Fables

“It was very well done,” said his uncle, “to take the sword and come yourself into the House of Eld; a good thought and a brave deed. But now you are satisfied; and we may go home to dinner arm in arm.”

“Oh, dear, no!” said Jack. “I am not satisfied yet.”

“How!” cried his uncle. “Are you not warmed by the fire? Does not this food sustain you?”

“I see the food to be wholesome,” said Jack; “and still it is no proof that a man should wear a gyve on his right leg.”

Now at this the appearance of his uncle gobbled like a turkey.

“Jupiter!” cried Jack, “is this the sorcerer?”

His hand held back and his heart failed him for the love he bore his uncle; but he heaved up the sword and smote the appearance on the head; and it cried out aloud with the voice of his uncle; and fell to the ground; and a little bloodless white thing fled from the room.

The cry rang in Jack’s ears, and his knees smote together, and conscience cried upon him; and yet he was strengthened, and there woke in his bones the lust of that enchanter’s blood. “If the gyves are to fall,” said he, “I must go through with this, and when I get home I shall find my uncle dancing.”

So he went on after the bloodless thing. In the way, he met the appearance of his father; and his father was incensed, and railed upon him, and called to him upon his duty, and bade him be home, while there was yet time. “For you can still,” said he, “be home by sunset; and then all will be forgiven.”

“God knows,” said Jack, “I fear your anger; but yet your anger does not prove that a man should wear a gyve on his right leg.”

And at that the appearance of his father gobbled like a turkey.

“Ah, heaven,” cried Jack, “the sorcerer again!”

The blood ran backward in his body and his joints rebelled against him for the love he bore his father; but he heaved up the sword, and plunged it in the heart of the appearance; and the appearance cried out aloud with the voice of his father; and fell to the ground; and a little bloodless white thing fled from the room.

The cry rang in Jack’s ears, and his soul was darkened; but now rage came to him. “I have done what I dare not think upon,” said he. “I will go to an end with it, or perish. And when I get home, I pray God this may be a dream, and I may find my father dancing.”

So he went on after the bloodless thing that had escaped; and in the way he met the appearance of his mother, and she wept. “What have you done?” she cried. “What is this that you have done? Oh, come home (where you may be by bedtime) ere you do more ill to me and mine; for it is enough to smite my brother and your father.”

“Dear mother, it is not these that I have smitten,” said Jack; “it was but the enchanter in their shape. And even if I had, it would not prove that a man should wear a gyve on his right leg.”

And at this the appearance gobbled like a turkey.

He never knew how he did that; but he swung the sword on the one side, and clove the appearance through the midst; and it cried out aloud with the voice of his mother; and fell to the ground; and with the fall of it, the house was gone from over Jack’s head, and he stood alone in the woods, and the gyve was loosened from his leg.

“Well,” said he, “the enchanter is now dead, and the fetter gone.” But the cries rang in his soul, and the day was like night to him. “This has been a sore business,” said he. “Let me get forth out of the wood, and see the good that I have done to others.”

He thought to leave the fetter where it lay, but when he turned to go, his mind was otherwise. So he stooped and put the gyve in his bosom; and the rough iron galled him as he went, and his bosom bled.

Now when he was forth of the wood upon the highway, he met folk returning from the field; and those he met had no fetter on the right leg, but, behold! they had one upon the left. Jack asked them what it signified; and they said, “that was the new wear, for the old was found to be a superstition”. Then he looked at them nearly; and there was a new ulcer on the left ankle, and the old one on the right was not yet healed.

“Now, may God forgive me!” cried Jack. “I would I were well home.”

And when he was home, there lay his uncle smitten on the head, and his father pierced through the heart, and his mother cloven through the midst. And he sat in the lone house and wept beside the bodies.

MORALOld is the tree and the fruit good,Very old and thick the wood.Woodman, is your courage stout?Beware! the root is wrapped aboutYour mother’s heart, your father’s bones;And like the mandrake comes with groans.

IX. – THE FOUR REFORMERS

Four reformers met under a bramble bush. They were all agreed the world must be changed. “We must abolish property,” said one.

“We must abolish marriage,” said the second.

“We must abolish God,” said the third.

“I wish we could abolish work,” said the fourth.

“Do not let us get beyond practical politics,” said the first. “The first thing is to reduce men to a common level.”

“The first thing,” said the second, “is to give freedom to the sexes.”

“The first thing,” said the third, “is to find out how to do it.”

“The first step,” said the first, “is to abolish the Bible.”

“The first thing,” said the second, “is to abolish the laws.”

“The first thing,” said the third, “is to abolish mankind.”

X. – THE MAN AND HIS FRIEND

A man quarrelled with his friend.

“I have been much deceived in you,” said the man.

And the friend made a face at him and went away.

A little after, they both died, and came together before the great white Justice of the Peace. It began to look black for the friend, but the man for a while had a clear character and was getting in good spirits.

“I find here some record of a quarrel,” said the justice, looking in his notes. “Which of you was in the wrong?”

“He was,” said the man. “He spoke ill of me behind my back.”

“Did he so?” said the justice. “And pray how did he speak about your neighbours?”

“Oh, he had always a nasty tongue,” said the man.

“And you chose him for your friend?” cried the justice. “My good fellow, we have no use here for fools.”

So the man was cast in the pit, and the friend laughed out aloud in the dark and remained to be tried on other charges.

XI. – THE READER

“I never read such an impious book,” said the reader, throwing it on the floor.

“You need not hurt me,” said the book; “you will only get less for me second hand, and I did not write myself.”

“That is true,” said the reader. “My quarrel is with your author.”

“Ah, well,” said the book, “you need not buy his rant.”

“That is true,” said the reader. “But I thought him such a cheerful writer.”

“I find him so,” said the book.

“You must be differently made from me,” said the reader.

“Let me tell you a fable,” said the book. “There were two men wrecked upon a desert island; one of them made believe he was at home, the other admitted – ”

“Oh, I know your kind of fable,” said the reader. “They both died.”

“And so they did,” said the book. “No doubt of that. And everybody else.”

“That is true,” said the reader. “Push it a little further for this once. And when they were all dead?”

“They were in God’s hands, the same as before,” said the book.

“Not much to boast of, by your account,” cried the reader.

“Who is impious now?” said the book.

And the reader put him on the fire.

The coward crouches from the rod,And loathes the iron face of God.

XII. – THE CITIZEN AND THE TRAVELLER

“Look round you,” said the citizen. “This is the largest market in the world.”

“Oh, surely not,” said the traveller.

“Well, perhaps not the largest,” said the citizen, “but much the best.”

“You are certainly wrong there,” said the traveller. “I can tell you.”

They buried the stranger at the dusk.

XIII. – THE DISTINGUISHED STRANGER

Once upon a time there came to this earth a visitor from a neighbouring planet. And he was met at the place of his descent by a great philosopher, who was to show him everything.

First of all they came through a wood, and the stranger looked upon the trees. “Whom have we here?” said he.

“These are only vegetables,” said the philosopher. “They are alive, but not at all interesting.”

“I don’t know about that,” said the stranger. “They seem to have very good manners. Do they never speak?”

“They lack the gift,” said the philosopher.

“Yet I think I hear them sing,” said the other.

“That is only the wind among the leaves,” said the philosopher. “I will explain to you the theory of winds: it is very interesting.”

“Well,” said the stranger, “I wish I knew what they are thinking.”

“They cannot think,” said the philosopher.

“I don’t know about that,” returned the stranger: and then, laying his hand upon a trunk: “I like these people,” said he.

“They are not people at all,” said the philosopher. “Come along.”

Next they came through a meadow where there were cows.

“These are very dirty people,” said the stranger.

“They are not people at all,” said the philosopher; and he explained what a cow is in scientific words which I have forgotten.

“That is all one to me,” said the stranger. “But why do they never look up?”

“Because they are graminivorous,” said the philosopher; “and to live upon grass, which is not highly nutritious, requires so close an attention to business that they have no time to think, or speak, or look at the scenery, or keep themselves clean.”

“Well,” said the stranger, “that is one way to live, no doubt. But I prefer the people with the green heads.”

Next they came into a city, and the streets were full of men and women.

“These are very odd people,” said the stranger.

“They are the people of the greatest nation in the world,” said the philosopher.

“Are they indeed?” said the stranger. “They scarcely look so.”

XIV. – THE CART-HORSES AND THE SADDLE-HORSE

Two cart-horses, a gelding and a mare, were brought to Samoa, and put in the same field with a saddle-horse to run free on the island. They were rather afraid to go near him, for they saw he was a saddle-horse, and supposed he would not speak to them. Now the saddle-horse had never seen creatures so big. “These must be great chiefs,” thought he, and he approached them civilly. “Lady and gentleman,” said he, “I understand you are from the colonies. I offer you my affectionate compliments, and make you heartily welcome to the islands.”

The colonials looked at him askance, and consulted with each other.

“Who can he be?” said the gelding.

“He seems suspiciously civil,” said the mare.

“I do not think he can be much account,” said the gelding.

“Depend upon it he is only a Kanaka,” said the mare.

Then they turned to him.

“Go to the devil!” said the gelding.

“I wonder at your impudence, speaking to persons of our quality!” cried the mare.

The saddle-horse went away by himself. “I was right,” said he, “they are great chiefs.”

XV. – THE TADPOLE AND THE FROG

“Be ashamed of yourself,” said the frog.

“When I was a tadpole, I had no tail.”

“Just what I thought!” said the tadpole.

“You never were a tadpole.”

XVI. – SOMETHING IN IT

The natives told him many tales. In particular, they warned him of the house of yellow reeds tied with black sinnet, how any one who touched it became instantly the prey of Akaänga, and was handed on to him by Miru the ruddy, and hocussed with the kava of the dead, and baked in the ovens and eaten by the eaters of the dead.

“There is nothing in it,” said the missionary.

There was a bay upon that island, a very fair bay to look upon; but, by the native saying, it was death to bathe there. “There is nothing in that,” said the missionary; and he came to the bay, and went swimming. Presently an eddy took him and bore him towards the reef. “Oho!” thought the missionary, “it seems there is something in it after all.” And he swam the harder, but the eddy carried him away. “I do not care about this eddy,” said the missionary; and even as he said it, he was aware of a house raised on piles above the sea; it was built of yellow reeds, one reed joined with another, and the whole bound with black sinnet; a ladder led to the door, and all about the house hung calabashes. He had never seen such a house, nor yet such calabashes; and the eddy set for the ladder. “This is singular,” said the missionary, “but there can be nothing in it.” And he laid hold of the ladder and went up. It was a fine house; but there was no man there; and when the missionary looked back he saw no island, only the heaving of the sea. “It is strange about the island,” said the missionary, “but who’s afraid? my stories are the true ones.” And he laid hold of a calabash, for he was one that loved curiosities. Now he had no sooner laid hand upon the calabash than that which he handled, and that which he saw and stood on, burst like a bubble and was gone; and night closed upon him, and the waters, and the meshes of the net; and he wallowed there like a fish.

“A body would think there was something in this,” said the missionary. “But if these tales are true, I wonder what about my tales!”

Now the flaming of Akaänga’s torch drew near in the night; and the misshapen hands groped in the meshes of the net; and they took the missionary between the finger and the thumb, and bore him dripping in the night and silence to the place of the ovens of Miru. And there was Miru, ruddy in the glow of the ovens; and there sat her four daughters, and made the kava of the dead; and there sat the comers out of the islands of the living, dripping and lamenting.

This was a dread place to reach for any of the sons of men. But of all who ever came there, the missionary was the most concerned; and, to make things worse, the person next him was a convert of his own.

“Aha,” said the convert, “so you are here like your neighbours? And how about all your stories?”

“It seems,” said the missionary, with bursting tears, “that there was nothing in them.”

By this the kava of the dead was ready, and the daughters of Miru began to intone in the old manner of singing. “Gone are the green islands and the bright sea, the sun and the moon and the forty million stars, and life and love and hope. Henceforth is no more, only to sit in the night and silence, and see your friends devoured; for life is a deceit, and the bandage is taken from your eyes.”

Now when the singing was done, one of the daughters came with the bowl. Desire of that kava rose in the missionary’s bosom; he lusted for it like a swimmer for the land, or a bridegroom for his bride; and he reached out his hand, and took the bowl, and would have drunk. And then he remembered, and put it back.

“Drink!” sang the daughter of Miru.

“There is no kava like the kava of the dead, and to drink of it once is the reward of living.”

“I thank you. It smells excellent,” said the missionary. “But I am a blue-ribbon man myself; and though I am aware there is a difference of opinion even in our own confession, I have always held kava to be excluded.”

“What!” cried the convert. “Are you going to respect a taboo at a time like this? And you were always so opposed to taboos when you were alive!”

“To other people’s,” said the missionary. “Never to my own.”

“But yours have all proved wrong,” said the convert.

“It looks like it,” said the missionary, “and I can’t help that. No reason why I should break my word.”

“I never heard the like of this!” cried the daughter of Miru. “Pray, what do you expect to gain?”

“That is not the point,” said the missionary. “I took this pledge for others, I am not going to break it for myself.”

The daughter of Miru was puzzled; she came and told her mother, and Miru was vexed; and they went and told Akaänga. “I don’t know what to do about this,” said Akaänga; and he came and reasoned with the missionary.

“But there is such a thing as right and wrong,” said the missionary; “and your ovens cannot alter that.”

“Give the kava to the rest,” said Akaänga to the daughters of Miru. “I must get rid of this sea-lawyer instantly, or worse will come of it.”

The next moment the missionary came up in the midst of the sea, and there before him were the palm trees of the island. He swam to the shore gladly, and landed. Much matter of thought was in that missionary’s mind.

“I seem to have been misinformed upon some points,” said he. “Perhaps there is not much in it, as I supposed; but there is something in it after all. Let me be glad of that.”

And he rang the bell for service.

MORALThe sticks break, the stones crumble,The eternal altars tilt and tumble,Sanctions and tales dislimn like mistAbout the amazed evangelist.He stands unshook from age to youthUpon one pin-point of the truth.

XVII. – FAITH, HALF FAITH AND NO FAITH AT ALL

In the ancient days there went three men upon pilgrimage; one was a priest, and one was a virtuous person, and the third was an old rover with his axe.

As they went, the priest spoke about the grounds of faith.

“We find the proofs of our religion in the works of nature,” said he, and beat his breast.

“That is true,” said the virtuous person.

“The peacock has a scrannel voice,” said the priest, “as has been laid down always in our books. How cheering!” he cried, in a voice like one that wept. “How comforting!”

“I require no such proofs,” said the virtuous person.

“Then you have no reasonable faith,” said the priest.

“Great is the right, and shall prevail!” cried the virtuous person. “There is loyalty in my soul; be sure, there is loyalty in the mind of Odin.”

“These are but playings upon words,” returned the priest. “A sackful of such trash is nothing to the peacock.”

Just then they passed a country farm, where there was a peacock seated on a rail; and the bird opened its mouth and sang with the voice of a nightingale.

“Where are you now?” asked the virtuous person. “And yet this shakes not me! Great is the truth, and shall prevail!”

“The devil fly away with that peacock!” said the priest; and he was downcast for a mile or two.

But presently they came to a shrine, where a Fakeer performed miracles.

“Ah!” said the priest, “here are the true grounds of faith. The peacock was but an adminicle. This is the base of our religion.”

And he beat upon his breast, and groaned like one with colic.

“Now to me,” said the virtuous person, “all this is as little to the purpose as the peacock. I believe because I see the right is great and must prevail; and this Fakeer might carry on with his conjuring tricks till doomsday, and it would not play bluff upon a man like me.”

Now at this the Fakeer was so much incensed that his hand trembled; and, lo! in the midst of a miracle the cards fell from up his sleeve.

“Where are you now?” asked the virtuous person. “And yet it shakes not me!”

“The devil fly away with the Fakeer!” cried the priest. “I really do not see the good of going on with this pilgrimage.”

“Cheer up!” cried the virtuous person. “Great is the right, and shall prevail!”

“If you are quite sure it will prevail,” says the priest.

“I pledge my word for that,” said the virtuous person.

So the other began to go on again with a better heart.

At last one came running, and told them all was lost: that the powers of darkness had besieged the Heavenly Mansions, that Odin was to die, and evil triumph.

“I have been grossly deceived,” cried the virtuous person.

“All is lost now,” said the priest.

“I wonder if it is too late to make it up with the devil?” said the virtuous person.

“Oh, I hope not,” said the priest. “And at any rate we can but try. But what are you doing with your axe?” says he to the rover.

“I am off to die with Odin,” said the rover.

XVIII. – THE TOUCHSTONE

The King was a man that stood well before the world; his smile was sweet as clover, but his soul withinsides was as little as a pea. He had two sons; and the younger son was a boy after his heart, but the elder was one whom he feared. It befell one morning that the drum sounded in the dun before it was yet day; and the King rode with his two sons, and a brave array behind them. They rode two hours, and came to the foot of a brown mountain that was very steep.

“Where do we ride?” said the elder son.

“Across this brown mountain,” said the King, and smiled to himself.

“My father knows what he is doing,” said the younger son.

And they rode two hours more, and came to the sides of a black river that was wondrous deep.

“And where do we ride?” asked the elder son.

“Over this black river,” said the King, and smiled to himself.

“My father knows what he is doing,” said the younger son.

And they rode all that day, and about the time of the sunsetting came to the side of a lake, where was a great dun.

“It is here we ride,” said the King; “to a King’s house, and a priest’s, and a house where you will learn much.”

At the gates of the dun, the King who was a priest met them; and he was a grave man, and beside him stood his daughter, and she was as fair as the morn, and one that smiled and looked down.

“These are my two sons,” said the first King.

“And here is my daughter,” said the King who was a priest.

“She is a wonderful fine maid,” said the first King, “and I like her manner of smiling,”

“They are wonderful well-grown lads,” said the second, “and I like their gravity.”

And then the two Kings looked at each other, and said, “The thing may come about”.

And in the meanwhile the two lads looked upon the maid, and the one grew pale and the other red; and the maid looked upon the ground smiling.

“Here is the maid that I shall marry,” said the elder. “For I think she smiled upon me.”

But the younger plucked his father by the sleeve. “Father,” said he, “a word in your ear. If I find favour in your sight, might not I wed this maid, for I think she smiles upon me?”

“A word in yours,” said the King his father. “Waiting is good hunting, and when the teeth are shut the tongue is at home.”

Now they were come into the dun, and feasted; and this was a great house, so that the lads were astonished; and the King that was a priest sat at the end of the board and was silent, so that the lads were filled with reverence; and the maid served them smiling with downcast eyes, so that their hearts were enlarged.

Before it was day, the elder son arose, and he found the maid at her weaving, for she was a diligent girl. “Maid,” quoth he, “I would fain marry you.”

“You must speak with my father,” said she, and she looked upon the ground smiling, and became like the rose.

“Her heart is with me,” said the elder son, and he went down to the lake and sang.

A little after came the younger son. “Maid,” quoth he, “if our fathers were agreed, I would like well to marry you.”

“You can speak to my father,” said she; and looked upon the ground, and smiled and grew like the rose.

“She is a dutiful daughter,” said the younger son, “she will make an obedient wife.” And then he thought, “What shall I do?” and he remembered the King her father was a priest; so he went into the temple, and sacrificed a weasel and a hare.

Presently the news got about; and the two lads and the first King were called into the presence of the King who was a priest, where he sat upon the high seat.

“Little I reck of gear,” said the King who was a priest, “and little of power. For we live here among the shadow of things, and the heart is sick of seeing them. And we stay here in the wind like raiment drying, and the heart is weary of the wind. But one thing I love, and that is truth; and for one thing will I give my daughter, and that is the trial stone. For in the light of that stone the seeming goes, and the being shows, and all things besides are worthless. Therefore, lads, if ye would wed my daughter, out foot, and bring me the stone of touch, for that is the price of her.”

“A word in your ear,” said the younger son to his father. “I think we do very well without this stone.”

“A word in yours,” said the father. “I am of your way of thinking; but when the teeth are shut the tongue is at home.” And he smiled to the King that was a priest.