anxious for the increase of usurers, who were looking upon them as his peculiar people. For this no objections were made, for it was just a Tom's taste. You shall open a broker's shop in Boston next month, said the black man. I'll do it tomorrow, if you wish, said Tom Walker. You shall then money it two percent a month. He got, I'll charge four, replied Tom Walker. I'll extort bonds, foreclose mortgages, drive the merchants to bankruptcy. I'll drive them to the devil, cried Tom Walker. You are the usurer for my money, said the black legs with delight. When will you want the rhino? This very night. Done, said the devil. Done, said Tom Walker. So they shook hands and struck a bargain. A few days time saw Tom Walker seated behind his desk in a counting house in Boston. His reputation for a ready-moneyed man who would lend money out for a good consideration soon spread abroad. Everybody remembers the time of Governor Belcher, when money was particularly scarce. It was a time of paper credit. The country had been deluged with government bills. The famous land bank had been established. There had been a rage for speculating. The people had run mad with schemes for new settlements, for building cities in the wilderness. Land-jobbers went about with maps of grants and townships and eldorados, lying nobody knew where, but which everybody was ready to purchase. In a word, the great speculating fever, which breaks out every now and then in the country, had raged to an alarming degree, and everybody was dreaming of making sudden fortunes from nothing. As usual, the fever had subsided, the dream had gone off, and the imaginary fortunes with it. The patients were left in a doleful plight. And the whole country resounded with the consequent cry of hard times. At this propitious time of public distress, did Tom Walker set up as user in Boston. His door was soon thronged by customers, the needy and adventurous, the gambling speculator, the dreaming land-jobber, the thriftless tradesman, the merchant with cracked credit. In short, everyone driven to raise money by desperate means and desperate sacrifices hurried to Tom Walker. Thus, Tom was the universal friend to the needy, and acted like a friend in need. That is to say, he always exacted good pay and security. In proportion to the distress of the applicant was the hardness of his terms. He accumulated bonds and mortgages, gradually squeezed his customers closer and closer, and sent them at length, dry as a sponge from his door. In this way, he made money hand over hand, became a rich and mighty man, and exalted his cocked hat upon change. He built himself as usual a vast house out of ostentation, but left the greater part of it unfinished and unfurnished out of parsimony. He even set up a carriage in the fullness of his vain glory, though he nearly starved the horses which drew it. And as the ungreased wheels groaned and screeched on the axle-trees, you would have thought you heard the soles of the poor debtors he was squeezing. As Tom waxed old, however, he grew thoughtful. Having secured the good things of this world, he began to feel anxious about those of the next. He thought with the regret of the bargain he had made with his black friend and set his wits to work to cheat him out of the conditions. He became, therefore, all of a sudden, a violent church-goer. He prayed loudly and strenuously, as if heaven were to be taken by force of lungs. Indeed, one might always tell when he had sinned most during the week by the clamour of his Sunday devotion. The quiet Christians, who had been modestly and steadfastly travelling Zionward, were struck with self-approach at seeing themselves so suddenly outstripped in their career by this new-made convert. Tom was as rigid and religious as in money matters. He was a stern supervisor and censurer of his neighbours and seemed to think every sin entered up to their account became a credit on his own side of the page. He even talked of the expediency of reviving the persecution of Quakers and Anabaptists. In a word, Tom's zeal became as notorious as his riches. Still, in spite of all this strenuous attention to forms, Tom had a lurking dread that the devil, after all, would have his due. That he might not be taken unawares, therefore, it is said he always carried a small Bible in his coat pocket. He had also a great folio Bible on his counting-house desk and would frequently be found reading it when people called on business. On such occasions he would lay his green spectacles in the book to mark the place while he turned round to drive some usurious bargain. Some say that Tom grew a little crack-brained in his old days and that fancying his end approaching he had his horse new-shot saddled and bridled and buried with his feet uppermost because he supposed that at the last day the world would be turned upside down, in which case he should find his horse standing ready for mounting and he was determined at the worst to give his old friend a run for it. This, however, is probably a mere old wise fable. If he really did take such a precaution, it was totally superfluous. At least so says the authentic old legend, which closes his story in the following manner. One hot summer afternoon in the dog-days, just as a terrible black thunder-guss was coming up, Tom sat in his counting-house in his white linen carp and an India silk mourning-gown. He was on the point of foreclosing a mortgage by which he would complete the ruin of an unlucky land-speculator for whom he had professed the greatest friendship. The poor land-jobber begged him to grant a few months indulgence. Tom had grown testy and irritated and refused another delay. My family will be ruined and brought upon the parish, said the land-jobber. Charity begins at home, replied Tom. I must take care of myself in these hard times. You have made so much money out of me, said the speculator. Tom lost his patience and his piety. The devil take me, said he, if I have made a farthing. Just then there were three loud knocks at the street door. He stepped out to see who was there. A black man was holding a black horse which nade and stamped with impatience. Tom, you come for, said the black fellow gruffly. Tom shrank back, but too late. He had left his little Bible at the bottom of his coat-pocket and his big Bible on the desk, buried under the mortgage he was about to foreclose. Never was a sinner taken more unawares. The black man whisked him like a child into the saddle, gave the horse the lash and away he galloped with Tom on his back in the midst of the thunderstorm. The clerks stuck their pens behind their ears and stared after him from the window. Our way went Tom Walker dashing down the streets, his white cap bobbing up and down, his mourning gown fluttering in the wind, and his steed striking fire out of the pavement at every bound. When the clerks turned to look for the black man, he had disappeared. Tom Walker never returned to foreclose the mortgage. A country man who lived on the border of the swamp reported that in the height of the thunder-gust he had heard a great clattering of hooves and a howling along the road and running to the window caught sight of a figure such as I have described on a horse that galloped like mad across the fields over the hills and down into the black hemlock swamp toward the old Indian fort and that shortly after a thunderbolt falling in that direction seemed to set the whole forest in a blaze. The good people of Boston shook their heads and shrugged their shoulders, but it had been so much accustomed to witches and goblins and tricks of the devil in all kinds of shape from the first settlement of the colony that they were not so much horror-stricken as might have been expected. Trustees were appointed to take charge of Tom's effects. There was nothing, however, to administer upon. On searching his coffers all his bonds and mortgages were reduced to cinders. In place of gold and silver his iron chess was filled with chips and shavings. Two skeletons lay in his stable instead of his half-starved horses and the very next day his great house took fire and was burned to the ground. Such was the end of Tom Walker and his ill-gotten wealth. Let all griping money-brokers lay this story to heart. The truth of it is not to be doubted. The very hole under the oak trees whence he dug kids' money is to be seen to this day and the neighbouring swamp and old Indian fort are often haunted in stormy nights by a figure on horseback in morning gown and white cap, which is doubtless the troubled spirit of the user. In fact, the story has resolved itself into a proverb and is the origin of that popular saying so prevalent throughout New England of The Devil and Tom Walker End of The Devil and Tom Walker Recorded by Joseph Finkberg For Diverse Reasons by Charles Battelle Loomis This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Michael Robinson For Diverse Reasons by Charles Battelle Loomis I sailed from England last summer on the mid-ocean line. I shall call the steamer The Bath Tub. The fare to New York was $60 for an inside berth and an inside room, and that was the kind of room that I selected. The passengers were sociable, amiable, and interesting and I formed many agreeable ocean friendships, but all seemed lacking in one quality. For instance, I approached a sporty-looking man with a red necktie and a diamond in his shirt bosom. He was leaning over the rail, gazing at the last bit of green that we should see for eleven days. I began a conversation with that confidence that he would reply pleasantly which strangers and a steamer always have, nor is that confidence ever abused. Easy motion, isn't it? You come over on this line? No, I came over on the first Bismarck, but I had a touch of the gout in Paris and the doctors recommended a slow ocean voyage, and so I chose this line. It's the slowest ever. I was too polite to wink at him and he immediately turned the conversation into other channels. Later in the day I met a lady from Boston. It is perhaps unnecessary to say that I was introduced to this lady. Also to every Bostonian on board. Easy motion, isn't it? Said I, as I drew my chair into the shadow of one of the boats. Yes, said the Boston lady. The motion is easy, as you say, but I prefer a faster boat myself. We were coming home on the St. Louis, but Mr. Adams was cabled to come home at once and this was the only line that we could secure passage on at such short notice. You were very lucky, said I, mentally figuring that if they had taken the St. Louis they would have reached home two days sooner than the bathtub would dock it. Well, I don't know as we can call it lucky the table is so inferior, at least to back bay cooking. I think it was on the same day that I fell into conversation with a well-put-up young man of New York. I fell into it in my usual way by saying nice easy motion, isn't it? We were standing in the bow watching a school of porpoises out for their noon recess. You make all it easy, but I call it blamed hard. Ten days more of it. I don't see why I was foolish enough to give up my passage on the oceanic. But a chap in London told me that if I wanted an absolutely novel experience I'd better take one of these tubs. Yes, said I, and they have the advantage of being cheap. Table not so bad, either. Well, the cheapness didn't appeal to me. In fact, I tried to get a whole state room for two hundred and forty dollars so that I'd have plenty of room to myself, don't you know. But the confounded boat was so crowded that I could only get an inside berth, lower one at that. If I hadn't foolishly cabled my return home to the governor I'd have waited and taken a cunarder. I met a southern woman that same day in the ladies' saloon. We were both writing letters and neither one of us could think of a thing to say, so I looked up and smiled and uttered my formula. Easy motion, isn't it? Oh, yes. I wish it would roll a little. It is so monotonous. They say the sister steamer, the wash tub, is much more of a roller. Fine line, though, isn't it? Do you think so? I've always been accustomed to take the white star line, but my husband's brother's cousin, whom we met at Bingham, told us if we wanted to be perfectly comfortable we'd better take a mid-ocean liner. Cheaper, too, said I, wickedly. She colored and went on. I really don't know about that part of it. My husband always attends to the buying of tickets. I had heard that there was a stowaway who had been discovered the third day out. I went to him. He was peeling potatoes in a dismal room off the kitchen. Hello, my boy, said I. That's right, I see you're helpful. I used to do that for my mother when I was a boy. Easy motion, isn't it? You expect to come by this line? He was flattered at not being taken for one of the crew. No, I wanted to take the Bremen, but she was burned at Hoboken, so I came on this. It's kind of fun to peel potatoes. The skins slip off so easy. With a sad heart I left this insincere young man peeling potatoes and went up on the upper deck. There I saw a dignified and a handsome old gentleman, the best-dressed man on board, reading Aristophanes in the original. He had spoken to no one, and people thought him offish. I wondered what tale he would give me, and I stopped alongside of him, and when he looked up I said, Easy motion, isn't it? Yes, luckily for me it is. I'm a poor sailor. But easy or not, easy I had to come by this line, as I practically went broke in London and just had enough to buy a passage by this cheap line. I'll have to touch the friends who come to meet me for the money to tip the stewards. I don't rave over the table, and I know lots of ways in which the service could be improved, but I'm practically broke, and that's why I'm here, so I don't complain. Here he cast a comprehensive glance at such of the passengers as were in sight. Yes, I'm broke, and I fancy we're all in the same boat. Shake, said I, and of for diverse reasons. Recording by Michael Robinson, Carbondale, Illinois The Fox Skin, by Goodmounder G. Higallan This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Jerry Dixon, The Fox Skin, by Goodmounder G. Higallan No need to take care now about fastening the door. Arnie of Bolly said to himself as he wrapped the string around the nail, driven into the doorpost of the outlying sheepcoat. Then he turned around, took out his handkerchief, and putting it to his nose, blew vigorously. This done, he folded the handkerchief together again, wiped his mouth and nose, and took out his snuffhorn. What fine balmy weather, thought Arnie, that miserable fox won't come near sheepcoats or houses now. Blast its hide. Yes, it had caused him many a wakeful night. All the neighboring farmers would have the fool's luck to catch a fox every single winter. All but him. He couldn't even wound a vixen, and had in all his life never caught any kind of fox. Wouldn't it be fun to bring home a dark brown pelt, one with fine overhair? Yes, wouldn't that be fun? Arnie shook his head in delight, cleared his throat vigorously, and took a pinch of snuff. Bending his steps homeward, he tottered along with his body half-stooped, as was his habit, and his hands behind his back. When he looked up, he did not straighten out, but bend his neck back so his head lay between his shoulder blades. Then his red-rimmed eyes looked as if they were about to pop out of his head. His dark red beard rose up as though striving to free itself from its roots, and his unpurpled nose and scarlet cheekbones protruded. Pretty good underfoot, thought Arnie. At least it was easy to go between the sheep coats and the house. Everything pretty quiet just now. The sheep took care of themselves during the day, and grazing was plentiful along the seashore and on the hillsides. No reason why he might not know and then lie in wait, somewhat into the night, in the hope of catching a fox. He wasn't too tired for that. But he had given up all that sort of thing. It brought only vexation and trouble. Besides, he had told everybody that he did not think it was worth as while to waste his time on such things, and perhaps catch his death to boot. The Lord knew that was a mere pretense. Eighty crowns for a beautiful dark brown fox skin was a tidy sum. But a man had to think up something to say for himself, the way they all harped on fox hunting. Arnie afell caught a white vixen night before last, or Einar of Brekka caught a brown dog fox yesterday. Or if a man stepped over to a neighbor's for a moment, any hunting, anyone shot a fox? Or Gisley here caught a grash brown one last evening, such incessant twaddle. Arnie's breath came short. Wasn't it enough if a man made an honest living? Yet worker achievement which brought no joy was unblessed. At this point, Samir darted up. Arnie thought the dog had deserted him and rushed off home. Now what in the world held the creature? Shame on you for a pesky cur. Can't you be still a minute you brute? Must I beat you? asked Arnie, making threatening gestures at Samir, a large black-spotted dog with ugly shaggy hair. But Samir darted away, ran off whimpering. He would pause now and then and look back at his master until finally he disappeared behind a big boulder. What's got into the beast? He can't have found a fox trail, can he? Arnie walked straight to the rock where Samir had disappeared. Then slowing down his pace, he tiptoed as if he expected to find a fox hidden there. Yes, there was Samir. There he lay in front of a hole, whimpering and wagging his tail. Shame on you, Samir. Arnie lay down prone on the snow and stretched his arm into the hole. But all of a sudden he jerked his hand back, his heart beating as if it would tear itself out of his breast. He had so plainly felt something furry inside the hole, and he was badly mistaken if a strong fox odor did not come out of it. Was the fox alive or was it dead? Might it bite him fatally? But that made no difference. Now that he had a good chance of taking a fox, it was do or die. He stood up straight and stretched every muscle and pulled the mitten on his right hand carefully up over his wrist. Then he knelt down, thrust his hand in the hole, set his teeth and screwed up his face. Yes, now he had caught hold of it and was pulling it carefully out. Well, well, well, well, not so bad. A dark brown tail, a glossy body, and what fine over hair. For once Arnie of Balli had some luck. The fox was dead. It had been shot in the belly and just crept in there to die. Sly devil, poor beast, blessed creature. Arnie ended by feeling quite tenderly towards the fox. He hardly knew how to give utterance to his joy. Good old Samir, my own precious dog, let me patch you, said Arnie, rubbing the dog's cheek with his own. They could shot themselves blue in the face. It was no trick to kill all you wanted of these little devils if you just had the powder and shot and were willing to waste your time on it. But here Arnie's face fell. He did not even have his gun with him. It stood all covered with rust at home out in the shed. Just his luck. And how could he claim to have shot a fox without a gun? Get out of here, Samir. Shame on you, you rascal. And Arnie booted Samir so hard that the dog yelped. But Endyrus need to help us at hand. He could wait for the cover of darkness. Not even his wife should know but that he had shot the fox. Wouldn't she stare at him? She had always defied him and tried to belittle him. No, she should not learn the truth. She leased of all. He would not tell a soul. Now Samir, he knew how to hold his tongue, faithful creature. Arnie sat down on the rock with the fox on his knees and started singing to pass the time, allowing his good cheer to ring out as far as his voice would carry. My fine Sunday cap has been carried away by a furious scale, and I'll wear it no more to the chapel to pray in the wind and the hail. He chanted this ballad over and over again until he was tired, then sat still, smiling and stroking the fox skin. He had learned the song when he was a child from his mother, who had sung it all day long one spring while she was shearing the sheep. And he could not think of any other for the moment. It wasn't in fact a bad song. There were many good rhymesters in Iceland. He began singing again, rocking his body back and forth vehemently, and stroking the fox skin the while. And Samir, who sat in front of him, cocked his head first on one side, then on the other, and gave him a knowing look. At last, the dog stretched out his neck, raised his muzzle into the air, and howled, using every variation of key known to him. At this, Arnie stopped short and stared at him, then bending his head slightly to one side to study him. He roared with laughter. What an extraordinary dog. Yes, really extraordinary. In the little kitchen at Bali, Groha the mistress crouched before the stove, and poked the fire with such vigor that both ashes and embers flew out on the floor. She was preparing to heat a mouthful of porridge for supper for her old man and the brats. She stood up, rubbed her eyes and swore. The hard smoke that always came from that rattletrap of a stove, and that wretched old fool of a husband was not man enough to fix it. Oh no, he wasn't handy enough for that. He wanted every blessed thing as if his fingers were all thumbs. And where could he be loafing tonight? Not home yet. Serve him right if she locked the house and allowed him to stay in the sheep coats, or whatever it was he was doddling. There now, those infernal brats were at the spinning wheel. Groha jumped up, darted into the passage, and went into the stairs. Will you leave that spinning wheel be, you young devils? If you break the flyer or the upright, your little old mother will be after you. A dead common suit. So Groha returned to the kitchen, and taking a loaf of pot bread from the cupboard, cut a few slices and spread them with dripping. Now a scratching sound was heard at the door, and Arnie entered. Good evening to all, said he with her vanity, as he sat down the gun behind the kitchen door. Here's that gun. It has certainly paid for itself, poor old thing. His wife did not reply to his greeting, but she eyed him as scants, with a look that was anything but loving. Been fooling around with that gun? Why the blazes couldn't you have come home and brought me a bit of peat from the pit? A fine hunter you are, I might as well have married the devil, and his wife turned from him with a sneer. You're in a nice temper now, my dear, but just take a look at this, said Arnie, throwing down the brown fox on the kitchen floor. At first Groha stared at her husband as if she had never seen him before, then she shook her head and smiled sarcastically. You found it dead, all wager. Arnie started, his face turned red and his eyes protruded. You would say that, you don't let me forget what a superior woman I married, found it dead, and Arnie plumped down on the wood box. His wife laughed. All wager, I hit the nail on the head that time. Arnie jumped to his feet. That confounded old witch should not spoil his pleasure. You're as stark-graving mad as you always have been, but I don't care what you say. Kids, come and look at the fox, your father is shot. Three days later they had a visitor. Arnie stood outside and stared at him. For a wonder somebody had at last found his way to Arnie's. Days and nights had passed, but nobody had come. They always came when they weren't wanted. And now came John of Lawn, that overbearing fellow, but now he could see that Arnie of Valley was also a man among men. Howdy, Arnie, you poor fish, said John, fixing his steely gray eyes on Arnie. How are you, old snake? answered Arnie, smiling contemptuously, what monstrous eyes John had when he looked at a person. Has something special happened? You're somehow so puffed up today, said John with a sarcastic smile. Darn him, muttered Arnie. Was he going to act just like Groha? In that case, Arnie had at least a trump card in reserve. Did you say something, inquired John, sticking a quid of tobacco into his mouth? Or wasn't it meant for my ears? Oh well, I don't care for your mutterings, you poor wretch. But now go ask your wife to give me a little drink of sour whey. Arnie turned round slowly and lazily. Wasn't the old fellow going to notice the skin? It wasn't so small that it couldn't be seen. There it hung on the wall, right in the sunlight, combed and beautifully glossy. That's quite a nice fox skin. Whose is it? asked John, walking over to the wall. Arnie turned round, he could feel his heart beating fast. Mine, he said, with what calm he could muster. What is the idea of you buying a fox skin, you poor beggar? Buying, Arnie sighed. You think I can't shoot me a fox? You, John laughed. That's a downright lie, my dear Arnie. A lie. You'd best not tell people they lie unless you know more about it. A scoundrel like you. I say a scoundrel like you. Replied Arnie swelling. I think you'd better be getting in and see her. You know her pretty well, I believe. John looked at the farmer of Bali with his stilly eyes. For whom are you keeping the skin, Arnie? No one said Arnie crossly, then after some hesitation, the Lord gave it to me. All right, Arnie, miracles never cease. That is plain enough after this, and no question about it. That's an eighty crowned skin, however you came by it. But now let's go in and see Groa. As you say, I know her pretty well. She was a smart girl, you poor wretch. Too bad I was married and had to throw her to a creature like you. Arnie grinned and trotting to the door of the house called, Groa, a visitor to see you. The woman came to the door. A smile played about her lips, smoldering embers glowed in her blue eyes, and the sunlight lighted up the unkempt braids of golden hair, which fell down about her pale cheeks. But Arnie for once was satisfied. At last John was properly impressed. The affair between Groa and John was something that could not be helped. John surely regretted having lost that girl, yes indeed, and she had her good points. She was smart and a hundred crowns a year, besides everything else that was brought them from Lon, was pretty good compensation. Yes, many a man had married less well than Arnie of Bali. And the children were his. Most of them anyway. Nobody need tell him anything else. The fox skinned became Arnie of Bali's most cherished possession. Every day when the weather was clear, he would hang it, well smooth and combed on the outside wall. And when he left home, he carefully put it away in a safe place. The skinned became famous throughout the district, and many of the younger men made special trips to Bali to examine it. Arnie would beam with joy and strut around with a knowing, self-satisfied expression on his face, and would tell of the patience, the agility, and the marksmanship he had to put into killing this monstrously clever fox. It certainly wasn't hard to kill all you wanted of these devils. If you just had the powder and shot and were willing to give your time to it, he would say, as he turned the skin so that the sunlight shone full on the glossy pelt. Then one day that fall, Arnie came home from tending the sheep, which had just been brought down from the mountain pastures. He hung the skin out and went into the kitchen, where Groa was busy washing, sat down on a box by the wall on the other side of the room, let his head rest on his hands, and looked wise. For a while there was silence. At last, Groa looked up from her wash tub and gave Arnie a piercing glance. Have you got your eye on a cow to replace the gray-spotted one we killed last spring? Cow asked Arnie, scratching his head. Cow, yes, so you say, my good woman. So I say, do you think the milk from Dumbo alone goes very far in feeding such a flock of children as we have? You haven't gone and squandered the money we got for Skalda? Asked Groa, looking harder still at her husband. Don't be foolish, woman. The money lies untouched at the factors, but he wouldn't pay much for the meat in the hide of Skalda, not anywhere near enough to buy a good milking cow. He said the English on the trawlers don't sell much store-by-cows meat. The summer has been only so-so, and I'm sure we'll have plenty of uses for what money I've been able to scrape together. Of course, a cow is a good thing to buy, an enjoyable luxury if only you have plenty of money. If you can't scrape together the money for a cow, we must cut expenses somehow. Perhaps you could stop stuffing your nostrils with that dirty snuff, and you ought at any rate to be able to sell that fancy fox skin you play with so childishly. Is that so? Yes, you play with that wretched fox skin just exactly like any crazy youngster. Wretched is it? Take care of what you say, woman, wretched skin. A fine judge of such matters you are. And standing up, Arnie paced the kitchen floor. An 80-crown skin, and you call it wretched. John of Lawn didn't call it any names. You'll believe at least what he says. Now, don't get puffed up. You ought to be thankful to get what you can for the skin. It will help in buying the cow. The cow? Let me tell you, woman, that I'm not going to buy a cow for the skin. You can take it from me that you will never get a cow for that skin, or anything else, in fact. The farmer at Lawn can shell out whatever is needed for buying the cow. That's the least he can do for you. Groa stopped her washing, stared for a few seconds at Arnie, and then with a quick movement walked up to him, brandishing a bit of wet linen. Will you tell me what you're going to do with the skin? She asked, almost in a whisper. Arnie shrank back. The way to the door was cut off. He raised his arm in self-defense and retreated as far as possible into the corner. I'm going to sell it. Now, be reasonable, Groa. I'm going to sell it. And what are you going to buy for it? His wife hissed, boring into him with her eyes. A cow? I'm going to buy a cow for it. You lie. You know you're not going to sell it. You're going to play with it. Know your children hungry for milk and play with the skin. My children? No, God be praised. They're not yours, said Groa, allowing the blows to rain on Arnie. But now I'll keep the skin for you. And like an arrow, she shot out of the door, all out of breath and trembling. For a few seconds, Arnie stood still. His eyes seemed bursting out of their sockets, and the hair in his beard stood on end. In a flash, he rushed over the kitchen floor and out of the house. Groa had just taken the skin down off the nail on the wall. Now she brandished it and looked at Arnie with fury in her gaze. But he did not wait. He rushed at her, gave her such a shove that she fell, and snatching the skin from her ran. A safe distance away, he turned and stood painting for several seconds. At last, exhausted and trembling with rage, he hissed. I tell you, Groa, I'll have my way about this. The skin is the only thing that is all my own, and no one shall take it from me. Arnie fled then. He took to his hills and ran away as fast as he could up the slopes. Far in the innermost corner of the outlying sheep coat at Bali, to which the sun's rays never reach, Arnie built himself a little cupboard. This cupboard is kept carefully locked, and Arnie carries the key on a string which hangs around his neck. Arnie now has become quite prosperous. For a long time it was thought he must keep money in the cupboard, but last spring an acquaintance of his stopped at the outlying sheep coat on his way from the village. The man had some liquor with him and gave Arnie a taste. At last, the visitor was allowed to see what the cupboard contained. A carefully combed and smooth dark brown fox skin. Arnie was visibly moved by the unveiling of his secret. Staring at the ceiling, he licked his whiskers inside deeply. It seems to me gizly, he said to his friend, that I'd rather lose all my use than this skin, for it was the thing which once made me say, thus far and no farther. And since then I seem to own something right here in my breast, which not even John of Lawn can take away from me. I think I'm now beginning to understand what is meant in the scriptures by the treasure which neither moth nor rust can corrupt. Arnie's red-rimmed eyes were moist. For a while he stood there thinking, but all of a sudden he shook his head and turning to his acquaintance said, let's see the bottle. A man seems to feel warmer inside if he gets a little drop. And Arnie shook himself as if the mental strain of his philosophizing had occasioned him in a slight chill. End of The Fox Skin. Recording by Jerry Dixon, Zephyr Hills, Florida. The Garden Party by Catherine Mansfield. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Garden Party. And after all the weather was ideal. They could not have had a more perfect day for a garden party that they had ordered it. Windless, warm, the sky without a cloud. Only the blue was veiled with a haze of light gold as it sometimes is in early summer. The gardener had been up since dawn, mowing the lawns and sweeping them until the grass and the dark flat rosettes where the daisy plants had been seemed to shine. As for the roses, you could not help feeling they understood that roses are the only flowers at garden parties. The only flowers that everybody is certain of knowing. Hundreds, yes, literally hundreds, had come out in a single night. The green bushes bowed down as though they had been visited by archangels. Breakfast was not yet over before the men came to put up the marquee. Where do you want the marquee put, mother? My dear child is no use asking me. I'm determined to leave everything to you children this year. Forget I am your mother. Treat me as an honored guest. But Meg could not possibly go and supervise the men. She had washed her hair before breakfast and she sat drinking her coffee in a green turban with a dark wet curl stamped on each cheek. Josie, the butterfly, always came down in a silk petticoat and kimono jacket. You'll have to go, Laura. You're the artistic one. Away Laura flew, still holding her piece of bread and butter. It's so delicious to have an excuse for eating out of doors and besides, she loved having to arrange things. She always felt she could do it so much better than anybody else. Four men in their shirt sleeves stud grouped together on the garden path. They carried staves covered with rolls of canvas and they had big tool bags slung on their backs. They looked impressive. Laura wished now that she had not got the bread and butter but there was nowhere to put it and she couldn't possibly throw it away. She blushed and tried to look severe and even a little bit short-sighted as she came up to them. Good morning, she said, copying her mother's voice but that sounded so fearfully affected that she was ashamed and stammered like a little girl. Oh, have you come? Is it about the marquee? That's right, Miss. I said the tallest of the men, a lanky freckled fellow and he shifted his tool bag, knocked back his straw hat and smiled down at her. That's about it. His smile was so easy, so friendly that Laura recovered. What nice eyes he had. Small but such a dark blue. And now she looked at the others. They were smiling too. Cheer up, we won't bite, their smiles seemed to say. How very nice workmen were. And what a beautiful morning. She mustn't mention the morning. She must be business-like. The marquee. Well, what about the lily-lon? Would that do? And she pointed to the lily-lon with the hand that didn't hold the bread and butter. They turned, they stared in the direction. A little fat chap thrust out his underlip and the tall fellow frowned. I don't fancy it, said he. Not conspicuous enough. You see, with a thing like a marquee, and he turned to Laura in his easy way, you want to put it somewhere where it'll give you a bang slapping the eye if you follow me. Laura's upbringing made her wonder for a moment whether it was quite respectful of a workman to talk to her of bangs slapping the eye, but she did quite follow him. A corner of the tennis court, she suggested, but the band's going to be in one corner. Hmm, going to have a band, are you? said another of the workmen. He was pale, yet haggard luck as his dark eyes scanned the tennis court. What was he thinking? Only a very small band, said Laura gently. Perhaps he wouldn't mind so much if the band was quite small, but the tall fellow interrupted. Look here, Miss, that's the place, against those trees over there, that could do fine. Against the Caracas. Then the Caracas trees would be hidden, and they were so lovely with their broad, gleaming leaves and their clusters of yellow fruit. They were like trees you imagined growing on a desert island, proud, solitary, lifting their leaves and fruits to the sun in a kind of silent splendor. Must they be hidden by a marquee? They must. Already the men had shouldered their staves and were making for the place. Only the tall fellow was left. He bent down, pinched a sprig of lavender, put his thumb and forefinger to his nose and snuffed up the smell. When Laura saw that gesture she forgot all about the Caracas and her wonder at him, caring for things like that, caring for the smell of lavender. How many men did she knew would have done such a thing? Oh, how extraordinarily nice the workmen were, she thought. Why couldn't she have workmen for her friends, rather than the silly boys she danced with and who came to Sunday night supper? She would get on much better with men like these. It's all the fault, she decided, as the tall fellow drew something on the back of an envelope, something that was to be looped up or left to hang of these absurd class distinctions. Well, for her part she didn't feel them, not a bit, not an atom. And now there came the chuck-chuck of wooden hammers. Someone whistled, someone sang out. Are you all right there, matey? Matey? The friendliness of it. The...the... Just to prove how happy she was, just to show the tall fellow how at home she felt and how she despised stupid conventions, Laura took a big bite of her bread and butter as she stared at a little drawing. She felt just like a work girl. Laura! Laura, where are you? Telephone, Laura! A voice cried from the house. Coming away she skipped, over the lawn up the path up the steps across the veranda and into the porch. In the hall her father and Gloria were brushing their hats ready to go to the office. I say, Laura, said Laura very fast, you might just give a squeeze at my coat before this afternoon, see if it wants pressing. I will, said she. Suddenly she couldn't stop herself. She ran at Laura and gave him a quick, small squeeze. Oh, I love parties, don't you? gasped Laura. Rather, said Laura, his warm boyish voice, and he squeezed his sister to and gave her a gentle push. Dash off to the telephone, old girl. The telephone. Yes, yes. Oh, yes. Kitty, good morning, dear. Come to lunch. Do, dear. Delighted, of course. It will only be a very scratch meal, just a sandwich crusts and broken meringue shells and what's left over. Yes, isn't it a perfect morning? You're white? Oh, I certainly should. One moment, hold the line. Mother's calling. And Laura sat back. What, mother? Can't hear. Mrs. Sheridan's voice floated down the stairs. Tell her to wear the sweet hat she had on last Sunday. Mother says you're to wear the sweet hat you had on last Sunday. Good. One o'clock. Bye-bye. Laura put back the receiver, flung her arms over her head, took a deep breath, stretched and let them fall. Ah, she sighed. And a moment after this eye she sat up quickly. She was still, listening. All the doors in the house seemed to be open. The house was alive with soft, quick steps and running voices. The green bay's door that led to the kitchen regions swung open and shut with a muffled thud. And now there came a long, chuckling, absurd sound. It was the heavy piano being moved on its stiff casters. But the air, if you stopped to notice, was the air always like this. Little faint winds were playing chase in at the tops of the windows, out at the doors. And there were two tiny spots of sun, one on the ink pot, one on a silver photograph frame, playing two darling little spots, especially the one on the ink pot lid. It was quite warm, a warm little silver star. She could have kissed it. The front doorbell pealed, and there sounded the rustle of Sadie's print skirt on the stairs. A man's voice murmured. Sadie answered, careless. I'm sure I don't know. Wait, I'll ask Mrs. Sheridan. What is it, Sadie? Laura came into the hall. It's the florist, Miss Laura. It was indeed. There, just inside the door, stood a wide, shallow tray, full of pots of pink lilies. No other kind, nothing but lilies. Kenna lilies, big pink flowers, wide open, radiant, almost frighteningly alive on the bright crimson stems. Oh, Sadie, said Laura. And the sound was like a little moan. She crouched down as if to warm herself at the blaze of lilies. She felt they were in her fingers, on her lips, growing in her breast. It's some mistake, she said faintly. Nobody ever ordered so many. Sadie, go and find mother. But at that moment Mrs. Sheridan joined them. It's quite right, she said calmly. Yes, I ordered them. Aren't they lovely? She pressed Laura's arm. I was passing the shop yesterday and I saw them in the window. And I suddenly thought, for once in my life I shall have enough Kenna lilies. The garden party will be a good excuse. But I thought you said you didn't mean to interfere, said Laura. Sadie had gone. The florist's man was still outside at his van. She put her arm round her mother's neck and very gently she bit her mother's ear. My darling child, you wouldn't like a logical mother would you? Don't do that, here's the man. He carried more lilies still, another whole tray. Bank them up just inside the door on both sides of the porch, please, said Mrs. Sheridan. Don't you agree, Laura? Oh, I do, mother. In the drawing-room, Meg, Josie, and good little Hans had at last succeeded in moving the piano. Now, if we put this chest to field against the wall and move everything out of the room except the chairs, don't you think? Quite. Hans, move these tables into the smoking-room and bring a sweeper to take these marks off the carpet. And, one moment, Hans, Josie liked giving orders to the servants and they loved obeying her. She always made them feel like they were taking part in some drama. Tell mother and Miss Laura to come here at once. Very good, Miss Josie. She turned to Meg. I want to hear what the piano sounds like, just in case I'm asked to sing this afternoon. Let's try over, this life is weary. Pum. Ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta. The piano burst out so passionately that Josie's face changed. She clasped her hands. She looked mournfully and enigmatically at her mother and Laura as they came in. This life is weary. A tear aside. A love that changes. This life is weary. A tear aside. A love that changes. And then goodbye. But, at the word goodbye, and although the piano sounded more desperate than ever, her face broke into a brilliant, dreadfully unsympathetic smile. Don't tie in good voice, mummy, she beamed. This life is weary. Hope comes to die. A dream awakening. But now Sadie interrupted them. What is it, Sadie? If you please, and Cook says, have you got the flags for the sandwiches? The flags for the sandwiches, Sadie, echoed Mrs. Sheridan dreamily. And the children knew by her face that she hadn't got them. Let me see, and she said to Sadie firmly, Tell Cook I'll let her have them in ten minutes. Sadie went. Now Laura, said her mother quickly, come with me into the smoking-room. I've got the names somewhere in the back of an envelope. You'll have to write them out for me. Meg, go upstairs this minute and take that wet thing off your head. Josie, run and finish dressing this instant. Do you hear me, children? Or shall I have to tell your father when he comes home tonight? And Josie, pacify Cook if you go into the kitchen, will you? The envelope was found at last behind the dining-room clock, though how it had got there Mrs. Sheridan could not imagine. One of your children must have stolen it out of my bag, because I remember vividly. Cream cheese and lemon curd, have you done that? Yes. Egg and... Mrs. Sheridan held the envelope away from her. It looks like mice, it can't be mice, can it? Olive, Pet, said Laura, looking over her shoulder. Yes, of course, Olive. What a horrible combination it sounds. Egg and Olive. They were finished at last, and Laura took them off to the kitchen. She found Josie there pacifying the Cook who did not look at all terrifying. I have never seen such exquisite sandwiches, said Josie's rapturous voice. How many kinds did you say there were, Cook? Fifteen? Fifteen, Miss Josie. Well, Cook, I congratulate you. Cook swept up crusts with a long sandwich knife and smiled broadly. Godbers has come, announced Sadie, issuing out of the pantry. She had seen the man past the window. That meant the cream puffs had come. Godbers were famous for their cream puffs. Nobody ever thought of making them at home. Bring them in and put them on the table, my girl, ordered Cook. Sadie brought them in and went back to the door. Of course, Laura and Josie were far too grown up to really care about such things. All the same, they couldn't help agreeing that the puffs looked very attractive. Very. Cook began arranging them, shaking off the extra icing sugar. Don't they carry one back to all one's parties? Said Laura. I suppose they do, said practical Josie, who never liked to be carried back. They look beautifully light and feathery, I must say. Have one each, my dears, said Cook, in her comfortable voice. Your man won't know. Oh, impossible. Fancy cream puffs so soon after breakfast, the very idea made one shudder. All the same, two minutes later, Josie and Laura were licking their fingers with that absorbed inward look that only comes from whipped cream. Let's go into the garden, out by the back way, suggested Laura. I want to see how the men are getting on with the marquee. They're such awfully nice men. But the back door was blocked by Cook, Sadie, Godber's man, with his hands. Something had happened. Tuck, tuck, tuck. Cook, like an agitated hen. Sadie had her hand clapped to her cheek as though she had a toothache. Hand's face was screwed up in the effort to understand. Only Godber's man seemed to be enjoying himself. It was his story. What's the matter? What happened? There's been a horrible accident, said Cook. A man killed. A man killed? Where? No, when. But Godber's man wasn't going to have his story snatched from under his very nose. No, there was little Carter just below there, Miss. No them? Of course she knew them. Well, there's a young chap living there, named of Scott, a Carter. His horse shied at a traction engine, corner of Hawk Street this morning, and he was thrown out on the back of his head. Killed. Dead, Laura stared at Godber's man. Dead when they picked him up, said Godber's man with relish. They were taken to body-home as I come up here. And he said to Cook, he's left a wife and five little ones. Josie, come here. Laura caught hold of her sister's sleeve, and dragged her through the kitchen to the other side of the Green Bay's door. There she paused and leaned against it. Josie, she said, horrified. However, are we going to stop everything? Stop everything, Laura! cried Josie in astonishment. What do you mean? Stop the garden party, of course. Why did Josie pretend? But Josie was still more amazed. Stop the garden party, my dear Laura, don't be so absurd. Of course we can't do anything of the kind. Nobody expects us to. Don't be so extravagant. But we can't possibly have a garden party with a man dead just outside the front gate. That really was extravagant. For our little cottages were in a lane to themselves at the very bottom of a steep rise that led up to the house. A broad road ran between. True, they were far too near. They were the greatest possible eyesore, and they had no right to be in that neighborhood at all. They were little mean dwellings painted a chocolate brown. In the garden patches there was nothing but cabbage stalks, sick hens, and tomato cans. The very smoke coming out of the chimneys was poverty-stricken. There were bags and shreds of smoke, so unlike the great silvery plumes that uncurled from the Sheridan's chimneys, washer-women lived in the lane and sweeps and a cobbler, and a man whose housefront was studded all over with the minute bird cages. Children swarmed. When the Sheridans were little they were forbidden to set foot there because of the revolting language and of what they might catch. But since they were grown up, the Sheridans, on their prowls, sometimes walked through. It was disgusting and sordid. They came out with a shudder, but still one must go everywhere, one must see everything, so through they went. And just think of what the band would sound like to that poor woman, said Laura. Oh, Laura! Josie began to be seriously annoyed. If you're going to stop a band playing every time someone has an accident and lead a very strenuous life, I'm every bit as sorry about it as you. I feel just as sympathetic. Her eyes hardened. She looked at her sister just as she used to when they were little and fighting together. You won't bring a drunken workman back to life by being sentimental, she said softly. Drunk? Who said he was drunk? Laura turned furiously on Josie. She said, just as they had used to say on those occasions, I'm going straight to tell mother. Mother? Do, dear, cooch Josie. Mother, can I come into your room? Laura turned to the big glass doorknob. Of course, child. Why, what's the matter? What's given you such a collar? And Mrs. Sheridan turned round from her dressing table. She was trying on a new hat. Mother, a man's been killed, began Laura. Not in the garden, interrupted her mother. No, no. Oh, what a fright you gave me! I had to hide with relief, and took off the big hat and held it to her knees. But listen, mother, said Laura, breathless, half choking, she told the dreadful story. Of course we can't have our party, can we? She pleaded. The band and everybody arriving, they'd hear us, mother. They're nearly neighbors. To Laura's astonishment, her mother behaved just like Josie. It was harder to bear because she seemed amused. She refused to take Laura seriously. My dear child, use your common sense. It's only by accident we've heard of it. If someone had died there normally, and I can't understand how they keep alive in those pokey little howls, we should still be having our party, shouldn't we? Laura had to say yes to that. But she felt it was all wrong. She sat down on her mother's sofa and pinched the cushion frill. Mother, isn't it terribly heartless of us? She asked. Darling, Mrs. Sheridan got up and came over her door. Came over to her carrying the hat. Before Laura could stop her, she had popped it on. My child said to her mother, the hat is yours, it's made for you. It's much too young for me. I have never seen you look such a picture. Look at yourself. And she held up her hand mirror. But mother Laura began again. She couldn't look at herself. She turned aside. This time Mrs. Sheridan lost patience just as Josie had done. You're being very absurd, Laura, she said coldly. People like that don't expect sacrifices from us. And it's not very sympathetic to spoil everybody's enjoyment as you're doing now. I don't understand, said Laura. But she walked quickly out of the room into her own bedroom. There, quite by chance, the first thing she saw was this charming girl in the mirror in her black hat trimmed with gold daisies and a long black velvet ribbon. Never had she imagined she could look like that. Is mother right, she thought? And now she hoped her mother was right. Am I being extravagant? Perhaps it was extravagant. Just for a moment she had another glimpse of that poor woman and those little children and the body being carried into the house. But it all seemed blurred, unreal like a picture in the newspaper. Unremembered again after the party's over, she decided. And somehow that seemed quite the best plan. Lunch was over by half past one. By half past two they were all ready for the fray. The green coated band had arrived and was established in a corner of the tennis court. My dear, trailed Kitty Maitland, aren't they too like frogs for words? You ought to have arranged them round the pond with the conductor in the middle on a leaf. Laurie arrived and hailed them at the sight of him. Laura remembered the accident again. She wanted to tell him. If Laurie agreed with the others then it was bound to be all right. And she followed him into the hall. Laurie, hello. He was half way upstairs. But when he turned around and saw Laurie he suddenly puffed out his cheeks and googled his eyes at her. My word, Laurie, you do look stunning. Said Laurie, what an absolutely topping hat. Laura said faintly it is Laurie and didn't tell him after all. Soon after that people began coming in streams. The band struck up. The hired waiters ran from the house to the marquee. Whoever you looked there were couples strolling bending to the flowers, greeting, moving on over the lawn. They were like bright birds that had lighted in the Sheridan's garden for this one afternoon on their way to where? What happiness it is that we're all happy to press hands, press cheeks, smile into eyes. Darling, Laura, how well you look. What a becoming hat, child. Laura, you look quite Spanish. I've never seen you look so striking. And Laura glowing answered softly. Have you had tea? Won't you have an ice? The passion fruit ices really are rather special. She ran to her father and begged him. The band have something to drink. And the perfect afternoon slowly ripened. Slowly faded. Slowly its petals closed. Never a more delightful garden party. The greatest success. Quite the most. Laura helped her mother with the goodbyes. They stood side by side in the porch till it was all over. All over, all over, thank heaven, said Mrs. Sheridan. Let's go and have some fresh coffee. I'm exhausted. Yes, it's been very successful. But oh, these parties, these parties. Why will you children insist on giving parties? And they all of them sat in a deserted marquee. Have a sandwich, Daddy, dear. I wrote the flag. Thanks. Mrs. Sheridan took a bite and the sandwich was gone. He took another. I suppose you didn't hear a beastly accent that happened today, he has said. Dear, said Mrs. Sheridan, holding up her hand, we did. It nearly ruined the party. Laura insisted we should put it off. Oh, mother, Laura didn't want to be teased about it. It was a horrible affair all the same, said Mr. Sheridan. The chap was married, too. Lived just below in the lane and leaves a wife and half a dozen kitties, so they say. An awkward little silence fell. Mrs. Sheridan fidgeted with her cup. Suddenly she looked up. There on the table were all those sandwiches, cakes, puffs, all uneaten, all going to be wasted. She had one of her brilliant ideas. I know, she said. Let's make up a basket. Let's send that poor creature some of this perfectly good food. At any rate it will be the greatest treat for the children. Don't you agree? And she's sure to have neighbors calling in and so on. What a point to have it already prepared. She jumped up. Get me the big basket out of the stairs cupboard. But mother, do you really think it's a good idea? said Laura. Again, how curious she seemed to be different from them all. To take scraps from their party. Would the poor woman really like that? Of course. What's the matter with you today? An hour or two ago you were insisting on us being sympathetic and now... Oh well. Laura ran for the basket. It was filled. It was heaped by her mother. Take it yourself, darling, said she. Run down just as you are. No, wait. Take the RM Lillies too. People of that class are so impressed by RM Lillies. The stams will ruin her lace frock, said practical Josie. So they would. Just in time. Only the basket then. And Laura, her mother, followed her out of the marquee. Don't, on any account... What mother? No. She never put such ideas into the child's head. Nothing. Run along. It was just growing dusky as Laura shut their garden gates. A big dog ran by like a shadow. The road gleamed white and down below in the hollow the little cottages were in deep shade. How quiet it seemed after the afternoon. Here she was going down the hill to somewhere where a man lay dead and she couldn't realize it. Why couldn't she? She stopped a minute and it seemed to her that kisses, voices, tinkling spoons, laughter, the smell of crushed grass were somehow inside her. She had no room for anything else. How strange. She looked up at the pale sky and all she thought was yes, it was the most successful party. Now the broad road was crossed. The lane began smoky and dark. Women in shawls and men's tweed caps hurried by. Men hung over the palings the children played in the doorways. A low hum came from the mean little cottages. In some of them there was a flicker of light and a shadow crab-like moved across the window. Laura bent her head and hurried on. A coat how her frock shun and the big hat would develop at streamer if only it was another hat. Were the people looking at her? They must be. It was a mistake to have come. She knew all along it was a mistake. Should she go back even now? No. Too late. This was the house. It must be. A dark knot of people stood outside. Beside the gate an old woman with a crutch sat in a chair watching. She had her feet on a newspaper. The voices stopped as Laura drew near. The group parted. It was as though she was expected as though they had known she was coming here. Laura was terribly nervous. Tossing the velvet ribbon over her shoulder she said to a woman standing by is this Mrs. Scott's house? And the woman smiling queerly said it is my lass. Oh, to be away from this she actually said help me God as she walked up the tiny path and knocked. To be away from those staring eyes or to be covered up in anything one of those woman's shawls even I'll just leave the basket and go she decided. I shan't even wait for it to be emptied. Then the door opened. A little woman in black showed in the gloom Laura said are you Mrs. Scott? But to her horror the woman answered walk in please miss and she was shut in the passage. No said Laura I don't want to come in I only want to leave this basket Mother said the little woman in the gloomy passage seemed not to have heard her. Step this way please miss and Laura followed her. She found herself in a ratchet little low kitchen lighted by a smoky lamp there was a woman sitting before the fire. Em said a little creature who had let her in Em it's a young lady she turned to Laura she said meaningly I'm a systemist you'll excuse her won't you? Oh but of course said Laura please please don't disturb her I only want to leave but at that moment the woman at the fire turned round her face puffed up red with swollen eyes and swollen lips looked terrible she seemed as though she couldn't understand why Laura was there what did it mean why was this stranger standing in the kitchen with a basket what was it all about and the poor face puckered up again all right my dear said the other I'll thank the young lady and again she began you'll excuse her miss I'm sure and her face swollen too tried an oily smile Laura only wanted to get out to get away she was back in the passage the door opened she walked straight through into the bedroom where the dead man was lying you'd like a look at him wouldn't you said Em's sister don't be afraid my lass and now her voice sounded fond and sly and fondly she drew down the sheet he looks a picture there's nothing to show come along my dear Laura came there lay a young man fast asleep sleeping so soundly so deeply that he was far far away from them both oh so remote so peaceful he was dreaming never wake him up again his head was sunk in the pillow his eyes were closed they were blind under the closed eyelids he was given up to his dream what did garden parties and baskets and lace frocks matter to him he was far from all those things he was wonderful beautiful while they were laughing and while the band was playing this marvel had come to the lane happy happy all is well said that sleeping face this is just as it should be I am content but all the same you had to cry and she couldn't get out of the room without seeing something to him Laura gave a loud childish sob forgive my hat she said and this time she didn't wait for him's sister she found her way out of the door down the path past all those dark people at the corner of the lane she met Laura he stepped out of the shadow is that you Laura yes mother was getting anxious was it all right yes quite oh lauri she took his arm and pressed up against him I say you're not crying are you asked her brother Laura shook her head she was lauri put his arm around her shoulder don't cry he said in his warm loving voice was it awful no Laura it was simply marvelous but lauri she stopped she looked at her brother isn't life she stammered isn't life but what life was she couldn't explain no matter he quite understood isn't it darling said lauri the garden party by Catherine Mansfield her lover by Maxim Gorky this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org recording by Vladrylov her lover by Maxim Gorky an acquaintance of mine once told me the following story when I was a student at Moscow I happened to live alongside one of those ladies whose repute is questionable she was a pole and they called her Teresa she was a tallish powerful build brunette with black bushy eyebrows and a large coarse face as if craved out by a hatchet the bestial gleam of her dark eyes her thick bass voice her cabin like gate and her immense muscular vigor worthy of a fish wife inspired me with horror I lived on the top flight and her carrot was opposite to mine I never left my door open when I knew her to be at home but this after all was a very rare occurrence sometimes I chance to meet her on the staircase or in the yard and she would smile upon me with a smile which seemed to me to be sly and cynical occasionally I saw her drunk with a bleary eyes tuzzled hair and particularly hideous green on such occasions she would speak to me How did I miss the student and her stupid laugh would still further intensify my low think of her I should have liked to have changed my quarters in order to have avoid such encounters and greetings but my little chamber was a nice one and there was such a wide view from the window and it was always so quiet in the street below so I endured and one morning I was sprawling on my coach trying to find some sort of excuse for not attending my class when the door opened and the bass voice of Therese the Lotham resounded from my threshold Good health to you Mr. Student What do you want I said I saw that her face was confused and supplicatory it was a very unusual sort of face for her Sir, I want to beg a favor of you Will you grant it me I lay there silent and thought to myself, gracious courage my boy I want to send a letter home that's what it is she said her voice was besitching, soft, timid Do you stake you I thought but up I jumped I sat down at my table took a sheet of paper and said come here sit down and dictate she came sat down very gingerly on a chair and looked at me with a guilty look Well, to whom do you want to write To Boleslav Kashput at the town of Svitsvana on the Varshav Road Wow, fire away My dear Boles my darling my faithful lover to God protect thee so hard of gold why has still not written for such a long time to thy sorrowing little dove tereza a very nearly burst out laughing a sorrowing little dove more than a five feet high vis-vis this tone and more in weight and as a black as face as if the little dove had lived all its life in a chimney and had never once washed itself restraining myself somehow I asked who is this Boles Boles, Mr. Student, she said as if offended with me for blundering over the name he is Boles my young man young man why you so surprised sir cannot I, a girl, have a young man she, a girl wow oh, why not, I said this is a possible and has he been your young man long six years oh, who, I said well, let us write your letter and I tell you plainly that I would willingly have changed places with this Boles if his fair correspondent had been not tereza but something less than she I thank you most heartily sir, for your kind service said tereza perhaps I can show you some service eh no, I must humbly thank you all the same perhaps sir, your shirts or your trousers may want a little mending I felt that this mastodon in petticoats had made me grow quite red with shame and I told you pretty sharply that I had no need whatever of your service she departed a week or two passed away it was evening, I was sitting at my window whistling and thinking of some expedient for enabling me to get away from myself I was bored, the weather was dirty I didn't want to go out and out of sheer ennui I began a course of self-analysis and reflection this also was dull enough fork but I didn't care about doing anything else then the door opened haven't been praised someone came in oh, Mr. Student you have no pressing business I hope it was tereza humph no, what is it I was going to ask you sir to write me another letter very well to Wallace, huh no, this time it is from him what? stupid that I am it is not for me Mr. Student I beg your pardon it is for a friend of mine that is to say not a friend but an acquaintance a man acquaintance he has a sweet heart just like me here, tereza that's how it is we'll use here write a letter to this tereza I looked at her, her face was troubled her fingers were trembling I was a bit forked at first and then I guessed how it was look here, my lady there are no boluses or terezas at all and you have been telling me a pack of lies don't you come sneaking about me any longer I have no wish whatever to cultivate your acquaintance do you understand and suddenly she grew strangely terrified and distraught she began to shift from foot to foot without moving from the place comically as if she wanted to say something and couldn't I waited to see what would come of all this and I saw and felt that apparently I had made a great mistake in suspecting her of wishing to draw me from the path of righteousness it was evidently something very different Mr. Student she began and suddenly waving her hand she turned abruptly towards the door I looked out I remained with a very unpleasant feeling in my mind I listened her door was flank violently too plainly the poor bench was very angry I sorted over and resolved to go to her and inviting her to come in here write everything she wanted I entered her apartment I looked around she was sitting at the table leaning on her elbow in her hands listen to me I said now whenever I come to this point in my story I always feel horribly awkward and idiotic well well listen to me I said she leaped from her seat came towards me with flashing eyes and lying her hands on my shoulders began to whisper or raise her to home in her peculiar bass voice look you now there is no ballast at all and there is no Teresa either but what said to you is it a hard thing for you to draw your pen over paper eh? ah and you too still such a little fair-haired boy there is nobody at all neither ballast nor Teresa only me there you have it and much good may it do you pardon me I try altogether flabbergasted by such a reception what is it all about there is no ballast you say no so it is and no Teresa either and no Teresa I am Teresa I didn't understand it at all I fixed my eyes upon her and tried to make out of which of us was taking leave of his or her senses but she went again to the table searched about for something came back to me and set an offended tone if it was so hard for you to write to ballast look there is your letter take it others will write for me I looked in her hands was my letter to ballast listen Teresa what is the meaning of all this why must you get others to write for you when I have already written it and you haven't send it send it where why to this ballast there is no such person I absolutely did not understand it there was nothing for me but to spit and go then she explained what is it she said still offended there is no such person I tell you and she extended her arms as if she herself did not understand why there should be no such person but I wanted him to be am I then not a human creature like the rest of them yes yes I know I know of course yet no harm was done to anyone by my writing to him that I can see pardon me to whom to ballast of course but he doesn't exist alas alas but what if he doesn't he doesn't exist but he might write to him and it looks as if he did exist and Teresa that's me and he replies to me and then I write to him again I understood at last and I felt so sick so miserable so ashamed somehow alongside of me not 3 yards away leave the human creature who had nobody in the world to treat her kindly affectionately and this human being had invented a friend for herself look now you've wrote me a letter to Boles and I gave it to someone else to read it to me and when they read it to me I listened and fancied that Boles was there and I asked you to write me a letter from Boles to Teresa that is to me when they write such a letter for me and read it to me I feel quite sure that Boles is there and life grows easier on me in consequence just take you for a block head said I to myself when I heard this and from Zen's force regularly twice a week I wrote a letter to Boles an answer from Boles to Teresa I wrote those answers well she of course listened to them and wept like anything roar I should say with your bass voice and in return for my thus moving her to tears by real letters from the imaginary Boles to mend the holes I had in my socks shirts and other articles of clothing subsequently about 3 months after this history began they put her in prison for something or other no doubt by this time she is dead my acquaintance shook the ash from his cigarette looked painfully up at the sky and thus concluded well well the more a human creature has tasted bitter things the more it hungers after the sweet things of life and we wrapped around in the rugs of our virtues and regarding other through the mist of our self sufficiency and persuade of our universal impeccability to not understand this and the whole thing turns out pretty stupidly and very cruelly the fallen classes we say and who are the fallen classes I should like to know they are first of all people with the same bones flesh and blood and nerves as ourselves we have been told this day after day for ages and we actually listen and the devil only knows how he did the whole thing is or are we completely depraved by the loud sermonizing of humanism in reality we also are fallen folks and so far as I can see very deeply fallen into the abyss of self sufficiency and the conviction of our own superiority but enough of this it is all as old as the heels so old that it is a shame to speak of it very old indeed yes that's what it is and of your lover recording by Vlad Rulov