« They are growing
up,
► thought the mother, and suitors will soon appear, who will
refuse my daughter when they see this hateful Dobrunka, who
grows beautiful on purpose to spite me.
up,
► thought the mother, and suitors will soon appear, who will
refuse my daughter when they see this hateful Dobrunka, who
grows beautiful on purpose to spite me.
Warner - World's Best Literature - v15 - Kab to Les
Thou givest name and place
To men unknown; a voice, a faith to brutes
Almost deprived of mental, moral worth !
In thine own image thou hast made a world,
An age created, - art thyself its god!
And yet thou hesitatest,- doubt'st thyself ?
No, no! a hundred times! . . . Thou art sublime!
Translation of Martha Walker Cook.
COUNT HENRY'S MONOLOGUE
From «The Undivine Comedy)
M
IDNIGHT! It was at this same solemn hour,
Surrounded by like perils and like thoughts,
The latest Brutus met his Evil Genius;
And such an apparition I await!
A man who has no name, no ancestors,
Who has no guardian angel, faith, nor God,
Whose mission is destruction to the past,
Will yet — unless I'm strong enough to hurl
Him back into his primal nothingness-
Destroy society, its laws and faith;
Found a new era in the fate of man!
Such is the modern Cæsar I await!
Eagle of glory, hear! Souls of my sires,
Inspire me with that fiery force which made
You rulers of the world. Oh, give to me
The lion heart which throbbed within your breasts!
Your austere majesty gird round my brow!
Rekindle in my soul your burning, blind,
l'nconquerable faith in Christ, his Church,
## p. 8741 (#357) ###########################################
SIGISMUND KRASINSKI
8741
The inspiration of your deeds on earth,
Your hopes in heaven! Light it again in me,
And I will scathe our foes with fire and sword;
Will conquer and destroy all who oppose me,
The myriads of the children of the dust.
I, the last son of hundred generations,
Sole heir of all your virtues, thoughts, and faults!
PER
INTRODUCTION TO THE LAST ACT
From "The Undivine Comedy)
ERCHED like an eagle, high among the rocks,
Stands the old fortress, Holy Trinity. ”
Now from its bastions nothing can be seen,
To right, to left, in front, or in the rear,
A spectral image of that Deluge wrath
Which, as its wild waves rose to sweep o’er earth,
Once broke o'er these steep cliffs, these time-worn rocks.
No glimpses can be traced of vale beneath,
Buried in ghastly waves of ice-cold sea,
Wrapping it as the shroud winds round the dead.
No crimson rays of coming sun yet light
The clammy, pallid winding-sheet of foam.
Upon a bold and naked granite peak,
Above the spectral mist, the castle stands,
A solitary island in this sea.
Its bastions, parapets, and lofty towers
Built of the rock from which they soar, appear
During the lapse of ages to have grown
Out of its stony heart (as human breast
Springs from the centaur's back), - the giant work
Of days long past.
A single banner floats
Above the highest tower; it is the last,
The only Banner of the Cross on earth!
A shudder stirs and wakes the sleeping mist,
The bleak winds sigh, and silence rules no more;
The vapor surges, palpitates, and drifts,
In the first rays shot by the coming sun.
The breeze is chill; the very light seems frost,
Curdling the clouds that form and roll and drift
## p. 8742 (#358) ###########################################
8742
SIGISMUND KRASINSKI
Above this tossing sea of fog and foam.
With Nature's tumult other sounds arise,
And human voices mingling with the storm
Articulate their wail, as it sweeps on.
Borne on and upward by the lifting waves
Of the cloud-surge, they break against the towers,
The castle's granite walls — voices of doom!
Long golden shafts transpierce the sea of foam;
The clinging shroud of mist is swiftly riven;
Through vaporous walls that line the spectral chasin
Are glimpses seen of deep abyss below.
How dark it looks athwart the precipice!
Myriads of heads in wild commotion surge;
The valley swarms with life, as ocean's sands
With writhing things that creep and twist and sting.
The sun! the sun! he mounts above the peaks!
The driven, tortured vapors rise in blood;
More and more clearly grow upon the eye
The threatening swarms fast gathering below.
The quivering mist rolls into crimson clouds;
It scales the craggy cliffs, and softly melts
Into the depths of infinite blue sky.
The valley glitters like a sea of light,
Throws back the sunshine in a dazzling glare;
For every hand is armed with sharpened blade,
And bayonets and points of steel flash fire;
Millions are pouring through the living depths, -
As numberless as they at last will throng
Into the valley of Jehoshaphat,
When called to answer on the Judgment Day.
Translation of Martha Walker Cook.
ARISTOCRACY'S LAST STAND
From «The Undivine Comedy)
AT
T LAST I see you, hated enemies!
With my whole power I trace your cunning plans,
Surround you with my scorn. No more we meet
Within the realm of idle words, of poetry,
But in the real world of deadly combat,
Sharp sword to sword, the rattling hail of bullets
## p. 8743 (#359) ###########################################
SIGISMUND KRASINSKI
8743
Winged by the concentration of my hate!
No more with single arm and voice I meet you
The strength of many centres in my will.
It is a joyous thing to govern, rule,
Even were it solely at the price of death;
To feel myself the sovereign arbiter,
The master of so many wills and lives;
To see there at my feet my enemies
Leaping and howling at me from the abyss,
But all bereft of power to reach me here:
So like the damned, who vainly lift their heads
Toward Heaven!
I know . . . I know, a few hours more of time,
And I and thousands of yon craven wretches
Who have forgot their fathers and their God
Will be no more forever! Be it so!
At least I have a few days more of life,
To satiate myself with joy of combat -
The ecstasy of full command o’er others,
The giddy daring, struggle, victory, loss!
Thou, my last song, swell to a chant of triumph,
For death's the latest foe a man can conquer!
The sun sets fast behind the needled cliffs,
Sinks in a darksome cloud of threatening vapors;
His crimson rays light luridly the valley. -
Precursor of the bloody death before me,
I greet you with a fuller, gladder heart
Than I have e'er saluted ye, vain hopes
And promises of joy or blissful love!
Not through intrigue, through base or cunning skill,
Have I attained the aim of my desires;
But by a sudden bound I've leaped to fame,
As my persistent dreams told me I must.
Ruler o'er those but yesterday my equals,
Conqueror of death, since willingly I seek him,
I stand upon the brink; – eternal life, or sleep!
Translation of Martha Walker Cook.
## p. 8744 (#360) ###########################################
8744
SIGISMUND KRASINSKI
THE TRIUMPH OF CHRISTIANITY
From The Undivine Comedy)
ANCRAS - The hour of rest has not yet struck for me!
The last sad sign of my last enemy
Marks the completion of but half my task.
Look at these spaces, these immensities,
Stretching between my thoughts and me.
Earth's deserts must be peopled, rocks removed,
Swamps drained, and mountains tunneled; trees hewn down;
Seas, lakes, and rivers everywhere connected,
Roads girdle earth, that produce circulate,
And commerce bind all hearts with links of gold.
Each man must own a portion of the soil;
Thought move on lightning wings rending old veils;
The living must outnumber all the hosts
Of those who've perished in this deadly strife;
Life and prosperity must fill the place
Of death and ruin,- ere our work of blood
Can be atoned for! Leonard, this must be done!
If we are not to inaugurate an age
Of social bliss, inaterial ease and wealth,
Our deeds of havoc, devastation, woe,
Will have been worse than vain!
Leonard — The God of liberty will give us power
For these gigantic tasks!
Pancras-
You speak of God!
Do you not see that it is crimson here?
Slippery with gore in which we stand knee-deep ?
Whose gushing blood is this beneath our feet ?
Naught is behind us save the castle court;
Whatever is, I see, and there is no one near. -
We are alone - and yet there surely stands
Another here between us. '
Leonard — I can see nothing but this bloody corpse!
Pancras -- The corpse of his old faithful servant - dead!
It is a living spirit haunts this spot!
This is his cap and belt; look at his arms;
There is the rock o'erhanging the abyss;
And on that spot it was his great heart broke!
Leonard — Pancras, how pale you grow!
Pancras -
Do you not see it ?
'Tis there! up there!
## p. 8745 (#361) ###########################################
SIGISMUND KRASINSKI
8745
Leonard -
I see a mass of clouds
Wild-drifting o'er the top of that steep rock
O'erhanging the abyss. How high they pile!
Now they turn crimson in the sunset rays.
Pancras — There is a fearful symbol burning there!
Leonard – Your sight deceives you.
Pancras
Where are now my people ?
The millions who revered and who obeyed me?
Leonari - You hear their acclamations, — they await you.
Pancras, look not again on yon steep cliff, -
Your eyes die in their sockets as you gaze!
Pancras - Children and women often said that He
Would thus appear,— but on the last day only!
Leonard — Who? Where?
Pancras
Like a tall column there he stands,
In dazzling whiteness o'er yon precipice!
With both his hands he leans upon his cross,
As an avenger on his sword! Leonard,
His crown of thorns is interlaced with lightning -
Leonard — What is the matter? - Pancras, answer me!
Pancras — The dazzling flashes of his eyes are death!
Leonard — You're ghastly pale! Come, let us quit this spot!
Pancras -- Oh! - Leonard, spread your hands and shade my eyes!
Press, press them till I see no more! Tear me away!
Oh, shield me from that look! It crushes me to dust!
Leonard (placing his hands over the eyes] —
Will it do thus ?
Pancras
Your hands are like a phantom's!
Powerless — with neither flesh nor bones!
Transparent as pure water, crystal, air,
They shut out nothing! I can see! still see!
Leonard -- Your eyes die in their sockets! Lean on me!
Pancras
Can you not give me darkness ? Darkness! Darkness!
He stands there motionless, — pierced with three nails, –
Three stars!
His outstretched arms are lightning flashes! — Darkness ! -
Leonard — I can see nothing! Master! Master!
Pancras
Darkness!
Leonard - Ho! citizens! Ho! democrats! aid! aid !
Pancras VICISTI GALILÆE!
[He falls dead. ]
Translation of Martha Walker Cook.
## p. 8746 (#362) ###########################################
8746
SIGISMUND KRASINSKI
APPEAL TO POLAND
From Temptation
O
MOTHER, many times murdered! When thou shalt waken
from sleep, and again. . . feel thy youth returning upon
thee, thou wilt remember thy long night of death, the ter-
rible phantoms of thy protracted agonies. Weep not then,
0
mother! weep not for those who fell in glorious battle, nor for
those who perished on alien soil; although their flesh was torn
by the vulture and devoured by the wolf, they were still happy!
Neither weep for those who died in the dark and silent dungeon
underground by the hand of the executioner: though the dismal
prison lamp was their only star, and the harsh words of the op-
pressor the last farewell they heard on earth, they too were happy!
But drop a tear, O Mother! one tear of tender pity for those
who were deceived by thy murderers, misled by their tissues
of glittering falsehood, blinded by misty veils woven of specious
deceptions, when the command of the tyrant had no power to
tear their true hearts from thee! Alas, Mother, these victims
have suffered the most of all thy martyred children! Deceitful
hopes, born but to die, like blades of naked steel forever pierced
their breasts! Thousands of fierce combats, unknown to fame,
were waging in their souls; combats fuller of bitter suffering
than the bloody battles thundering on in the broad light of the
sun, clashing with the gleam of steel, and booming with the roar
of artillery. No glory shone on the dim paths of thy deceived
sons; thy reproachful phantom walked ever beside them, as part
of their own shadow! The glittering eye of the enemy lured
them to the steep slopes of ice, down into the abyss of eternal
snow; and at every step into the frozen depths, their tears fell
fast for thee! They waited until their hearts withered in the
misery of hope long deferred; until their hands sank in utter
weariness; until they could no longer move their emaciated limbs
in the fetters of their invisible chain; still conscious of life, they
moved as living corpses with frozen hearts -— alone amidst a
hating people --- alone even in the sanctuary of their own homes
- alone forever on the face of the earth!
My Mother! When thou shalt live again in thy olden glory,
shed a tear over their wretched fate, over the agony of agonies;
and whisper upon their dark and silent graves the sublime word,
PARDON.
Translation of Martha Walker Cook.
## p. 8747 (#363) ###########################################
8747
ÉDOUARD RENÉ LEFEBVRE LABOULAYE
(1811-1883)
THE literary pilgrim of two or three decades ago had desired
to pay his respects to the most delightful French teller of
fairy tales, he might have had to interrupt a session of the
Académie des Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres, to disturb the wise men
of the Académie des Sciences Morales, to sit out a debate in the
Assemblée Nationale, or to attend the leisure of the distinguished
Professeur de Législation Comparée in the Collège de France; for all
these institutions laid claim to the assist-
ance of the profound scholar and philo-
sophic statesman, Édouard Laboulaye.
As, however, that eminent original math-
ematician and writer of many solid treatises
on numbers, Charles Dodgson, is to be re-
membered as the happy author of Alice in
Wonderland, so the jurisconsult and politi-
cal economist Laboulaye will live in grate-
ful remembrance for his Contes Bleus) and
Nouveaux Contes Bleus,' — stories of witch
and elf, of fairy and enchanter,— rather than
for his great services to learning.
He was born in Paris in 1811, under the
ÉDOUARD LABOULAYE
First Empire, at the height of its deceptive
splendor. His family was undistinguished, but intelligent and pro-
gressive. Educated in the usual French way, at school and college,
he turned his mature thoughts first to business, setting up a type
foundry with his brother Charles, who presently became an eminent
inventor. The scientific bent which characterized the family inclined
Édouard, however, to legal, historical, and philosophic investigations.
In his twenty-eighth year he made himself a distinguished name
among scholars by the publication of his Histoire du Droit de Pro-
priété Foncière en Occident' (History of Landed Property in Europe),
a work crowned by the Academy of Inscriptions and Belles-Lettres.
The next year he brought out a remarkable book, Essai sur la Vie
et les Ouvrages de Savigny' (The Life and Doctrines of Savigny);
a memoir which not only introduced to French readers the great
2.
## p. 8748 (#364) ###########################################
8748
ÉDOUARD RENÉ LEFEBVRE LABOULAYE
(
German jurist and politician, but familiarized them with the new
comparative method in historical investigation.
Three years later appeared a still more famous volume, 'Recherches
sur la Condition Civile et Politique des Femmes depuis les Romains
jusqu'à nos jours (The Civil and Political Condition of Women
from the time of the Romans). This was the first scientific inquiry
into the causes and sources of the heavy legal disabilities of women,
affording a basis for the first ameliorative legislation. A remarkable
historical study, showing nice literary workmanship, it was crowned
by the Academy of Moral Sciences for its ethical value.
Meantime the enthusiastic student had been admitted to the bar
and begun to practice. He found time, however, to write various
books on jurisprudence - Roman Criminal Law, Literary Property
in France and England, The State and its Limits,' with many
minor treatises and studies. A Liberal by conviction, he set himself
to propagate Liberal opinions under the repressive conditions of the
Second Empire. Finding his ideal in the republican institutions of
America, he wrote as a tract for the times A Political History of
the United States. During the Civil War his ardent friendship for
this country prompted him to produce 'The United States and
France,' an eloquent plea for the Union; and (Paris in America,' a
brilliant allegorical satire which passed through numberless editions.
Indefatigable, he translated into French the works of William Ellery
Channing, edited the biography and correspondence of Benjamin
Franklin, wrote treatises on Germany and the Slavonic countries and
on the political philosophy of Alexis de Tocqueville, poured forth
reminiscences of travel, essays on slavery, religious liberty, constitu-
tional republicanism, or political economy, and published anonymous
satires on the government.
This then was the public-spirited citizen, the learned jurist and
accomplished scholar, who yet found time to write three volumes of
delightful fairy stories for the pleasure of his grandchildren. Of the
first of these, Abdallah,' he once said, “This little volume cost me
more than a year's study. There is not a detail in it that is not
borrowed from some volume of Eastern travel; and I read the Koran
twice through (a wearisome task) in order to extract therefrom a
morality that might put Christians to the blush, though it is practiced
by Arabs. ” In the same way he has filled his national fairy stories —
Russian, Hungarian, Bohemian, Spanish — with local color and race
characteristics. In many of them the brilliant censor who wrote
Paris in America and Prince Caniche) uses the grotesque and
whimsical to veil a searching satire. But so delicate is his art that
while the offenders may see themselves in the mirror he holds up to
nature, the innocent read for the story alone. Full of wit, humor, and
## p. 8749 (#365) ###########################################
ÉDOUARD RENÉ LEFEBVRE LABOULAYE
8749
invention, finely imaginative, and written in a graceful and charining
style, these fairy tales would alone have given their author a place
among distinguished French writers. Unfortunately it is only the less
important which are short enough to be cited in this volume.
When Laboulaye died, in 1883, the Republic for which he had
labored lavished on him the tributes of her foremost scholars and
statesmen. But the memorial he himself desired was the affectionate
remembrance of the children to whom he had revealed an ideal
world. Experience will teach you only too quickly,” he said, ad-
dressing them, that the truest and sweetest things in life are not
those which we see, but those of which we dream. Then, in repeat-
ing my tales to the young folks whom I shall never see, perhaps you
will find pleasure in talking to them of the old man who delighted
in trying to amuse children. I desire no other fame. This immor-
tality suffices me. ”
»
THE TWELVE MONTHS
A BOHEMIAN TALE
From the Fairy Book. )
Translated by Mary L. Booth, and published by
Harper & Brothers
HERE
was
once
a woman who was left a widow with two
children. The elder, who was only her stepdaughter, was
named Dobrunka; the younger, who was as wicked as her
mother, was called Katinka. The mother worshiped her daugh-
ter, but she hated Dobrunka simply because she was as beautiful
as her sister was ugly. Dobrunka did not even know that she
was pretty, and she could not understand why her stepmother
flew into a rage at the mere sight of her. The poor child was
obliged to do all the work of the house; she had to sweep,
cook, wash, sew, spin, weave, cut the grass, and take care of
the cow, while Katinka lived like a princess, — that is to say,
did nothing
Dobrunka worked with a good will, and took reproaches
and blows with the gentleness of a lamb; but nothing soothed
her stepmother, for every day added to the beauty of the elder
sister and the ugliness of the younger.
« They are growing
up,
► thought the mother, and suitors will soon appear, who will
refuse my daughter when they see this hateful Dobrunka, who
grows beautiful on purpose to spite me. I must get rid of her,
cost what it may. ”
)
## p. 8750 (#366) ###########################################
8750
ÉDOUARD RENÉ LEFEBVRE LABOULAYE
(
»
>
One day in the middle of January, Katinka took a fancy for
some violets. She called Dobrunka, and said, "Go to the forest
and bring me a bunch of violets, that I may put them in my
bosom and enjoy their fragrance. ”
“Oh, sister, what an idea! answered Dobrunka: « as if there
were any violets under the snow!
"Hold your tongue, stupid fool," returned her sister, "and do
as I bid you.
If you do not go to the forest and bring me back
a bunch of violets, I will beat you to a jelly. ” Upon this the
mother took Dobrunka by the arm, put her out of the door, and
drew the bolt on her.
The poor girl went to the forest weeping bitterly. Every-
thing was covered with snow; there was not even a footpath.
She lost her way and wandered about, till, famishing with hunger
and perishing with cold, she entreated God to take her from this
wretched life.
All at once she saw a light in the distance.
She went on,
climbing higher and higher, until at last she reached the top of
a huge rock, upon which a great fire was built. Around the fire
were twelve stones; and on each stone sat a motionless figure,
wrapped in a large mantle, his head covered with a hood which
fell over his eyes. Three of these mantles were white like the
snow, three were green like the grass of the meadows, three
were golden like the sheaves of ripe wheat, and three were pur-
ple like the grapes of the vine. These twelve figures, gazing
at the fire in silence, were the Twelve Months of the year.
Dobrunka knew January by his long white beard.
He was
the only one that had a staff in his hand. The poor girl was
terribly frightened. She drew near, saying in a timid voice,
"My good sirs, please to let me warm myself by your fire: I am
freezing with cold. ”
January nodded his head. “Why have you come here, my
child ? ” he asked. “What are you looking for ? ”
"I am looking for violets,” replied Dobrunka.
« This is not the season for them: there are no violets in the
time of snow,” said January in his gruff voice.
“I know it,” replied Dobrunka sadly; “but my sister and
mother will beat me to a jelly if I do not bring them some. My
good sirs, please to tell me where I can find them. ”
Old January rose, and turning to a young man in a green
mantle, put his staff in his hand, and said to him, "Brother
March, this is your business. ”
(
## p. 8751 (#367) ###########################################
ÉDOUARD RENÉ LEFEBVRE LABOULAYE
8751
»
March rose in turn, and stirred the fire with the staff, when
behold! the flames rose, the snow melted, the buds put forth on
the trees, the grass turned green under the bushes, the flowers
peeped through the verdure, and the violets opened - it was
spring
"Make haste, my child, and gather your violets,” said March.
Dobrunka gathered a large bouquet, thanked the Twelve
Months, and joyfully ran home. You can imagine the aston-
ishment of Katinka and the stepmother. The fragrance of the
violets filled the whole house.
“Where did you get these fine things? ” asked Katinka in a
disdainful voice.
“Up yonder, on the mountain,” answered her sister. It
looked like a great blue carpet under the bushes. ”
Katinka put the bouquet in her bosom, and did not even
thank the poor child.
The next morning the wicked sister, as she sat idling by the
stove, took a fancy for some strawberries. “Go to the forest and
bring me some strawberries,” said she to Dobrunka.
“O sister, what an idea! as if there were any strawberries
under the snow! »
"Hold your tongue, stupid fool, and do as I bid you.
don't go to the forest and bring me back a basket of strawberries,
I will beat you to a jelly. ”
The mother took Dobrunka by the arm, put her out of the
door, and drew the bolt on her.
The poor girl returned to the forest, looking with all her
eyes for the light that she had seen the day before.
She was
fortunate enough to spy it, and she reached the fire trembling
and almost frozen. The Twelve Months were in their places,
motionless and silent.
My good sirs,” said Dobrunka, "please to let me warm my-
self by your fire: I am almost frozen with cold. ”
“Why have you returned ? " asked January.
« What are you
looking for ? »
“I am looking for strawberries," answered she.
« This is not the season for them,” returned January in his
gruff voice: “there are no strawberries under the snow. ”
“I know it,” replied Dobrunka sadly; "but my mother and
sister will beat me to a jelly if I do not bring them some. My
good sirs, please to tell me where I can find them. ”
If you
## p. 8752 (#368) ###########################################
8752
ÉDOUARD RENÉ LEFEBVRE LABOULAYE
(C
»
(
Old January rose, and turning to a man in a golden mantle,
he put his staff in his hand, saying, “Brother June, this is your
business. ”
June rose in turn, and stirred the fire with the staff, when
behold! the flames rose, the snow melted, the earth grew green,
the trees were covered with leaves, the birds sang, and the
flowers opened - it was summer. Thousands of little white stars
enameled the turf, then turned to red strawberries; looking, in
their green cups, like rubies set in emeralds.
"Make haste, my child, and gather your strawberries,” said
June.
Dobrunka filled her apron, thanked the Twelve Months, and
joyfully ran home. You may imagine the astonishment of Ka-
tinka and the stepmother. The fragrance of the strawberries
filled the whole house.
“Where did you find these fine things? ” asked Katinka in a
disdainful voice.
"Up yonder on the mountain,” answered her sister; there
were so many of them that they looked like blood poured on the
ground. ”
Katinka and her mother devoured the strawberries without
even thanking the poor child.
The third day the wicked sister took a fancy for some red
apples. The same threats, the same insults, and the same vio-
lence followed. Dobrunka ran to the mountain, and was for-
tunate enough to find the Twelve Months warming themselves,
motionless and silent.
“You here again, my child ? ” said old January, making room
for her by the fire. Dobrunka told him with tears how, if she
did not bring home some red apples, her mother and sister would
beat her to death.
Old January repeated the ceremonies of the day before.
« Brother September,” said he to a gray-bearded man in a
purple mantle, “this is your business. ”
September rose and stirred the fire with the staff, when
behold! the flames ascended, the snow melted, and the trees put
forth a few yellow leaves, which fell one by one before the wind;
it was autumn. The only flowers were a few late pinks, daisies,
and immortelles. Dobrunka saw but one thing, an apple-tree
with its rosy fruit.
"Make haste, my child: shake the tree,” said September.
(
(c
»
»
## p. 8753 (#369) ###########################################
ÉDOUARD RENÉ LEFEBVRE LABOULAYE
8753
She shook it, and an apple fell; she shook it again, and a sec-
ond apple followed.
Make haste, Dobrunka, make haste home! ” cried September
in an imperious voice.
The good child thanked the Twelve Months, and joyfully ran
home. You may imagine the astonishment of Katinka and the
stepmother.
“Fresh apples in January! Where did you get these apples? ”
asked Katinka.
«Up yonder on the mountain: there is a tree there that is as
red with them as a cherry-tree in July. ”
“Why did you bring only two ? You ate the rest on the
(
way. ”
even
a
"O sister, I did not touch them; I was only permitted to
shake the tree twice, and but two apples fell. ”
« Begone, you fool! ” cried Katinka, striking her sister, who
ran away crying.
The wicked girl tasted one of the apples; she had never eaten
anything so delicious in her life, neither had her mother. How
they regretted not having any more!
"Mother,” said Katinka, "give me my fur cloak.
I will go to
the forest and find the tree; and whether I am permitted or not,
I will shake it so hard that all the apples will be ours. "
The mother tried to stop her. A spoiled child listens to noth-
ing. Katinka wrapped herself in her fur cloak, drew the hood
over her head, and hastened to the forest.
Everything was covered with snow; there was not
footpath. Katinka lost her way, but she pushed on, spurred by
pride and covetousness. She spied a light in the distance. She
climbed and climbed till she reached the place, and found the
Twelve Months each seated on his stone, motionless and silent.
Without asking their permission, she approached the fire.
“Why have you come here ? What do you want? Where are
you going ? ” asked old January gruffly.
«What matters it to you, old fool ? " answered Katinka. “It
is none of your business where I came from or whither I am
going. ” She plunged into the forest. January frowned, and
raised his staff above his head. In the twinkling of an eye the
sky was overcast, the fire went out, the snow fell, and the wind
blew. Katinka could not see the way before her. She lost her-
self, and vainly tried to retrace her steps. The snow fell and the
XV-548
## p. 8754 (#370) ###########################################
8754
ÉDOUARD RENÉ LEFEBVRE LABOULAYE
wind blew. She called her mother, she cursed her sister, she
cursed God. The snow fell and the wind blew. Katinka froze,
her limbs stiffened, and she fell motionless. The snow still fell
and the wind still blew.
The mother went without ceasing from the window to the
door, and from the door to the window. The hours passed and
Katinka did not return.
“I must go and look for my daughter,” said she. « The child
has forgotten herself with those hateful apples. ” She took her
fur cloak and hood and hastened to the mountain. Everything
was covered with snow; there was not even a footpath. She
plunged into the forest, calling her daughter. The snow fell and
the wind blew. She walked on with feverish anxiety, shouting
at the top of her voice. The snow still fell and the wind still
blew.
Dobrunka waited through the evening and the night, but no
one returned. In the morning she took her wheel and spun a
whole distaff full; there was still no news. «What can have
happened ? ” said the good girl, weeping. The sun was shining
through an icy mist, and the ground was covered with snow.
Dobrunka prayed for her mother and sister. They did not re-
turn; and it was not till spring that a shepherd found the two
corpses in the forest.
Dobrunka remained the sole mistress of the house, the cow,
and the garden, to say nothing of a piece of meadow adjoining
the house. But when a good and pretty girl has a field under
her window, the next thing that follows is a young farmer, who
offers her his heart and hand. Dobrunka was
soon married.
The Twelve Months did not abandon their child. More than
once, when the north wind blew fearfully and the windows shook
in their frames, old January stopped up all the crevices of the
house with snow, so that the cold might not enter this peaceful
abode.
Dobrunka lived to a good old age, always virtuous and happy,
having, according to the proverb, winter at the door, summer in
the barn, autumn in the cellar, and spring in the heart.
## p. 8755 (#371) ###########################################
ÉDOUARD RENÉ LEFEBVRE LABOULAYE
8755
THE STORY OF COQUERICO
A SPANISH Tale
From the Fairy Book. Translated by Mary L. Booth, and published by
Harper & Brothers
Oi
O
NCE upon a time there was a handsome hen who lived like a
great lady in the poultry-yard of a rich farmer, surrounded
by a numerous family which clucked about her, and none
of which clamored more loudly or picked up the corn faster with
his beak than a poor little deformed and crippled chicken. This
was precisely the one that the mother loved best.
It is the way
with all mothers: the weakest and most unsightly are always
their favorites. This misshapen creature had but one eye, one
wing, and one leg in good condition; it might have been thought
that Solomon had executed his memorable sentence on Coquerico-
for that was the name of the wretched chicken — and cut him in
two with his famous sword. When a person is one-eyed, lame,
and one-armed, he may reasonably be expected to be modest;
but our Castilian ragamuffin was prouder than his father,— the
best spurred, most elegant, bravest, and most gallant cock to be
seen from Burgos to Madrid. He thought himself a phoenix of
grace and beauty, and passed the best part of the day in admir-
ing himself in the brook. If one of his brothers ran against him
by accident, he abused him, called him envious and jealous, and
risked his only remaining eye in battle; if the hens clucked on
seeing him, he said it was to hide their spite because he did not
condescend to look at them.
One day, when he was more puffed up with vanity than usual,
he resolved no longer to remain in such a narrow sphere, but to
go out into the world, where he would be better appreciated.
“My lady mother,” said he, “I am tired of Spain; I am going
to Rome to see the Pope and cardinals. ”
“What are you thinking of, my poor child! ” cried his mother.
«Who has put such a folly into your head ? Never has one of
our family been known to quit his country; and for this reason
are the honor of our race, and are proud of our genealogy.
Where will you find a poultry-yard like this,- mulberry-trees
to shade you, a white-washed hen-roost, a magnificent dunghill,
worms and corn everywhere, brothers that love you, and three
»
we
## p. 8756 (#372) ###########################################
8756
ÉDOUARD RENÉ LEFEBVRE LABOULAYE
«Don't you
>
great dogs to guard you from the foxes ? Do you not think
that at Rome itself you will regret the ease and plenty of such
a life? "
Coquerico shrugged his crippled wing in token of disdain.
“You are a simple woman, my good mother,” said he: "every-
thing is accounted worthy of admiration by him who has never
quitted his dunghill. But I have wit enough to see that my
brothers have no ideas, and that my cousins are nothing but
rustics. My genius is stifling in this hole; I wish to roam the
world and seek my fortune. ”
But, my son, have you never looked in the brook ? » resumed
the poor hen.
know that you lack an eye, a leg,
and a wing? To make your fortune, you need the eyes of a
fox, the legs of a spider, and the wings of a vulture. Once out.
side of these walls you are lost. ”
"My good mother,” replied Coquerico, “when a hen hatches
a duck, she is always frightened on seeing it run to the water.
You know me no better. It is my nature to succeed by my wit
and talent. I must have a public capable of appreciating the
charms of my person; my place is not among inferior people. ”
“My son,” said the hen, seeing all her counsels useless,-“my
son, listen at least to your mother's last words. If you go to
Rome, take care to avoid St. Peter's Church; the saint, it is
said, dislikes cocks, especially when they crow. Shun, moreover,
,
certain personages called cooks and scullions; you will know
them by their paper caps, their tucked-up sleeves, and the great
knives which they wear at their sides. They are licensed assas-
sins, who track our steps without pity, and cut our throats with-
out giving us time to cry mercy. And now my child,” she
added, raising her claw, "receive my blessing. May St. James,
the patron saint of pilgrims, protect thee! ”
Coquerico pretended not to see the tear that trembled in his
mother's eye, nor did he trouble himself any more about his
father, who bristled his plumage and seemed about to call him
back. Without caring for those whom he left behind, he glided
through the half-open door, and once outside, flapped his only
wing and crowed three times to celebrate his freedom « Cock-a-
doodle-do!
As he half flew, half hopped over the fields, he came to
the bed of a brook which had been dried up by the sun.
In
the middle of the sands, however, still trickled a tiny thread of
(C
## p. 8757 (#373) ###########################################
ÉDOUARD RENÉ LEFEBVRE LABOULAYE
8757
(
-
»
(
water, so small that it was choked by a couple of dead leaves
that had fallen into it.
“My friend,” exclaimed the streamlet at the sight of our trav-
eler, -«my friend, you see my weakness; I have not even the
strength to carry away these leaves which obstruct my passage,
much less to make a circuit, so completely am I exhausted.
To men unknown; a voice, a faith to brutes
Almost deprived of mental, moral worth !
In thine own image thou hast made a world,
An age created, - art thyself its god!
And yet thou hesitatest,- doubt'st thyself ?
No, no! a hundred times! . . . Thou art sublime!
Translation of Martha Walker Cook.
COUNT HENRY'S MONOLOGUE
From «The Undivine Comedy)
M
IDNIGHT! It was at this same solemn hour,
Surrounded by like perils and like thoughts,
The latest Brutus met his Evil Genius;
And such an apparition I await!
A man who has no name, no ancestors,
Who has no guardian angel, faith, nor God,
Whose mission is destruction to the past,
Will yet — unless I'm strong enough to hurl
Him back into his primal nothingness-
Destroy society, its laws and faith;
Found a new era in the fate of man!
Such is the modern Cæsar I await!
Eagle of glory, hear! Souls of my sires,
Inspire me with that fiery force which made
You rulers of the world. Oh, give to me
The lion heart which throbbed within your breasts!
Your austere majesty gird round my brow!
Rekindle in my soul your burning, blind,
l'nconquerable faith in Christ, his Church,
## p. 8741 (#357) ###########################################
SIGISMUND KRASINSKI
8741
The inspiration of your deeds on earth,
Your hopes in heaven! Light it again in me,
And I will scathe our foes with fire and sword;
Will conquer and destroy all who oppose me,
The myriads of the children of the dust.
I, the last son of hundred generations,
Sole heir of all your virtues, thoughts, and faults!
PER
INTRODUCTION TO THE LAST ACT
From "The Undivine Comedy)
ERCHED like an eagle, high among the rocks,
Stands the old fortress, Holy Trinity. ”
Now from its bastions nothing can be seen,
To right, to left, in front, or in the rear,
A spectral image of that Deluge wrath
Which, as its wild waves rose to sweep o’er earth,
Once broke o'er these steep cliffs, these time-worn rocks.
No glimpses can be traced of vale beneath,
Buried in ghastly waves of ice-cold sea,
Wrapping it as the shroud winds round the dead.
No crimson rays of coming sun yet light
The clammy, pallid winding-sheet of foam.
Upon a bold and naked granite peak,
Above the spectral mist, the castle stands,
A solitary island in this sea.
Its bastions, parapets, and lofty towers
Built of the rock from which they soar, appear
During the lapse of ages to have grown
Out of its stony heart (as human breast
Springs from the centaur's back), - the giant work
Of days long past.
A single banner floats
Above the highest tower; it is the last,
The only Banner of the Cross on earth!
A shudder stirs and wakes the sleeping mist,
The bleak winds sigh, and silence rules no more;
The vapor surges, palpitates, and drifts,
In the first rays shot by the coming sun.
The breeze is chill; the very light seems frost,
Curdling the clouds that form and roll and drift
## p. 8742 (#358) ###########################################
8742
SIGISMUND KRASINSKI
Above this tossing sea of fog and foam.
With Nature's tumult other sounds arise,
And human voices mingling with the storm
Articulate their wail, as it sweeps on.
Borne on and upward by the lifting waves
Of the cloud-surge, they break against the towers,
The castle's granite walls — voices of doom!
Long golden shafts transpierce the sea of foam;
The clinging shroud of mist is swiftly riven;
Through vaporous walls that line the spectral chasin
Are glimpses seen of deep abyss below.
How dark it looks athwart the precipice!
Myriads of heads in wild commotion surge;
The valley swarms with life, as ocean's sands
With writhing things that creep and twist and sting.
The sun! the sun! he mounts above the peaks!
The driven, tortured vapors rise in blood;
More and more clearly grow upon the eye
The threatening swarms fast gathering below.
The quivering mist rolls into crimson clouds;
It scales the craggy cliffs, and softly melts
Into the depths of infinite blue sky.
The valley glitters like a sea of light,
Throws back the sunshine in a dazzling glare;
For every hand is armed with sharpened blade,
And bayonets and points of steel flash fire;
Millions are pouring through the living depths, -
As numberless as they at last will throng
Into the valley of Jehoshaphat,
When called to answer on the Judgment Day.
Translation of Martha Walker Cook.
ARISTOCRACY'S LAST STAND
From «The Undivine Comedy)
AT
T LAST I see you, hated enemies!
With my whole power I trace your cunning plans,
Surround you with my scorn. No more we meet
Within the realm of idle words, of poetry,
But in the real world of deadly combat,
Sharp sword to sword, the rattling hail of bullets
## p. 8743 (#359) ###########################################
SIGISMUND KRASINSKI
8743
Winged by the concentration of my hate!
No more with single arm and voice I meet you
The strength of many centres in my will.
It is a joyous thing to govern, rule,
Even were it solely at the price of death;
To feel myself the sovereign arbiter,
The master of so many wills and lives;
To see there at my feet my enemies
Leaping and howling at me from the abyss,
But all bereft of power to reach me here:
So like the damned, who vainly lift their heads
Toward Heaven!
I know . . . I know, a few hours more of time,
And I and thousands of yon craven wretches
Who have forgot their fathers and their God
Will be no more forever! Be it so!
At least I have a few days more of life,
To satiate myself with joy of combat -
The ecstasy of full command o’er others,
The giddy daring, struggle, victory, loss!
Thou, my last song, swell to a chant of triumph,
For death's the latest foe a man can conquer!
The sun sets fast behind the needled cliffs,
Sinks in a darksome cloud of threatening vapors;
His crimson rays light luridly the valley. -
Precursor of the bloody death before me,
I greet you with a fuller, gladder heart
Than I have e'er saluted ye, vain hopes
And promises of joy or blissful love!
Not through intrigue, through base or cunning skill,
Have I attained the aim of my desires;
But by a sudden bound I've leaped to fame,
As my persistent dreams told me I must.
Ruler o'er those but yesterday my equals,
Conqueror of death, since willingly I seek him,
I stand upon the brink; – eternal life, or sleep!
Translation of Martha Walker Cook.
## p. 8744 (#360) ###########################################
8744
SIGISMUND KRASINSKI
THE TRIUMPH OF CHRISTIANITY
From The Undivine Comedy)
ANCRAS - The hour of rest has not yet struck for me!
The last sad sign of my last enemy
Marks the completion of but half my task.
Look at these spaces, these immensities,
Stretching between my thoughts and me.
Earth's deserts must be peopled, rocks removed,
Swamps drained, and mountains tunneled; trees hewn down;
Seas, lakes, and rivers everywhere connected,
Roads girdle earth, that produce circulate,
And commerce bind all hearts with links of gold.
Each man must own a portion of the soil;
Thought move on lightning wings rending old veils;
The living must outnumber all the hosts
Of those who've perished in this deadly strife;
Life and prosperity must fill the place
Of death and ruin,- ere our work of blood
Can be atoned for! Leonard, this must be done!
If we are not to inaugurate an age
Of social bliss, inaterial ease and wealth,
Our deeds of havoc, devastation, woe,
Will have been worse than vain!
Leonard — The God of liberty will give us power
For these gigantic tasks!
Pancras-
You speak of God!
Do you not see that it is crimson here?
Slippery with gore in which we stand knee-deep ?
Whose gushing blood is this beneath our feet ?
Naught is behind us save the castle court;
Whatever is, I see, and there is no one near. -
We are alone - and yet there surely stands
Another here between us. '
Leonard — I can see nothing but this bloody corpse!
Pancras -- The corpse of his old faithful servant - dead!
It is a living spirit haunts this spot!
This is his cap and belt; look at his arms;
There is the rock o'erhanging the abyss;
And on that spot it was his great heart broke!
Leonard — Pancras, how pale you grow!
Pancras -
Do you not see it ?
'Tis there! up there!
## p. 8745 (#361) ###########################################
SIGISMUND KRASINSKI
8745
Leonard -
I see a mass of clouds
Wild-drifting o'er the top of that steep rock
O'erhanging the abyss. How high they pile!
Now they turn crimson in the sunset rays.
Pancras — There is a fearful symbol burning there!
Leonard – Your sight deceives you.
Pancras
Where are now my people ?
The millions who revered and who obeyed me?
Leonari - You hear their acclamations, — they await you.
Pancras, look not again on yon steep cliff, -
Your eyes die in their sockets as you gaze!
Pancras - Children and women often said that He
Would thus appear,— but on the last day only!
Leonard — Who? Where?
Pancras
Like a tall column there he stands,
In dazzling whiteness o'er yon precipice!
With both his hands he leans upon his cross,
As an avenger on his sword! Leonard,
His crown of thorns is interlaced with lightning -
Leonard — What is the matter? - Pancras, answer me!
Pancras — The dazzling flashes of his eyes are death!
Leonard — You're ghastly pale! Come, let us quit this spot!
Pancras -- Oh! - Leonard, spread your hands and shade my eyes!
Press, press them till I see no more! Tear me away!
Oh, shield me from that look! It crushes me to dust!
Leonard (placing his hands over the eyes] —
Will it do thus ?
Pancras
Your hands are like a phantom's!
Powerless — with neither flesh nor bones!
Transparent as pure water, crystal, air,
They shut out nothing! I can see! still see!
Leonard -- Your eyes die in their sockets! Lean on me!
Pancras
Can you not give me darkness ? Darkness! Darkness!
He stands there motionless, — pierced with three nails, –
Three stars!
His outstretched arms are lightning flashes! — Darkness ! -
Leonard — I can see nothing! Master! Master!
Pancras
Darkness!
Leonard - Ho! citizens! Ho! democrats! aid! aid !
Pancras VICISTI GALILÆE!
[He falls dead. ]
Translation of Martha Walker Cook.
## p. 8746 (#362) ###########################################
8746
SIGISMUND KRASINSKI
APPEAL TO POLAND
From Temptation
O
MOTHER, many times murdered! When thou shalt waken
from sleep, and again. . . feel thy youth returning upon
thee, thou wilt remember thy long night of death, the ter-
rible phantoms of thy protracted agonies. Weep not then,
0
mother! weep not for those who fell in glorious battle, nor for
those who perished on alien soil; although their flesh was torn
by the vulture and devoured by the wolf, they were still happy!
Neither weep for those who died in the dark and silent dungeon
underground by the hand of the executioner: though the dismal
prison lamp was their only star, and the harsh words of the op-
pressor the last farewell they heard on earth, they too were happy!
But drop a tear, O Mother! one tear of tender pity for those
who were deceived by thy murderers, misled by their tissues
of glittering falsehood, blinded by misty veils woven of specious
deceptions, when the command of the tyrant had no power to
tear their true hearts from thee! Alas, Mother, these victims
have suffered the most of all thy martyred children! Deceitful
hopes, born but to die, like blades of naked steel forever pierced
their breasts! Thousands of fierce combats, unknown to fame,
were waging in their souls; combats fuller of bitter suffering
than the bloody battles thundering on in the broad light of the
sun, clashing with the gleam of steel, and booming with the roar
of artillery. No glory shone on the dim paths of thy deceived
sons; thy reproachful phantom walked ever beside them, as part
of their own shadow! The glittering eye of the enemy lured
them to the steep slopes of ice, down into the abyss of eternal
snow; and at every step into the frozen depths, their tears fell
fast for thee! They waited until their hearts withered in the
misery of hope long deferred; until their hands sank in utter
weariness; until they could no longer move their emaciated limbs
in the fetters of their invisible chain; still conscious of life, they
moved as living corpses with frozen hearts -— alone amidst a
hating people --- alone even in the sanctuary of their own homes
- alone forever on the face of the earth!
My Mother! When thou shalt live again in thy olden glory,
shed a tear over their wretched fate, over the agony of agonies;
and whisper upon their dark and silent graves the sublime word,
PARDON.
Translation of Martha Walker Cook.
## p. 8747 (#363) ###########################################
8747
ÉDOUARD RENÉ LEFEBVRE LABOULAYE
(1811-1883)
THE literary pilgrim of two or three decades ago had desired
to pay his respects to the most delightful French teller of
fairy tales, he might have had to interrupt a session of the
Académie des Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres, to disturb the wise men
of the Académie des Sciences Morales, to sit out a debate in the
Assemblée Nationale, or to attend the leisure of the distinguished
Professeur de Législation Comparée in the Collège de France; for all
these institutions laid claim to the assist-
ance of the profound scholar and philo-
sophic statesman, Édouard Laboulaye.
As, however, that eminent original math-
ematician and writer of many solid treatises
on numbers, Charles Dodgson, is to be re-
membered as the happy author of Alice in
Wonderland, so the jurisconsult and politi-
cal economist Laboulaye will live in grate-
ful remembrance for his Contes Bleus) and
Nouveaux Contes Bleus,' — stories of witch
and elf, of fairy and enchanter,— rather than
for his great services to learning.
He was born in Paris in 1811, under the
ÉDOUARD LABOULAYE
First Empire, at the height of its deceptive
splendor. His family was undistinguished, but intelligent and pro-
gressive. Educated in the usual French way, at school and college,
he turned his mature thoughts first to business, setting up a type
foundry with his brother Charles, who presently became an eminent
inventor. The scientific bent which characterized the family inclined
Édouard, however, to legal, historical, and philosophic investigations.
In his twenty-eighth year he made himself a distinguished name
among scholars by the publication of his Histoire du Droit de Pro-
priété Foncière en Occident' (History of Landed Property in Europe),
a work crowned by the Academy of Inscriptions and Belles-Lettres.
The next year he brought out a remarkable book, Essai sur la Vie
et les Ouvrages de Savigny' (The Life and Doctrines of Savigny);
a memoir which not only introduced to French readers the great
2.
## p. 8748 (#364) ###########################################
8748
ÉDOUARD RENÉ LEFEBVRE LABOULAYE
(
German jurist and politician, but familiarized them with the new
comparative method in historical investigation.
Three years later appeared a still more famous volume, 'Recherches
sur la Condition Civile et Politique des Femmes depuis les Romains
jusqu'à nos jours (The Civil and Political Condition of Women
from the time of the Romans). This was the first scientific inquiry
into the causes and sources of the heavy legal disabilities of women,
affording a basis for the first ameliorative legislation. A remarkable
historical study, showing nice literary workmanship, it was crowned
by the Academy of Moral Sciences for its ethical value.
Meantime the enthusiastic student had been admitted to the bar
and begun to practice. He found time, however, to write various
books on jurisprudence - Roman Criminal Law, Literary Property
in France and England, The State and its Limits,' with many
minor treatises and studies. A Liberal by conviction, he set himself
to propagate Liberal opinions under the repressive conditions of the
Second Empire. Finding his ideal in the republican institutions of
America, he wrote as a tract for the times A Political History of
the United States. During the Civil War his ardent friendship for
this country prompted him to produce 'The United States and
France,' an eloquent plea for the Union; and (Paris in America,' a
brilliant allegorical satire which passed through numberless editions.
Indefatigable, he translated into French the works of William Ellery
Channing, edited the biography and correspondence of Benjamin
Franklin, wrote treatises on Germany and the Slavonic countries and
on the political philosophy of Alexis de Tocqueville, poured forth
reminiscences of travel, essays on slavery, religious liberty, constitu-
tional republicanism, or political economy, and published anonymous
satires on the government.
This then was the public-spirited citizen, the learned jurist and
accomplished scholar, who yet found time to write three volumes of
delightful fairy stories for the pleasure of his grandchildren. Of the
first of these, Abdallah,' he once said, “This little volume cost me
more than a year's study. There is not a detail in it that is not
borrowed from some volume of Eastern travel; and I read the Koran
twice through (a wearisome task) in order to extract therefrom a
morality that might put Christians to the blush, though it is practiced
by Arabs. ” In the same way he has filled his national fairy stories —
Russian, Hungarian, Bohemian, Spanish — with local color and race
characteristics. In many of them the brilliant censor who wrote
Paris in America and Prince Caniche) uses the grotesque and
whimsical to veil a searching satire. But so delicate is his art that
while the offenders may see themselves in the mirror he holds up to
nature, the innocent read for the story alone. Full of wit, humor, and
## p. 8749 (#365) ###########################################
ÉDOUARD RENÉ LEFEBVRE LABOULAYE
8749
invention, finely imaginative, and written in a graceful and charining
style, these fairy tales would alone have given their author a place
among distinguished French writers. Unfortunately it is only the less
important which are short enough to be cited in this volume.
When Laboulaye died, in 1883, the Republic for which he had
labored lavished on him the tributes of her foremost scholars and
statesmen. But the memorial he himself desired was the affectionate
remembrance of the children to whom he had revealed an ideal
world. Experience will teach you only too quickly,” he said, ad-
dressing them, that the truest and sweetest things in life are not
those which we see, but those of which we dream. Then, in repeat-
ing my tales to the young folks whom I shall never see, perhaps you
will find pleasure in talking to them of the old man who delighted
in trying to amuse children. I desire no other fame. This immor-
tality suffices me. ”
»
THE TWELVE MONTHS
A BOHEMIAN TALE
From the Fairy Book. )
Translated by Mary L. Booth, and published by
Harper & Brothers
HERE
was
once
a woman who was left a widow with two
children. The elder, who was only her stepdaughter, was
named Dobrunka; the younger, who was as wicked as her
mother, was called Katinka. The mother worshiped her daugh-
ter, but she hated Dobrunka simply because she was as beautiful
as her sister was ugly. Dobrunka did not even know that she
was pretty, and she could not understand why her stepmother
flew into a rage at the mere sight of her. The poor child was
obliged to do all the work of the house; she had to sweep,
cook, wash, sew, spin, weave, cut the grass, and take care of
the cow, while Katinka lived like a princess, — that is to say,
did nothing
Dobrunka worked with a good will, and took reproaches
and blows with the gentleness of a lamb; but nothing soothed
her stepmother, for every day added to the beauty of the elder
sister and the ugliness of the younger.
« They are growing
up,
► thought the mother, and suitors will soon appear, who will
refuse my daughter when they see this hateful Dobrunka, who
grows beautiful on purpose to spite me. I must get rid of her,
cost what it may. ”
)
## p. 8750 (#366) ###########################################
8750
ÉDOUARD RENÉ LEFEBVRE LABOULAYE
(
»
>
One day in the middle of January, Katinka took a fancy for
some violets. She called Dobrunka, and said, "Go to the forest
and bring me a bunch of violets, that I may put them in my
bosom and enjoy their fragrance. ”
“Oh, sister, what an idea! answered Dobrunka: « as if there
were any violets under the snow!
"Hold your tongue, stupid fool," returned her sister, "and do
as I bid you.
If you do not go to the forest and bring me back
a bunch of violets, I will beat you to a jelly. ” Upon this the
mother took Dobrunka by the arm, put her out of the door, and
drew the bolt on her.
The poor girl went to the forest weeping bitterly. Every-
thing was covered with snow; there was not even a footpath.
She lost her way and wandered about, till, famishing with hunger
and perishing with cold, she entreated God to take her from this
wretched life.
All at once she saw a light in the distance.
She went on,
climbing higher and higher, until at last she reached the top of
a huge rock, upon which a great fire was built. Around the fire
were twelve stones; and on each stone sat a motionless figure,
wrapped in a large mantle, his head covered with a hood which
fell over his eyes. Three of these mantles were white like the
snow, three were green like the grass of the meadows, three
were golden like the sheaves of ripe wheat, and three were pur-
ple like the grapes of the vine. These twelve figures, gazing
at the fire in silence, were the Twelve Months of the year.
Dobrunka knew January by his long white beard.
He was
the only one that had a staff in his hand. The poor girl was
terribly frightened. She drew near, saying in a timid voice,
"My good sirs, please to let me warm myself by your fire: I am
freezing with cold. ”
January nodded his head. “Why have you come here, my
child ? ” he asked. “What are you looking for ? ”
"I am looking for violets,” replied Dobrunka.
« This is not the season for them: there are no violets in the
time of snow,” said January in his gruff voice.
“I know it,” replied Dobrunka sadly; “but my sister and
mother will beat me to a jelly if I do not bring them some. My
good sirs, please to tell me where I can find them. ”
Old January rose, and turning to a young man in a green
mantle, put his staff in his hand, and said to him, "Brother
March, this is your business. ”
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March rose in turn, and stirred the fire with the staff, when
behold! the flames rose, the snow melted, the buds put forth on
the trees, the grass turned green under the bushes, the flowers
peeped through the verdure, and the violets opened - it was
spring
"Make haste, my child, and gather your violets,” said March.
Dobrunka gathered a large bouquet, thanked the Twelve
Months, and joyfully ran home. You can imagine the aston-
ishment of Katinka and the stepmother. The fragrance of the
violets filled the whole house.
“Where did you get these fine things? ” asked Katinka in a
disdainful voice.
“Up yonder, on the mountain,” answered her sister. It
looked like a great blue carpet under the bushes. ”
Katinka put the bouquet in her bosom, and did not even
thank the poor child.
The next morning the wicked sister, as she sat idling by the
stove, took a fancy for some strawberries. “Go to the forest and
bring me some strawberries,” said she to Dobrunka.
“O sister, what an idea! as if there were any strawberries
under the snow! »
"Hold your tongue, stupid fool, and do as I bid you.
don't go to the forest and bring me back a basket of strawberries,
I will beat you to a jelly. ”
The mother took Dobrunka by the arm, put her out of the
door, and drew the bolt on her.
The poor girl returned to the forest, looking with all her
eyes for the light that she had seen the day before.
She was
fortunate enough to spy it, and she reached the fire trembling
and almost frozen. The Twelve Months were in their places,
motionless and silent.
My good sirs,” said Dobrunka, "please to let me warm my-
self by your fire: I am almost frozen with cold. ”
“Why have you returned ? " asked January.
« What are you
looking for ? »
“I am looking for strawberries," answered she.
« This is not the season for them,” returned January in his
gruff voice: “there are no strawberries under the snow. ”
“I know it,” replied Dobrunka sadly; "but my mother and
sister will beat me to a jelly if I do not bring them some. My
good sirs, please to tell me where I can find them. ”
If you
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Old January rose, and turning to a man in a golden mantle,
he put his staff in his hand, saying, “Brother June, this is your
business. ”
June rose in turn, and stirred the fire with the staff, when
behold! the flames rose, the snow melted, the earth grew green,
the trees were covered with leaves, the birds sang, and the
flowers opened - it was summer. Thousands of little white stars
enameled the turf, then turned to red strawberries; looking, in
their green cups, like rubies set in emeralds.
"Make haste, my child, and gather your strawberries,” said
June.
Dobrunka filled her apron, thanked the Twelve Months, and
joyfully ran home. You may imagine the astonishment of Ka-
tinka and the stepmother. The fragrance of the strawberries
filled the whole house.
“Where did you find these fine things? ” asked Katinka in a
disdainful voice.
"Up yonder on the mountain,” answered her sister; there
were so many of them that they looked like blood poured on the
ground. ”
Katinka and her mother devoured the strawberries without
even thanking the poor child.
The third day the wicked sister took a fancy for some red
apples. The same threats, the same insults, and the same vio-
lence followed. Dobrunka ran to the mountain, and was for-
tunate enough to find the Twelve Months warming themselves,
motionless and silent.
“You here again, my child ? ” said old January, making room
for her by the fire. Dobrunka told him with tears how, if she
did not bring home some red apples, her mother and sister would
beat her to death.
Old January repeated the ceremonies of the day before.
« Brother September,” said he to a gray-bearded man in a
purple mantle, “this is your business. ”
September rose and stirred the fire with the staff, when
behold! the flames ascended, the snow melted, and the trees put
forth a few yellow leaves, which fell one by one before the wind;
it was autumn. The only flowers were a few late pinks, daisies,
and immortelles. Dobrunka saw but one thing, an apple-tree
with its rosy fruit.
"Make haste, my child: shake the tree,” said September.
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She shook it, and an apple fell; she shook it again, and a sec-
ond apple followed.
Make haste, Dobrunka, make haste home! ” cried September
in an imperious voice.
The good child thanked the Twelve Months, and joyfully ran
home. You may imagine the astonishment of Katinka and the
stepmother.
“Fresh apples in January! Where did you get these apples? ”
asked Katinka.
«Up yonder on the mountain: there is a tree there that is as
red with them as a cherry-tree in July. ”
“Why did you bring only two ? You ate the rest on the
(
way. ”
even
a
"O sister, I did not touch them; I was only permitted to
shake the tree twice, and but two apples fell. ”
« Begone, you fool! ” cried Katinka, striking her sister, who
ran away crying.
The wicked girl tasted one of the apples; she had never eaten
anything so delicious in her life, neither had her mother. How
they regretted not having any more!
"Mother,” said Katinka, "give me my fur cloak.
I will go to
the forest and find the tree; and whether I am permitted or not,
I will shake it so hard that all the apples will be ours. "
The mother tried to stop her. A spoiled child listens to noth-
ing. Katinka wrapped herself in her fur cloak, drew the hood
over her head, and hastened to the forest.
Everything was covered with snow; there was not
footpath. Katinka lost her way, but she pushed on, spurred by
pride and covetousness. She spied a light in the distance. She
climbed and climbed till she reached the place, and found the
Twelve Months each seated on his stone, motionless and silent.
Without asking their permission, she approached the fire.
“Why have you come here ? What do you want? Where are
you going ? ” asked old January gruffly.
«What matters it to you, old fool ? " answered Katinka. “It
is none of your business where I came from or whither I am
going. ” She plunged into the forest. January frowned, and
raised his staff above his head. In the twinkling of an eye the
sky was overcast, the fire went out, the snow fell, and the wind
blew. Katinka could not see the way before her. She lost her-
self, and vainly tried to retrace her steps. The snow fell and the
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wind blew. She called her mother, she cursed her sister, she
cursed God. The snow fell and the wind blew. Katinka froze,
her limbs stiffened, and she fell motionless. The snow still fell
and the wind still blew.
The mother went without ceasing from the window to the
door, and from the door to the window. The hours passed and
Katinka did not return.
“I must go and look for my daughter,” said she. « The child
has forgotten herself with those hateful apples. ” She took her
fur cloak and hood and hastened to the mountain. Everything
was covered with snow; there was not even a footpath. She
plunged into the forest, calling her daughter. The snow fell and
the wind blew. She walked on with feverish anxiety, shouting
at the top of her voice. The snow still fell and the wind still
blew.
Dobrunka waited through the evening and the night, but no
one returned. In the morning she took her wheel and spun a
whole distaff full; there was still no news. «What can have
happened ? ” said the good girl, weeping. The sun was shining
through an icy mist, and the ground was covered with snow.
Dobrunka prayed for her mother and sister. They did not re-
turn; and it was not till spring that a shepherd found the two
corpses in the forest.
Dobrunka remained the sole mistress of the house, the cow,
and the garden, to say nothing of a piece of meadow adjoining
the house. But when a good and pretty girl has a field under
her window, the next thing that follows is a young farmer, who
offers her his heart and hand. Dobrunka was
soon married.
The Twelve Months did not abandon their child. More than
once, when the north wind blew fearfully and the windows shook
in their frames, old January stopped up all the crevices of the
house with snow, so that the cold might not enter this peaceful
abode.
Dobrunka lived to a good old age, always virtuous and happy,
having, according to the proverb, winter at the door, summer in
the barn, autumn in the cellar, and spring in the heart.
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THE STORY OF COQUERICO
A SPANISH Tale
From the Fairy Book. Translated by Mary L. Booth, and published by
Harper & Brothers
Oi
O
NCE upon a time there was a handsome hen who lived like a
great lady in the poultry-yard of a rich farmer, surrounded
by a numerous family which clucked about her, and none
of which clamored more loudly or picked up the corn faster with
his beak than a poor little deformed and crippled chicken. This
was precisely the one that the mother loved best.
It is the way
with all mothers: the weakest and most unsightly are always
their favorites. This misshapen creature had but one eye, one
wing, and one leg in good condition; it might have been thought
that Solomon had executed his memorable sentence on Coquerico-
for that was the name of the wretched chicken — and cut him in
two with his famous sword. When a person is one-eyed, lame,
and one-armed, he may reasonably be expected to be modest;
but our Castilian ragamuffin was prouder than his father,— the
best spurred, most elegant, bravest, and most gallant cock to be
seen from Burgos to Madrid. He thought himself a phoenix of
grace and beauty, and passed the best part of the day in admir-
ing himself in the brook. If one of his brothers ran against him
by accident, he abused him, called him envious and jealous, and
risked his only remaining eye in battle; if the hens clucked on
seeing him, he said it was to hide their spite because he did not
condescend to look at them.
One day, when he was more puffed up with vanity than usual,
he resolved no longer to remain in such a narrow sphere, but to
go out into the world, where he would be better appreciated.
“My lady mother,” said he, “I am tired of Spain; I am going
to Rome to see the Pope and cardinals. ”
“What are you thinking of, my poor child! ” cried his mother.
«Who has put such a folly into your head ? Never has one of
our family been known to quit his country; and for this reason
are the honor of our race, and are proud of our genealogy.
Where will you find a poultry-yard like this,- mulberry-trees
to shade you, a white-washed hen-roost, a magnificent dunghill,
worms and corn everywhere, brothers that love you, and three
»
we
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«Don't you
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great dogs to guard you from the foxes ? Do you not think
that at Rome itself you will regret the ease and plenty of such
a life? "
Coquerico shrugged his crippled wing in token of disdain.
“You are a simple woman, my good mother,” said he: "every-
thing is accounted worthy of admiration by him who has never
quitted his dunghill. But I have wit enough to see that my
brothers have no ideas, and that my cousins are nothing but
rustics. My genius is stifling in this hole; I wish to roam the
world and seek my fortune. ”
But, my son, have you never looked in the brook ? » resumed
the poor hen.
know that you lack an eye, a leg,
and a wing? To make your fortune, you need the eyes of a
fox, the legs of a spider, and the wings of a vulture. Once out.
side of these walls you are lost. ”
"My good mother,” replied Coquerico, “when a hen hatches
a duck, she is always frightened on seeing it run to the water.
You know me no better. It is my nature to succeed by my wit
and talent. I must have a public capable of appreciating the
charms of my person; my place is not among inferior people. ”
“My son,” said the hen, seeing all her counsels useless,-“my
son, listen at least to your mother's last words. If you go to
Rome, take care to avoid St. Peter's Church; the saint, it is
said, dislikes cocks, especially when they crow. Shun, moreover,
,
certain personages called cooks and scullions; you will know
them by their paper caps, their tucked-up sleeves, and the great
knives which they wear at their sides. They are licensed assas-
sins, who track our steps without pity, and cut our throats with-
out giving us time to cry mercy. And now my child,” she
added, raising her claw, "receive my blessing. May St. James,
the patron saint of pilgrims, protect thee! ”
Coquerico pretended not to see the tear that trembled in his
mother's eye, nor did he trouble himself any more about his
father, who bristled his plumage and seemed about to call him
back. Without caring for those whom he left behind, he glided
through the half-open door, and once outside, flapped his only
wing and crowed three times to celebrate his freedom « Cock-a-
doodle-do!
As he half flew, half hopped over the fields, he came to
the bed of a brook which had been dried up by the sun.
In
the middle of the sands, however, still trickled a tiny thread of
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water, so small that it was choked by a couple of dead leaves
that had fallen into it.
“My friend,” exclaimed the streamlet at the sight of our trav-
eler, -«my friend, you see my weakness; I have not even the
strength to carry away these leaves which obstruct my passage,
much less to make a circuit, so completely am I exhausted.
