THE DREAM
HERE once lived a little boy called Basil. He had a good mamma, who worked hard to educate her child. They lived alone: they had no relatives, no servants. His mamma tried never to leave Basil alone in the evening; when she had some work to carry to her employer she always tried to do it in the daytime.
A friend once presented Basil's mamma with a ticket for the theatre. This took place in her absence. When she returned home Basil met her with great joy. 'Mamma dearest, Petr Petróvich (Mr. Peter) has been here and left a ticket for you. You shall go to hear the opera to-night. You like the opera, don't you?'
'But, my dear boy, what shall I do with the ticket? I cannot go.'
'And why, mamma?'
'Why, I can't leave you all alone at home; if we had two tickets we could both go; but without you I can't go.'
'No, no, you must go, mamma,' insisted Basil.
'No, my darling, I can't leave you,' said his mother, sighing; 'you would be afraid, and something might happen to you.'
'You might ask Mrs. Lookina to stay with me.'
Mrs. Lookina was their neighbour, living on the same landing in the same large house.
'It is hard to be under an obligation to any one, my dear; the last time when I had to take home some hurried work I asked Mrs. Lookina to stay some time with you. I cannot do so too often; she has work of her own.'
'Then I shall stay alone, and will not be afraid,' answered Basil; 'and if anything happens, I shall call Mrs. Lookina; and if nothing happens, I shall not call her.'
Basil's mother saw very well that the boy wished her to go to the theatre. She was much pleased; she kissed him tenderly, but did not say what she intended to do. But by the glance she cast at the ticket, the way she put it aside, the sigh which followed, Basil understood all very well; his mamma would very much like to go to the opera, and it was hard for her to deprive herself of so rare a pleasure, which she could now have for nothing; but yet she could not decide to go. Basil was so disappointed that tears were ready to fall.
'Oh mamma! you often said that we must help one another, and not find it difficult. You made a collar for Mrs. Lookina.... And if you do not go to the theatre I shall cry,' he added, quite unexpectedly beginning to weep.
'Don't, dearest, don't cry,' said his mother, taking her boy on her lap and kissing him; but the child wept, repeating continually:
'Poor mamma, you never can go to the theatre—you would so much like to go; I know it.'
'Well, well, I will go; only don't cry.'
Then his mamma went to Mrs. Lookina and asked her to give Basil some tea, put him to bed, and stay with him until her return. When she was dressed she kissed her boy and set off.
Soon it was tea-time. Mrs. Lookina never before had had to give Basil his tea, and did not know that he took very weak tea. She poured him out some strong tea, and as the boy liked it very much, he took more of it than usual. Basil well remembered what his mamma said, and did not wish to tire Mrs. Lookina, so he told her he would undress himself and go to bed, and she might lock the door from the outside and go home.
'I shall not be afraid,' concluded he; 'and if anything happens, I shall knock like this.'
'But why, my boy? I can stay with you,' answered the neighbour.
'No, no, you have some work at home,' said Basil, and wrapping himself up in his quilt with decision, he closed his eyes and said: 'There, I am asleep already.'
'Very well, my boy,' said Mrs. Lookina, smiling; 'but you must promise me to knock as soon as you need anything.'
'Yes, yes; I shall knock this way,' and kneeling up on his bed, Basil showed how he would knock.
Mrs. Lookina left him. Basil heard her leaving their lodging, taking the candle with her; heard her locking the door. And now Basil was alone. All was quiet around. He opened his eyes; all was dark. Basil felt uneasy, to tell the truth, but he tried not to think about it; he again closed his eyes, and turned his back to the wall. A long time he lay thus, and the strong tea he had taken kept him awake. He began to rock himself slightly in his bed and sing—
'Sleep, sleep, come to me.
Sleep, sleep, take me now.
Sleep, lull me into sleep.'
Basil repeated these words several times, and all at once it seemed to him as if the room were not as dark as before. He opened his eyes wide, and was lost in astonishment. The room was full of pale light—something like moonlight—and not far from his bed Basil noticed a queer little being. It was a tiny little old man, not more than six inches high. He wore a short jacket made of red corn-poppy petals; his trousers were of the same material; his arms and legs were very thin, like poppy stems, and he wore green stockings; his shoes and gloves were composed of green poppy leaves. But the Old Man's head was the most interesting part of his little person. It was a little round head, perfectly bald and brown, just like the dried fruit of a poppy. On his head there was a crown such as you see in the poppy. His face was brown also; it was calm and kind. He smiled fondly as he looked on Basil. Above the Little Man's head trembled a bluish flame, from which spread an agreeable light about the room. This flame did not touch the Old Man's head, but it followed him. When the Little Man stooped, the flame stooped also; when he rose, it rose with him.
"Not far from his bed Basil noticed a queer little being."
'You called me?' asked he of Basil. His voice was so agreeable, and sounded so like that of an old acquaintance.
'I—I—don't know,' stammered the child.
'But you could not fall asleep, and you kept repeating—
' "Sleep, sleep, come to me.
Sleep, sleep, take me now.
Sleep, lull me into sleep." '
'Yes, Mr. Old Man, I have been repeating all this, but I did not mean to disturb you; it is hard to be under an obligation to any one. I am not afraid to be alone, Mr. Old Man.'
'Oh!' said the Old Man, smiling, 'where did you learn such words; of all things, as to be under an obligation? He! he! he!'
'No, no, Mr. Old Man; you see, I told Mrs. Lookina to go home. Why should I disturb you? You have your own business.'
'Ho! ho! ho!' laughed the Old Man. 'What a sensible young man you are! But don't trouble yourself about this. My duty consists in being where people want to sleep, so you only help me to do what I ought to do. You want to sleep, don't you?'
'Yes, Mr. Old Man.'
'And so I will put you to sleep if you like, soundly.' Then the Little Old Man began to blink with evident enjoyment, and to yawn slowly and loudly. Somebody immediately yawned in answer, and Basil, who had also a great desire to yawn, looked around. He saw to his great astonishment that at the foot of his bed sat a new old man. It was he who had yawned in answer to the first Old Man.
This Old Man much resembled the other, only he was a little smaller. His jacket and trousers were made of lilac poppy petals instead of red ones, and he had no light on his head.
'Listen, Basil,' said the little lilac-coloured creature, and with a gentle voice, like a mother telling fairy tales to her child, he began to speak:
'A gnat was born on the moors. It stood on its thin little legs, it spread its wings, and thought to itself: "It is time to fly after some booty! If I meet a man or a bull, I will eat him up."
'The gnat flew away, spread its little legs in the wind, and vanished. Hardly anybody would notice it—so small, and thin, and weak it was. Nevertheless, as it flew, it blew its own trumpets—
'"Fi-fo-fum!
Here I come!
I will slay
Man and beast!
I will feast
All the day!"
'Whether the gnat flew for a long or a short time no one knows. Anyhow it came to a reddish mound. This was a heap of bricks. Some time ago a hut stood here, but the hut had been burnt down; its brick stove had fallen to pieces, and now stood in view—a heap of fragments. The gnat looked at the mound and thought: "This is a fine portion; it will just suit my appetite." It flew with all its might, settled on a brick, then flew on to another, and tried to drive its proboscis into it. The gnat held the brick fast, and fought with its proboscis the best it could; but it found it hard. Brick was brick, you know; it was not soft stuff. The gnat raced from place to place. It tried the brick in every way, but without avail.
'"No," thought the gnat, "this does not please me; it is not worth while troubling about." It moved on again, and flew away. It flew on and blew its own trumpets—
' "Fi-fo-fum!
Here I come!
I will slay
Man and beast!
I will feast
All the day!"
'Presently the gnat came across something large and high, surmounted by a sharp-pointed deep-green dunce's cap. It was a fir-tree with resin oozing out.
'The gnat thought: "This is more in my line; this will suit my appetite; I will begin at this yellow spot."
'It flew towards the resin, and, settling down, drove its proboscis into it. Oh, wonder! It was bitter and sticky. The gnat after a great effort dragged its proboscis out, and then tried to free its legs. It tugged and tugged, and managed to free five, but could not succeed with the sixth.
'The gnat got angry. "Let go," he called to the fir-tree; "I know a trick worth two of that." But the fir-tree held the leg tight. The gnat got still angrier; dashed about until its leg came off, and then flew away with only five legs; the sixth had remained in the resin. It flew on, and again blew its own trumpets—
' "Fi-fo-fum!
Here I come!
I will slay
I will feast
All the day!"
'A tale is quicker told than actions can be done.
'Our gnat flew over hill and vale, furrowed fields, green meadows, quick flowing rivers, and whispering woods. It flew along roads, past cornfields. Nowhere did it find anything profitable. In the meantime some fine raindrops began to fall. The gnat was not dejected; it hurried on. Suddenly it met a whole herd of cattle; the young calves went on in front and the large oxen behind. The gnat's eyes glistened. It wished to settle on the first calf and fix its proboscis into it, but it bethought itself: "I see you are small, little calf; it is better to eat a big ox." He began to examine the oxen. The herd went on and the gnat still looked around. This one seemed too thin—that one, though stout, yet not big enough; then came one that looked worse than the preceding ones. Thus all passed by, and the gnat had not made a choice.
'It suddenly flew after the herd, for the purpose of settling down on the first it could reach. But now it met with a new misfortune. The rain soaked its wings and made them heavy; it could not fly any farther, and got angry and began to scold the rain: "So you intend to wet my wings? you cannot find another place to drop on? Beware! do you think to take me in with your tricks?" The gnat had hardly spoken thus, when a large drop of rain fell on its back and maimed it; it was choked by its last word, and fell head over heels on to the grass.
'Nobody knows how long the gnat remained there. Anyhow, when the bright sun peeped out from the clouds and shone upon the earth, the gnat contrived to creep out of the grassy thicket and to dry itself. Then it flew on farther, and again, flying, it blew its trumpets—
' "Fi-fo-fum!
Here I come!
I will slay
Man and beast!
I will feast
All the day!"
Suddenly it perceived before it, at some distance, a mare harnessed to a cart, moving on slowly. A peasant was sitting in the cart.
'The gnat rejoiced: "Now I can eat my fill; when I shall have dined off the man I'll taste the horse." So it flew straight on to the man's forehead, and stung with all its force.
'The peasant passed the palm of his hand over his forehead, crushed the gnat, and threw it behind the cart, and all was over with it.'
The Lilac Old Man had finished his tale.
'Basil, are you not asleep?' asked the first Old Man.
'Not yet, Mr. Old Man,' answered Basil.
'Do you wish to sleep?'
'I do.'
'Aaa!' yawned the Red Old Man.
'Aaa!' yawned after him the Lilac Old Man.
'Aaa!' yawned after them Basil.
'Aaa!' yawned yet another near them. When Basil looked round he saw that a third old man sat on his pillow, looking exactly like the two others; the only difference was that his coat and trousers were of white poppy petals. The White Old Man smiled caressingly, laid his hand on Basil's head, and Basil could not refrain from closing his eyes and smiling back at him. Meanwhile the new old man gently rocked himself. Basil heard him sing a little song in a very soft and lulling voice:
'Gentle dreams with pinions light
By the window did alight,
Whisp'ring through their tresses bright:
'Has sweet sleep been here to-night?"
Tossing on a fever bed,
Gazing with wide, hopeless eyes
Through the darkness thick and dread.
Fairy dreams come trooping, shining,
Hand in hand with quiet sleep,
And their tresses, intertwining,
Softly o'er his pillow sweep,
Till his eyelids sink and close
While their song around him flows:
"Sleep, oh sleep!
Night and rest
From thee keep
Sprites unblest!
When to-morrow
Sunbeams peep,
Be thy sorrow
Laid asleep!"
'Gentle dreams with pinions light
By the window did alight,
Whisp'ring through their tresses bright:
'Has sweet sleep been here to-night?"
'See! A haggard seamstress, bending,
Bloodless cheek and aching head,
O'er the toil that, never ending,
Hardly gives her children bread.
Cometh sleep, and from her fingers
Steals away the half-turned seam,
And with noiseless footstep lingers,
Weaving many a joyous dream,
Till her eyelids sink and close,
While their song around her flows:
"Work is over!
And we hover
Round thee lightly,
Bringing nightly
Short relief,
Till thy grief
Again is born
With each new morn!"
'Gentle dreams with pinions light
By the window did alight,
Whisp'ring through their tresses bright:
'Has sweet sleep been here to-night?"
'No! I hear a baby crying,
Though the curly little head
Long ago should have been lying
Cradled in a cosy bed.
Fairy dreams come round him flocking,
And on many a snowy arm
Lift and bear him, softly rocking,
Covering with kisses warm,
Till his eyelids sink and close,
While their song around him flows:
Shut thine eyes
Till thou greetest
Fair sunrise,
Till dawn's hour
Laughs again;
Like a flower
After rain!"'
The White Old Man had long finished singing, but Basil was still listening, longing for more; it pleased him so much.
'Basil, are you asleep?' suddenly asked the Red Old Man, in a low voice.
'Not yet, Mr. Old Man,' answered Basil.
'Do you wish to sleep?'
'I do.'
Here the Red Old Man yawned again very loudly; then the Lilac one yawned; and the White one did the same. Basil also yawned. But then it seemed as if he heard another yawn still louder than the others very near to him, somewhere above. Basil looked round and saw on the side rail of his bedstead, above his head, a fourth old man, who was dangling his legs. He much resembled the Lilac and White Men, but he was dressed in many colours.
The old man smiled, and strewed, as if in fun, many, many poppy petals on Basil.
Basil felt so very sleepy that he hardly could keep his eyes open; yet he wished very much to look at the new old man.
'Shut your eyes, and I will show you my pictures,' whispered the Many-Coloured Old Man, and poured a whole handful of poppies on Basil.
The boy closed his eyelids gladly, and at once saw a beautiful street in which mamma never allowed Basil to walk alone.
Now Basil went along with both his hands in his pockets. One pocket was full of apples, the other full of pears. Basil took them out by turns, first one and then the other, and ate to his great content. When he got tired of the fruit he felt nuts in his pockets instead of apples, and dates and dried figs instead of pears. After a while he could not help thinking of sweets. And as soon as he did so the nuts turned into chocolate, and the dates and figs into sugar-candy.
Besides this, at every curbstone stood a prettily-dressed girl, very like those who served Basil at the confectioner's when Petr Petróvich took him there and offered him some choice morsel.
One regaled him with grapes, another with ice cream, a third with pineapple, a fourth with strawberries, and a fifth with apricots; and so on.
Basil walked on gaily, looking around on all sides, and taking a good piece from each plate. What was the most wonderful was that he never suffered after it.
Basil walked on and on in the happiest frame of mind. Nevertheless he could not help noticing that the street was somewhat long. He had hardly thought this when he perceived that the street had vanished, and he stood in the middle of a toy-shop. Goodness me! what beautiful things he saw there! Drums, swords, guns, mechanical dogs, balls, furniture, rocking-horses, loto, pictures—a regular furnished house.... But no! let us stop enumerating. It would be impossible to remember all the splendid things displayed in the shop. Basil's eyes were simply dazzled at the cupboards and shelves. After a good while, when he had surveyed all these treasures, his attention became attracted by a crossbow with a steel spring, a capital bowstring, and the butt end well polished. Next to the crossbow was a quiver attached to a strap with all sorts of arrows. For a long time Basil had longed for such a bow. With this bow you might hit any mark, and you might even, if on the watch, shoot the raven that was in the habit of stealing small chickens from the yard. Basil had seen just such a bow at a little friend's house. How easy it was to shoot with it! Basil had asked his mamma to buy him such a bow, but his mamma said she could not afford it; it cost five roubles.[6] And now Basil saw his pet bow in the shop. Suddenly the door creaked, and Basil's mamma entered. She paid down the money, took the bow and the quiver, and walked out. Basil was so overjoyed that he nearly jumped out of his bed; but at the same moment the shop vanished from his sight, and in its place stood a shoemaker's workshop, where his mamma used to order her boots. How happy he was walking with her and holding his bow in his hands. He looked around on all sides, and thought all other people were happy to see him with his beautiful bow. Suddenly he perceived how greatly he was mistaken, for he saw the master of the workshop, a rather short, square-built man, standing before his apprentice, scolding him, and preparing by his gestures to thrash him. The unhappy boy cried hard, trembled with fear, and begged for mercy, but the master was angry, and did not listen to him. Seeing some visitors, the master in a moment put on an amiable expression, turned to them, and threw away the strap. The trembling apprentice drew back towards the door. Basil pitied the boy dreadfully. He went up to the poor fellow and asked in a whisper, 'What does he want to beat you for?' The boy did not answer, and drew back towards the door with downcast eyes. Basil went after him and asked again: 'Did you do anything?'
'I've done nothing, and I'm not guilty,' answered the apprentice, after a long silence.
'What does he want to beat you for then?'
'Peter informed about me.'
'Which Peter?'
'The son of my master.'
'Tell me all.'
'My master bought Peter a bow—a beautiful bow like yours—and told him to take care of it; and he broke it, and he pretended I had broken it; and I swear I didn't.' (Here the boy made the sign of the cross in token of his innocence.) 'The master is going to beat me,' he added in a whisper, and the tears flowed from his eyes.
'Now, don't cry,' said Basil, taking the apprentice by the hand. He pitied the boy dreadfully, but he did not know how to console him.
'It's all very well for you to say, Don't cry. If you felt his strap you wouldn't talk like that; my master has a heart of stone.'
Basil looked at his own bow; the bow was beautiful, and Basil had not even had time to shoot with it. He sighed and turned away; it would be too hard for him to part with his bow. But when the unhappy boy began to cry again Basil could not bear it. He took him by the hand, and said: 'Here you are; if you wish I'll give you my bow; you can give it to your master, so that he won't beat you.'
'How?' asked the apprentice, hardly believing that Basil would give up his toy, and after looking at him attentively, added: 'Won't you be sorry to give it up? It is such a beautiful bow. I know what to do: let him beat me—I'm not afraid. Better keep it and allow me to shoot with it. Peter never allowed me to shoot, but you will. I'm not afraid.'
Basil pitied the boy still more, and called out: 'No, no, I don't want it; take it;' and Basil put the bow in the apprentice's hands. Immediately after the boy and the bow and the workshop vanished. The Many-Coloured Old Man left off showing pictures, and at the same time the Red Man asked in a well-known voice: 'Basil, are you asleep?'
'No, Mr. Old Man,' answered Basil, with great difficulty.
'With what Old Man are you talking?' asked the same voice, laughing. Basil opened his eyes; it was already morning. The sun shone brightly through the red cotton curtains at the window, and his mamma stood at his bedside.
'Mamma?' asked Basil, with wonder. 'Then it was all dream?'
'What?'
'The Little Old Man?'
'Why, certainly it was;' and the mother tenderly kissed her boy.
BROWNY
(A POPULAR OUKRAÏNÏEN TALE)
certain peasant had a dog called Browny. So long as the dog was young and strong his master fed him; but when he grew old, and the master saw that he was no longer fit for a watchdog, he began to grudge him his food, and turned him out of doors. Browny went out into the fields and wandered on, not caring where—on and on he went, weeping bitterly.
A wolf came up to him and asked: 'Why do you cry so?'
'I have something to cry for,' answered the dog. 'So long as I was strong, and could feed myself, I served my master truly and faithfully, and now, when I have grown old in his service, he says: "Be off with you!" Where am I to go now? I have not even the strength to catch a hare.'
'Ah, that's too bad!' said the Wolf. 'Now, look here: we wolves are supposed to be downright robbers, because we have to procure our food in some way or other. Yet I wouldn't do such a meanness as your master did. Well, if he does not remember your faithful service, there is another way of making him give you the food that you have honestly deserved from him.'
'Oh! if you could manage that, some day I would repay you for it!' exclaimed poor Browny, licking his lips at the very thought of a good dinner.
'We'll manage it,' said the Wolf. 'When your master comes out into the field with his family to reap the corn, his wife will lay down the baby under a rick; you keep close by, so that I may know which is their field. I will seize the child and run off; you rush after me and make believe to snatch the child away from me, and I will let it go as if I were afraid of you. Then everything will go as you wish.'
No sooner said than done. At harvest-time the man came out into the field with his family to reap. His wife laid down the baby under a rick, took a sickle, and went with her husband to reap. Suddenly the Wolf rushed up, snatched the baby, and ran off. Browny sprang out of the corn and after him. The baby's father and mother were dreadfully frightened: the father tore along, shouting, 'Catch him, Browny—bite him! bite him!...' And Browny did his best: he caught up the Wolf, took the child from him, and brought it to his master.
'Good dog, Browny!' said the master. 'Oh you good dog! I thought he wasn't fit for anything now, and see what a plucky fellow he is!' and he took half a loaf and a piece of lard out of his bag and gave them to Browny.
In the evening the peasants went home, and Browny with them. When they got in, the man said to his wife: 'Light the fire and make us some buck-wheat dough-dumplings, with plenty of lard.'
Browny's mistress made the dumplings—capital dumplings—so nice that they would make your mouth water to look at them! The master gave Browny a seat at the table as if the dog were his best friend, and sat down beside him. Browny, on his part, made an agreeable face, and expressed by his whole appearance that he would know how to behave himself, even if he were the starosta (elder) of the village.
'Now, wife,' said the man, 'turn the dumplings out into the bowl, and let us have supper!'
The wife filled the bowl, and the husband put a helping for Browny into a smaller bowl, and blew it a long time, so that Browny should not burn his muzzle. He had become such an important person all of a sudden!
Browny lived in peace and plenty, but he did not forget his benefactor, the Wolf. He used to think: 'Perhaps the Wolf is wandering about the steppes now, starving!' Then he would grow quite melancholy, and shake his head, sighing.
Meanwhile, Carnival came round, and the peasant began making wedding preparations—his daughter was to be married. Then Browny shook off all his melancholy. He went far away from the village, and called the Wolf. When the Wolf came up, they hardly recognised one another: Browny had grown fat and glossy, while as for the unhappy Wolf, he was thin, worn-out—nothing but skin and bones; his fur hung in ragged tufts, and his teeth chattered from hunger. When Browny looked at his friend his heart ached for pity.
'Come on Sunday evening, brother, to my master's garden-plot,' said the Dog to the Wolf; 'I'll give you such a feast as you have not had in all your life!'
Now a good dinner was a rare thing to the poor Wolf; his eyes shone with delight, and he felt quite sick with hunger.
On Sunday evening the Wolf came to the place agreed upon. That very evening was the wedding feast in the house of Browny's master. Browny came out to his friend, and, seizing a moment when there was no one in the cottage, led him in and hid him under the table. The feast began. When the food was put on the table, Browny instantly snatched a big hunch of bread and the best slice of roast meat and carried it under the table. The guests shouted at him; some wanted to strike him; but the master of the house stopped them, saying: 'Don't touch him; that dog is allowed to do anything he likes; he saved my child, and I will keep him till he dies!' That was just what Browny wanted: he pulled all the best things off the table, and gave them to his friend—pies, everything, even a bottle of horílka[7]. The horílka made the Wolf tipsy, and he said to Browny:
'I want to sing a song!'
'Heaven forbid!' answered Browny; 'there'll be the devil to pay here! I'll bring you a bottle of nalívka[8], only hold your tongue!'
But after drinking the nalívka, the Wolf grew merrier than ever.
'You can do as you like,' said he; 'but now I am going to sing.' He lifted up his muzzle, and such a howl as he set up under the table!
Every one was terrified. Some ran right out of the cottage, some caught up sticks and spades and wanted to kill the Wolf there and then. Browny, seeing that it was a bad job, flew at his friend as if to strangle him. Then the host called out to his guests: 'Don't hit the Wolf, or you will kill my Browny. Let them alone; Browny will settle the Wolf by himself.'
The dog, meanwhile, struggling and pretending to bite, managed to get his friend first out of the cottage, then out of the garden and right across the fields. Then he stopped.
'There, brother,' said he to the Wolf; 'you did me a good turn, and I've done you one. Good-bye!'
'Thank you!' said the Wolf. 'Good luck to you!'
And so they parted.
