 The Cedar Closet by Levcadio Hearn. It happened ten years ago, and it stands out, and ever will stand out, in my memory like some dark, awful barrier dividing the happy, gleeful years of girlhood with their foolish, petulant sorrows and eager innocent joys, and the bright, lovely life which has been mine since. In looking back, that time seems to me, shadowed by a dark and terrible brooding cloud, bearing in its lurid gloom what but for love and patience the tenderest and most untiring might have been the bolt of death, or, worse a thousand times, of madness. And it was, for months after life crept on a broken wing, if not through cells of madness, yet verily through haunts of horror and fear. Oh, the weary, weary days and months when I longed piteously for rest! When sunshine was torture and every shadow filled with horror unspeakable, when my soul's craving was for death to be allowed to creep away from the terror which lurked in the softest murmur of the summer breeze, the flicker of the shadow of the tiniest leaf on the sunny grass in every corner and curtain fold in my dear home. But love conquered all, and I can tell my story now, with awe and wonder it is true, but quietly and calmly. Ten years ago I was living with my only brother in one of the quaint, ivory-grown, red-gabled rectaries which are so picturesquely scattered over the fair breadth of England. We were orphans, Archibald and I, and I had been the busy, happy mistress of his pretty home for only one year after leaving school, when Robert Dre asked me to be his wife. Robert and Archie were old friends, and my new home, Dre's Court, was only separated from the parsonage by an old gray wall, a low iron-studded door in which admitted us from the sunny parsonage down to the old, old park which had belonged to the Dre's for centuries. Robert was Lord of the Manor, and it was he who had given Archie the living of Dre in the world. It was the night before my wedding, and our pretty home was crowded with the wedding guests. We were all gathered in the large old-fashioned drawing-room after dinner. When Robert left us late in the evening, I walked with him, as usual, to the little gate for what he called our last parting. We lingered awhile under the great walnut tree, through the heavy, somber branches of which the September moon poured its soft, pure light. With his last good-night kiss on my lips, and my heart full of him, and the love which warmed and glorified the whole world for me, I did not care to go back to share in the fun and frolic in the drawing-room, but went softly upstairs to my own room. I say my own room, but I was to occupy it as a bedroom to-night for the first time. It was a pleasant south-room, wane-scotted in richly-carved cedar, which gave the atmosphere a spicy fragrance. I had chosen it as my morning-room on my arrival in our home. Here I had read and sang and painted, and spent long, sunny hours while archibald was busy in his study after breakfast. I had had a better range there, as I preferred being alone to sharing my own larger bedroom with two of my bridesmaids. It looked bright and cozy as I came in. My favorite low chair was drawn before the fire, whose rosy light glanced and flickered on the glossy dark walls which gave the room its name, the Cedar Closet. My maid was very busy preparing my toilette table. I sent her away and sat down to wait for my brother, who I knew would come to bid me good-night. He came, and we had our last fireside talk in my girlhood's home, and when he left me there was an incursion of all my bridesmaids for a dressing-gown reception. When at last I was alone, I drew back the curtain and curled myself up in the low-wide window-seat. The moon was at its brightest. The little church and quiet churchyard beyond the lawn looked fair and calm beneath its rays. The gleam of the white headstones here and there between the trees might have reminded me that life is not all peace and joy, that tears and pain, fear and parting, have their share in its story, but it did not. The tranquil happiness with which my heart was full overflowed in some soft tears which had no tinge of bitterness, and, when at last I did lie down, peace, deep and perfect, seemed to flow in on me with the moon-beams which filled the room, shimmering on the folds of my bridal dress which was laid ready for the morning. I am thus minute, in describing my last waking moments, that it may be understood that what followed was not creation of a morbid fancy. I do not know how long I had been asleep when I was suddenly, as it were, wrenched back to consciousness. The moon had set, the room was quite dark, I could just distinguish the glimmer of a clouded, starless sky through the open window. I could not see or hear anything unusual, but not the less I was conscious of an unwanted, abaleful presence near. An indescribable horror cramped the very beatings of my heart with every instant the certainty grew that my room was shared with some evil being. I could not cry for help, though Archie's room was so close, and I knew that one call through the death-like stillness would bring him to me. All I could do was gaze, gaze, gaze into the darkness. Suddenly, and with a throb through every nerve, I heard distinctly from behind the wane-scot against which the head of my bed was placed a low hollow moan, followed on the instant by a cackling, malignant laugh from the other side of the room. If I had been one of the monumental fingers in the little church shard on which I had seen the quiet moonbeam shine a few hours before, I could not have been more utterly unable to move or speak. Every other faculty seemed to be lost in the one intent strain of eye and ear. There came at last the sound of a halting step, the tapping of a crutch upon the floor, then stillness, and slowly, gradually the room filled with light, a pale, cold, steady light. Everything around was exactly as I had last seen it in the mingled shine of the moon and fire, and though I heard at intervals the harsh laugh, the curtain at the foot of the bed hid from me whatever uttered it. Again, low but distinct, the piteous moan broke forth, followed by some words in a foreign tongue, and with the sound a figure started from behind the curtain, a dwarfed, deformed woman dressed in a loose robe of black sprinkled with golden stars which gave forth a dull, fiery gleam in the mysterious light. One lean yellow hand clutched the curtain of my bed. It glittered with jeweled rings, long black hair fell in heavy masses from a golden circlet over the stunted form. I saw it all clearly as I now see the pen which writes these words and the hand which guides it. The face was turned from me, bent aside as if greedily drinking in those astonished moans, I noted even the streaks of gray in the long tresses as I lay helpless in dumb bewildered whore. Again she said hoarsely, as the sounds died away into indistinct murmurs, and advancing a step she tapped sharply with a crutch on the cedar wane-scot. Then again louder and more purposeful rose the wild, beseeching voice. This time the words were English. Mercy, have mercy, not on me, but on my child, my little one. She never harmed you. She is dying. She is dying here in darkness. Let me but see her face once more. Death is very near. Nothing can save her now, but grant one ray of light, and I will pray that you may be forgiven if forgiveness there be for such as you. What? You kneel at last? Kneel to Gerda? And kneel in vain? A ray of light? Not if you could pay for it in diamonds. You are mine. Shriek and call as you will. No other ears can hear. Lie together. You are mine to torture as I will. Mine, mine, mine. And again an awful laugh rang through the room. At the instant she turned, oh, the face of malign horror that met my gaze. The green eyes flamed, and with something like a snarl of the savage beast she sprang toward me. That hideous face almost touched mine. The grasp of the skinny, jeweled hand was all but on me. Done, I suppose I fainted. For weeks I lay in brain fever, in mental horror and weariness so intent that even now I do not like to let my mind dwell on it. Even when the crisis was past I was slow to rally. My mind was utterly unstrung. I lived in a world of shadows, and so winter wore by, and brought us to the fair spring morning, when at last I stood by Robert's side in the old church, a cold, passive, almost unwilling bride. I cared neither to refuse nor consent to anything that was suggested, so Robert and Archie decided for me, and I allowed them to do with me as they would, while I brooded silently and ceaselessly on the memory of that terrible night. To my husband I told all one morning in a sunny Bavarian valley, and my weak, frightened mind drew strength and peace from his. By degrees the haunting horror wore away, and when we came home for a happy reason nearly two years afterward I was as strong and blithe as in my girlhood. I learned to believe that it had all been not the cause but the commencement of my fever. I was to be undeceived. Our little daughter had come to us in the time of roses, and now Christmas was with us, our first Christmas at home, and the house was full of guests. It was a delicious, old-fashioned yule, plenty of skating and outdoor fun, and no lack of brightness indoors. Toward the new year a heavy fall of snow set in, which kept us all prisoners, but even then the days flew merrily, and somebody suggested tabloo for the evenings. Robert was elected manager. There was a debate and selection of subjects, and then came the puzzle of where, at such short notice, we could procure the dresses required. My husband advised a raid on some mysterious oaken chests which he knew had been for years stowed away in the turret room. He remembered having, when a boy, seen the housekeeper inspecting them, and their contents had left a hazy impression of old standalone brocades, gold tissues, sacks, hoops, and hoods, the very mention of which put us in a state of wild excitement. Mrs. Moultrie was summoned, looked duly horrified at the desecration of what to her were relics most sacred, but seeing it was inevitable, she marshaled the way, a protest in every rustle and fold of her stiff silk dress. What a charming old place was the exclamation, with variations as we entered the long oak-jousted room, at the further end of which stood a goodly array of chests whose contents we coveted. Bristling with unspoken disapproval, poor Mrs. Moultrie unlocked one after another, and then asked permission to retire, leaving us unchecked to cry havoc. In a moment the floor was covered with piles of silks and velvets. Meg, cried little Janet Crawford, dancing up to me, isn't it good to live in an age of tall and summer silks, fancy being imprisoned for life in a fortress like this, holding up a thick crimson and gold brocade, whale-boned and buck-rammed at all points? It was thrown aside, and she half lost herself in another chest, and was silent. Then, look, Major Fradell, this is the very thing for you, a true astrologer's robe, all black velvet and golden stars? If it were but long enough, it just fits me. I turned and saw, the pretty slight figure, the innocent girlish face dressed in the robe of black and gold, identical in shape, pattern and material with what I too well remembered. With a wild cry I hid my face and cowered away. Take it off! Oh! Janet! Robert! Take it from her! Everyone turned, wondering. In an instant my husband saw, and catching up the cause of my terror, flung it hastily into the chest again and lowered the lid. Janet looked half offended, but the cloud passed in an instant when I kissed her, apologizing as well as I could. Rob laughed at both of us, and voted an adjournment to a warmer room, where we could have the chests brought to us to ransack at leisure. Before going down, Janet and I went into a small anti-room to examine some old pictures which leaned against the wall. This is just the thing, Jenny, to frame the tableau, I said, pointing to an immense frame at least twelve feet square. There is a picture in it, I added, pulling back the dusty folds of a heavy curtain which fell before it. That can easily be removed, said my husband, who had followed us. With his assistance we drew the curtain quite away, and now in the waning light could just discern the figure of a girl in white against a dark background. Janet rang for a lamp, and when it came we turned with much curiosity to examine the painting, as to the subject of which we had been making odd merry guesses while we waited. The girl was young, almost childish, very lovely, but oh, how sad! Great tears stood in the innocent eyes, and on the round young cheeks, and her hands were clasped tenderly around the arms of a man who was bending toward her. And did I dream? No, there in the hateful distinctness was the hideous woman of the cedar closet, the same in every distorted line, even the starred dress and golden circlet. The swarthy hues of the dress and the face at first cost us to overlook her. The same wicked eyes seemed to glare into mine. After one wild bound my heart seemed to stop its beating, and I knew no more. When I recovered from a long, deep swoon, great lassitude, immense nervous excitement followed, my illness broke up the party, and for months I was an invalid. When again Robert's love and patience had won me back to my old health and happiness, he told me all the truth, so far as it had been preserved in old records of the family. It was in the sixteenth century that the reigning lady of Dray Court was a weird, deformed woman, whose stunted body, hideous face, and a temper which taught her to hate and vilify everything good and beautiful, for the contrast offered to herself made her universally feared and disliked. One talent only she possessed, it was for music, but so wild and strange were the strains she drew from the many instruments of which she was mistress, that the gift only intensified the dread with which she was regarded. Her father had died before her birth, her mother did not survive it. Near relatives she had none. She had lived her lonely, loveless life from youth to middle age. When a young girl came to court, no one knew more than that she was a poor relation. The dark woman seemed to look more kindly on this young cousin than on any one that had hitherto crossed her somber path. And indeed, so great was the charm which Marian's goodness, beauty, and innocent gaiety exercised on every one, that the servants ceased to marvel at her having gained the favor of their gloomy mistress. The girl seemed to feel a kind of wondering, pitying affection for the unhappy woman. She looked on her through an atmosphere created by her own sunny nature, and for a time all went well. When Marian had been at the court for a year, a foreign musician appeared on the scene. He was a Spaniard, and had been engaged by Lady Dre, to build for her an organ said to be of fabulous power and sweetness. Through the long bright summer days he and his employer were shut up together in the music room. He busy in the construction of the wonderful instrument, she aiding and watching his work. These days were spent by Marian in various ways, pleasant idleness and pleasant work, long canters on her chestnut pony, dreamy mornings by the brook with a rod and a line, or in the village near where she found a welcome everywhere. She played with the children, nursed the babies, helped the mothers in a thousand pretty ways, gossiped with old people, and lightning the day for everybody with whom she came in contact. Then in the evening she sat with Lady Dre and the Spaniard in the saloon, talking in that soft foreign tongue which they generally used. But this was but the music between the acts. The terrible drama was coming. The motive was, of course, the same as that of every life drama which has been played out from the old, old days when the curtain rose upon the garden scene of Paradise. Philip and Marian loved each other, and having told their happy secret to each other, they, as in duty bound, took it to their patroness. They found her in the music room, whether the glimpses she had caught of a beautiful world from which she was shut out maddened her, or whether she, too, loved the foreigner, was never certainly known. But through the closed door passionate words were heard, and very soon Philip came out alone, and left the house without a farewell to any in it. When the servants did at last venture to enter, they found Marian, lifeless, on the floor, Lady Dre standing over her with crutch uplifted, and blood flowing from a wound in the girl's forehead. They carried her away, and nursed her tenderly. Their mistress locked the door as they left, and all night remained alone in the darkness. The music which came out, without pause, on the still night air was weird and wicked beyond any strains which had ever before flowed even from beneath her fingers. It ceased with the morning light, and as the day wore on it was found that Marian had fled during night, and that Philip's organ had sounded its last strain. Lady Dre had shattered and silenced it for ever. She never seemed to notice Marian's absence, and no one dared to mention her name. Nothing was ever known certainly of her fate. It was supposed that she had joined her lover. Years passed, and with each Lady Dre's temper grew fiercer and more malevolent. She never quitted her room unless on the anniversary of that day and night, when the tapping of her crutch and high-heeled shoes was heard for hours as she walked up and down the music room, which was never entered save for this yearly vigil. The tenth anniversary came round, and this time the vigil was not unshared. The servants distinctly heard the sound of a man's voice, mingling in earnest conversation with her shrill tones. They listened long, and at last one of the boldest ventured to look in, himself unseen. He saw a worn, travel-stained man, dusty, foot sore, poorly dressed. He still at once recognized the handsome, gay Philip, of ten years ago. He held in his arms a little sleeping girl, her long curls so like poor Marianne's, strayed over her shoulder. He seemed to be pleading in that strange musical tongue for the little one. For as he spoke he lifted, oh so tenderly, the cloak which partly concealed her, and showed the little face which he doubtless thought might plead for itself. The woman, with a furious gesture, raised her crutch to strike the child. He stepped quickly backward, stooped to kiss the little girl, then, without a word, turned to go. Lady Dray called on him to return with an impuruous gesture, spoke a few words, to which he seemed to listen gratefully, and together they left the house by the window which opened on the terrace. The servants followed them, and found she led the way to the parsonage, which was at the time unoccupied. It was said that he was in some political danger as well as in deep poverty, and that she had hidden him here until she could help him to a better asylum. It was certain that for many nights she went to the parsonage and returned before dawn, thinking herself unseen, but one morning she did not come home. Her people consulted together. Her relenting toward Philip had made them feel more kindly toward her than ever before. They sought her at the parsonage, and found her lying across its threshold dead, a vile clasp in her rigid fingers. There was no sign of the late presence of Philip and his child. It was believed that she had sped them on their way before she killed herself. They laid her in a suicide's grave. For more than fifty years after the parsonage was shut up. Though it had been again inhabited, no one had ever been terrified by the specter I had seen. Finally the cedar closet had never before been used as a bedroom. Robert decided on having the wing containing the haunted room pulled down and rebuilt, and in doing so the truth of my story gained a horrible confirmation. When the wane-scot of the cedar room was removed a recess was found in the massive old wall, and in this lay moldering fragments of the skeletons of a man and child. There could be but one conclusion drawn. The wicked woman had imprisoned them under pretense of hiding and helping them, and once they were completely at her mercy had come night after night with unimaginable cruelty to gloat over their agony, and when that long anguish was ended, ended her own odious life by a suicide's death. We could learn nothing of the mysterious painting. Philip was an artist, and it may have been his work. We had it destroyed, so that no record of the terrible story might remain. I have no more to add, save that, but for those dark days left by Lady Dray as a legacy of fear and horror, I should never have known so well the treasure I hold in the tender, unwearying, faithful love of my husband. Known the blessing that every sorrow carries in its heart, that every cloud that spreads above and valeth love itself is love. Woke with a start to face the first light. Rain tapped against the glass. It was January the fifth. I looked across the table in which a nightlight had gathered into a pool of water at the other bed. Francis Morton was still asleep, and Peter lay down again with his eyes on his brother. It amused him to imagine it was himself whom he watched, the same hair, the same eyes, the same lips. In line of cheek. But the thought passed, and the mind went back to the fact, which lent the day importance. It was the fifth to January. He could hardly believe a year had passed since Miss Henthalken had given her last children's party. Francis turned suddenly upon his back and threw an arm across his face, blocking his mouth. Peter's heart began to beat fast, not with pleasure, now, but with uneasiness. He sat up and called across the table. Wake up! Francis' shoulders shook, and he waved it. Clenched fists in the air, but his eyes remained closed. To Peter Morton, the whole room seemed to darken, and he had the impression of a great bird swooping. He cried again, Wake up! And once more there was silver light and a touch of rain on windows. Francis rubbed his eyes. Did you call out, he asked? You're having a bad dream, Peter said. Already experienced that taught him how far their minds reflected each other. But he was the elder by a matter of minutes, and that brief extra interval of light, while his brother still struggled in pain and darkness, had given himself reliance and an instinct of protection towards the other who was afraid of so many things. I dreamed that I was dead, Francis said. What was it like, Peter asked? I can't remember, Francis said. You dreamed of a big bird, did I? The two lay silent and dead facing each other, the same green eyes, the same nose tilting at the tip, the same firm lips, and the same premature modeling of the chin. The fifth of January, Peter thought again, his mind drifting idly from the image of cakes to the pies, which might be one. Egg and spoon race, spearing apples and basins of water, blind men's buff. I don't want to go, Francis said, said, may I suppose Joyce will be there. Neighbor Warren, hateful to him, the thought of a party shared with those two. They were older than he. Joyce was 11 and neighbor Warren, 13. The long pigtails swung superciliously to a masculine stride. Their sex humiliated him. As they watched him fumble with his egg from under lowered scornful lids, and last year he turned his face away from Peter, his cheek scarlet. What's the matter, Peter asked? Oh, nothing. I don't think I'm well, I've got a cold. I ought to not go to that party. Peter was puzzled at Francis. Is there a bad cold? It will be a bad cold if I go to the party, perhaps I shall die. Then you must not go, Peter said, prepared to solve all difficulties with one plain sentence. And Francis let his nerves relax, ready to leave everything to Peter. But though he was grateful, he did not turn his face towards his brother. His cheeks still bore the badge of a shameful memory of the game of hide and seek last year. In the darkened house, and of how he had screamed when neighbor Warren put her hand suddenly upon his arm. He had not heard her coming. Girls were like that. Their shoes never squeaked. No boards wind under the thread. They slunk like cats on padded claws. When the nurse came in with hot water, Francis laid tranquil, leaving everything to Peter. Peter said, "'Nurse, Francis has got a cold." The tall, starched woman laid the towels across the cans and said, without turning, the washing won't be back till tomorrow. You must lend him some of your handkerchiefs. But nurse, Peter asked, hadn't he better stay in bed? "'We'll take him for a good walk this morning,' nurse said. "'Wind will blow away the germs. "'Get up now, both of you.' And she closed the door behind her. "'I'm sorry,' Peter said. "'Why don't you just stay in bed? "'I'll tell Mother you felt too ill to get up.' But rebellion against destiny was not in Francis' power. If he stayed in bed, they would have come up and tapped his chest and put a thermometer in his mouth and looked at his tongue and they would discover he was malingering. It was true, he felt though, a sick, empty sensation in his stomach and a rapidly beating heart. But he knew the cause was only fear, fear of the party, fear of being made to hide by himself in the dark, uncompainient by Peter and with no nightlight to make a blessed breach. "'No, I'll get up,' he said. And then, with sudden desperation, "'But I won't go to Mrs. Hanfalka's party. "'I swear on the Bible I won't.' "'Now surely all would be well,' he thought. "'God would not allow him to break so solid in the north. "'He would show him away. "'There was all the morning before him "'and all the afternoon until four o'clock. "'No need to worry when the grass was still crisp "'with the early frost. "'Anything might happen.' "'He might cut himself or break his leg "'or really catch about cold. "'God would manage somehow.' "'He had such confidence in God "'that when at breakfast his mother said, "'I hear you have a cold, Francis, you made light of it. "'We should have heard more about it,' his mother said "'with irony, if there was not a party this evening. "'And Francis smiled and made them daunted "'by her ignorance of him. "'His happiness would have lasted longer "'if, out for a walk that morning, "'he had not met Joyce. "'He was alone with his nurse, "'for Peter had to leave to finish a rabbit hutch "'in the woodshed. "'If Peter had been there, he would have cared less. "'The nurse was Peter's nurse also, "'but now it was as though she were employed "'only for his sake, because he could not be trusted "'to go for a walk alone. "'Joyce was only two years older "'and she was by herself. "'She came striding towards them, "'pictile slapping. "'She glanced squirreously at Francis "'and spoke with ostentation to the nurse. "'Hello, nurse, are you bringing Francis "'to the party this evening? "'Mabel and I are coming. "'And she was off again down the street "'in the direction of Mabel Warren's home, "'consciously alone and self-sufficient "'in the long empty road. "'Such a nice girl,' the nurse said, "'but Francis was silent, "'feeling again the jump-jump of his heart, "'realizing how soon the hour of the party "'would arrive. "'God had done nothing for him "'in the minutes flew. "'They flew too quickly to plan any evasion "'or even to prepare his heart "'for the coming ordeal. "'Panic nearly overcame him. "'When, all unready, he found himself "'standing on the doorstep "'with coat collar turned up against the cold wind "'and nurse's electric torch making a short trail "'for the darkness. "'Behind him were the lights of the hall "'in the sound of a servant laying the table "'for dinner, which his mother and father "'would eat alone. "'He was nearly overcome by the desire "'to run back into the house "'and call out to his mother "'that he would not go to the party, "'that he dared not go. "'They could not make him go. "'He could almost hear himself saying "'those final words, breaking down forever, "'the barrier of ignorance, which saved his mind "'from his parent's knowledge. "'I'm afraid of going. "'I won't go. "'I dare not go. "'They'll make me hide in the dark "'and I'm afraid of the dark. "'I'll scream and scream and scream.' "'He could see the expression of amazement "'in his mother's face "'and in the cold confidence of a grown-up's retort. "'Don't be silly. "'You must go.' "'You accepted Mrs. Han Falcon's invitation, "'but they could not make him go, "'hesitating on the doorstep "'while the nurse's feet crashed across "'the frost-covered glass to the gate. "'He knew that. "'He'd give an answer. "'You can say, I mill. "'I won't go. "'I'm afraid of the dark in his mother. "'Don't be silly. "'You know there's nothing to be afraid of in the dark. "'But he knew the falsity of that reasoning. "'He knew how they taught also "'that there was nothing to fear in death "'and how fearfully they avoided the idea of it. "'But they could not make him go to the party. "'I'll scream. "'I'll scream.' "'Francis come along. "'He heard the nurse's voice across the dimly "'flossorescent lawn "'and saw the yellow circle of her torch. "'We are from tree to shrub. "'I'm coming.' "'He called with despair. "'He couldn't bring himself to lay bare "'the his last secrets and reserve "'between his mother and himself. "'For there so was in the last resort "'a further appeal possible to Mrs. Hanfalken. "'He comforted himself with that "'as he advanced steadily across the hall, "'very small, towards her enormous bulk. "'His heart beat unevenly, "'but he had control now over his voice, "'as he said with meticulous accent. "'Good evening, Mrs. Hanfalken. "'It was very good of you to ask me to your party. "'With his strained face "'listed towards the curb of her breasts "'and his polite speech set, "'he was like an old withered man. "'As a twin he was in many ways an only child. "'To address Peter was to speak to his own image "'in a mirror, an image a little altered "'by a flaw in the glass, "'so as to throw back less a likeness "'of what he was than of what he wished to be. "'What he would be without his unreasoning fear of darkness, "'footsteps of strangers, the flight of bats, "'in dusk-filled gardens.' "'Sweet child,' said Mrs. Hanfalken absentmindedly, "'before, with the wave of her arms, "'as though the children were a flock of chickens. "'She whirled them into her program of entertainment, "'egg and spoon races, three-legged races, "'the spearing of apple, "'games which held for France is nothing worse "'than humiliation, and in frequent intervals "'when nothing was required of him, "'and he could not stand alone in corners "'as far removed as possible "'from Mabel Warren's cornfield gaze, "'he was able to plan how he might avoid "'the approaching terror of dark. "'He knew there was nothing to fear until after tea, "'and not until he was sitting down "'on a pool of yellow radians cast by "'the town candles of Colin Hanfalken's birthday cake "'that he become fully conscious "'of the imminence of what he feared. "'He heard Joyce's high voice down the table "'after tea, we're going to play "'Hide and Seek in the Dark.' "'Oh, no,' Peter said, "'watching France in the struggle of faith. "'Don't let's. "'We play that every year, "'but it's in the program,' cried Mabel Warren. "'I saw it myself. "'I looked over Mrs. Hanfalken's shoulder. "'Five o'clock tea, a quarter to six to half past. "'Hide and seek in the dark. "'It's all written down in the program. "'Peter did not argue, for if Hide and Seek "'had been inserted in Mrs. Hanfalken's program, "'nothing, what she could say, would avert it. "'He asked for another piece of birthday cake "'and sipped his tea slowly. "'Perhaps it might be possible "'to delay the game for a quarter of an hour. "'Allow France's at least a few extra minutes "'to form a plan. "'But even in that, Peter failed, "'for children were already leaving the table in 2003. "'It was the third failure, "'and again he saw a great bird "'dark in his brother's face to the twain. "'But he operated himself silently for his folly, "'and finished his cake encouraged by the memory "'of that adult refrain. "'There was nothing to fear in the dark. "'The last to leave the table, "'the brothers came together to the hall "'to meet the mustering and impatient eyes "'of Mrs. Hanfalken. "'And now,' she said, "'we will play Hide and Seek in the dark. "'Peter watched his brother and saw the lips tighten. "'Francis, you had feared this moment "'from the beginning of the party. "'Had tried to meet it with courage "'and had abandoned the attempt. "'He must have prayed for cunning to evade the game, "'which was now welcomed with cries of excitement "'by all the other children. "'Oh, do let's, we must pick sides. "'Is any of the house out of the bounds? "'Where shall home be?' "'I think,' said Francis Morton, "'approaching Mrs. Hanfalken. "'His eyes focused on waveringly "'on her exuberant breath. "'It will be no use, my playing. "'My nurse will be calling for me very soon. "'Oh, but your nurse can wait,' said Mrs. Hanfalken. "'While she clapped her hands together "'to summon to her side a few children "'who were already straying up the white staircase "'to upper floors, your mother will never mind. "'That had been the limit of Francis' cunning. "'He had refused to believe that "'so well-prepared an excuse could fail. "'All that he could say now, "'still on the precise stone, "'in which the other children hated, "'thinking it a symbol of conceit, "'was, I think I had better not play. "'He stood motionless, retaining, "'though unafraid, on most features. "'But the knowledge of this terror, "'or the reflection of the terror itself, "'reached his brother's brain. "'For the moment, Peter Morton "'could have cried aloud "'with the fear of bright lights going out, "'leaving him alone in an island of dark "'surrounded by the gentle lappings "'of strange footsteps. "'Then he remembered that the fear was not his own, "'but his own, but his brothers. "'He said impossibly to Mrs. Hans Falcon, "'Please, I don't think Francis should play. "'The dark makes him jump so.' "'They were the wrong words. "'Six children began to sing cowardly, "'curdly custard, turning torturing faces "'with the vacancy of white sunflowers "'towards Francis Morton.' "'Without looking at his brother, "'Francis said, of course I'll play. "'I'm not afraid, I only thought, "'but he was already forgotten by his human tormentors. "'The children scrambled round Mrs. Hans Falcon, "'their shrill voices taking at her "'with questions and suggestions. "'Yes, and you were in the house. "'We will turn out all the lights. "'Yes, you can hide in the cupboard. "'You must stay hidden as long as you can. "'There will be no home.' "'Peter stood apart, ashamed of the clumsy manner "'in which he had tried to help his brother. "'Now he could feel, "'creeping at the corners of his brain, "'all Francis' resentment of his championing. "'Several children ran upstairs, "'and the lights on the top floor went out. "'Darkness came down like the wings of a bat "'and settled on the landing. "'Others began to put out the lights "'at the edge of the hall, "'till the children were all gathered "'in the central radiance of the chandelier, "'while the bats squatted round on hooded wings "'and waited for that to be extinguished. "'You and Francis are on the hiding side, "'a tall girl said, and then the light was gone "'and the carpet wavered under his feet "'with the sibilance of footfalls, "'like small, tall trots, creeping away into corners. "'Where's Francis?' he wondered. "'If I join him, he'll be less frightened "'of all these sounds. "'These sounds were the casing of silence, "'the squeak of a loose board, "'the clashes closing of a cupboard door, "'the wind of a finger drawn along polished wood. "'Peter stood in the center of the dark deserted floor, "'not listening, but waiting for the idea "'of his brother's whereabouts to enter his brain. "'But Francis, crushed with fingers and his ears, "'eyes uselessly closed, mind numbed against impressions, "'and only a sense of strain could cross the gap of dark. "'Then a voice called, coming, "'and as though his brother's self-possession "'had been shattered by the sudden cry, "'Peter Morton jumped with his fear. "'But it was not his own fear. "'What in his brother was a burning panic "'was in him an altruistic emotion "'that left the reason unimpaired? "'Where, if I were Francis, should I hide? "'And because he was, if not Francis himself, "'at least a mirror to him, the answer was immediate. "'Between the oak bookcase on the left of the study door "'and the leather seti. "'Between the twins, there could be no jargon or telepathy. "'They had been together in the womb, "'and they could not be parted. "'Peter Morton tipped out towards Francis' hiding place. "'Occasionally a board rattled, "'and because he feared to be caught "'by one of the soft questers, "'through the dark, he bent and untied his laces. "'A tag struck the floor, and the metallic sound "'said a host of cautious feet, moving in his direction. "'But by that time he was in his stockings, "'and would have laughed inwardly at the pursuit. "'Had not the noise of someone stumbling "'on his abandoned shoes made his heart tipped. "'No more boards revealed Peter Morton's progress. "'On stockings' feet he moved silently "'unairingly towards his object. "'Instinct told him he was near the wall, "'and extending a hand he laid the fingers "'across his brother's face. "'Francis did not cry out, "'but the leap of his own heart revealed to Peter "'a proportion of Francis' terror. "'It's all right,' he whispered, "'feeling down the squatting figure "'until he captured a clenched hand. "'It's only me, I'll stay with you.' "'And grasping the other tightly, "'he listened to the cascaded whispers "'his utterance had crossed to fall. "'A hand touched the bookcase close to Peter's head, "'and he was aware of how Francis' fear continued. "'In spite of his presence, "'it was less intense, more bearable, "'he hoped that it remained. "'He knew that it was his brother's fear "'and not his own that he experienced. "'The dark to him was only an absence of light, "'the groping hand, that of a familiar child. "'Patiently he waited to be found.' "'He didn't speak again, "'for between Francis and himself "'was the most intimate communion. "'By way of joined hands, "'fault could flow more swiftly "'than lips could shape themselves, round words. "'He could experience the whole progress "'of his brother's emotion, from the leap of panic, "'and that expected contact to the steady purse of fear, "'which now went on and on "'with the regularity of the heartbeat. "'Peter Morton thought with intensity. "'I'm here, you need not be afraid, "'the lights will go on against them. "'That wrestle, that movement is nothing to fear, "'only Joyce, only Mabel Warren. "'He bombarded the drooping form with thoughts of safety, "'but he was conscious that the fear continued. "'They're beginning to whisper together. "'They're tired of looking for it. "'The lights will go on. "'We shall have one, don't be afraid.' "'That was someone on the stairs. "'I believe it's Mrs. Hanfalk. "'Listen, they're feeling for the lights, "'feet moving on a carpet, "'hands brushing a wall, "'a curtain pulled apart, a clicking handle, "'the opening of a cupboard door. "'In the case above their heads, "'a loose book shifted under a touch. "'Only Joyce, only Mabel Warren, "'only Mrs. Hanfalk on a crescendo "'of reassuring thoughts before the chandelier bust, "'like a fruit tree into bloom. "'The voice of the children rose shrill "'into the radiance. "'Where's Peter? "'Have you looked upstairs? "'Where's Francis?' "'But they were silenced again "'by Mrs. Hanfalk on scream. "'But she was not the first to notice "'Francis Morton's stillness, "'where he had collapsed against the wall "'at the touch of his brother's hand. "'Peter continued to hold the clenched fingers "'in the narrowed and puzzled grief. "'It was not merely that his brother was dead. "'His brain, too young to realize the full paradox, "'wondered with an obscure self-pity. "'Why was that the pulse of his brother's fear "'went on and on when Francis was now "'where he had always been told "'there was no more terror and no more darkness? "'The end of the end of the party.'" A glass of beer by James Stevens. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. It was now his custom to sit there. The world has its habits. Why should a man not have his? The earth rolls out of light and into darkness as punctually as a businessman goes to and from his office. The seasons come with the regularity of automata and go as if they were pushed by an ejector. So night after night, he strolled from the plastil observatoire to the fausse à Michel and on the return journey sat down at the same café at the same table if you could manage it and ordered the same drink. So regular had his attendance become that the waiter would suggest the order before it was spoken. He did not drink beer because he liked it but only because it was not a difficult thing to ask for. Always he had been easily discouraged and he distressed his French almost as much as other people had reason to. The only time he had varied the order was to request en vain blank comé. But on that occasion he had been served with a postage stamp for 25 centine and he still wondered when he remembered it. He liked to think of his first French conversation. He wanted something to read in English but was timid of asking for it. He walked past all the newspaper kiosks on the boulevard anxiously scanning the vendors inside. They were usually very stalwart, very competent females who looked as though they had outgrown their sins but remembered them with pleasure. They had the dully polished, slightly battered look of a modern antique. The words of Monsieur Madame rang from them as from bells. They were very alert sitting as it were on tiptoe and their eyes hit one as one approached. They were like spiders squatting in their little houses waiting for their daily flies. He found one who looked jolly and harmless, sympathetic indeed, and to her with a flourished hat he approached. Said he, donnie-moi Madame, s'il vous plaît, le dully mail. At the second repetition the good lady smiled at him, a smile compounded of benevolence and comprehension and instantly with a v'la monsieur she handed him the New York herald. They had saluted each other and he marched down the road in delight with his first purchase under his arm and his first foreign conversation accomplished. At that time everything had delighted him. The wide, well-lighted boulevard, the Colseurses knitting in their immense doorways each looking like a replica of the other, each seeming sister to a kiosk keeper or a cat. The exactly courteous speech of the people and their not quite so rigorously courteous manners pleased him. He listened to the valuable men who went by, speaking in a haste so breathless that he marveled how the prepositions and conjunctions stuck to their duty in so swirling an ocean of chatter. There was a big black dog with a mottled head who lay nightly on the pavement opposite the square de l'observatoire. At intervals he raised his lean skull from the ground and composed a low lament to an absent friend. His grief was respected. The folk who passed stepped sidewards for him and he took no heed of their passage, a lonely introspective dog to whom a caress or a bone were equally childish things. Let me alone he seemed to say, I have my grief and it is company enough. There was the very superior cat who sat on every window ledge winking at life. He, for in France all cats are masculine by order of philology. He did not care a rap for man or dog, but he liked women and permitted them to observe him. There was the man who insinuated himself between the tables at the cafe holding out postcard representations of the pantheon, the Louvre, Notre-Dame and other places. From beneath these cards his dectrous little finger would suddenly flip others. One saw a hurried leg, an arm that shun and vanished, a bosom that fled shyly again, an audacious swan, Alida, who was thoroughly enjoying herself and had never heard of virtue. His looks suggested that he taught better of one than to suppose that one was not interested in a nude. Monsieur, he seemed to say with his fixed brown eyes, regard, this is indeed a leg, an authentic leg, not disguised by even the littlest of stockings. It is arranged precisely as Monsieur would desire it. His sorrow as he went away was dignified with regret for an inartistic gentleman. One was en garçon and yet one would not look at one's postcards. One had better then cease to be an artist and take to peddling onions and asparagus as the vulgar do. It was all a long time ago and now somehow the saver had departed from these things. Perhaps he had seen them too often. Perhaps a kind of public surreptitiousness, a quite open furtiveness had troubled him. Maybe he was not well. He sat at his cafe three quarters down to Boulevard and before him a multitude of grotesque beings were pacing as he sipped his buck. Good manners decreed that he should not stare too sitfastly and he was one who obeyed these delicate dictations. Alas, he was one who obeyed all dictations. For him, authority were a halo and many sins which his heyday ought to have committed had been left undone only because they were not sanctioned by immediate social usage. He was often saddened when he thought of the things he had not done. It was the only sadness to which he had accessed because the evil things which he had committed were of so tepid and hygienic a character that they could not be mourned for without hypocrisy and now that he was released from all privileged restraints and overlookings and could do whatever he wished, he had no wish to do anything. His wife had been dead for over a year. He had hungered, he had prayed for her death. He had hated that woman and for how many years with a kind of masked ferocity. How often he had been tempted to kill her or to kill himself. How often he had dreamed that she had run away from him or that he had run away from her. He had invented Russian princes and music hall stars and American billionaires with whom she could adequately elope and he had both loved and loathed the prospect. What unending slow quarrels they had together. How her voice had droned pitilessly on his ears. She in one room, he in another and through the open door there rolled that unending recitation of woes and reproaches, an interminable catalog of nothings while he sat dumb as a fish with a mind that smoldered or blazed. He had stood unseen with a hammer, a poker, a razor in his hand on tiptoe to do it. A movement, a rush, one silent rush and it was done. He had reveled in her murder. He had caressed it, rehearsed it, relished it, had jerked her head back and hacked and listened to her entreaties bubbling through blood. And then she died when he stood by her bed he had wished to taunt her, but he could not do it. He read in her eyes, I am dying and in little time I shall have vanished like dust in the wind and you will still be here and you will never see me again. He wished to ratify that, to assure her that it was actually so, to say that he would come home on the morrow night and she would not be there and that he would return home every night and she would never be there, but he could not say it. Somehow the words, although he desired them, would not come. His arm went to her neck and settled there. His hand caressed her hair or her cheek. He kissed her eyes, her lips, her languid hands and the words that came were only an infantile babble of regrets and apologies, assurances that he did love her, that he had never loved anyone before and never would love anyone again. Everyone who passed looked into the cafe where he sat. Everyone who passed looked at him. There were men with sallow faces and wide black hats. Some had hair that flapped about them in the wind and from their locks one gathered with some distaste the spices of Arabic. Some had cravats that fluttered and fell and rose again like banners in a storm. There were men with severe, spade shaped, most responsible looking beards and quizzical little eyes which gave the lie to their hairy sedateness, eyes which had spent long years in looking sidewards as a woman passed. There were men of every stage of foppishness, men who had spent so much time on their mustaches that they had only a little left for their fingernails, but their mustaches exonerated them. Others who were coated to happiness, trousered to grotesqueness and booted to misery. He thought in this city the men wear their own coats but they all wear someone else's trousers and their boots are syndicated. He saw no person who was half intent. They were all deeply conscious, not of themselves but of each other. They were all looking at each other. They were all looking at him and he returned to severe or humorous or appraising gaze of each with a look nicely proportioned to the passer giving back exactly what was given to him and no more. He did not stare for nobody stared. He just looked and looked away and was as mannerly as was required. A negro went by arm in arm with a girl who was so shallow that she was only white by courtesy. He was a bulky man and as he bent greedily over his companion it was evident that to him she was whiter than the snow of a single night. Women went past in multitudes and he knew the appearance of them all. How many times he had watched them or their duplicates striding and mincing and bounding by each moving like an animated note of interrogation. They were long and medium and short. There were women of a thinness beyond comparison sheathed in skirts as feely as a rapier in a scabbard. There were women of a monumental, a mighty fatness who billowed and rolled in multitudinous stormy garments. There were slow eyes that drooped on one heavily as a hand and quick ones that stabbed and withdrew and glanced again appealingly and slid away cursing. There were some who lounged with a false sedateness and some who fluttered in an equally false timidity. Some wore velvet shoes without heels. Some had shoes the heels were of such an ordinent length that the wearers looked as though they were perched on stilts and would topple to perdition if their skill failed them for an instant. They passed and they looked at him and from each after the due regard he looked away to the next in interminable procession. There were faces also to be looked at round chubby faces where from the eyes of oxen stared in slow involved rumination. Long faces that were keener than hatchets and as cruel. Faces that pretended to be scornful and were only piteous. Faces contrived to ape a temperament other than their own rattled faces with heavy eyes and rouged lips, ragged lips that had been chewed by every mad dog in the world. What lips there were everywhere? Bright scarlet splashes in dead white faces. Thin red gashes that suggested rat traps instead of kisses. Bulbas flabby lips that would wobble and shiver if attention failed them. Lips of a horrid fascination that one looked at and hated and ran to. Looking at him slyly or boldly they passed along and after a while and re-passed him and turned again in promenade. He had a sickness of them all. There had been a time when these were among the things he had mourned for not having done but that time was long past. He guessed at their pleasures and knew them to be without salt. Life said he is as unpleasant as a plate of cold porridge. Somehow the world was growing empty for him. He wondered was he outgrowing his illusions or his appetites or both. The things in which other men took such interest were drifting beyond him and for it seemed that the law of compensation can fail, nothing was drifting towards him in recompense. He foresaw himself as a box with nothing beside it and he thought it is not through love or fear or distress that men commit suicide. It is because they have become empty. Both the gods and the devils have deserted them and they can no longer support that solemn stagnation. He marveled to see with what activity men and women played the most savourless of games. With what zest of pursuits they tracked what petty interests. He saw them as ants scurrying with scrapes of straw or apes that pick up and drop and pick again and he marveled from what fount they renewed themselves or with what charms they exercised the demons of satiety. On this night life did not seem worthwhile. The taste had come from his mouth. His buck was water, wildly coloured. His cigarette was a hot stench and yet a full moon was peeping in the trees along the path and not far away were the countryside bowed in silver quietude. The rivers ran through undistinguishable fields chanting their lonely songs. The seas leaped and withdrew and called again to the stars and gathered in ecstasy and roared skywards and the trees did not rob each other more than was absolutely necessary. The men and women were all hidden away sleeping in their cells where the moon could not see them nor the clean wind nor the stars. They were sundered for a little while from their eternal arithmetic. The grasping hands were lying as quietly as the paws of a sleeping dog. Those eyes held no further speculation than the eyes of an ox who lies down. The tongues that had lied all day and been treacherous and obscene and respectful by easy turn said nothing more and he thought it was very good that they were all hidden and that for a little time the world might swing darkly with the moon in its own wide circle and its silence. He paid for his buck, gave the waiter a tip, touched his hat to a lady by sex and a gentleman by clothing and strolled back to his room that was little, his candle that was three quarters consumed and his picture which might be admired when he was dead but which he would never be praised for painting and after sticking his foot through the canvas he tugged himself to bed agreeing to commence the following morning just as he had the previous one and the one before that and the one before that again. End of A Glass of Beer by James Stevens. The Horde of the Ghiblins by Lord Dunsony. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer. Please visit LibriVox.org. This recording is by Mark Smith of Simpsonville, South Carolina. The Horde of the Ghiblins by Lord Dunsony. The Ghiblins eat, as is well known, nothing less good than man. Their evil tower is joined to terror Cognita to the lands we know by a bridge. Their horde is beyond reason. Averus has no use for it. They have a separate cellar for emeralds and a separate cellar for sapphires. They have filled a hole with gold and dig it up when they need it. And the only use that is known for their ridiculous wealth is to attract to their larder a continual supply of food. In times of famine they have even been known to scatter rubies abroad, a little trail of them to some city of man, and sure enough their larders would soon be full again. Their tower stands on the other side of that river known to Homer, Hul Rus Okeono, as he called it, which surrounds the world. And where the river is narrow and affordable the tower was built by the Ghiblins' glutinous sires for they liked to see burglars rowing easily to their steps. Some nourishment that common soil has not the huge trees drain there with their colossal roots from both banks of the river. There the Ghiblins lived and discreditably fed. Alderic, knight of the order of the city and the assault, hereditary guardian of the king's peace of mind, a man not unremembered among makers of myth, pondered so long upon the Ghiblins' horde that by now he deemed it his. Alas, that I should say of so perilous a venture undertaken at dead of night by a valorous man that his motive was sheer avarice. Yet upon avarice only the Ghiblins relied to keep their larders full and once in every hundred years sent spies into the cities of men to see how avarice did and always the spies returned again to the tower saying that all was well. It may be thought that as the years went on and men came by fearful ends on that tower's wall fewer and fewer would come to the Ghiblins' table but the Ghiblins found otherwise. Not in the folly and frivolity of his youth did Alderick come to the tower but he studied carefully for several years the manner in which burglar's met their doom when they went in search of the treasure that he considered his. In every case they had entered by the door. He consulted those who gave advice on this quest. He noted every detail and cheerfully paid their fees and determined to do nothing that they advised. For what worth their clients now? No more than examples of the savory art and mere half-forgotten memories of a meal and many perhaps no longer even that. These were the requisites for the quest that these men used to advise a horse, a boat, male armor and at least three-minute arms. Some said blow the horn at the tower door. Others said do not touch it. Alderick thus decided he would take no horse down to the river's edge. He would not row along it in a boat and he would go alone and by way of the forest unpassable. How pass, you may say, the unpassable. This was his plan. There was a dragon he knew of who if peasants' prayers are heeded deserved to die not alone because of the number of maidens he cruelly slew but because he was bad for the crops. He ravaged the very land and was the bane of aductum. Now Alderick determined to go up against him. So he took horse and spear and pricked till he met the dragon and the dragon came out against him breathing bitter smoke. And to him Alderick shouted, Hath foul dragon ever slain true knight? And well the dragon knew that this had never been and he hung his head and was silent for he was glutted with blood. Then said the knight, if thou wouldst ever taste maidens' blood again thou shalt be my trusty steed and if not by this spear there shalt befall the all that the troubadours tell of the dooms of thy breed. And the dragon did not open his ravining mouth nor rush upon the knight breathing out fire. For well he knew the fate of those that did these things but he consented to the terms imposed and swore to the knight to become his trusty steed. It was on a saddle upon this dragon's back that Alderick afterwards sailed above the impassable forest even above the tops of those mesurless trees, children of wonder. But first he pondered that subtle plan of his which was more profound than merely to avoid all that had been done before and he commanded a blacksmith and the blacksmith made him a pickaxe. Now there was great rejoicing at the rumour of Alderick's quest for all folk knew that he was a cautious man and they deemed that he would succeed and enrich the world and they rubbed their hands in the cities at the thought of largesse and there was joy among all men in Alderick's country except for chants among the lenders of money who feared they would soon be paid. And there was rejoicing also because men hoped that when the jibblins were robbed of their horde they would shatter their high-built bridge and break the golden chains that bound them to the world and drift back, they and their tower, to the moon from which they had come and to which they rightly belonged. There was little love for the jibblins although all men envied their horde. So they all cheered that day when he mounted his dragon as though he was already a conqueror and what pleased them more than the good that they hoped he would do to the world was that he scattered gold as he rode away. For he would not need it, he said, if he found the jibblins' horde and he would not need it more if he smoked on the jibblins' table. When they heard that he had rejected the advice of those that gave it some said the night was mad and others said he was greater than those that gave the advice but none appreciated the worth of his plan. He reasoned thus, for centuries men had been well advised and had gone by the cleverest way while the jibblins came to expect them to come by boat and to look for them at the door whenever their larder was empty even as a man looking for a snipe in a marsh. But how, said Alderick, if a snipe should sit in the top of a tree and would men find him there? Assuredly never. So Alderick decided to swim the river and not to go by the door but to pick his way into the tower through the stone. Moreover it was in his mind to work below the level of the ocean, the river, as Homer knew, that girdles the world. So that as soon as he made a hole in the wall the water should pour in, confounding the jibblins and flooding the cellars rumored to be 20 feet in depth and therein he would dive for emeralds as a diver dives for pearls. And on the day that I tell of he galloped away from his home scattering largesse of gold, as I have said, and passed through many kingdoms, the dragon snapping at maidens as he went, but being unable to eat them because of the bit in his mouth and earning no gentler reward than a spur thrust where he was softest. And so they came to the swart arboreal precipice of the unpassable forest. The dragon rose at it with a rattle of wings. Many a farmer near the edge of the world saw him up there where yet the twilight lingered, a faint black wavering line. And mistaking him for a row of geese going inland from the ocean, went into their houses cheerfully rubbing their hands and saying that winter was coming and that we should soon have snow. Soon even there the twilight faded away and when they descended at the edge of the world it was night and the moon was shining. Ocean, the ancient river, narrow and shallow there, flowed by and made no murmur. Whether the giblins banquet it or whether they watched by the door they also made no murmur. And Aldrich dismounted and took his armor off and sang one prayer to his lady, swam with his pickaxe. He did not part from his sword for fear that he meet with a giblin. Landed the other side he began to work at once and all went well with him. Nothing put out its head from any window and all were lighted so that nothing within could see him in the dark. The blows of his pickaxe were dulled in the deep walls. All night he worked, no sound came to molest him and at dawn the last rock swerved and tumbled inwards and the river poured in after. Then Aldrich took a stone and went to the bottom step and hurled the stone at the door. He heard the echoes roll into the tower. Then he ran back and dived through the hole in the wall. He was in the emerald cellar. There was no light in the lofty vault above him but diving through 20 feet of water he felt the floor all rough with emeralds and open coffers full of them. By a faint ray of the moon he saw that the water was green with them and easily filling a satchel. He rose again to the surface and there were the giblins waist deep in the water with torches in their hands and without saying a word or even smiling they neatly hanged him on the outer wall and the tale is one of those that have not a happy ending. End of the tale. A hunger artist by Franz Kafka translated by Ian Johnston. This is a Libra Rocks recording. All Libra Rocks recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit Libra Rocks.org. Recording by Corey Samuel. In the last decades interest in hunger artists has declined considerably. Whereas in earlier days there was good money to be earned putting on major productions of this sort under one's own management. Nowadays that is totally impossible. Those were different times. Back then the hunger artist captured the attention of the entire city. From day to day while the fasting lasted participation increased. Everyone wanted to see the hunger artist at least daily. During the final days there were people with subscription tickets who sat all day in front of the small barred cage. And there were even viewing hours at night their impact heightened by torchlight. On fine days the cage was dragged out into the open air and then the hunger artist was put on display particularly for the children. While for grown ups the hunger artist was often merely a joke something they participated in because it was fashionable. The children looked on amazed. Their mouths open holding each other's hands for safety as he sat there on scattered straw spurning a chair in black tights looking pale with his ribs sticking out prominently sometimes nodding politely answering questions with a forced smile even sticking his arm out through the bars to let people feel how emaciated he was. But then completely sinking back into himself so that he paid no attention to anything not even to what was so important to him the striking of the clock which was the single furnishing in the cage. Merely looking out in front of him with his eyes almost shut and now and then sipping from a tiny glass of water to moisten his lips. Apart from the changing groups of spectators there were also constant observers chosen by the public. Strangely enough they were usually butchers. Who, always three at a time were given the task of observing the hunger artist day and night so that he didn't get something to eat in some secret manner. It was, however, merely a formality introduced to reassure the masses. For those who understood knew well enough that during the period of fasting the hunger artist would never, under any circumstances, have eaten the slightest thing not even if compelled by force. The honour of his art forbade it. Naturally, none of the watchers understood that. Sometimes there were nightly groups of watchers who carried out their vigil very laxly deliberately sitting together in a distant corner and putting all their attention into playing cards there clearly intending to allow the hunger artist a small refreshment which, according to their way of thinking he could get from some secret supplies. Nothing was more excruciating to the hunger artist than such watchers. They depressed him. They made his fasting terribly difficult. Sometimes he overcame his weakness and sang during the time they were observing for as long as he could keep it up to show people how unjust their suspicions about him were. But that was little help. For then they just wandered among themselves about his skill at being able to eat even while singing. He much preferred the observers who sat down right against the bars and not satisfied with the dim backlighting of the room illuminated him with electric flashlights. The glaring light didn't bother him in the slightest. Generally he couldn't sleep at all and he could always doze under any lighting and at any hour even in an overcrowded noisy auditorium. With such observers he was very happily prepared to spend the entire night without sleeping. He was very pleased to joke with them to recount stories from his nomadic life and then in turn to listen to their stories doing everything just to keep them awake so that he could keep showing them once again that he had nothing to eat in his cage and that he was fasting as none of them could. He was happiest, however, when morning came and a lavish breakfast was brought for them at his own expense on which they hurled themselves with the appetite of healthy men after a hard night's work without sleep. True. There were still people who wanted to see in this breakfast an unfair means of influencing the observers but that was going too far. And if they were asked whether they wanted to undertake the observers night shift for its own sake without the breakfast, they excused themselves. But nonetheless they stood by their suspicions. However, it was in general part of fasting that these doubts were inextricably associated with it. For in fact, no one was in a position to spend time watching the hunger artist every day and night so no one could know on the basis of his own observation whether this was a case of truly uninterrupted, flawless fasting. The hunger artist himself was the only one who could know that and at the same time the only spectator capable of being completely satisfied with his own fasting. But the reason he was never satisfied was something different. Perhaps it was not fasting at all which made him so very emaciated that many people, to their own regret, had to stay away from his performance because they couldn't bear to look at him. But he was also so skeletal out of dissatisfaction with himself because he alone knew something that even initiates didn't know how easy it was to fast. It was the easiest thing in the world. About this he did not remain silent but people did not believe him. At best they thought he was being modest most of them, however, believed he was a publicity seeker or a total swindler for whom, at all events, fasting was easy because he understood how to make it easy and then had the nerve to half-admit it. He had to accept all that. Over the years he had become accustomed to it. But this dissatisfaction kept gnawing at his insides all the time and never yet and this one had to say to his credit had he left the cage of his own free will after any period of fasting. The impresario had set the maximum length of time for the fast at forty days. He would never allow the fasting to go on beyond that point not even in the cosmopolitan cities and in fact he had a good reason. Experience had shown that for about forty days one could increasingly whip up a city's interest by gradually increasing advertising but that then the people turned away one could demonstrate a significant decline in popularity. In this respect there were, of course, small differences among towns and among different countries but as a rule it was true that forty days was the maximum length of time. So then on the fortieth day the door of the cage which was covered with flowers was opened an enthusiastic audience filled the amphitheatre a military band played two doctors entered the cage in order to take the necessary measurements of the hunger artist the results were announced to the auditorium through a megaphone and finally two young ladies arrived happy about the fact that they were the ones who had just been selected by lot seeking to lead the hunger artist down a couple of steps out of the cage where on a small table a carefully chosen hospital meal was laid out and at this moment the hunger artist always fought back of course he still freely laid his bony arms in the helpful outstretched hands of the ladies bending over him but he did not want to stand up why stop right now after forty days he could have kept going for even longer for an unlimited length of time why stop right now when he was in his best form indeed not yet even in his best fasting form why did people want to rob him of the fame of fasting longer not just so that he could become the greatest hunger artist of all time which he probably was already but also so that he could surpass himself in some unimaginable way for he felt there were no limits to his capacity for fasting why did this crowd which pretended to admire him so much have so little patience with him if he kept going and kept fasting longer why would they not tolerate it then too he was tired and felt good sitting in the straw now he was supposed to stand up straight and tall and go to eat something which when he just imagined it made him feel nauseous right away with great difficulty he repressed mentioning this only out of consideration for the women and he looked up into the eyes of these women apparently so friendly but in reality so cruel and shook his excessively heavy head on his feeble neck but then happened what always happened the impresario came and in silence the music made talking impossible raised his arms over the hunger artist as if inviting heaven to look upon its work here on the straw this unfortunate martyr something the hunger artist certainly was only in a completely different sense then grabbed the hunger artist around his thin waist in the process wanting with his exaggerated caution to make people believe that here he had to deal with something fragile and handed him over not without secretly shaking him a little so that the hunger artist's legs and upper body swung back and forth uncontrollably to the women who had in the meantime turned as pale as death at this point the hunger artist endured everything his head lay on his chest it was as if it had inexplicably rolled around and just stopped there his body was arched back his legs in an impulse of self-preservation pressed themselves together at the knees but scraped the ground as if they were not really on the floor but were looking for the real ground and the entire weight of his body admittedly very small lay against one of the women who appealed for help with flustered breath for she had not imagined her post of honor would be like this and then stretched her neck as far as possible to keep her face from the least contact with the hunger artist but then when she couldn't manage this and her more fortunate companion didn't come to her assistance but trembled and remained content to hold in front of her the hunger artist's hand that small bundle of knuckles she broke into tears to the delighted laughter of the auditorium and had to be relieved by an attendant who had been standing ready for some time then came the meal the impresario put a little food into the mouth of the hunger artist now half unconscious as if fainting and kept up a cheerful patter designed to divert attention away from the hunger artist's condition then a toast was proposed to the public which was supposedly whispered to the impresario by the hunger artist the orchestra confirmed everything with a great fanfare people dispersed and no one had the right to be dissatisfied with the event no one except the hunger artist he was always the only one he lived this way taking small regular breaks for many years apparently in the spotlight honoured by the world but for all that his mood was usually gloomy and it kept growing gloomier all the time because no one understood how to take him seriously but how was he to find consolation what was there left for him to wish for and if a good-natured man who felt sorry for him ever wanted to explain to him that his sadness probably came from his fasting then it could happen that the hunger artist responded with an outburst of rage and began to shake the bars like an animal frightening everyone but the impresario had a way of punishing moments like this something he was happy to use he would make an apology for the hunger artist to the assembled public conceding that the irritability had been provoked only by his fasting something quite intelligible to well-fed people and capable of excusing the behavior of the hunger artist without further explanation from there he would move on to speak about the equally hard to understand claim of the hunger artist that he could go on fasting for much longer than he was doing he would praise the lofty striving the good will and the great self-denial no doubt contained in this claim but then would try to contradict it simply by producing photographs which were also on sale for in the pictures one could see the hunger artist on the 40th day of his fast in bed almost dead from exhaustion although the hunger artist was very familiar with this perversion of the truth it always strained his nerves again and was too much for him what was a result of the premature ending of the fast people were now proposing as its cause it was impossible to fight against this lack of understanding against this world of misunderstanding in good faith he always listened eagerly to the impresario at the bars of his cage but each time once the photographs came out he would let go of the bars and with a sigh sink back into the straw and a reassured public could come up again and view him when those who had witnessed such scenes thought back on them a few years later often they were unable to understand themselves for in the meantime that change mentioned above had set in it happened almost immediately there may have been more profound reasons for it but who bothered to discover what they were at any rate one day the pampered hunger artist saw himself abandoned by the crowd of pleasure seekers who preferred to stream to other attractions the impresario chased around half of europe one more time with him to see whether he could still rediscover the old interest here and there it was all futile it was as if a secret agreement against the fasting performances had developed everywhere naturally it couldn't really have happened all at once and people later remembered some things which in the days of intoxicating success they hadn't paid sufficient attention to some inadequately suppressed indications but now it was too late to do anything to counter them of course it was certain that the popularity of fasting would return once more someday but for those now alive that was no consolation what was the hunger artist to do now a man whom thousands of people had cheered on could not display himself in show booths at small funfairs the hunger artist was not only too old to take up a different profession but was fanatically devoted to fasting more than anything else so he said farewell to the impresario an incomparable companion on his life's road and let himself be hired by a large circus in order to spare his own feelings he didn't even look at the terms of his contract at all a large circus with its huge number of men animals and gimmicks which are constantly being let go and replenished can use anyone at any time even a hunger artist provided of course his demands are modest moreover in this particular case it was not only the hunger artist himself who was engaged but also his old and famous name in fact given the characteristic nature of his art which was not diminished by his advancing age one could never claim that a worn-out artist who no longer stood the pinnacle of his ability wanted to escape to a quiet position in the circus on the contrary the hunger artist declared that he could fast just as well as in earlier times something that was entirely credible indeed he even affirmed that if people would let him do what he wanted and he was promised this without further ado he would really now legitimately amaze the world for the first time an assertion which however given the mood of the time which the hunger artist in his enthusiasm easily overlooked only brought smiles from the experts however basically the hunger artist had not forgotten his sense of the way things really were and he took it as self-evident that people would not set him and his cage up as the star attraction somewhere in the middle of the arena but would move him outside in some other readily accessible spot near the animal stalls huge brightly painted signs surrounded the cage and announced what there was to look at there during the intervals in the main performance when the general public pushed out towards the menagerie in order to see the animals they could hardly avoid moving past the hunger artist and stopping there a moment they would perhaps have remained with him longer if those pushing up behind them in the narrow passage way who did not understand this pause on the way to the animal stalls they wanted to see had not made a longer peaceful observation impossible this was also the reason why the hunger artist began to tremble at these visiting hours which he naturally used along for as the main purpose of his life in the early days he could hardly wait for the pauses in the performances he had looked forward with delight to the crowd pouring around him until he became convinced only too quickly and even the most stubborn almost deliberate self-deception could not hold out against the experience that judging by their intentions most of these people were again and again without exception only visiting the menagerie and this view from a distance still remained his most beautiful moment for when they had come right up to him he immediately got an earful from the shouting of the two steadily increasing groups the ones who wanted to take their time looking at the hunger artist not with any understanding but on a whim or from mere defiance for him these ones were soon the more painful and a second group of people whose only demand was to go straight to the animal stalls once the large crowds had passed the latecomers would arrive and although there was nothing preventing these people any more from sticking around for as long as they wanted they rushed past with long strides almost without a sideways glance forget to the animals in time and it was an all too rare stroke of luck when the father of a family came by with his children pointed his finger at the hunger artist gave a detailed explanation about what was going on here and talked of earlier years when he had been present at similar but incomparably more magnificent performances and then the children because they had been inadequately prepared at school and in life always stood around still uncomprehendingly what was fasting to them but nonetheless the brightness of the look in their searching eyes revealed something of new and more gracious times coming perhaps the hunger artist said to himself sometimes everything would be a little better if his location were not quite so near the animal stalls that way it would be easy for people to make their choice to say nothing of the fact that he was very upset and constantly depressed by the stink from the stalls the animals commotion at night the pieces of raw meat dragged past him for the carnivorous beasts and the roars at feeding time but he did not dare to approach the administration about it in any case he had the animals to thank for the crowds of visitors among whom here and there there could be one destined for him and who knew where they would hide him if you wished to remind them of his existence and along with that of the fact that strictly speaking he was only an obstacle on the way to the menagerie a small obstacle at any rate a constantly diminishing obstacle people got used to the strange notion that in these times they would want to pay attention to a hunger artist and with this habitual awareness the judgment on him was pronounced he might fast as well as he could and he did but nothing could save him anymore people went straight past him try to explain the art of fasting to anyone if someone doesn't feel it then he cannot be made to understand it the beautiful signs became dirty and illegible people tore them down and no one thought of replacing them the small table with the number of days the fasting had lasted which early on had been carefully renewed every day remained unchanged for a long time for after the first weeks the staff grew tired of even this small task and so the hunger artist kept fasting on and on as he once had dreamed about in earlier times and he had no difficulty succeeding in achieving what he had predicted back then but no one was counting the days no one not even the hunger artist himself knew how great his achievement was by this point and his heart grew heavy and when once in a while a person strolling past stood there making fun of the old number and talking of a swindle that was in a sense the stupidest lie which indifference and innate maliciousness could invent for the hunger artist was not being deceptive he was working honestly but the world was cheating him of his reward many days went by once more and this too came to an end finally the cage caught the attention of a supervisor and he asked the attendant why they had left this perfectly useful cage standing here unused with rotting straw inside nobody knew until one man with the help of the table with the number on it remembered the hunger artist they pushed the straw around with a pole and found the hunger artist in there are you still fasting the supervisor asked when are you finally going to stop forgive me everything whispered the hunger artist only the supervisor who was pressing his ear up against the cage understood him certainly said the supervisor tapping his forehead with his finger in order to indicate to the spectators the state the hunger artist was in we forgive you i always wanted you to admire my fasting said the hunger artist but we do admire it said the supervisor obligingly but you shouldn't admire it said the hunger artist well then we don't admire it said the supervisor but why shouldn't we admire it because i had the fast i can't do anything else said the hunger artist just look at you said the supervisor why can't you do anything else because said the hunger artist lifting his head a little and with his lips pursed as if for a kiss speaking right into the supervisor's ear so that he wouldn't miss anything because i couldn't find a food which i enjoyed if i had found that believe me i would not have made a spectacle of myself and would have eaten to my heart's content like you and everyone else those were his last words but in his failing eyes there was the firm if no longer proud conviction that he was continuing to fast all right tidy this up now said the supervisor and they buried the hunger artist along with the straw but in his cage they put a young panther even for a person with the dullest mind it was clearly refreshing to see this wild animal throwing itself around in this cage which had been dreary for such a long time it lacked nothing without thinking about it for any length of time the guards brought the animal food it enjoyed the taste and never seemed to miss its freedom this noble body equipped with everything necessary almost to the point of bursting also appeared to carry freedom around with it that seemed to be located somewhere or other in its teeth and its joy and living came with such strong passion from its throat that it was not easy for spectators to keep watching but they controlled themselves kept pressing around the cage and had no desire to move on end of a hunger artist by friends kafka translated by ian johnston