Fables

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FABLES


BY
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON




I.--THE PERSONS OF THE TALE.


After the 32nd chapter of _Treasure Island_, two of the puppets strolled
out to have a pipe before business should begin again, and met in an open
place not far from the story.

"Good-morning, Cap'n," said the first, with a man-o'-war salute, and a
beaming countenance.

"Ah, Silver!" grunted the other. "You're in a bad way, Silver."

"Now, Cap'n Smollett," remonstrated Silver, "dooty is dooty, as I knows,
and none better; but we're off dooty now; and I can't see no call to keep
up the morality business."

"You're a damned rogue, my man," said the Captain.

"Come, come, Cap'n, be just," returned the other. "There's no call to be
angry with me in earnest. I'm on'y a chara'ter in a sea story. I don't
really exist."

"Well, I don't really exist either," says the Captain, "which seems to
meet that."

"I wouldn't set no limits to what a virtuous chara'ter might consider
argument," responded Silver. "But I'm the villain of this tale, I am;
and speaking as one sea-faring man to another, what I want to know is,
what's the odds?"

"Were you never taught your catechism?" said the Captain. "Don't you
know there's such a thing as an Author?"

"Such a thing as a Author?" returned John, derisively. "And who better'n
me? And the p'int is, if the Author made you, he made Long John, and he
made Hands, and Pew, and George Merry--not that George is up to much, for
he's little more'n a name; and he made Flint, what there is of him; and
he made this here mutiny, you keep such a work about; and he had Tom
Redruth shot; and--well, if that's a Author, give me Pew!"

"Don't you believe in a future state?" said Smollett. "Do you think
there's nothing but the present story-paper?"

"I don't rightly know for that," said Silver; "and I don't see what it's
got to do with it, anyway. What I know is this: if there is sich a thing
as a Author, I'm his favourite chara'ter. He does me fathoms better'n he
does you--fathoms, he does. And he likes doing me. He keeps me on deck
mostly all the time, crutch and all; and he leaves you measling in the
hold, where nobody can't see you, nor wants to, and you may lay to that!
If there is a Author, by thunder, but he's on my side, and you may lay to
it!"

"I see he's giving you a long rope," said the Captain. "But that can't
change a man's convictions. I know the Author respects me; I feel it in
my bones; when you and I had that talk at the blockhouse door, who do you
think he was for, my man?"

"And don't he respect me?" cried Silver. "Ah, you should 'a' heard me
putting down my mutiny, George Merry and Morgan and that lot, no longer
ago'n last chapter; you'd heard something then! You'd 'a' seen what the
Author thinks o' me! But come now, do you consider yourself a virtuous
chara'ter clean through?"

"God forbid!" said Captain Smollett, solemnly. "I am a man that tries to
do his duty, and makes a mess of it as often as not. I'm not a very
popular man at home, Silver, I'm afraid!" and the Captain sighed.

"Ah," says Silver. "Then how about this sequel of yours? Are you to be
Cap'n Smollett just the same as ever, and not very popular at home, says
you? And if so, why, it's _Treasure Island_ over again, by thunder; and
I'll be Long John, and Pew'll be Pew, and we'll have another mutiny, as
like as not. Or are you to be somebody else? And if so, why, what the
better are you? and what the worse am I?"

"Why, look here, my man," returned the Captain, "I can't understand how
this story comes about at all, can I? I can't see how you and I, who
don't exist, should get to speaking here, and smoke our pipes for all the
world like reality? Very well, then, who am I to pipe up with my
opinions? I know the Author's on the side of good; he tells me so, it
runs out of his pen as he writes. Well, that's all I need to know; I'll
take my chance upon the rest."

"It's a fact he seemed to be against George Merry," Silver admitted,
musingly. "But George is little more'n a name at the best of it," he
added, brightening. "And to get into soundings for once. What is this
good? I made a mutiny, and I been a gentleman o' fortune; well, but by
all stories, you ain't no such saint. I'm a man that keeps company very
easy; even by your own account, you ain't, and to my certain knowledge
you're a devil to haze. Which is which? Which is good, and which bad?
Ah, you tell me that! Here we are in stays, and you may lay to it!"

"We're none of us perfect," replied the Captain. "That's a fact of
religion, my man. All I can say is, I try to do my duty; and if you try
to do yours, I can't compliment you on your success."

"And so you was the judge, was you?" said Silver, derisively.

"I would be both judge and hangman for you, my man, and never turn a
hair," returned the Captain. "But I get beyond that: it mayn't be sound
theology, but it's common sense, that what is good is useful too--or
there and thereabout, for I don't set up to be a thinker. Now, where
would a story go to if there were no virtuous characters?"

"If you go to that," replied Silver, "where would a story begin, if there
wasn't no villains?"

"Well, that's pretty much my thought," said Captain Smollett. "The
Author has to get a story; that's what he wants; and to get a story, and
to have a man like the doctor (say) given a proper chance, he has to put
in men like you and Hands. But he's on the right side; and you mind your
eye! You're not through this story yet; there's trouble coming for you."

"What'll you bet?" asked John.

"Much I care if there ain't," returned the Captain. "I'm glad enough to
be Alexander Smollett, bad as he is; and I thank my stars upon my knees
that I'm not Silver. But there's the ink-bottle opening. To quarters!"

And indeed the Author was just then beginning to write the words:

CHAPTER XXXIII.




II.--THE SINKING SHIP.


"Sir," said the first lieutenant, bursting into the Captain's cabin, "the
ship is going down."

"Very well, Mr. Spoker," said the Captain; "but that is no reason for
going about half-shaved. Exercise your mind a moment, Mr. Spoker, and
you will see that to the philosophic eye there is nothing new in our
position: the ship (if she is to go down at all) may be said to have been
going down since she was launched."

"She is settling fast," said the first lieutenant, as he returned from
shaving.

"Fast, Mr. Spoker?" asked the Captain. "The expression is a strange one,
for time (if you will think of it) is only relative."

"Sir," said the lieutenant, "I think it is scarcely worth while to embark
in such a discussion when we shall all be in Davy Jones's Locker in ten
minutes."

"By parity of reasoning," returned the Captain gently, "it would never be
worth while to begin any inquiry of importance; the odds are always
overwhelming that we must die before we shall have brought it to an end.
You have not considered, Mr. Spoker, the situation of man," said the
Captain, smiling, and shaking his head.

"I am much more engaged in considering the position of the ship," said
Mr. Spoker.

"Spoken like a good officer," replied the Captain, laying his hand on the
lieutenant's shoulder.

On deck they found the men had broken into the spirit-room, and were fast
getting drunk.

"My men," said the Captain, "there is no sense in this. The ship is
going down, you will tell me, in ten minutes: well, and what then? To
the philosophic eye, there is nothing new in our position. All our lives
long, we may have been about to break a blood-vessel or to be struck by
lightning, not merely in ten minutes, but in ten seconds; and that has
not prevented us from eating dinner, no, nor from putting money in the
Savings Bank. I assure you, with my hand on my heart, I fail to
comprehend your attitude."

The men were already too far gone to pay much heed.

"This is a very painful sight, Mr. Spoker," said the Captain.

"And yet to the philosophic eye, or whatever it is," replied the first
lieutenant, "they may be said to have been getting drunk since they came
aboard."

"I do not know if you always follow my thought, Mr. Spoker," returned the
Captain gently. "But let us proceed."

In the powder magazine they found an old salt smoking his pipe.

"Good God," cried the Captain, "what are you about?"

"Well, sir," said the old salt, apologetically, "they told me as she were
going down."

"And suppose she were?" said the Captain. "To the philosophic eye, there
would be nothing new in our position. Life, my old shipmate, life, at
any moment and in any view, is as dangerous as a sinking ship; and yet it
is man's handsome fashion to carry umbrellas, to wear indiarubber over-
shoes, to begin vast works, and to conduct himself in every way as if he
might hope to be eternal. And for my own poor part I should despise the
man who, even on board a sinking ship, should omit to take a pill or to
wind up his watch. That, my friend, would not be the human attitude."

"I beg pardon, sir," said Mr. Spoker. "But what is precisely the
difference between shaving in a sinking ship and smoking in a powder
magazine?"

"Or doing anything at all in any conceivable circumstances?" cried the
Captain. "Perfectly conclusive; give me a cigar!"

Two minutes afterwards the ship blew up with a glorious detonation.




III--THE TWO MATCHES.


One day there was a traveller in the woods in California, in the dry
season, when the Trades were blowing strong. He had ridden a long way,
and he was tired and hungry, and dismounted from his horse to smoke a
pipe. But when he felt in his pocket he found but two matches. He
struck the first, and it would not light.

"Here is a pretty state of things!" said the traveller. "Dying for a
smoke; only one match left; and that certain to miss fire! Was there
ever a creature so unfortunate? And yet," thought the traveller,
"suppose I light this match, and smoke my pipe, and shake out the dottle
here in the grass--the grass might catch on fire, for it is dry like
tinder; and while I snatch out the flames in front, they might evade and
run behind me, and seize upon yon bush of poison oak; before I could
reach it, that would have blazed up; over the bush I see a pine tree hung
with moss; that too would fly in fire upon the instant to its topmost
bough; and the flame of that long torch--how would the trade wind take
and brandish that through the inflammable forest! I hear this dell roar
in a moment with the joint voice of wind and fire, I see myself gallop
for my soul, and the flying conflagration chase and outflank me through
the hills; I see this pleasant forest burn for days, and the cattle
roasted, and the springs dried up, and the farmer ruined, and his
children cast upon the world. What a world hangs upon this moment!"

With that he struck the match, and it missed fire.

"Thank God!" said the traveller, and put his pipe in his pocket.




IV.--THE SICK MAN AND THE FIREMAN.


There was once a sick man in a burning house, to whom there entered a
fireman.

"Do not save me," said the sick man. "Save those who are strong."

"Will you kindly tell me why?" inquired the fireman, for he was a civil
fellow.

"Nothing could possibly be fairer," said the sick man. "The strong
should be preferred in all cases, because they are of more service in the
world."

The fireman pondered a while, for he was a man of some philosophy.
"Granted," said he at last, as apart of the roof fell in; "but for the
sake of conversation, what would you lay down as the proper service of
the strong?"

"Nothing can possibly be easier," returned the sick man; "the proper
service of the strong is to help the weak."

Again the fireman reflected, for there was nothing hasty about this
excellent creature. "I could forgive you being sick," he said at last,
as a portion of the wall fell out, "but I cannot bear your being such a
fool." And with that he heaved up his fireman's axe, for he was
eminently just, and clove the sick man to the bed.




V.--THE DEVIL AND THE INNKEEPER.


Once upon a time the devil stayed at an inn, where no one knew him, for
they were people whose education had been neglected. He was bent on
mischief, and for a time kept everybody by the ears. But at last the
innkeeper set a watch upon the devil and took him in the fact.

The innkeeper got a rope's end.

"Now I am going to thrash you," said the innkeeper.

"You have no right to be angry with me," said the devil. "I am only the
devil, and it is my nature to do wrong."

"Is that so?" asked the innkeeper.

"Fact, I assure you," said the devil.

"You really cannot help doing ill?" asked the innkeeper.

"Not in the smallest," said the devil; "it would be useless cruelty to
thrash a thing like me."

"It would indeed," said the innkeeper.

And he made a noose and hanged the devil.

"There!" said the innkeeper.




VI.--THE PENITENT


A man met a lad weeping. "What do you weep for?" he asked.

"I am weeping for my sins," said the lad.

"You must have little to do," said the man.

The next day they met again. Once more the lad was weeping. "Why do you
weep now?" asked the man.

"I am weeping because I have nothing to eat," said the lad.

"I thought it would come to that," said the man.




VII.--THE YELLOW PAINT.


In a certain city there lived a physician who sold yellow paint. This
was of so singular a virtue that whoso was bedaubed with it from head to
heel was set free from the dangers of life, and the bondage of sin, and
the fear of death for ever. So the physician said in his prospectus; and
so said all the citizens in the city; and there was nothing more urgent
in men's hearts than to be properly painted themselves, and nothing they
took more delight in than to see others painted. There was in the same
city a young man of a very good family but of a somewhat reckless life,
who had reached the age of manhood, and would have nothing to say to the
paint: "To-morrow was soon enough," said he; and when the morrow came he
would still put it off. She might have continued to do until his death;
only, he had a friend of about his own age and much of his own manners;
and this youth, taking a walk in the public street, with not one fleck of
paint upon his body, was suddenly run down by a water-cart and cut off in
the heyday of his nakedness. This shook the other to the soul; so that I
never beheld a man more earnest to be painted; and on the very same
evening, in the presence of all his family, to appropriate music, and
himself weeping aloud, he received three complete coats and a touch of
varnish on the top. The physician (who was himself affected even to
tears) protested he had never done a job so thorough.

Some two months afterwards, the young man was carried on a stretcher to
the physician's house.

"What is the meaning of this?" he cried, as soon as the door was opened.
"I was to be set free from all the dangers of life; and here have I been
run down by that self-same water-cart, and my leg is broken."

"Dear me!" said the physician. "This is very sad. But I perceive I must
explain to you the action of my paint. A broken bone is a mighty small
affair at the worst of it; and it belongs to a class of accident to which
my paint is quite inapplicable. Sin, my dear young friend, sin is the
sole calamity that a wise man should apprehend; it is against sin that I
have fitted you out; and when you come to be tempted, you will give me
news of my paint."

"Oh!" said the young man, "I did not understand that, and it seems rather
disappointing. But I have no doubt all is for the best; and in the
meanwhile, I shall be obliged to you if you will set my leg."

"That is none of my business," said the physician; "but if your bearers
will carry you round the corner to the surgeon's, I feel sure he will
afford relief."

Some three years later, the young man came running to the physician's
house in a great perturbation. "What is the meaning of this?" he cried.
"Here was I to be set free from the bondage of sin; and I have just
committed forgery, arson and murder."

"Dear me," said the physician. "This is very serious. Off with your
clothes at once." And as soon as the young man had stripped, he examined
him from head to foot. "No," he cried with great relief, "there is not a
flake broken. Cheer up, my young friend, your paint is as good as new."

"Good God!" cried the young man, "and what then can be the use of it?"

"Why," said the physician, "I perceive I must explain to you the nature
of the action of my paint. It does not exactly prevent sin; it
extenuates instead the painful consequences. It is not so much for this
world, as for the next; it is not against life; in short, it is against
death that I have fitted you out. And when you come to die, you will
give me news of my paint."

"Oh!" cried the young man, "I had not understood that, and it seems a
little disappointing. But there is no doubt all is for the best: and in
the meanwhile, I shall be obliged if you will help me to undo the evil I
have brought on innocent persons."

"That is none of my business," said the physician; "but if you will go
round the corner to the police office, I feel sure it will afford you
relief to give yourself up."

Six weeks later, the physician was called to the town gaol.

"What is the meaning of this?" cried the young man. "Here am I literally
crusted with your paint; and I have broken my leg, and committed all the
crimes in the calendar, and must be hanged to-morrow; and am in the
meanwhile in a fear so extreme that I lack words to picture it."

"Dear me," said the physician. "This is really amazing. Well, well;
perhaps, if you had not been painted, you would have been more frightened
still."




VIII.--THE HOUSE OF ELD.


So soon as the child began to speak, the gyve was riveted; and the boys
and girls limped about their play like convicts. Doubtless it was more
pitiable to see and more painful to bear in youth; but even the grown
folk, besides being very unhandy on their feet, were often sick with
ulcers.

About the time when Jack was ten years old, many strangers began to
journey through that country. These he beheld going lightly by on the
long roads, and the thing amazed him. "I wonder how it comes," he asked,
"that all these strangers are so quick afoot, and we must drag about our
fetter?"

"My dear boy," said his uncle, the catechist, "do not complain about your
fetter, for it is the only thing that makes life worth living. None are
happy, none are good, none are respectable, that are not gyved like us.
And I must tell you, besides, it is very dangerous talk. If you grumble
of your iron, you will have no luck; if ever you take it off, you will be
instantly smitten by a thunderbolt."

"Are there no thunderbolts for these strangers?" asked Jack.

"Jupiter is longsuffering to the benighted," returned the catechist.

"Upon my word, I could wish I had been less fortunate," said Jack. "For
if I had been born benighted, I might now be going free; and it cannot be
denied the iron is inconvenient, and the ulcer hurts."

"Ah!" cried his uncle, "do not envy the heathen! Theirs is a sad lot!
Ah, poor souls, if they but knew the joys of being fettered! Poor souls,
my heart yearns for them. But the truth is they are vile, odious,
insolent, ill-conditioned, stinking brutes, not truly human--for what is
a man without a fetter?--and you cannot be too particular not to touch or
speak with them."

After this talk, the child would never pass one of the unfettered on the
road but what he spat at him and called him names, which was the practice
of the children in that part.

It chanced one day, when he was fifteen, he went into the woods, and the
ulcer pained him. It was a fair day, with a blue sky; all the birds were
singing; but Jack nursed his foot. Presently, another song began; it
sounded like the singing of a person, only far more gay; at the same time
there was a beating on the earth. Jack put aside the leaves; and there
was a lad of his own village, leaping, and dancing and singing to himself
in a green dell; and on the grass beside him lay the dancer's iron.

"Oh!" cried Jack, "you have your fetter off!"

"For God's sake, don't tell your uncle!" cried the lad.

"If you fear my uncle," returned Jack "why do you not fear the
thunderbolt"?

"That is only an old wives' tale," said the other. "It is only told to
children. Scores of us come here among the woods and dance for nights
together, and are none the worse."

This put Jack in a thousand new thoughts. He was a grave lad; he had no
mind to dance himself; he wore his fetter manfully, and tended his ulcer
without complaint. But he loved the less to be deceived or to see others
cheated. He began to lie in wait for heathen travellers, at covert parts
of the road, and in the dusk of the day, so that he might speak with them
unseen; and these were greatly taken with their wayside questioner, and
told him things of weight. The wearing of gyves (they said) was no
command of Jupiter's. It was the contrivance of a white-faced thing, a
sorcerer, that dwelt in that country in the Wood of Eld. He was one like
Glaucus that could change his shape, yet he could be always told; for
when he was crossed, he gobbled like a turkey. He had three lives; but
the third smiting would make an end of him indeed; and with that his
house of sorcery would vanish, the gyves fall, and the villagers take
hands and dance like children.

"And in your country?" Jack would ask.

But at this the travellers, with one accord, would put him off; until
Jack began to suppose there was no land entirely happy. Or, if there
were, it must be one that kept its folk at home; which was natural
enough.

But the case of the gyves weighed upon him. The sight of the children
limping stuck in his eyes; the groans of such as dressed their ulcers
haunted him. And it came at last in his mind that he was born to free
them.

There was in that village a sword of heavenly forgery, beaten upon
Vulcan's anvil. It was never used but in the temple, and then the flat
of it only; and it hung on a nail by the catechist's chimney. Early one
night, Jack rose, and took the sword, and was gone out of the house and
the village in the darkness.

All night he walked at a venture; and when day came, he met strangers
going to the fields. Then he asked after the Wood of Eld and the house
of sorcery; and one said north, and one south; until Jack saw that they
deceived him. So then, when he asked his way of any man, he showed the
bright sword naked; and at that the gyve on the man's ankle rang, and
answered in his stead; and the word was still _Straight on_. But the
man, when his gyve spoke, spat and struck at Jack, and threw stones at
him as he went away; so that his head was broken.

So he came to that wood, and entered in, and he was aware of a house in a
low place, where funguses grew, and the trees met, and the steaming of
the marsh arose about it like a smoke. It was a fine house, and a very
rambling; some parts of it were ancient like the hills, and some but of
yesterday, and none finished; and all the ends of it were open, so that
you could go in from every side. Yet it was in good repair, and all the
chimneys smoked.

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?"