 The Last Penny by T.S. Arthur. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are within the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit www.LibriVox.org. Today's reading by Tom Hackett, djhackett.newgrounds.com. The Last Penny by T.S. Arthur. Thomas Clare, a son of St. Crispin, was a clever sort of a man, though not very well off in the world. He was industrious, but as his abilities were small, his reward was proportioned there, too. His skill went but little beyond half-souls, heel taps, and patches. Those who, willing to encourage Thomas, ventured to order from him a new pair of boots or shoes, never repeated the order. How would have been carrying their good wishes for his prosperity rather too far? As animated, the income of Thomas Clare was not large. As though he was, the amount earned proved so small that his future wife always found it insufficient for an adequate supply of the wants of the family, which consisted of her husband, herself, and three children. It cannot be denied, however, that if Thomas had cared less about his pipe and mug of ale, the supply of bread would have been more liberal. But he had to work hard and must have some little self-indulgence, at least so he very unwisely argued. This self-indulgence costs from two to three shillings every week, a sum that would have purchased many comforts for the needy family. The oldest of Clare's children, a girl ten years of age, had been sickly from her birth. She was a gentle, loving child, the favorite of all in the house, more especially of her father. Little Lizzie would come up into the garret where Clare worked, and sit with him sometimes for hours, talking in a strain that caused him to wonder. And sometimes, when she did not feel as well as usual, lying upon the floor and fixing upon him her large, bright eyes for almost as long a period. Lizzie was never so contented as when she was with her father, and he never worked so cheerfully as when she was near him. Gradually, as month after month went by, Lizzie wasted away with some disease for which the doctor could find no remedy. Her cheeks became paler and paler, her eyes larger and brighter, and such a weakness fell upon her slender limbs that they could with difficulty sustain her weight. She was no longer able to clamber up the steep stairs into the garret, or locked, where her father worked, yet she was there as often as before. Clare had made for her a little bed, raised a short space from the floor, and here she lay, talking to him or looking at him, as of old. He rarely went up or down the garret stairs without having Lizzie in his arms. Usually her head was lying upon his shoulder. And thus the time went on. Clare, for all the love he felt for his sick child, for all the regard he entertained for his family, indulging his beer and tobacco as usual, and thus consuming, weekly, a portion of their little income that would have brought to his children many a comfort. No one but himself had any luxuries, not even for Lizzie's weak appetite where dainty is procured, though as much as the mother could do out of the weekly pittance she received, to get enough coarse food for the table and cover the nakedness of her family. The supply of the pipe and mug of Clare from two to three shillings a week were required. This sum he usually retained out of his earnings, and gave the balance, whether large or small, to his frugal wife. No matter what his income happened to be, the amount necessary to obtain these articles was rigidly deducted, and has certainly expended. Without his beer, Clare really imagined that he would not have strength sufficient to go through with his weekly toil. How his wife managed to get along without even her regular cup of good tea had never occurred to him to ask. And not to have had a pipe to smoke in the evening or after each meal would have been a deprivation beyond his ability to endure. So the two or three shillings went regularly in the old way. And the six pence's and pennies congregated in goodly numbers in the shoemaker's pocket. His visits to the Owl House were often repeated, and his extra pipes smoked more frequently. But, as his allowance for the week diminished, and it required some searching in the capacious pockets, where they hid themselves away to find the straggling coins, Clare found it necessary to put some check upon his appetite. And so it went on, week after week, and month after month. The beer was drunk, and the pipe smoked as usual, while the whole family bent under the weight of poverty that was light upon them. Weaker and weaker grew little dizzy. From the coarse food that was daily set before her, her weak stomach turned, and she hardly took sufficient nourishment to keep life in her attentuated frame. Poor child, said the mother one morning, she cannot live if she doesn't eat. But coarse bread and potatoes and buttermilk go against her weak stomach. Ah, me, if we only had a little at the rich waste. There is a curse in poverty! replied Clare, with a bitterness that was unusual to him, as he turned his eyes upon his child, who had pushed away the food that had been placed before her, and was looking at it with an expression of disappointment on her wound face. A curse in poverty! he repeated. Why should my child die for want of nourishing food, while the children of the rich have every luxury? In the mind of Clare, there was usually a dead calm. He plotted on, from day to day, eating his potatoes and buttermilk, or whatever came before him, and working steadily through the hours allotted to labor. His hopes are fears in life, rarely exciting him to do an expression of discontent. But he loved Lizzie better than any earthly thing. And to see her turn with loathing from her coarse food, the best he was able to procure for her aroused his sluggish nature into a rebellion against his lot. But he saw no remedy. Can't we get something a little better for Lizzie? Said he as he pushed his plate aside. His appetite for once gone before his meal was half eaten. Not unless you can earn more, replied the wife. Cut and carve and manage as I will, it's as much as I can do to get common food. Clare pushed himself back from the table, and without saying a word more, went up to his shop in the Garrett, and sat down to work. There was a troubled and despondent feeling about his heart. He did not light his pipe as usual, for he had smoked up the last of his tobacco in the evening before. But he had a penny left, and with that, as soon as he had finished mending a pair of boots and taken them home, he meant to get a new supply of the fragrant weed. The boots had only half an hour's work on them. But a few stitches had been taken by the cobbler when he heard the feeble voice of Lizzie calling to him from the bottom of the stairs. That voice never came unregarded to his ears. He laid aside his work and went down to his patient child, and as he took her light form in his arms and bore up into his little workshop, he felt that he pressed against his heart the dearest thing to him in life. And with this feeling came the bitter certainty that soon she would pass away and be no more seen. Thomas Clare did not often indulge in external manifestations of feeling. But now, as he held Lizzie in his arms, he bent down his face and kissed her cheek tenderly. A light like a gleam of sunshine fell suddenly upon the pale countenance of the child, while a faint but loving smile played about her lips. The father kissed her again, and then later upon a little bed that was always ready for her, and once more resumed his work. Clare's mind had been awakened from its usual linen quiet. The once of his failing child aroused into disturbed activity, thought beat for a while like a caged bird against the bars of necessity, and then fluttered back into panting imbecility. At last the boots were done, and with his thoughts now more occupied with the supply of tobacco he was obtained than with anything else. Clare started to take them home. As he walked along, he passed a fruit shop, and the thought of Lizzie came into his mind. If we could afford her some of these nice things, he said to himself, they would be food and medicine both to the dear child. But, he had it with a sigh, we are poor. We are poor. Such dainties are not for the children of poverty. He passed along until he came to the owl house, where he intended to get his penny worth of tobacco. For the first time, a thought of self-denial entered his mind as he stood by the door, with his hand in his pocket felling for a solitary copper. This would buy Lizzie an orange, he said to himself. But then, as quickly added, I would have no tobacco today or tomorrow, for I won't be paid for these boots before Saturday, when Barton gets his wages. Then came a long, hesitating pause. There was before the mind of Clare the image of a faint and feeble child with a refreshing orange to her lips. And there was also the image of himself and cheered for two long days by his pipe. But could he for a moment hesitate if he really loved that sick child, he was asked. Yes, he could hesitate, and yet loved a little sufferer. For to one of his order of mind and habits of acting and feeling, a self-indulgence like that of the pipe or a regular draught of beer becomes so much like second nature that it is as it were a part of the very life. And to give it up costs more than a light effort. The penny was between his fingers, and he took a single step for the outhouse door. But so vividly came back the image of little Lizzie that he stopped suddenly. The conflict, even though the spending of a single penny was concerned, now became severe. Love for the child pled earnestly. And as earnestly, pled the old habit that seemed as if it would take no denial. It was his last penny that was between the cobbler's fingers. Had there been two pennies in his pocket, all difficulty would have immediately vanished. I mean, thought of the orange, he would have bought it with one of them, and supplied his pipe with the other. But as affairs now stood, he must utterly deny himself, or else deny his child. For minutes, the question was debated. I will see as I come back, said Clarence, starting out his errand. And thus, for the time, making a sort of compromise. As he walked along, the argument still went on in his mind. The more his thoughts acted in this new channel, the more light came into the cobbler's mind, at all times rather dark and dull. Certain discriminations, never before thought of, were made, and certain convictions forced themselves upon him. What is a pipe of tobacco to a healthy man, compared with an orange to a sick child? A hundred and a half allowed. Marked at last the final conclusion of his mind. And as this was said, the penny which was still in his fingers was thrust eternally into his pocket. As he returned home, Clarence bought the orange, and in the act, experienced a new pleasure. By the kind of necessity he had worked on, daily, for his family, upon which was expended nearly all of his earnings. And the whole manner came so much as a thing of course, that it was no subject of conscious thought, and produced no emotion of delight or pain. But the giving up of his tobacco, for the sake of his little Lizzie, was an act of self-denial, entirely out of the ordinary course. And it brought with it, its own sweet reward. When Clare got back to his home, Lizzie was lying at the bottom of the stairs, waiting for his return. He lifted her, as usual, in his arms, and carried her up to his shop. After placing her upon the rude couch he had prepared for, he sat down upon his bench. And as he looked upon the white trunk and face of his dear child, and met the fixed, sad gaze over large earnest eyes, a more than usual tenderness came over his feelings. Then, without a word, he took the orange from his pocket, and gave it into her hand. Instantly, there came over Lizzie's face a deep flush of surprise and pleasure. A smile trembled around her wand lips, an unusual light glittered in her eyes. Eagerly, she placed the fruit to her mouth and drank its refreshing juice, while every part of her body seemed quivering with a sense of delight. Is it good, dear? That length, asked the father, sat looking on with a new feeling at his heart. The child did not answer in words, but words could not have expressed her sense of pleasure so elegantly as the smile that lit up and made beautiful every feature of her face. While the orange was yet at the lips of Lizzie, Mrs. Clare came up into the shop for some purpose. An orange, she exclaimed in surprise. Where did that come from? Oh, Mama, it is so good, said the child, taking from her lips the portion that yet remained and looking at it with a happy face. Where in the world did that come from, Thomas? That's the mother. I bought it with my last penny, replied Clare. I thought it would taste good to her, but you had no tobacco. I'll do without that until tomorrow, replied Clare. It was kind in you to deny yourself for Lizzie's sake. This was said in an approving voice and added another pleasurable emotion to those he was already feeling. The mother sat down and, for a few moments, enjoyed the sight of her sick child as with unabated eagerness, she continued to extract the refreshing juice from the fruit. And she went downstairs and resumed her household duties. Her heart beat more lightly in her bosom than it had beaten for a long time. Not once through that whole day did Thomas Clare feel the want of his pipe, for the thought of the orange kept his mind in so pleased a state that a mere sensual desire like that for a whiff of tobacco had no power over him. Thinking of the orange, of course, brought other thoughts. And before the day closed, Clare had made a calculation of how much his beer and tobacco money would amount to in a year. The sum astonished him. He paid rent for the little house in which he lived, two pounds sterling a year, which he always thought a large sum. But his beer and tobacco cost nearly seven pounds. He went over and over the calculation a dozen times in doubt of the first estimate, but it always came out the same. Then he began to go over in his mind the many comforts seven pounds per annum would give to his family, particularly how many little luxuries might be procured for Lizzie, whose delicate appetite turned from the coarse food that was daily sent before her. But to give up the beer and tobacco in total, when it was thought her seriously, appeared impossible. How could he live without them? On that evening, a customer whose boots he had taken home in the morning called in unexpectedly and paid for them. Clare retained a six pence of the money and gave the balance to his wife. With this six pence in his pocket, he went out for a mug of beer and some tobacco to replenish his pipe. He stayed some time longer than he usually took for such an errand. When he came back, he had three oranges in his pocket and in his hands were two fresh buns and a cup of sweet new milk. No beer had passed his lips and his pipe was yet unsupplied. He had passed through another long conflict with his old appetites, but love for his child came off as before a conqueror. Lizzie, who drooped about all day, lying down most of her time, never went to sleep early. She was awake as usual when her father returned, was scarcely less eagerness than she had eaten the orange in the morning. Did she now drink the nourishing milk and eat the sweet buns while her father sat looking at her, his heart throbbing with an expressible delight. From that day, the pipe and the mug were thrown aside. It cost a prolonged struggle, but the man conquered the mere animal. And Clare found himself no worse off in health. He could work as many hours and with as little fatigue. In fact, he found himself brighter in the morning, ready to go to his work earlier, by which he was able to increase, at least a shilling or two, his weekly income. Added to the comfort of his family, eight or 10 pounds a year produced a great change, but the greatest change was in little Lizzie. For a few weeks, every penny saved from the beer and tobacco the father regularly expended for his sick child, and it soon became apparent that it was nourishing food more than medicine that Lizzie needed. She revived wonderfully, and no long time passed before she could sit up for hours. Her little tongue, too, became free once more, and many an hour of labor to her voice again beguile. And the blessing of better food came also in time to the other children and to all. So much to come from the right spending of a single penny, Clare said to himself, as he sat and reflected one day, who could have believed it? And as it was with the poor cobbler, so it will be with all of us. There are little matters of self-denial, which, if we had but the true benevolence, justice, and resolution to practice, would be the beginning of more important acts of a like nature that, when performed, would bless not only our families but others, and be returned upon us in a reward of delight and comparably beyond anything that selfish and sensual indulgences have it in their power to bring. End of The Last Penny by T.S. Arthur. The Law of Life by Jack London. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Reading by Greg Marguerite. The Law of Life by Jack London. Old Cascouche listened greedily. Though his sight had long since faded, his hearing was still acute, and the slightest sound penetrated to the glimmering intelligence which yet abode behind the withered forehead, but which no longer gazed forth upon the things of the world. Ah, that was Siddhamtuha, shrilly and ephemitizing the dogs as she cuffed and beat them into the harness. Siddhamtuha was his daughter's daughter, but she was too busy to waste a thought upon her broken grandfather, sitting alone there in the snow, forlorn and helpless. Camp must be broken. The long trail waited while the short day refused to linger. Life called her and the duties of life, not death, and he was very close to death now. The thought made the old man panicky for the moment, and he stretched forth a palsied hand which wandered tremblingly over the small heap of dry wood beside him. Reassured that it was indeed there, his hand returned to the shelter of his mangy furs, and he again felt a listening. The sulky crackling of half-frozen hides told him that the chief's moose skin lodge had been struck, and even then was being rammed and jammed into portable compass. The chief was his son, Stalwart and strong, headman of the tribesmen, and a mighty hunter. As the women toiled with the camp luggage, his voice rose, shiding them for their slowness. Old Cascou strained his ears. It was the last time he would hear that voice. There went Gihau's lodge, and Tuskens, seven, eight, nine, only the shamans could be still standing. There, they were at work upon it now. He could hear the shaman grunt as he piled it on the sled. The child whimpered, and a woman soothed it with soft, crooning gutterls. Little Cootie the old man thought, a fretful child and not over-strong. It would die soon, perhaps, and they would burn a hole through the frozen tundra and pile rocks above it to keep the wolverines away. Well, what did it matter? A few years at best, and as many an empty belly as a full one, and in the end, death waited, ever hungry, and hungriest of them all. What was that? Oh, the men lashing the sleds and drawing tight the thongs. He listened who would listen no more. The whiplashes snarled and bit among the dogs. Hear them whine. How they hated the work and the trail. They were off. Sled after sled churned slowly away into the silence. They were gone. They had passed out of his life, and he faced the last bitter hour alone. No. The snow crunched beneath a moccasin. A man stood beside him. And his head, a hand, rested gently. His son was good to do this thing. He remembered other old men whose sons had not waited after the tribe. But his son had. He wandered away into the past till the young man's voice brought him back. It is well with you, he asked, and the old man answered, It is well. There is wood beside you, the younger man continued, and the fire burns bright. The morning is gray and the cold has broken. It will snow presently. And now it is snowing. I, even now it is snowing. The tribesmen hurry. Their bales are heavy, and their bellies flat with lack of feasting. The trail is long, and they travel fast. I go now. It is well. It is well. I am as a last year's leaf clinging lightly to the stem. The first breath that blows, and I fall. My voices become like an old woman's. My eyes no longer show me the way of my feet, and my feet are heavy. And I am tired. It is well. He bowed his head in content till the last noise of the complaining snow had died away, and he knew his son was beyond recall. Then his hand crept out in haste to the wood. It stood alone between him and the eternity that yawned in upon him. At last the measure of his life was a handful of faggots. One by one they would go to feed the fire, and just so, step by step, death would creep upon him. When the last stick had surrendered up its heat, the frost would begin to gather strength. First his feet would yield, then his hands, and the numbness would travel slowly from the extremities to the body. His head would fall forward upon his knees, and he would rest. It was easy. All men must die. He did not complain. It was the way of life, and it was just. He had been born close to the earth. Close to the earth had he lived. And the law thereof was not new to him. It was the law of all flesh. Nature was not kindly to the flesh. She had no concern for that concrete thing called the individual. Her interest lay in the species, the race. This was the deepest abstraction old Kaskoosh's barbaric mind was capable of, but he grasped it firmly. He saw it exemplified in all life—the rise of the sap, the bursting greenness of the willow bud, the fall of the yellow leaf. And this alone was told the whole history. But one task did nature set the individual. Did he not perform it? He died. Did he perform it? It was all the same. He died. Nature did not care. There were plenty who were obedient, and it was only the obedience in this matter, not the obedient, which lived and lived always. The tribe of Kaskoosh was very old. The old men he had known when a boy had known old men before them. Therefore it was true that the tribe lived, that it stood for the obedience of all its members, way down into the forgotten past, whose very resting places were unremembered. They did not count. They were episodes. They had passed away like clouds from a summer sky. He also was an episode, and would pass away. Nature did not care. Through life she set one task, gave one law. To perpetuate was the task of life. Its law was death. A maiden was a good creature to look upon, full-breasted and strong, with spring to her step and light in her eyes. But her task was yet before her. The light in her eyes brightened, her step quickened. She was now bold with young men, now timid, and she gave them of her own unrest. And ever she grew fairer, and yet fairer to look upon, till some hunter able to no longer withhold himself took her to his lodge to cook and toil for him and to become the mother of his children. And with the coming of her offspring, her looks left her. Her limbs dragged and shuffled, her eyes dimmed and bleared, and only the little children found joy against the withered cheek of the old squaw by the fire. Her task was done. Not a little while on the first pinch of famine or the first long trail, and she would be left, even as he had been left, in the snow, with a little pile of wood. Such was the law. He placed a stick carefully upon the fire and resumed his meditations. It was the same everywhere, with all things. The mosquitoes vanished with the first frost. The little tree squirrel crawled away to die. When age settled upon the rabbit it became slow and heavy and could no longer outfoot its enemies. Even the big bald face grew clumsy and blind and quarrelsome, in the end to be dragged down by a handful of yelping huskies. He remembered how he had abandoned his own father on an upper reach of the Klondike one winter. The winter before the missionary came with his talk books and his box of medicines. Many a time had Kaskoosh smacked his lips over the recollection of that box, though now his mouth refused to moisten. The painkiller had been especially good, but the missionary was a bother, after all, for he brought no meat into the camp and he ate heartily, and the hunters grumbled. But he chilled his lungs on the divide by the mayo, and the dogs afterward nosed the stones away and fought over his bones. Kaskoosh placed another stick on the fire and harked back deeper into the past. There was the time of the great famine when the old men crowned empty belly to the fire and let fall from their lips dim traditions of the ancient day, when the Yukon ran wide open for three winters and then lay frozen for three summers. He had lost his mother in that famine. In the summer the salmon run had failed and the tribe looked forward to the winter and the coming of the caribou. Then the winter came, but with it there were no caribou. Never had the like been known, not even in the lives of the old men. But the caribou did not come, and it was the seventh year, and the rabbits had not replenished, and the dogs were not but bundles of bones. And through the long darkness the children wailed and died and the women and the old men, and not one in ten of the tribe lived to meet the son when it came back in the spring. That was a famine. But he had seen times of plenty, too, when the meat spoiled on their hands, and the dogs were fat and worthless with overeating. Sometimes when they let the game go unkilled and the women were fertile and the lodges were cluttered with sprawling men-children and women-children. Then it was the men became high stomached and revived ancient quarrels, and crossed the divides to the south to kill the pellies, and to the west that they might sit by the dead fires of the Tananis. He remembered when, as a boy, during a time of plenty, when he saw a moose pulled down by wolves, zinghalay with him in the snow and watched, zinghalay, who later became the craftiest of hunters and who, in the end, fell through an air-hole in the Yukon. They found him a month afterward, just as he had crawled half-way out and frozen stiff to the ice. But the moose, zinghalay, and he had gone out that day to play at hunting, after the manner of their fathers. On the bed of the creek they struck the fresh track of a moose and with it the tracks of many wolves. An old one, zinghalay, who was quicker at reading the sign said, An old one who cannot keep up with the herd. The wolves have cut him out from his brothers and they will never leave him. And it was so. It was their way. By day and by night never resting snarling on his heels snapping at his nose they would stay by him to the end. How zinghalay and he felt the bloodlust quicken. The finish would be a sight to see. After footed they took the trail and even he, Kaskoosh slow of sight and an unversed tracker could have followed it blind. It was so wide. Hot were they on the heels of the chase, reading the grim tragedy fresh written at every step. Now they came to where the moose had made a stand. Thrice the length of a grown man's body in every direction had the snow been stamped about and up-tossed. In the midst were the deep impressions of the splay-hoofed game and all about everywhere were the lighter foot-marks of the wolves. Some while their brothers harried the kill had lain to one side and rested. The full stretched impress of their bodies in the snow was as perfect as though made moments before. One wolf had been caught in a wild lunge of the maddened victim and trampled to death. A few bones well picked, poor witness. Again they ceased the uplift of their snowshoes at a second stand. Here the great animal had fought desperately. Twice had he been dragged down as the snow attested, and twice had he shaken his assailants clear and gained footing once more. He had done his task long since, but nonetheless was life dear to him. Zing Ha said it was a strange thing, a moose once down to get free again. But this one certainly had. The shaman would see signs and wonders in this when they told him. And yet again they come to where the moose had made to mount the bank and gain the timber. But his foes had laid on him from behind till he reared and fell back upon them, crushing too deep into the snow. It was plain the kill was at hand for their brothers had left them untouched. Two moor stands were hurried past, brief in time length and very close together. The trail was red now, and the clean stride of the great beast had grown short and slovenly. Then they heard the first sounds of the battle. Not the full-throated chorus of the chase, but the short snappy bark which spoke of close quarters and teeth to flesh. Crawling up the wind, Zing Ha bellied it through the snow, and with him crept he, Kaskush, who was to be chief of the tribesmen in the years to come. Together they shoved aside the underbranches of a young spruce and peered forth. It was the end they saw. The picture, like all of youth's impressions, was still strong with him, and his dim eyes watched the end play out as vividly as in that far-off time. Kaskush marveled at this, for in the days which followed, when he was a leader of men and a head of counselors, he had done great deeds and made his name a curse in the mouths of the pellies to say not of the strange white man he had killed knife to knife in open fight. For long he pondered on the days of his youth till the fire died down in the frost bit deeper. He replenished it with two sticks this time and gauged his grip on life by what remained. If Sitcom to Ha had only remembered her grandfather and gathered a larger armful his hours would have been longer. It would have been easy, but she was ever a careless child and honored not her ancestors from the time the beaver, son of the son of Zing Ha, first cast eyes upon her. Well, what mattered it? Had he not done likewise in his own quick youth? For a while he listened to the silence. Perhaps the heart of his son might soften, and he would come back with the dogs to take his old father on with the tribe to where the caribou ran thick and the fat hung heavy upon them. He strained his ears, his restless brain for the moment stilled. Not a stir. Nothing. He alone took breath in the midst of the great silence. It was very lonely. Hark! What was that? A chill passed over his body. The familiar long-drawn howl broke the void and it was close at hand. Then on his darkened eyes was projected the vision of the moose. Riddled bull moose, the torn flanks and bloody sides, the riddled mane and the great branching horns down low and tossing to the last. He saw the flashing forms of gray, the gleaming eyes, the lolling tongues, the slavered fangs, and he saw the inexorable circle close in till it became a dark point in the midst of the stamped snow. A cold muzzle thrust against his cheek and at its touch his soul leaped back to the present. His hand shot into the fire and dragged out a burning faggot. Overcome for the nonsense by his hereditary fear of man, the brute retreated, raising a prolonged call to his brothers, and greedily they answered, till a ring of crouching, jaw-slobbering gray was stretched round about. The old man listened to the drawing in of this circle. He waved his brand wildly and sniffs turned to snarls, but the panting brutes refused to scatter. Now one wormed his chest forward, dragging his haunch after, now a second, now a third. Never a one drew back. Why should he cling to life, he asked, and drop the blazing stick into the snow? It sizzled and went out. The circle grunted uneasily, but held its own. Again he saw the last stand of the old bull moose, and Cascous dropped his heavy, weary head upon his knees. What did it matter, after all? Was it not the law of life? End of The Law of Life by Jack London The Man in the Brown Coat by Sherwood Anderson Napoleon went down into a battle riding on a horse. Alexander went down into a battle riding on a horse. General Grant got off a horse and walked in a wood. General Hindenburg stood on a hill. The moon came up out of a clump of bushes. I am writing a history of the things men do. I have written three such histories, and I am but a young man. Already I have written three hundred, four hundred thousand words. My wife is somewhere in the house, where for hours now I have been sitting and riding. She is a tall woman with black hair, turning a little gray. Listen, she is going softly up a flight of stairs. All day she goes softly about, doing the housework in our house. I came here to this town from another town in the state of Iowa. My father was a workman, a house painter. He did not rise in the world as I have done. I worked my way through college and became an historian. We own this house in which I sit. This is my room in which I work. Already I have written three histories of peoples. I have told how states were formed and battles fought. You may see my books standing straight up on the shelves of libraries. They stand up like centuries. I am tall like my wife, and my shoulders are a little stooped. Although I write boldly, I am a shy man. I like being at work alone in this room with the door closed. There are many books here. Nations march back and forth in the books. It is quiet here, but in the books a great thundering goes on. Napoleon rides down a hill and into a battle. General Grant walks in the wood. Alexander rides down a hill and into a battle. My wife has a serious, almost stern look. Sometimes the thoughts I have concerning her frighten me. In the afternoon she leaves our house and goes for a walk. Sometimes she goes to stores, sometimes to visit a neighbor. There is a yellow house opposite our house. My wife goes out a side door and passes along the street between our house and the yellow house. The side door of our house bangs. There is a moment of waiting. My wife's face floats across the yellow background of a picture. General Pershing rode down a hill and into a battle. Alexander rode down a hill and into a battle. Little things are growing big in my mind. The window before my desk makes a little frame placed like a picture. Every day I sit staring. I wait with an odd sensation of something impending. My hand trembles. The face that floats through the picture does something I don't understand. The face floats, then it stops. It goes from the right hand side to the left hand side, then it stops. The face comes into my mind and goes out. The face floats in my mind. The pen has fallen from my fingers. The house is silent. The eyes of the floating face are turned away from me. My wife is a girl who came here to this town from another town in the state of Ohio. We keep a servant, but my wife often sweeps the floors, and she sometimes makes the bed in which we sleep together. We sit together in the evening, but I do not know her. I cannot shake myself out of myself. I wear a brown coat, and I cannot come out of my coat. I cannot come out of myself. My wife is very gentle, and she speaks softly, but she cannot come out of herself. My wife has gone out of the house. She does not know that I know every little thought of her life. I know what she thought when she was a child, and walked in the streets of an Ohio town. I have heard the voices of her mind. I have heard the little voices. I heard the voice of fear crying when she was first overtaken with passion and crawled into my arms. Again I heard the voices of fear when her lips said words of courage to me as we sat together on the first evening after we were married and moved into this house. It would be strange if I could sit here, as I am doing now, while my own face floated across the picture made by the yellow house and the window. It would be strange and beautiful if I could meet my wife, come into her presence. The woman whose face floated across my picture just now knows nothing of me. I know nothing of her. She has gone off along a street. The voices of her mind are talking. I am here in this room, as alone as ever any man God made. It would be strange and beautiful if I could float my face across my picture. If my floating face could come into her presence, if it could come into the presence of any man or any woman, that would be a strange and beautiful thing to have happen. Napoleon went down into a battle riding on a horse. I'll tell you what, sometimes the whole life of this world floats in a human face in my mind. The unconscious face of the world stops and stands still before me. Why do I not say a word out of myself to the others? Why, in all our life together, have I never been able to break through the world? Why do I not say a word out of myself to the others? Why, in all our life together, have I never been able to break through the world? Why, in all our life together, have I never been able to break through the world? Why, in all our life together, have I never been able to break through the world? Why, in all our life together, have I never been able to break through the world? Why, in all our life together, have I never been able to break through the world? Why, in all our life together, have I never been able to break through the world? Why, in all our life together, have I never been able to break through the world? Why, in all our life together, have I never been able to break through the world? Why, in all our life together, have I never been able to break through the world? W. Somerset Mom read by Bologna Times. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Marriages Are Made in Heaven by W. Somerset Mom. Characters Jack Rainer, Mrs. Vivian, Lottie, Herbert Payton, A Maid Serpent, Seen, A Drawing Room in Mrs. Vivian's House. Jack and Mrs. Vivian are having tea. Lottie is a rather elaborately dressed woman of eight and twenty, handsome and self-possessed, which suggests that she has consorted with men rather than with women. Jack Rainer is thirty-two. There is about him a certain weariness as if he had lived hard and found life difficult. His face is sunburnt, somewhat lined and worn. I say, Lottie, has it occurred to you that this is our last day of single blessedness? Of course it has. I've been thinking of nothing else for a week. Are you glad? I think I'm anxious. I want to have it over safely. I'm so afraid that something will happen. Ha! Ha! What nonsense! The fates can't help being friendly at last. I've gone through so much. I've lost all confidence in my luck. And you're solemnly going to swear that you will love, honor, and obey me. By Jove, I'm a nice object to honor. I think I can, Jack, and love and obey you, too. That's very good of you, old girl. I doubt whether either of us has many illusions, but we'll do our best. A breath of country air, and they'll all come back again. I hope to goodness they don't. Illusions are like umbrellas. You know sooner get them than you lose them. And the loss always leaves a little painful wound. But don't let us be sentimental. How shall we celebrate the last of our liberty? Do you want to do anything? You're so energetic. Shall we dine out and go to the empire, and then on to the Covent Garden? Oh no, I couldn't stand it. I'm sick of the empire, sick to death. I want never to go to a music hall again. I want to live in the country, and bathe my hands in the long grass, and gather buttercups and daisies, as it was in the beginning. Oh, I shall be so glad to get back to it after these sultry years in London. I often think of myself in a large sunbonnet, milking the cows as I did when I was a girl. But cows are milked by machinery now, aren't they? And it's sure to rain when you want to put on your sunbonnet. Oh, Jack, dear, don't be cynical or bitter. Let us try to be simple. We won't say smart things to one another, but just daughter along stupidly and peacefully. When I was in Africa, and the sun beat down pitilessly, I used to think of the green lanes and the silver mists of England. But don't you think you'll be awfully bored? Jack, have you no faith in me? Going to her and taking her hands. I've got more faith in you than any one else in this blessed world, but I'm afraid I haven't much in anybody. Oh, Lottie, you must teach me to have faith, faith in my fellows. I want to teach you to have faith in yourself. I'm afraid it's too late for that. But for goodness sake, don't let us sentimentalize. It hurts too much. He walks away, and then, regaining his composure, turns round. Did I tell you that I've asked Herbert Payton to tea, so that I might introduce him to you? It's odd that I should never have met him. Did you know him before you went to the Cape? Yes, rather. We were at school together. I'm sure you'll like him. He's the very worthiest chap I know. That sounds a little dull. Oh, but we're going to cultivate respectability ourselves. Servant enters and announces, Mr. Payton. Herbert comes in. He is a grave, youngish man, soberly dressed, a little heavy, and without any great sense of humor. Jack, going towards him, we were just talking of you. Allow me to introduce you, Mr. Payton, Mrs. Vivian. Herbert bows, and Lottie smiles cordially, holding out her hand. He hesitates a moment, and then takes it. Lottie, shaking hands. It's so good of you to come. I was most anxious to make your acquaintance. Herbert gravely. It was very kind of you to ask me. I want you to be great friends. I always insist that the people I like shall like one another. Lottie, pouring it out. You'll have some tea, won't you? Thanks. She gives him a cup. Jack has told me a great deal about you. I hope nothing to my discredit. On the contrary, he's so full of your praise that I'm almost jealous. You know, Lottie, I've asked Herbert to be best man. And has he accepted? Certainly, he accepted straight off, before even he knew your name. You're a very confiding man, Mr. Payton. I might have been dreadfully disreputable. And have you finally decided to be married tomorrow? Your preparations have been very rapid. There were none to make. Everything is going to be quite private, you know. There'll only be one person beside yourself. And aren't you even going to have a bridesmaid, Mrs. Vivian? Lottie, looking at him quickly. No, I believe it's not usual. The servant comes in, and brings a letter to Jack. The man's right in front, and says, Jack, opening the letter. Oh, I'll just go and write a line, Lottie. I'll be back in two minutes. The servant goes out. Very well. Mr. Payton and I will say unkind things of you while you're gone. So don't be long. All right. He goes out, Lottie, making room on the sofa upon which she is sitting. Now come and sit by me, and we'll talk, Mr. Payton. It was so good of you to come and see me. Herbert, sitting not beside her, but on a chair near the sofa. I was most anxious to make your acquaintance. One always is curious to see what the people are like, whom one's friends are going to marry. It was not the reason that I wished to see you. Oh, I'm glad Jack has left us alone. I wanted to have a little talk with you. I'm sure I shall be delighted. You know, Jack is my best and oldest friend. Yes, he told me so. That's why I want you to like me too. We were at school together, and afterwards at the varsity, and then we shared dickings in London. He pauses for a moment, Lottie, smiling. Well, I tell you this all in justification of myself. How very mysterious you are. Jack didn't mention that in the catalogue of your virtues. Herbert gets up and walks up and down. You can't imagine how delighted I was when Jack told me he was going to be married. He's had rather a rough time of late, and I thought it was the best thing possible that he should settle down. I asked him what on earth he was going to marry on, and he said you had 1200 a year. Lottie, with a laugh. Ah, fortunately, because poor Jack lets money slip through his fingers like water, and I'm sure he'll never be able to earn a cent. And I asked him who you were. What did he tell you? Nothing. He seemed astonishingly ignorant about you. He knew your name, and that's nearly all. He's a wise man who asks no questions. Perhaps, but I did. I made inquiries. Do you think that was very nice of you? How did you do it? Did you employ a private detective? Unfortunately, there was no need for that. The information I sought was all over London. Jack must be the only person in town who has not heard it. I always look upon myself as safe from the scandal-mongers. You see, they can never say anything about me half so bad as the truth. Herbert, looking at her steadily. I found out, Mrs. Vivian, how you obtain the money upon which you and Jack are proposing to live. You must be quite as Sherlock Holmes. How clever you are! I want you to pardon me for what I am going to do, Mrs. Vivian. Pray don't apologize. I know it's a beastly thing. It makes me feel an utter cad, but I must do it for Jack's sake. It's my duty to him. Doubtless it's very praiseworthy to do one's duty. I notice people are always inclined to do it when they will inflict pain upon others. For God's sake, don't snare Mrs. Vivian. You do a shameful thing, and you expect me to pat you on the back? I don't want to hurt you. I haven't the least animosity towards you. That's why I came here today. But I really don't understand you. I should have thought it plain enough. Isn't it clear that Jack can't marry you? God, how gracious me! Why not? Do you wish me to tell you to your face what I learned about you? In the course of your discreditable inquiries? Well, what is it? I wish to spare you this. Oh, no! I'm sure you wish to spare me nothing. Far be it from the virtuous to refrain from trampling on the wicked. If you insist, then. I know that this money was settled on you by Lord Feverham when he married. Well, do you deny it? Why should I, when you probably have proof that it is true? I also know that Lord Feverham had good reason to do this. Oh, you hate me, and thank me a cad and a brute. But what can I do? If you know what agony it has caused me. I believe Jack loves you, and I dare say you love him. For all I know he may hate me for what I'm doing now. I wish with all my heart there was some other way out of it. Do you wish me to sympathize with you? Oh, you're stone cold. I only come to you because I want to be your friend. And even if you'd married Jack, he must have found out sooner or later, and then it would have been a thousand times worse. What do you want me to do? Break off the marriage of your own accord. Don't let him know the reason. Let us try to save him from the humiliation and the pain. Write to him and say you don't love him enough. It's so easy. But I haven't the faintest wish to break off my marriage with Jack. It's not a matter of wish. It's a matter of necessity. The marriage is utterly impossible for his sake. For the sake of his people. It means absolute social ruin to him. What you say to me sounds excessively impertinent, Mr. Peyton. I'm sorry. I have no wish to be so. And you want me to go to Jack and say I won't marry him? It's the only thing you can do. Otherwise he must find out. It's the only thing you can do if you want to save your honor in his estimation. I should be as it were defeated, but not disgraced. It's for your own sake. Then let me tell you that I haven't the least intention of giving Jack up. But you must. Why? He can't marry you. It would dishonor him. How dare you say such things to me? You come to my house and I try to be friends with you and you insult me. You dishonor yourself. I came here to give you a chance of retiring from the engagement without the real reasons being known. What business is it of yours? Why do you come here and interfere with us? Do you think we're fools and simpletons? Why? Why don't you leave us alone? Who are you that you should preach and moralize? You're ridiculous. You're simply absurd. I've tried to do my best for you, Mrs. Vivian. You've behaved like a perfect gentleman. You can say or think of me what you choose, Mrs. Vivian. I've shielded you as much as I could. But my business is to stop this marriage. And by God I mean to do it. You don't think of me. It can make no difference to you. Lottie, about to break out passionately, but with an effort restraining herself. Oh, what a fool I am to let myself be disturbed by what you say. It's all nonsense. And how, pray, are you going to prevent me from marrying Jack? I have only one way left, and you've driven me to it. I shall tell him everything I know. Very well. You shall tell him now, immediately. She touches the bell, and the servant comes in. Ask Mr. Rainer to come here. Yes, and the servant goes out. Lottie smiling scornfully. I warn you that you're going to make an absolute fool of yourself, Mr. Payton. Herbert bows. But perhaps that experience will not be entirely new. Jack comes in. What a time you've been, Jack. If it weren't for the high character that Mr. Payton has been giving you, I should fear that you had been writing love letters. Mr. Payton wishes to speak to you on matters of importance. That sounds rather formidable. What does he want to talk about? About me. That is indeed a matter of importance. Shall I leave you alone? Mr. Payton would rather say ill-natured things of me behind my back. On the contrary, I should like you to stay, Mrs. Vivien. I am quite willing to say before your face all I have to say. Lottie, sitting down. Very well. To me it's a matter of perfect indifference. Good heavens, you've not been quarreling already. No, of course not. Go on, Mr. Payton. I was rather surprised to hear of your engagement, Jack. To tell you the truth, I was rather surprised myself. The thing was a bit sudden. The idea had never entered Jack's head till I indelicately proposed it to him. But I accepted with great alacrity. Have you known one another long? Ages. And who was Mr. Vivien? My dear Herbert, what are you talking about? Answer his question, Jack. It's better. But I can't. I haven't the least idea who the lamented Mr. Vivien was. Have you never spoken to your fiancee on the subject? Well, you know, in such a case as this, one doesn't very much care to talk about one's predecessor. I believe he was a merchant. Lottie, smiling quietly. Something in the city. Of course. How stupid of me to forget. I remember now quite well. And on his death he left his widow of fortune. Twelve hundred a year. You must consider yourself a very lucky chap. I do, I can tell you. I wonder if you would have married Mrs. Vivien if she had been penniless. If I had been, I should never have felt justified in asking him. What on earth are you trying to get at, Herbert? He wants to know whether we are passionately in love with one another. I don't think we are, Mr. Payton. We've both gone through a good deal and we're rather tired of love. It makes one too unhappy. The man a woman loves seems always to treat her badly. We're content to be very good friends. That makes it easier for me. What the devil do you mean? Do you know how Mrs. Vivien got this money? Jack looks at Herbert without speaking. Payton leans towards him earnestly. Are you quite sure there has ever been a Mr. Vivien? Look here, Herbert. I can hear nothing to Mrs. Vivien's discredit. You must. It affects your honor. I don't care. I don't want to know anything. Let him go on, Jack. It was bound to come out sooner or later. I feel awfully sorry for you, old man. I know what a horrible shock and grief it must be to you. When you told me you were going to marry Mrs. Vivien, I asked people who she was. I found out things which made me inquire more particularly. Why the devil didn't you mind her own business? It was for your sake, Jack. I couldn't let you be entrapped in a scandalous marriage. Go on, Mr. Payton. Mrs. Vivien has never been married. The name is assumed. Oh, God, I don't know how to tell you. Mrs. Vivien, please leave us. I can't stand it. I can't say these things before you. And I must say them. It will be better for all of us if you leave us alone. Oh, no. You asked me to stay when I offered to go. Now I want to hear all you've got to say. She's the daughter of a vet, Jack. She got mixed up with a man at Oxford and then came to town. Four years ago she made the acquaintance of Lord Feveram. And when he got married he settled on her the sum of 1200 a year. A pause. Jack has now become calm again and looks stonely at Herbert. Well, what's the matter, Jack? You don't seem to understand. Haven't you made it clear, damn you? How can I fail to understand? Why do you look at me like that? You've told me nothing which I did not know before. Jack, you're mad! Khan found you. Don't you hear me tell you that you've said nothing which I did not know before? You mean to say you knew what the woman was whom you were going to marry? I knew everything. Good God, Jack. You can't marry another man's cast-off. I'd rather you didn't call her ugly names, Herbert, because you know she's gonna be my wife. But why? Why, man? Oh, it's infamous. You say you're not passionately in love with her. What shall I say to him, Lottie? Lottie shrugs her shoulders. Well, if you want the least credit ball a part of the whole business. He doubtless does. Remember that for a penniless chap like me she's a rich woman. Oh, but you're selling herself as she sold herself. Oh, how can you? Why, man, you're going to live on the very price of her shame. One must live. Oh, Jack, what has come over you? Have you no honour? It's bad enough to marry the woman. Do that if you love her, but don't take the damn money. I never dreamt you could do such a thing. All the time I was thinking that this woman had inveigled you. And my heart bled to think of the pain you must suffer when you knew the truth. I'm very sorry. Why didn't you tell me? One doesn't care about making such things more public than necessary. No, Jack, going up to Lottie. Why do you listen to all this, dearest? Oh, I've had hard things said to me for years. I can bear it, and I don't want to run away. You're very brave, my dear. Turning to Herbert. If you'll sit down quietly and not make a beastly fuss, I'll try and explain to you how it all came about. I don't want you to think too badly of me. Oh, don't, Jack, it will only pain you. What does it matter what he thinks? I should like to say it once and for all, and then I can forget it. Tomorrow we bury the past forever and begin a new life. Herbert sitting down well. You know, when I was a boy, I thought myself prodigiously clever. At Oxford, I was a shining light. And when I came to town, I was eager for honor and glory. It took me five long years to discover I was a fool. Oh, what anguish of heart it was. When the facts stared me in the face that I was a failure. A miserable, hopeless failure. I had thought myself so much cleverer than the common run of men. I had looked down on them from the height of my superiority, and now I was obliged to climb down and confess that I was less than the most vulgar money grubber of them all. Ah, what a lucky chap you are, Herbert. You were never under the delusion that you had genius. You were so deliberately normal. You always did the right thing, and the thing that was expected of you. And now, you see, I'm a poor, broken-down scamp. Well, you are a pillar of society, and you play golf and go to church regularly. You do play golf and go to church. Yes, I knew it. And you're engaged to a model, upright English girl with fair hair and blue eyes. The daughter of a clergyman. The daughter of a doctor. Same thing. The species is just the same. And she's strong and healthy and plays tennis and rides a bike and has muscles like a prize fighter. Oh, I know it. Then you'll get married and help to overpopulate the island. You'll rear children upright and healthy and strong and honest like yourselves. And when you die, they'll put on your tombstone. Here lies an honorable man. Thank your stars that you were never cursed with ideals, but were content to work hard and be respectable. Oh, it's a long, hard fall when one tumbles back to earth, trying to climb to heaven. And the result of it all is that you have an income and honor. While I, as you remarked, I didn't mean to be rough on you in what I said just now, Jack. No, I know you didn't old chap, but nothing very much affects me now. When one has to stand one's own contempt, it is easy enough to put up with other peoples. Oh, if you knew how awful these years were, when I tried and tried and couldn't do no good, at last I despaired and went to the Cape. But I muddled away my money there as I had muddled everything in England, and then I had to work and earn my bread as best I could. Sometimes I couldn't, and I starved. Why didn't you write? I should have been so glad to help you, Jack. I couldn't accept money from you. One needs to have pawned one shirt for bread, before one can lend money like a gentleman. Lottie found out I was in distress and sent me twenty pounds. He never used it, Mr. Payton. He kept it for two months so as not to hurt my feelings, and then returned it with a fuse of thanks. I noticed they were the same four notes as I had sent out. Well, I managed to get on somehow. I tried farming. I went to the mines. I was a bartender. Imagine the shining light of Oxford debating society's mixing drinks in his shirt sleeves and a white apron. A merciful providence had destined me to be one of life's failures. It sounds awful. I never knew. Of course you never knew. People like you don't. You, with your income and your respectability, what do you know that struggles in the agony of those who go under? You can't judge. You don't know how many temptations we resist for the one we fall to. After all, it wasn't so bad when one got used to it. And I had the edifying spectacle of my fellows. Armymen, shady people from the city, any amount of parson's sons, varsity men by the score, and now and again a noble lord. Oh, we were a select body. I can tell you the failures and the black guards and the outcasts. Most of them take to drink, and that's the best thing they can do. For then, they don't mind. Thank God you escaped that. By no fault of mine, old chap, I should have been only too glad to drink myself to death. Only spirits make me so beastly ill that I have to keep sober. Anyhow, now I'm back in England again, and three or four weeks ago I met Lottie at a nightclub, Mr. Pate. Well, we'd been pals in the old days, and she asked me to go and see her. We soon were as great friends as ever. She told me all about herself, and I told her about myself. It was an edifying story on both sides. She spoke of the settlement, and one day suggested that I should marry her. And you agreed? Oh, I was tired of this miserable existence of mine. I was sick to death of being always alone. I wanted someone to care for me, someone to belong to me, and stand by me. And it's so awful to be poor, perpetually to have starvation staring you in the face, not to have the smallest comfort or anything that makes life pleasant and beautiful. You, who've always been well off, don't know what a man can do to get money. I tell you, such abject poverty is maddening. I couldn't stand it any longer. I would have rather have killed myself. I'm tired of all this effort. I want to live in peace and quiet. And the price you pay is dishonour. Dishonour? I'm not such an honourable creature as all that. I've done mean enough things in my life. I wonder what I haven't done. I haven't stolen, but that's because I was afraid of being found out, and I never had the pluck to take my chance. How can you live together with the recollection of the past? Oh, damn the past! To Lottie. You know me for what I am, dear, and you know I have no cause to despise you. Lottie, with her hands on Jack's shoulder. We're both rather tired of the world, and we've both gone through a good deal. I think we shall be forbearing to one another. I wonder if you can possibly be happy. I hope I shall make Lottie as good a husband, as I think she will make me a good wife. Was I right, Mr. Peyton? When I prophesise you would make a fool of yourself? Perhaps. I don't know. Goodbye. Goodbye. He gives his hand to Jack and walks out. Jack turns to Lottie, and she puts her hands on his shoulders. I'm afraid you'll have to do without a best man, old chap. Respectability and virtue have turned their backs upon us. Oh, give them enough time, and they'll come around. They only want feeding. You can get a bishop to dine with you if you give good enough dinners. They're so hard, all these good people. Their moral sense isn't satisfied unless they see the sinner actually roasting in hell, as if hell were needful when every little sin so quickly brings upon this earth its bitter punishment. Let us forget it all. What does the world matter when we have ourselves? What did you tell Herbert we were only friends? We are so much more than that. Are we? Perhaps we are. But if love comes, let it come very slowly. Why? Because I want it to last forever. Jack puts his arms around her, and she rests her head against his shoulder. I will try to be a good husband to you, dearest. Oh, Jack. Jack, I want your love so badly. Curtain. End of marriages are made in heaven. Chapter 1 The Secret Revealed It was night. Stillness reigned in the grand old feudal castle of Klugenstein. The year 1222 was drawing to a close. Far away, up in the tallest of the castle's towers, a single light glimmered. A secret council was being held there. The stern old lord of Klugenstein sat in a chair of state meditating. Presently he said with a tender accent, My daughter. A young man of noble presence clad from head to heel in nightly mail answered. Speak, Father. My daughter, the time has come for the revealing of the mystery that hath puzzled all your young life. Know then that it had its birth in the matters which I shall now unfold. My brother Ulrich is the great duke of Brandenburg. Our father on his deathbed decreed that if no son were born to Ulrich the succession should pass to my house, provided a son were born to me. And further, in case no son were born to either but only daughters, then the succession should pass to Ulrich's daughter, if she proved stainless. If she did not, my daughter should succeed if she retained a blameless name. And so I and my old wife here prayed fervently for the good boon of a son. But the prayer was in vain. You were born to us. I was in despair. I saw the mighty prize slipping from my grasp, the splendid dream vanishing away. And I had been so hopeful. Five years had Ulrich lived in wedlock, and yet his wife had borne no heir of either sex. But hold, I said, all is not lost. A saving scheme had shot a thwart my brain. You were born at midnight. Only the leech, the nurse, and six waiting women knew your sex. I hanged them, every one of them, before an hour had sped. Next morning all the barony went mad with rejoicing over the proclamation that a son was born to Klugenstein, an heir to mighty Brandenburg. And while the secret has been kept, your mother's own sister nursed your infancy, and from that time forward we feared nothing. When you were ten years old a daughter was born to Ulrich. We grieved but hoped for good results from measles or physicians or other natural enemies of infancy. But we're always disappointed. She lived. She throve. Heaven's malice upon her. But it is nothing. We are safe. For, ha-ha, have we not a son, and is not our son the future duke? Our well-beloved Conrad, is it not so? For women of eight and twenty years, as you are my child, none other name than that hath ever fallen upon you. Now it hath come to pass that age hath laid its hand upon my brother, and he waxes feeble. The cares of state do tax him sore. Therefore he wills that you shall come to him, and be already duke, in act, though not yet in name. Your servitors are ready. You journey forth to-night. Now listen well. Remember every word I say. There is a law as old as Germany, that if any woman sit for a single instant in the great dukel chair before she hath been absolutely crowned in presence of the people. She shall die. So heed my words. Pretend humility. Pronounce your judgments from the Premier's chair which stands at the foot of the throne. Do this until you are crowned and safe. It is not likely that your sex will ever be discovered. But still it is the part of wisdom to make all things as safe as may be in this treacherous earthly life. Oh, my father! Is it for this that my life hath been a lie? Was it that I might cheat my unoffending cousin of her rights? Spare me, father. Spare your child. What hussy! In this my reward for the august fortune my brain has wrought for thee, by the bones of my father this pulling sentiment of thine but ill accords with my humor. Be take thee to the duke instantly, and beware how thou th'out'st medallist with my purpose. Let this suffice of the conversation. It is enough for us to know that the prayers, the entreaties, and the tears of the gentle-natured girl availed nothing. They, nor anything, could move the stout old lord of Gluggenstein. And so, at last, with a heavy heart, the daughter saw the castle gates closed behind her, and found herself riding away in the darkness, surrounded by a nightly array of armed vassals and a brave following of servants. The old baron sat silent for many minutes after his daughter's departure, and then he turned to his sad wife and said, Dane, our matters seem speeding fairly. It is full three months, since I sent the shrewd and handsome Count Dietzen on his devilish mission to my brother's daughter Constance. If he fail, we are not wholly safe. But if he do succeed, no power can bar our girl from being duchess, even though ill fortune should decree she never be duke. My heart is full of boatings, yet all may still be well. Tush, woman, leave the owls to croak, to bed with ye, and dream of Brandenburg and grandeur. Chapter 2 Festivity and Tears Six days after the occurrences related in the above chapter, the brilliant capital of the duchy of Brandenburg was resplendent with military pageantry and noisy with the rejoicings of loyal multitudes. For Conrad, the young heir to the crown was come. The old duke's heart was full of happiness, for Conrad's handsome person and graceful bearing had won his love at once. The great halls of Tye Palace were thronged with nobles who welcomed Conrad bravely, and so bright and happy did all things seem that he felt his fears and sorrows passing away and giving place to a comforting contentment. But in a remote apartment of the palace a scene of a different nature was transpiring. By a window stood the duke's only child, the Lady Constance. Her eyes were red and swollen and full of tears. She was alone. Presently she fell to weeping anew and said aloud, The villain Deetson is gone, has fled the duke-dom. I could not believe it at first, but alas it is too true. And I loved him so. I dared to love him, though I knew the duke my father would never let me wed him. I loved him, but now I hate him. With all my soul I hate him. Oh, what is to become of me? I am lost, lost, lost. I shall go mad. Chapter 3 The Plot, Thiccans Few months drifted by. All men published the praises of the young Conrad's government and extolled the wisdom of his judgments, the mercifulness of his sentences, and the modesty with which he bore himself in his great office. The old duke soon gave everything into his hands and sat apart and listened with proud satisfaction while his air delivered the decrees of the crown from the seat of the premier. It seemed plain that one so loved and praised and honored of all men as Conrad was could not be otherwise than happy. But strange enough he was not, for he saw with dismay that the prince's constance had begun to love him. The love of the rest of the world was happy fortune for him, but this was freighted with danger. And he saw moreover that the delighted duke had discovered his daughter's passion likewise, and was already dreaming of a marriage. Every day somewhat of the deep sadness that had been in the prince's face faded away. Every day hope and animation beamed brighter from her eye, and by and by even vagrant smiles visited the face that had been so troubled. Conrad was appalled. He bitterly cursed himself for having yielded to the instinct that had made him seek the companionship of one of his own sex when he was new and a stranger in the palace. When he was sorrowful and yearned for a sympathy such as only women can give or feel, he now began to avoid his cousin. But this only made matters worse, for, naturally enough, the more he avoided her the more she cast herself in his way. He marveled at first at this, and next it startled him. The girl haunted him, she hunted him, she happened upon him at all times in all places, in the night as well as in the day. She seemed singularly anxious. There was surely a mystery somewhere. This could not go on forever. All the world was talking about it. The duke was beginning to look perplexed. Poor Conrad was becoming a very ghost through the dread and dire distress. One day as he was emerging from a private anti-room attached to the picture gallery, Constance confronted him, and, seizing both his hands in hers, exclaimed, Oh, why do you avoid me? What have I done? What have I said to lose your kind opinion of me for surely I had at once? Conrad, do not despise me, but pity a tortured heart. I cannot hold the words unspoken longer lest they kill me. I love you, Conrad. There, despise me if you must, but they would be uttered. Conrad was speechless. Constance hesitated a moment and then misinterpreted his silence. A wild gladness flamed in her eyes, and she flung her arms about his neck and said, You relent, you relent. You can love me, you will love me. Oh, say you will, my own, my worshiped Conrad. Conrad groaned aloud. A sickly pallor overspread his countenance, and he trembled like an aspen. Presently in desperation he thrust the poor girl from him and cried, You know not what you ask. It is forever and ever impossible. And then he fled like a criminal and left the princess stupefied with amazement. A minute afterward she was crying and sobbing there, and Conrad was crying and sobbing in his chamber. Both were in despair. Both saved Ruin, staring them in the face. By and by Constance rose slowly to her feet and moved away, saying, to think that he was despising my love at the very moment that I thought it was melting his cruel heart. I hate him. He spurned me to this man. He spurned me from him like a dog. Chapter 4 The Awful Revelation Time passed on. A settled sadness rested once more upon the countenance of the good Duke's daughter. She and Conrad were seen together no more now. The Duke grieved at this, but, as the weeks were away, Conrad's color came back to his cheeks, and his old time vivacity to his eye, and he administered the government with a clear and steadily ripening wisdom. Presently a strange whisper began to be heard about the palace. It grew louder, it spread farther. The gossips of the city got ahold of it. It swept the Dukedom. And this is what the whisper said. The Lady Constance hath given birth to a child. When the Lord of Gluggenstein heard it, he swung his plumed helmet thrice around his head, and shouted, Long live Duke Conrad! For, lo, his crown is sure from this day forward. Deetson has done his errand well, and the good scoundrel shall be rewarded. And he spread the tidings far and wide. And for eight and forty hours no soul in all the barony, but did dance and sing, corrals and illuminate, to celebrate the great event, and all at proud and happy old Gluggenstein's expense. Chapter 5 The Frightful Catastrophe The trial was at hand. All the great lords and barons of Brandenburg were assembled in the Hall of Justice in the Ducal Palace. No space was left unoccupied where there was room for a spectator to stand or sit. Conrad clad in purple and ermine sat in the Premier's chair, and on either side sat the great judges of the realm. The old Duke had sternly commanded that the trial of his daughter should proceed without favour, and then he had taken to his bed broken hearted. His days were numbered. Poor Conrad had begged as for his very life that he might be spared the misery of sitting in judgment upon his cousin's crime, but it did not avail. The saddest heart in all that great assemblage was in Conrad's breast. The gladdest was in his father's, for unknown to his daughter, Conrad the old baron Gluggenstein was come and was among the crowd of nobles triumphant in the swelling fortunes of his house. After the heralds had made due proclamation and the other preliminaries had followed, the venerable Lord Chief Justice said, Prisoner, stand forth. The unhappy princess rose and stood unveiled before the vast multitude. The Lord Chief Justice continued, Most noble lady, before the great judges of this realm it have been charged and proven that out of holy wedlock your grace hath given birth unto a child. And by our ancient law the penalty is death, accepting in one soul contingency whereof his grace the acting Duke, our good Lord Conrad, will advertise you in his solemn sentence now. Wherefore, give heed. Conrad stretched forth the reluctant scepter and in the self-same moment the womanly heart beneath his robe yearned pittingly toward the doomed prisoner and the tears came into his eyes. He opened his lips to speak, but the Lord Chief Justice said quickly, Not there, your grace, not there, it is not lawful to pronounce judgment upon any of the ducal line save from the ducal throne. A shudder went to the heart of poor Conrad, and a tremor shook the iron frame of his old father likewise. Conrad had not been crowned. Dared he profane the throne? He hesitated and turned pale with fear. But it must be done. Wandering eyes were already upon him. They would be suspicious eyes if he hesitated longer. He ascended the throne. Presently he stretched forth the scepter again and said, Prisoner, in the name of our sovereign Lord Ulrich, Duke of Brandenburg, I proceed to the solemn duty that hath devolved upon me. Give heed to my words. By the ancient law of the land, except you produce the partner of your guilt and deliver him up to the executioner, you must surely die. Embrace this opportunity. Save yourself while yet you may. Name the father of your child. A solemn hush fell upon the great court. A silence so profound that men could hear their own hearts beating. Then the princess slowly turned, with eyes gleaming with hate, and pointed her finger straight at Conrad, and said, Thou art the man. An appalling conviction of his helpless, hopeless peril struck a chill to Conrad's heart like the chill of death itself. What power on earth could save him? To disprove the charge he must reveal that he was a woman, and for an uncrowned woman to sit in the ducal chair was death. At one in the same moment he and his grim old father swooned and fell to the ground. The remainder of this thrilling and eventful story will not be found in this or any other publication, either now or at any future time. The truth is, I have got my hero, or heroine, into such a particularly close place that I do not see how I am ever going to get him or her out of it again, and therefore I will wash my hands of the whole business and leave that person to get out the best way that offers, or else stay there. I thought it was going to be easy enough to straighten out that little difficulty, but it looks different now. End of A Medieval Romance by Mark Twain Miss Albina McLoosh by N. P. Willis This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Reading by Balauna Times Miss Albina McLoosh by N. P. Willis I have a passion for fat women. If there is anything I hate in life, it is what dainty people call a spiritual motion, rapid motion, a smart quick squirrel-like step, a pert, voluble tone. In short, a lively girl is my exquisite horror. I would as leaf have a diable petit dancing his infernal hornpipe on my cerebellum as to be in the room with one. I have tried before now to school myself into liking these parched peas of humanity. I have followed them with my eyes and attended to their rattle till I was as crazy as a fly and a drum. I have danced with them and romped with them in the country and periled the salvation of my white tights by sitting near them at supper. I swear off from this moment. I do. I won't. No. Hang me if ever I show another small, lively, spry woman a civility. Albina McLoosh is Divine She is like the description of the Persian beauty by Hafiz. Her heart is full of passion and her eyes are full of sleep. She is the sister of Lerlie McLoosh, my old college chum, who, as early as his sophomore year, was chosen president of the Dolce Farniente Society, no member of which was ever known to be surprised at anything. The college law of rising before breakfast accepted. Lerlie introduced me to his sister one day as he was lying upon a heap of turnips leaning on his elbow with his head in his hand in a green lane in the suburbs. He had driven over a stump and been tossed out of his gig and I came up just as he was wondering how in the devil's name he got there. Albina sat quietly in the gig and when I was presented requested me with a delicious roll to say nothing about the adventure it would be so troublesome to relate it to everybody. I loved her from that moment. Ms. McLoosh was tall and her shape of its kind was perfect. It was not a fleshy woman exactly, but she was large and full. Her skin was clear, fine-grained and transparent. Her temples and forehead perfectly rounded and polished, and her lips and chin swelling into a ripe and tempting pout like the cleft of a bursted apricot. And then her eyes large, liquid and sleepy. They languished beneath their long black fringes as if they had no business with daylight, like two magnificent dreams surprised in their jet embryos by some bird-nesting cherub. Oh, it was lovely to look into them. She sat, usually, upon a full two, with her large full arm embedded in the cushion, sometimes for hours without stirring. I have seen the wind lift the masses of dark hair from her shoulders when it seemed like the coming to life of a marble heebie she had been motionless so long. She was a model for a goddess of sleep as she sat with her eyes half closed, lifting up their superb lids slowly as you spoke to her, and dropping them again with the deliberate motion of a cloud when she had murmured out her syllable of a scent. Her figure, in a sitting posture, presented a gentle declivity from the curve of her neck to the instep of the small round foot lying on its side upon the ottoman. I remember a fellow's bringing her a plate of fruit one evening. He was one of your lively men, a horrid monster, all right angles and activity. Having never been accustomed to hold her own plate, she had not well extricated her whole fingers from her handkerchief before he set it down in her lap. As it began to slide slowly toward her feet, her hand relapsed into the muslin folds, and she fixed her eye upon it with a kind of indolent surprise, drooping her lids gradually till as the fruits scattered over the ottoman they closed entirely, and a liquid jet line was alone visible through the heavy lashes. There was an imperial indifference in it, worthy of Juno. Miss Mclush rarely walks. When she does, it is with the deliberate majesty of Adido. Her small plump feet melt to the ground like snowflakes, and her figure sways to the indolent motion of her limbs with a glorious grace and yieldingness quite indescribable. She was idling slowly up the mall one evening, just at twilight, with a servant at a short distance behind her who, too while away, the time between his steps, was employing himself in throwing stones at the cows feeding upon the common. A gentleman, with a natural admiration for her splendid person, addressed her. He might have done a more eccentric then. Without troubling herself to look at him, she turned to her servant and requested him, with a yawn of desperate ennui, to knock that fellow down. John obeyed his orders, and as his mistress resumed her lounge, picked up a new handful of pebbles, and tossing one at the nearest cow, loitered lazily after. Such supreme indolence was irresistible. I gave in. I, who never before could summon an energy to sigh. I, to whom a declaration was but a synonym for perspiration. I, who had only thought of love as a nervous complaint, and of women but to pray for a good deliverance. I, yes, I, knocked under. Albina McClusche. Thou worked too exquisitely lazy. Human sensibilities cannot hold out forever. I found her one morning sipping her coffee at twelve, with her eyes wide open. She was just rising from the bath, and her complexion had a soft, dewy transparency, like the cheek of Venus rising from the sea. It was the hour, Lerly had told me, when she would be at the trouble of thinking. She put away with her dimpled forefinger, as I entered, a cluster of rich pearls that had fallen over her face, and nodded to me like a water lily swaying to the wind when its cup is full of rain. Lady Albina, said I, in my softest tone, how are you? Bettina, said she, addressing her maid, in a voice as clouded and rich as the south wind on an Aeolian. How am I to-day? The conversation fell into short sentences. The dialogue became a monologue. I entered upon my declaration. With the assistance of Bettina, who supplied her mistress with cologne, I kept her attention alive through the incipient circumstances. Symptoms were soon told. I came to the avowal. Her hand lay reposing on the arm of the sofa, half buried in a muslin full arm. I took it up and pressed the cool, soft fingers to my lips. Unforbidden, I rose and looked into her eyes for confirmation. Delicious creature! She was asleep. I never have had courage to renew the subject. Miss McClush seems to have forgotten it all together. Upon reflection, too, I am convinced she would not survive the excitement of the ceremony, unless, indeed, she should sleep between the responses and the prayer. I am still devoted, however, and if there should come a war or an earthquake, or if the millennium should commence, as it is expected in 18 noon, or if anything happens that can keep her waking so long, I shall deliver a declaration abbreviated for me by a scholar friend of mine, which he warrants, may be articulated in fifteen minutes, without fatigue. End of Miss Albina McClush by MP Willis