Tag: Learning

Learning!

Learning is the process of acquiring new or modifying existing knowledge, behaviors, skills, values, or preferences. 

Evidence that knowledge has occurred may see changes in behavior from simple to complex, from moving a finger to skill in synthesizing information, or a change in attitude.

The ability to know possess by humans, animals, and some machines. There is also evidence of some kind of knowledge in some plants.

Some learn immediately, induced by a single event (e.g. being burn by a hot stove), but much skill and knowledge accumulate from repeat experiences.

The changes induced by knowledge often last a lifetime, and it is hard to distinguish known material that seems to be “lost” from that which cannot retrieve.

Definition of learning for Students
1: the act of a person who gains knowledge or skill Travel is a learning experience.
2: knowledge or skill gained from teaching or study. They’re people of great knowledge.
-@ilearnlot.
  • Little Tiny or Thumbelina

    Little Tiny or Thumbelina

    Little Tiny or Thumbelina Short Story by Hans Christian Andersen!

    THERE was once a woman who wished very much to have a little child, but she could not obtain her wish. At last, she went to a fairy, and said, I should so very much like to have a little child; can you tell me where I can find one?

    Oh, that can easily manage, said the fairy. Here is a barleycorn of a different kind to those which grow in the farmer’s fields, and which the chickens eat; put it into a flower-pot, and see what will happen.

    Thank you, said the woman, and she gave the fairy twelve shillings. Which was the price of the barleycorn. Then she went home and planted it, and immediately there grew up a large handsome flower, something like a tulip in appearance, but with its leaves tightly close as if it were still a bud. It is a beautiful flower, said the woman, and she kiss the red and golden-color leaves, and while she did so the flower opened, and she could see that it was a real tulip. Within the flower, upon the green velvet stamens, sat a very delicate and graceful little maiden.

    She was scarcely half as long as a thumb, and they gave her the name of Thumbelina, or Tiny because she was so small. A walnut-shell, elegantly polished, served her for a cradle; her bed was formed of blue violet leaves, with a rose-leaf for a counterpane. Here she slept at night, but during the day she amused herself on a table. Where the woman had placed a plateful of water. Round this plate were wreaths of flowers with their stems in the water, and upon it floated a large tulip-leaf, which served Tiny for a boat.

    Here the little maiden sat and rowed herself from side to side, with two oars made of white horse-hair. It really was a very pretty sight. Tiny could, also, sing so softly and sweetly that nothing like her singing had ever before been heard. One night, while she lay in her pretty bed, a large, ugly, wet toad crept through a broken pane of glass in the window and leaped right upon the table where Tiny lay sleeping under her rose-leaf quilt. What a pretty little wife this would make for my son, said the toad, and she took up the walnut-shell in which little Tiny lay asleep and jumped through the window with it into the garden.

    Little Tiny or Thumbelina

    In the swampy margin of a broad stream in the garden lived the toad, with her son. He was uglier even than his mother, and when he saw the pretty little maiden in her elegant bed, he could only cry, Croak, croak, croak.

    Don’t speak so loud, or she will wake, said the toad, and then she might run away, for she is as light as swansdown. We will place her on one of the water-lily leaves out in the stream; it will be like an island to her, she is so light and small, and then she cannot escape; and, while she is away, we will make haste and prepare the stateroom under the marsh, in which you are to live when you are married.

    Far out in the stream grew a number of water-lilies, with broad green leaves, which seemed to float on the top of the water. The largest of these leaves appeared farther off than the rest, and the old toad swam out to it with the walnut-shell, in which little Tiny lay still asleep. The tiny little creature woke very early in the morning and began to cry bitterly when she found where she was, for she could see nothing but water on every side of the large green leaf, and no way of reaching the land.

    Meanwhile, the old toad was very busy under the marsh, decking her room with rushes and wild yellow flowers, to make it look pretty for her new daughter-in-law. Then she swam out with her ugly son to the leaf on which she had placed poor little Tiny. She wanted to fetch the pretty bed, that she might put it in the bridal chamber to be ready for her. The old toad bowed low to her in the water, and said, Here is my son, he will be your husband, and you will live happily in the marsh by the stream.

    Croak, croak, croak, was all her son could say for himself; so the toad took up the elegant little bed, and swam away with it, leaving Tiny all alone on the green leaf, where she sat and wept. She could not bear to think of living with the old toad, and having her ugly son for a husband. The little fishes, who swam about in the water beneath, had seen the toad, and heard what she said, so they lifted their heads above the water to look at the little maiden.

    As soon as they caught sight of her, they saw she was very pretty, and it made them very sorry to think that she must go and live with the ugly toads. No, it must never be! so they assembled together in the water, round the green stalk which held the leaf on which the little maiden stood, and gnawed it away at the root with their teeth. Then the leaf floated down the stream, carrying Tiny far away out of reach of land.

    Tiny sailed past many towns, and the little birds in the bushes saw her, and sang, What a lovely little creature; so the leaf swam away with her farther and farther, till it brought her to other lands. A graceful little white butterfly constantly fluttered round her, and at last alighted on the leaf. Tiny pleased him, and she was glad of it, for now, the toad could not possibly reach her, and the country through which she sailed was beautiful, and the sun shone upon the water, till it glittered like liquid gold.

    She took off her girdle and tied one end of it round the butterfly, and the other end of the ribbon she fastened to the leaf, which now glided on much faster than ever, taking little Tiny with it as she stood. Presently a large cockchafer flew by; the moment he caught sight of her, he seized her round her delicate waist with his claws and flew with her into a tree. The green leaf floated away on the brook, and the butterfly flew with it, for he was fastened to it, and could not get away.

    Oh, how frightened little Tiny felt when the cockchafer flew with her to the tree! But especially was she sorry for the beautiful white butterfly which she had fastened to the leaf, for if he could not free himself he would die of hunger. But the cockchafer did not trouble himself at all about the matter. He seated himself by her side on a large green leaf, gave her some honey from the flowers to eat, and told her she was very pretty, though not in the least like a cockchafer. After a time, all the cockchafers turned up their feelers, and said, She has only two legs! how ugly that looks. She has no feelers, said another. Her waist is quite slim. Pooh! she is like a human being.

    Oh! she is ugly, said all the lady cockchafers, although Tiny was very pretty. Then the cockchafer who had run away with her believed all the others when they said she was ugly and would have nothing more to say to her, and told her she might go where she liked. Then he flew down with her from the tree and placed her on a daisy, and she wept at the thought that she was so ugly that even the cockchafers would have nothing to say to her. And all the while she was really the loveliest creature that one could imagine, and as tender and delicate as a beautiful rose-leaf.

    During the whole summer, poor little Tiny lived quite alone in the wide forest. She wove herself a bed with blades of grass, and hung it up under a broad leaf, to protect herself from the rain. She sucked the honey from the flowers for food and drank the dew from their leaves every morning. So passed away the summer and the autumn, and then came the winter, the long, cold winter. All the birds who had sung to her so sweetly were flown away, and the trees and the flowers had withered. The large clover leaf under the shelter of which she had lived, was now rolled together and shrivelled up, nothing remained but a yellow withered stalk.

    She felt dreadfully cold, for her clothes were torn, and she was herself so frail and delicate, that poor little Tiny was nearly frozen to death. It began to snow too; and the snow-flakes, as they fell upon her, were like a whole shovelful falling upon one of us, for we are tall, but she was only an inch high. Then she wrapped herself up in a dry leaf, but it cracked in the middle and could not keep her warm, and she shivered with cold. Near the wood in which she had been living lay a corn-field, but the corn had been cut a long time; nothing remained but the bare dry stubble standing up out of the frozen ground.

    It was to her like struggling through a large wood. Oh! how she shivered with the cold. She came at last to the door of a field-mouse, who had a little den under the corn-stubble. There dwelt the field-mouse in warmth and comfort, with a whole roomful of corn, a kitchen, and a beautiful dining room. Poor little Tiny stood before the door just like a little beggar-girl, and begged for a small piece of barley-corn, for she had been without a morsel to eat for two days.

    You poor little creature said the field-mouse, who was really a good old field-mouse, come into my warm room and dine with me. She was very pleased with Tiny, so she said, You are quite welcome to stay with me all the winter if you like; but you must keep my rooms clean and neat, and tell me stories, for I shall like to hear them very much. And Tiny did all the field-mouse asked her and found herself very comfortable.

    We shall have a visitor soon, said the field-mouse one day; my neighbor pays me a visit once a week. He is better off than I am; he has large rooms and wears a beautiful black velvet coat. If you could only have him for a husband, you would be well provided for indeed. But he is blind, so you must tell him some of your prettiest stories.

    But Tiny did not feel at all interested about this neighbor, for he was a mole. However, he came and paid his visit dressed in his black velvet coat.

    He is very rich and learned, and his house is twenty times larger than mine, said the field-mouse.

    He was rich and learned, no doubt, but he always spoke slightingly of the sun and the pretty flowers, because he had never seen them. Tiny was obliged to sing to him, Lady-bird, lady-bird, fly away home, and many other pretty songs. And the mole fell in love with her because she had such a sweet voice; but he said nothing yet, for he was very cautious. A short time before, the mole had dug a long passage under the earth, which led from the dwelling of the field-mouse to his own, and here she had permission to walk with Tiny whenever she liked.

    But he warned them not to be alarmed at the sight of a dead bird which lay in the passage. It was a perfect bird, with a beak and feathers, and could not have been dead long, and was lying just where the mole had made his passage. The mole took a piece of phosphorescent wood in his mouth, and it glittered like fire in the dark; then he went before them to light them through the long, dark passage. When they came to the spot where lay the dead bird, the mole pushed his broad nose through the ceiling, the earth gave way, so that there was a large hole, and the daylight shone into the passage.

    In the middle of the floor lay a dead swallow, his beautiful wings pulled close to his sides, his feet and his head drawn up under his feathers; the poor bird had evidently died of the cold. It made little Tiny very sad to see it, she did so love the little birds; all the summer they had sung and twittered for her so beautifully. But the mole pushed it aside with his crooked legs, and said, He will sing no more now. How miserable it must be to be born a little bird! I am thankful that none of my children will ever be birds, for they can do nothing but cry, Tweet, tweet, and always die of hunger in the winter.

    Yes, you may well say that, as a clever man! exclaimed the field-mouse, What is the use of his twittering, for when winter comes he must either starve or be frozen to death. Still, birds are very high bred.

    Tiny said nothing; but when the two others had turned their backs on the bird, she stooped down and stroked aside the soft feathers which covered the head, and kissed the closed eyelids. Perhaps this was the one who sang to me so sweetly in the summer, she said; and how much pleasure it gave me, you dear, pretty bird.

    The mole now stopped up the hole through which the daylight shone, and then accompanied the lady home. But during the night Tiny could not sleep; so she got out of bed and wove a large, beautiful carpet of hay; then she carried it to the dead bird, and spread it over him; with some down from the flowers which she had found in the field-mouses room. It was as soft as wool, and she spread some of it on each side of the bird so that he might lie warmly in the cold earth.

    Farewell, you pretty little bird, said she, farewell; thank you for your delightful singing during the summer, when all the trees were green, and the warm sun shone upon us. Then she laid her head on the bird’s breast, but she was alarmed immediately, for it seemed as if something inside the bird went thump, thump. It was the bird’s heart; he was not really dead, only benumbed with the cold, and the warmth had restored him to life. In autumn, all the swallows fly away into warm countries, but if one happens to linger, the cold seizes it, it becomes frozen and falls down as if dead; it remains where it fell, and the cold snow covers it.

    Tiny trembled very much; she was quite frightened, for the bird was large, a great deal larger than herself, she was only an inch high. But she took courage, laid the wool more thickly over the poor swallow, and then took a leaf which she had used for her own counterpane, and laid it over the head of the poor bird. The next morning she again stole out to see him. He was alive but very weak; he could only open his eyes for a moment to look at Tiny, who stood by holding a piece of decayed wood in her hand, for she had no other lantern. Thank you, pretty little maiden, said the sick swallow; I have been so nicely warmed, that I shall soon regain my strength, and be able to fly about again in the warm sunshine.

    Oh, said she, it is cold out of doors now; it snows and freezes. Stay in your warm bed; I will take care of you.

    Then she brought the swallow some water in a flower-leaf, and after he had drank, he told her that he had wounded one of his wings in a thorn-bush, and could not fly as fast as the others, who were soon far away on their journey to warm countries. Then, at last, he had fallen to the earth and could remember no more, nor how he came to be where she had found him. The whole winter the swallow remained underground, and Tiny nursed him with care and love. Neither the mole nor the field-mouse knew anything about it, for they did not like swallows.

    Very soon the spring time came, and the sun warmed the earth. Then the swallow bade farewell to Tiny, and she opened the hole in the ceiling which the mole had made. The sun shone in upon them so beautifully, that the swallow asked her if she would go with him; she could sit on his back, he said, and he would fly away with her into the green woods. But Tiny knew it would make the field-mouse very grieved if she left her in that manner, so she said, No, I cannot.

    Farewell, then, farewell, you good, pretty little maiden, said the swallow; and he flew out into the sunshine.

    Tiny looked after him, and the tears rose in her eyes. She was very fond of the poor swallow.

    Tweet, tweet, sang the bird, as he flew out into the green woods, and Tiny felt very sad. She was not allowed to go out into the warm sunshine. The corn which had been sown in the field over the house of the field-mouse had grown up high into the air and formed a thick wood to Tiny, who was only an inch in height.

    You are going to be married, Tiny, said the field-mouse. My neighbor has asked for you. What good fortune for a poor child like you. Now we will prepare your wedding clothes. They must be both woollen and linen. Nothing must be wanting when you are the mole’s wife.

    Tiny had to turn the spindle, and the field-mouse hired four spiders, who were to weave day and night. Every evening the mole visited her and was continually speaking of the time when the summer would be over. Then he would keep his wedding-day with Tiny; but now the heat of the sun was so great that it burned the earth, and made it quite hard, like a stone. As soon, as the summer was over, the wedding should take place.

    But Tiny was not at all pleased; for she did not like the tiresome mole. Every morning when the sun rose, and every evening when it went down, she would creep out at the door, and as the wind blew aside the ears of corn, so that she could see the blue sky, she thought how beautiful and bright it seemed out there, and wished so much to see her dear swallow again. But he never returned; for by this time he had flown far away into the lovely green forest.

    When autumn arrived, Tiny had her outfit quite ready; and the field-mouse said to her, In four weeks the wedding must take place.

    Then Tiny wept and said she would not marry the disagreeable mole.

    Nonsense replied the field-mouse. Now don’t be obstinate, or I shall bite you with my white teeth. He is a very handsome mole; the queen herself does not wear more beautiful velvets and furs. His kitchen and cellars are quite full. You ought to be very thankful for such good fortune.

    So the wedding-day was fixed, on which the mole was to fetch Tiny away to live with him, deep under the earth, and never again to see the warm sun because he did not like it. The poor child was very unhappy at the thought of saying farewell to the beautiful sun, and as the field-mouse had given her permission to stand at the door, she went to look at it once more.

    Farewell bright sun, she cried, stretching out her arm towards it; and then she walked a short distance from the house; for the corn had been cut, and only the dry stubble remained in the fields. Farewell, farewell, she repeated, twining her arm round a little red flower that grew just by her side. Greet the little swallow from me, if you should see him again.

    Tweet, tweet, sounded over her head suddenly. She looked up, and there was the swallow himself flying close by. As soon as he spied Tiny, he was delighted; and then she told him how unwilling she felt to marry the ugly mole and to live always beneath the earth, and never to see the bright sun anymore. And as she told him she wept.

    Cold winter is coming, said the swallow, and I am going to fly away into warmer countries. Will you go with me? You can sit on my back, and fasten yourself on with your sash. Then we can fly away from the ugly mole and his gloomy rooms, far away, over the mountains, into warmer countries, where the sun shines more brightly than here; where it is always summer, and the flowers bloom in greater beauty. Fly now with me, dear little Tiny; you saved my life when I lay frozen in that dark passage.

    Yes, I will go with you, said Tiny; and she seated herself on the birds back, with her feet on his outstretched wings, and tied her girdle to one of his strongest feathers.

    Then the swallow rose in the air and flew over forest and over the sea, high above the highest mountains, covered with eternal snow. Tiny would have been frozen in the cold air, but she crept under the bird’s warm feathers, keeping her little head uncovered so that she might admire the beautiful lands over which they passed. At length, they reached the warm countries, where the sun shines brightly, and the sky seems so much higher above the earth.

    Here, on the hedges, and by the wayside, grew purple, green, and white grapes; lemons and oranges hung from trees in the woods; and the air was fragrant with myrtles and orange blossoms. Beautiful children ran along the country lanes, playing with large gay butterflies; and as the swallow flew farther and farther, every place appeared still more lovely.

    At last, they came to a blue lake, and by the side of it, shaded by trees of the deepest green, stood a palace of dazzling white marble, built in the olden times. Vines clustered round its lofty pillars, and at the top were many swallows nests, and one of these was the home of the swallow who carried Tiny.

    This is my house, said the swallow; but it would not do for you to live there you would not be comfortable. You must choose for yourself one of those lovely flowers, and I will put you down upon it, and then you shall have everything that you can wish to make you happy.

    That will be delightful, she said and clapped her little hands for joy.

    A large marble pillar lay on the ground, which, in falling, had been broken into three pieces. Between these pieces grew the most beautiful large white flowers; so the swallow flew down with Tiny, and placed her on one of the broad leaves. But how surprised she was to see in the middle of the flower, a tiny little man, as white and transparent as if he had been made of crystal! He had a gold crown on his head, and delicate wings at his shoulders, and was not much larger than Tiny herself. He was the angel of the flower; for a tiny man and a tiny woman dwell in every flower; and this was the king of them all.

    Oh, how beautiful he is! whispered Tiny to the swallow.

    The little prince was at first quite frightened at the bird, who was like a giant, compared to such a delicate little creature as himself; but when he saw Tiny, he was delighted, and thought her the prettiest little maiden he had ever seen. He took the gold crown from his head, and placed it on hers, and asked her name, and if she would be his wife, and queen over all the flowers.

    This certainly was a very different sort of husband to the son of a toad, or the mole, with my black velvet and fur; so she said, Yes, to the handsome prince. Then all the flowers opened, and out of each came a little lady or a tiny Lord, all so pretty it was quite a pleasure to look at them. Each of them brought Tiny a present; but the best gift was a pair of beautiful wings, which had belonged to a large white fly and they fastened them to Tinys shoulders so that she might fly from flower to flower.

    Then there was much rejoicing, and the little swallow who sat above them, in his nest, was asked to sing a wedding song. Which he did as well as he could; but in his heart he felt sad for he was very fond of Tiny, and would have liked never to part from her again.

    You must not be called Tiny any more, said the spirit of the flowers to her. It is an ugly name, and you are so very pretty. We will call you Maia.

    Farewell, farewell, said the swallow, with a heavy heart as he left the warm countries to fly back into Denmark. There he had a nest over the window of a house in which dwelt the writer of fairy tales. The swallow sang, Tweet, tweet, and from his song came the whole story.

    Little Tiny or Thumbelina

  • Little Claus and Big Claus

    Little Claus and Big Claus

    Little Claus and Big Claus Short Story by Hans Christian Andersen!

    IN a village there once lived two men who had the same name. They were both called Claus. One of them had four horses, but the other had only one; so to distinguish them, people called the owner of the four horses, Great Claus, and he who had only one, Little Claus. Now we shall hear what happened to them, for this is a true story.
    Through the whole week, Little Claus was obliged to plough for Great Claus, and lend him his one horse; and once a week, on a Sunday, Great Claus lent him all his four horses. Then how Little Claus would smack his whip over all five horses, they were as good as his own on that one day. The sun shone brightly, and the church bells were ringing merrily as the people passed by, dressed in their best clothes, with their prayer-books under their arms. They were going to hear the clergyman preach. They looked at Little Claus ploughing with his five horses, and he was so proud that he smacked his whip, and said, Gee-up, my five horses.
    You must not say that, said Big Claus; for only one of them belongs to you. But Little Claus soon forgot what he ought to say, and when any one passed he would call out, Gee-up, my five horses!
    Now I must beg you not to say that again, said Big Claus; for if you do, I shall hit your horse on the head, so that he will drop dead on the spot, and there will be an end of him.
    I promise you I will not say it any more, said the other; but as soon as people came by, nodding to him, and wishing him Good day, he became so pleased, and thought how grand it looked to have five horses ploughing in his field, that he cried out again, Gee-up, all my horses!
    Ill gee-up your horses for you, said Big Claus; and seizing a hammer, he struck the one horse of Little Claus on the head, and he fell dead instantly.
    Oh, now I have no horse at all, said Little Claus, weeping. But after a while he took off the dead horses skin, and hung the hide to dry in the wind. Then he put the dry skin into a bag, and, placing it over his shoulder, went out into the next town to sell the horses skin. He had a very long way to go, and had to pass through a dark, gloomy forest. Presently a storm arose, and he lost his way, and before he discovered the right path, evening came on, and it was still a long way to the town, and too far to return home before night. Near the road stood a large farmhouse. The shutters outside the windows were closed, but lights shone through the crevices at the top.
    I might get permission to stay here for the night, thought Little Claus; so he went up to the door and knocked. The farmers wife opened the door; but when she heard what he wanted, she told him to go away, as her husband would not allow her to admit strangers. Then I shall be obliged to lie out here, said Little Claus to himself, as the farmers wife shut the door in his face. Near to the farmhouse stood a large haystack, and between it and the house was a small shed, with a thatched roof. I can lie up there, said Little Claus, as he saw the roof; it will make a famous bed, but I hope the stork will not fly down and bite my legs; for on it stood a living stork, whose nest was in the roof.
    So Little Claus climbed to the roof of the shed, and while he turned himself to get comfortable, he discovered that the wooden shutters, which were closed, did not reach to the tops of the windows of the farmhouse, so that he could see into a room, in which a large table was laid out with wine, roast meat, and a splendid fish. The farmers wife and the sexton were sitting at the table together; and she filled his glass, and helped him plenteously to fish, which appeared to be his favorite dish. If I could only get some, too, thought Little Claus; and then, as he stretched his neck towards the window he spied a large, beautiful pie,indeed they had a glorious feast before them.
    At this moment he heard some one riding down the road, towards the farmhouse. It was the farmer returning home. He was a good man, but still he had a very strange prejudice,he could not bear the sight of a sexton. If one appeared before him, he would put himself in a terrible rage. In consequence of this dislike, the sexton had gone to visit the farmers wife during her husbands absence from home, and the good woman had placed before him the best she had in the house to eat.
    When she heard the farmer coming she was frightened, and begged the sexton to hide himself in a large empty chest that stood in the room. He did so, for he knew her husband could not endure the sight of a sexton. The woman then quickly put away the wine, and hid all the rest of the nice things in the oven; for if her husband had seen them he would have asked what they were brought out for.
    Oh, dear, sighed Little Claus from the top of the shed, as he saw all the good things disappear.
    Is any one up there? asked the farmer, looking up and discovering Little Claus. Why are you lying up there? Come down, and come into the house with me. So Little Claus came down and told the farmer how he had lost his way and begged for a nights lodging.
    All right, said the farmer; but we must have something to eat first.
    The woman received them both very kindly, laid the cloth on a large table, and placed before them a dish of porridge. The farmer was very hungry, and ate his porridge with a good appetite, but Little Claus could not help thinking of the nice roast meat, fish and pies, which he knew were in the oven. Under the table, at his feet, lay the sack containing the horses skin, which he intended to sell at the next town. Now Little Claus did not relish the porridge at all, so he trod with his foot on the sack under the table, and the dry skin squeaked quite loud. Hush! said Little Claus to his sack, at the same time treading upon it again, till it squeaked louder than before.
    Hallo! what have you got in your sack! asked the farmer.
    Oh, it is a conjuror, said Little Claus; and he says we need not eat porridge, for he has conjured the oven full of roast meat, fish, and pie.
    Wonderful! cried the farmer, starting up and opening the oven door; and there lay all the nice things hidden by the farmers wife, but which he supposed had been conjured there by the wizard under the table. The woman dared not say anything; so she placed the things before them, and they both ate of the fish, the meat, and the pastry.
    Then Little Claus trod again upon his sack, and it squeaked as before. What does he say now? asked the farmer.
    He says, replied Little Claus, that there are three bottles of wine for us, standing in the corner, by the oven.
    So the woman was obliged to bring out the wine also, which she had hidden, and the farmer drank it till he became quite merry. He would have liked such a conjuror as Little Claus carried in his sack. Could he conjure up the evil one? asked the farmer. I should like to see him now, while I am so merry.
    Oh, yes! replied Little Claus, my conjuror can do anything I ask him,can you not? he asked, treading at the same time on the sack till it squeaked. Do you hear? he answers Yes, but he fears that we shall not like to look at him.
    Oh, I am not afraid. What will he be like?
    Well, he is very much like a sexton.
    Ha! said the farmer, then he must be ugly. Do you know I cannot endure the sight of a sexton. However, that doesnt matter, I shall know who it is; so I shall not mind. Now then, I have got up my courage, but dont let him come too near me.
    Stop, I must ask the conjuror, said Little Claus; so he trod on the bag, and stooped his ear down to listen.
    What does he say?
    He says that you must go and open that large chest which stands in the corner, and you will see the evil one crouching down inside; but you must hold the lid firmly, that he may not slip out.
    Will you come and help me hold it? said the farmer, going towards the chest in which his wife had hidden the sexton, who now lay inside, very much frightened. The farmer opened the lid a very little way, and peeped in.
    Oh, cried he, springing backwards, I saw him, and he is exactly like our sexton. How dreadful it is! So after that he was obliged to drink again, and they sat and drank till far into the night.
    You must sell your conjuror to me, said the farmer; ask as much as you like, I will pay it; indeed I would give you directly a whole bushel of gold.
    No, indeed, I cannot, said Little Claus; only think how much profit I could make out of this conjuror.
    But I should like to have him, said the fanner, still continuing his entreaties.
    Well, said Little Claus at length, you have been so good as to give me a nights lodging, I will not refuse you; you shall have the conjuror for a bushel of money, but I will have quite full measure.
    So you shall, said the farmer; but you must take away the chest as well. I would not have it in the house another hour; there is no knowing if he may not be still there.
    So Little Claus gave the farmer the sack containing the dried horses skin, and received in exchange a bushel of moneyfull measure. The farmer also gave him a wheelbarrow on which to carry away the chest and the gold.
    Farewell, said Little Claus, as he went off with his money and the great chest, in which the sexton lay still concealed. On one side of the forest was a broad, deep river, the water flowed so rapidly that very few were able to swim against the stream. A new bridge had lately been built across it, and in the middle of this bridge Little Claus stopped, and said, loud enough to be heard by the sexton, Now what shall I do with this stupid chest; it is as heavy as if it were full of stones: I shall be tired if I roll it any farther, so I may as well throw it in the river; if it swims after me to my house, well and good, and if not, it will not much matter.
    So he seized the chest in his hand and lifted it up a little, as if he were going to throw it into the water.
    No, leave it alone, cried the sexton from within the chest; let me out first.
    Oh, exclaimed Little Claus, pretending to be frightened, he is in there still, is he? I must throw him into the river, that he may be drowned.
    Oh, no; oh, no, cried the sexton; I will give you a whole bushel full of money if you will let me go.
    Why, that is another matter, said Little Claus, opening the chest. The sexton crept out, pushed the empty chest into the water, and went to his house, then he measured out a whole bushel full of gold for Little Claus, who had already received one from the farmer, so that now he had a barrow full.
    I have been well paid for my horse, said he to himself when he reached home, entered his own room, and emptied all his money into a heap on the floor. How vexed Great Claus will be when he finds out how rich I have become all through my one horse; but I shall not tell him exactly how it all happened. Then he sent a boy to Great Claus to borrow a bushel measure.
    What can he want it for? thought Great Claus; so he smeared the bottom of the measure with tar, that some of whatever was put into it might stick there and remain. And so it happened; for when the measure returned, three new silver florins were sticking to it.
    What does this mean? said Great Claus; so he ran off directly to Little Claus, and asked, Where did you get so much money?
    Oh, for my horses skin, I sold it yesterday.
    It was certainly well paid for then, said Great Claus; and he ran home to his house, seized a hatchet, and knocked all his four horses on the head, flayed off their skins, and took them to the town to sell. Skins, skins, wholl buy skins? he cried, as he went through the streets. All the shoemakers and tanners came running, and asked how much he wanted for them.
    A bushel of money, for each, replied Great Claus.
    Are you mad? they all cried; do you think we have money to spend by the bushel?
    Skins, skins, he cried again, who’ll buy skins? but to all who inquired the price, his answer was, a bushel of money.
    Big Claus beaten
    He is making fools of us, said they all; then the shoemakers took their straps, and the tanners their leather aprons, and began to beat Great Claus.
    Skins, skins! they cried, mocking him; yes, well mark your skin for you, till it is black and blue.
    Out of the town with him, said they. And Great Claus was obliged to run as fast as he could, he had never before been so thoroughly beaten.
    Ah, said he, as he came to his house; Little Claus shall pay me for this; I will beat him to death.
    Meanwhile the old grandmother of Little Claus died. She had been cross, unkind, and really spiteful to him; but he was very sorry, and took the dead woman and laid her in his warm bed to see if he could bring her to life again. There he determined that she should lie the whole night, while he seated himself in a chair in a corner of the room as he had often done before. During the night, as he sat there, the door opened, and in came Great Claus with a hatchet. He knew well where Little Clauss bed stood; so he went right up to it, and struck the old grandmother on the head. thinking it must be Little Claus.
    There, cried he, now you cannot make a fool of me again; and then he went home.
    That is a very wicked man, thought Little Claus; he meant to kill me. It is a good thing for my old grandmother that she was already dead, or he would have taken her life. Then he dressed his old grandmother in her best clothes, borrowed a horse of his neighbor, and harnessed it to a cart. Then he placed the old woman on the back seat, so that she might not fall out as he drove, and rode away through the wood. By sunrise they reached a large inn, where Little Claus stopped and went to get something to eat. The landlord was a rich man, and a good man too; but as passionate as if he had been made of pepper and snuff.
    Good morning, said he to Little Claus; you are come betimes to-day.
    Yes, said Little Claus; I am going to the town with my old grandmother; she is sitting at the back of the wagon, but I cannot bring her into the room. Will you take her a glass of mead? but you must speak very loud, for she cannot hear well.
    Yes, certainly I will, replied the landlord; and, pouring out a glass of mead, he carried it out to the dead grandmother, who sat upright in the cart. Here is a glass of mead from your grandson, said the landlord. The dead woman did not answer a word, but sat quite still. Do you not hear? cried the landlord as loud as he could; here is a glass of mead from your grandson.
    Again and again he bawled it out, but as she did not stir he flew into a passion, and threw the glass of mead in her face; it struck her on the nose, and she fell backwards out of the cart, for she was only seated there, not tied in.
    Hallo! cried Little Claus, rushing out of the door, and seizing hold of the landlord by the throat; you have killed my grandmother; see, here is a great hole in her forehead.
    Oh, how unfortunate, said the landlord, wringing his hands. This all comes of my fiery temper. Dear Little Claus, I will give you a bushel of money; I will bury your grandmother as if she were my own; only keep silent, or else they will cut off my head, and that would be disagreeable.
    So it happened that Little Claus received another bushel of money, and the landlord buried his old grandmother as if she had been his own. When Little Claus reached home again, he immediately sent a boy to Great Claus, requesting him to lend him a bushel measure. How is this? thought Great Claus; did I not kill him? I must go and see for myself. So he went to Little Claus, and took the bushel measure with him. How did you get all this money? asked Great Claus, staring with wide open eyes at his neighbors treasures.
    You killed my grandmother instead of me, said Little Claus; so I have sold her for a bushel of money.
    That is a good price at all events, said Great Claus. So he went home, took a hatchet, and killed his old grandmother with one blow. Then he placed her on a cart, and drove into the town to the apothecary, and asked him if he would buy a dead body.
    Whose is it, and where did you get it? asked the apothecary.
    It is my grandmother, he replied; I killed her with a blow, that I might get a bushel of money for her.
    Heaven preserve us! cried the apothecary, you are out of your mind. Dont say such things, or you will lose your head. And then he talked to him seriously about the wicked deed he had done, and told him that such a wicked man would surely be punished. Great Claus got so frightened that he rushed out of the surgery, jumped into the cart, whipped up his horses, and drove home quickly. The apothecary and all the people thought him mad, and let him drive where he liked.
    You shall pay for this, said Great Claus, as soon as he got into the highroad, that you shall, Little Claus. So as soon as he reached home he took the largest sack he could find and went over to Little Claus. You have played me another trick, said he. First, I killed all my horses, and then my old grandmother, and it is all your fault; but you shall not make a fool of me any more. So he laid hold of Little Claus round the body, and pushed him into the sack, which he took on his shoulders, saying, Now Im going to drown you in the river.
    He had a long way to go before he reached the river, and Little Claus was not a very light weight to carry. The road led by the church, and as they passed he could hear the organ playing and the people singing beautifully. Great Claus put down the sack close to the church-door, and thought he might as well go in and hear a psalm before he went any farther. Little Claus could not possibly get out of the sack, and all the people were in church; so in he went.
    Oh dear, oh dear, sighed Little Claus in the sack, as he turned and twisted about; but he found he could not loosen the string with which it was tied. Presently an old cattle driver, with snowy hair, passed by, carrying a large staff in his hand, with which he drove a large herd of cows and oxen before him. They stumbled against the sack in which lay Little Claus, and turned it over. Oh dear, sighed Little Claus, I am very young, yet I am soon going to heaven.
    And I, poor fellow, said the drover, I who am so old already, cannot get there.
    Open the sack, cried Little Claus; creep into it instead of me, and you will soon be there.
    With all my heart, replied the drover, opening the sack, from which sprung Little Claus as quickly as possible. Will you take care of my cattle? said the old man, as he crept into the bag.
    Yes, said Little Claus, and he tied up the sack, and then walked off with all the cows and oxen.
    When Great Claus came out of church, he took up the sack, and placed it on his shoulders. It appeared to have become lighter, for the old drover was not half so heavy as Little Claus.
    How light he seems now, said he. Ah, it is because I have been to a church. So he walked on to the river, which was deep and broad, and threw the sack containing the old drover into the water, believing it to be Little Claus. There you may lie! he exclaimed; you will play me no more tricks now. Then he turned to go home, but when he came to a place where two roads crossed, there was Little Claus driving the cattle. How is this? said Great Claus. Did I not drown you just now?
    Yes, said Little Claus; you threw me into the river about half an hour ago.
    But wherever did you get all these fine beasts? asked Great Claus.
    These beasts are sea-cattle, replied Little Claus. Ill tell you the whole story, and thank you for drowning me; I am above you now, I am really very rich. I was frightened, to be sure, while I lay tied up in the sack, and the wind whistled in my ears when you threw me into the river from the bridge, and I sank to the bottom immediately; but I did not hurt myself, for I fell upon beautifully soft grass which grows down there; and in a moment, the sack opened, and the sweetest little maiden came towards me. She had snow-white robes, and a wreath of green leaves on her wet hair.
    She took me by the hand, and said, So you are come, Little Claus, and here are some cattle for you to begin with. About a mile farther on the road, there is another herd for you. Then I saw that the river formed a great highway for the people who live in the sea. They were walking and driving here and there from the sea to the land at the, spot where the river terminates. The bed of the river was covered with the loveliest flowers and sweet fresh grass. The fish swam past me as rapidly as the birds do here in the air. How handsome all the people were, and what fine cattle were grazing on the hills and in the valleys!
    But why did you come up again, said Great Claus, if it was all so beautiful down there? I should not have done so?
    Well, said Little Claus, it was good policy on my part; you heard me say just now that I was told by the sea-maiden to go a mile farther on the road, and I should find a whole herd of cattle. By the road she meant the river, for she could not travel any other way; but I knew the winding of the river, and how it bends, sometimes to the right and sometimes to the left, and it seemed a long way, so I chose a shorter one; and, by coming up to the land, and then driving across the fields back again to the river, I shall save half a mile, and get all my cattle more quickly.
    What a lucky fellow you are! exclaimed Great Claus. Do you think I should get any sea-cattle if I went down to the bottom of the river?
    Yes, I think so, said Little Claus; but I cannot carry you there in a sack, you are too heavy. However if you will go there first, and then creep into a sack, I will throw you in with the greatest pleasure.
    Thank you, said Great Claus; but remember, if I do not get any sea-cattle down there I shall come up again and give you a good thrashing.
    No, now, don’t be too fierce about it! said Little Claus, as they walked on towards the river. When they approached it, the cattle, who were very thirsty, saw the stream, and ran down to drink.
    See what a hurry they are in, said Little Claus, they are longing to get down again.
    Come, help me, make haste, said Great Claus; or you’ll get beaten. So he crept into a large sack, which had been lying across the back of one of the oxen.
    Put in a stone, said Great Claus, or I may not sink.
    Oh, there’s not much fear of that, he replied; still he put a large stone into the bag, and then tied it tightly, and gave it a push.
    Plump! In went Great Claus, and immediately sank to the bottom of the river.
    I’m afraid he will not find any cattle, said Little Claus, and then he drove his own beasts homewards.
    Little Claus and Big Claus

  • Beauty of Form and Beauty of Mind

    Beauty of Form and Beauty of Mind

    The Beauty of Form and Beauty of Mind Short Story by Hans Christian Andersen

    THERE was once a sculptor, named Alfred, who having won the large gold medal and obtained a travelling scholarship, went to Italy, and then came back to his native land. He was young at that time- indeed, he is young still, although he is ten years older than he was then. On his return, he went to visit one of the little towns in the island of Zealand. The whole town knew who the stranger was; and one of the richest men in the place gave a party in his honor, and all who were of any consequence, or who possessed some property, were invited. It was quite an event, and all the town knew of it, so that it was not necessary to announce it by beat of drum. Apprentice-boys, children of the poor, and even the poor people themselves, stood before the house, watching the lighted windows; and the watchman might easily fancy he was giving a party also, there were so many people in the streets. There was quite an air of festivity about it, and the house was full of it; for Mr. Alfred, the sculptor, was there. He talked and told anecdotes, and every one listened to him with pleasure, not unmingled with awe; but none felt so much respect for him as did the elderly widow of a naval officer. She seemed, so far as Mr. Alfred was concerned, to be like a piece of fresh blotting-paper that absorbed all he said and asked for more. She was very appreciative, and incredibly ignorant- a kind of female Gaspar Hauser.

    “I should like to see Rome,” she said; “it must be a lovely city, or so many foreigners would not be constantly arriving there. Now, do give me a description of Rome. How does the city look when you enter in at the gate?”

    “I cannot very well describe it,” said the sculptor; “but you enter on a large open space, in the centre of which stands an obelisk, which is a thousand years old.”

    “An organist!” exclaimed the lady, who had never heard the word ‘obelisk.’ Several of the guests could scarcely forbear laughing, and the sculptor would have had some difficulty in keeping his countenance, but the smile on his lips faded away; for he caught sight of a pair of dark-blue eyes close by the side of the inquisitive lady. They belonged to her daughter; and surely no one who had such a daughter could be silly. The mother was like a fountain of questions; and the daughter, who listened but never spoke, might have passed for the beautiful maid of the fountain. How charming she was! She was a study for the sculptor to contemplate, but not to converse with; for she did not speak, or, at least, very seldom.

    “Has the pope a great family?” inquired the lady.

    The young man answered considerately, as if the question had been a different one, “No; he does not come from a great family.”

    “That is not what I asked,” persisted the widow; “I mean, has he a wife and children?”

    “The pope is not allowed to marry,” replied the gentleman.

    “I don’t like that,” was the lady’s remark.

    She certainly might have asked more sensible questions; but if she had not been allowed to say just what she liked, would her daughter have been there, leaning so gracefully on her shoulder, and looking straight before her, with a smile that was almost mournful on her face?

    Mr. Alfred again spoke of Italy, and of the glorious colors in Italian scenery; the purple hills, the deep blue of the Mediterranean, the azure of southern skies, whose brightness and glory could only be surpassed in the north by the deep-blue eyes of a maiden; and he said this with a peculiar intonation; but she who should have understood his meaning looked quite unconscious of it, which also was charming.

    “Beautiful Italy!” sighed some of the guests.

    “Oh, to travel there!” exclaimed others.

    “Charming! Charming!” echoed from every voice.

    “I may perhaps win a hundred thousand dollars in the lottery,” said the naval officer’s widow; “and if I do, we will travel- I and my daughter; and you, Mr. Alfred, must be our guide. We can all three travel together, with one or two more of our good friends.” And she nodded in such a friendly way at the company, that each imagined himself to be the favored person who was to accompany them to Italy. “Yes, we must go,” she continued; “but not to those parts where there are robbers. We will keep to Rome. In the public roads one is always safe.”

    The daughter sighed very gently; and how much there may be in a sigh, or attributed to it! The young man attributed a great deal of meaning to this sigh. Those deep-blue eyes, which had been lit up this evening in honor of him, must conceal treasures, treasures of heart and mind, richer than all the glories of Rome; and so when he left the party that night, he had lost it completely to the young lady. The house of the naval officer’s widow was the one most constantly visited by Mr. Alfred, the sculptor. It was soon understood that his visits were not intended for that lady, though they were the persons who kept up the conversation. He came for the sake of the daughter. They called her Kaela. Her name was really Karen Malena, and these two names had been contracted into the one name Kaela. She was really beautiful; but some said she was rather dull, and slept late of a morning.

    “She has been accustomed to that,” her mother said. “She is a beauty, and they are always easily tired. She does sleep rather late; but that makes her eyes so clear.”

    What power seemed to lie in the depths of those dark eyes! The young man felt the truth of the proverb, “Still waters run deep:” and his heart had sunk into their depths. He often talked of his adventures, and the mamma was as simple and eager in her questions as on the first evening they met. It was a pleasure to hear Alfred describe anything. He showed them colored plates of Naples, and spoke of excursions to Mount Vesuvius, and the eruptions of fire from it. The naval officer’s widow had never heard of them before.

    “Good heavens!” she exclaimed. “So that is a burning mountain; but is it not very dangerous to the people who live near it?”

    “Whole cities have been destroyed,” he replied; “for instance, Herculaneum and Pompeii.”

    “Oh, the poor people! And you saw all that with your own eyes?”

    “No; I did not see any of the eruptions which are represented in those pictures; but I will show you a sketch of my own, which represents an eruption I once saw.”

    He placed a pencil sketch on the table; and mamma, who had been over-powered with the appearance of the colored plates, threw a glance at the pale drawing and cried in astonishment, “What, did you see it throw up white fire?”

    For a moment, Alfred’s respect for Kaela’s mamma underwent a sudden shock, and lessened considerably; but, dazzled by the light which surrounded Kaela, he soon found it quite natural that the old lady should have no eye for color. After all, it was of very little consequence; for Kaela’s mamma had the best of all possessions; namely, Kaela herself.

    Alfred and Kaela were betrothed, which was a very natural result; and the betrothal was announced in the newspaper of the little town. Mama purchased thirty copies of the paper, that she might cut out the paragraph and send it to friends and acquaintances. The betrothed pair were very happy, and the mother was happy too. She said it seemed like connecting herself with Thorwalsden.

    “You are a true successor of Thorwalsden,” she said to Alfred; and it seemed to him as if, in this instance, mamma had said a clever thing. Kaela was silent; but her eyes shone, her lips smiled, every movement was graceful,- in fact, she was beautiful; that cannot be repeated too often. Alfred decided to take a bust of Kaela as well as of her mother. They sat to him accordingly, and saw how he moulded and formed the soft clay with his fingers.

    “I suppose it is only on our account that you perform this common-place work yourself, instead of leaving it to your servant to do all that sticking together.”

    “It is really necessary that I should mould the clay myself,” he replied.

    “Ah, yes, you are always so polite,” said mamma, with a smile; and Kaela silently pressed his hand, all soiled as it was with the clay.

    Then he unfolded to them both the beauties of Nature, in all her works; he pointed out to them how, in the scale of creation, inanimate matter was inferior to animate nature; the plant above the mineral, the animal above the plant, and man above them all. He strove to show them how the beauty of the mind could be displayed in the outward form, and that it was the sculptor’s task to seize upon that beauty of expression, and produce it in his works. Kaela stood silent, but nodded in approbation of what he said, while mamma-in-law made the following confession:-

    “It is difficult to follow you; but I go hobbling along after you with my thoughts, though what you say makes my head whirl round and round. Still I contrive to lay hold on some of it.”

    Kaela’s beauty had a firm hold on Alfred; it filled his soul, and held a mastery over him. Beauty beamed from Kaela’s every feature, glittered in her eyes, lurked in the corners of her mouth, and pervaded every movement of her agile fingers. Alfred, the sculptor, saw this. He spoke only to her, thought only of her, and the two became one; and so it may be said she spoke much, for he was always talking to her; and he and she were one. Such was the betrothal, and then came the wedding, with bride’s-maids and wedding presents, all duly mentioned in the wedding speech. Mamma-in-law had set up Thorwalsden’s bust at the end of the table, attired in a dressing-gown; it was her fancy that he should be a guest. Songs were sung, and cheers given; for it was a gay wedding, and they were a handsome pair. “Pygmalion loved his Galatea,” said one of the songs.

    “Ah, that is some of your mythologies,” said mamma-in-law.

    Next day the youthful pair started for Copenhagen, where they were to live; mamma-in-law accompanied them, to attend to the “coarse work,” as she always called the domestic arrangements. Kaela looked like a doll in a doll’s house, for everything was bright and new, and so fine. There they sat, all three; and as for Alfred, a proverb may describe his position- he looked like a swan amongst the geese. The magic of form had enchanted him; he had looked at the casket without caring to inquire what it contained, and that omission often brings the greatest unhappiness into married life. The casket may be injured, the gilding may fall off, and then the purchaser regrets his bargain.

    In a large party it is very disagreeable to find a button giving way, with no studs at hand to fall back upon; but it is worse still in a large company to be conscious that your wife and mother-in-law are talking nonsense, and that you cannot depend upon yourself to produce a little ready wit to carry off the stupidity of the whole affair.

    The young married pair often sat together hand in hand; he would talk, but she could only now and then let fall a word in the same melodious voice, the same bell-like tones. It was a mental relief when Sophy, one of her friends, came to pay them a visit. Sophy was not, pretty. She was, however, quite free from any physical deformity, although Kaela used to say she was a little crooked; but no eye, save an intimate acquaintance, would have noticed it. She was a very sensible girl, yet it never occurred to her that she might be a dangerous person in such a house. Her appearance created a new atmosphere in the doll’s house, and air was really required, they all owned that. They felt the want of a change of air, and consequently the young couple and their mother travelled to Italy.

    “Thank heaven we are at home again within our own four walls,” said mamma-in-law and daughter both, on their return after a year’s absence.

    “There is no real pleasure in travelling,” said mamma; “to tell the truth, it’s very wearisome; I beg pardon for saying so. I was soon very tired of it, although I had my children with me; and, besides, it’s very expensive work travelling, very expensive. And all those galleries one is expected to see, and the quantity of things you are obliged to run after! It must be done, for very shame; you are sure to be asked when you come back if you have seen everything, and will most likely be told that you’ve omitted to see what was best worth seeing of all. I got tired at last of those endless Madonnas; I began to think I was turning into a Madonna myself.”

    “And then the living, mamma,” said Kaela.

    “Yes, indeed,” she replied, “no such a thing as a respectable meat soup- their cookery is miserable stuff.”

    The journey had also tired Kaela; but she was always fatigued, that was the worst of it. So they sent for Sophy, and she was taken into the house to reside with them, and her presence there was a great advantage. Mamma-in-law acknowledged that Sophy was not only a clever housewife, but well-informed and accomplished, though that could hardly be expected in a person of her limited means. She was also a generous-hearted, faithful girl; she showed that thoroughly while Kaela lay sick, fading away. When the casket is everything, the casket should be strong, or else all is over. And all was over with the casket, for Kaela died.

    “She was beautiful,” said her mother; “she was quite different from the beauties they call ‘antiques,’ for they are so damaged. A beauty ought to be perfect, and Kaela was a perfect beauty.”

    Alfred wept, and mamma wept, and they both wore mourning. The black dress suited mamma very well, and she wore mourning the longest. She had also to experience another grief in seeing Alfred marry again, marry Sophy, who was nothing at all to look at. “He’s gone to the very extreme,” said mamma-in-law; “he has gone from the most beautiful to the ugliest, and he has forgotten his first wife. Men have no constancy. My husband was a very different man,- but then he died before me.”
    “‘Pygmalion loved his Galatea,’ was in the song they sung at my first wedding,” said Alfred; “I once fell in love with a beautiful statue, which awoke to life in my arms; but the kindred soul, which is a gift from heaven, the angel who can feel and sympathize with and elevate us, I have not found and won till now. You came, Sophy, not in the glory of outward beauty, though you are even fairer than is necessary. The chief thing still remains. You came to teach the sculptor that his work is but dust and clay only, an outward form made of a material that decays, and that what we should seek to obtain is the ethereal essence of mind and spirit. Poor Kaela! our life was but as a meeting by the way-side; in yonder world, where we shall know each other from a union of mind, we shall be but mere acquaintances.”

    “That was not a loving speech,” said Sophy, “nor spoken like a Christian. In a future state, where there is neither marrying nor giving in marriage, but where, as you say, souls are attracted to each other by sympathy; there everything beautiful develops itself, and is raised to a higher state of existence: her soul will acquire such completeness that it may harmonize with yours, even more than mine, and you will then once more utter your first rapturous exclamation of your love, ‘Beautiful, most beautiful!’”

    THE END!

    Beauty of Form and Beauty of Mind

  • The Lady with the Dog

    The Lady with the Dog

    The Lady with the Dog, Short Story by Anton Chekhov

    I

    IT was said that a new person had appeared on the sea-front: a lady with a little dog. Dmitri Dmitritch Gurov, who had by then been a fortnight at Yalta, and so was fairly at home there, had begun to take an interest in new arrivals. Sitting in Verney’s pavilion, he saw, walking on the sea-front, a fair-haired young lady of medium height, wearing a bret; a white Pomeranian dog was running behind her.

    And afterwards he met her in the public gardens and in the square several times a day. She was walking alone, always wearing the same bret, and always with the same white dog; no one knew who she was, and every one called her simply “the lady with the dog.”

    “If she is here alone without a husband or friends, it wouldn’t be amiss to make her acquaintance,” Gurov reflected.

    He was under forty, but he had a daughter already twelve years old, and two sons at school. He had been married young, when he was a student in his second year, and by now his wife seemed half as old again as he. She was a tall, erect woman with dark eyebrows, staid and dignified, and, as she said of herself, intellectual. She read a great deal, used phonetic spelling, called her husband, not Dmitri, but Dimitri, and he secretly considered her unintelligent, narrow, inelegant, was afraid of her, and did not like to be at home. He had begun being unfaithful to her long ago — had been unfaithful to her often, and, probably on that account, almost always spoke ill of women, and when they were talked about in his presence, used to call them “the lower race.”

    It seemed to him that he had been so schooled by bitter experience that he might call them what he liked, and yet he could not get on for two days together without “the lower race.” In the society of men he was bored and not himself, with them he was cold and uncommunicative; but when he was in the company of women he felt free, and knew what to say to them and how to behave; and he was at ease with them even when he was silent. In his appearance, in his character, in his whole nature, there was something attractive and elusive which allured women and disposed them in his favour; he knew that, and some force seemed to draw him, too, to them.

    Experience often repeated, truly bitter experience, had taught him long ago that with decent people, especially Moscow people — always slow to move and irresolute — every intimacy, which at first so agreeably diversifies life and appears a light and charming adventure, inevitably grows into a regular problem of extreme intricacy, and in the long run the situation becomes unbearable. But at every fresh meeting with an interesting woman this experience seemed to slip out of his memory, and he was eager for life, and everything seemed simple and amusing.

    One evening he was dining in the gardens, and the lady in the bret came up slowly to take the next table. Her expression, her gait, her dress, and the way she did her hair told him that she was a lady, that she was married, that she was in Yalta for the first time and alone, and that she was dull there. . . .

    The stories told of the immorality in such places as Yalta are to a great extent untrue; he despised them, and knew that such stories were for the most part made up by persons who would themselves have been glad to sin if they had been able; but when the lady sat down at the next table three paces from him, he remembered these tales of easy conquests, of trips to the mountains, and the tempting thought of a swift, fleeting love affair, a romance with an unknown woman, whose name he did not know, suddenly took possession of him.

    He beckoned coaxingly to the Pomeranian, and when the dog came up to him he shook his finger at it. The Pomeranian growled: Gurov shook his finger at it again.

    The lady looked at him and at once dropped her eyes.

    “He doesn’t bite,” she said, and blushed.

    “May I give him a bone?” he asked; and when she nodded he asked courteously, “Have you been long in Yalta?”

    “Five days.”

    “And I have already dragged out a fortnight here.”

    There was a brief silence.

    “Time goes fast, and yet it is so dull here!” she said, not looking at him.

    “That’s only the fashion to say it is dull here. A provincial will live in Belyov or Zhidra and not be dull, and when he comes here it’s ‘Oh, the dulness! Oh, the dust!’ One would think he came from Grenada.”

    She laughed. Then both continued eating in silence, like strangers, but after dinner they walked side by side; and there sprang up between them the light jesting conversation of people who are free and satisfied, to whom it does not matter where they go or what they talk about. They walked and talked of the strange light on the sea: the water was of a soft warm lilac hue, and there was a golden streak from the moon upon it. They talked of how sultry it was after a hot day.

    Gurov told her that he came from Moscow, that he had taken his degree in Arts, but had a post in a bank; that he had trained as an opera-singer, but had given it up, that he owned two houses in Moscow. . . . And from her he learnt that she had grown up in Petersburg, but had lived in S—- since her marriage two years before, that she was staying another month in Yalta, and that her husband, who needed a holiday too, might perhaps come and fetch her. She was not sure whether her husband had a post in a Crown Department or under the Provincial Council — and was amused by her own ignorance. And Gurov learnt, too, that she was called Anna Sergeyevna.

    Afterwards he thought about her in his room at the hotel — thought she would certainly meet him next day; it would be sure to happen. As he got into bed he thought how lately she had been a girl at school, doing lessons like his own daughter; he recalled the diffidence, the angularity, that was still manifest in her laugh and her manner of talking with a stranger. This must have been the first time in her life she had been alone in surroundings in which she was followed, looked at, and spoken to merely from a secret motive which she could hardly fail to guess. He recalled her slender, delicate neck, her lovely grey eyes.

    “There’s something pathetic about her, anyway,” he thought, and fell asleep.

    II

    A week had passed since they had made acquaintance. It was a holiday. It was sultry indoors, while in the street the wind whirled the dust round and round, and blew people’s hats off. It was a thirsty day, and Gurov often went into the pavilion, and pressed Anna Sergeyevna to have syrup and water or an ice. One did not know what to do with oneself.

    In the evening when the wind had dropped a little, they went out on the groyne to see the steamer come in. There were a great many people walking about the harbour; they had gathered to welcome some one, bringing bouquets. And two peculiarities of a well-dressed Yalta crowd were very conspicuous: the elderly ladies were dressed like young ones, and there were great numbers of generals.

    Owing to the roughness of the sea, the steamer arrived late, after the sun had set, and it was a long time turning about before it reached the groyne. Anna Sergeyevna looked through her lorgnette at the steamer and the passengers as though looking for acquaintances, and when she turned to Gurov her eyes were shining. She talked a great deal and asked disconnected questions, forgetting next moment what she had asked; then she dropped her lorgnette in the crush.

    The festive crowd began to disperse; it was too dark to see people’s faces. The wind had completely dropped, but Gurov and Anna Sergeyevna still stood as though waiting to see some one else come from the steamer. Anna Sergeyevna was silent now, and sniffed the flowers without looking at Gurov.

    “The weather is better this evening,” he said. “Where shall we go now? Shall we drive somewhere?”

    She made no answer.

    Then he looked at her intently, and all at once put his arm round her and kissed her on the lips, and breathed in the moisture and the fragrance of the flowers; and he immediately looked round him, anxiously wondering whether any one had seen them.

    “Let us go to your hotel,” he said softly. And both walked quickly.

    The room was close and smelt of the scent she had bought at the Japanese shop. Gurov looked at her and thought: “What different people one meets in the world!” From the past he preserved memories of careless, good-natured women, who loved cheerfully and were grateful to him for the happiness he gave them, however brief it might be; and of women like his wife who loved without any genuine feeling, with superfluous phrases, affectedly, hysterically.

    With an expression that suggested that it was not love nor passion, but something more significant; and of two or three others, very beautiful, cold women, on whose faces he had caught a glimpse of a rapacious expression — an obstinate desire to snatch from life more than it could give, and these were capricious, unreflecting, domineering, unintelligent women not in their first youth, and when Gurov grew cold to them their beauty excited his hatred, and the lace on their linen seemed to him like scales.

    But in this case there was still the diffidence, the angularity of inexperienced youth, an awkward feeling; and there was a sense of consternation as though some one had suddenly knocked at the door. The attitude of Anna Sergeyevna — “the lady with the dog” — to what had happened was somehow peculiar, very grave, as though it were her fall — so it seemed, and it was strange and inappropriate. Her face dropped and faded, and on both sides of it her long hair hung down mournfully; she mused in a dejected attitude like “the woman who was a sinner” in an old-fashioned picture.

    “It’s wrong,” she said. “You will be the first to despise me now.”

    There was a water-melon on the table. Gurov cut himself a slice and began eating it without haste. There followed at least half an hour of silence.

    Anna Sergeyevna was touching; there was about her the purity of a good, simple woman who had seen little of life. The solitary candle burning on the table threw a faint light on her face, yet it was clear that she was very unhappy.

    “How could I despise you?” asked Gurov. “You don’t know what you are saying.”

    “God forgive me,” she said, and her eyes filled with tears. “It’s awful.”

    “You seem to feel you need to be forgiven.”

    “Forgiven? No. I am a bad, low woman; I despise myself and don’t attempt to justify myself. It’s not my husband but myself I have deceived. And not only just now; I have been deceiving myself for a long time. My husband may be a good, honest man, but he is a flunkey! I don’t know what he does there, what his work is, but I know he is a flunkey! I was twenty when I was married to him. I have been tormented by curiosity; I wanted something better.

    ‘There must be a different sort of life,’ I said to myself. I wanted to live! To live, to live! . . . I was fired by curiosity . . . you don’t understand it, but, I swear to God, I could not control myself; something happened to me: I could not be restrained. I told my husband I was ill, and came here. . . . And here I have been walking about as though I were dazed, like a mad creature; . . . and now I have become a vulgar, contemptible woman whom any one may despise.”

    Gurov felt bored already, listening to her. He was irritated by the nave tone, by this remorse, so unexpected and inopportune; but for the tears in her eyes, he might have thought she was jesting or playing a part.

    “I don’t understand,” he said softly. “What is it you want?”

    She hid her face on his breast and pressed close to him.

    “Believe me, believe me, I beseech you . . .” she said. “I love a pure, honest life, and sin is loathsome to me. I don’t know what I am doing. Simple people say: ‘The Evil One has beguiled me.’ And I may say of myself now that the Evil One has beguiled me.”

    “Hush, hush! . . .” he muttered.

    He looked at her fixed, scared eyes, kissed her, talked softly and affectionately, and by degrees she was comforted, and her gaiety returned; they both began laughing.

    Afterwards when they went out there was not a soul on the sea-front. The town with its cypresses had quite a deathlike air, but the sea still broke noisily on the shore; a single barge was rocking on the waves, and a lantern was blinking sleepily on it.

    They found a cab and drove to Oreanda.

    “I found out your surname in the hall just now: it was written on the board — Von Diderits,” said Gurov. “Is your husband a German?”

    “No; I believe his grandfather was a German, but he is an Orthodox Russian himself.”

    At Oreanda they sat on a seat not far from the church, looked down at the sea, and were silent. Yalta was hardly visible through the morning mist; white clouds stood motionless on the mountain-tops. The leaves did not stir on the trees, grasshoppers chirruped, and the monotonous hollow sound of the sea rising up from below, spoke of the peace, of the eternal sleep awaiting us. So it must have sounded when there was no Yalta, no Oreanda here; so it sounds now, and it will sound as indifferently and monotonously when we are all no more.

    And in this constancy, in this complete indifference to the life and death of each of us, there lies hid, perhaps, a pledge of our eternal salvation, of the unceasing movement of life upon earth, of unceasing progress towards perfection. Sitting beside a young woman who in the dawn seemed so lovely, soothed and spellbound in these magical surroundings — the sea, mountains, clouds, the open sky — Gurov thought how in reality everything is beautiful in this world when one reflects: everything except what we think or do ourselves when we forget our human dignity and the higher aims of our existence.

    A man walked up to them — probably a keeper — looked at them and walked away. And this detail seemed mysterious and beautiful, too. They saw a steamer come from Theodosia, with its lights out in the glow of dawn.

    “There is dew on the grass,” said Anna Sergeyevna, after a silence.

    “Yes. It’s time to go home.”

    They went back to the town.

    Then they met every day at twelve o’clock on the sea-front, lunched and dined together, went for walks, admired the sea. She complained that she slept badly, that her heart throbbed violently; asked the same questions, troubled now by jealousy and now by the fear that he did not respect her sufficiently. And often in the square or gardens, when there was no one near them, he suddenly drew her to him and kissed her passionately. Complete idleness, these kisses in broad daylight while he looked round in dread of some one’s seeing them, the heat, the smell of the sea, and the continual passing to and fro before him of idle, well-dressed, well-fed people, made a new man of him; he told Anna Sergeyevna how beautiful she was, how fascinating.

    He was impatiently passionate, he would not move a step away from her, while she was often pensive and continually urged him to confess that he did not respect her, did not love her in the least, and thought of her as nothing but a common woman. Rather late almost every evening they drove somewhere out of town, to Oreanda or to the waterfall; and the expedition was always a success, the scenery invariably impressed them as grand and beautiful.

    They were expecting her husband to come, but a letter came from him, saying that there was something wrong with his eyes, and he entreated his wife to come home as quickly as possible. Anna Sergeyevna made haste to go.

    “It’s a good thing I am going away,” she said to Gurov. “It’s the finger of destiny!”

    She went by coach and he went with her. They were driving the whole day. When she had got into a compartment of the express, and when the second bell had rung, she said:

    “Let me look at you once more . . . look at you once again. That’s right.”

    She did not shed tears, but was so sad that she seemed ill, and her face was quivering.

    “I shall remember you . . . think of you,” she said. “God be with you; be happy. Don’t remember evil against me. We are parting forever — it must be so, for we ought never to have met. Well, God be with you.”

    The train moved off rapidly, its lights soon vanished from sight, and a minute later there was no sound of it, as though everything had conspired together to end as quickly as possible that sweet delirium, that madness. Left alone on the platform, and gazing into the dark distance, Gurov listened to the chirrup of the grasshoppers and the hum of the telegraph wires, feeling as though he had only just waked up. And he thought, musing, that there had been another episode or adventure in his life, and it, too, was at an end, and nothing was left of it but a memory. . . .

    He was moved, sad, and conscious of a slight remorse. This young woman whom he would never meet again had not been happy with him; he was genuinely warm and affectionate with her, but yet in his manner, his tone, and his caresses there had been a shade of light irony, the coarse condescension of a happy man who was, besides, almost twice her age. All the time she had called him kind, exceptional, lofty; obviously he had seemed to her different from what he really was, so he had unintentionally deceived her. . . .

    Here at the station was already a scent of autumn; it was a cold evening.

    “It’s time for me to go north,” thought Gurov as he left the platform. “High time!”

    III

    At home in Moscow everything was in its winter routine; the stoves were heated, and in the morning it was still dark when the children were having breakfast and getting ready for school, and the nurse would light the lamp for a short time. The frosts had begun already. When the first snow has fallen, on the first day of sledge-driving it is pleasant to see the white earth, the white roofs, to draw soft, delicious breath, and the season brings back the days of one’s youth. The old limes and birches, white with hoar-frost, have a good-natured expression; they are nearer to one’s heart than cypresses and palms, and near them one doesn’t want to be thinking of the sea and the mountains.

    Gurov was Moscow born; he arrived in Moscow on a fine frosty day, and when he put on his fur coat and warm gloves, and walked along Petrovka, and when on Saturday evening he heard the ringing of the bells, his recent trip and the places he had seen lost all charm for him. Little by little he became absorbed in Moscow life, greedily read three newspapers a day, and declared he did not read the Moscow papers on principle!

    He already felt a longing to go to restaurants, clubs, dinner-parties, anniversary celebrations, and he felt flattered at entertaining distinguished lawyers and artists, and at playing cards with a professor at the doctors’ club. He could already eat a whole plateful of salt fish and cabbage.

    In another month, he fancied, the image of Anna Sergeyevna would be shrouded in a mist in his memory, and only from time to time would visit him in his dreams with a touching smile as others did. But more than a month passed, real winter had come, and everything was still clear in his memory as though he had parted with Anna Sergeyevna only the day before. And his memories glowed more and more vividly.

    When in the evening stillness he heard from his study the voices of his children, preparing their lessons, or when he listened to a song or the organ at the restaurant, or the storm howled in the chimney, suddenly everything would rise up in his memory: what had happened on the groyne, and the early morning with the mist on the mountains, and the steamer coming from Theodosia, and the kisses. He would pace a long time about his room, remembering it all and smiling; then his memories passed into dreams, and in his fancy the past was mingled with what was to come.

    Anna Sergeyevna did not visit him in dreams, but followed him about everywhere like a shadow and haunted him. When he shut his eyes he saw her as though she were living before him, and she seemed to him lovelier, younger, tenderer than she was; and he imagined himself finer than he had been in Yalta. In the evenings she peeped out at him from the bookcase, from the fireplace, from the corner — he heard her breathing, the caressing rustle of her dress. In the street he watched the women, looking for some one like her.

    He was tormented by an intense desire to confide his memories to some one. But in his home it was impossible to talk of his love, and he had no one outside; he could not talk to his tenants nor to any one at the bank. And what had he to talk of? Had he been in love, then? Had there been anything beautiful, poetical, or edifying or simply interesting in his relations with Anna Sergeyevna? And there was nothing for him but to talk vaguely of love, of woman, and no one guessed what it meant; only his wife twitched her black eyebrows, and said:

    “The part of a lady-killer does not suit you at all, Dimitri.”

    One evening, coming out of the doctors’ club with an official with whom he had been playing cards, he could not resist saying:

    “If only you knew what a fascinating woman I made the acquaintance of in Yalta!”

    The official got into his sledge and was driving away, but turned suddenly and shouted:

    “Dmitri Dmitritch!”

    “What?”

    “You were right this evening: the sturgeon was a bit too strong!”

    These words, so ordinary, for some reason moved Gurov to indignation, and struck him as degrading and unclean. What savage manners, what people! What senseless nights, what uninteresting, uneventful days! The rage for card-playing, the gluttony, the drunkenness, the continual talk always about the same thing. Useless pursuits and conversations always about the same things absorb the better part of one’s time, the better part of one’s strength, and in the end there is left a life grovelling and curtailed, worthless and trivial, and there is no escaping or getting away from it — just as though one were in a madhouse or a prison.

    Gurov did not sleep all night, and was filled with indignation. And he had a headache all next day. And the next night he slept badly; he sat up in bed, thinking, or paced up and down his room. He was sick of his children, sick of the bank; he had no desire to go anywhere or to talk of anything.

    In the holidays in December he prepared for a journey, and told his wife he was going to Petersburg to do something in the interests of a young friend — and he set off for S—-. What for? He did not very well know himself. He wanted to see Anna Sergeyevna and to talk with her — to arrange a meeting, if possible.

    He reached S—- in the morning, and took the best room at the hotel, in which the floor was covered with grey army cloth, and on the table was an inkstand, grey with dust and adorned with a figure on horseback, with its hat in its hand and its head broken off. The hotel porter gave him the necessary information; Von Diderits lived in a house of his own in Old Gontcharny Street — it was not far from the hotel: he was rich and lived in good style, and had his own horses; every one in the town knew him. The porter pronounced the name “Dridirits.”

    Gurov went without haste to Old Gontcharny Street and found the house. Just opposite the house stretched a long grey fence adorned with nails.

    “One would run away from a fence like that,” thought Gurov, looking from the fence to the windows of the house and back again.

    He considered: to-day was a holiday, and the husband would probably be at home. And in any case it would be tactless to go into the house and upset her. If he were to send her a note it might fall into her husband’s hands, and then it might ruin everything. The best thing was to trust to chance. And he kept walking up and down the street by the fence, waiting for the chance.

    He saw a beggar go in at the gate and dogs fly at him; then an hour later he heard a piano, and the sounds were faint and indistinct. Probably it was Anna Sergeyevna playing. The front door suddenly opened, and an old woman came out, followed by the familiar white Pomeranian. Gurov was on the point of calling to the dog, but his heart began beating violently, and in his excitement he could not remember the dog’s name.

    He walked up and down, and loathed the grey fence more and more, and by now he thought irritably that Anna Sergeyevna had forgotten him, and was perhaps already amusing herself with some one else, and that that was very natural in a young woman who had nothing to look at from morning till night but that confounded fence. He went back to his hotel room and sat for a long while on the sofa, not knowing what to do, then he had dinner and a long nap.

    “How stupid and worrying it is!” he thought when he woke and looked at the dark windows: it was already evening. “Here I’ve had a good sleep for some reason. What shall I do in the night?”

    He sat on the bed, which was covered by a cheap grey blanket, such as one sees in hospitals, and he taunted himself in his vexation:

    “So much for the lady with the dog . . . so much for the adventure. . . . You’re in a nice fix. . . .”

    That morning at the station a poster in large letters had caught his eye. “The Geisha” was to be performed for the first time. He thought of this and went to the theatre.

    “It’s quite possible she may go to the first performance,” he thought.

    The theatre was full. As in all provincial theatres, there was a fog above the chandelier, the gallery was noisy and restless; in the front row the local dandies were standing up before the beginning of the performance, with their hands behind them; in the Governor’s box the Governor’s daughter, wearing a boa, was sitting in the front seat, while the Governor himself lurked modestly behind the curtain with only his hands visible; the orchestra was a long time tuning up; the stage curtain swayed. All the time the audience were coming in and taking their seats Gurov looked at them eagerly.

    Anna Sergeyevna, too, came in. She sat down in the third row, and when Gurov looked at her his heart contracted, and he understood clearly that for him there was in the whole world no creature so near, so precious, and so important to him; she, this little woman, in no way remarkable, lost in a provincial crowd, with a vulgar lorgnette in her hand, filled his whole life now, was his sorrow and his joy, the one happiness that he now desired for himself, and to the sounds of the inferior orchestra, of the wretched provincial violins, he thought how lovely she was. He thought and dreamed.

    A young man with small side-whiskers, tall and stooping, came in with Anna Sergeyevna and sat down beside her; he bent his head at every step and seemed to be continually bowing. Most likely this was the husband whom at Yalta, in a rush of bitter feeling, she had called a flunkey. And there really was in his long figure, his side-whiskers, and the small bald patch on his head, something of the flunkey’s obsequiousness; his smile was sugary, and in his buttonhole there was some badge of distinction like the number on a waiter.

    During the first interval the husband went away to smoke; she remained alone in her stall. Gurov, who was sitting in the stalls, too, went up to her and said in a trembling voice, with a forced smile:

    “Good-evening.”

    She glanced at him and turned pale, then glanced again with horror, unable to believe her eyes, and tightly gripped the fan and the lorgnette in her hands, evidently struggling with herself not to faint. Both were silent. She was sitting, he was standing, frightened by her confusion and not venturing to sit down beside her. The violins and the flute began tuning up. He felt suddenly frightened; it seemed as though all the people in the boxes were looking at them.

    She got up and went quickly to the door; he followed her, and both walked senselessly along passages, and up and down stairs, and figures in legal, scholastic, and civil service uniforms, all wearing badges, flitted before their eyes. They caught glimpses of ladies, of fur coats hanging on pegs; the draughts blew on them, bringing a smell of stale tobacco. And Gurov, whose heart was beating violently, thought:

    “Oh, heavens! Why are these people here and this orchestra! . . .”

    And at that instant he recalled how when he had seen Anna Sergeyevna off at the station he had thought that everything was over and they would never meet again. But how far they were still from the end!

    On the narrow, gloomy staircase over which was written “To the Amphitheatre,” she stopped.

    “How you have frightened me!” she said, breathing hard, still pale and overwhelmed. “Oh, how you have frightened me! I am half dead. Why have you come? Why?”

    “But do understand, Anna, do understand . . .” he said hastily in a low voice. “I entreat you to understand. . . .”

    She looked at him with dread, with entreaty, with love; she looked at him intently, to keep his features more distinctly in her memory.

    “I am so unhappy,” she went on, not heeding him. “I have thought of nothing but you all the time; I live only in the thought of you. And I wanted to forget, to forget you; but why, oh, why, have you come?”

    On the landing above them two schoolboys were smoking and looking down, but that was nothing to Gurov; he drew Anna Sergeyevna to him, and began kissing her face, her cheeks, and her hands.

    “What are you doing, what are you doing!” she cried in horror, pushing him away. “We are mad. Go away to-day; go away at once. . . . I beseech you by all that is sacred, I implore you. . . . There are people coming this way!”

    Some one was coming up the stairs.

    “You must go away,” Anna Sergeyevna went on in a whisper. “Do you hear, Dmitri Dmitritch? I will come and see you in Moscow. I have never been happy; I am miserable now, and I never, never shall be happy, never! Don’t make me suffer still more! I swear I’ll come to Moscow. But now let us part. My precious, good, dear one, we must part!”

    She pressed his hand and began rapidly going downstairs, looking round at him, and from her eyes he could see that she really was unhappy. Gurov stood for a little while, listened, then, when all sound had died away, he found his coat and left the theatre.

    IV

    And Anna Sergeyevna began coming to see him in Moscow. Once in two or three months she left S—-, telling her husband that she was going to consult a doctor about an internal complaint — and her husband believed her, and did not believe her. In Moscow she stayed at the Slaviansky Bazaar hotel, and at once sent a man in a red cap to Gurov. Gurov went to see her, and no one in Moscow knew of it.

    Once he was going to see her in this way on a winter morning (the messenger had come the evening before when he was out). With him walked his daughter, whom he wanted to take to school: it was on the way. Snow was falling in big wet flakes.

    “It’s three degrees above freezing-point, and yet it is snowing,” said Gurov to his daughter. “The thaw is only on the surface of the earth; there is quite a different temperature at a greater height in the atmosphere.”

    “And why are there no thunderstorms in the winter, father?”

    He explained that, too. He talked, thinking all the while that he was going to see her, and no living soul knew of it, and probably never would know. He had two lives: one, open, seen and known by all who cared to know, full of relative truth and of relative falsehood, exactly like the lives of his friends and acquaintances; and another life running its course in secret.

    And through some strange, perhaps accidental, conjunction of circumstances, everything that was essential, of interest and of value to him, everything in which he was sincere and did not deceive himself, everything that made the kernel of his life, was hidden from other people; and all that was false in him, the sheath in which he hid himself to conceal the truth — such, for instance, as his work in the bank, his discussions at the club, his “lower race,” his presence with his wife at anniversary festivities — all that was open.

    And he judged of others by himself, not believing in what he saw, and always believing that every man had his real, most interesting life under the cover of secrecy and under the cover of night. All personal life rested on secrecy, and possibly it was partly on that account that civilised man was so nervously anxious that personal privacy should be respected.

    After leaving his daughter at school, Gurov went on to the Slaviansky Bazaar. He took off his fur coat below, went upstairs, and softly knocked at the door. Anna Sergeyevna, wearing his favourite grey dress, exhausted by the journey and the suspense, had been expecting him since the evening before. She was pale; she looked at him, and did not smile, and he had hardly come in when she fell on his breast. Their kiss was slow and prolonged, as though they had not met for two years.

    “Well, how are you getting on there?” he asked. “What news?”

    “Wait; I’ll tell you directly. . . . I can’t talk.”

    She could not speak; she was crying. She turned away from him, and pressed her handkerchief to her eyes.

    “Let her have her cry out. I’ll sit down and wait,” he thought, and he sat down in an arm-chair.

    Then he rang and asked for tea to be brought him, and while he drank his tea she remained standing at the window with her back to him. She was crying from emotion, from the miserable consciousness that their life was so hard for them; they could only meet in secret, hiding themselves from people, like thieves! Was not their life shattered?

    “Come, do stop!” he said.

    It was evident to him that this love of theirs would not soon be over, that he could not see the end of it. Anna Sergeyevna grew more and more attached to him. She adored him, and it was unthinkable to say to her that it was bound to have an end some day; besides, she would not have believed it!

    He went up to her and took her by the shoulders to say something affectionate and cheering, and at that moment he saw himself in the looking-glass.

    His hair was already beginning to turn grey. And it seemed strange to him that he had grown so much older, so much plainer during the last few years. The shoulders on which his hands rested were warm and quivering. He felt compassion for this life, still so warm and lovely, but probably already not far from beginning to fade and wither like his own. Why did she love him so much?

    He always seemed to women different from what he was, and they loved in him not himself, but the man created by their imagination, whom they had been eagerly seeking all their lives; and afterwards, when they noticed their mistake, they loved him all the same. And not one of them had been happy with him. Time passed, he had made their acquaintance, got on with them, parted, but he had never once loved; it was anything you like, but not love.

    And only now when his head was grey he had fallen properly, really in love — for the first time in his life.

    Anna Sergeyevna and he loved each other like people very close and akin, like husband and wife, like tender friends; it seemed to them that fate itself had meant them for one another, and they could not understand why he had a wife and she a husband; and it was as though they were a pair of birds of passage, caught and forced to live in different cages. They forgave each other for what they were ashamed of in their past, they forgave everything in the present, and felt that this love of theirs had changed them both.

    In moments of depression in the past he had comforted himself with any arguments that came into his mind, but now he no longer cared for arguments; he felt profound compassion, he wanted to be sincere and tender. . . .

    “Don’t cry, my darling,” he said. “You’ve had your cry; that’s enough. . . . Let us talk now, let us think of some plan.”

    Then they spent a long while taking counsel together, talked of how to avoid the necessity for secrecy, for deception, for living in different towns and not seeing each other for long at a time. How could they be free from this intolerable bondage?

    “How? How?” he asked, clutching his head. “How?”

    And it seemed as though in a little while the solution would be found, and then a new and splendid life would begin; and it was clear to both of them that they had still a long, long road before them, and that the most complicated and difficult part of it was only just beginning.

    The Lady with the Dog

  • Start Today!

    Start Today!

    Start Today!

    Tired of watching others live out their dreams? Not being where you need to be fitness-wise? Being at home and feeling like life just isn’t what it’s supposed to be? What is the Secret of Success?

    Well, get up! Stop complaining! Start doing better with yourself! Nobody cares about your struggle, and what you’ve been through, so save it! Everybody has problems!

    Don’t let next year roll around and you are still saying, “I wish I would have…”

    Success Isn’t Cute!

    “Without a beginning, I am pouring the whole of my existence into the building of endings, while the cross and the resurrection declare that God is incessantly building beginnings from the collapse of endings.” ― Craig D. Lounsbrough.

    “Why should you live in the past when the present already has everything that you need to start a new beginning?” ― Edmond Mbiaka.

    “If I must start somewhere, right here and now is the best place imaginable.” ― Richelle E. Goodrich.

    “The secret to getting ahead is getting started.” ― Mark Twain.

    Start Today!

    Work your behind off! Your next move in life may leave you broke, homeless and in a position you never wanted to be in! Nonetheless, if it’s something you are truly passionate about then you won’t ever regret it! At least if you fail, you can say you gave it a shot!

    No excuses! Save It! Make your own path and if you don’t know how to do that, start asking some questions and maybe some answers will open up for you!

    A year ago I said I was going to go to Full Sail University and with no money; I made it happen somehow (with a lot of debt behind my name of course). Now, I will pursue my dreams in recording engineering and nothing will stop me!

    Six months ago I said I was going to get back to my fitness. I have been at it and I am now much stronger and harder than I have ever been.

    I now add to the list, learning how to play the piano and getting back to learning French. Next year if I am here and I have not done these things, it means that I wasn’t that passionate about it all. Oh, The Places You’ll Go!

    What will you be starting today?

    If you don’t start today… you may never get the chance again. Food for Thought!

  • Oh, The Places You’ll Go!

    Oh, The Places You’ll Go!

    Oh, The Places You’ll Go!

    The beauty of life is that we never know where we will go next. I think to myself that I would have never imagined writing a post, first and foremost. I was on the road towards Physical Therapy, in my mind, and I was certain that I was going to work in the field. After graduating with a degree in Applied Physiology and Kinesiology (which is the study of the function and movement of the body), I went on to massage therapy school and then a few months after that, I found myself at Full Sail University.

    This is my moment to truly inspire and help anyone around me with a dream. If I can share my story of how I have done it or how I have gotten to where I am today, I take it. I want people to learn from my mistakes and do even better than I did. God has put a lot of my heart and he has put me in a lot of weird places in life, but it has a purpose. He does nothing by accident.

    Oh, The Places You'll Go 01

    Life is just funny. You think you have an idea of where you will be going and then it changes on you. No worries don’t be afraid of the change and don’t beat yourself up. Trust, as you can see, it happened to me and it may happen to you as well. Also, The Last Tape, Failure is Not an Option!

    Never be afraid of change. While this may be very difficult to say and accept, change is necessary. You may have to pick everything up and move to a place that is foreign to you. You may have to end that relationship that isn’t really going anywhere. There are so many places where you may end up and that is the beauty of life. It is so unpredictable! But I love it! Everyone doesn’t love it. Some may call you a nomad like they called me! Some may think you are crazy. Be open to going to new places, see new things, read new posts and take chances. No matter what, there is a lesson to learn. You may not realize it in the middle of the storm, but when it settles it will all make sense.

    Oh, The Places You'll Go

  • Reinvent Yourself..!

    Reinvent Yourself..!

    Reinvent Yourself..! Inspirational Story

    Short Story of Reinvent Yourself..! So, I have a strong fascination with superheroes: Batman (cause everyone wants to be Batman), Superman, Spider-Man (my favorite superhero for several reasons) and many others that I could name, but I won’t expose my geekiness at the moment.

    The amazing thing about superheroes is that they are always reinventing themselves. Spiderman always found new ways to improve his costume. He wanted to be able to move faster in his suit or respond quicker to enemies in the midst of battle; so he was always finding ways to make himself or his suit better. Other superheroes, such as Iron Man, were the same way. Iron Man would research for hours on end in order to make improvements to his suit. He would learn new ways to build a stronger Exoskeleton to withstand the attacks from stronger foes and would improve on other little details that would make him a better fighter.

    Reinvent Yourself 02

    This isn’t JUST a comic book idea. This is something we all can apply to live. Every single day we should be reinventing ourselves. We go back to school to improve our education in order to seek higher employment, we work out and eat right so that we can live longer and live happier, We are reading, writing, drawing or doing something that will help improve our lives. No matter what your option is for improving your life, we are all superheroes.

    Think about how much the average person stresses in a lifetime. Think about the times where you have felt like the world was all on your shoulders. The stress and feeling as if the world is weighing down on you are exactly how superheroes feel in each and every comic, television show, and the movie we see. Here is my realization after reading about these characters in the comics – that they are all reflections of the people that may or may not be reading about them.

    They go through pain and they go through tragedy just like me and you. They get knocked down and knocked out just like me and you. Even with that, they always get back up, regroup and figure it out again. Sounds familiar does it not? We go through tragedies but we always end up triumphant (eventually); lose loved ones and have many other situations that bring us to our knees, but just like a superhero, we then remember why we are fighting. Remember being that defenseless person, we remember our struggles and we know that if we stop fighting then it’s a wrap. Even if the fight isn’t for anyone else but ourselves… we never want to fail ourselves, right? But these are all just thoughts… “Google Your Legacy”

    Reinvent Yourself 01

    It is funny where my reading can take me mentally. Spider-Man has literally hundreds of different suits and different styles of equipment that he develops depending on the opponent. That is literally how each and everyone should act when presented with a new obstacle/enemy/challenge in life.  New enemies will come your way and once again you will have to adapt quickly or face being defeated. Even after a superhero is defeated he/she gets back up and finds a new way to defeat the villain. Just like real people, superheroes get to a point where they want to quit it all. They want to stop saving the world around them.

    Yet, they keep going and pushing because they know the world needs them. The world needs you! We have all been put here for a reason and sometimes you can live life never knowing what that reason is, or you can make the best out of every opportunity there is and hope that one day that purpose is realized. Some may find their purpose and others never will… but sometimes there is no need to search because we already know exactly what our purpose is and we just have to listen to it even when we don’t want to.

    Every day you should be REINVENTING yourself and making yourself a better person daily. Never stop learning, being an innovator, being who you truly are. Don’t fight your inner superhero. You may not have to save the world, but there may be one person who needs you to keep pushing on for them. Also, read it Fear is Killing You!

    Reinvent Yourself

  • “Google Your Legacy”

    “Google Your Legacy”

    “Google Your Legacy”

    Inspirational Short Story of “Google Your Legacy” While I was reading Seth Godin’s ‘Linchpin’, I stumbled across the question: “If you were to Google yourself what LEGACY would the world see?” I sat and thought about this one for a minute. Then, of course, I googled myself. The results were slim and little to nothing. Does it mean I have not done great things? Not at all! Does it mean I could be paving a better path for my future? Yes!

    I have never thought about what kind of legacy I am leaving behind after I leave this earth. Whether it is a legacy of kindness, a legacy of mentorship, or a legacy of stories and tales of how I helped change the world. I sat and thought some more about this subject and I finally got so hopeless after reading it all that I went to sleep. Sometimes we really get caught up in our egos. We get caught up thinking that we are super awesome and amazing and not taking a second to reflect and analyze if we are really that great. They say that when you are great you never will have to announce it because the world will do that for you.

    I now realize everything Seth has been talking about it in his post. The post questions if you are indispensable and how do you plan on changing that if you are not. I now see a different light. Not just one of humility, but one that will spiral me into a world of greatness like none other. I am all over the place sometimes and that scares me, I don’t always know what I will do next, I do know that God has a plan for me nonetheless and as I grow closer to him it will come to fruition.

    Google Your Legacy 01

    Now, I work on changing what people will find me when they Google me. I now work towards an even greater mission. An even greater task in life. Not just being able to find me more on Google, but to truly revolutionize and change the very world we live in. How dare I? How dare we? We get so wrapped up at times as if we are “big stuff” and we are simply just getting by.  

    I want to be able to speak things out of my mouth that set the nation on fire and bring people to thinking and wanting to change their entire lives around. How can I push more people to live out the dreams that they have in their heart? How can I get others to build their legacy into something truly astonishing? These are the thoughts that I will rest upon. I only ask for the strength to make a move so great in my life and in the lives of others.

    So I ask everyone who may read this today, “What will your legacy after you are gone?” If you were to Google today what exactly would we see? Would we see a story of passion? A story of change? Would we then inspire to take on this great universe because of what we read about you? I am sure your resume is tight but is that all you have? Because I am certain we won’t be able to find that resume on Google. Also, read it Skunk on The Loose, The Fir Tree.

    So this is your challenge. This is your goal. What will you be doing to change the world? You don’t have to be an entrepreneur, you don’t have to invent the next generation smartphone, but you can do something. What that something is… I am not sure, but that is why it is your choice as to what you carry out from this day forth. Make your Google search a great one! That is all I got.

    Google Your Legacy

  • Fear is Killing You!

    Fear is Killing You!

    Fear Is Killing You! Inspirational Short Story

    Remember the person you use to be? Fear is Killing You! This is a story about How to Fear is Kill You! You were SUCH a dreamer. You were so passionate about that career or field of choice, and then something happened. Yes, something happened. A few roadblocks, a few detours, a few pit stops, and then you… DIED. You stopped being the inspiration that you once were. That child-like look that was once in your eyes every time you spoke of the future was gone.

    Where did YOU, go? and did that dreamer go? There was once this passion that burned for each and everything you got your hands on. No one could stop you. Not your mother, not your teachers, not your friends; you use to so determine. But I guess the key phrase is “Use to be!”

    You got so caught up and so focused on all the negativity that you let it eat you up inside. You had so many dreams and then you faile a few exams and said, “You know what? Maybe this isn’t for me.” Even though your experience was lacking and it had nothing to do with you as a person. You just needed a little more effort and time with everything!

    But you are not alone. There is another group of fearful individuals with great jobs, but they aren’t living inside either. They are fear. Scared to leap. Fear to fall flat on their face. Scaring to lose that security that they have. They have other passions and other desires, but they stopped reaching for them. Now they are stuck in their own mental slavery. Stuck in the 9 to 5 lifestyle of waking up, driving to work, sitting down, turning on their computers, and then zoning out for the next 8 hours.

    At work, they dream all day, and quote “what if’s” or they complain about how much they hate where they are. It is interesting to see people who hate something but continue to deal with it each and every day. Sometimes you have to do things that you don’t want to do. I totally understand. But when it starts eating at your soul, and it starts to bring you down mentally and physically, something is wrong.

    It makes me think of that chant we would do as kids, “SCAREDY CAT, SCAREDY CAT, NANA BOO BOO.” Well, maybe not me, but in all of the white sitcoms I watched growing up, that was the popular phrase. And then what would happen? That kid would then challenge the world and make sure he or she would never be dubbing as a “scaredy cat” again. But I guess that was the difference between us as kids and us as adults.

    Fear is Killing You 01

    When we were kids the world was so big and we want to conquer it all. If we wanted to fly we jumped off of our bunk beds or couches. If we want to be explorers or captains of ships, we would put on the first hat we could find and pretend to steer our battleship. We fought crime, and we had some of the coolest noises to go along with our fighting skills. But then that kid died too. You let society put you in a box and nail it shut! They told you what you had to do in order to make it. They told you what they thought was “best for you!” And of course, some things made sense. But other things stop you from being who you were destined to be.

    After reading ‘Linchpin’ by Seth Godin, my eyes were open. I learned about what it truly means to be of value to this great planet. I saw some of my deepest fears dissolving.  Trust, I can be just as scared as everyone else. But, I refuse to let “FEAR” keep me in a box any longer. We all quote that epic Philippians quote. You know the one!

    ‘I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.’ Yeah, you quote it and you may even have it tattoo on your back, collarbone, or somewhere else on your body, but there is no way you could quote that and then think about the things you want to do in life and then say “I can’t do it,” “I am scared,” “I’m so nervous no one will give me a chance.” And while I understand that being nervous is normal, when it starts to stop you in your path then things change.

    You have basically stated, ‘Yeah, I know I can do all things through He that strengthens me, but that one thing, I just can’t do!’ – that one thing that stands in your path of greatness – ‘I just can’t do’. Sorry! I guess that is what happens when you are living for yourself.

    You ever thought about what you would do for your close friend, or family if anyone ever tries to hurt them or if you saw them going through something and they are scared? You lose all of the fear that you have in order to protect and provide for them, become their comfort and their beacon of light. All of the nervous settles and then you are able to push them into being great individuals. When you are doing things because of a bigger picture, life changes. When you stop thinking about how scared you are and think about how many more people will help or heal because of what you do, then it all changes.

    But you know what? I will stop here. Because at this point I am either only preaching to the choir or I am preaching to the fearful. I don’t want to run you away and make you think of yourself as nothing. I want this to a lesson in empowerment. Fear is a dangerous thing when used incorrectly. Let that fear be that motivation to fly! Let that fear be the motivation to keep pushing! Channel it into something else and then keep pushing forward. A lot of people are rooting for you. A lot of people are in your corner. The more they see you come alive the more they are able to develop who they should be or what dreams they should be going after. Failure is Not an Option!

    If you have been letting fear kill you and tear you up on the inside it’s okay. You are not alone, and now that you know you are not alone, you shouldn’t let it bring you down any longer. I do hope that this reaches your heart because it came from the bottom of mine. Don’t let fear kill the greatness that you have inside of you.

    Fear is Killing You

  • Failure is Not an Option!

    Failure is Not an Option!

    Failure Is Not an Option!

    They say that ‘impossible’ is a word that the human mind creates. Certain things such as fear, or just the lack of resources, can hold many men and women back from reaching their true potential. Others have it all, and yet, they still cannot get it together. So how do we curb this common problem of failure? Endurance! We must endure this thing called failure and keep pushing through it for as long as we can. Sometimes we will meet our match and learn that something isn’t for us, and in other occasions we will reach success if we just don’t stop plowing through the field. The funny thing about success is that it doesn’t come when you would always like it to come.

    Successful people are usually visionaries. They can see the forest through the trees, and they can see the end goal before any of it happens. I remember when I heard Talib Kweli talk about Kanye and how he got started in the rap game. He talked about how he thought Kanye was crazy because he was talking about his second album before he even put out the first one. He found it so interesting that Kanye could just see something that no one else could see at the time. The mind is an interesting thing. How we use it can truly make or break us as we tackle our careers, whether it is for school or the work force.

    “I have not failed. I’ve just found 10,000 ways that won’t work.” ― Thomas A. Edison.

    “Success is not final, failure is not fatal: it is the courage to continue that counts.” ― Winston S. Churchill.

    “I can’t give you a sure-fire formula for success, but I can give you a formula for failure: try to please everybody all the time.” ― Herbert Bayard Swope.

    But as I continue reading the ‘Uncommon Life’ by Tony Dungy, it makes a valuable point in regards to the concept of failure. We rarely embrace failure, nor do we teach kids how to deal with failure. We assume that we are supposed to be perfect. We think that we have to get the best grade on everything that we do. The moments that we don’t, then we try to execute ourselves verbally and physically. Failure comes. That is life. But, what are you going to do when failure throws a dagger through your shoulder and pins you to the wall? Give up? Because that is what you spent 4 to 12 years in school to do, QUIT!?

    Just because life is tough and often filled with roadblocks doesn’t mean those roadblocks have to stop you. Think about when you are driving and you see a roadblock sign. It is usually met with a detour sign showing you another way to go, or you turn around, and you go back to where you began. That is life. If you are not going to make a detour, then you need to go back to the beginning. Learn from those mistakes. Then, improve yourself for the next time.

    Also, how much time have you put into this craft before quitting? How many hours did you really put in before you said you were finished? A couple hours? A few days? A few years? And how was your attitude while doing it all? Did you already predict failure before it could happen? Did you go into thinking whatever happens, happens? Instead of claiming your victory? Your words are powerful. We have discussed this before, and I can’t begin to tell you how truthful it is.

    But, once again, what do I know? As I write this book, I will tell you honestly that I am not that good of a writer. And some days I trash things grammatically. I have grammar editing applications, and I have friends proofread my writing each and every time (and even with all of that, I will still end up sending out an email blast spelling things wrongly). But does that stop me? NO! There was always a bigger picture to keep my eyes on and I knew people were still being impacted either way. If I don’t write what I am writing, one soul will be lost. One person will quit. One person will lose it all. And yeah, maybe I shouldn’t put that all on me but I do it anyways. So it keeps me motivated to keep writing regardless of how many errors and typos I put out. Eventually, I will get it right. If I don’t, then I will keep trying! But I won’t let the trees shadow the forest. There is an end goal in mind and I won’t be defeated.

    So I say this… Failure is not an option you want, but it can definitely happen! Create a new path, take a detour, start over, and get on it again! Take a break. For a day, month, or maybe even a few years. But if it is still on your heart then I suggest you try again. After you do that then you can bow out gracefully. But you didn’t fail. You accepted the challenge, and the outcome wasn’t the most favorable. But you probably did something that many were afraid to do. So tell your story. Teach others where you went wrong. Help others get through the forest with the map of failures that you have created to light your path.