Translated for Macmillan’s Magazine, 1883.
“ACCEPT THE VERDICT OF FOOLS”
“ACCEPT the verdict of fools.”—[Pushkin.] And thou ever speakest truth—thou, our sublime singer—and thou hast spoken it now.
“The verdict of fools and the laughter of the multitude!”… Who has not already experienced one or the other?
But this may—and must—be endured; and he to whom strength is given may despise it.
Still there are blows which wound us more deeply….
A man does his utmost; he labors honestly, with all his heart…. And yet “honorable souls” turn away from him with disgust; “honest people” redden with indignation at the mere mention of his name. “Depart! Away with thee!” cry young and “honorable” voices. “We need neither thee nor thy works, thou defilest our dwelling—thou canst neither know nor understand us…. Thou art our foe!”
What must this man do?… He must continue to labor on, making no attempt to vindicate himself—he may not even expect a just verdict.
Once upon a time, the husbandmen cursed the traveler who brought them potatoes as a substitute for bread, the daily food of the poor…. The hands at first outstretched to him dashed down the precious gift, flung it in the mire, and trampled on it.
And now it is their sustenance—and they do not even know the name of their benefactor.
Be it so! What is a name worth? Though he is nameless, yet he delivered them from death by famine.
So, therefore, let us take heed that what we provide may prove, indeed, wholesome food.
Bitter is the unjust reproof from the lips of those we love…. Still we must endure it.
“Strike—but hear me!” cried the Athenian to the Spartan.
“Strike me—but eat and be satisfied!” This is what we must say.
A YOUNG man is walking gayly along the Residential Street. His demeanor is careless, cheerful, and self-conscious; his eyes sparkle, a smile is on his lips, and his pleasant face is slightly flushed. He is full of self-confidence and satisfaction.
What has happened to him? Has he made a fortune? Has he attained a higher position in life? Does a loved one await him? Or is it merely—a good breakfast, a feeling of comfort, the fullness of strength, that thus expands his frame? Or may not even the beautiful eight-rayed cross of King Stanislaus of Poland have been hung around his neck?
No. He has only devised a slander about one of his friends, and is carefully circulating it abroad. This same slander he heard from the lips of a third one—and believed it himself.
Oh, how content and complacent is this amiable, promising young man!
“IF you would thoroughly disconcert and irritate your enemy,”—this was an old intriguer’s advice to me—“accuse him of the same fault, the same vice, that you yourself strive to overcome; reproach him bitterly with it, and heap upon him the severest reproofs.
“First—by these means you will persuade others that this is no vice of yours.
“Second—your indignation is unfeigned. They have the benefit of the reproof of your own conscience.
“Are you perhaps a renegade? Then reproach your adversary with a lack of faith!
“Have you yourself the soul of a lackey? Then upbraid him with his lackey’s nature; sneer at him for being a lackey of civilization, of Europe, and of society.”
“One can even say that he is a lackey because he is not a lackey!” I remarked.
“Yes, even that” assented the intriguer.
I DREAMED that I was in a peasant’s hut in some obscure corner of Russia.
It is a large room and low: there are three windows, the walls are painted white, and there is no furniture. Before the hut stretches a desolate plain, which loses itself in the dim distance; above it a gray, monotonous sky hangs like a veil.
I am not alone; there are some ten men in the room. They are ordinary, simple, plainly clad people; they pace up and down in silence; they almost slink. They shun, but still regard each other continually with apprehensive looks.
Not one of them knows how he has come hither, or what manner of men the others are. Disquiet and depression is painted on every countenance; one after the other they all approach the window, and gaze out anxiously as if they awaited something from without.
And then they wander restlessly up and down once more. A youth who is of the number moans from time to time in a thin, monotonous voice, “Father, I am afraid!” This complaining makes me feel ill—I myself begin to grow frightened…. But why? I know not. I only realize that a great, great evil is ever drawing nearer.
The youth continues to moan. Oh, could one but flee from here! This heat! This exhaustion! This oppression! But escape is impossible.
The heaven is like a pall, not a breath of air stirs…. Can the breeze also be dead?
Suddenly the youth rushes to the window and cries in mournful accents, “Look! Look! the earth is swallowed up!”
What?… Swallowed up?… In truth there was a plain before the house—now it stands on the summit of a vast mountain! The horizon has fallen and sunk down, and close by the house yawns a black, deep, gaping abyss!
We all crowd round the window…. Our hearts are benumbed with terror. “There—there it is!”… whispers my neighbor.
And suddenly, along the whole, wide, unbounded space, something stirs; little rounded hillocks appear to rise and sink on the surface.
The sea! The same idea occurs to us all. It will engulf us all together…. But how can that be? How can it scale the heights of this lofty mountain peak?
But it is rising, ever higher, ever higher…. And now they are not merely the little hillocks which rippled in the distance…. One solitary, dense, monstrous wave encompasses the whole circle of the horizon.
It dashes, dashes toward us! Like an icy whirlwind it approaches, circling round like the gloomy pit of Hell. Everything around is quaking; and there in yonder approaching chaos, a metallic roar of a thousand tongues thunders, crashes, shrieks.
Ha!… What howls … groans! It is the earth that is crying aloud with fear.
The end of the world is here!… The universal end!
The youth moans yet once more…. I will cling to my companion—but all of a sudden we are crushed, buried, overwhelmed, carried away by yonder black, icy, roaring wave.
Darkness … eternal darkness!
And almost breathless, I awoke.
ONCE upon a time there was a blockhead.
For a long time he lived happy and content, until at last a report reached him that everybody considered him a brainless fool.
This roused the blockhead and made him sorrowful. He considered what would be the best way to confute this statement.
Suddenly an idea burst upon his wretched mind, and without delay he put it into execution.
One day an acquaintance encountered him in the street, and began to praise a celebrated painter.
“Good God!” cried the blockhead, “do you not know that this man’s works have long since been banished to the lumber room? You must be aware of the fact!… You are far behindhand in culture.”
The friend was alarmed, and immediately concurred with the blockhead’s opinion.
“That is a clever book that I have read to-day!” said another of his acquaintances to him.
“God have mercy!” cried the blockhead. “Are you not ashamed to say so? That book is utterly worthless; there can only be one idea concerning it. And did you not know that?… Oh, culture has left you far behind.”
And this acquaintance also was alarmed, and he agreed with the blockhead.
“What a splendid fellow my friend, N— N— is!” said a third acquaintance to the blockhead; “he is a truly noble man!”
“Good heavens!” shrieked the blockhead; “N— N— is a notorious scamp! He has already plundered all his relations. Who does not know that?… You are sadly wanting in culture!”
And the third acquaintance was also alarmed and instantly accepted the blockhead’s opinion. Whatever was praised in the blockhead’s presence, he had always the same answer. And in every case he added, reproachfully, “And you still believe that authority?”
“A spiteful, venomous man!” that was how the blockhead was now known among his acquaintances. “But what a head!”
“And what language!” added others. “What talent!”
And the end of it all was, the editor of a newspaper intrusted the blockhead with the writing of the critiques in his journal.
The blockhead criticized everything, and every one, in his well-known style, and with his customary abuse.
And now, he, the former enemy of every authority, is himself an authority, and the rising generation show him respect, and tremble before him.
And how can the poor youths do otherwise? Certainly, to show him respect is an astonishing notion; but woe to you, if you would take his measure, or try to make him appear as he really was, you would immediately be criticized without mercy.
Blockheads have a brilliant life among cowards.
WHO, in Bagdad, does not know the great Djaffar, the sun of the universe? Once upon a time, many years ago, while Djaffar was still a youth, he was walking in the neighborhood of Bagdad.
Suddenly a hoarse cry fell upon his ear—some one was calling for help.
Djaffar was known among his acquaintance by his lofty mind and wise reflection; he had also a compassionate heart, and could rely upon his strength.
He hastened in the direction of the cry, and discovered a feeble old man, who was being forced toward the city walls by two robbers, who intended plundering him.
Djaffar drew his sabre, and attacked the miscreants; one he slew, and the other fled.
The old man fell at his deliverer’s feet, kissed the hem of his garment, and exclaimed, “Brave youth, your generosity shall not remain unrewarded. Apparently, I am only a miserable beggar; but that is a delusion. I am no ordinary man. At daybreak, to-morrow, come to the market place; I will await you by the fountain, and you shall be assured of the truth of my words.”
Djaffar hesitated: “This man certainly appears to be nothing but a beggar; however, who can tell? Why should I not make the experiment?” and he answered and said, “It is well, my father, I will come!”
The old man gazed at him, and went away.
At daybreak, the next morning, Djaffar repaired to the market place. The old man was already awaiting him, leaning against the marble basin of the fountain.
He took Djaffar’s hand in silence, and led him into a little garden which was surrounded by a high wall.
In the centre of the garden, a tree of an unknown species sprung from the green turf.
It had the appearance of a cypress, but its leaves were of an azure tint.
Three fruits, three apples, hung from the straight and slender twigs; one apple, of medium size, was rather long and milk white; another was large, round, and bright red; the third was small, shriveled, and yellowish.
The tree rustled softly, although no breeze stirred. It sounded soft and sad, as if it were made of glass; it appeared to be conscious of Djaffar’s presence.
“Youth!” said the old man, “pluck one of these fruits and take heed: if you pluck and eat the white apple, you will be wiser than all mankind; if you pluck the red apple and eat it, you will become rich as the Jew Rothschild; but if you pluck and eat the yellow apple, then you will be agreeable to the old women. Make up your mind without delay; in an hour the fruit will decay, and the tree will sink deep into the earth.”
Djaffar bowed his head and considered. “Which shall I decide upon?” asked he of himself, half aloud. “Were I too wise, life perhaps might disgust me; were I richer than all other men, they would envy me; sooner, therefore, I will pluck and eat the third, withered apple!”
He did so, and the old man laughed with his toothless mouth, and said: “Oh, wisest among all youths! You have chosen aright! Wherefore do you need the white apple? you are already wiser than Solomon. Neither do you want the red apple—you will be rich without it, and no one will envy you your wealth.”
“Then tell me, venerable father,” said Djaffar, trembling with joy, “where the most honored mother of our Chalise—the beloved of the gods—lives.”
The sage bowed to the very earth, and pointed out the way to the youth….
Who in Bagdad does not know the sun of the universe, the great and illustrious Djaffar?
I RETURNED home from the chase, and wandered through an alley in my garden. My dog bounded before me.
Suddenly he checked himself, and moved forward cautiously, as if he scented game.
I glanced down the alley, and perceived a young sparrow with a yellow beak, and down upon its head. He had fallen out of the nest (the wind was shaking the beeches in the alley violently), and lay motionless and helpless on the ground, with his little, unfledged wings extended.
The dog approached it softly, when suddenly an old sparrow, with a black breast, quitted a neighboring tree, dropped like a stone right before the dog’s nose, and, with ruffled plumage, and chirping desperately and pitifully, sprang twice at the open, grinning mouth.
He had come to protect his little one at the cost of his own life. His little body trembled all over, his voice was hoarse, he was in an agony—he offered himself.
The dog must have seemed a gigantic monster to him. But, in spite of that, he had not remained safe on his lofty bough. A Power stronger than his own will has forced him down.
Treasure stood still and turned away…. It seemed as if he also felt this Power.
I hastened to call the discomfited dog back, and went away with a feeling of respect.
Yes, smile not! I felt a respect for this heroic little bird, and for the depth of his paternal love.
Love, I reflected, is stronger than death and the fear of death; it is love alone that supports and animates all.
A MAGNIFICENT, dazzlingly-illuminated hall, a throng of ladies and cavaliers.
All are animated, and join in lively conversation. The conversation turns upon a celebrated singer. They say she is divine, immortal…. Ah, how enchanting was that last trill yesterday!
Suddenly, as if by the stroke of a wand, the covering of skin disappeared from every face, from every head, and in an instant the hue of death was on every skull, with its ashy, naked jaw and cheek bones.
I watched the movements of these jaws and cheeks with horror; I saw how the round, bony balls turned round and round, and shone in the glare of the lamps and tapers; saw how smaller balls—the balls of the senseless eyes—revolved in the large ones.
I dare not touch my own face, neither regard it in the mirror.
The skulls, however, moved in just the same way as before; the same sounds that the lips had uttered now proceeded from between jaws that had lost their teeth, and the nimble tongues still prattled of the astonishing melodious lips of the inimitable, immortal—yes, immortal—singer.
