Роберт Льюис Стивенсон
Fables
Jack went in through the gable; and there was one room after another, all bare, but all furnished in part, so that a man could dwell there; and in each there was a fire burning, where a man could warm himself, and a table spread where he might eat. But Jack saw nowhere any living creature; only the bodies of some stuffed.
“This is a hospitable house,” said Jack; “but the ground must be quaggy underneath, for at every step the building quakes.”
He had gone some time in the house, when he began to be hungry. Then he looked at the food, and at first he was afraid; but he bared the sword, and by the shining of the sword, it seemed the food was honest. So he took the courage to sit down and eat, and he was refreshed in mind and body.
“This is strange,” thought he, “that in the house of sorcery there should be food so wholesome.”
As he was yet eating, there came into that room the appearance of his uncle, and Jack was afraid because he had taken the sword. But his uncle was never more kind, and sat down to meat with him, and praised him because he had taken the sword. Never had these two been more pleasantly together, and Jack was full of love to the man.
“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.
MORAL
Old is the tree and the fruit good,
Very old and thick the wood.
Woodman, is your courage stout?
Beware! the root is wrapped about
Your 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.”
