 An Inconvenient Acquaintance by Helen Berkley Mr. Loramir is not at home, sir, replied a rosy cheeked Irish girl to the query of an individual in a shabby brown coat and strampless pantaloons that disclosed feet paired but not matched, who stood on the stoop of one of the most elegant mansions in Bond Street. Of course not, my dear, Mr. Loramir is never at home. But Mrs. Loramir is home, and Miss Loramir can't be out at this early hour. Mrs. Loramir is engaged, and so is Miss Loramir, pertinaciously replied the girl, for she recognized a certain leering smile about the thin mouth, and a shrewd wink of the gray link's eye, against the owner of which she had seen the waiter more than once close the door. You've a fine bloom, my dear, a fine bloom. You'd better show me to Mrs. Loramir, or I shall have to find my own way. Mrs. Loramir is engaged, sir. You'd better call again. Engaged, is she, said Mr. Badger, deliberately placing himself in a more comfortable leaning position against the door. Girl again! Eh! He slowly added, casting around a few furtive glances as though he were seeking a more accustomed passport to the lady's presence. Who's child is that, Mrs. Loramir's? the girl nodded. Come here, my pretty little child, here's something for you. Hallowed he to a red-haired young urchin, whose begrimed face was inquiriling protruding from behind her. Here's something for you! And he drew from his capacious pockets a handful of prunes and peanuts, and held it coaxingly towards the child. The boy at first drew back, and then, unable to withstand the temptation, bashfully approached, grasped the offered treasure, and would have made his escape, but Mr. Badger caught one of his arms. Where's your mama, little man? Here's another handful. Ma's in the back parlor, clearing the breakfast things. Well, tell her there's a gentleman who wants to see her, and I'll try what else I can find in my back pocket for you. Away ran the child towards the back parlor. The girl let go of the door to stop him. Mr. Badger seized that opportunity to step in the house, following as closely on the fugitives' heels as though he were quite at home in such pursuit. He entered the parlor just as the boy cried, Ma, somebody wants to see you! Mr. Badger bowed in the decorous, but now unfortunately obsolete, style of Louis King's. Nobody could have mistaken the glance of marked admiration with which he surveyed the fine person of the lady standing at the head of a disordered breakfast table. A small swab was in her delicate hand. She was busily engaged in washing French china cups. The lady colored, hastily drew her sleeve over a remarkably white arm, dried her hands, and rather haughtily demanded to what circumstances she was indebted for the visit. Mr. Badger bowed again as though he felt himself complimented. The lady said your ladyship was engaged, but I knew I should be no disturbance to your ladyship, and this beautiful boy, what a lovely face he has got, tenderly stroking the child's flame-colored hair. Here the mother's countenance relaxed into a half-smile, and she pushed a chair towards her guest. Your ladyship's child, I presume, resembles you vastly, else I should have supposed your ladyship too young to be his mother. Mrs. Loramere this time smiled positively and replied in a gentle tone, My only son, sir, indeed, a noble boy, what a head! You've heard of phrenology? Must take him to fowler, the phrenology-man, shouldn't wonder if he told you this child stood a chance of being president of the United States. Remarkable head! Shouldn't wonder at all myself at seeing him president. Great country, this great country! Take a seat, sir. Thank you, your ladyship, thank you, don't care if I do. Pretty carpet you have on the floor came from Chester's. All the house furnished with the same? That puts me in mind of business. Fact is, your ladyship, I called to see if I couldn't get Mr. Loramere. By the boy looks a little like him at the moment, got his dashing air to a tee. I was saying, your ladyship, I want to get Mr. Loramere to settle about this very carpet, Chester's growing impatient. Indeed, sir, I thought the carpet was paid for long ago. Oh, no, your ladyship, a slight mistake. Those china cups, too, pretty pattern, aren't they? Came from drummers, I've got a small demand for them. You surprised me, I chose the china myself, and I'm almost sure it was paid for at the time. Slight mistake, your ladyship, nothing more. Now if I could get your ladyship just to settle the case before Mr. Loramere and persuade him to give me a check for these things, I should esteem it a great favor. I certainly shall, sir. I am very much mortified to hear that the bill has stood so long. When shall I come again, your ladyship, this afternoon? If you please, we dine at half-past three. Mr. Loramere is always home to dinner. I shall speak to him without fail. Much obliged to you, your ladyship, Chester and Coe can't wait, nor drummer neither. I'll call this afternoon. Here are more prunes for you, sonny. What an eye he has got, his father's eye, just the eye for a great man. I'll call it half-past three, your ladyship. With these words Mr. Badger bowed himself backwards out of the room, as he limpingly ran down the steps with a habitual chuckle, which denoted particular satisfaction. He encountered one of his acquaintances. Hey, Brinsley! How are you getting on, my good fella? What Badger is that you? Like fortune I'm getting on so well, I'm not afraid of meeting you in the streets. That's what I call eloquent and explicit. Did you notice what an elegant house I came out of, been paying a visit to one of the loveliest women in New York? Great country, this great country! Mrs. Loramere, you've got an account against her husband, I suppose. But what did you go after the wife for? It's a peculiarity of mine, I like talking to handsome women. There's nothing like it in creation, I never trouble the husbands much till I see what I can doth with them through the wives. Nothing like getting a woman to help carry on a suit against her husband. I collect more bad debts from such pleading than any other. Nothing men hate like having the women know their affairs, and having them worry them into paying their debts. Great country, this. Are the women then always so anxious to pay? To be sure, sweet creatures, most of them have got conscious enough to make up the lack in their husbands' hearts, too. I've got a receipt of my own for getting at women's hearts. Who is this Loramere? Loramere, why he's a Wall Street broker, a man who's made a little money by speculating, lost six times as much he ever made, and has got the reputation of being worth all he made and lost together. This, because he lives in a large house and owns large sums to half the shopkeepers in New York. Great country, this great country. Is there any hope of him paying? He'll pay me every stiver. You'll see, everybody pays me. I lay my plans to suit my people. Don't catch sparrows and hawks in the same net. Loramere's father was a tailor. The old man was worth a mint of money and bought nothing when it fit with pride. He died, and the children inherited his pride and got none of his money. Young Loramere is turning a cold shoulder upon all of his friends, and trying to get into fashionable society. He's supposed wealth has gathered a troop of gay hangers on, like wasps around a beehive around him. Nothing he dreads so much as being cut by them. Now you see, but I can't tell you into my plans. The trains will late. Trust me for that. What an elegant young man that is walking in front of us. I wonder who that is. That, by the cut of his coat, that must be Bill Flashing, an acquaintance of mine. He's paying his addresses to a young woman with him. A fortune I hear. What an air she has. I don't doubt she's pretty. Excuse me, dear fellow. I have a bill in my pocket for $150, which my friend Flashing owes to his liverykeeper. I'll join him. What? Not when he's walking with a lady. I'll be sure. Why not? That's a very time to make an impression. Besides, I want to get a good look at her ladyship. If I get an answer from him, I'll join your father down. Mr. Badger withdrew his arm from Brinsley's, and a few limping steps forward, very unceremoniously placed the disengaged member within that of the astonished young thomp. Mr. Badger took no notice of the gentleman's discomposure, but staring at the young lady made one of his profound and graceful salutations. Mr. Brinsley purposefully passed them to enjoy the troubled look of the assailed young gentleman, the confusion of the bell, and the truly delightful ease and self-possessed grace of Mr. Badger. Mr. Brinsley walked a half dozen blocks before his friend joined him. Well, Badger, have you dropped your prey? Only given the fish a little of the line and with the bait in his mouth, flashing promise to see me tomorrow and fork out the shiners. Great country this, great country. Dried to put it off a week, but I kept close hold of his arms and looked at the girl as much as to say, what a fool he takes me for. His tight coat must have grown uncomfortable just then, so I should think from his fidgeting. Sweet girl she was, looked me from head to foot. All the women look at me. Nothing I like so well as a woman's eye. Great country this, finest women in the world. Where are you going to go now? To Wall Street. We are almost there. This is just the hour I know I shall catch a particular friend of mine with all his cronies around him. He'll have to shell out this time or I shall take up my quarters in his offices the rest of the day. I took lodgings once in the same house when I had a large debt to collect from him. I followed him around like a shadow. He couldn't turn without seeing me. He had to pay it last. Said he felt as if he was releasing a soul from old Nick. Here we are. Goodbye. I shall be engaged for an hour or two. Goodbye. Success to you. Mr. Badger entered the office. It was filled with persons busily engaged in conversation. Several of the group recognized him and looked somewhat inclined to get out of his way. Very good-naturedly, thrusting out his hand to each in turn, he generously dealt round a few hearty handshakes. He then put his head over the shoulder of a venerable-looking gentleman whose back was turned and cried out, Hey, Mr. Cash, my good sir, how do you do? Delighted to see you. It's with you I want to speak. What? Oh, Clovenhoof, is that you? Here again. Now I'll make a bargain with you. I'll pay you that bill and give you $10 to boot if you promise never to shut out the sunlight from these doors again and never take another bill against me in your life. Let any other man do it, but I can't stand your mode of proceeding. Done. Down with the dust, I'll never take another bill against you as long as I live, great country, this great country. There it is. Now the next time I meet you, I shall be saved from the sin of wishing you had a black cap drawn over your face. Badger took the money, gave his usual chuckle, bowed with the slight quick bow he kept in reserve for the male portion of the species and hobbled out of the office muttering. That's a man's a gentleman. He pays proper tribute to my talents. I'll never collect another bill against him as long as I live, great country, this great country. We shall not follow Mr. Badger in his morning visits, but take leave of him until a quarter past three. That hour found him once more on the steps of Mr. Loramere's mansion. His loud ring this time was answered by the waiter. The man's half uttered, Mr. Loramere is out, was interrupted by Mr. Badger. I have an appointment with Mrs. Loramere and pushing by the disconcerted attendant, he entered the drawing room. Mrs. Loramere, dressed in the richest attire, was sitting upon the sofa. She hardly noticed Mr. Badger's entrance. Her eyes looked red and there was a crimson spot on her cheek that betokened as much anger as grief. Mr. Badger gallantly sat himself beside her, stretched out his better foot foremost and in an insinuatingly sympathizing tone feared she was unwell. Thank you, sir, I am quite well. Your ladyship's beautiful little boy ill, perhaps? No, said the mother more courteously. He is well. Mr. Loramere not come home yet, your ladyship. Mr. Loramere dines out. He has just left me. Ah, indeed, suppose he'll be home to tea. I ain't much engaged this afternoon. I could wait. The lady gave him a supplicating glance and drew a deep sigh. He did not say when he would come back. He may not return until late at night. Here, Mrs. Loramere showed an evident desire to sob. Don't be distressed, your ladyship. I don't mind waiting at all, said he in a peculiarly tender tone, or perhaps I'll call again tomorrow. Be so good as to remind Mr. L. tonight. And again in the morning, and once more as he leaves the house of those little demands, I shall find it quite convenient to call tomorrow. Pray don't be distressed. I will certainly remind him, sir. I am mortified to death about them. They depend upon it. They shall be paid. I'm certain of it now that you've taken the matter into your own hands. Don't let me keep you from your dinner. I'll see you tomorrow, your ladyship, without fail. With this consoling assurance, Mr. Badger took his leave. The next morning, Mr. Loramere gave strict orders to the servants not to admit a gentleman with a long thin face, a white hat, and but one decent foot. Mr. Badger, who was gifted with some faculty resembling a second sight, had foreseen this. He paid no visit to Bond Street that day. About three o'clock, he entered a fashionable tailoring establishment on the corner of Wall Street and Broadway. How do you do, Mr. Scofield? How do you do, Mr. Badger? What can I do for you today? Nothing, thank you, but permit me to see what is going on in the world from these fine windows of yours. Certainly, sir. Mr. Badger carefully stationed himself in one corner of the large window which looks out upon Broadway. I wonder who that fellow is lying in wait for, said Scofield, one of his clerks. Here, William, watch and tell me whom he pounces upon. A number of Mr. Badger's friends, all persons from whom he had money to collect, he styled his intimate friends, passed by the window on their way to dinner. Still, he kept his post. At last two gentlemen of gay exterior and laughing very merrily came into sight. One was evidently foreign of at least supposed distinction. Badger, without stretched hand, rushed from his hiding place just as they came opposite to the door. How do you do, Loramere? Glad to see you, been looking for you all day. Introduce me to your friend. Count Morganini, is it not? Happy to make your acquaintance, sir. And Badger held out his enormous palm in preparation of a clasping the delicately gloved fingers of the count. Pray, excuse me, at present, Mr. Badger, said Loramere, I am particularly engaged. Shant detain you a minute, my dear fellow. Only want you to know when will you settle those accounts of chestering co- and drummers. I am so happy to make the counts acquaintance. Been long in this country, sir. See you're often in Broadway. Fine women we have here. Great country, this great country. The count gave a look which the pencil better than the pen could express. And dropping Mr. Loramere's arms silently bowed to him, then to Mr. Badger and sauntered down Broadway. This is too bad, Badger, exclaimed Loramere. I've been trying to get equated with that man for a month and have only just succeeded. Glad you did succeed. I attribute my own success to that. Did you see what a bow he gave me? Just take his bow, just when he had promised to ride out with me. You've put me out of humor. I can't listen to you now. No, well, I'll just walk towards home with you, seizing his arm. And you shall tell me when I shall call to see you. There's no house I like calling at better than yours. Sweet lady, that wife of yours, delightful to talk to. Mr. Loramere mutteringly coupled his wife's sweetness with expressions too emphatic for repetition. Excuse me now, I tell you, if there's money due for me, why don't you sue? Sue, sue, I tell you. You're welcome to sue tomorrow. That's not my way of transacting business. I sue for money myself till I get it. I'm my own lawyer and never lose a cause. I shall be late to dinner and I am going to jump into an omnibus. Good morning. I haven't done myself yet, said Badger, without releasing the captive arm. You take dinner on far meal, I suppose. I shouldn't mind taking a cut with you. I expect friends. Well, that makes no odds. I don't mind strangers. I'm hail fellow well met with all my friends, friends. Here comes an omnibus. I'll ride up with you. Mr. Loramere gave a look at the omnibus. It appeared full, leaping on the step and taking his stand in the front door. He called out lustily to the driver, go on. And before Mr. Badger could hobble up to him, the omnibus was dashing along at full speed. I'll worry you a little for this, my fine fellow, said he. As he turned to retrace his steps, I'll make the acquaintance of more of your acquaintances before I've done. There's no baffling nap, Badger. A couple of the days after the XX incident, Mrs. Loramere was in the parlor with some morning visitors whose carriage stood before the door. She felt particularly happy that day. Her only daughter, a young girl in the first bloom of womanhood, was sitting in the window trying to comprehend the delightful nothings of a promised young slip of the aristocracy. Her mother fondly believed he was aspiring to the daughter's hand. Suddenly the conversation was interrupted by a loud discussion between the waiter and another person at the door. A well-known voice struck upon Mrs. Loramere's ear. With ill disguise agitation, she rose herself to close the parlor door. This was the worst movement she could have made. Mr. Badger, who was trying to force his way past the waiter, caught a glimpse of her figure and rushing up to her, exclaimed, I'm delighted to see you, your ladyship. De-elighted, you're looking enchanting. Mr. Loramere at home? Suppose not, but I can wait. Without noticing Mrs. Loramere's half-uttered remonstrance or rather interpreting and receiving it as a welcome, the gentleman coolly entered the parlor. Mr. Badger, the lady at length mustered courage and voice to say, if you wish to see Mr. Loramere on business you will be more private in the back parlor if you will do me the favor to step in there. Thank you, thank you, your ladyship, no consequence in life. My business is never private. I'm a man too of much taste to be contented in any other room in the house except where the mistress is. And Mr. Badger bowed more profoundly than the present fashion of Petit Métre. A tire would permit many to imitate. But Mr. Badger, don't trouble yourself to apologize. I am quite comfortable here, dropping himself slowly into a luxurious armchair. That's Miss Loramere, I suppose, very like you. Your ladyship, how do you do, Miss? Never had the happiness of seeing you before. Your mother and myself are old acquaintances. Miss Loramere looked bewildered. The gentleman at her side stared. And after a few moments, feeling himself, we presume, a mixed, uncongenial spirit rose and took his leave. Miss Loramere, in resigned despair, attempted to resume the conversation with her guest. You were at young Mrs. Fletcher's soiree last night where you not demanded she. Before the lady-addressed could answer, Mr. Badger intersposed. Mrs. Fletcher, what? Harry Fletcher's wife? And acquaintance of mine. I know Hal very well. Strange affair about his father. I was just going to make them a visit. Finest chairs in his house I ever sat upon. I shall see if I can't get them settled for today. Great country it is, great country! Mrs. Loramere hurriedly went on. I hear Mrs. Delancey was the bell of the evening. Beg your pardon, your ladyship. This time addressing not Mrs. Loramere, but the lady beside him. What Mrs. Delancey is that? The wife of Alfred Delancey, who beat his first wife to death? I've bills against him for more thousands than he likes. Must be the same. His second wife's the handsomest woman in New York, great friend of mine. Just at this minute, Mr. Loramere entered, and the visitors rose to take their departure. Ah, Loramere, I've caught you at last. Delightful society you receive. I've been enjoying it exceedingly. Should like nothing better than sitting in your parlor a few hours every day. If you're willing, drawing up the right corner of his mouth and looking at the afflicted man out of his left eye in a manner peculiarly his own. Mr. Badger, I desire in the future that you will call me at my office. I have not been used to this treatment. You'll get accustomed to it, my dear fellow, under my administration. I make my calls to suit my own convenience. I'm glad to be so well received. When people find my visits troublesome, they know how to dispense with them. I'm a man of business, and never call but on business, although I take pleasure always at the same time. Troublesome, sir, why I never angrily began, Mr. Loramere. Why don't you pay him, Frank, and have done with it, whispered Mrs. Loramere, tears of mingled passion and mortification rolling down her cheeks. Permit me to settle my own affairs, madam, without your interference. Mrs. Loramere, weeping, left the room. Badger, call upon me tomorrow at 10, and I promise to pay for these confounding carpets. I can't stand this. And the China, too, if possible. Then good morning, don't fail me. I shan't fail you, you may be sure. Great country, this great country. With these words, Mr. Badger took his leave, but not without first insisting on a hearty handshake of his friend's hand. The next morning, at 10 precisely, one of the numerous bills in Mr. Badger's hands against Mr. Loramere was defrayed. This was but a drop in the bucket. Three or four more visits to the house were made ineffectually. The waiter had learnt his ring, or discovered his presence through some secret loophole. He never gained admittance. But as Mr. Badger himself expressed it, he was not a man to be baffled. He waited a full month for a good opportunity of putting his ingenious designs into execution. Mrs. Loramere issued cards for a party, at which she hoped to assemble the elite of the city. Of course, she must have forgotten my invitation, argued Mr. Badger to himself. No matter, I won't stand on ceremony with friends. Beautiful as Martel's and Ms. Whittingham's skill to say nothing of nature's could make her looked Mrs. Loramere on the evening of the ball. She stood in the blaze of light at one end of her splendid drawing room and the gaily dressed figures that hovered around her in addition to the coronet of diamonds that circled her fair brow gave her the air of a sovereign receiving the homage of her devoted subjects. The persons she desired most to see were present. Kendall's band had arrived. Weller had surpassed himself in the arrangements of the supper table. Her triumph was complete. The evening was far advanced. Most of the guests were assembled. An unusually loud ring turned Mrs. Loramere's expectant glance to the door. She would rather, at the moment, have seen a ghost than the form which, arrayed in its usual ultra, Sunday best, presented itself to her view. How do you do, your ladyship? Vossa-reforated Mr. Badger, the moment he distinguished Mrs. Loramere, delighted to see you looking so charmingly. Seizing the lady's hand in his own, he gave it an unusually lusty shake. Miss Loramere, at that moment, crossed the room. Badger let go of the mother's hand, elbowed his way through the crowd, and striding up to the fair young lady, loudly accosted her by name. The frightened maiden drew back, repressing a cry of astonishment. The guests rose to survey the stranger whose appearance created such a sensation. Mr. Loramere, who, from the back parlor, heard that there was some disturbance, little suspecting its nature, now innocently made his appearance. Badger pounced upon his hand, the instant it was within his reach. De-lighted to see you, my dear fellow, de-lighted. Mr. Loramere was speechless. With a bewildered look, at last, he drew Badger's arm in his and led him to a more retired part of the next room. Really, Badger, this intrusion is beyond endurance. Not so much beyond endurance as being kept ringing the bell at your street door half an hour every day of a cold winter's morning and then finding the door remained shut. You should keep better servants, my dear fellow, indeed you should. But, Mr. Badger, but, my dear friend, if you don't like my company, you know how to get rid of it. I never come to a party to which people have forgotten to send me an invitation unless I carry such an invite as this in my pocket. Positively, you shall have the money if you call it my office tomorrow. That's all I want. Now, I'll just stay to get a little refreshment and then be off for I don't admire late hours myself. Great country, this great country. While this conversation was going on, the whisper of, who is he? What is he? Ran round the rooms in many tones as there are keys to a piano. I shouldn't wonder if he was a constable, said one. Really, what shocking people to visit. I shall drop them after this. I can't imagine who he is, lisp an intellectual looking young man who had been inventsing some dexterity in keeping out of Badger's sight. It's Badger, the collector, squeak the crack voice of a gossiping old maid. I've heard he comes here every day. They say there's not an article in the house paid for. How dreadful, but it's what I suspected. So did I, I always said. The lady would have continued to prove her prognosticating sagacity had not Mrs. Laura Mere at that moment overhearing the remarks made about her fallen into violent hysterics. She was carried away out of the room followed by her husband and daughter. During their absence, most of the guests dispersed but not until Mr. Badger had recognized all his particular friends, shaken hands with them and informed them what a great country they lived in. A couple of months after the above occurrence, the following conversation took place between Mr. and Mrs. Laura Mere. I am so happy, Frank, said the lady, that we are going to have the auction tomorrow and that you will really pay those horrid bills and let me live in peace, even though we do have to find peace in lodgings. Well, I see very little use in not paying them or living in the style we have been doing since every friend worth having has dropped us ever since that unfortunate ball, Mrs. Weathercock and Mrs. Grayston and Mrs. Delamere and all that said have never been near us. And Laura's lover, Mr. Florentine, never called after that day he met Mr. Badger, did he? Never. Well, I will stipulate never to see any of them again. If I can only be sure that I have taken my last look of Mr. Badger's face, after tomorrow I may promise you with safety, my dear, that he shall never claim further friendship with us. And the next time you find me running into any unwarrantable extravagance, just whisper in my ear, will you? Remember your friend, the collector. End of, An Inconvenient Acquaintance, by Helen Berkeley. A King's Lesson, by William Morris, 1834 to 1896. This is a LibriVox recording, while LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. A King's Lesson. It is told of Matthias Gravenus, King of Hungary, the Alfred the Great of his time and people that he once heard, once only, that some, only some, my lad, of his peasants were overworked and underfed. So he sent for his counsel, and bade come there too, also some of the mayors of the good towns, and some of the lords of land, and their bailiffs, and asked them of the truth thereof. And in diverse ways they all told one and the same tale, how the peasant carls were stout and well able to work, and had enough and to spare of meat and drink, seeing that they were but churls, and how, if they worked not at the least as hard as they did, it would be ill for them and ill for their lords, for that the more the churl hath, the more he asketh, and that when he knoweth wealth, he knoweth the lack of it also, as it fared with our first parents in the Garden of God. The king sat and said but little while they speak, but he misdoubted them that they were liars. So the counsel break up with nothing done, but the king took the matter to heart, being as kings go, a just man, besides being more valiant than they mostly were even in the old feudal time. So within two or three days, says the tale, he called together such lords and counselors as he deemed fittest, and bade busk them for a ride, and when they were ready he, and they set out, over rough and smooth, decked out in all the glory of attire, which was the want of those days. Thus they rode till they came to some village or thorp of the peasant folk, and threw it to the vineyards, where men were working on the sunny southern slopes that went up from the river. My tale does not say whether that were Thysse or Donal, or what river. Well I judge it was late spring or early summer, and the vines but just beginning to show their grapes, for the vintage is late in those lands, and some of the grapes are not gathered till the first frosts have touched them, whereby the wine made from them is the stronger and sweeter. Anyhow there were the peasants, men and women, boys and young maidens, toiling and swinking, some hoeing between the vine-rose, some bearing baskets of dung up the steep slopes, some in one way, some in another, laboring for the fruit they should never eat, and the wine they should never drink. There to turn the king and got off his horse, and began to climb up the stony ridges of the vineyard, and his lords in like manner followed him, wondering in their hearts what was toward, but to the one who was following next after him he turned about and said with a smile, Ye lords, this is a new game we are playing today, and a new knowledge will come from it, and the lords smiled, but somewhat sourly. As for the peasants, great was their fear of those gay and golden lords. I judged that they did not know the king, since it was little likely that any one of them had seen his face, and they knew of him, but as the great father, the mighty warrior who kept the Turk from harrying their thorp. Though for sooth little matter was it to any man there, whether Turk or Magyar, was their overlord. Since to one master or another they had to pay the do-tail of laboring days in the year, and hard was a livelihood that they earned for themselves on the days when they worked for themselves, and their wives, and children. Well, like they knew not the king, but amidst those rich lords they saw and knew their own lord, and of him they were sore afraid, but not it availed them to flee away from those strong men and strong horses, they who had been toiling from before the rising of the sun, and to now it wanted little more than an hour of noon, besides with the king and lords was a guard of crossbowmen who were left to the other side of the vineyard wall, keen-eyed itelians of the mountains, straight shooters of the boat. So the poor folk fled not, nay, they made as if this were none of their business, and went on with their work. For indeed each man said to himself, if I be the one that is not slain tomorrow, I shall let bread if I do not work my hardest to-day, and maybe I shall be headman if some of these be slain, and I live. Now comes the king amongst them and says, good fellows, which of you is the headman? Spake a man's dirty and sun-burnt, well on in years and grizzled, I am the headman, Lord. Give me thy hoe, then, says the king, for now shall I order this matter myself, since his lords desire a new game, and are feigned to work under me at vine-dressing. But do thou stand by me and set me right if I order them wrong, but the rest of you go play. The carl knew not what to think, and let the lords stand with his hand stretched out, while he looked to skance at his own lord and baron, who wagged his head at him grimly, as one who says, do it, dog! Then the carl let the hoe come into the king's hand, and the king falls too, and orders his lords for vine-dressing to each his due share of the work, and whilst the carl said yea, and whilst nay to his ordering. And then ye should have seen velvet cloaks cast off, and mantles of fine, Flemish scarlet go to the dusty earth, as the lords and knights busked them to the work. So they buckled too, and to most of them it seemed good game to play at vine-dressing. But one there was who, when his scarlet cloak came off, stood up in a doublet of glorious Persian web of gold and silk, such as men make not now, worth a hundred florins, the Bremen El. Unto him the king, with no smile on his face, gave the job of towing and froing up and down the hill, with the biggest and the frailest dung-basket that there was, and there at the silken lords grewed up a grin. That was sport to see, and all the lords laughed, and as he turned away he said, yet so that none heard him, Do I serve this son-son of a whore, that he should bid me carry dung? For you must know that the king's father, John Huynyad, one of the great warriors of the world, the hammer of the Turks, was not gotten in wedlock, though he were a king's son. Well, they sped the work bravely for a while, and loud was the laughter as the hose smote the earth, and the flintstones tinkled, and the cloud of dust rose up. The brocaded dung-bearer went up and down, pursing and swearing by the white god and the black, and one would say to another, See ye how gentle blood outgoes curl's blood, even when the gentle does the curl's work. These lazy loons smote but one stroke, two hour three. But the king, who worked no worse than any, laughed not at all. And meanwhile the poor folks stood by, not daring to speak a word, one to the other, for they were still so afraid, not now of being slain on the spot, but this rather was in their hearts. These great and strong lords and knights have come to see what work a man may do without dying. If we are to have yet more days added to our year's tale of lords' labor, then we are lost without remedy, and their hearts sink within them. So sped the work, and the sun rose yet higher in the heavens, and it was noon and more. And now there was no more laughter among those toiling lords, and the strokes of the hoe and maddock came far slower, while the dung-bearer sat down at the bottom of the hill, and looked out on the river. But the king yet worked on doggedly, so for shame the other lords yet kept at it. Till at last the next man to the king let his hoe drop with a platter, and swore a great oath. Now he was a strong black-bearded man in the prime of life, a valiant captain of that famous black band that had so often rent the Turkish array, and the king loved him for his dirty valor. So he says to him, Is that wrong, captain? Nay, lords says he. Ask the headman, Carl Yonder, what ails us. Headman says to king, What ails these strong knights? Have I ordered them wrongly? Nay, but shurking ails them, lord, says he, For they are weary, and no wonder, for they have been plain hard, and are of gentle blood. Is this so, says the king, that ye are weary already? Then the rest hung their heads, and said not. All saved the captain of war, and he said, Being a bold man and no liar, King, I see what thou wouldest be at. Thou hast brought us here to preach us a sermon from that Plato of Daring, and to save Soothe, so that I may Swink no more, and go eat my dinner. Now preach thy worst. Nay, if thou wilt be priest, I will be thy deacon. Wilt thou that I ask this laboring Carl a thing or two? Ye, said the king, and there came, as it were, A cloud of thought over his face. Then the captain straddled his legs, and looked big, And said to the Carl, Good fellow, how long have you been Working here? Two hours are there about, judging by the sun above us, Says he. And how much of thy work have we done in that while? Says the captain, and winks his eye at him with all. Lord, says the pearl, grinning a little despite himself, Be not wroth with my word. In the first half hour ye did five and forty minutes work Of ours, and in the next half hour scanty a thirty minutes Work, and in the third half hour a fifteen minutes work, And in the fourth half hour two minutes work. The grin now had faded from his face, But a gleam came into his eyes, as he said, And now as I suppose your day's work is done, And ye will go to your dinner, and eat the sweet, And drink the strong, and we shall eat a little rye bread, And then be working here till after the sun has set, And the moon has begun to cast shadows. Now for you I want not how ye shall sleep nor wear, Nor what white body ye shall hold in your arms, While the night flits and the stars shine. But for us, while the stars yet shine, Shall we be at it again, and be think ye for what? I know not what game and play ye shall be devising For tomorrow as ye ride back home, But for us, when we come back here tomorrow, It shall be as if there had been no yesterday, And nothing done therein, and that work of that today Shall be not to us also, for we shall win no respite From our toil thereby, and the moral of tomorrow Will all be to begin again once more, and so on, And on till no tomorrow abideth us. Therefore if ye are thinking to lay some new tax Or tail upon us, think twice of it, for we may not bear it, And all this I say with a less fear, Because I perceive this man here beside me In the black velvet jerkin, and the gold chain on his neck Is the king, nor do I think he will slay me for my word, Since he hath so many turk before him, and his mighty sword. Then the captain, shall I smite the man, O king, Or hath he preached thy sermon for thee? Smite not, for he hath preached it, said the king, Harken to the carol's sermon, lords and counselors of mine, Yet when another hath spoken our thought, Other thoughts are born therefrom, And now I have another sermon to preach, But I will refrain me as now. Let us down to our dinner. So they went, the king and his gentles, And sat down by the river under the rustle of the poplars, And they ate and drank, and were merry. And the king bade bear up the broken meats to the vine-dressers, And a good draught of the archer's wine, And to the headman he gave a broad gold piece, And to each man three silver pennies. But when the poor folk had all that under their hands, It was to them as though the kingdom of heaven had come down to earth. In the cool of the evening, home rode the king and his lords. The king was distraught and silent, but at last the captain, Who rode beside him, said to him, Preach me now thine after-sermon, O king! I think thou knowest it already, said the king, Else hathest thou not spoken in such wise to the carol. But tell me what is thy craft, and the craft of all these, Whereby ye live, as the potter, by making pots, and so forth. Said the captain, as the potter lives, by making pots, So we live by robbing the poor. Again said the king, and my trade. Said he, thy trade is to be a king of such thieves, Yet no worse are than the rest. The king laughed. Bear that in mind, said he, and then shall I tell thee my thought, While yonder carol spake. Carol, I thought, ride thou, or such as thou, Then would I take in my hand a sword or a spear, Or word only a head stake, and bid others to do the like, And forthwith would we go. And since we would be so many, and with not to lose, Save a miserable life, we would do battle and prevail, And make an end of the craft of kings, and of lords, and of usurers. And there should be but one craft in the world, to it, To work merrily for ourselves, and to live merrily thereby. Said the captain, This then is thy sermon, who will heed it if thou preach it? Said the king, they who will take the mad king, And put him in a king's madhouse, Therefore do I forbear to preach it. Yet it shall be preached. And not heeded, said the captain, Saved by those who hid, and hanged the setters forth Of new things that are good for the world. Our trade is safe for many and many a generation. And therewith they came to the king's palace, And they ate and drank and slept, and the world went on its ways. And of a king's lesson by William Morris, 1834 to 1896. Madman by Maurice Laval He was neither wicked nor cruel, but he hungered for the unexpected. The theatre did not interest him, yet he attended often, Hoping for the outbreak of a fire. He went to the fair at Nulee to see if perhaps One of the menagerie animals might go wild and mangle its trainer. Once he even visited the bullring, but its calculated bloodshed was mundane, too controlled. Meaningless suffering revolted him. He craved the thrill of sudden catastrophe. Then, after ten years of waiting, fire indeed ravaged the opera comique one night When he was there. He escaped uninjured, but soon afterwards he saw the celebrated Lion Tamer Frederick torn to pieces by his cats. The madman was only a few feet away from the cage when it happened. He lost interest in wild beast shows and the theatre, and fell into a deep depression. But then one morning he saw a garish poster, one of many that covered the walls of Paris. Against a blue background, a peculiar slanted track descended, curled itself into a circular loop, and then plummeted straight down. The top of the billboard depicted a tiny cyclist about to dare the dangerous route. The newspapers ran the story explaining that the cyclist intended to ride down just such a track. When I reached the loop, he told reporters, you'll actually see me round it upside down. The press was invited to inspect the track and the bicycle. I used no mechanical trickery, the daredevil bragged. Nothing but precise scientific calculation. That, and my ability to keep up my nerve. When the madman read the article, his good spirits returned. He immediately went to buy a ticket. He did not want his attention distracted when the writer looped the loop. So he purchased an entire box of seats opposite the track, and sat alone on opening night. After a suspenseful wait, the cyclist appeared high above the audience at the top of the ribbon of road. A moment of tense anticipation. Then down he sped. As promised, he circled the loop with head underneath, and feet in the air. And then it was all over. The performance certainly thrilled the madman, but as he exited with the crowd, he knew he might experience the same intense sensation once or twice more. And then, as always, the novelty would die. Still, bicycles break, roads surfaces wear out, and no man's nerve holds out forever. Sooner or later there would be an accident. The cyclist was scheduled to perform for three months in Paris, and then toured the provinces. The madman decided to go to every single performance, even if he had to follow the show on its travels. He bought the same box for the entire Parisian run, and sat in the same seat, night after night. One evening, two months later, the performance had just ended, and the madman was on his way out, when he noticed the performer standing in one of the corridors of the auditorium. He walked up to him, but before he could utter a word, the cyclist greeted him affably. I know you. You come to my show every night. That's true. Your remarkable feet fascinates me. But who told you I'm always here? No one, the writer smiled. I see you myself. But how can you so high up? At such a moment, are you actually able to study the audience? The cyclist laughed. Hardly. It'd be dangerous for me to look at the crowd shifting around and prattling. But, confidentially, there's a little trick involved in what I do. A trick? The madman was surprised and dismayed. No, no, I don't mean a hoax. But there's something I do which the public is unaware of. The cyclist winked. This'll be our little secret, yes? When I mount my bicycle and grasp the handlebars, I never worry about my own strength and coordination. But the total concentration the ride demands concerns me. It's almost impossible for me to empty my mind of all but one idea. My greatest danger is that my eyes may stray. But here's my trick. I find one spot in the auditorium and focus all my attention on it. The first time I rode in this hall, I spied you in your box, and chose you as my spot. Next evening there you were again. The madman sat in his customary seat. The usual excited buzz filled the hall. A hush fell when the rider made his entrance, a black speck far overhead. Two men held his bicycle. The cyclist gripped the handlebars, stared out over the heads of the crowd, and shouted the signal. The man gave the machine a shove. At that instant the madman rose and walked to the opposite side of his box. The audience screamed as the cycle and the rider shot off the track and plunged into the midst of the crowd. The madman donned his coat, smoothed his hat against one sleeve, and departed. The end of The Madman by Maurice Lavel. A mad world from a cynic looks at life by Ambrose Beers. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by Dale Grossman. A Mad World by Ambrose Beers. Let us suppose that in tracing its cycloidal curves through the unthinkable reaches of space traversed by the solar system our planet should pass through a belt of attenuated matter having the property of dementing us. It is a conception easily enough entertained. That space is full of maligned conditions incontinuously distributed. That we are, at one time, traversing a zone comparatively innocuous and at another spinning through a region of infection. That, away behind us in the wake of our swirling flight, are fields of plague and pain still agitated by our passage through them. All this is as good as known. It is almost as certain as it is that in our little annual circle around the sun are points at which we are stoned and brick batted, like a pig in a potato patch, pelted with little nodules of meteoric metal flung like gravel, and bombarded with gigantic masses hurled by God knows what. What strange adventures await us in those yet untraveled regions through which we speed? Into what maligned conditions may we not at any time plunge? To the strength and stress of what frightful environment may we not at last succumb. The subject lends itself readily enough to a jest, but I am not jesting. It is really altogether probable that our solar system, racing through space with inconceivable velocity, will one day enter a region charged with something deleterious to the human brain. By the way, dear reader, have you ever happened to consider the possibility that you are a lunatic and perhaps confined in an asylum? It seems to you that you are not, that you go with freedom where you will, and use a sweet reasonableness in all your works and ways. But to many a lunatic it seems that he is Ramsay's too, or the whole car of Indora. Many a plunging maniac, ironed to the floor of a cell, believes himself the goddess of liberty, careening gaily through the Ten Commandments in a chariot of gold. Of your own sanity and identity you have no evidence that is any better than he has of his. More accurately I have none of mine. For anything I know you do not exist, nor any one of all the things with which I think myself familiarly conscious. All may be fictions of my disoriented imagination. I really know of but one reason for doubting that I am an inmate in an asylum for the insane. Namely the probability that there is nowhere any such thing as an asylum for the insane. This kind of speculation has charms that get a good neck hold upon attention. For example, if I am really a lunatic, and the persons and things that I seem to see around me have no objective existence, what an ingenious though disordered imagination I have. What a clever coup it is to invent Mr. Rockefeller, and clothe him with the attribute of permanence. With what amusing qualities I have endowed my laird of Skypo, philanthropist. What a masterpiece of creative humor is my fatty taft, statesman, taking himself seriously, even solemnly, and persuading others to do the same. And this city of Washington, with its motley population of serillions, pair of noodles, and scamps, cranking unashamedly in the light of day, and its saving contingent of the forsaken righteous, their seed begging bread. Did Rabelais exuberant fancy ever concede so? But Rabelais is, perhaps, himself a conception. Surely he is no common maniac who has wrought out of nothing the history, the philosophies, sciences, arts, laws, religions, politics, and morals of this imaginary world. Nay, the world itself, tumbling uneasily through space like a Beatles ball, is no mean achievement, and I am proud of it. But the mental feat in which I take most satisfaction, and which I doubt not, is the most diverting to my keepers, is that of creating Mr. W. R. Hearst, pointing his eyes toward the White House, and endowing him with the perilous Jacksonian ambition to defile it. The Hearst is distinctly a treasure. On the whole I have done, I think, tolerably well, and when I contemplate the fertility and originality of my invention, the queer unearthliness and grotesque actions of the characters whom I have evolved, isolated, and am cultivating, I cannot help thinking that if heaven had not made me a lunatic, my particular talent might have made me an entertaining writer. The End of A Mad World by Ambrose Bierce Make the Best of It or Fairy Gifts by Anna Coral-Mawet Richie This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Kelly Taylor Making the Best of It The chamber was large and luxurious. The first rays of morning stole through the window curtains of rose-colored silk, and diffused an aurorial hue over draperies of finely wrought lace that canopied over the bed, where a youthful mother reposed in that pleasant state of dreamy consciousness when the mind hovers delightfully between waking and slumber. The flush cheek of the sleeping boy was pressed to her own, a fair-featured girl nestled closely on the other side. In the richly decorated cradle standing near the couch, slumbered a babe, a very pearl in its velvet casket. So, at least, the young Cornelia thought. For she often styled these three precious human gems, worn with happy pride upon her maternal bosom, her diamond, her ruby, her pearl. Few steps had she yet taken upon the journey of life, so few the waves of time had not rolled far back into the past, the days when she had given credence to the existence of those diminutive good people called fairies, and now, in her semisome nambulance, the half-forgotten faith washed the shores of memory again, and she murmured dreamily, Oh, if some fairy would bestow upon them each a wondrous gift! Scarcely had she spoken when the rose-light that tinted every object in the room changed to a mellower dye. Prismatic hues flashed fitfully through the golden radiance, gradually forming themselves into a rainbow of marvelous vividness, and, as the mother steadfastly gazed beneath the resplendent arch, a form seemed fashioned of moonlight became visible. The aerial shape was clad in an amethyst robe, its unbound tresses rolled like a mantle of molten amber, down to the shining feet. Its luminous brow was crowned with a chaplet of lilies, each lily was a living opal. Never had Cornelia beheld a countenance so touching, indescribably lovely in its holy tenderness. As it bent over her, the violet iris emitted soft rays which penetrated into her breast, and warmed and gladdened her heart, while she contemplated the celestial presence in joyful amazement. A voice, like the sound of zephyrs sweeping over an aeolian harp, charmed her ear. It said, You know, wish is granted, I am sent to accord one gift to each of these sweet slumberers. Rapture rendered the mother speechless. Speak, what would you choose, asked the unearthly visitant. Then the mother's eyes, which had been riveted upon that beautiful apparition, turned to the boy, her eldest born, the diamond among her jewels, and, laying her hand fondly upon his forehead, she smoothed back the tango locks from his high intellectual brow. Even at that light touch he started, his arms were tossed above his head, his attitude expressed disquiet, his color deepened, then paled again, his lips moved inaudibly, he possessed a nervous ardent temperament. It was easy to divine. Give him genius, great genius, she muttered fondly. What a delicious perfume stole through the chamber. It was the fairy's soundless sigh. Ronald shall have genius, she answered. What gift shall you bestow upon your daughter? The mother gazed tenderly upon the little maiden slumbering at her side, the ruby of her carcannet. Long black lashes swept over the blooming cheek of her child, dark, clustering reeklets, waved in shining luxurance about her snowy temples, and throat, a half-smile parted the exquisite mouth, the delicate outline of a symmetrical form was visible through the white rain-ment. She will be a woman, give her beauty, great beauty, said the mother enthusiastically. Cynthia shall have beauty, replied the fairy, and this time her sigh was like the moan of a gentle breeze, and again her breath loaded the air with fragrance, like the aroma of a crushed flower. And what gift will you bestow upon this pearl of purity? she asked, gliding noiselessly towards the cradle. Love unutterable beamed from the mother's eyes when they rested upon that snow-drop of infancy. As she hesitated and pondered, the fairy said softly, You have gifted the others, leave the choice of her gift to me. Oh, gladly, replied the mother, but let it not be inferior to theirs. My gift to little Viola, responded the fairy, is the sweet faculty of making the best of everything through life, of trials and suffering, as of pleasures and triumphs, she shall make loveest. The mother half-started from her pillow with an exclamation of disappointment and remonstrance. But the golden light faded, and the flugent rainbow vanished, and the upsubstantial form melted away. The rosy at dye reflected from the silken curtains, pervaded the room as before. Cornelia was half inclined to believe that she had stepped, and the sudden movement had awakened her from a delicious dream. Time passed. In a few years Ronald began to be regarded as a prodigy. His talents excited general wonder and admiration. He drew and painted with surprising ease. His musical powers seemed a sort of instinct. He was a natural poet, too. And verse flowed spontaneously from his lips or pin. Every emanation of his young mind bore the insignia of genius. And loud prognostics of future celebrity were constantly trumpeted in his ears. But his brain was taxed to the exhaustion of his vital powers, and his health grew feeble. He was morbidly sensitive, untranquil, unsatisfied. Fickly, ruled by the feeling of the moment, impulse was his guide, inclination his law. When the task he was connected with ardor began to weary, he threw it aside. He performed on several instruments, but chiefly by ear. Instruction bore him. He could not rain down his high-soring genius with the needful curbs of arbitrary rule. Now and then he made a feeble effort to acquire skill and correctness, but was quickly overcome by fatigue, and often left the instrument in disgust. The necessity for application always disheartened him. He commenced with great enthusiasm sketches that gave great promise, but seldom finished, even the best. The mood soon passed away, he said, and he could not work when the spirit was not upon him. He could not force his will nor conquer his indolence. So with his poem he dashed them off rapidly. In a species of poetic furor. But the gem-like thoughts scattered carelessly through these rude inspirations needed polish to bring out their luster, and he could not tone down, condense, elaborate. Thus his fatal faculty prevented his ever-reaching high excellence. Not less remarkable nor less attractive was Cynthia, though her extraordinary beauty, a beauty that shone forth not merely in her faultless lineaments, her superb dark eyes, the wealth of her abundant tresses, her statuesque form, but that seemed to permeate her whole being with an unportrayable witchery, a captivating elf-like frequency, heightened by her capricious variability of mood by the restless grace which resembled that of a hummingbird, fluttering its gorgeous opinions before the dazzled vision. When she was pleased, what a laughing sprite she seemed, and who was able to resist her winsome wiles. But alas, she was very easily displeased, and frowns gave an impish character to her chiseled features, though strange to say, without destroying their beauty. Yet one thing did seriously impair her charms, and that was her own evident consciousness of their power. Her disposition, under ordinary circumstances, would have been good, and her abilities excellent, but perpetual flattery weakened her intellect, and rendered her temper capacious. She experienced an insatiable craving for adulation, and was listless and dispirited, if by chance the unwholesome food were withheld. If she encountered any difficulties in the pursuit of a desired object, she was quickly discouraged, and, without the faintest struggle to conquer the obstacle, weakly worried and wept over its existence. She could not endure disappointment in any shake. If a party of pleasure happened to be broken up by the rain, she conducted herself as though she were convinced the weather had been ordered expressly for her annoyance, and fretted all day at the unsuitableness of the atmospheric decree. If she chanced to be engaged upon a piece of sewing, embroidery, or knitting that pleased her, and her thread got knotted, or she took a wrong stitch, or was forced to rip it out, or dropped her knitting needles, she grew vexed and powdered, and felt persecuted by some invisible agency, and was miserable for hours. Even at her toilette, when she was contemplating with only too much complacency her fair visage in the mirror, if the glossy hair she was braiding became tangled, or she found an unlucky rent in some of her clothing, or a disfiguring spot upon her dress, all her sunshine was gone, ill-humour took possession of her. She was too much out of sorts to partake of the anticipated enjoyment, and unresistedly yielded herself up to the blue devils who always seemed lying and wait to entrap her. Little Viola was regarded, by casual observers, as a far more ordinary child than her brother or sister. She was intelligent, but by no means precocious. She had acquired by industry and perseverance, not by intuition. In place of striking beauty she possessed, an imminent degree, the loveliness of innocence and placid contentment, of glowing health, and a gloriously developed physique strong and untainted by her pure spirit. The more thoughtful Gaser noted the softness of her deep blue eyes, the serene yet earnest expression of her mild countenance, the happy smile that ever lingered about her rosy mouth, and could not fail to remark that although she lacked the perfect grace of Cynthia's airy, undulating motions, all her movements were purposeful, as though some bright gold reached was ever in view. Her light dancing step seemed the rebound of her leaping heart, her gink laughter, the echo of her joyous soul, her melodious voice, the vibration of harmonious chords within. Although no one called Little Viola wondrously gifted as they did her brother, or marvelously beautiful as they did her sister, yet, little by little, all who knew her received the impression that she was endowed with some nameless gift that took the place of, or rather, that surpassed, talent, some gift that conveyed a sense of superlative beauty. Viola set about every undertaking with cheerful zeal, and pursued it with unwirried steadiness. When a difficulty arose she paused, good humorly, carefully examined into the nature of the obstacle, threw all her might in an effort to overcome it, and, if no remedy could be found, half-worvelling her cheerful byphrase, make the best of it, she sought out a way by which the evil might be endured. When she was deprived of an anticipated pleasure, she philosophically endeavored to substitute another within her reach. A book, some pleasant employment, arranging pressed flowers in her herbarium, adding to her scrapbook, learning a song, sketching a new picture, invariably neutralized the spirit-dampening effects of the unwelcome rain. In short, she accommodated herself to circumstances with such a skillful adaptation, made the best of the inevitable with such cheerful tact, that no passing event inconvenienced her, no chance disappointment disturbed her equanimity. As she grew older she astonished her parents by correctly executing difficult pieces of music, which had baffled her gifted brother's skill, and completing pictures he had commenced and thrown by in despair. She inherited, too, his faculty for diversification, and though her effusions were always short, the music of the rhythm, the concentration of thought, the choiceness of the language, the high finish of her verses, placed them far above his more ambitious but less perfect poetic flights. By and by her parents were startled into the omission that Viola's talents were equal, if not superior to those of her brother, and when her sunny, peaceful face was accidentally placed in contrast with Cynthia's fretful, clouded countenance, in spite of the rich coloring and classical symmetry of the latter, Viola's was pronounced the more beautiful, exclaimed the mother remorsefully when this conviction pressed upon her. Ah! the fairy was wiser than I. She has given my Viola all the gifts in one. She shall make the best of everything, the good spirit said, and, blind that I was, I could not see that to make the best of everything was to have no faculty underdeveloped, no power wasted, to let no opportunity be lost, to be conquered by no trial, to pursue the right path steadfastly and unwirly, to find out the use of the very roughness of the road. That blessed endowment surpasses the boon of genius and beauty, yet gives birth to both. Assuredly no one can know how abundant are God's blessings, come they in what shape they may, until He has made the best of every one. End of make the best of it, or very gifts. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Kelly Taylor. The Married Flirt Who calls Melinda Belmont a flirt? She is only as attractive to mankind collectively as to one special man whose name she bears, whose domicile she graces with a regnant presence, powerfully suggestive of feminine superiority and masculine non-entity. A flirt for sooth? She will resent the title with a virtuous indignation. With a majestic uplifting of her queenly head she will ask you whether a woman, when she honors a man by uniting her destiny with his, necessarily enters into a compact to render herself odious to the rest of his sex. Melinda had not won the title of coquette before her marriage. A handsome, high-spirited girl, striking in figure, captivating in manner, brilliant in conversation, and not lacking intellect, she married young. Possibly she fancied herself in love, or her suitor's delicious flatteries made her in love with herself, which she mistook for being in love with him, a very common occurrence. At all events she invents no shrewd, cold calculation in choosing among her many admirers. She neither selected cretious nor the adonis, but yielded in womanly fashion to the most ardent wooer. An eligible partner, of course, none but eligible men venture into the arena to struggle for such a prize. Probably she looked upon marriage as an inevitable necessity, the unavoidable and very indurable destiny of womanhood, and, with only sufficient reluctance to intensify her charms, she permitted the most devout worshipper to claim her as his idol, and enshrined her in his luxurious establishment, though certainly not with the potential understanding that his exclusive adoration could satisfy the needs of her soul. Melinda's marriage with Mr. Belmont, if it wrought any change in her deportment towards other gentlemen, only rendered her more thoroughly at ease with their society, more alluring, more delightful. Her sally's wit gave piquancy, her manner acquired more perfect abandon, her beauty more brilliant expression, always willful and exigent. She now grew half imperious in appropriating devotion, as though she looked upon men in general as more entirely her slaves than before she assumed the unfelt chain which bound her to one man in particular. Consequently the willing vassals became more liberal of those sweet observances, those nameless, indescribable attentions so gratifying to a woman's self-love, because they tacitly exalt her to a pedestal, and lay such harmless tributes upon the altar of her vanity. Melinda has an understanding with her conscious, which keeps it all in well-bred, silent subjugation. The still, small voice within is dumb. Though she permits whisper words that might startle ears for which they are not intended, though she returns telegraphic glances whose meaning would hardly be translatable, though she allows soft pressure of her hand, or wears upon her proudly heaving bosom, or in the coronal braid that encircles her regal head the flowers some favored gallant gives her, she will even close her white fingers upon a tiny note thrust unseen into her palm. It may only be an innocent bit of poetry, it may be a few words which she must have blushed, as she heard uttered, though the color that deepens into a triumph and glow upon her cheek can hardly be called a blush. An unconquerable impulse makes her desire to turn the head of every man who approaches her, literally to unsettle his mind, and her surpassing charms enable her to carry her will into execution. She is immolous to subdue to her service not one but all. None are too high, none too low, none too great, none too insignificant, for the widespreading vine of vanity to twine its tendrils around with undiscriminating grasp, and claim as fostering supports. Yet among that group of adores there is always one who is the preferred of the hour, one whom she distinguishes by claiming little services at his hands, one whom she permits to seek for what she wants, to wait upon her, to be useful to her in a thousand pleasant ways, above all one who understands that he must renounce the whole sex for her sweet sake, and must bask in no woman's smiles and hang upon no woman's words but hers. But, by and by, the fickle Melinda grows tired of his assiduities, discards the favorite, and indulges in all the agreeable excitements of neglecting his successor, who becomes equally infatuated, equally subservient to her will, and in time equally wearisome. Mr. Belmont, if he sometimes feels offellow pangs, conceals them too carefully ever to be classed with jealous husbands. He is virtually shot out of the charmed circle which his wife's magic draws around her. He sits at a distance, trying to look as though he were occupied with other interests, but secretly drinking in the musical rise and fall of her voice, softened to the low tone of high breeding, harkening to the rippling gushes of her excellent laughter, listening to her sparkling thoughts, sham jewels dropped into guilt settings of glittering words, admiring the half- voluptuous contour of her form, which is strikingly displayed by some picturesque attitude, smiling inwardly at the captivating changefulness, the bewitching caprices that keep her devotees on the kiviv to watch her varying moods and weakly gloring in the sensation she creates, the admiration she excites. Perhaps Mr. Belmont, who is a man of some sentiment and more feeling, suppresses a sigh when he remembers that the very fact of calling this peerless being his own deprives him of the happiness of enjoying her society, even of offering her any of the little courtesies which she receives from others with such winning affability and rewards with such enchanting looks and words, but he would not have his best friend divine that pure regret for the universe. Fashion, the bet noir of his imagination, would point her finger and laugh at him, an indurable calamity. It is generally admitted that Melinda, as Mrs. Belmont, is far more attractive to gentlemen than she had been as a young girl, more fascinating than any young girl can hope to be, yet be it understood that she is never guilty of an imprudence that would risk her reputation or furnish tempting food for scandal. The disease that gnaws vulture-like at her heart is an insatiable craving for adulation, an unappeasable hunger that would make her barter her birthright of womanhood for flattery's mess of potage. She would turn with righteous horror from a hapless sister who had lapsed from purity, who bore upon her bowed head the brand of shame, upon her pale cheeks the furrows worn by appinitential tears. Melinda would draw aside her silken garments from the touch of such pollution. She would never suspect that the heart which beat beneath her velvet bodice was full of sin as foul, of fouler sin per chance, since unacknowledged and unrepentant of, sin not brought forth into act because of her coldness, not her chastity, worded off temptation because the iron shackles of society held her in compulsive restraint. But the bondage is merely external, place but a window in Melinda's bosom, and that rake at heart cynical pope finds in woman will have too vivid an illustration. How Melinda conducts her household is an enigma we shall not endeavor to solve. She does not attempt to assume its rule with that matronly dignity which proclaims itself the guiding spirit of the home department, yet her domestic affairs glide on with tolerable smoothness, the wheels of the machine being oiled with lavish extravagance, with waste sufficient to save a dozen families from starvation. It has been said that the wifely face across the breakfast table is the one most likely to disenchant a husband. Perhaps Melinda has too much tact to run the risk of such a catastrophe. At all events her husband's morning meal is usually a solitary one. Mrs. Belmont feels dull at the hour when flowers are the brightest, the birds sing sweetest, and nature's dewy eyes open their most refreshing smile. Languidly indolent, Melinda retreats into the chrysalis shell of her wrapper and quietly moops, like any veritable caterpillar in its transition state. But when the day is nearly spent, alas, spent to what purpose, the papala comes forth in Mayday glory, flies through a round of fashionable visits or alights among the flowers of her drawing-room to whole court at home. Mr. Belmont returns from his business to a late dinner and finds that some of Melinda's friends have dropped in and have been invited to remain. A tetetet repast with her husband is an event of rarest occurrence. Anything so prosy should naturally be avoided, and would it not be absurd to waste an elaborate toilette on him? However negligent her morning costume she is now attired with faultless taste, everything she wears becomes her amaville. Her dress invents the most exquisite perception of lé nuances, for she never accidentally shocks a fastidious eye by the inharmonious mingling of color. At table she has more the air of a guest than a hostess, but her husband does the honors with evident pleasure. No wonder it is almost the only occasion upon which he ceases to be a cipher, if he does not positively make a figure. In the evening she has generally some engagement, she has arranged to attend a concert, the opera, the theater, a lecture perhaps, or a ball, or a reception. Her husband, if not too much wearied by the duties of the day, accompanies her, but it is not upon his arm she leans. That would be ulcer and so ridiculously Darby and Joan luck. If perchance she remains at home, there are always plenty of visitors, principally young men, who will help her choose the evening hours, and Melinda plays and sings to them, with her eyes glancing up and down, and now and then resting upon some enraptured visitor, who leans over the piano and drinks in the amorous words as though they were addressed to him. Are they not for the moment? The society of her own sex Melinda cannot abide. She scoffs at female friendships, talking to a woman boars her more than listening to a sermon. Caresses of women to her are positively sickening, their tenderness, bah. It is all affectation, assumed to make them look interesting. She well knows the pretty dears hate each other heartily, and would rather bite than kiss, if they dared to be natural. Melinda is a childless wife. A child's innocent touch would have opened a chamber in her breast and led a saving angel in to tear the false god, self, from its altar. A child's holy breath would have blown away some of this earth dust gathered upon her soul and clogging all its heavenly motions. A child's guideless fingers would have drawn the wife's hand into that of the husband, and turned her face to his by the magnetism of mutual interest in one beloved object, at whose feet their sympathies could meet and embrace. Yet she rejoices to be spared the cares of maternity, as well rejoiced that she has foregone salvation. Thus passes Melinda's budding spring and summer bloom. But the canker worm in the fruit has wrought decay, where should be autumnal oneness. Her charms, almost before they reach maturity, begin to fleet, in spite of all the detaining arts of her twillet. Her once-worshiped mirror becomes a taunting torment. Years write their record in ungracious lines across her brow. For no noble emotions, no high actions have beautified the chronicle. Inexorable time quenches the fire of her eyes, and his attendant crows leave their pressure of incitely feet at the corners. Her features, once so finely cut, grow sharp and harsh. Her pretty petulance degenerates into irritability. Her voice has caught a piercing shrillness which strikes the ear like bayonet's point. Possibly it is a tone which makes her repartee sound so much more cutting, so less mirthful provoking than of yore. There is no longer a flood of excitement when she enters a crowd, the men who once gathered around her stand aloof, unconscious of her presence, or hover about some younger married flirt, who has jostled her from her pedestal in vanity fare. Poor Melinda makes desperate efforts to lure back her recreance, but the very exhortation renders her manner forced, distressingly restless, peevish, exacting. Her failing assumption of juvenile heirs and graces is painfully ludicrous. It is but an awkward caricaturing of her former self. What has the weary, dreary, jaded, faded wreck of brilliant womanhood to fall back upon? What consolation? What refuge is hers? Is there none to be found in her husband's sheltering arms? No. He is tired at last of his youthful idolatry. In his own house he has never had a snug, quiet corner and a special arm chair where he might sit in dressing-ground and slippers with that solace of manhood, a newspaper in his hand, and he has gradually sought the society of men, the clubroom, or the card-table, as substitute for the fireside of home. It is too late for Melinda to turn to him and seek, in his long-slided devotion, repayment for the neglect of the world, too late to find herself rejuvenessent through her husband's love, as Michelette maintains that a woman may be. Her bitterest retribution comes through an instinctive but tardy knowledge that there must be a joy she never tasted in reposing upon one's true heart, without fear of change, a happiness beyond her conception in hoping for and hoping with, in soothing and being soothed by another self, in clinging to one who needs her, whose life is incomplete without her, who makes her proudly glad in the consciousness that whatever she may not be to others, she is all and all to him. But this comfort shall never be hers, and the desolate, dethroned sovereign looks with envious eyes upon the unambitious wife, her youthful contemporary, who has never dreamed of being a belle, whom Melinda scorned for her even unpretentious ways, but who still retains a lingering freshness, a kindly warmth, a serene vivacity, a soul-renewed loveliness, that have preserved a husband's devotion intact, and one from time-tried friend's reverence, in tenderness and in abundance, and now make the nonpareil beauty of other days reflect despairingly upon her wasted opportunities, her hallowed and valueless existence, and inwardly murmur, oh, that I could change places with her here and hereafter. End of The Married Flirt by Anna Cora Moet Richie