Much shall have more and little shall have less.
Once upon a time there was a king who did the best he could to rule wisely and well, and to deal justly by those under him whom he had to take care of; and as he could not trust hearsay, he used every now and then to slip away out of his palace and go among his people to hear what they had to say for themselves about him and the way he ruled the land.
Well, one such day as this, when he was taking a walk, he strolled out past the walls of the town and into the green fields until he came at last to a fine big house that stood by the banks of a river, wherein lived a man and his wife who were very well to do in the world. There the king stopped for a bite of bread and a drink of fresh milk.
“I would like to ask you a question,” said the king to the rich man; “and the question is this: Why are some folk rich and some folk poor?”
“That I cannot tell you,” said the good man; “only I remember my father used to say that much shall have more and little shall have less.”
“Very well,” said the king; “the saying has a good sound, but let us find whether or not it is really true. See; here is a purse with three hundred pieces of golden money in it. Take it and give it to the poorest man you know; in a week’s time I will come again, and then you shall tell me whether it has made you or him the richer.”
Now in the town there lived two beggars who were as poor as poverty itself, and the poorer of the twain was one who used to sit in rags and tatters on the church step to beg charity of the good folk who came and went. To him went the rich man, and, without so much as a good-morning, quoth he: “Here is something for you,” and so saying dropped the purse of gold into the beggar’s hat. Then away he went without waiting for a word of thanks.
As for the beggar, he just sat there for a while goggling and staring like one moon-struck. But at last his wits came back to him, and then away he scampered home as fast as his legs could carry him. Then he spread his money out on the table and counted it—three hundred pieces of gold money! He had never seen such great riches in his life before. There he sat feasting his eyes upon the treasure as though they would never get their fill. And now what was he to do with all of it? Should he share his fortune with his brother? Not a bit of it. To be sure, until now they had always shared and shared alike, but here was the first great lump of good-luck that had ever fallen in his way, and he was not for spoiling it by cutting it in two to give half to a poor beggar-man such as his brother. Not he; he would hide it and keep it all for his very own.
Now, not far from where he lived, and beside the river, stood a willow-tree, and thither the lucky beggar took his purse of money and stuffed it into a knot-hole of a withered branch, then went his way, certain that nobody would think of looking for money in such a hiding-place. Then all the rest of the day he sat thinking and thinking of the ways he would spend what had been given him, and what he would do to get the most good out of it. At last came evening, and his brother, who had been begging in another part of the town, came home again.
“I nearly lost my hat to-day,” said the second beggar so soon as he had come into the house.
“Did you?” said the first beggar. “How was that?”
“Oh! The wind blew it off into the water, but I got it again.”
“How did you get it?” said the first beggar.
“I just broke a dead branch off of the willow-tree and drew my hat ashore,” said the second beggar.
“A dead branch!!”
“A dead branch.”
“Off of the willow tree!!”
“Off of the willow tree.”
The first beggar could hardly breathe.
“And what did you do with the dead branch after that?”
“I threw it away into the water, and it floated down the river.”
The beggar to whom the money had been given ran out of the house howling, and down to the river-side, thumping his head with his knuckles like one possessed. For he knew that the branch his brother had broken off of the tree and had thrown into the water, was the very one in which he had hidden the bag of money.
Yes; and so it was.
The next morning, as the rich man took a walk down by the river, he saw a dead branch that had been washed up by the tide. “Halloo!” says he, “this will do to kindle the fire with.”
So he brought it to the house, and, taking down his axe, began to split it up for kindling. The very first blow he gave, out tumbled the bag of money.
But the beggar—well, by-and-by his grieving got better of its first smart, and then he started off down the river to see if he could not find his money again. He hunted up and he hunted down, but never a whit of it did he see, and at last he stopped at the rich man’s house and begged for a bite to eat and lodgings for the night. There he told all his story—how he had hidden the money that had been given him from his brother, how his brother had broken off the branch and had thrown it away, and how he had spent the whole live-long day searching for it. And to all the rich man listened and said never a word. But though he said nothing, he thought to himself, “Maybe, after all, it is not the will of Heaven that this man shall have the money. Nevertheless, I will give him another trial.”
So he told the poor beggar to come in and stay for the night; and, whilst the beggar was snoring away in his bed in the garret, the rich man had his wife make two great pies, each with a fine brown crust. In the first pie he put the little bag of money; the second he filled full of rusty nails and scraps of iron.
The next morning he called the beggar to him. “My friend,” said he, “I grieve sadly for the story you told me last night. But maybe, after all, your luck is not all gone. And now, if you will choose as you should choose, you shall not go away from here comfortless. In the pantry yonder are two great pies—one is for you and one for me. Go in and take whichever one you please.”
“A pie!” thought the beggar to himself; “does the man think that a big pie will comfort me for the loss of three hundred pieces of money?” Nevertheless, as it was the best thing to be had, into the pantry the beggar went and there began to feel and weigh the pies, and the one filled with the rusty nails and scraps of iron was ever so much the fatter and the heavier.
“This is the one that I shall take,” said he to the rich man, “and you may have the other.” And, tucking it under his arm, off he tramped.
Well, before he got back to the town he grew hungry, and sat down by the roadside to eat his pie; and if there was ever an angry man in the world before, he was one that day—for there was his pie full of nothing but rusty nails and bits of iron. “This is the way the rich always treat the poor,” said he.
So back he went in a fume. “What did you give me a pie full of old nails for?” said he.
“You took the pie of your own choice,” said the rich man; “nevertheless, I meant you no harm. Lodge with me here one night, and in the morning I will give you something better worth while, maybe.”
So that night the rich man had his wife bake two loaves of bread, in one of which she hid the bag with the three hundred pieces of gold money.
“Go to the pantry,” said the rich man to the beggar in the morning, “and there you will find two loaves of bread—one is for you and one for me; take whichever one you choose.”
So in went the beggar, and the first loaf of bread he laid his hand upon was the one in which the money was hidden, and off he marched with it under his arm, without so much as saying thank you.
“I wonder,” said he to himself, after he had jogged along awhile—“I wonder whether the rich man is up to another trick such as he played upon me yesterday?” He put the loaf of bread to his ear and shook it and shook it, and what should he hear but the chink of the money within. “Ah ha!” said he, “he has filled it with rusty nails and bits of iron again, but I will get the better of him this time.”
By-and-by he met a poor woman coming home from market. “Would you like to buy a fine fresh loaf of bread?” said the beggar.
“Yes, I would,” said the woman.
“Well, here is one you may have for two pennies,” said the beggar.
That was cheap enough, so the woman paid him his price and off she went with the loaf of bread under her arm, and never stopped until she had come to her home.
Now it happened that the day before this very woman had borrowed just such a loaf of bread from the rich man’s wife; and so, as there was plenty in the house without it, she wrapped this loaf up in a napkin, and sent her husband back with it to where it had started from first of all.
“Well,” said the rich man to his wife, “the way of Heaven is not to be changed.” And so he laid the money on the shelf until he who had given it to him should come again, and thought no more of giving it to the beggar.
At the end of seven days the king called upon the rich man again, and this time he came in his own guise as a real king. “Well,” said he, “is the poor man the richer for his money?”
“No,” said the rich man, “he is not;” and then he told the whole story from beginning to end just as I have told it.
“Your father was right,” said the king; “and what he said was very true—Much shall have more and little shall have less.’ Keep the bag of money for yourself, for there Heaven means it to stay.”
And maybe there is as much truth as poetry in this story.
And now it was the turn of the Blacksmith who had made Death sit in his pear-tree until the cold wind whistled through the ribs of man’s enemy. He was a big, burly man, with a bullet head, and a great thick neck, and a voice like a bull’s.
“Do you mind,” said he, “about how I clapped a man in the fire and cooked him to a crisp that day that St. Peter came travelling my way?”
There was a little space of silence, and then the Soldier who had cheated the Devil spoke up. “Why yes, friend,” said he, “I know your story very well.”
“I am not so fortunate,” said old Bidpai. “I do not know your story. Tell me, friend, did you really bake a man to a crisp? And how was it then?”
“Why,” said the Blacksmith, “I was trying to do what a better man than I did, and where he hit the mark I missed it by an ell. Twas a pretty scrape I was in that day.”
“But how did it happen?” said Bidpai.
“It happened,” said the Blacksmith, “just as it is going to happen in the story I am about to tell.”
“And what is your story about?” said Fortunatus.
“It is,” said the Blacksmith, “about—”
Wisdom’s Wages and Folly’s Pay
Once upon a time there was a wise man of wise men, and a great magician to boot, and his name was Doctor Simon Agricola.
Once upon a time there was a simpleton of simpletons, and a great booby to boot, and his name was Babo.
Simon Agricola had read all the books written by man, and could do more magic than any conjurer that ever lived. But, nevertheless, he was none too well off in the world; his clothes were patched, and his shoes gaped, and that is the way with many another wise man of whom I have heard tell.
Babo gathered rushes for a chair-maker, and he also had too few of the good things to make life easy. But it is nothing out of the way for a simpleton to be in that case.
The two of them lived neighbor to neighbor, the one in the next house to the other, and so far as the world could see there was not a pin to choose between them—only that one was called a wise man and the other a simpleton.
One day the weather was cold, and when Babo came home from gathering rushes he found no fire in the house. So off he went to his neighbor the wise man. “Will you give me a live coal to start my fire?” said he.
“Yes, I will do that,” said Simon Agricola; “But how will you carry the coal home?”
“Oh!” said Babo, “I will just take it in my hand.”
“In your hand?”
“In my hand.”
“Can you carry a live coal in your hand?”
“Oh yes!” said Babo; “I can do that easily enough.”
“Well, I should like to see you do it,” said Simon Agricola.
“Then I will show you,” said Babo. He spread a bed of cold, dead ashes upon his palm. “Now,” said he, “I will take the ember upon that.”
Agricola rolled up his eyes like a duck in a thunder-storm. “Well,” said he, “I have lived more than seventy years, and have read all the books in the world; I have practised magic and necromancy, and know all about algebra and geometry, and yet, wise as I am, I never thought of this little thing.”
That is the way with your wise man.
“Pooh!” said Babo; “that is nothing. I know how to do many more tricks than that.”
“Do you?” said Simon Agricola; “then listen: to-morrow I am going out into the world to make my fortune, for little or nothing is to be had in this town. If you will go along with me I will make your fortune also.”
“Very well,” said Babo, and the bargain was struck. So the next morning bright and early off they started upon their journey, cheek by jowl, the wise man and the simpleton, to make their fortunes in the wide world, and the two of them made a pair. On they jogged and on they jogged, and the way was none too smooth. By-and-by they came to a great field covered all over with round stones.
“Let us each take one of these,” said Simon Agricola; “they will be of use by-and-by;” and, as he spoke, he picked up a great stone as big as his two fists, and dropped it into the pouch that dangled at his side.
“Not I,” said Babo; “I will carry no stone with me. It is as much as my two legs can do to carry my body, let along lugging a great stone into the bargain.”
“Very well,” said Agricola; “born a fool, live a fool, die a fool.’” And on he tramped, with Babo at his heels.
At last they came to a great wide plain, where, far or near, nothing was to be seen but bare sand, without so much as a pebble or a single blade of grass, and there night caught up with them.
“Dear, dear, but I am hungry!” said Babo.
“So am I,” said Simon Agricola. “Let’s sit down here and eat.”
So down they sat, and Simon Agricola opened his pouch and drew forth the stone.
The stone? It was a stone no longer, but a fine loaf of white bread as big as your two fists. You should have seen Babo goggle and stare! “Give me a piece of your bread, master,” said he.
“Not I,” said Agricola. “You might have had a dozen of the same kind, had you chosen to do as I bade you and to fetch them along with you. Born a fool, live a fool, die a fool,’” said he; and that was all that Babo got for his supper. As for the wise man, he finished his loaf of bread to the last crumb, and then went to sleep with a full stomach and a contented mind.
The next morning off they started again bright and early, and before long they came to just such another field of stones as they left behind them the day before.
“Come, master,” said Babo, “let us each take a stone with us. We may need something more to eat before the day is over.”
“No,” said Simon Agricola; “we will need no stones to-day.”
But Babo had no notion to go hungry the second time, so he hunted around till he found a stone as big as his head. All day he carried it, first under one arm, and then under the other. The wise man stepped along briskly enough, but the sweat ran down Babo’s face like drops on the window in an April shower. At last they came to a great wide plain, where neither stock nor stone was to be seen, but only a gallows-tree, upon which one poor wight hung dancing upon nothing at all, and there night caught them again.
“Aha!” said Babo to himself. “This time I shall have bread and my master none.”
But listen to what happened. Up stepped the wise man to the gallows, and gave it a sharp rap with his staff. Then, lo and behold! The gallows was gone, and in its place stood a fine inn, with lights in the windows, and a landlord bowing and smiling in the doorway, and a fire roaring in the kitchen, and the smell of good things cooking filling the air all around, so that only to sniff did one’s heart good.
Poor Babo let fall the stone he had carried all day. A stone it was, and a stone he let fall.
“Born a fool, live a fool, die a fool,’” said Agricola. “But come in, Babo, come in; here is room enough for two.” So that night Babo had a good supper and a sound sleep, and that is a cure for most of a body’s troubles in this world.
The third day of their travelling they came to farms and villages, and there Simon Agricola began to think of showing some of those tricks of magic that were to make his fortune and Babo’s into the bargain.
At last they came to a blacksmith’s shop, and there was the smith hard at work, dinging and donging, and making sweet music with hammer and anvil. In walked Simon Agricola and gave him good-day. He put his fingers into his purse, and brought out all the money he had in the world; it was one golden angel. “Look, friend,” said he to the blacksmith; “if you will let me have your forge for one hour, I will give you this money for the use of it.”
The blacksmith liked the tune of that song very well. “You may have it,” said he; and he took off his leathern apron without another word, and Simon Agricola put it on in his stead.
Presently, who should come riding up to the blacksmith’s shop but a rich old nobleman and three servants. The servants were hale, stout fellows, but the nobleman was as withered as a winter leaf. “Can you shoe my horse?” said he to Simon Agricola, for he took him to be the smith because of his leathern apron.
“No,” says Simon Agricola; “that is not my trade: I only know how to make old people young.”
“Old people young!” said the old nobleman; “can you make me young again?”
“Yes,” said Simon Agricola, “I can, but I must have a thousand golden angels for doing it.”
“Very well,” said the old nobleman; “make me young, and you shall have them and welcome.”
So Simon Agricola gave the word, and Babo blew the bellows until the fire blazed and roared. Then the doctor caught the old nobleman, and laid him upon the forge. He heaped the coals over him, and turned him this way and that, until he grew red-hot, like a piece of iron. Then he drew him forth from the fire and dipped him in the water-tank. Phizz! The water hissed, and the steam rose up in a cloud; and when Simon Agricola took the old nobleman out, lo and behold! He was as fresh and blooming and lusty as a lad of twenty.
But you should have seen how all the people stared and goggled!—Babo and the blacksmith and the nobleman’s servants. The nobleman strutted up and down for a while, admiring himself, and then he got upon his horse again. “But wait,” said Simon Agricola; “you forgot to pay me my thousand golden angels.”
“Pooh!” said the nobleman, and off he clattered, with his servants at his heels; and that was all the good that Simon Agricola had of this trick. But ill-luck was not done with him yet, for when the smith saw how matters had turned out, he laid hold of the doctor and would not let him go until he had paid him the golden angel he had promised for the use of the forge. The doctor pulled a sour face, but all the same he had to pay the angel. Then the smith let him go, and off he marched in a huff.
Outside of the forge was the smith’s mother—a poor old creature, withered and twisted and bent as a winter twig. Babo had kept his eyes open, and had not travelled with Simon Agricola for nothing. He plucked the smith by the sleeve: “Look’ee, friend,” said he, “how would you like me to make your mother, over yonder, young again?”
“I should like nothing better,” said the smith.
“Very well,” said Babo; “give me the golden angel that the master gave you, and I’ll do the job for you.”
Well, the smith paid the money, and Babo bade him blow the bellows. When the fire roared up good and hot, he caught up the old mother, and, in spite of her scratching and squalling, he laid her upon the embers. By-and-by, when he thought the right time had come, he took her out and dipped her in the tank of water; but instead of turning young, there she lay, as dumb as a fish and as black as coal.
When the blacksmith saw what Babo had done to his mother, he caught him by the collar, and fell to giving him such a dressing down as never man had before.
“Help!” bawled Babo. “Help! Murder!”
Such a hubbub had not been heard in that town for many a day. Back came Simon Agricola running, and there he saw, and took it all in in one look.
“Stop, friend,” said he to the smith, “let the simpleton go; this is not past mending yet.”
“Very well,” said the smith; “but he must give me back my golden angel, and you must cure my mother, or else I’ll have you both up before the judge.”
“It shall be done,” said Simon Agricola; so Babo paid back the money, and the doctor dipped the woman in the water. When he brought her out she was as well and strong as ever—but just as old as she had been before.
“Now be off for a pair of scamps, both of you,” said the blacksmith; “and if you ever come this way again, I’ll set all the dogs in the town upon you.”
Simon Agricola said nothing until they had come out upon the highway again, and left the town well behind them; then—“Born a fool, live a fool, die a fool!” says he.
Babo said nothing, but he rubbed the places where the smith had dusted his coat.
The fourth day of their journey they came to a town, and here Simon Agricola was for trying his tricks of magic again. He and Babo took up their stand in the corner of the market-place, and began bawling, “Doctor Knowall! Doctor Knowall! Who has come from the other end of Nowhere! He can cure any sickness or pain! He can bring you back from the gates of death! Here is Doctor Knowall! Here is Doctor Knowall!”
Now there was a very, very rich man in that town, whose daughter lay sick to death; and when the news of this great doctor was brought to his ears, he was for having him try his hand at curing the girl.
“Very well,” said Simon Agricola, “I will do that, but you must pay me two thousand golden angels.”
“Two thousand golden angels!” said the rich man; “that is a great deal of money, but you shall have it if only you will cure my daughter.”
Simon Agricola drew a little vial from his bosom. From it he poured just six drops of yellow liquor upon the girl’s tongue. Then—lo and behold!—up she sat in bed as well and strong as ever, and asked for a boiled chicken and a dumpling, by way of something to eat.
“Bless you! Bless you!” said the rich man.
“Yes, yes; blessings are very good, but I would like to have my two thousand golden angels,” said Simon Agricola.
“Two thousand golden angels! I said nothing about two thousand golden angels,” said the rich man; “two thousand fiddlesticks!” said he. “Pooh! Pooh! You must have been dreaming! See, here are two hundred silver pennies, and that is enough and more than enough for six drops of medicine.”
“I want my two thousand golden angels,” said Simon Agricola.
“You will get nothing but two hundred pennies,” said the rich man.
“I won’t touch one of them,” said Simon Agricola, and off he marched in a huff.
But Babo had kept his eyes open. Simon Agricola had laid down the vial upon the table, and while they were saying this and that back and forth, thinking of nothing else, Babo quietly slipped it into his own pocket, without any one but himself being the wiser.
Down the stairs stumped the doctor with Babo at his heels. There stood the cook waiting for them.
“Look,” said he, “my wife is sick in there; won’t you cure her, too?”
“Pooh!” said Simon Agricola; and out he went, banging the door behind him.
“Look, friend,” said Babo to the cook, “here I have some of the same medicine. Give me the two hundred pennies that the master would not take, and I’ll cure her for you as sound as a bottle.”
“Very well,” said the cook, and he counted out the two hundred pennies, and Babo slipped them into his pocket. He bade the woman open her mouth, and when she had done so he poured all the stuff down her throat at once.
“Ugh!” said she, and therewith rolled up her eyes, and lay as stiff and dumb as a herring in a box.
When the cook saw what Babo had done, he snatched up the rolling-pin and made at him to pound his head to a jelly. But Babo did not wait for his coming; he jumped out of the window, and away he scampered with the cook at his heels.
Well, the upshot of the business was that Simon Agricola had to go back and bring life to the woman again, or the cook would thump him and Babo both with the rolling-pin. And, what was more, Babo had to pay back the two hundred pennies that the cook had given him for curing his wife.
The wise man made a cross upon the woman’s forehead, and up she sat, as well—but no better—as before.
“And now be off,” said the cook, “or I will call the servants and give you both a drubbing for a pair of scamps.”
Simon Agricola said never a word until they had gotten out of the town. There his anger boiled over, like water into the fire. “Look,” said he to Babo: “Born a fool, live a fool, die a fool.’ I want no more of you. Here are two roads; you take one, and I will take the other.”
“What!” said Babo, “am I to travel the rest of the way alone? And then, besides, how about the fortune you promised me?”
“Never mind that,” said Simon Agricola; “I have not made my own fortune yet.”
“Well, at least pay me something for my wages,” said Babo.
“How shall I pay you?” said Simon Agricola. “I have not a single groat in the world.”
“What!” said Babo, “have you nothing to give me?”
“I can give you a piece of advice.”
“Well,” said Babo, “that is better than nothing, so let me have it.”
“Here it is,” said Simon Agricola: “Think well! Think well!—before you do what you are about to do, think well!’”
“Thank you!” said Babo; and then the one went one way, and the other the other.
(You may go with the wise man if you choose, but I shall jog along with the simpleton.)
After Babo had travelled for a while, he knew not whither, night caught him, and he lay down under a hedge to sleep. There he lay, and snored away like a saw-mill, for he was wearied with his long journeying.
Now it chanced that that same night two thieves had broken into a miser’s house, and had stolen an iron pot full of gold money. Day broke before they reached home, so down they sat to consider the matter; and the place where they seated themselves was on the other side of the hedge where Babo lay. The older thief was for carrying the money home under his coat; the younger was for burying it until night had come again. They squabbled and bickered and argued till the noise they made wakened Babo, and he sat up. The first thing he thought of was the advice that the doctor had given him the evening before.
“Think well!’” he bawled out; “think well! before you do what you are about to do, think well!’”
When the two thieves heard Babo’s piece of advice, they thought that the judge’s officers were after them for sure and certain. Down they dropped the pot of money, and away they scampered as fast as their legs could carry them.
Babo heard them running, and poked his head through the hedge, and there lay the pot of gold. “Look now,” said he: “this has come from the advice that was given me; no one ever gave me advice that was worth so much before.” So he picked up the pot of gold, and off he marched with it.
He had not gone far before he met two of the king’s officers, and you may guess how they opened their eyes when they saw him travelling along the highway with a pot full of gold money.
“Where are you going with that money?” said they.
“I don’t know,” said Babo.
“How did you get it?” said they.
“I got it for a piece of advice,” said Babo.
For a piece of advice! No, no—the king’s officers knew butter from lard, and truth from t’other thing. It was just the same in that country as it is in our town—there was nothing in the world so cheap as advice. Whoever heard of anybody giving a pot of gold and silver money for it? Without another word they marched Babo and his pot of money off to the king.
“Come,” said the king, “tell me truly; where did you get the pot of money?”
Poor Babo began to whimper. “I got it for a piece of advice,” said he.
“Really and truly?” said the king.
“Yes,” said Babo; “really and truly.”
“Humph!” said the king. “I should like to have advice that is worth as much as that. Now, how much will you sell your advice to me for?”
“How much will you give?” said Babo.
“Well,” said the king, “let me have it for a day on trial, and at the end of that time I will pay you what it is worth.”
“Very well,” said Babo, “that is a bargain;” and so he lent the king his piece of advice for one day on trial.
Now the chief councillor and some others had laid a plot against the king’s life, and that morning it had been settled that when the barber shaved him he was to cut his throat with a razor. So after the barber had lathered his face he began to whet the razor, and to whet the razor.
Just at that moment the king remembered Babo’s piece of advice. “Think well!” said he; “think well! Before you do what you are about to do, think well!”
When the barber heard the words that the king said, he thought that all had been discovered. Down he fell upon his knees, and confessed everything.
That is how Babo’s advice saved the king’s life—you can guess whether the king thought it was worth much or little. When Babo came the next morning the king gave him ten chests full of money, and that made the simpleton richer than anybody in all that land.
He built himself a fine house, and by-and-by married the daughter of the new councillor that came after the other one’s head had been chopped off for conspiring against the king’s life. Besides that, he came and went about the king’s castle as he pleased, and the king made much of him. Everybody bowed to him, and all were glad to stop and chat awhile with him when they met him in the street.
One morning Babo looked out of the window, and who should he see come travelling along the road but Simon Agricola himself, and he was just as poor and dusty and travel-stained as ever.
“Come in, come in!” said Babo; and you can guess how the wise man stared when he saw the simpleton living in such a fine way. But he opened his eyes wider than ever when he heard that all these good things came from the piece of advice he had given Babo that day they had parted at the cross roads.
“Aye, aye!” said he, “the luck is with you for sure and certain. But if you will pay me a thousand golden angels, I will give you something better than a piece of advice. I will teach you all the magic that is to be learned from the books.”
“No,” said Babo, “I am satisfied with the advice.”
“Very well,” said Simon Agricola, “Born a fool, live a fool, die a fool’;” and off he went in a huff.
That is all of this tale except the tip end of it, and that I will give you now.
I have heard tell that one day the king dropped in the street the piece of advice that he had bought from Babo, and that before he found it again it had been trampled into the mud and dirt. I cannot say for certain that this is the truth, but it must have been spoiled in some way or other, for I have never heard of anybody in these days who would give even so much as a bad penny for it; and yet it is worth just as much now as it was when Babo sold it to the king.
I had sat listening to these jolly folk for all this time, and I had not heard old Sindbad say a word, and yet I knew very well he was full of a story, for every now and then I could see his lips move, and he would smile, and anon he would stroke his long white beard and smile again.
Everybody clapped their hands and rattled their canicans after the Blacksmith had ended his story, and methought they liked it better than almost anything that had been told. Then there was a pause, and everybody was still, and as nobody else spoke I myself ventured to break the silence. “I would like,” said I (and my voice sounded thin in my own ears, as one’s voice always does sound in Twilight Land), “I would like to hear our friend Sindbad the Sailor tell a story. Methinks one is fermenting in his mind.”
Old Sindbad smiled until his cheeks crinkled into wrinkles.
“Aye,” said every one, “will you not tell a story?”
“To be sure I will,” said Sindbad. “I will tell you a good story,” said he, “and it is about—”
The Enchanted Island.
But it is not always the lucky one that carries away the plums; sometimes he only shakes the tree, and the wise man pockets the fruit.
Once upon a long, long time ago, and in a country far, far away, there lived two men in the same town and both were named Selim; one was Selim the Baker and one was Selim the Fisherman.
Selim the Baker was well off in the world, but Selim the Fisherman was only so-so. Selim the Baker always had plenty to eat and a warm corner in cold weather, but many and many a time Selim the Fisherman’s stomach went empty and his teeth went chattering.
Once it happened that for time after time Selim the Fisherman caught nothing but bad luck in his nets, and not so much as a single sprat, and he was very hungry. “Come,” said he to himself, “those who have some should surely give to those who have none,” and so he went to Selim the Baker. “Let me have a loaf of bread,” said he, “and I will pay you for it tomorrow.”
“Very well,” said Selim the Baker; “I will let you have a loaf of bread, if you will give me all that you catch in your nets to-morrow.”
“So be it,” said Selim the Fisherman, for need drives one to hard bargains sometimes; and therewith he got his loaf of bread.
So the next day Selim the Fisherman fished and fished and fished and fished, and still he caught no more than the day before; until just at sunset he cast his net for the last time for the day, and, lo and behold! There was something heavy in it. So he dragged it ashore, and what should it be but a leaden box, sealed as tight as wax, and covered with all manner of strange letters and figures. “Here,” said he, “is something to pay for my bread of yesterday, at any rate;” and as he was an honest man, off he marched with it to Selim the Baker.
They opened the box in the baker’s shop, and within they found two rolls of yellow linen. In each of the rolls of linen was another little leaden box: in one was a finger-ring of gold set with a red stone, in the other was a finger-ring of iron set with nothing at all.
That was all the box held; nevertheless, that was the greatest catch that ever any fisherman made in the world; for, though Selim the one or Selim the other knew no more of the matter than the cat under the stove, the gold ring was the Ring of Luck and the iron ring was the Ring of Wisdom.
Inside of the gold ring were carved these letters: “Whosoever wears me, shall have that which all men seek—for so it is with good-luck in this world.”
Inside of the iron ring were written these words: “Whosoever wears me, shall have that which few men care for—and that is the way it is with wisdom in our town.”
“Well,” said Selim the Baker, and he slipped the gold ring of good-luck on his finger, “I have driven a good bargain, and you have paid for your loaf of bread.”
“But what will you do with the other ring?” said Selim the Fisherman.
“Oh, you may have that,” said Selim the Baker.
Well, that evening, as Selim the Baker sat in front of his shop in the twilight smoking a pipe of tobacco, the ring he wore began to work. Up came a little old man with a white beard, and he was dressed all in gray from top to toe, and he wore a black velvet cap, and he carried a long staff in his hand. He stopped in front of Selim the Baker, and stood looking at him a long, long time. At last—“Is your name Selim?” said he.
“Yes,” said Selim the Baker, “it is.”
“And do you wear a gold ring with a red stone on your finger?”
“Yes,” said Selim, “I do.”
“Then come with me,” said the little old man, “and I will show you the wonder of the world.”
“Well,” said Selim the Baker, “that will be worth the seeing, at any rate.” So he emptied out his pipe of tobacco, and put on his hat and followed the way the old man led.
Up one street they went, and down another, and here and there through alleys and byways where Selim had never been before. At last they came to where a high wall ran along the narrow street, with a garden behind it, and by-and-by to an iron gate. The old man rapped upon the gate three times with his knuckles, and cried in a loud voice, “Open to Selim, who wears the Ring of Luck!”
Then instantly the gate swung open, and Selim the Baker followed the old man into the garden.
Bang! shut the gate behind him, and there he was.
There he was! And such a place he had never seen before. Such fruit! Such flowers! Such fountains! Such summer-houses!
“This is nothing,” said the old man; “this is only the beginning of wonder. Come with me.”
He led the way down a long pathway between the trees, and Selim followed. By-and-by, far away, they saw the light of torches; and when they came to what they saw, lo and behold! there was the sea-shore, and a boat with four-and-twenty oarsmen, each dressed in cloth of gold and silver more splendidly than a prince. And there were four-and-twenty black slaves, carrying each a torch of spice-wood, so that all the air was filled with sweet smells. The old man led the way, and Selim, following, entered the boat; and there was a seat for him made soft with satin cushions embroidered with gold and precious stones and stuffed with down, and Selim wondered whether he was not dreaming.
The oarsmen pushed off from the shore and away they rowed.
On they rowed and on they rowed for all that livelong night.
At last morning broke, and then as the sun rose Selim saw such a sight as never mortal eyes beheld before or since. It was the wonder of wonders—a great city built on an island. The island was all one mountain; and on it, one above another and another above that again, stood palaces that glistened like snow, and orchards of fruit, and gardens of flowers and green trees.
And as the boat came nearer and nearer to the city, Selim could see that all around on the house-tops and down to the water’s edge were crowds and crowds of people. All were looking out towards the sea, and when they saw the boat and Selim in it, a great shout went up like the roaring of rushing waters.
“It is the King!” they cried—“it is the King! It is Selim the King!”
Then the boat landed, and there stood dozens of scores of great princes and nobles to welcome Selim when he came ashore. And there was a white horse waiting for him to ride, and its saddle and bridle were studded with diamonds and rubies and emeralds that sparkled and glistened like the stars in heaven, and Selim thought for sure he must be dreaming with his eyes open.
But he was not dreaming, for it was all as true as that eggs are eggs. So up the hill he rode, and to the grandest and the most splendid of all the splendid palaces, the princes and noblemen riding with him, and the crowd shouting as though to split their throats.
And what a palace it was!—as white as snow and painted all inside with gold and blue. All around it were gardens blooming with fruit and flowers, and the like of it mortal man never saw in the world before.
There they made a king of Selim, and put a golden crown on his head; and that is what the Ring of Good Luck can do for a baker.
But wait a bit! There was something queer about it all, and that is now to be told.
All that day was feasting and drinking and merry-making, and the twinging and twanging of music, and dancing of beautiful dancing-girls, and such things as Selim had never heard tell of in all his life before. And when night came they lit thousands and thousands of candles of perfumed wax; so that it was a hard matter to say when night began and day ended, only that the one smelled sweeter than the other.
But at last it came midnight, and then suddenly, in an instant, all the lights went out and everything was as dark as pitch—not a spark, not a glimmer anywhere. And, just as suddenly, all the sound of music and dancing and merrymaking ceased, and everybody began to wail and cry until it was enough to wring one’s heart to hear. Then, in the midst of all the wailing and crying, a door was flung open, and in came six tall and terrible black men, dressed all in black from top to toe, carrying each a flaming torch; and by the light of the torches King Selim saw that all—the princes, the noblemen, the dancing-girls—all lay on their faces on the floor.
The six men took King Selim—who shuddered and shook with fear—by the arms, and marched him through dark, gloomy entries and passage-ways, until they came at last to the very heart of the palace.
There was a great high-vaulted room all of black marble, and in the middle of it was a pedestal with seven steps, all of black marble; and on the pedestal stood a stone statue of a woman looking as natural as life, only that her eyes were shut. The statue was dressed like a queen: she wore a golden crown on her head, and upon her body hung golden robes, set with diamonds and emeralds and rubies and sapphires and pearls and all sorts of precious stones.
As for the face of the statue, white paper and black ink could not tell you how beautiful it was. When Selim looked at it, it made his heart stand still in his breast, it was so beautiful.
The six men brought Selim up in front of the statue, and then a voice came as though from the vaulted roof: “Selim! Selim! Selim!” it said, “what are thou doing? To-day is feasting and drinking and merry-making, but beware of tomorrow!”
As soon as these words were ended the six black men marched King Selim back whence they had brought him; there they left him and passed out one by one as they had first come in, and the door shut to behind them.
Then in an instant the lights flashed out again, the music began to play and the people began to talk and laugh, and King Selim thought that maybe all that had just passed was only a bit of an ugly dream after all.
So that is the way King Selim the Baker began to reign, and that is the way he continued to reign. All day was feasting and drinking and making merry and music and laughing and talking. But every night at midnight the same thing happened: the lights went out, all the people began wailing and crying, and the six tall, terrible black men came with flashing torches and marched King Selim away to the beautiful statue. And every night the same voice said—“Selim! Selim! Selim! What art thou doing! To-day is feasting and drinking and merry-making; but beware of tomorrow!”
So things went on for a twelvemonth, and at last came the end of the year. That day and night the merry-making was merrier and wilder and madder than it had ever been before, but the great clock in the tower went on—tick, tock! tick, tock!—and by and by it came midnight. Then, as it always happened before, the lights went out, and all was as black as ink. But this time there was no wailing and crying out, but everything was silent as death; the door opened slowly, and in came, not six black men as before, but nine men as silent as death, dressed all in flaming red, and the torches they carried burned as red as blood. They took King Selim by the arms, just as the six men had done, and marched him through the same entries and passageways, and so came at last to the same vaulted room. There stood the statue, but now it was turned to flesh and blood, and the eyes were open and looking straight at Selim the Baker.
“Art thou Selim?” said she; and she pointed her finger straight at him.
“Yes, I am Selim,” said he.
“And dost thou wear the gold ring with the red stone?” said she.
“Yes,” said he; “I have it on my finger.”
“And dost thou wear the iron ring?”
“No,” said he; “I gave that to Selim the Fisherman.”
The words had hardly left his lips when the statue gave a great cry and clapped her hands together. In an instant an echoing cry sounded all over the town—a shriek fit to split the ears.
The next moment there came another sound—a sound like thunder—above and below and everywhere. The earth began to shake and to rock, and the houses began to topple and fall, and the people began to scream and to yell and to shout, and the waters of the sea began to lash and to roar, and the wind began to bellow and howl. Then it was a good thing for King Selim that he wore Luck’s Ring; for, though all the beautiful snow-white palace about him and above him began to crumble to pieces like slaked lime, the sticks and the stones and the beams to fall this side of him and that, he crawled out from under it without a scratch or a bruise, like a rat out of a cellar.
That is what Luck’s Ring did for him.
But his troubles were not over yet; for, just as he came out from under all the ruin, the island began to sink down into the water, carrying everything along with it—that is, everything but him and one thing else. That one other thing was an empty boat, and King Selim climbed into it, and nothing else saved him from drowning. It was Luck’s Ring that did that for him also.
The boat floated on and on until it came to another island that was just like the island he had left, only that there was neither tree nor blade of grass nor hide nor hair nor living thing of any kind. Nevertheless, it was an island just like the other: a high mountain and nothing else. There Selim the Baker went ashore, and there he would have starved to death only for Luck’s Ring; for one day a boat came sailing by, and when poor Selim shouted, those aboard heard him and came and took him off. How they all stared to see his golden crown—for he still wore it—and his robes of silk and satin and the gold and jewels!
Before they would consent to carry him away, they made him give up all the fine things he had. Then they took him home again to the town whence he had first come, just as poor as when he had started. Back he went to his bake-shop and his ovens, and the first thing he did was to take off his gold ring and put it on the shelf.
“If that is the ring of good luck,” said he, “I do not want to wear the like of it.”
That is the way with mortal man: for one has to have the Ring of Wisdom as well, to turn the Ring of Luck to good account.
And now for Selim the Fisherman.
Well, thus it happened to him. For a while he carried the iron ring around in his pocket—just as so many of us do—without thinking to put it on. But one day he slipped it on his finger—and that is what we do not all of us do. After that he never took it off again, and the world went smoothly with him. He was not rich, but then he was not poor; he was not merry, neither was he sad. He always had enough and was thankful for it, for I never yet knew wisdom to go begging or crying.
So he went his way and he fished his fish, and twelve months and a week or more passed by. Then one day he went past the baker shop and there sat Selim the Baker smoking his pipe of tobacco.
“So, friend,” said Selim the Fisherman, “you are back again in the old place, I see.”
“Yes,” said the other Selim; “awhile ago I was a king, and now I am nothing but a baker again. As for that gold ring with the red stone—they may say it is Luck’s Ring if they choose, but when next I wear it may I be hanged.”
Thereupon he told Selim the Fisherman the story of what had happened to him with all its ins and outs, just as I have told it to you.
“Well!” said Selim the Fisherman, “I should like to have a sight of that island myself. If you want the ring no longer, just let me have it; for maybe if I wear it something of the kind will happen to me.”
“You may have it,” said Selim the Baker. “Yonder it is, and you are welcome to it.”
So Selim the Fisherman put on the ring, and then went his way about his own business.
That night, as he came home carrying his nets over his shoulder, whom should he meet but the little old man in gray, with the white beard and the black cap on his head and the long staff in his hand.
“Is your name Selim?” said the little man, just as he had done to Selim the Baker.
“Yes,” said Selim; “it is.”
“And do you wear a gold ring with a red stone?” said the little old man, just as he had said before.
“Yes,” said Selim; “I do.”
“Then come with me,” said the little old man, “and I will show you the wonder of the world.”
Selim the Fisherman remembered all that Selim the Baker had told him, and he took no two thoughts as to what to do. Down he tumbled his nets, and away he went after the other as fast as his legs could carry him. Here they went and there they went, up crooked streets and lanes and down by-ways and alley-ways, until at last they came to the same garden to which Selim the Baker had been brought. Then the old man knocked at the gate three times and cried out in a loud voice, “Open! Open! Open to Selim who wears the Ring of Luck!”
Then the gate opened, and in they went. Fine as it all was, Selim the Fisherman cared to look neither to the right nor to the left, but straight after the old man he went, until at last they came to the seaside and the boat and the four-and-twenty oarsmen dressed like princes and the black slaves with the perfumed torches.
Here the old man entered the boat and Selim after him, and away they sailed.
To make a long story short, everything happened to Selim the Fisherman just as it had happened to Selim the Baker. At dawn of day they came to the island and the city built on the mountain. And the palaces were just as white and beautiful, and the gardens and orchards just as fresh and blooming as though they had not all tumbled down and sunk under the water a week before, almost carrying poor Selim the Baker with them. There were the people dressed in silks and satins and jewels, just as Selim the Baker had found them, and they shouted and hurrahed for Selim the Fisherman just as they had shouted and hurrahed for the other. There were the princes and the nobles and the white horse, and Selim the Fisherman got on his back and rode up to a dazzling snow-white palace, and they put a crown on his head and made a king of him, just as they had made a king of Selim the Baker.
That night, at midnight, it happened just as it had happened before. Suddenly, as the hour struck, the lights all went out, and there was a moaning and a crying enough to make the heart curdle. Then the door flew open, and in came the six terrible black men with torches. They led Selim the Fisherman through damp and dismal entries and passage-ways until they came to the vaulted room of black marble, and there stood the beautiful statue on its black pedestal. Then came the voice from above—“Selim! Selim! Selim!” it cried, “what art thou doing? To-day is feasting and drinking and merry-making, but beware of to-morrow!”
But Selim the Fisherman did not stand still and listen, as Selim the Baker had done. He called out, “I hear the words! I am listening! I will beware to-day for the sake of to-morrow!”
I do not know what I should have done had I been king of that island and had I known that in a twelve-month it would all come tumbling down about my ears and sink into the sea, maybe carry me along with it. This is what Selim the Fisherman did [but then he wore the iron Ring of Wisdom on his finger, and I never had that upon mine]:
First of all, he called the wisest men of the island to him, and found from them just where the other desert island lay upon which the boat with Selim the Baker in it had drifted.
Then, when he had learned where it was to be found, he sent armies and armies of men and built on that island palaces and houses, and planted there orchards and gardens, just like the palaces and the orchards and the gardens about him—only a great deal finer. Then he sent fleets and fleets of ships, and carried everything away from the island where he lived to that other island—all the men and the women and the children; all the flocks and herds and every living thing; all the fowls and the birds and everything that wore feathers; all the gold and the silver and the jewels and the silks and the satins, and whatever was of any good or of any use; and when all these things were done, there were still two days left till the end of the year.
Upon the first of these two days he sent over the beautiful statue and had it set up in the very midst of the splendid new palace he had built.
Upon the second day he went over himself, leaving behind him nothing but the dead mountain and the rocks and the empty houses.
So came the end of the twelve months.
So came midnight.
Out went all the lights in the new palace, and everything was as silent as death and as black as ink. The door opened, and in came the nine men in red, with torches burning as red as blood. They took Selim the Fisherman by the arms and led him to the beautiful statue, and there she was with her eyes open.
“Are you Selim?” said she.
“Yes, I am Selim,” said he.
“And do you wear the iron Ring of Wisdom?” said she.
“Yes, I do,” said he; and so he did.
There was no roaring and thundering, there was no shaking and quaking, there was no toppling and tumbling, there was no splashing and dashing: for this island was solid rock, and was not all enchantment and hollow inside and underneath like the other which he had left behind.
The beautiful statue smiled until the place lit up as though the sun shone. Down she came from the pedestal where she stood and kissed Selim the Fisherman on the lips.
Then instantly the lights blazed everywhere, and the people shouted and cheered, and the music played. But neither Selim the Fisherman nor the beautiful statue saw or heard anything.
“I have done all this for you!” said Selim the Fisherman.
“And I have been waiting for you a thousand years!” said the beautiful statue—only she was not a statue any longer.
After that they were married, and Selim the Fisherman and the enchanted statue became king and queen in real earnest.
I think Selim the Fisherman sent for Selim the Baker and made him rich and happy—I hope he did—I am sure he did.
So, after all, it is not always the lucky one who gathers the plums when wisdom is by to pick up what the other shakes down.
I could say more; for, O little children! little children! there is more than meat in many an egg-shell; and many a fool tells a story that joggles a wise man’s wits, and many a man dances and junkets in his fool’s paradise till it comes tumbling down about his ears some day; and there are few men who are like Selim the Fisherman, who wear the Ring of Wisdom on their finger, and, alack-a-day! I am not one of them, and that is the end of this story.
Old Bidpai nodded his head. “Aye, aye,” said he, “there is a very good moral in that story, my friend. It is, as a certain philosopher said, very true, that there is more in an egg than the meat. And truly, methinks, there is more in thy story than the story of itself.” He nodded his head again and stroked his beard slowly, puffing out as he did so as a great reflective cloud of smoke, through which his eyes shone and twinkled mistily like stars through a cloud.
“And whose turn is it now?” said Doctor Faustus.
“Methinks tis mine,” said Boots—he who in fairy-tale always sat in the ashes at home and yet married a princess after he had gone out into the world awhile. “My story,” said he, “hath no moral, but, all the same, it is as true as that eggs hatch chickens.” Then, without waiting for any one to say another word, he began it in these words. “I am going to tell you,” said he, how—