"I'll tell you another time, little Miss Curiosity," said her mama.

"And then there was a verse in the book--"

"What verse? Oh, I see... in the snail shop.... Well, I'm afraid I've forgotten it. But you mustn't ask too many details, for it's only a fairy tale, little girlie."

PHOTOGRAPHER AND PHILOSOPHER

Once upon a time there was a photographer. He was a splendid photographer; he did profiles and full-faces, three-quarter and full-length portraits; he could develop and fix, tone and print them. He was the deuce of a fellow! But he was always discontented, for he was a philosopher, a great philosopher and a discoverer. His theory was that the world was upside down. It was plainly proved by the plate in the developer. Everything that was on the right side of the original, now appeared on the left; everything that was dark, became light; light became shade; blue turned into white, and silver b.u.t.tons looked as dark as iron. The world was upside down.

He had a partner, quite an ordinary man, full of petty characteristics.

For instance, he smoked cigars all day long; he never shut a door; he put his knife into his mouth, instead of using his fork; he wore his hat in the room; he cleaned his nails in the studio, and in the evening he drank three gla.s.ses of beer.

He was full of faults!

The philosopher, on the other hand, was perfect, and therefore he nursed resentment against his imperfect brother; he would have liked to dissolve the partnership, but he could not, because their business held them together; and because they were bound to remain in partnership, the resentment of the philosopher turned into an unreasonable hatred. It was dreadful!

When the spring came they decided to take a lodging in a summer resort, and the partner was despatched to find one. He did find one. And one Sat.u.r.day they departed together on a steamer.

The philosopher sat all day long on deck and drank punch. He was a very stout man and suffered from several things; his liver was out of order, and there was something wrong with his feet, perhaps rheumatism, or some similar disease. When they arrived, they crossed the bridge and went ash.o.r.e.

"Is this the place?" asked the philosopher.

"A very little walk will take us there," answered the partner.

They went along a footpath, full of roots, and the path ended abruptly before a stile. They had to climb over it. Then the road became stony, and the philosopher complained of his feet, but he forgot all about his pains when they came to another stile. After that, all trace of the road disappeared; they walked on the bare rock through shrubs and bilberry bushes.

Behind the third fence stood a bull, who chased the philosopher to the fourth stile, where he arrived in a bath of perspiration, which opened all the pores of his skin. When they had crossed the sixth stile, they could see the house. The philosopher went in and immediately stepped on to the verandah.

"Why are there so many trees?" he asked. "They interrupt the view."

"But they shelter the house from the strong sea-breezes," answered the partner.

"And the place looks like a churchyard; why, the house stands in the centre of a pine-wood."

"A very healthy spot," replied the partner.

Then they wanted to go and bathe. But there was no proper bathing-place, in the philosophical sense of the word. There was nothing but the stony ground and mud.

After they had bathed the philosopher felt thirsty, and wanted to drink a gla.s.s of water at the spring. It was of a reddish-brown colour, and had a peculiar, strong taste. It was no good. Nothing was any good. And meat was un.o.btainable, there was nothing to be had but fish.

The philosopher grew gloomy and sat down under a pumpkin to deplore his fate. But there was no help for it. He had to stay, and his partner returned to town to look after the business during his friend's absence.

Six weeks pa.s.sed and then the partner returned to his philosopher.

He was met on the bridge by a slender youth with red cheeks and a sunburnt neck. It was the philosopher, rejuvenated and full of high spirits.

He jumped over the six stiles and chased the bull.

When they were sitting on the verandah, the partner said to him:--

"You are looking very well, what sort of a time have you had?"

"Oh! an excellent time!" said the philosopher. "The fences have taken off my fat; the stones have ma.s.saged my feet; the mud-baths have cured me of my rheumatism; the plain food has cured my liver, and the pine-trees my lungs; and, could you believe it, the brown spring-water contained iron, just what I wanted!"

"Well, you old philosopher," said the partner, "don't you understand that from the negative you get a positive, where all the shade becomes light again? If you would only take such a positive picture of me and try and find out what faults I do _not_ possess, you would not dislike me so much. Only think: I don't drink, and therefore I am able to manage the business; I don't steal; I never talk evil of you behind your back; I never complain; I never make white appear black; I am never rude to the customers; I rise early in the morning; I clean my nails so as to keep the developer clean; I leave my hat on so that no hairs shall fall on the plates; I smoke so as to purify the air of poisonous gases; I keep the door ajar so as not to make a noise in the studio; I drink beer in the evening so as to escape the temptation of drinking whisky; and I put the knife into my mouth because I am afraid of p.r.i.c.king myself with the fork."

"You really are a great philosopher," said the photographer, "henceforth we will be friends! Then we shall get on in life!"

HALF A SHEET OF FOOLSCAP

The last furniture van had left; the tenant, a young man with a c.r.a.pe band round his hat, walked for the last time through the empty rooms to make sure that nothing had been left behind. No, nothing had been forgotten, nothing at all. He went out into the front hall, firmly determined never to think again of all that had happened to him in these rooms. And all at once his eyes fell on half a sheet of foolscap, which somehow had got wedged between the wall and the telephone; the paper was covered with writing, evidently the writing of more persons than one.

Some of the entries were written quite legibly with pen and ink, while others were scribbled with a lead-pencil; here and there even a red pencil had been used. It was a record of everything that had happened to him in the short period of two years; all these things, which he had made up his mind to forget, were noted down. It was a slice of a human life on half a sheet of foolscap.

He detached the paper; it was a piece of scribbling paper, yellow and shining like the sun. He put it on the mantelpiece in the drawing-room and glanced at it. Heading the list was a woman's name: "Alice," the most beautiful name in the world, as it had seemed to him then, for it was the name of his fiancee. Next to the name was a number, "15,11."

It looked like the number of a hymn, on the hymn-board. Underneath was written "Bank." That was where his work lay, his sacred work to which he owed bread, home, and wife--the foundations of life. But a pen had been drawn through the word, for the Bank had failed, and although he had eventually found another berth, it was not until after a short period of anxiety and uneasiness.

The next entries were: "Flower-shop and livery-stable." They related to his betrothal, when he had plenty of money in his pockets.

Then came "furniture dealer and paper-hanger "--they were furnishing their house. "Forwarding agents"--they were moving into it. The "Box-office of the Opera-house, No. 50,50"--they were newly married, and went to the opera on Sunday evenings; the most enjoyable hours of their lives were spent there, for they had to sit quite still, while their souls met in the beauty and harmony of the fairyland on the other side of the curtain.

Then followed the name of a man, crossed out. He had been a friend of his youth, a man who had risen high in the social scale, but who fell, spoilt by success, fell irremediably, and had to leave the country.

So unstable was fortune!

Now, something new entered the lives of husband and wife. The next entry was in a lady's hand: "Nurse." What nurse? Well, of course, the kindly woman with the big cloak and the sympathetic face, who walked with a soft footfall, and never went into the drawing-room, but walked straight down the pa.s.sage to the bedroom.

Underneath her name was written "Dr. L."

And now, for the first time, a relative appeared on the list: "Mama."

That was his mother-in-law, who had kept away discreetly, so as not to disturb their newly found happiness, but was glad to come now, when she was needed.

A great number of entries in red and blue pencil followed: "Servants'

Registry Office"--the maid had left and a new one had to be engaged.

"The chemist's"--hm! life was growing dark. "The dairy"--milk had been ordered--sterilised milk!

"Butcher, grocer, etc." The affairs of the house were being conducted by telephone; it argued that the mistress was not at her post. No, she wasn't, for she was laid up.

He could not read what followed, for it grew dark before his eyes; he might have been a drowning man trying to see through salt water. And yet, there it was written, plainly enough: "undertaker--a large coffin and a small one." And the word "dust" was added in parenthesis.

It was the last word of the whole record. It ended with "dust"! and that is exactly what happens in life.