Stories from the different countries

 Story from Slovakia

The Good Student Tested

The Good Student's place is in the front row: there he sits, flanked by a boy on either side - the Good Student Steinmann. His name is something more than a mere word denoting one individual. It's a symbol. This name is known to as many fathers as there are boys in the form: "How come Steinmann can learn it?" thirty-two fathers ask thirty-two sons at home. "You'd better ask Steinmann to explain," the fathers advise, and the sons do go and ask Steinmann. Steinmann knows everything in advance, even before it has been explained. He is known to be a regular contributor to mathematical reviews, and knows mysterious words such as are taught only at the university. There are things which we other fellows know too; but the way Steinmann knows them - why, that's the certain, the only right way, the Absolute Way of knowing those things.

Steinmann is being tested.

It was a moment of extraordinary solemnity. The master has been taking an awfully long time to study his form-register - a deadly suspense vibrates through the whole class. When, at some later date, I had read the history of the Reign of Terror in France and come to the passage where those of the prisoners of the Conciergerie who have been sentenced to die are called upon to stand forth, this was how I always imagined it. The last gasp for breath in the final, lethal effort to overstrain one's brain - there are two more seconds to go: in this time, with lightning speed, each boy recites in his mind the propositions of the geometrical progression. "Sir, please, sir," you say to yourself, "I - I have prepared the lessons." ("Dear Sir, - I beg to inform you that, as he was feeling sick yesterday, my son was not in a position to do homework.") One boy bends over his copybook, ostrich-fashion, to avoid being seen. Another stares the teacher fixedly in the eye, trying to mesmerise him. A third, a nervy chap, this one, becomes utterly unstrung and shuts his eyes: let the axe fall on his neck. In the rear row, Englmayer goes into full hiding behind Deckmann's back: he's not here, thank you, and hasn't heard about anything; let them put his name down among the absent pupils, put him on the list of the dead and let him be forgotten - peace on his ashes. He has no desire to join the battle of public life.

The teacher turns two pages. Maybe he has reached the letter K. Altmann who at the beginning of this term had his family name changed to the Hungarian Katona, now bitterly regrets this rash act. Soon, however, he draws a deep breath: suddenly, the teacher stops leafing through the pages and shuts his register.

"Steinmann," he calls, quite softly and surprisingly.

A deep sigh of relief. An atmosphere of solemnity. A sense of the extraordinary. Steinmann rises quickly - the chap next to him jumps up and stands modestly and politely to one side while the Good Student clambers out of the desk: like some body-guard, he is a silent and secondary participant in a momentous event.

The teacher is solemn, too. He sits on his chair sideways, putting his fingertips reflectively together. The Good Student proceeds to the blackboard and picks up the chalk. The teacher reflects further. So the Good Student picks up the sponge and starts to wipe the blackboard quickly. The act is charged with immeasurable dignity and self-confidence: it is meant to convey that he has plenty of time, he doesn't have to rack his brains, he does not funk; that he is always prepared and that, even while an oral test is pending, he tries to do something useful for the community - indeed has the time to think of public neatness and the peaceful evolution of mankind - and wipes clean the blackboard.

"Let me see," says the teacher, drawling his meditative words, "We will find an interesting problem..."

The Good Student coughs; he does it politely and with infinite understanding. Yes, of course. Some interesting problem. Something to suit the interesting situation.

As he now gazes at the teacher, seriously and with warmth, he resembles a lovely countess who has just been proposed to by a count, and who, before replying, looks with profound understanding and sympathy into the count's eyes, well aware that this look enthralls him and that he already senses with tremulous joy that the answer is going to be a favourable one.

"Let us take a cone," says the Count.

"A cone," says Steinmann, the Countess. But even this is said with so much understanding and intelligence as to make it clear that nobody else knows how very real a cone it is that we are taking. I, Steinmann, the foremost student of this class, am taking a cone, having been charged by the community as the best qualified person to perform this act. As yet I do not know for what purpose I have taken this cone, but you may rest assured, all of you, that whatever happens to this cone, I shall be there to tackle it.

"Or rather," says the teacher abruptly, "let's take a truncated pyramid."

"A truncated pyramid," echoes the Good Student, even more intelligently, if possible, than before. Why, his relations with a truncated pyramid are just as firm and friendly, if condescending, as they are with a cone. What, to him, is a truncated pyramid? Ah, you can't possibly mislead him: he knows very well that a truncated pyramid is just as much a pyramid as any normal pyramid - an ordinary pyramid such as even an Englmayer is capable of visualising - the only difference being that another pyramid has been cut off from it.

The performance is brief. This is a colloquy conducted in clipped sentences: the teacher and the Good Student understand each other. By and by, they drift into an intimate dialogue - the rest of us have long ceased to follow them. It is now a matter between those two - two kindred souls communing with each other before our reverent eyes, in the ethereal atmosphere of differential equations. In the middle of a sentence, it strikes the teacher that they ought not to be conversing at all, that this is supposed to be a test, a judgment on the pupil's progress. The Good Student doesn't have to finish the sentence. Why finish it? Has there remained a morsel of doubt about his ability to finish it?

Modestly and demurely, the Good Student sits down at his desk. The next minute, he listens with keen interest to the deplorable stuttering of the next one to be tested, A particular word spoken by the latter sends a sarcastic and discreet smile flitting across his face, and furtively he tries to catch the teacher's eye, hoping to exchange another flicker of understanding. This sarcastic smile is designed to indicate that he is fully aware that the blighter's talking perfect rot, and that only he knows what ought to have been said.

The Bad Student Tested

No, he couldn't possibly have guessed that it was coming today. Ah well, he did have it coming to him, of course, he did. What's more, he even dreamed of something like this last night - but in his dream he was tested in Hungarian. True, it seemed as though Mr. Fröhlich was in charge of Hungarian too. In his dream he dispatched the whole matter promptly - he answered questions about parallel lines and was awarded an Alpha Minus.

When his name is called, he cannot believe his ears. He looks round: some miracle may yet come to pass; maybe it was just hallucination, a nightmare, that he heard his name called, and presently he will awake from this dream. He now scoops up a lot of exercise-books from his desk and, while walking down the short lane between the rows of desks, is turning over in his head: "Ayplusbeebyayminusbee equals aysquareminusbee-square." He's going to be asked that. He feels sure that's what he's going to be asked. "If he asks anything else, I'll change schools and pass a supplementary exam and then take up a military career."

Meanwhile he stumbles and drops his exercise-books. While he is busy picking them off the floor, the usual laughter - this time unbanned, for the Bad Student is beyond the social pale and may therefore be sneered at freely - rings out behind his back.

The teacher sits down and puts his notebook on his table. He looks at the boy. Convulsively, the Bad Student keeps repeating in his mind, "Ayplusbee..." He picks up the chalk. The teacher looks at him.

"Have you prepared anything?" he asks him.

"Sir, yes, sir, I have."

Oh, yes. Why, of course he has. Even the convict who's been sentenced to death prepares himself for what is to come: he receives the extreme unction and has his hair cut off.

"If so, then write."

The Bad Student turns to face the blackboard.

"Beesquare minus plusminus secondroot beeminusfourayceebytwoay."

Submissively the Bad Student begins to write, echoing the figures. He keeps writing, and sees the proposition just as he saw it at home when he fell asleep over it without gathering the faintest idea of what the whole thing was supposed to mean. Yes, he has some vague idea that this is a quadratic equation. But as to how it'll work out... Well...

He writes at a leisurely pace, a fine calligraphic hand. He thickens the stem of the figure 4. He carefully wipes off a bit from the fraction line - for this, he makes a special trip to the window to get the sponge. You gain time, with this. The bell may ring in the meantime. Or something may happen. His performance on the platform isn't going to be a protracted affair, anyway. Now he'll just chalk up this one thing more, and then lay on the sign of equality, taking his time. Yes, so far he's been doing it like other, better, beings; like any good student. Now he still adds "a2". In the military school (the thought flashes across his mind) you have to get up awfully early in the morning. But then they may make you a lieutenant in the end. You may get posted to Fiume.

All this while he has been writing in a leisurely manner, and he's not through with it yet. An outsider who might happen to be watching the performance might be led to suppose that this is a good student proving his mettle at the blackboard. For one who is in the know, however, to see a fellow taking such infinite care in delineating the tail-piece of the figure 2 is significant enough. Deadly silence reigns. The teacher sits stock still. Now one simply has to say something.

"The equation of the second degree..." the Bad Student begins intelligently, narrowing his eyes and watching the blackboard intently.

"The equation of the second degree..." he repeats, in the manner of one who repeats his words not because he doesn't know what he's going to say but rather because from the vast storehouse of things he has to say he wishes to select and weigh that which is most correct.

The teacher, however - oh, he is only too well aware of the meaning of all this.

"Call that being ready?" he snaps, harshly and dryly.

"Sir, please, sir, I have prepared the lesson."

Now that he did get out with lightning speed, in a voice that was trembling with murderous defiance, with desperate rebellion.

The teacher (with sweeping gesture): "Well, let's have it, then."

The Bad Student draws a deep breath.

"The equation of the second degree is derived from that of the first degree by multiplying the equation as a whole..."

Now he's talking. He is saying something. He was expecting to be interrupted in the middle of his second sentence - and steals a glance at the teacher. The latter, however, stares, his face set, neither approving nor denying him. He does not speak. Yet the Bad Student knows very well that what he is saying cannot possibly be right. Why on earth doesn't the teacher say something, then? This is terrible. His voice begins to falter. Suddenly, he perceives that the teacher is picking up his notebook. At this, he turns pale and rattles away at a dizzying clip:

"The equation of the second degree is derived from that of the first by... Sir, please, sir, I have done the homework."

"Ernő Polgár," the teacher announces in a loud voice.

What's that?

Is someone else already being called? Is he himself finished and done for? What's this? Is it just a dream?

"The equation of the second degree..." he begins anew, menacingly.

Ernő Polgár climbs briskly the platform and has already picked up the other piece of chalk at the other end of the board.

"The equation... Sir, please, sir, I have done my homework."

He receives no reply. He now stands there, alone in the crowded classroom, on an island. He doesn't go back to his place yet, for no one has told him so far to get back to his place. He feels hollow and disreputable, a social outcast. He hasn't been told, no, not a word. His oral hasn't ended yet. Should he now walk back all the way between the rows of desks? No, he prefers to hang on here, looking silly, his faltering hands messing about with the wreck of the unfinished equation like an aviator who has crash-landed going over the cracked cylinders of his engine. Meanwhile the other boy has begun to speak. He is talking about some parallel lines. That too sounds so odd, so strange... like everything else they have been studying here for years... studying cheerfully and buoyantly and boisterously... and of which he has never understood anything, having coasted along on the few detached sentences he has managed to pick up.

And so he stands and stands, hoping against hope and politely listening to what the other boy is saying. Now and then he nods approval so as to indicate, in this way at least, that he has done his homework, that he "knows his stuff." At times, he even timidly chimes in, indulging in the self-deception that the question has been addressed to him, but only in a low voice so he won't be sent back to his place. Now he discreetly stops, looks and listens. He leans forward. He takes part in the show, passes the chalk, and dances attendance in general on the other boy. He even prompts the fellow, loudly, with the design, not of helping, but of showing the teacher that he prompts and therefore knows his stuff. In a word, he refuses to give up.

Suddenly, his strength ebbs away. He stops short and once again thinks of the military school. Like distant words the noises around him reverberate in his gloomy mind... the crackling of chalk... Faces become blurred, and, for a moment, a clear vision of the Infinite looms before him, just as the other boy has stated that it is the place where parallels meet. He sees the Infinite... Big, bluish thing... a small house bearing, on one side, at the top, the inscription "Entrance to the Fourth Infinite." Inside the building there are clothes-horses and on these the Parallel Lines hang up their hats, after which they enter the room, sit down in their forms and cheerfully greet one another. The Parallel Lines, yes. They meet in the Class of the Infinite, of Understanding and Kindness and Brotherly Love - the class he will never reach. That "upper form" which, owing to "unsatisfactory progress," he will never achieve.

 Story from Spain

Rinconete and Cortadillo

Or, Peter of the Corner and the Little Cutter.

At the Venta or hostelry of the Mulinillo, which is situate on the confines of the renowned plain of Alcudia, and on the road from Castile to Andalusia, two striplings met by chance on one of the hottest days of summer. One of them was about fourteen or fifteen years of age; the other could not have passed his seventeenth year. Both were well formed, and of comely features, but in very ragged and tattered plight. Cloaks they had none; their breeches were of linen, and their stockings were merely those bestowed on them by Nature. It is true they boasted shoes; one of them wore alpargates,[6] or rather dragged them along at his heels; the other had what might as well have been shackles for all the good they did the wearer, being rent in the uppers, and without soles. Their respective head-dresses were a montera[7] and a miserable sombrero, low in the crown and wide in the brim. On his shoulder, and crossing his breast like a scarf, one of them carried a shirt, the colour of chamois leather; the body of this garment was rolled up and thrust into one of its sleeves: the other, though travelling without incumbrance, bore on his chest what seemed a large pack, but which proved, on closer inspection, to be the remains of a starched ruff, now stiffened with grease instead of starch, and so worn and frayed that it looked like a bundle of hemp.

[6] The alpargates are a kind of sandal made of cord.

[7] Montera, a low cap, without visor or front to shade the eyes.

Within this collar, wrapped up and carefully treasured, was a pack of cards, excessively dirty, and reduced to an oval form by repeated paring of their dilapidated corners. The lads were both much burned by the sun, their hands were anything but clean, and their long nails were edged with black; one had a dudgeon-dagger by his side; the other a knife with a yellow handle.

These gentlemen had selected for their siesta the porch or penthouse commonly found before a Venta; and, finding themselves opposite each other, he who appeared to be the elder said to the younger, "Of what country is your worship, noble Sir, and by what road do you propose to travel?" "What is my country, Señor Cavalier," returned the other, "I know not; nor yet which way my road lies."

"Your worship, however, does not appear to have come from heaven," rejoined the elder, "and as this is not a place wherein a man can take up his abode for good, you must, of necessity, be going further." "That is true," replied the younger; "I have, nevertheless, told you only the veritable fact; for as to my country, it is mine no more, since all that belongs to me there is a father who does not consider me his child, and a step-mother who treats me like a son-in-law. With regard to my road, it is that which chance places before me, and it will end wherever I may find some one who will give me the wherewithal to sustain this miserable life of mine."

"Is your worship acquainted with any craft?" inquired the first speaker. "With none," returned the other, "except that I can run like a hare, leap like a goat, and handle a pair of scissors with great dexterity."

"These things are all very good, useful, and profitable," rejoined the elder. "You will readily find the Sacristan of some church who will give your worship the offering-bread of All Saints' Day, for cutting him his paper flowers to decorate the Monument[8] on Holy Thursday."

[8] The Monument is a sort of temporary theatre, erected in the churches during Passion Week, and on which the passion of the Saviour is represented.

"But that is not my manner of cutting," replied the younger. "My father, who, by God's mercy, is a tailor and hose maker, taught me to cut out that kind of spatterdashes properly called Polainas, which, as your worship knows, cover the fore part of the leg and come down over the instep. These I can cut out in such style, that I could pass an examination for the rank of master in the craft; but my ill luck keeps my talents in obscurity."

"The common lot, Señor, of able men," replied the first speaker, "for I have always heard that it is the way of the world to let the finest talents go to waste; but your worship is still at an age when this evil fortune may be remedied, and the rather since, if I mistake not, and my eyes do not deceive me, you have other advantageous qualities which it is your pleasure to keep secret." "It is true that I have such," returned the younger gentleman, "but they are not of a character to be publicly proclaimed, as your worship has very judiciously observed."

"But I," rejoined the elder, "may with confidence assure you, that I am one of the most discreet and prudent persons to be found within many a league. In order to induce your worship to open your heart and repose your faith on my honour, I will enlist your sympathies by first laying bare my own bosom; for I imagine that fate has not brought us together without some hidden purpose. Nay, I believe that we are to be true friends from this day to the end of our lives.

"I, then, Señor Hidalgo, am a native of Fuenfrida, a place very well known, indeed renowned for the illustrious travellers who are constantly passing through it. My name is Pedro del Rincon,[9] my father is a person of quality, and a Minister of the Holy Crusade, since he holds the important charge of a Bulero or Buldero,[10] as the vulgar call it. I was for some time his assistant in that office, and acquitted myself so well, that in all things concerning the sale of bulls I could hold my own with any man, though he had the right to consider himself the most accomplished in the profession. But one day, having placed my affections on the money produced by the bulls, rather than on the bulls themselves, I took a bag of crowns to my arms, and we two departed together for Madrid.

[9] Peter of the Corner; rincon meaning a corner, or obscure nook.

[10] The Spanish authorities, under the pretext of being at perpetual war with Infidels, still cause "Bulls of the Crusade," to the possession of which certain indulgences are attached, to be publicly sold in obscure villages. The product of these sales was originally expended on the wars with the Moors, but from the time when Granada fell into the hands of the Spaniards, it has been divided between the church and state. The bulls are carried about by hawkers, who are called "Buleros."--Viardot.

"In that city, such are the facilities that offer themselves, I soon gutted my bag, and left it with as many wrinkles as a bridegroom's pocket-handkerchief. The person who was charged with the collection of the money, hastened to track my steps; I was taken, and met with but scant indulgence; only, in consideration of my youth, their worships the judges contented themselves with introducing me to the acquaintance of the whipping-post, to have the flies whisked from my shoulders for a certain time, and commanding me to abstain from revisiting the Court and Capital during a period of four years. I took the matter coolly, bent my shoulders to the operation performed at their command, and made so much haste to begin my prescribed term of exile, that I had no time to procure sumpter mules, but contented myself with selecting from my valuables such as seemed most important and useful.

"I did not fail to include this pack of cards among them,"--here the speaker exhibited that oviform specimen already mentioned--"and with these I have gained my bread among the inns and taverns between Madrid and this place, by playing at Vingt-et-un. It is true they are somewhat soiled and worn, as your worship sees; but for him who knows how to handle them, they possess a marvellous virtue, which is, that you never cut them but you find an ace at the bottom; if your worship then is acquainted with the game, you will see what an advantage it is to know for certain that you have an ace to begin with, since you may count it either for one or eleven; and so you may be pretty sure that when the stakes are laid at twenty-one, your money will be much disposed to stay at home.

"In addition to this, I have acquired the knowledge of certain mysteries regarding Lansquenet and Reversis, from the cook of an ambassador who shall be nameless,--insomuch that, even as your worship might pass as master in the cutting of spatterdashes, so could I, too, take my degrees in the art of flat-catching.

"With all these acquirements, I am tolerably sure of not dying from hunger, since, even in the most retired farm-house I come to, there is always some one to be found who will not refuse himself the recreation of a few moments at cards. We have but to make a trial where we are; let us spread the net, and it will go hard with us if some bird out of all the Muleteers standing about do not fall into it. I mean to say, that if we two begin now to play at Vingt-et-un as though we were in earnest, some one will probably desire to make a third, and, in that case, he shall be the man to leave his money behind him."

"With all my heart," replied the younger lad: "and I consider that your excellency has done me a great favour by communicating to me the history of your life. You have thereby made it impossible for me to conceal mine, and I will hasten to relate it as briefly as possible. Here it is, then:--

"I was born at Pedroso, a village situate between Salamanca and Medina del Campo. My father is a tailor, as I have said, and taught me his trade; but from cutting with the scissors I proceeded--my natural abilities coming in aid--to the cutting of purses. The dull, mean life of the village, and the unloving conduct of my mother-in-law, were besides but little to my taste. I quitted my birthplace, therefore, repaired to Toledo to exercise my art, and succeeded in it to admiration; for there is not a reliquary suspended to the dress, not a pocket, however carefully concealed, but my fingers shall probe its contents, or my scissors snip it off, though the owner were guarded by the eyes of Argus.

"During four months I spent in Toledo, I was never trapped between two doors, nor caught in the fact, nor pursued by the runners of justice, nor blown upon by an informer. It is true that, eight days ago, a double spy[11] did set forth my distinguished abilities to the Corregidor, and the latter, taking a fancy to me from his description, desired to make my acquaintance; but I am a modest youth, and do not wish to frequent the society of personages so important. Wherefore I took pains to excuse myself from visiting him, and departed in so much haste, that I, like yourself, had no time to procure sumpter-mules or small change,--nay, I could not even find a return-chaise, nor so much as a cart."

[11] An alguazil, who, while in the service of justice, is also in that of the thieves. He betrays them, nevertheless, whenever it suits his purpose to do so:

"Console yourself for these omissions," replied Pedro del Rincon; "and since we now know each other, let us drop these grand and stately airs, and confess frankly that we have not a blessed farthing between us, nor even shoes to our feet."

"Be it so," returned Diego Cortado, for so the younger boy called himself. "Be it so; and since our friendship, as your worship Señor Rincon is pleased to say, is to last our whole lives, let us begin it with solemn and laudable ceremonies,"--saying which, Diego rose to his feet, and embraced the Señor Rincon, who returned the compliment with equal tenderness and emotion.

They then began to play at Vingt-et-un with the cards above described, which were certainly "free from dust and straw,"[12] as we say, but by no means free from grease and knavery; and after a few deals, Cortado could turn up an ace as well as Rincon his master. When things had attained this point, it chanced that a Muleteer came out at the porch, and, as Rincon had anticipated, he soon proposed to make a third in their game.

[12] "Clean from dust and straw"--limpios de polvo y paja--is a phrase equivalent to "free of the king's dues."

To this they willingly agreed, and in less than half an hour they had won from him twelve reals and twenty-two maravedis, which he felt as sorely as twelve stabs with a dagger and twenty-two thousand sorrows. Presuming that the young chaps would not venture to defend themselves, he thought to get back his money by force; but the two friends laying hands promptly, the one on his dudgeon dagger and the other on his yellow handled knife, gave the Muleteer so much to do, that if his companions had not hastened to assist him, he would have come badly out of the quarrel.

At that moment there chanced to pass by a company of travellers on horseback, who were going to make their siesta at the hostelry of the Alcalde, about half a league farther on. Seeing the affray between the Muleteer with two boys, they interposed, and offered to take the latter in their company to Seville, if they were going to that city.

"That is exactly where we desire to go," exclaimed Rincon, "and we will serve your worships in all that it shall please you to command." Whereupon, without more ado, they sprang before the mules, and departed with the travellers, leaving the Muleteer despoiled of his money and furious with rage, while the hostess was in great admiration of the finished education and accomplishments of the two rogues, whose dialogue she had heard from beginning to end, while they were not aware of her presence.

When the hostess told the Muleteer that she had heard the boys say the cards they played with were false, the man tore his beard for rage, and would have followed them to the other Venta, in the hope of recovering his property; for he declared it to be a serious affront, and a matter touching his honour, that two boys should have cheated a grown man like him. But his companions dissuaded him from doing what they declared would be nothing better than publishing his own folly and incapacity; and their arguments, although they did not console the Muleteer, were sufficient to make him remain where he was.

Meanwhile Cortado and Rincon displayed so much zeal and readiness in the service of the travellers, that the latter gave them a lift behind them for the greater part of the way. They might many a time have rifled the portmanteaus of their temporary masters, but did not, lest they should thereby lose the happy opportunity of seeing Seville, in which city they greatly desired to exercise their talents. Nevertheless, as they entered Seville--which they did at the hour of evening prayer, and by the gate of the custom-house, on account of the dues to be paid, and the trunks to be examined--Cortado could not refrain from making an examination, on his own account, of the valise which a Frenchman of the company carried with him on the croup of his mule. With his yellow-handled weapon, therefore, he gave it so deep and broad a wound in the side that its very entrails were exposed to view; and he dexterously drew forth two good shirts, a sun-dial, and a memorandum book, things that did not greatly please him when he had leisure to examine them. Thinking that since the Frenchman carried that valise on his own mule, it must needs contain matters of more importance than those he had captured, Cortado would fain have looked further into it, but he abstained, as it was probable that the deficiency had been already discovered, and the remaining effects secured. Before performing this feat the friends had taken leave of those who had fed them on their journey, and the following day they sold the two shirts in the old clothes' market, which is held at the gate of the Almacen or arsenal, obtaining twenty reals for their booty.

Having despatched this business, they went to see the city, and admired the great magnificence and vast size of its principal church, and the vast concourse of people on the quays, for it happened to be the season for loading the fleet. There were also six galleys on the water, at sight of which the friends could not refrain from sighing, as they thought the day might come when they should be clapped on board one of those vessels for the remainder of their lives. They remarked the large number of basket-boys, porters, &c., who went to and fro about the ships, and inquired of one among them what sort of a trade it was--whether it was very laborious--and what were the gains.

An Asturian, of whom they made the inquiry, gave answer to the effect that the trade was a very pleasant one, since they had no harbour-dues to pay, and often found themselves at the end of the day with six or seven reals in their pocket, with which they might eat, drink, and enjoy themselves like kings. Those of his calling, he said, had no need to seek a master to whom security must be given, and you could dine when and where you please, since, in the city of Seville, there is not an eating-house, however humble, where you will not find all you want at any hour of the day.

The account given by the Asturian was by no means discouraging to the two friends, neither did his calling seem amiss to them; nay, rather, it appeared to be invented for the very purpose of enabling them to exercise their own profession in secresy and safety, on account of the facilities it offered for entering houses. They consequently determined to buy such things as were required for the instant adoption of the new trade, especially as they could enter upon it without undergoing any previous scrutiny.

In reply to their further inquiries, the Asturian told them that it would be sufficient if each had a small porter's bag of linen, either new or second-hand, so it was but clean, with three palm-baskets, two large and one small, wherein to carry the meat, fish, and fruit purchased by their employers, while the bag was to be used for carrying the bread. He took them to where all these things were sold; they supplied themselves out of the plunder of the Frenchman, and in less than two hours they might have been taken for regular graduates in their new profession, so deftly did they manage their baskets, and so jauntily carry their bags. Their instructor furthermore informed them of the different places at which they were to make their appearance daily: in the morning at the shambles, and at the market of St. Salvador; on fast-days at the fish-market; every afternoon on the quay, and on Thursdays at the fair.

All these lessons the two friends carefully stored in their memory, and the following morning both repaired in good time to the market of St. Salvador. Scarcely had they arrived before they were remarked by numbers of young fellows of the trade, who soon perceived, by the shining brightness of their bags and baskets, that they were new beginners. They were assailed with a thousand questions, to all which they replied with great presence of mind and discretion. Presently up came two customers, one of whom had the appearance of a Student, the other was a Soldier; both were attracted by the clean and new appearance of their baskets; and he who seemed to be a student beckoned Cortado, while the soldier engaged Rincon. "In God's name be it!"[13] exclaimed both the novices in a breath--Rincon adding, "It is a good beginning of the trade, master, since it is your worship that is giving me my hansel." "The hansel shall not be a bad one," replied the soldier, "seeing that I have been lucky at cards of late, and am in love. I propose this day to regale the friends of my lady with a feast, and am come to buy the materials." "Load away, then, your worship," replied Rincon, "and lay on me as much as you please, for I feel courage enough to carry off the whole market; nay, if you should desire me to aid in cooking what I carry, it shall be done with all my heart."

[13] This is a formula used in Spain by those who do a thing for the first time.--Viardot.

The soldier was pleased with the boy's ready good-will, and told him that if he felt disposed to enter his service he would relieve him from the degrading office he then bore; but Rincon declared, that since this was the first day on which he had tried it, he was not willing to abandon the work so soon, or at least until he had seen what profit there was to be made of it; but if it did not suit him, he gave the gentleman his word that he would prefer the service offered him even to that of a Canon.

The soldier laughed, loaded him well, and showed him the house of his lady, bidding him observe it well that he might know it another time, so that he might be able to send him there again without being obliged to accompany him. Rincon promised fidelity and good conduct; the soldier gave him three quartos,[14] and the lad returned like a shot to the market, that he might lose no opportunity by delay. Besides, he had been well advised in respect of diligence by the Asturian, who had likewise told him that when he was employed to carry small fish, such as sprats, sardines, or flounders, he might very well take a few for himself and have the first taste of them, were it only to diminish his expenses of the day, but that he must do this with infinite caution and prudence, lest the confidence of the employers should be disturbed; for to maintain confidence was above all things important in their trade.

[14] The Quarto contains four Maravedis.

But whatever haste Rincon had made to return, he found Cortado at his post before him. The latter instantly inquired how he had got on. Rincon opened his hand and showed the three quartos; when Cortado, thrusting his arm into his bosom, drew forth a little purse which appeared to have once been of amber-coloured silk, and was not badly filled. "It was with this," said he, "that my service to his reverence the Student has been rewarded--with this and two quartos besides. Do you take it, Rincon, for fear of what may follow."

Cortado had scarcely given the purse in secret to his companion, before the Student returned in a great heat, and looking in mortal alarm. He no sooner set eyes on Cortado, than, hastening towards him, he inquired if he had by chance seen a purse with such and such marks and tokens, and which had disappeared, together with fifteen crowns in gold pieces, three double reals, and a certain number of maravedis in quartos and octavos. "Did you take it from me yourself," he added, "while I was buying in the market, with you standing beside me?"

To this Cortado replied with perfect composure, "All I can tell you of your purse is, that it cannot be lost, unless, indeed, your worship has left it in bad hands."

"That is the very thing, sinner that I am," returned the Student. "To a certainty I must have left it in bad hands, since it has been stolen from me." "I say the same," rejoined Cortado, "but there is a remedy for every misfortune excepting death. The best thing your worship can do now is to have patience, for after all it is God who has made us, and after one day there comes another. If one hour gives us wealth, another takes it away; but it may happen that the man who has stolen your purse may in time repent, and may return it to your worship, with all the interest due on the loan."

"The interest I will forgive him," exclaimed the Student; and Cortado resumed:--"There are, besides, those letters of excommunication, the Paulinas;[15] and there is also good diligence in seeking for the thief, which is the mother of success. Of a truth, Sir, I would not willingly be in the place of him who has stolen your purse; for if your worship have received any of the sacred orders, I should feel as if I had been guilty of some great crime--nay of sacrilege--in stealing from your person."

[15] Paulinas are the letters of excommunication despatched by the ecclesiastical courts for the discovery of such things as are supposed to be stolen or maliciously concealed.

"Most certainly the thief has committed a sacrilege," replied the Student, in pitiable tones; "for although I am not in orders, but am only a Sacristan of certain nuns, yet the money in my purse was the third of the income due from a chapelry, which I had been commissioned to receive by a priest, who is one of my friends, so that the purse does, in fact, contain blessed and sacred money."

"Let him eat his sin with his bread," exclaimed Rincon at that moment; "I should be sorry to become bail for the profit he will obtain from it. There will be a day of judgment at the last, when all things will have to pass, as they say, through the holes of the colander, and it will then be known who was the scoundrel that has had the audacity to plunder and make off with the whole third of the revenue of a chapelry! But tell me, Mr. Sacristan, on your life, what is the amount of the whole yearly income?"

"Income to the devil, and you with it,[16]" replied the Sacristan, with more rage than was becoming; "am I in a humour to talk to you about income? Tell me, brother, if you know anything of the purse; if not, God be with you--I must go and have it cried."

[16] (This footnote is missing from the printed edition.)

"That does not seem to me so bad a remedy," remarked Cortado; "but I warn your worship not to forget the precise description of the purse, nor the exact sum that it contains; for if you commit the error of a single mite, the money will never be suffered to appear again while the world is a world, and that you may take for a prophecy."

"I am not afraid of committing any mistake in describing the purse," returned the Sacristan, "for I remember it better than I do the ringing of my bells, and I shall not commit the error of an atom." Saying this, he drew a laced handkerchief from his pocket to wipe away the perspiration which rained down his face as from an alembic; but no sooner had Cortado set eyes on the handkerchief, than he marked it for his own.

When the Sacristan had got to a certain distance, therefore, Cortado followed, and having overtaken him as he was mounting the steps of a church, he took him apart, and poured forth so interminable a string of rigmarole, all about the theft of the purse, and the prospect of recovering it, that the poor Sacristan could do nothing but listen with open mouth, unable to make head or tail of what he said, although he made him repeat it two or three times.

Cortado meanwhile continued to look fixedly into the eyes of the Sacristan, whose own were rivetted on the face of the boy, and seemed to hang, as it were, on his words. This gave Cortado an opportunity to finish his job, and having cleverly whipped the handkerchief out of the pocket, he took leave of the Sacristan, appointing to meet him in the evening at the same place, for he suspected that a certain lad of his own height and the same occupation, who was a bit of a thief, had stolen the purse, and he should be able to ascertain the fact in a few days, more or less.

Somewhat consoled by this promise, the Sacristan took his leave of Cortado, who then returned to the place where Rincon had privily witnessed all that had passed. But a little behind him stood another basket-boy, who had also seen the whole transaction; and at the moment when Cortado passed the handkerchief to Rincon, the stranger accosted the pair.

"Tell me, gallant gentlemen," said he, "are you admitted to the Mala Entrada,[17] or not?"

[17] Mala Entrada, the evil way.

"We do not understand your meaning, noble Sir," replied Rincon.

"How! not entered, brave Murcians?" replied the other.

"We are neither of Murcia[18] nor of Thebes," replied Cortado. "If you have anything else to say to us, speak; if not, go your ways, and God be with you."

[18] In the slang dialect of Spain, Murcian and Murcia, mean thief, and the land of thieves.

"Oh, your worships do not understand, don't you?" said the porter; "but I will soon make you understand, and even sup up my meaning with a silver spoon. I mean to ask you, gentlemen, are your worships thieves? But why put the question, since I see well that you are thieves; and it is rather for you to tell me how it is that you have not presented yourselves at the custom-house of the Señor Monipodio."

"Do they then pay duty on the right of thieving in this country, gallant Sir?" exclaimed Rincon.

"If they do not pay duty, at least they make them register themselves with the Señor Monipodio, who is the father, master, and protector of thieves; and I recommend you to come with me and pay your respects to him forthwith, or, if you refuse to do that, make no attempt to exercise your trade without his mark and pass-word, or it will cost you dearly."

"I thought, for my part," remarked Cortado, "that the profession of thieving was a free one, exempt from all taxes and port dues; or, at least, that if we must pay, it is something to be levied in the lump, for which we give a mortgage upon our shoulders and our necks; but since it is as you say, and every land has its customs, let us pay due respect to this of yours; we are now in the first country of the world, and without doubt the customs of the place must be in the highest degree judicious. Wherefore your worship may be pleased to conduct us to the place where this gentleman of whom you have spoken is to be found. I cannot but suppose, from what you say, that he is much honoured, of great power and influence, of very generous nature, and, above all, highly accomplished in the profession."

"Honoured, generous, and accomplished! do you say?" replied the boy: "aye, that he is; so much so, that during the four years that he has held the seat of our chief and father, only four of us have suffered at Finibusterry;[19] some thirty or so, and not more, have lost leather; and but sixty-two have been lagged."

[19] In finibus terræ, that is to say, at the gallows, or garotte, which to the thief is the end of the earth and all things.

"Truly, Sir," rejoined Rincon, "all this is Hebrew to us; we know no more about it than we do of flying."

"Let us be jogging, then," replied the new-comer, "and on the way I will explain to you these and other things, which it is requisite you should know as pat as bread to mouth;" and, accordingly, he explained to them a whole vocabulary of that thieves' Latin which they call Germanesco, or Gerigonza, and which their guide used in the course of his lecture,--by no means a short one, for the distance they had to traverse was of considerable length.

On the road, Rincon said to his new acquaintance, "Does your worship happen to be a Thief?"

"Yes," replied the lad, "I have that honour, for the service of God and of all good people; but I cannot boast of being among the most distinguished, since I am as yet but in the year of my novitiate."

"It is news to me," remarked Cortado, "that there are thieves for the service of God and of good people."

"Señor," the other replied, "I don't meddle with theology; but this I know, that every one may serve God in his vocation, the more so as daddy Monipodio keeps such good order in that respect among all his children."

"His must needs be a holy and edifying command," rejoined Rincon, "since it enjoins thieves to serve God."

"It is so holy and edifying," exclaimed the stranger, "that I don't believe a better will ever be known in our trade. His orders are that we give something by way of alms out of all we steal, to buy oil for the lamp of a highly venerated image, well known in this city; and we have really seen great things result from that good work. Not many days ago, one of our cuatreros had to take three ansias for having come the Murcian over a couple of roznos, and although he was but a poor weak fellow, and ill of the fever to boot, he bore them all without singing out, as though they had been mere trifles. This we of the profession attribute to his particular devotion to the Virgin of the Lamp, for he was so weak, that, of his own strength, he could not have endured the first desconcierto of the hangman's wrist. But now, as I guess, you will want to know the meaning of certain words just used; I will take physic before I am sick--that is to say, give you the explanation before you ask for it.

"Be pleased to know then, gentlemen, that a cuatrero is a stealer of cattle, the ansia is the question or torture. Roznos--saving your presence--are asses, and the first desconcierto is the first turn of the cord which is given by the executioner when we are on the rack. But we do more than burn oil to the Virgin. There is not one of us who does not recite his rosary carefully, dividing it into portions for each day of the week. Many will not steal at all on a Friday, and on Saturdays we never speak to any woman who is called Mary."

"All these things fill me with admiration," replied Cortado; "but may I trouble your worship to tell me, have you no other penance than this to perform? Is there no restitution to make?"

"As to restitution," returned the other, "it is a thing not to be mentioned; besides, it would be wholly impossible, on account of the numerous portions into which things stolen have to be divided before each one of the agents and contractors has received the part due to him. When all these have had their share, the original thief would find it difficult to make restitution. Moreover, there is no one to bid us do anything of that kind, seeing that we do not go to confession. And if letters of excommunication are out against us, they rarely come to our knowledge, because we take care not to go into the churches while the priests are reading them, unless, indeed, it be on the days of Jubilee, for then we do go, on account of the vast profits we make from the crowds of people assembled on that occasion."

"And proceeding in this manner," observed Cortado, "your worships think that your lives are good and holy?"

"Certainly! for what is there bad in them?" replied the other lad! "Is it not worse to be a heretic or a renegade? or to kill your father or mother?"

"Without doubt," admitted Cortado; "but now, since our fate has decided that we are to enter this brotherhood, will your worship be pleased to step out a little, for I am dying to behold this Señor Monipodio, of whose virtues you relate such fine things."

"That wish shall soon be gratified," replied the stranger, "nay even from this place we can perceive his house: but your worships must remain at the door until I have gone in to see if he be disengaged, since these are the hours at which he gives audience."

"So be it," replied Rincon; and the thief preceding them for a short distance, they saw him enter a house which, so far from being handsome, had a very mean and wretched appearance. The two friends remained at the door to await their guide, who soon reappeared, and called to them to come in. He then bade them remain for the present in a little paved court, or patio,[20] so clean and carefully rubbed that the red bricks shone as if covered with the finest vermilion. On one side of the court was a three-legged stool, before which stood a large pitcher with the lip broken off, and on the top of the pitcher was placed a small jug equally dilapidated. On the other side lay a rush mat, and in the middle was a fragment of crockery which did service as the recipient of some sweet basil.

[20] The Patio, familiar to all who have visited Seville, as forming the centre of the houses, and which serves in summer as the general sitting-room, so to speak, of the family.

The two boys examined these moveables attentively while awaiting the descent of the Señor Monipodio, but finding that he delayed his appearance, Rincon ventured to put his head into one of two small rooms which opened on the court. There he saw two fencing foils, and two bucklers of cork hung upon four nails; there was also a great chest, but without a lid or anything to cover it, with three rush mats extended on the floor. On the wall in face of him was pasted a figure of Our Lady--one of the coarsest of prints--and beneath it was a small basket of straw, with a little vessel of white earthenware sunk into the wall. The basket Rincon took to be a poor box, for receiving alms, and the little basin he supposed to be a receptacle for holy water, as in truth they were.

While the friends thus waited, there came into the court two young men of some twenty years each; they were clothed as students, and were followed soon afterwards by two of the basket boys or porters, and a blind man. Neither spoke a word to the other, but all began to walk up and down in the court. No long time elapsed before there also came in two old men clothed in black serge, and with spectacles on their noses, which gave them an air of much gravity, and made them look highly respectable: each held in his hand a rosary, the beads of which made a ringing sound. Behind these men came an old woman wearing a long and ample gown, who, without uttering a word, proceeded at once to the room wherein was the figure of Our Lady. She then took holy water with the greatest devotion, placed herself on her knees before the Virgin, and after remaining there a considerable time, first kissed the soil thrice, and then rising, lifted her arms and eyes towards heaven, in which attitude she remained a certain time longer. She then dropped her alms into the little wicker case--and that done, she issued forth among the company in the patio.

Finally there were assembled in the court as many as fourteen persons of various costumes and different professions. Among the latest arrivals were two dashing and elegant youths with long moustachios, hats of immense brims, broad collars, stiffly starched, coloured stockings, garters with great bows and fringed ends, swords of a length beyond that permitted by law, and each having a pistol in his belt, with a buckler hanging on his arm. No sooner had these men entered, than they began to look askance at Rincon and Cortado, whom they were evidently surprised to see there, as persons unknown to themselves. At length the new-comers accosted the two friends, asking if they were of the brotherhood. "We are so," replied Rincon, "and the very humble servants of your worships besides."

At this moment the Señor Monipodio honoured the respectable assembly with his welcome presence. He appeared to be about five or six-and-forty years old, tall, and of dark complexion; his eyebrows met on his forehead, his black beard was very thick, and his eyes were deeply sunk in his head. He had come down in his shirt, through the opening of which was seen a hairy bosom, as rough and thick set as a forest of brushwood. Over his shoulders was thrown a serge cloak, reaching nearly to his feet, which were cased in old shoes, cut down to make slippers; his legs were covered with a kind of linen gaiters, wide and ample, which fell low upon his ankles. His hat was that worn by those of the Hampa, bell-formed in the crown, and very wide in the brim.[21] Across his breast was a leather baldric, supporting a broad, short sword of the perrillo fashion.[22] His hands were short and coarse, the fingers thick, and the nails much flattened: his legs were concealed by the gaiters, but his feet were of immoderate size, and the most clumsy form. In short, he was the coarsest and most repulsive barbarian ever beheld. Wi

 Danish story

www.hcandersen-homepage.dk/samlede_eventyr.htm

The Ugly Duckling

By Hans Christian Andersen (1844) 

It was lovely summer weather in the country, and the golden corn, the green oats, and the haystacks piled up in the meadows looked beautiful. The stork walking about on his long red legs chattered in the Egyptian language, which he had learnt from his mother. The corn-fields and meadows were surrounded by large forests, in the midst of which were deep pools. It was, indeed, delightful to walk about in the country. In a sunny spot stood a pleasant old farm-house close by a deep river, and from the house down to the water side grew great burdock leaves, so high, that under the tallest of them a little child could stand upright. The spot was as wild as the centre of a thick wood. In this snug retreat sat a duck on her nest, watching for her young brood to hatch; she was beginning to get tired of her task, for the little ones were a long time coming out of their shells, and she seldom had any visitors. The other ducks liked much better to swim about in the river than to climb the slippery banks, and sit under a burdock leaf, to have a gossip with her.

At length one shell cracked, and then another, and from each egg came a living creature that lifted its head and cried, “Peep, peep.”

“Quack, quack,” said the mother, and then they all quacked as well as they could, and looked about them on every side at the large green leaves. Their mother allowed them to look as much as they liked, because green is good for the eyes.

“How large the world is,” said the young ducks, when they found how much more room they now had than while they were inside the egg-shell.

“Do you imagine this is the whole world?” asked the mother; “Wait till you have seen the garden; it stretches far beyond that to the parson's field, but I have never ventured to such a distance. Are you all out?” she continued, rising; “No, I declare, the largest egg lies there still. I wonder how long this is to last, I am quite tired of it;” and she seated herself again on the nest.

“Well, how are you getting on?” asked an old duck, who paid her a visit.

“One egg is not hatched yet,” said the duck, “it will not break. But just look at all the others, are they not the prettiest little ducklings you ever saw? They are the image of their father, who is so unkind, he never comes to see.”

“Let me see the egg that will not break,” said the duck; “I have no doubt it is a turkey's egg. I was persuaded to hatch some once, and after all my care and trouble with the young ones, they were afraid of the water. I quacked and clucked, but all to no purpose. I could not get them to venture in. Let me look at the egg. Yes, that is a turkey's egg; take my advice, leave it where it is and teach the other children to swim.”

“I think I will sit on it a little while longer,” said the duck; “as I have sat so long already, a few days will be nothing.”

“Please yourself,” said the old duck, and she went away.

At last the large egg broke, and a young one crept forth crying, “Peep, peep.” It was very large and ugly. The duck stared at it and exclaimed, “It is very large and not at all like the others. I wonder if it really is a turkey. We shall soon find it out, however when we go to the water. It must go in, if I have to push it myself.”

On the next day the weather was delightful, and the sun shone brightly on the green burdock leaves, so the mother duck took her young brood down to the water, and jumped in with a splash. “Quack, quack,” cried she, and one after another the little ducklings jumped in. The water closed over their heads, but they came up again in an instant, and swam about quite prettily with their legs paddling under them as easily as possible, and the ugly duckling was also in the water swimming with them.

“Oh,” said the mother, “that is not a turkey; how well he uses his legs, and how upright he holds himself! He is my own child, and he is not so very ugly after all if you look at him properly. Quack, quack! come with me now, I will take you into grand society, and introduce you to the farmyard, but you must keep close to me or you may be trodden upon; and, above all, beware of the cat.”

When they reached the farmyard, there was a great disturbance, two families were fighting for an eel's head, which, after all, was carried off by the cat.

“See, children, that is the way of the world,” said the mother duck, whetting her beak, for she would have liked the eel's head herself. “Come, now, use your legs, and let me see how well you can behave. You must bow your heads prettily to that old duck yonder; she is the highest born of them all, and has Spanish blood, therefore, she is well off. Don't you see she has a red flag tied to her leg, which is something very grand, and a great honor for a duck; it shows that every one is anxious not to lose her, as she can be recognized both by man and beast. Come, now, don't turn your toes, a well-bred duckling spreads his feet wide apart, just like his father and mother, in this way; now bend your neck, and say ‘quack.’”

The ducklings did as they were bid, but the other duck stared, and said, “Look, here comes another brood, as if there were not enough of us already! and what a queer looking object one of them is; we don't want him here,” and then one flew out and bit him in the neck.

“Let him alone,” said the mother; “he is not doing any harm.”

“Yes, but he is so big and ugly,” said the spiteful duck “and therefore he must be turned out.”

“The others are very pretty children,” said the old duck, with the rag on her leg, “all but that one; I wish his mother could improve him a little.”

“That is impossible, your grace,” replied the mother; “he is not pretty; but he has a very good disposition, and swims as well or even better than the others. I think he will grow up pretty, and perhaps be smaller; he has remained too long in the egg, and therefore his figure is not properly formed;” and then she stroked his neck and smoothed the feathers, saying, “It is a drake, and therefore not of so much consequence. I think he will grow up strong, and able to take care of himself.”

“The other ducklings are graceful enough,” said the old duck. “Now make yourself at home, and if you can find an eel's head, you can bring it to me.”

And so they made themselves comfortable.

But the poor duckling, who had crept out of his shell last of all, and looked so ugly, was bitten and pushed and made fun of, not only by the ducks, but by all the poultry. “He is too big,” they all said, and the turkey cock, who had been born into the world with spurs, and fancied himself really an emperor, puffed himself out like a vessel in full sail, and flew at the duckling, and became quite red in the head with passion, so that the poor little thing did not know where to go, and was quite miserable because he was so ugly and laughed at by the whole farmyard.

So it went on from day to day till it got worse and worse. The poor duckling was driven about by every one; even his brothers and sisters were unkind to him, and would say, “Ah, you ugly creature, I wish the cat would get you,” and his mother said she wished he had never been born. The ducks pecked him, the chickens beat him, and the girl who fed the poultry kicked him with her feet.

So at last he ran away, frightening the little birds in the hedge as he flew over the palings. “They are afraid of me because I am ugly,” he said. So he closed his eyes, and flew still farther, until he came out on a large moor, inhabited by wild ducks. Here he remained the whole night, feeling very tired and sorrowful.

In the morning, when the wild ducks rose in the air, they stared at their new comrade. “What sort of a duck are you?” they all said, coming round him. He bowed to them, and was as polite as he could be, but he did not reply to their question.

“You are exceedingly ugly,” said the wild ducks, “but that will not matter if you do not want to marry one of our family.” Poor thing! he had no thoughts of marriage; all he wanted was permission to lie among the rushes, and drink some of the water on the moor.

After he had been on the moor two days, there came two wild geese, or rather goslings, for they had not been out of the egg long, and were very saucy.

“Listen, friend,” said one of them to the duckling, “you are so ugly, that we like you very well. Will you go with us, and become a bird of passage? Not far from here is another moor, in which there are some pretty wild geese, all unmarried. It is a chance for you to get a wife; you may be lucky, ugly as you are.”

“Pop, pop,” sounded in the air, and the two wild geese fell dead among the rushes, and the water was tinged with blood. “Pop, pop,” echoed far and wide in the distance, and whole flocks of wild geese rose up from the rushes. The sound continued from every direction, for the sportsmen surrounded the moor, and some were even seated on branches of trees, overlooking the rushes. The blue smoke from the guns rose like clouds over the dark trees, and as it floated away across the water, a number of sporting dogs bounded in among the rushes, which bent beneath them wherever they went. How they terrified the poor duckling! He turned away his head to hide it under his wing, and at the same moment a large terrible dog passed quite near him. His jaws were open, his tongue hung from his mouth, and his eyes glared fearfully. He thrust his nose close to the duckling, showing his sharp teeth, and then, “splash, splash,” he went into the water without touching him.

“Oh,” sighed the duckling, “how thankful I am for being so ugly; even a dog will not bite me.”

And so he lay quite still, while the shot rattled through the rushes, and gun after gun was fired over him.

It was late in the day before all became quiet, but even then the poor young thing did not dare to move. He waited quietly for several hours, and then, after looking carefully around him, hastened away from the moor as fast as he could. He ran over field and meadow till a storm arose, and he could hardly struggle against it.

Towards evening, he reached a poor little cottage that seemed ready to fall, and only remained standing because it could not decide on which side to fall first. The storm continued so violent, that the duckling could go no farther; he sat down by the cottage, and then he noticed that the door was not quite closed in consequence of one of the hinges having given way. There was therefore a narrow opening near the bottom large enough for him to slip through, which he did very quietly, and got a shelter for the night.

A woman, a tom cat, and a hen lived in this cottage. The tom cat, whom the mistress called, “My little son,” was a great favorite; he could raise his back, and purr, and could even throw out sparks from his fur if it were stroked the wrong way. The hen had very short legs, so she was called “Chickie short legs.” She laid good eggs, and her mistress loved her as if she had been her own child.

In the morning, the strange visitor was discovered, and the tom cat began to purr, and the hen to cluck.

“What is that noise about?” said the old woman, looking round the room, but her sight was not very good; therefore, when she saw the duckling she thought it must be a fat duck, that had strayed from home. “Oh what a prize!” she exclaimed, “I hope it is not a drake, for then I shall have some duck's eggs. I must wait and see.”

So the duckling was allowed to remain on trial for three weeks, but there were no eggs. Now the tom cat was the master of the house, and the hen was mistress, and they always said, “We and the world,” for they believed themselves to be half the world, and the better half too. The duckling thought that others might hold a different opinion on the subject, but the hen would not listen to such doubts.

“Can you lay eggs?” she asked.

“No.”

“Then have the goodness to hold your tongue.”

“Can you raise your back, or purr, or throw out sparks?” said the tom cat.

“No.”

“Then you have no right to express an opinion when sensible people are speaking.”

So the duckling sat in a corner, feeling very low spirited, till the sunshine and the fresh air came into the room through the open door, and then he began to feel such a great longing for a swim on the water, that he could not help telling the hen.

“What an absurd idea,” said the hen. “You have nothing else to do, therefore you have foolish fancies. If you could purr or lay eggs, they would pass away.”

“But it is so delightful to swim about on the water,” said the duckling, “and so refreshing to feel it close over your head, while you dive down to the bottom.”

“Delightful, indeed!” said the hen, “why you must be crazy! Ask the cat, he is the cleverest animal I know, ask him how he would like to swim about on the water, or to dive under it, for I will not speak of my own opinion; ask our mistress, the old woman– there is no one in the world more clever than she is. Do you think she would like to swim, or to let the water close over her head?”

“You don't understand me,” said the duckling.

“We don't understand you? Who can understand you, I wonder? Do you consider yourself more clever than the cat, or the old woman? I will say nothing of myself. Don't imagine such nonsense, child, and thank your good fortune that you have been received here. Are you not in a warm room, and in society from which you may learn something. But you are a chatterer, and your company is not very agreeable. Believe me, I speak only for your own good. I may tell you unpleasant truths, but that is a proof of my friendship. I advise you, therefore, to lay eggs, and learn to purr as quickly as possible.”

“I believe I must go out into the world again,” said the duckling.

“Yes, do,” said the hen.

So the duckling left the cottage, and soon found water on which it could swim and dive, but was avoided by all other animals, because of its ugly appearance.

Autumn came, and the leaves in the forest turned to orange and gold. Then, as winter approached, the wind caught them as they fell and whirled them in the cold air. The clouds, heavy with hail and snow-flakes, hung low in the sky, and the raven stood on the ferns crying, “Croak, croak.” It made one shiver with cold to look at him. All this was very sad for the poor little duckling.

One evening, just as the sun set amid radiant clouds, there came a large flock of beautiful birds out of the bushes. The duckling had never seen any like them before. They were swans, and they curved their graceful necks, while their soft plumage shown with dazzling whiteness. They uttered a singular cry, as they spread their glorious wings and flew away from those cold regions to warmer countries across the sea. As they mounted higher and higher in the air, the ugly little duckling felt quite a strange sensation as he watched them. He whirled himself in the water like a wheel, stretched out his neck towards them, and uttered a cry so strange that it frightened himself. Could he ever forget those beautiful, happy birds; and when at last they were out of his sight, he dived under the water, and rose again almost beside himself with excitement. He knew not the names of these birds, nor where they had flown, but he felt towards them as he had never felt for any other bird in the world. He was not envious of these beautiful creatures, but wished to be as lovely as they. Poor ugly creature, how gladly he would have lived even with the ducks had they only given him encouragement.

The winter grew colder and colder; he was obliged to swim about on the water to keep it from freezing, but every night the space on which he swam became smaller and smaller. At length it froze so hard that the ice in the water crackled as he moved, and the duckling had to paddle with his legs as well as he could, to keep the space from closing up. He became exhausted at last, and lay still and helpless, frozen fast in the ice.

Early in the morning, a peasant, who was passing by, saw what had happened. He broke the ice in pieces with his wooden shoe, and carried the duckling home to his wife. The warmth revived the poor little creature.

But when the children wanted to play with him, the duckling thought they would do him some harm; so he started up in terror, fluttered into the milk-pan, and splashed the milk about the room. Then the woman clapped her hands, which frightened him still more. He flew first into the butter-cask, then into the meal-tub, and out again. What a condition he was in! The woman screamed, and struck at him with the tongs; the children laughed and screamed, and tumbled over each other, in their efforts to catch him; but luckily he escaped. The door stood open; the poor creature could just manage to slip out among the bushes, and lie down quite exhausted in the newly fallen snow.

It would be very sad, were I to relate all the misery and privations which the poor little duckling endured during the hard winter; but when it had passed, he found himself lying one morning in a moor, amongst the rushes. He felt the warm sun shining, and heard the lark singing, and saw that all around was beautiful spring.

Then the young bird felt that his wings were strong, as he flapped them against his sides, and rose high into the air. They bore him onwards, until he found himself in a large garden, before he well knew how it had happened. The apple-trees were in full blossom, and the fragrant elders bent their long green branches down to the stream which wound round a smooth lawn. Everything looked beautiful, in the freshness of early spring. From a thicket close by came three beautiful white swans, rustling their feathers, and swimming lightly over the smooth water. The duckling remembered the lovely birds, and felt more strangely unhappy than ever.

“I will fly to those royal birds,” he exclaimed, “and they will kill me, because I am so ugly, and dare to approach them; but it does not matter: better be killed by them than pecked by the ducks, beaten by the hens, pushed about by the maiden who feeds the poultry, or starved with hunger in the winter.” Then he flew to the water, and swam towards the beautiful swans. The moment they espied the stranger, they rushed to meet him with outstretched wings. “Kill me,” said the poor bird; and he bent his head down to the surface of the water, and awaited death. But what did he see in the clear stream below? His own image; no longer a dark, gray bird, ugly and disagreeable to look at, but a graceful and beautiful swan.

To be born in a duck's nest, in a farmyard, is of no consequence to a bird, if it is hatched from a swan's egg.

He now felt glad at having suffered sorrow and trouble, because it enabled him to enjoy so much better all the pleasure and happiness around him; for the great swans swam round the new-comer, and stroked his neck with their beaks, as a welcome.

Into the garden presently came some little children, and threw bread and cake into the water.

“See,” cried the youngest, “there is a new one;” and the rest were delighted, and ran to their father and mother, dancing and clapping their hands, and shouting joyously, “There is another swan come; a new one has arrived.” Then they threw more bread and cake into the water, and said, “The new one is the most beautiful of all; he is so young and pretty.” And the old swans bowed their heads before him.

Then he felt quite ashamed, and hid his head under his wing; for he did not know what to do, he was so happy, and yet not at all proud. He had been persecuted and despised for his ugliness, and now he heard them say he was the most beautiful of all the birds. Even the elder-tree bent down its bows into the water before him, and the sun shone warm and bright. Then he rustled his feathers, curved his slender neck, and cried joyfully, from the depths of his heart, “I never dreamed of such happiness as this, while I was an ugly duckling.”
  

 Belgium story

L'improbable Monsieur Owen
by Georges Simenon

First published in Police Roman magazine in N° 12, July 15, 1938.
First published in book form in
Œuvres Complètes, Éditions Rencontre, Gilbert Sigaux, ed., Lausanne, 1967-73.
in Tout Simenon, tome 25, Presses de la Cité, 1992.

translated from the French by Stephen Trussel as:

The Unlikely Monsieur Owen

  1

It was wonderful to be there, eyes closed, eyelids prickling under the caresses of a sun filtered by the yellow curtains... and even more wonderful to think that it was possibly two-thirty or three o'clock in the afternoon, and that that scourge of existence called a clock was entirely unnecessary.

And that wasn't all! At this very moment, by some miracle he was surrounded by boundless marvels. Beginning with the landscape, which Maigret couldn't see, as he had his eyes closed, but which he knew was there if he merely chose to look: the unruffled surface of the Mediterranean such as one can only discover from the grand hotels of Cannes¹, the swarm of varnished masts of the most luxurious port of the world on his right, and far, far off, in the blaze of the sky, the Îles de Lérins².

Even the sounds which reached Maigret from below resonated with luxury. The honking horns were not those of ordinary cars, but for the most part the calls of long, gleaming limousines, driven by chauffeurs in livery. That woman he'd heard arguing in the neighboring suite was a famous Viennese³ movie actress, with a dozen autograph hounds waiting by her door at all hours. And the ceaseless ringing of the telephone below would almost certainly have become annoying, if he hadn't known that the tenant of the suite in question was the Prime Minister of a great state on the Danube⁴.

Maigret was taking a siesta! Maigret, for three days, had been living in a palace, the Excelsior⁵, on the Croisette⁶ in Cannes — not to chase some jailbird or international swindler, but to relax! For this miracle to have taken place had required a whole combination of circumstances, beginning with Aunt Émilie (M^me Maigret had eleven aunts!) being taken seriously ill in Quimper⁷, with no one to look after her...

"If you come with me you'll be bored to tears, and besides, you have to be careful after that bout of bronchitis you had this winter and which is hardly cured. Didn't you always tell me you had a friend in the Midi who'd invited you to come down any time?"

Maigret's friend was none other than M. Louis.

For most people, M. Louis was only a porter of a luxury hotel in a frock coat decorated with gilded keys, and the majority of those imbeciles believed themselves superior to him because they gave him a tip. In fact, M. Louis had passed his baccalauréat^7a, was fluent in five languages, and had been director of a large hotel in Deauville⁸ for many years. He had concluded from his experience that the only means of earning money in the hotel trade... was to fulfill the functions of a porter. He'd fulfilled them on the Champs-Élysées in Paris, and many times had rendered minor services to Maigret, when he was still active, and the Superintendent had frequently returned the favor, as when he'd once managed the recovery of the sum of 100,000 francs which had been flushed down a toilet.

"If you ever come down to the Midi..."

"I'm afraid it won't happen until I'm retired..."

And it had happened! Maigret was taking a siesta, like a sultan! On the chair were his white flannel trousers, while under it his white and red shoes positively gleamed.

People came and went in the corridors, spoke, sang, telephoned in nearby suites; cars passed in the street and women roasted themselves in the sun; in Paris a government made pronouncements in the Chambers, and hundreds of thousands of Frenchman worried about the Stock Exchange prices; here, the elevator went up and went down with a small click on each floor.

What more could one ask for?

Maigret was happy! He'd eaten like four, drunk like six, absorbed the sun through all his pores like fifty candidates in a bathing beauty contest.

Aunt Émilie? Well, if this were her time, she'd had a long life, and the only rub would be that he'd have to leave these wonders to go to the funeral in Brittany where, in March, there was nothing but rain.

He groaned, and lifted his cheek from the pillow, noticing that while all the sounds had previously blended into a symphony, a stronger noise was essentially making a solo.

"Come in!" he shouted, finally recognizing the strange humming as a knock on his door. "Is that you, M. Louis?"

"Were you sleeping? I'm really sorry to disturb you, but something terrible has happened."

"Presumably nothing that would impede you from opening the curtains for me?"

And so he could regard the sea, as blue as a watercolor painting, with a white yacht on the horizon, and a speedboat going round and round humming like a hornet.

"Would you mind bringing me a glass of water?" as his nap, after the fine lunch, had left his mouth feeling woolly.

"You said 'something terrible'?"

"A crime has been committed in the hotel."

M. Louis was an intelligent man, distinguished even, with a small brown mustache and a very fine smile. However he hardly expected to hear Superintendent Maigret, or rather ex-Superintendent Maigret, murmur dreamily, "Is that so?"

"A crime in which everything is extremely mysterious."

Was it the half-sleep which gave Maigret this vulgarity, or did he affect it as a protest against his elegant surroundings? Again he groaned, "Well, old man..."

"It concerns M. Owen..."

"Tell me, Louis, have you informed the police?"

"The local Superintendent⁹ has just arrived. The Examining Magistrate¹⁰ should be here at any moment."

"Well?"

"I don't understand..."

"Tell me, Louis. When, by chance, you travel and stay at a hotel, is it you who gives the guests their room keys and delivers them their mail?"

Maigret got up, his hair in disorder, sought his pipe, stuffed it, found one blue slipper and had to kneel to fish the other out from below the bed.

"I believed that it would interest you," responded M. Louis, a little peevishly.

"Me? Not at all."

"That's a shame..."

"I don't see why."

"Because I know that the local police won't be able to find out anything, and that you're the only one who could decipher this enigma."

"Well then, so much the worse for this enigma!"

"You didn't even ask me who M. Owen is"

"That's fine with me."

"Even better, because no one knows."

This time, Maigret, trying to catch the ends of his suspenders hanging behind his back, shot M. Louis a dirty look. "Hold on. Nobody knows?"

"We thought he was Swedish¹¹. He seemed to be, and that's what was written on his registration card. You know that in deluxe hotels of our class, we don't require the guest's passports, and they write whatever they like. But when M. Owen's room was searched they didn't find any identity papers. And the Swedish consul, which is near the Excelsior, says that there had been an Ernst Owen, but he died ten years ago."

Maigret brushed his teeth, took up his pipe again, and ran a wet comb through his hair. "Why are you telling me all this?"

"For nothing! Here's this Ernst Owen, arriving at our premises three weeks ago, accompanied by a pretty nurse, one of the prettiest girls I've ever seen — and in our trade the occasions are numerous -"

Maigret sought a tie to his taste among the six new ones his wife had presented him for this voyage.

"A blonde with gray eyes. A peach of a girl, graceful, well-built but not heavy, with luscious skin..."

The former superintendent still didn't want to acknowledge that he was listening.

"We even joked about it while doing the mail. You know how it is: while eating, one chatters. The hotel managers hear this or that... the hall-boys and the bellhops bring their information... the chambermaids have their intimate pipelines... In short, this M. Owen and his nurse..."

"Was he sick?"

"Not at all! Or at least, I don't know anything about it. You'd had to have seen him on the terrace without knowing who he was. A tall gentleman, almost as tall as King Gustav¹², dressed completely in gray — gray flannel suit, gray shirt, gray silk tie, with only a natural Panama hat and white deerskin shoes. Gray glasses, and even gray linen gloves."

"Gloves?"

"Yes! And that's not all. He came down every morning at ten o'clock, and always settled himself into the same wicker armchair on the terrace, the one under the third parasol. He remained there until one, his cane between his hands, looking out at the sea in front of him. Then he'd lunch, and return to the terrace until five or six, that is, until the moment when it started to get cool. Then he'd go up to his suite, where a cold dinner was served to him, and he wouldn't be seen again that evening."

"Someone killed him?"

"Rather someone was killed in his room..."

"So he wasn't the victim?"

"More likely he was the..."

M. Louis told himself that Maigret was nibbling the bait, and that from now on he could progress in a less mysterious way.

"I'll tell you the story in a few words. This morning, at the time when we sort the newspapers from Paris, which arrive a little before eleven, I noticed that M. Owen wasn't in his usual place. I even mentioned it to one of the bellboys. I happened to glance at the board, and I saw that his key was missing. Later, at apéritif time, as I was making my rounds on the terrace, I again noted the absence of M. Owen. This time, I went to the front desk and asked M. Henry, 'Is M. Owen ill?'"

"I don't know."

"At that moment, sometime between a quarter past and twelve-thirty, I saw his nurse leaving, in a pale green dress which suited her to perfection. As she didn't give me her key, I didn't have a chance to say anything. I'd assumed she was going out to seek some medication, and I would have told her that the pharmacies were closed."

"Finally, at two o'clock, the fourth-floor hallman telephoned me to ask about 412, M. Owen's suite. The door was always closed and no one answered his knocks. I arrived and opened the door with a master key, and was surprised to find an empty whisky bottle on the table, beside a broken glass. In the bathroom, in the tub, I found the naked body of a man..."

"And then?" Maigret asked in spite of himself.

"Then nothing! It wasn't M. Owen."

"Meaning?"

"Just that it wasn't M. Owen. Moreover, since my trade obliges to me to be something of a physiognomist, I know everyone who enters or leaves the hotel on sight. I can affirm that I never saw this young man..."

"Excuse me — as for M. Owen?"

"That's precisely where the story becomes extraordinary. His clothing was on the coat rack and his luggage in the suite, everything there. On the other hand, though it is obvious that the young man did not very well enter naked into the Excelsior, there was no clothing belonging to him in 412."