 THE BLIND MAN by Kate Chopin A man carrying a small red box in one hand walked slowly down the street. His old straw hat and faded garments looked as if the rain had often beaten upon them, and the sun had as many times dried them upon his person. He was not old, but he seemed feeble, and he walked in the sun along the blistering asphalt pavement. On the opposite side of the street there were trees that threw a thick and pleasant shade. People were all walking on that side, but the man did not know. Before he was blind, and moreover he was stupid. In the red box were lead pencils which he had endeavored to sell. He carried no stick, but guided himself by trailing his foot along the stone copings or his hand along the iron railings. When he came to the steps of a house he would mount them. Sometimes after reaching the door with great difficulty he could not find the electric button, whereupon he would patiently descend and go his way. Some of the iron gates were locked, their owners being away for the summer, and he would consume much time striving to open them, which made little difference, as he had all the time there was at his disposal. At times he succeeded in finding the electric button, but the man or maid who answered the bell needed no pencils, nor could they be induced to disturb the mistress of the house about so small a thing. The man had been out long and had walked far, but had sold nothing. That morning someone who had finally grown tired of having him hanging around had equipped him with a box of pencils and sent him out to make his living. Hunger with sharp fangs was gnawing at his stomach and a consuming thirst parched his mouth and tortured him. The sun was broiling. He wore too much clothing, a vest and coat over his shirt. He might have removed these and carried them or thrown them away, but he did not think of it. A kind woman who saw him from an upper window felt sorry for him, and wished that he would cross over into the shade. The man drifted into a side street where there was a group of noisy excited children at play. The color of the box which he carried attracted them and they wanted to know what was in it. One of them attempted to take it away from him. With the instinct to protect his own and his only means of sustenance he resisted, shouted at the children and called them names. A policeman coming round the corner and seeing that he was the center of a disturbance jerked him violently around by the collar, but upon perceiving that he was blind considerably refrained from clubbing him and sent him on his way. He walked on in the sun. During his aimless rambling he turned into a street where there were monster electric cars thundering up and down, clanging wild bells and literally shaking the ground beneath his feet with their terrific impetus. He started to cross the street. Then something happened, something horrible happened that made the women faint and the strongest men who saw it grow sick and dizzy. The motorman's lips were as gray as his face and that was ashen gray, and he shook and staggered from the superhuman effort he had put forth to stop his car. Where could the crowds have come from so suddenly as if by magic? Boys on the run, men and women tearing up on their wheels to see the sickening sight, doctors dashing up in buggies as if directed by Providence. And the horror grew when the multitude recognized in the dead and mangled figure one of the wealthiest, most useful and most influential men of the town, a man noted for his prudence and foresight. How could such a terrible fate have overtaken him? He was hastening from his business-house, for he was late, to join his family, who were to start him an hour or two for their summer home on the Atlantic coast. In his hurry he did not perceive the other car coming from the opposite direction, and the common harrowing thing was repeated. The blind man did not know what the commotion was all about. He had crossed the street, and there he was, stumbling in the sun, trailing his foot along the coping. End of THE BLIND MAN by Kate Chopin Read for LibriVox.org by Alan Davis Drake THE CHEMIST'S WIFE BY ANTON CHECK-OFF The chemist's wife by Anton Chekhov The chemist's wife by Anton Chekhov The little town of B, consisting of two or three crooked streets, was sound asleep. There was a complete stillness in the motionless air. Nothing could be heard, but far away, outside the town, no doubt, the barking of a dog in a thin horse-tenner. It was close upon daybreak. Everything had long been asleep. The only person not asleep was the young wife of Cherno Mordek, qualified dispenser, who kept a chemist's shop at B. She had gone to bed and got up again three times, but could not sleep. She did not know why. She sat at the open window in her nitress, and looked into the street. She felt bored, depressed, vexed, so vexed that she felt quite inclined to cry. Again she did not know why. There had seemed to be a lump in her chest that kept rising into her throat. A few paces behind her Cherno Mordek lay curled up close to the wall, snoring sweetly. A greedy flea was stabbing the bridge of his nose, but he did not feel it, and was positively smiling, for he was dreaming that every one in the town had a cough, and was buying from him the king of Denmark's cough-drops. He could not have been awakened now by pinpricks or by cannon or by caresses. The chemist's shop was almost at the extreme end of the town, so the chemist's wife could see far into the fields. She could see the eastern horizon growing pale by degrees, then turning crimson, as though from a great fire. A big broad-faced moon peeped out unexpectedly from behind bushes in the distance. It was red. As a rule, when the moon emerges from behind bushes, it appears to be blushing. Suddenly in the stillness of the night there came the sounds of footsteps and a jingle of spurs. She could hear voices. It must be the officers going home to the camp from the police captains, thought the chemist's wife. Soon afterwards two figures wearing officers' white tunics came into sight. One was big and tall, the other thinner and shorter. They slouched along by the fence, dragging one leg after the other and talking loudly together. As they passed the chemist's shop, they walked more slowly than ever, and glanced up at the windows. "'It smells like a chemist,' said the thin one. "'And so it is. I remember. I came here last week to buy some castor oil. There's a chemist here with a sour face and the jawbone of an ass. Such a jawbone, my dear fellow! It must have been a jawbone like that Samson killed the Philistines with.' "'Yes,' said the big one in a base voice. The pharmacist is asleep, and his wife is asleep, too. She is a pretty woman, optiosoph.' "'I saw her. I liked her very much. Tell me, doctor. Can she possibly love that jawbone of an ass? Can she?' "'No. Most likely she does not love him,' sighed the doctor, speaking as though he were sorry for the chemist. "'The little woman is asleep behind the window, optiosoph. What?' Tossing with the heat, her little mouth half open. The one little foot hanging out of bed. I bet the full chemist doesn't realize what a lucky fellow he is. No doubt he sees no difference between a woman and a bottle of Karbalaq.' "'I say, doctor,' said the officer, stopping. "'Let us go into the shop and buy something. Perhaps we shall see her.' "'What an idea! In the night!' "'What of it? They are obliged to serve one even at night. My dear fellow, let's go in.' "'If you like!' The chemist's wife, hiding behind the curtain, heard a muffled ring. Looking round at her husband, who was smiling and snoring sweetly as before, she drew on her dress, slid her bare feet into her slippers and ran to the shop. On the other side of the glass door she could see two shadows. The chemist's wife turned up the lamp and hurried to the door to open it. And now she felt neither vexed nor bored nor inclined to cry, though her heart was thumping. The big doctor and the slender Obtiyosov walked in. Now she could get a view of them. The doctor was corpulent and swarthy. He wore a beard and was slow in his movements. At the slightest motion his tunic seemed as though it would crack, and perspiration came onto his face. The officer was rosy, clean-shaven, feminine-looking, and as supple as an English whip. "'What may I give you?' asked the chemist's wife, holding her dress across her bosom. "'Give us four pennies worth of peppermint lozenges.' Without haste the chemist's wife took down a jar from a shelf and began weighing out lozenges. The customers stared fixedly at her back. The doctor screwed up his eyes like a well-fed cat, while the lieutenant was very grave. "'It's the first time I've seen a lady serving in a chemist's shop.' "'There's nothing out of the way in it,' replied the chemist's wife, looking out of the corner of her eye at the rosy-cheeked officer. "'My husband has no assistant, and I always help him.' "'To be sure, you have a charming little shop. What a number of different... jars. And you are not afraid of moving about among the poisons. Ooh!' The chemist's wife sealed up the parcel and handed it to the doctor. Obtiosov gave her the money. Half a minute of silence followed. The men exchanged glances, took a step towards the door, then looked at one another again. "'Will you give me two pennies worth of soda?' said the doctor. Again the chemist's wife slowly and languidly raised her hand to the shelf. "'Haven't you in the shop anything such as?' muttered Obtiosov, moving his fingers. "'Something so, say, allegorical, revivifying. Seltzer water, for instance. Have you any seltzer water?' "'Yes,' answered the chemist's wife. "'Bravo! You're a fairy, not a woman. Give us three bottles.' The chemist's wife hurriedly sealed up the soda and vanished through the door into the darkness. "'A peach,' said the doctor with a wink. "'You wouldn't find a pineapple like that in the island of Madeira, eh?' "'What do you say?' "'Do you hear the snoring, though?' "'That's his worship, the chemist, enjoying sweet repose.' A minute later the chemist's wife came back and set five bottles on the counter. She had just been in the cellar, and so was flushed and rather excited. "'Quietly,' said Obtiosov, when, after uncorking the bottles, she dropped the corkscrew. "'Don't make such a noise. You'll wake your husband.' "'Well, what if I do wake him?' "'He's sleeping sweetly. He must be dreaming of you. To your health!' "'Besides,' boomed the doctor, hiccuping after the seltzer water. "'Husbands are such a dull business that it would be a very nice of them to be always asleep. How could a drop of red wine would be in this water?' "'What an idea,' laughed the chemist's wife. "'That would be splendid. What a pity they don't sell spirits and chemist shops. Though you ought to sell wine as medicine. Have you any venum, gallicum, rubrum?' "'Yes.' "'Well, then, give us some. Bring it here, damn it!' "'How much do you want?' "'Quantum satis. Give us an ounce each in the water, and afterwards we'll see. "'Obtiosov, what do you say? First with water, and afterwards, per se?' The doctor and Obtiosov sat down to the counter, took off their caps, and began drinking the wine. "'Oh, the wine, one must admit, is wretched stuff. Venum nastissimum. So in the presence of—er—it tastes like nectar. You are enchanting, madame. In imagination I kiss your hand.' "'I would give a great deal to do so, not in the imagination,' said Obtiosov. "'On my honour, I'd give my life.' "'That's enough,' said madame Cherno Mordek, flushing, and assuming a serious expression. "'What a flirt you are, though!' The doctor laughed softly, looking slyly at her from under his brows. "'Your eyes seem to be firing sharp—piff, piff. I congratulate you. You've conquered. We are vanquished.' The chemist's wife looked at their ruddy faces, listened to their chatter, and soon she, too, grew quite lively. "'Oh, she felt so gay!' She entered into the conversation. She laughed, flirted, and even, after repeated requests from the customers, drank two ounces of wine. "'Your officers ought to come in oftener from the camp,' she said. "'It's awful how dreary it is here. I'm simply dying of it.' "'I should think so,' said the doctor indignantly. "'Such a peach—a miracle of nature, thrown away in the wilds. "'How well Gribodyev said, into the wilds, to Saratov!' "'It's time for us to be off, though. Delighted to have made your acquaintance—very. How much do we owe you?' The chemist's wife raised her eyes to the ceiling, and her lips moved for some time. "'Twelve rubles, forty-eight copax,' she said. Tiosov took out of his pocket a fat pocket-book, and, after fumbling for some time among the notes, paid. "'Your husband's sleeping sweetly. He must be dreaming,' he muttered, pressing her hand in parting. "'I don't like to hear silly remarks.' "'What silly remarks? On the contrary. It's not silly at all. Even Shakespeare said, Happy is he who in his youth is young.' "'They go with my hand!' At last, after much talk, and after kissing the lady's hand at parting, the customers went out of the shop irresolutely, as though they were wondering whether they had not forgotten something. She ran quickly into the bedroom and sat down in the same place. She saw the doctor and the officer on coming out of the shop walk lazily away a distance of twenty paces. Then they stopped and began whispering together. "'What about it?' Her heart throbbed. There was a pulsing in her temples, and why she did not know. Her heart beat violently, as though those two whispering outside were deciding her fate. Five minutes later the doctor parted from Obtiosov and walked on, while Obtiosov came back. He walked past the shop once, and a second time. He would stop near the door and then take a few steps again. At last the bell tinkled discreetly. "'What? Who is there?' The chemist's wife heard her husband's voice suddenly. "'There's a ring at the bell, and—' "'Don't you hear it?' he said severely. "'Is that the way to do things?' He got up, put on his dressing-gown, and staggering, half asleep, flopped in his slippers to the shop. "'What is it?' he asked Obtiosov. "'Give me—give me four pennies worth of peppermint lozenges.'" Sniffing continually, yawning, dropping asleep as he moved, and knocking his knees against the counter, the chemist went to the shelf and reached down the jar. Two minutes later the chemist's wife saw Obtiosov go out of the shop, and after he had gone some steps, she saw him throw the packet of peppermints in the dusty road. The doctor came from behind a corner to meet him. They met and, gesticulating, vanished in the morning mist. "'I'm unhappy I am,' said the chemist's wife, looking angrily at her husband, who was undressing quickly to get into bed again. "'Oh, how unhappy I am,' she repeated, suddenly melting into bitter tears. "'And nobody knows. Nobody knows.'" "'I forgot four pence on the counter,' muttered the chemist, pulling the quilt over him. "'Put it away in the till, please.'" And at once he fell to sleep again. End of The Chemist's Wife by Anton Chekhov This recording is in the public domain. Read by Alan Davis Drake and Jody Kringle. Emancipation, A Life Fable by Kate Chopin This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to learn how to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Emancipation, A Life Fable by Kate Chopin There was once an animal born into this world. And opening his eyes upon life, he saw above and about him confining walls, and before him were bars of iron through which came air and light from without. This animal was born in a cage. Here he grew and throwed in strength and beauty under the care of an invisible protecting hand. Hungering, food was ever at hand. When he thirsted, water was brought. And when he felt the need to rest, there was provided a bed of straw upon which to lie. And here he found it good, licking his handsome flanks, to bask in the sunbeam that he thought existed but to lighten his home. Awakening one day from his slothful rest low, the door of his cage stood open. Accident had opened it. In the corner he crouched, wondering and fearingly. Then slowly did he approach the door, dreading the unaccustomed, and would have closed it. But for such a task his limbs were purposeless. So out the opening he thrust his head to see the canopy of the sky grow broader and the world waxing wider. Back to his corner, but not to rest, for the spell of the unknown was over him. And again and again he goes to the open door, seeing each time more light. Then one time standing in the flood of it, a deep in drawn breath, a bracing of strong limbs, and with a bound he was gone. On he rushes in his mad flight, heedless that he is wounding and tearing his sleek sides, seeing, smelling, touching of all things, even stopping to put his lips to the noxious pool, thinking it may be sweet. Hungering there is no food, but such as he must seek and off times fight for, and his limbs are weighted before he reaches the water that is good to his thirsting throat. So does he live, seeking, finding, joying, suffering. The door which accident had opened is open still, but the cage remains forever empty. End of Emancipation. A Life Fable by Kate Chopin. Read for LibriVox.org by Alan Davis Drake. A Harbinger by Kate Chopin. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information and to learn how to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. A Harbinger by Kate Chopin. Bruno did very nice work in black and white, sometimes in green and yellow and red. But he never did anything quite so clever as during the summer he spent in the hills. The springtime freshness had stayed some way, and then there was the gentle Diantha, with hair the color of ripe wheat, who posed for him when he wanted. She was as beautiful as a flower, crisp with morning dew. Her violet eyes were baby eyes when he first came. When he went away he kissed her, and she turned red and white and trembled. As quick as thought, the baby look went out of her eyes, and another flashed into them. Bruno sighed a good deal over his work that winter. The women he painted were all like mountain flowers. The big cities seemed too desolate for endurance often. He tried not to think of sweet-eyed Diantha. But there was nothing to keep him from remembering the hills. The whir of the summer breeze through delicate leafed maples, the bird-notes that used to break clear and sharp into the stillness, when he and Diantha were together on the wooded hillside. So when summer came again, Bruno gathered his bags, his brushes and colors, and things. He whistled soft, low tunes as he did so. He sang even, when he was not lost in wondering if the sunlight would fall just as it did last June, a slant the green slopes, and if, and if, Diantha would quiver red and white again when he called her his sweet-owned Diantha, as he meant to. Bruno had made his way through the tangle of underbrush, but before he came quite to the wood's edge, he halted, for there about the little church that gleamed white in the sun, people were gathered, old and young. He thought Diantha might be among them, and strained his eyes to see if she were. But she was not. He did see her, though, when the doors of the rustic temple swung open, like a white-robed lily-now. It was a man beside her, it mattered not who, enough that it was one who had gathered this wild flower for his own, while Bruno was dreaming. Foolish Bruno! To have been only love's harbinger after all. He turned away. With hurried strides he descended the hill again, to wait by the big water-tank for a train to come along. End of A Harbinger by Kate Chopin. Read for LibriVox.org by Alan Davis Drake. This recording is in the public domain. An Idle Fellow by Kate Chopin. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information and to learn how to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. An Idle Fellow by Kate Chopin. I am tired. At the end of these years, I am very tired. I have been studying in books the languages of the living, and those we call dead. Early in the fresh morning I have studied books, and throughout the day when the sun was shining. And at night, when there were stars, I have lighted my oil lamp and studied in books. Now my brain is weary and I want rest. I shall sit here on the doorstep beside my friend Paul. He is an Idle Fellow with folded hands. He laughs when I abrade him and bids me with emotion hold my peace. He is listening to a thrush's song that comes from the blur of yonder apple tree. He tells me the thrush is singing a complaint. She wants her mate that was with her last blossom time and builded a nest for her. She will have no other mate. She will call for him till she hears the notes of her beloved one's song coming swiftly towards her across forest and field. Paul is a strange Fellow. He gazed idly at a billowy cloud that rolls lazily over and over along the edge of the blue sky. He turns away from me and the words with which I would instruct him to drink deep the scent of the clover field and the thick perfume from the rose hedge. We rise from the doorstep and walk together down the gentle slope of the hill, past the apple tree and the rose hedge, and along the border of the field where wheat is growing. We walk down to the foot of the gentle slope where women and men and children are living. Paul is a strange Fellow. He looks into the faces of people who pass us by. He tells me that in their eyes he reads the story of their souls. He knows men and women and the little children, and why they look this way and that way. He knows the reason that turns them to and fro, and causes them to go and come. I think I shall walk a space through the world with my friend Paul. He is very wise. He knows the language of God which I have not learned. The Kiss by K. Chopin It was still quite light out of doors, but inside, with the curtains drawn and the smoldering fires sending out a dim, uncertain glow, the room was full of deep shadows. Brantain sat in one of these shadows. It had overtaken him, and he did not mind. The obscurity lent him courage to keep his eyes fastened as ardently as he liked upon the girl who sat in the fire-light. She was very handsome, with a certain fine, rich coloring that belonged to the healthy broon type. She was quite composed, as she idly stroked the satiny coat of the cat that lay curled in her lap. And she occasionally sent a slow glance into the shadow where her companion sat. They were talking low of indifferent things which plainly were not the things that occupied their thoughts. She knew that he loved her, a frank blustering fellow without guile enough to conceal his feelings, and no desire to do so. For two weeks passed he had sought her society eagerly and persistently. She was confidently waiting for him to declare himself, and she meant to accept him. The rather insignificant and unattractive Brantain was enormously rich, and she liked and required the entourage which wealth could give her. During one of the pauses between their talk of the last tea and the next reception, the door opened and a young man entered who Brantain knew quite well. The girl turned her face towards him. A stride or two brought him to her side, and bending over her chair before she could suspect his intention, for she did not realize that he had not seen her visitor. He pressed an ardent, lingering kiss upon her lips. Brantain slowly arose. So did the girl arise, but quickly, and the newcomer stood between them, a little amusement and some defiance struggling with the confusion in his face. I believe, stammered Brantain, I see that I have stayed too long, I had no idea, that is, I must wish you good-bye. He was clutching his hat with both hands, and probably did not perceive that she was extending her hand to him. Her presence of mind had not completely deserted her, but she could not have trusted herself to speak. Hang me if I saw him sitting there, Natty. I know he's deused awkward for you, but I hope you'll forgive me this once. This very first break. Why, what's the matter? Don't touch me. Don't come near me." She returned angrily. What do you mean by entering the house without ringing? I came in with your brother, as I often do. He answered coldly in self-justification. We came in the sideway. He went upstairs, and I came in here, hoping to find you. The explanation is simple enough, and ought to satisfy you that the misadventure was unavoidable. But do say that you forgive me, Natalie. He entreated softly. Forgive you? You don't know what you were talking about. Let me pass. It depends upon—a good deal whether I ever forgive you. At the next reception, which she and Brantain had been talking about, she approached the man with a delicious frankness of manner when she saw him there. Will you let me speak to you a moment or two, Mr. Brantain? She asked him with an engaging but perturbed smile. He seemed extremely unhappy, but when she took his arm and walked away with him, seeking a retired corner, a ray of hope mingled with the almost comical misery of his expression. She was apparently very outspoken. Perhaps I should not have sought this interview, Mr. Brantain, but—but oh, oh, I have been very uncomfortable, most miserable since that little encounter the other afternoon, when I thought how you might have misinterpreted it and believed things. Hope was plainly gaining the ascendancy over misery and Brantain's round, guileless face. Of course, I know it is nothing to you, but for my own sake I do want you to understand that Mr. Harvey is an intimate friend of longstanding. He is my—why, we have always been like cousins, like brother and sister, I may say. He is my brother's most intimate associate, and often fancies that he is entitled to the same privileges as the family. Oh, I know it is absurd, uncalled for, to tell you this, undignified even. She was almost weeping. But it makes so much difference to me what you think of—of me. Her voice had grown very low and agitated. The misery had all disappeared from Brantain's face. When you do really care what I think, Miss Natalie, may I call you Miss Natalie? They turned into a long, dim corridor that was lined on either side with tall, graceful plants. They walked slowly to the very end of it. When they turned to retrace their steps, Brantain's face was radiant, and hers was triumphant. He was among the guests at the wedding, and he sought her out in a rare moment when she stood alone. Your husband, he said, smiling, had sent me over to kiss you. A quick blush suffused her face and round polished throat. I suppose it's natural for a man to feel and act generously on an occasion of this kind. He tells me he doesn't want his marrying to interrupt wholly that pleasant intimacy which has existed between you and me. I don't know what you've been telling him—with an insolent smile—but he has sent me here to kiss you. She felt like a chess player who, by the clever handling of his pieces, sees the game taking the course intended. Her eyes were bright and tender with a smile as they glanced upon his, and her lips looked hungry for the kiss which they invited. But you know—he went on quietly—I didn't tell him so. It would have seemed ungrateful. But I can tell you, I've stopped kissing women. It's dangerous. Well, she had Brantain and his millions left. A person can't have everything in this world, and it was a little unreasonable of her to expect it. I am losing my interest in human beings, in the significance of their lives and their actions. Someone has said it is better to study one man than ten books. I want neither books nor men. They make me suffer. Can one of them talk to me like the night, the summer night, like the stars or the caressing wind? The night came slowly, softly, as I lay out there under the maple tree. It came creeping, creeping stealthily out of the valley, thinking I did not notice. And the outlines of trees and foliage nearby blended in one black mass, and the night came stealing out from them too—from the east and west—until the only light was in the sky, filtering through the maple leaves and a star looking down through every cranny. The night is solemn, and it means mystery. Human shapes flitted by like intangible things. Some stole up like little mice to peep at me. I did not mind. My whole being was abandoned to the soothing and penetrating charm of the night. The katydids began their slumber song. They are at it yet. How wise they are. They do not shatter like people. They tell me only, sleep, sleep, sleep. The wind rippled the maple leaves like little warm love thrills. Why do fools cumber the earth? It was a man's voice that broke the necromancer's spell. A man came today with his Bible class. He is detestable with his red cheeks and bold eyes and coarse manner and speech. What does he know of Christ? Shall I ask a young fool who was born yesterday and will die tomorrow to tell me things of Christ? I would rather ask the stars. They have seen him. End of THE NIGHT CAME SLOWLY by Kate Chopin Red for LibriVox.org by Alan Davis-Strake The Odalesque of Sennichal by Guy de Mont-Passant 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 James Christopher The Odalesque of Sennichal by Guy de Mont-Passant In Sennichal, which is a suburb of Prague, there lived about twenty years ago two poor but honest people who earned their bread by the sweat of their brow. He worked in a large printing establishment and his wife employed her spare time as a laundress. Their pride and their only pleasure was of their daughter, Viteska, who was a vigorous voluptuous looking handsome girl of eighteen, whom they brought up very well and carefully. She worked for a dressmaker and was thus able to help her parents a little and she made use of her leisure moments to improve her education and especially her music. She was a general favorite in the neighborhood on account of her quiet, modest demeanor and she was looked upon as a model by the whole suburb. When she went to work in the town, the tall girl with her magnificent head, which resembled that of an ancient Bohemian Amazon with its wealth of black hair and her dark, sparkling yet soft eyes, attracted the looks of passers-by in spite of her shabby dress much more than the graceful, well-dressed ladies of the aristocracy. Probably some young, wealthy lounger would follow her home and even try to get into conversation with her, but she always managed to get rid of them and their importunities and she did not require any protector, for she was quite capable of protecting herself from any insults. One evening, however, she met a man on the suspension bridge whose strange appearance made her give him a look which event some interest, but perhaps even more surprise. He was a tall, handsome man with bright eyes and a black beard. He was very sunburnt and in his long coat, which was like a captain, with a red fez on his head, he gave those who saw him the impression of an oriental. He had noticed her look all the more as he himself had been so struck by her poor and at the same time regal appearance, that he remained standing and looking at her in such a way that he seemed to be devouring her with his eyes, so that Viteska, who was usually so fearless, looked down. She hurried on and he followed her, and the quicker she walked the more rapidly that he followed her and, at last, when they were in a narrow dark street in the suburb, he suddenly said in an insinuating voice, May I offer you my arm, my pretty girl? You can see that I am old enough to look after myself, Viteska replied hastily. I am much obliged to you and must beg you not to follow me any more. I am known in this neighborhood and it might damage my reputation. Oh, you are very much mistaken if you think you will get rid of me so easily, he replied. I have just come from the east and am returning there soon. Come with me, and as I fancy that you are as sensible as you are beautiful, you will certainly make your fortune there, and I will bet that before the end of a year you will be covered with diamonds and be waited on by eunuchs and female slaves. I am a respectable girl, sir, she replied proudly and tried to go on in front, but the stranger was immediately at her side again. You were born to rule, he whispered to her. Give me, and I understand the matter, that you will live to be a saltiness if you have any luck. The girl did not give him an answer, but walked on. But at any rate, listen to me, the tempter continued. I will not listen to anything, because I am poor, you think it will be easy for you to seduce me, Viteska exclaimed. But I am as virtuous as I am poor, and I should despise any position which I had to buy with shame. They had reached the little house where her parents lived, and she ran in quickly and slammed the door behind her. When she went into the town the next morning, the stranger was waiting at the corner of the street where she lived, and bowed to her very respectfully. Allow me to speak a few words with you, he began. I feel that I ought to beg your pardon for my behavior yesterday. Please let me go on my way quietly, the girl replied. What will the neighbors think of me? I did not know you, he went on, without paying any attention to her angry looks. But your extraordinary beauty attracted me. Now that I know that you are as virtuous as you are charming, I wish very much to become better acquainted with you. Believe me, I have the most honorable intentions. Unfortunately, the bold stranger had taken the girl's fancy, and she could not find it in her heart to refuse him. If you are really an earnest, she stammered in charming confusion. Do not follow me about in the public streets. But come to my parents' house like a man of honor, and state your intentions there. I will certainly do so, and immediately, if you like, the stranger replied eagerly. No, no, Vitesco said. Become this evening, if you like. The stranger bowed and left her, and really called on her parents in the evening. He introduced himself as Irenius Christopolis, a merchant from Smyrna, spoke of his brilliant circumstances, and finally declared that he loved Vitesco passionately. That is all very nice and right, the cautious father replied. But what will it all lead to? Under no circumstances can I allow you to visit my daughter. Such a passion as yours often dies out as quickly as it arises, and a respectable girl is easily robbed of her virtue. And suppose I make up my mind to marry your daughter, the stranger asked, after a moment's hesitation. Then I shall refer you to my child, for I shall never force Vitesco to marry against her will, her father said. The stranger seized the pretty girl's hand and spoke in glowing terms of his love for her, of the luxury with which she would be surrounded in his house, of the wonders of the east to which he hoped to take her, and at last Vitesco consented to become his wife. Thereupon the stranger hurried on the arrangements for the wedding, in a manner that made the most favorable impression on them all, and during the time before their marriage he lay at her feet like her humble slave. As soon as they were married, the newly married couple set off on their journey to Smyrna and promised to write as soon as they got there. But a month, then two and three passed without the parents, whose anxiety increased every day, receiving a line from them. Until at last the father in terror applied to the police. The first thing was to write to the consulate Smyrna for information. His reply was to the effect that no merchant of the name Irenius Christopolis was known in Smyrna, and that he had never been there. The police, at the entreaties of the frantic parents, continued their investigations, but for a long time without any result. At last, however, they obtained a little light on the subject, but it was not at all satisfactory. The police at Pestel said that a man, whose personal appearance exactly agreed with the description of Viteska's husband, had a short time before carried off two girls from the Hungarian capital, to Turkey, evidently intending to trade that coveted valuable commodity there. But that when he found that the authorities were on his track, he had escaped from justice by a sudden flight. Four years after Viteska's mysterious disappearance, two persons, a man and a woman, met in a narrow street in Damascus, in a scarcely less strange manner than when the Greek merchant met Viteska on the suspension bridge at Prague. The man with the black beard, the red fez, and the long green captain, was no one else than Irenius Christopolis. Matters appeared to be going well with him. He had his hands comfortably thrust into the red shawl, which he had round his waist, and a negro was walking behind him with a large parasol, while another carried a shilikwe after him. A noble Turkish lady met him in a litter borne by four slaves. He was wrapped like a ghost in a white veil, only that a pair of large, dark, threatening eyes flashed at the merchant. He smiled, for he thought that he had found favor in the eyes of an eastern hury, and that flattered him. But he soon lost sight of her in the crowd and forgot her almost immediately. The next morning, however, a eunuch of the paches came to him, to his small astonishment, and told him to come with him. He took him to the sultan's most powerful deputy, who ruled as an absolute despot in Damascus. They went through dark, narrow passages, and curtains were pushed aside, which rustled behind them again. At last they reached a large rotunda, the center of which was occupied by a beautiful fountain, while scarlet devans ran all around it. Here the eunuch told the merchant to wait and left him. He was puzzling his brains what the meaning of it all could be, when suddenly a tall, commanding woman came into the apartment. Again a pair of large, threatening eyes looked at him through the veil, while he knew from her green, gold embroidered captain, that if it was not the pache's wife, it was at least one of his favorites, who was before him. And so he hurriedly knelt down, and crossing his hands on his breast, he put his head onto the ground before her. But a clear, diabolical laugh made him look up, and when the beautiful otolesk threw back her veil, he uttered a cry of terror, for his wife, his deceived wife, whom he had sold, was standing before him. Do you know me? She asked with quiet dignity. Viteska. Yes, that was my name when I was your wife. She replied quickly in a contemptuous voice. Now that I am the pache's wife, my name is Sarima. I do not suppose you ever expected to find me again, you wretch. When you sold me in Varna to an old Jewish profligate, who was only half alive, you see, I have gotten into better hands, and I have made my fortune as you said I should do. Well, what do you expect of me? What thanks? What reward? The wretched man was lying overwhelmed at the feet of the woman whom he had so shamefully deceived, and could not find a word to say. He had felt that he was lost, and had not even got the courage to beg for mercy. You deserve death, you miscreant. Sarima continued. You are in my hands, and I can do whatever I please with you, for the pasha has left your punishment to me alone. I ought to have you impaled, and to feast my eyes on your death agonies. That would be the smallest compensation for all the years of degradation that I have been through, in which I owe to you. Mercy, Viteska, mercy, the wretched man cried, trembling all over and raising his hands to her in supplication. The otolest's only reply was a laugh, in which rang all the cruelty of an insulted woman's deceived heart. It seemed to give her pleasure to see the man whom she had loved, and who had so shamefully trafficked in her beauty, in his mortal agony, as he cringed before her, whining for his life as he clung to her knees. But at last she seemed to relent somewhat. I will give you your life, you miserable wretch, she said. But you shall not go unpunished. So saying, she clapped her hands, and four black eunuchs came in, and seized the Favourite's unfortunate husband, and in a moment bound his hand and feet. I have altered my mind, and he shall not be put to death, so Remus said, with a smile that made the traitor's blood run cold in his veins. But give him a hundred blows with a bastionade, and I will stand by and count them. For God's sake, the merchant screamed, I can never endure it. We will see about that, the Favourite said coldly. And if you die under it, it was allotted you by fate. I am not going to retract my orders. She threw herself down on the cushions, and began to smoke a long pipe which a female slave handed to her on her knees. At a sign from her, the eunuchs tied the wretched man's feet to the pole by which the souls of the culprit were raised, and began the terrible punishment. Already at the tenth blow the merchant began to roar like a wild animal, but his wife whom he had betrayed remained unmoved, carelessly blowing the blue wreaths of smoke into the air, and, resting on her lovely arm, she watched his features, which were distorted by pain, with merciless enjoyment. During the last blows he only grown gently, and then he fainted. A year later the dealer was caught with his female merchandise by the police in an Austrian town, and handed over to justice when he made a full confession, and by that means the parents of the Odlelesque of Sinichal heard of their daughter's position. As they knew that she was happy and surrounded by luxury, they made no attempt to get her out of the posh's hands, who, like a thorough musulman, had become the slave of his slave. The unfortunate husband was sent over to the frontier when he was released from prison. His shameful traffic, however, flourishes still, in spite of all the precautions of the police and of the consuls, and every year he provides the harems of the east with those voluptuous box-clennas, especially from Bohemia and Hungary, who, in the eyes of a musulman, vie for the prize of beauty with the slender Circassian women. End of The Odlelesque of Sinichal A Reflection by Kate Chopin. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information and to learn how to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. A Reflection by Kate Chopin. Some people are born with a vital and responsive energy. It not only enables them to keep abreast of the times. It enables them to furnish in their own personality a good bit of the motive power to the mad pace. They are fortunate beings. They do not need to apprehend the significance of things. They do not grow weary nor misstep. Nor do they fall out of rank and sink by the wayside to be left contemplating the moving procession. Ah, that moving procession that is left me by the roadside. Its fantastic colors are more brilliant and beautiful than the sun on the undulating waters. What matter of souls and bodies are falling beneath the feet of the ever-pressing multitude. It moves with a majestic rhythm of the spheres. Its discordant clashes sweep upward in one harmonious tone that blends with the music of other worlds to complete God's orchestra. It is greater than the stars that moving procession of human energy, greater than the palpitating earth and the things growing thereon. Oh, I could weep at being left by the wayside, left with the grass and the clouds and a few dumb animals. True, I feel at home in the society of these symbols of life's immutability. In the procession, I should feel the crushing feet, the clashing discords, the ruthless hands, and stifling breath. I could not hear the rhythm of the march. Sav ye dumb hearts, let us be still and wait by the roadside. End of A Reflection by Kate Chopin. Read by Alan Davis Drake. 10 Ferries by Sarah Cohn Bryant. 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 Alanna Jordan. The 10 Ferries by Sarah Cohn Bryant. Once upon a time there was a dear little girl whose name was Elsa. Elsa's father and mother worked very hard and became rich. But they loved Elsa so much that they did not like her to do any work. Very foolishly, they let her play all the time. So when Elsa grew up, she did not know how to do anything. She could not make bread. She could not sweep a room. She could not sew a scene. She could only laugh and sing. But she was so sweet and merry that everybody loved her. And by and by she married one of the people who loved her and had a house of her own to take care of. Then, then my dears came hard times for Elsa. There were so many things to be done in the house and she did not know how to do any of them. And because she had never worked at all, it made her very tired even to try. She was tired before the morning was over every day. The maid would come and say, how shall I do this? Or how shall I do that? And Elsa would have to say, I don't know. Then the maid would pretend that she did not know either. And when she saw her mistress sitting about doing nothing, she too sat about idle. Elsa's husband had a hard time of it. He had only poor food to eat and it was not ready at the right time. And the house looked all in a muddle. It made him sad, and that made Elsa sad, for she wanted to do everything just right. At last one day, Elsa's husband went away quite cross. He said to her as he went out the door, it's no wonder that the house looks so when you sit all day with your hands in your lap. Little Elsa cried bitterly when he was gone, for she did not want to make her husband unhappy and cross, and she wanted the house to look nice. Oh, dear, she sobbed. I wish I could do things right. I wish I could work. I wish I had ten good fairies to work for me. Then I could keep the house. As she said the words, a great gray man stood before her. He was wrapped in a strange gray cloak that covered him from head to foot. And he smiled at Elsa. What is the matter, dear? He said, why do you cry? Oh, I am crying because I do not know how to keep the house, said Elsa. I cannot make bread. I cannot sweep. I cannot sew a seam. When I was a little girl, I never learned to work. And now I cannot do anything right. I wish I had ten good fairies to help me. You shall have them, dear, said the gray man. And he shook his strange gray cloak, poof, out-pop ten tiny fairies, no bigger than that. These shall be your servants, Elsa, said the gray man. They are faithful and clever, and they will do everything you want them to, just right. But your neighbors might stare and ask questions if they saw these little chaps running about your house, so I will hide them away for you. Give me your little useless hands. Wondering, Elsa stretched out her pretty little white hands. Now stretch out your little useless fingers, dear. Elsa stretched out her pretty pink fingers. The little man touched each one of the ten little fingers, and as he touched them, he said their names. Little thumb, forefinger, thimblefinger, ringfinger, littlefinger. Little thumb, forefinger, thimblefinger, ringfinger, littlefinger. And as he named the fingers, one after another, the tiny fairies bowed their tiny heads. There was a fairy for every name. Hop, hide yourselves away, said the gray man. Hop, hop, the fairies sprang to Elsa's knee, then to the palms of her hands, and then whisk. They were all hidden away in her little pink fingers, a fairy in every finger, and the gray man was gone. Elsa sat and looked with wonder at her little white hands and the ten useless fingers, but suddenly the little fingers began to stir. The little fairies who were hidden away there were not used to remaining still, and they were getting restless. They stirred so that Elsa jumped up and ran to the cooking table and took hold of the breadboard. No sooner had she touched the breadboard than the little fairies began to work. They measured the flour, mixed the bread, kneaded the loaves, and set them to rise quicker than you could wink. And when the bread was done, it was nice as you could wish. Then the little fairy finger sneezed the broom, and in a twinkling, they were making the house clean. And so it went all day. Elsa flew about from one thing to another, and the ten fairies did the work just right. When the maid saw her mistress working, she began to work too. And when she saw how beautifully everything was done, she was ashamed to do anything badly herself. In a little while, the housework was going smoothly, and Elsa could laugh and sing again. There was no more crossness in that house. Elsa's husband grew so proud of her that he went about saying to everybody, my grandmother was a fine housekeeper, and my mother was a fine housekeeper. But neither of them could hold a candle to my wife. She has only one maid. But to see the work done, you would think she had as many servants as she has fingers on her hands. When Elsa heard that, she used to laugh, but she never, never told. End of Story, recording by Elana Jordan.