Puslapio vaizdai
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makes the fowls in a poultry-yard hasten to peck to death one of their number which has met with an injury. All at once Simon's eyes fell on a little neighbor, a widow's son, whom he had always seen alone with his mother, just like himself. "You haven't got a father," he said, "any more than I have."

"Oh, yes, I have," replied the other. "Where is he?" retorted Simon. "He is dead," declared the other with magnificent pride, "he is in the cemetery; that's where my father is."

ran

A murmur of approbation through the scapegrace crew, as though the fact of having a father dead and in the cemetery had conferred a special honor on their comrade, so as to abase yet more this other, who had no father at all. And the little wretches-whose fathers were for the most part evildoers, drunkards, thieves, wifebeaters -jostled into one another and pressed closer and closer, as though they, the legitimate, wished to crush the life out of this being who had no lawful place in the world.

Suddenly the one who was nearest Simon thrust out his tongue with a leer, and cried: "Hasn't got a father, hasn't got a father!"

Simon threw himself on the boy, gripped his hair with both hands, and madly kicked his shins, at the same time trying to bite him. Then came a terrific commotion. The two combatants were separated, and Simon felt himself cuffed, torn, battered, rolled underfoot in the midst of the shrieking circle of ragamuffins. When he regained his feet he began mechanically to brush his little blouse, all filthy with dust. Someone shouted at him, "Go and tell your father."

Then he felt a great sinking of the heart. They were stronger than he, they had beaten him, and he could not answer them, for he knew that in truth he had no father. Pride alone buoyed

him up, and for some seconds he sought to struggle against the tears which were trying to burst forth. He felt a choking, then he began to weep silently, and great sobs shook his frame.

At this his enemies burst into ferocious glee, and by natural instinct, like savages in their terrible merry making, they joined hands and began to dance in a circle around him, repeating as a refrain, "Hasn't got a father! Hasn't got a father!"

But all at once Simon ended his sobbing: an access of fury had seized upon him. Beneath his feet were some loose stones; he picked them up, and with all his force hurled them at his tormentors. Two or three were struck and ran away crying, and so formidable was Simon's appearance that the others were infected with panic. A crowd is always cowardly in the presence of an angry man, and they scattered in flight.

The fatherless child was left alone. He started running towards the fields, for something had come back to his memory and had quickened a great resolution in his spirit. He would drown himself in the river.

What he had remembered was that, a week before, a miserable beggar had thrown himself into the water because he had come to the end of his money. Simon had seen him dragged out. The poor creature had ordinarily seemed wretched, filthy, and repulsive; but what had struck Simon about the dead man was his tranquil appearance as he lay there with pale cheeks, long and dripping beard, and calm, wide-open eyes. "He is dead," someone had remarked; and another had added "Well, he is happy now." And Simon also was determined to drown himself because he had no father, like the poor wretch who had no money.

He had arrived at the brink and stood watching the flow of the water.

Fishes were playing about, swiftly darting through the clear stream, and now and then one would make a little leap to catch the flies dancing above the surface. Simon was deeply interested; he watched and forgot his tears. But, like the gusts of wind which suddenly break the lull of a tempest and sweep over the horizon leaving a trail of shivered trees, from time to time the thought returned with a bitter pang, "I am going to drown myself because I have no father."

It was a warm and beautiful day. The grass was heated beneath the genial rays of the sun, and the water shone like a mirror. Simon had some moments of pure happiness, of that languor which is the sequence of tears, and the desire came over him to lay himself to sleep there in the warm meadow.

A little green frog jumped at his feet. He tried to catch it. It escaped. He ran after it and made three vain attempts to seize it, one after the other. At last he just caught hold of one of the hind feet, and it made him laugh to see the animal's attempts to get away. It doubled up its long legs, then suddenly shot straight out, its hind legs rigid like two metal bars, while it beat the air with its forepaws, which waved about like a pair of hands, and all the time its eyes stood out, glazed within their yellow rims. It reminded him of a plaything of his, tin soldiers at the end of a sort of zigzag latticework of wooden bars, which could be made to shoot out and back again like the frog's legs, and so to put the soldiers through their drill. That made him think of home, then of his mother, and then the bitterness came over him again, and the tears began anew. Shudders passed all through him; he knelt down and said his prayers as before going to sleep. But he could not finish, for the sobs came quickly and tempestuously,

and at last quite overpowered him. He no longer thought or saw anything around him, but abandoned himself to his tears.

Suddenly a heavy hand was laid on his shoulder, and a deep voice demanded: "What is all the trouble about, my little man?"

Simon turned round. A big man in working clothes, with curly black hair and beard, was looking at him with a kindly expression. He replied in a choking voice, with his eyes still full of tears. "They have beaten me-because-I-I have no father."

"Why," said the man, "everybody has a father."

Between his sobs the child forced out the words, "I-I-haven't-one."

The workman became grave. He had recognized la Blanchotte's son, and, though he was a newcomer to the district, he had learned something of her story. "Come," he said, "dry your tears, my lad, and let me take you home to your mother. find a father for you."

Perhaps we'll

They set off together, Simon's little hand resting in the man's great fist. The man was smiling again. He was not sorry of a chance to see la Blanchotte, who was said to be one of the handsomest women of the district. They came to a little white cottage, beautifully kept. "Here we are," said the child, and he cried "Mama!"

A woman appeared, and the smile died suddenly from the workman's lips, for he understood in a flash that this woman was never again to be trifled with. Tall, pale, and dignified, she stood in the doorway as though to prohibit any man from entering that house where one man had already betrayed her. The workman was abashed; cap in hand, he stammered out: "Pardon, madam, I am bringing back your little boy, who had lost himself by the riverside."

But Simon flung both arms about his

mother's neck and, bursting into fresh tears, said to her: "No, mother, I was going to drown myself, because the other boys have beaten me-beaten me -for not having a father."

A crimson flame blazed on the woman's face. With a movement of anguish she snatched up the child and kissed him passionately, while a swift burst of tears ran down her cheeks. The man stood still, affected by her emotion and not knowing how to leave. But Simon suddenly ran towards him and cried, "Will you be my father?"

There was a moment's silence. La Blanchotte, mute and overcome by shame, was leaning against the wall, pressing both hands to her heart. Seeing that none replied, the child began again: "If you won't be my father, I shall go back to drown myself."

The workman passed it off as a joke and replied with a laugh, “All right, I'll be your father."

"What do they call you?" was the child's next question, "so that I can tell the others when they ask me your name."

"Philip," replied the man.

Simon kept quiet a moment, to be certain that the name sank into his mind. Then, happy once more, he stretched out both hands, saying, "Very well, Philip, you are my father."

The workman lifted him from the ground and pressed a hasty kiss on each cheek, then fled as quickly as he could.

When the child arrived at school next morning he was greeted with derisive laughter, and after school his tormentor of the previous day was about to renew the attack. Simon, as though hurling a stone at his head, threw these words at him: "My father's name is Philip."

Shouts of laughter broke out on all sides. "Philip?-Philip who?-Philip what?-what's the good of a name like

that?-where did you pick him up, this Philip of yours?"

Simon made no answer. His faith was unshaken, and he looked defiantly at them, ready to suffer anything rather than flee before them. The schoolmaster rescued him, and he returned to his mother's house.

During the next three months Philip, the big workman, often found himself near la Blanchotte's cottage. Sometimes when he saw her sewing at the window he summoned up courage to talk to her. She answered politely, yet always gravely, never laughing with him, and never letting him cross her threshold. But, like most men, Philip was a little conceited, and he fancied that when she spoke to him there was often more color than usual on her cheeks.

But a shattered reputation is difficult to build up again, and is ever afterwards but fragile, and despite la Blanchotte's unyielding reserve, the gossips were already busy about her

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He went towards old Loizon's forge, and I know more than one woman who where Philip worked.

The forge was buried among the trees. It was very dark, and only the red blaze of the furnace with its flickering glare illumined five barearmed smiths, who filled the shed with the resounding clang of their hammers on the anvil. In the lurid glare of the forge they looked like five demons. They were standing upright, their eyes fixed on the white-hot iron which they were forging, and their heavy thoughts followed the rise and fall of their hammers.

Simon entered unnoticed. He went up and pulled his friend by the sleeve. Philip turned; suddenly the work ceased and all the men watched with great attention. In the midst of this unwonted silence, up rose the childish voice: "Tell me, Philip, what that boy meant who told me just now that you were not a proper sort of father."

"How did he make that out?" said Philip.

With childish innocence Simon replied "Because you are not married to my mother."

No one laughed. Philip stood lost in dreams, resting his brow on one great hand, while his elbow rested on the shaft of his hammer which stood on the anvil. His four companions stood watching him, and Simon, a tiny figure among the giants, waited anxiously. Suddenly one of the smiths, answering the thought which was in all their minds, spoke to Philip: "Well, they can say what they like, la Blanchotte is a fine girl and a good one, and she has plenty of grit and steadiness despite her misfortune. She would make as good a wife as anyone could wish, if she had the right man."

"That's true, every word of it," said the three others.

"Is it her fault, poor girl," continued the workman, "that she went wrong? The man had promised to marry her,

did just the same as this one and whom everybody respects now."

"True, every word," replied the three men in chorus.

He went on: "What suffering it has cost her, poor girl, to bring up this boy by herself, and what she has gone through during these years she has never left the house except to go to church, God only knows."

"True, every bit of it," said the oth

ers.

For a space nothing was heard but the whistle of the furnace-blast. Then Philip, with a brusque movement, bent towards Simon. "Go and tell your mother that I am coming to speak to her to-night."

Then he took the child by the shoulders and pushed him outside.

He returned to his work, and with a single sound the five hammers fell together on the anvils. Powerful, vigorous, joyful in the mastery of their work, the five men continued to swing their hammers until nightfall. But just as the deep boom of a cathedral peal dominates over the tinkling carillons in the parish churches, so Philip's hammer smote the anvil, second after second, with a mighty clang that drowned the others. And there was a light in his eye as he turned passionately to his work amid the flying smithy sparks.

The sky was full of stars when he knocked at la Blanchotte's door. He was wearing his Sunday blouse and a new shirt, and his beard was carefully trimmed. The young woman appeared at the door. She had a pained expression, and she said to him "You ought not to come like this, after dark, Mr. Philip."

He would have liked to reply, but he could only stand before her, confused and stammering.

She continued: "And all the time you know perfectly well that I cannot

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have any more talk about my name Then he suddenly found his tongue: "But what does all that matter, if you only be my wife?"

No answer came to this, but he thought he heard from the darkness of the room a noise as of a body sinking down. He entered quickly, and Simon, lying on his bed, heard the sound of a kiss and of some words murmured by his mother in a low voice. Then all at once he felt himself lifted in the hands of his friend, who, like the Hercules he was, held him out at arm's length and shouted, "You can tell your schoolmates that your father is Philip Remy The Saturday Review.

the blacksmith, and that he will box anyone's ears who hurts you."

Next day, when the schoolroom was full and lessons were about to commence, little Simon rose, pale and with trembling lips, and said in a clear voice, "My father is Philip Remy the blacksmith, and he has promised to box anyone's ears who hurts me."

This time there was no longer any laughter, for everybody knew Philip Remy the blacksmith, and he was a man whom anyone might well be proud to have for father.

Guy de Maupassant.
Translated by Alec Clark.

THE LEADING ARTICLE.

Carlyle rails characteristically against the ready writer of the newspapers. Hear him growling in one of his splenetic moods: "Consider his leading articles, what they treat of, how passably they are done. Straw that has been thrashed a hundred times without wheat, ephemeral sound of a sound, such portent of the hour as all men have seen a hundred times turn out inane; how a man with merely human faculty buckles himself nightly with new vigor and interest to this thrashed straw, nightly thrashes it anew, nightly gets up new thunder about it, and so goes on thrashing and thundering for a considerable series of years-this is a fact remaining still to be accounted for in human physiology. The vitality of man is great."

So far as I know, Carlyle is the only master-mind that is scornful of the feading article; and there are few institutions in this world that he has not condemned and anathematized. Newman, in one of his charming and most suggestive essays upon literature, refers in the highest terms of praise to the great ability and skill of the mod

ern daily press. Indeed, this great master of style goes so far as to say that much of the newspaper writing of his time is finer in point of style alone than a preface of Dryden or the pamphlets of Swift, or even the essays in the Spectator by Addison. It is the tribe of literary dilettanti who have always been most prone to affect disdain of the leader-writer. Only the other day I read an address by a minor poet in which there was one of the customary disparaging references to the press. He said that literature had been degraded by "the mark of the inky thumb of the journalist." There was the sneer of intellectual superciliousness, also, at "the English of the leading article." The poet, perhaps, was unaware of the adverse or uncongenial conditions under which the leading article is generally produced. To fashion and polish a sonnet the poet may devote a month's incubation and the cleanest and most delicate of hands, amid surroundings serenely calculated to inspire exquisite thoughts. Night after night for many years the journalist, running a race with the clock,

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