Classic Audiobook Collection - Studies of Death by Count Stanislaus Eric Stenbock ~ Full Audiobook [horror]

Episode Date: February 28, 2024

Studies of Death by Count Stanislaus Eric Stenbock audiobook. Genre: horror Count Stanislaus Eric Stenbock was an eccentric character to say the least. Maintaining a veritable zoo on his estate populated with the likes of a reindeer and a bear, he travelled with a dog, a monkey and a life-sized doll he nicknamed 'The Little Count' and which he referred to as 'his son'. Before his untimely death at the age of 36 of cirrhosis of the liver due to his excessive alcoholism and opium addiction, Stenbock managed to publish three slim volumes of poetry, much of which was fixated on suicide, as well as this volume of short stories, Studies of Death. This short collection of tales of death in all its various forms featuring occultism, vampires, jilted lovers and sea sprites among other things is seen as not only an early curiosity of occult and weird literature but also contains early queer themes as well, most notably in the stories 'Hylas' and 'The True Story of a Vampire'. While one would expect much of a collection titled Studies in Death to fixate on the grim side of human nature, we do see a few peeks at death of a more hopeful nature as well, in addition to the bleak and tragic. For ad-free listening try our premium subscription Chapters (Approximate) (00:00:00) Chapter 01 (00:18:33) Chapter 02 (00:34:58) Chapter 03 (00:46:14) Chapter 04 (01:02:31) Chapter 05 (01:21:39) Chapter 06 (01:42:13) Chapter 07 Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Studies of Death By Count Stanislaus Eric Stenbach Hylas I was intending to paint a picture of David as the shepherd, but nowhere could I find a suitable model for the face. There were several white and ruddy, but none which had on them the impress of the born king or the inspiration of the psalmist.

One day I was rowing up the river and came across the very face I had been seeking for so long. He was a boy of about 15, clad in flannels, alone in a boat, which he had moored to the shore of a little island in the middle of the river. He was occupied in sketching. This is lucky, I thought. It will be a good excuse to begin a conversation. So I rode up to him and saying that I was an artist, asked to see what he was drawing. He blushed and showed me.

Of course, I had expected the usual smudged landscape, but imagine my surprise to find a certain, beautifully conceived drawing of Hylas by the river's brink, with the nymph stretching out her arms towards him. He was merely copying the rushes and trees of the island as a background. The Hylas was not at all a bad portrait of himself, but my surprise was still greater to find that the face of the nymph was an evident copy of my own last picture called the Siren, which I had recently sold to a certain Professor Langton, at a very low price as I knew the professor was not well off and his genuine enthusiasm for my work was so refreshing after the inane compliments of those who thought it the thing to admire me because I happened to be the fashion just then.

I praised the drawing and pointed out one or two fonts, then asked for paper and pencil, and reproduce the drawing as it should have been. The boy watched with ever-increasing eagerness. At last he said with a deep blush, May I ask you what your name is? My name is Gabriel Glend, I replied. "'Ah, I thought so all the time you were drawing. Do you know your pictures have always had a peculiar fascination for me? Father has lots of them.

At least drawings, only one painting. That one called The Siren, from which I copied that. You must know, Father, he went to see your studio the other day.' Then blushing still deeper, "'May I come and see your studio, too?' "'Certainly you may, but I ask something in return.' that is that you will sit as model for the shepherd David. I guess from what you say that you are the son of Professor Langton, am I not right?

May I ask what is your Christian name? Oh, Lionel, he said simply. There's only father in me. I don't mind being a model if you like and let me see your studio, though why you should think I should make a suitable David I am at a loss to understand. There was a mixture of simple boyishness, and at the same time education about his way of talking, which puzzled me, but the explanation was not difficult to unravel.

We rode down together. I took him to tea at an old Wayside Inn covered with honeysuckle, then went straight with him to his father's. He had told me all about himself on the way. He was his father's only son. He had never been to school. His father had taught him everything himself. He had no companions of his own age,

and amused himself alone. He liked riding and rowing and swimming, but hated shooting and fishing. Curious this, that he should share my own ingrained dislikes. But what he loved above all was drawing and painting. He had never learned to draw, but he had always drawn ever since he could remember. His father knew everything but could not draw, but was very fond of pictures. But nevertheless would not let him go to an art school, etc. So we prattled on, I could not help remarking that he seemed very very fond of pictures.

much more educated than boys of his age usually are, though wholly unconscious of the fact, and yet at the same time showed a singular artlessness and innocence about the most commonplace things. Professor Langton received me with the utmost amiability, and the end of it was that I stayed there the evening. After he had sent his son to bed, he expounded to me his ideas on education. He did not approve of schools of any kind, he said. boarding schools were an abomination, but day schools perhaps were a necessity. But in my case, he said, happily not. Indeed, what is the use of being a professor if I cannot instruct my own boy?

Well, the end of all this was that having Lionel as a model, I took a great fancy to him. And the more I saw of him, the less I liked the idea of his going to an academy school, Perhaps to a boy ordinarily brought up the usual conversation of art students would not do much harm, but to Lionel, this exotic flower, I shuddered to think of it. I never before had had any pupils wishing to be individual, and not to create a school, but then Lionel was of my school already. So the end of it was that I offered to take him as a gratuitous and exclusive pupil, for which his father was intensely grateful. Years passed by and I taught him to draw and to paint very well. Perhaps I impregnated him a little too much with my own individuality. I used to chuckle to myself.

This is just like Leonardo da Vinci and Salino. Critics in the future will be disputing, which is a genuine Glindio. I do not mean by this that Lionel had no imagination or inventive power. On the contrary, he was, as I have said before, a genius, an artist born, not made, but merely that his style of execution was based on mine. Indeed, I even hoped that he might surpass in my own line. One does not realize what a frightful responsibility one incurs in introducing one person to another.

In nine cases out of ten, nothing particular may ensue, but the tenth case may be the turning point in a life for good or evil. Thus it was when I introduced Lionel to Lady Julia Gore. When I say I introduced him, I did nothing of the kind. She was having tea with me in my studio, and Lionel, who I thought was going up the river that day. That was one of the reasons I had selected that day to ask her, suddenly walked in. Well, what could I do but introduce them? Lady Julia bore the name Gourver because she had two husbands, both alive in kicking, and through some anomaly of the divorce court, she could not legally ascertain whether she ought to bear the name of

Mr. Gore or Mr. Bear. So she split the difference by giving herself both appellations. What her past was, I did not know and did not care to inquire. It was no concern of mine. What did concern me was that she bought my pictures. She was certainly the last person I should have liked Lionel to meet. She was a very lovely woman and very clever. When I say clever, I do not merely mean sharp and witty,

but really cultured. And when she talked about art, She really knew what she was talking about. Except for a moment of irritation I did not see any particular harm. Lionel knew nothing about her. There was nothing remarkable in the fact that she took an interest in him, and he took a childish pleasure in showing her his sketches, which she criticized and admired justly for, as I've said before,

they were remarkably good. I had always thought of Lionel as a child and never realized that he was now grown up. Happening to know Lady Julia's age, it did not occur to me that to people in general she looked a very great deal younger than she really was. Well, they met several times. One day, Lionel said, how like Lady Julia is to your picture the siren? I have always maintained that artists give models for faces, as much as faces give models for artists. I'd done so many pictures since. I had quite forgotten about the siren.

Now the siren was entirely an imaginative face taken from no model at all. But when Lionel said so, it struck me she was like the siren. Then I thought of his drawing the first day I had met him. A disagreeable sensation and vague fear haunted me. I took to watch him more closely. Then the truth flashed upon me. He was hopelessly in love with her. She was doing her best to egg him on.

What an idiot I was not to have seen that before. I who pretended to be observant of all things. No, this would not do at all. It would be the ruin of his life. I must save him at any cost. Perhaps I had been wrong all the time. I'd kept him too much under a glass case. Perhaps if he had had more experience he would not have become so suddenly and completely infatuated.

Oh, how wicked of her! I raged and gnashed my teeth. Had she not the whole world for prey that she could not spare this poor, boy. What could he be to her? But then perhaps she did not realize what harm she was doing. I would go and expostulate with her myself. From what I knew of her, she was by no means heartless. So next day I called on her, and somewhat rudely came to the point at once. Why, I said, do you seek to ruin that poor boy's life? You know whom I mean, Lionel. Surely such a conquest must be nothing to you. I spoke very bitterly.

She answered calmly. You ask me why? I will tell you the reason quite simply. First, because I am jealous of him. Secondly, because I thought you cared for me a little. And I thought I might make you jealous of me. And finally, because I love you. I was utterly dumbfounded.

For some time I could not speak at all. Then I said, If it is true as you say that you love me, do at least this one thing for me. spare him she answered in the same calm voice there was one way to overcome the difficulty i went out without a word all that night i remained without sleep thinking there was one way to overcome the difficulty i had said i would save him at any cost and the cost was to sacrifice myself however unselfish one's motive may be selfish considerations are inevitably intermingled. I thought, after all, the sacrifice is not so terrible, the way out of the difficulty comparatively easy. I certainly liked her well enough, and now that

my studio parties were on a much larger scale than heretofore, it would really be a great convenience to have a lady in the house. And then I thought, trying to be unselfish again, I shall be doing a good turn to her. By giving her my name, I shall re-establish her reputation, and people will soon forget that her name has ever been, Gore or Ver. Lionel would soon realize the absurdity of his own position, and, of course, would not think of making love to my wife.

So next morning I wrote to Lady Julia, asking her if she would be willing to exchange the ambiguous name of Gore Ver, for that of Glend. She wrote back to say she would be very pleased to explain, except my offer, but she thought I might have phrased it more kindly. Fortunately Lionel was going away the next day on a walking tour by himself. A thing which he was very fond of doing, for I could not bring myself to tell Lionel about it just yet, or indeed till the whole thing was over.

There was no reason whatever for delay, so we arranged to be married quietly in Paris before a mayor, as for obvious reasons it would be better not to be married in London. When the marriage was over, I made up my mind to write to Lionel. I tore up several letters and various styles. At last I resolved to adopt the flippantly facetious. I said, I am now in Paris, and who do you think is my companion? You will never guess. Lady Julia Gourver, only her name isn't Gourver now, but Glend, because I have married her.

But it won't make any difference. You must call her Lady Julia all the same. To this letter there was no response. To this I attached but little importance. Of course, I thought he will be a little sulky at first, but he will soon get over it. His innate sense of humor will show him how foolish he has been. In spite of all, people might say against my wife, there could be no more charming, traveling companion. Always amusing and amused and intelligently critical.

Indeed, if I had not always had the haunting thought of Lionel, I think we should have enjoyed ourselves very much. Will you understand me if I say that I was sorry to find out my wife's past was by no means as black as it was painted? Indeed, she was much more the wrong than the wrongdoer. This, I suppose, is inverted selfishness. It is a luxury to pose as a hero. What was my heroic self-sacrifice? Simply getting a charming wife, who really loved me, and who had never loved anyone else before? I wrote to Lionel once more, a long lively letter describing the places we had been to interspersed with graphic sketches of persons and places.

To this again I received no answer. But then as I had addressed it to the last country place where I knew Lionel had been staying, I came to the conclusion he could not have received it, possibly having left no address behind him. At last we came home. I learned that Lionel was staying with his father. I sent a note, saying, I insist on seeing you come this evening, waiting for an answer. There was no answer, but in the evening Lionel came in person.

Lionel, I say, could this be Lionel? He was utterly changed. All youth and buoyancy had gone from him. He rather dragged himself along than walked. He was quite pale and wore a look of utter, absolute dejection. I tried to pretend to take no notice. Well, Lionel, I said with sham cheerfulness,

"'What have you been doing all this time?' He answered in a dull apathetic voice. "'Painting a picture.' "'A picture? What about?' "'You will get it the day after tomorrow,' he said in the same dull monotone. "'Child, what has come over you? Why do you keep aloof from me? Why did you not answer my letters?' "'I think it is somewhat needless for you to ask that question,' he said.

"'No, but tell me, explain,' I cried stretching out my hands to him. He went backwards to the other end of the room and then said in a voice filled with tears. "'You have taken from me all that I loved. I should not have thought that of you. Of course you had a perfect right to do so, but still at least you might have told me first.' "'All that you loved?' I said. "'Yes, all except yourself, and you have killed my love for you.' he said almost with a wail. But Lionel, listen, I do not love her.

Do you consider that an excuse? He said fiercely. If you did, I might forgive you, but as it is, I cannot. But listen, child, I cried. Hear me out. It is not her that I love, but you. It was to save you from what I thought would be your utter ruin that I married her. A strange way of showing love to break my love.

heart, he said in the same spiritless voices before. Goodbye, and then he turned his back on me and held out his left hand. It was quite cold and fell limp to his side. He turned once round as he opened the door with a look of mute reproach, which will haunt me forever. The day after the morrow I took up the morning paper and saw this, shocking accident while bathing. Near blank eyes. the island where I first met Lionel, the body of a young man was found yesterday. There was little difficulty in identifying the body as that of Mr. Lionel Langdon, a young artist of much promise, as his clothes were on the shore,

and a pocketbook containing cards and letters was found in the coat pocket. And also, as Mr. Langdon was well known in this neighborhood, being particularly fond of bathing at this spot. The fact of his being drowned has caused much astonishment as he was known to be a remarkably good swimmer. Death was attributed to sudden cramp. His father, Professor Langton, was immediately telegraphed for and seemed to quite overcome with grief. He deposed that lately he had been much distressed about his son. He had been unwell and very depressed, also strange in his manner, for which he, his father, could assign no cause. Hardly had I read this when there was a violent

knock at the door, and two men came in bringing a picture. Never had I seen anything so good for Lionel's hand, it was simply wonderful. It represented Hylas, lying at the bottom of a river, seen through water. The figure of Hylas was a portrait of himself, as he was when I first saw him, but somehow, into the closed eyes he had infused the expression which I had last seen in his face. Looking down, reflected in the water, was my own face. Starting up, I caught a sight of my face in a mirror. By what prescience did he know that I should look thus on hearing the tidings of his death? End of Section 1, Heilis. Section 2 of Studies of Death by Count Stanislaus Eric Stenbach. This Libervox recording is in the public domain, read by Ben Tucker.

Section 2. Narcissus My father died before I was born. and my mother in giving birth to me, so I was born at once to a title and a fortune. I merely mention this to show that fortune, in a way, seemed from the first to smile upon me. The one passion of my life was beauty, and I thought myself, especially fortunate, that I realized my own ideal in myself. Even now that I am writing, I look round the room and see portraits of myself at various stages of my life, as a child, a boy, and a young man. Never have I seen a face as lovely as my own was.

That glorious, classic outline, those large, lustrous, dark blue eyes, that curled golden hair, like woven sunshine, that divinely curved mouth and exquisite grace of lips, that splendid poise of neck and throat. I was not vain in the proper sense of the word, for vanity means desire for the approbation of others, and getting up oneself to please others. But I, on the contrary, did not care what others thought. I would remain for hours before the mirror in a kind of ecstasy. No, no single picture I had ever seen could come up to me. I was spoiled as a child.

At school my life was made easy for me. Others did my impositions, and masters overlooked my peccadillos. And if the boys of my own form hated and envied, me. They knew that if they dared lift a finger against me, they would have their lives thrashed out of them by my champions in the upper forms. I do not mean to say by this that my school career was not a success in the ordinary sense of the word, because, besides being beautiful, I was brilliantly clever and learnt in a day when it would take others' months to learn. And if I say I was spoiled, I at least was not pettish and fretful as spoiled children usually are. On the contrary, I was

invariably amiable, perhaps because my will was never gainsaid. Unlike most in whom the aesthetic sense is abnormally developed, I had absolutely no passions. I did not love anyone. But then I allowed myself very gracefully to be loved, and always sought to please those who loved me, so that I actually got the reputation of being unselfish. This was all very well as a boy. When I became of age I was launched into society

Women one and all appeared to fall in love with me I don't mean fortune seekers and tuft hunters But such as had the same wealth in social position as myself I was congratulated on my conquests And told that my admirers were celebrated beauties Beauties indeed What was their beauty to mine I did not understand women or their sentiments at all

But I had read several novels and tried to be amiable to one and all, and make love to them in the conventional ways I had read. One time they appeared on the scene a girl who was considered dazzlingly beautiful. She really was rather handsome. She was the daughter of a Mexican millionaire, and of course was sought after by everyone. Indeed, I was reminded at the time of the Bab Ballad, Dukes with the humble maiden dealt. And unlike Duke Bailey and Duke Humphrey, they were willing to cast their coronets and their lands at her feet. But she, unlike the heroine of the Babb ballad, preferred my miserable and grovelling self.

I must say here that my vanity was this time rather flattered. It rather pleased me to think that they should be put in the background for my sake, and I was as amiable to her as possible and used to take her out everywhere. She was certainly clever, but there was a certain savage passionateness about her nature that jarred upon me. One day her father said to me, You can't think how glad I am to hear that you are engaged to my daughter, as we happen to be alone together. Perhaps you wouldn't mind if we settled all the particulars of this business.

I intend to behave very handsomely to her, and we'll give her a dowry of blink. Good heavens, this pile of you. Engage to your daughter, I cried. There's been no such understanding between us. I am extremely sorry, but I cannot imagine who could have been your informant. This information is wholly and entirely false. What?

He said, not engaged to Enriqueeta. What on earth do you mean? Do you suppose I should have allowed you to go about with my girl as you have been doing? Again, I ask, what do you mean? I am sorry, I replied, that you should have been laboring under such a misapprehension. In proof, that I mean what I say, I will avoid all. intercourse with your daughter for the future. And I can scarcely believe she is under the same misapprehension as yourself.

With that remark, I left the house abruptly. A short time afterwards when I was seated by the fire in my drawing-room reading, Who should walk in suddenly but Enriquez herself with furiously flashing eyes? She looked like a fiend incarnate, the emblem of anger in the abstract. I remember at that moment the words of the proverb, flashing cross me. Non as ira sickotira Mulyeris.

So, she said, this is how you behave. Well, then, take that. And saying this, she threw a fluid from a glass file into my face. It was not vitriol. That would have blinded me. This unfortunately did not.

A sudden smart on one side of the face, then gradually the whole face corroded. The cheeks fell in, the flesh part of the nose dropped off The hair came out in handfuls. Several of the teeth dropped out. The mouth contorted into a ghastly grin. The eyes became cavernous and horrible, denuded of eyebrows and lashes.

I saw myself in a mirror once. Anything more loathsome it would be impossible to imagine. Some friends called to sympathize with me, but on no consideration would I admit anyone. I had every mirror in the house broken and thrown away, and could scarcely bear to look and do a washing basin. I spoke to my servants from behind a screen, and lived utterly alone, and by night. I had only one opportunity of air and exercise, so I managed to bribe the policeman to let me into Hyde Park, just before the gates closed at night, and there I would wander about all

night through, till at dawn the gates opened again, when I would hurry home. One night when I was going on my usual lonely walk, the wailing voice of a child came out of the darkness. Do please help me, it cried. Mother left me here and said she would come back directly, and now I have heard the clock strike the hour four times, and mother hasn't come back and I am blind, quite blind. I lit my lantern.

It was a child of about nine or ten years old. It was clad in rags. Yet the voice, had the accent of a gentleman. I said, "'It's impossible to get out now. You must wait till the gates open in the morning. Come and sit here. Are you hungry?' "'Yes,' said the child simply. "'Well, then let's have something to eat.

Then I undid my knapsack, wherein I always took with me provisions of various dainties and wine for my nocturnal meal, and spreading a napkin prepared a repast. Then the child told me his story. I cannot repeat it in the artless way he told it. I can only give back the gist of it. He was very delicate looking with a very sweet face, and an infinite pathos in the expression of the closed eyes. It appeared he lived alone with his mother.

His name, he said, was Tobit, that he had been born blind and did not know what seeing anything meant. He did not think he had any surname. His mother was always called Bonnie Bess, because people said she was so handsome. What does handsome mean? He asked, I shuddered. Oh, I said, it means good-looking, but it's no use being handsome.

It's better to be good. He said his mother was very unkind to him and was always beating him, but there was a gentleman who used to come about every three months, who was very kind to him, and used to bring him presents, and give his mother money. The gentleman was an officer, he said. He always knew when the gentleman was coming because his mother did not beat him for three weeks beforehand.

Because one time the gentleman had seen some bruises on him and had been very angry and had beaten his mother. And when the gentleman had gone, his mother had said, If you dare to tell the gentleman anything about me again, I'll thrash you within an inch of your life. The gentleman used to talk to him and take him out for walks. but all toys the gentleman brought him his mother would take away from him

and sell them in order to get drink twice he had taken him to a place called the country for a whole week there were flowers and birds singing then he was really happy the only thing she didn't take away from me he said is this and from his pocket he produced a penny whistle

because she said she could not get anything for it and I might go and play it in the street. Then perhaps people would give me pennies. Then he proceeded to perform on the penny whistle. Good heavens, I had no idea that out of a thing like that so much tone could be elicited. He began with a well-known organ-grinder tune. Then came variations filled with roulades. I was simply astounded. A great many people give me pennies, he said naively, but mother takes them all away from me. One day he had overheard the gentleman quarreling with his mother. Then why don't you make me an honest woman?

She had said. It would be quite impossible to make you an honest woman. Shut your cunt. You know perfectly well I can't marry you. Even if I could, I wouldn't. I only wish to God I could take that poor little Tobit away with me. Rob a mother of her only child, said the mother, whimpering. Fortunately the law of England does not allow that.

Blast your infernal humbug, said the gentleman. I know you don't care a hang about the child. You only want the money. I feel quite certain that you ill-treat him, though he has never said a word to me about it. Bah, you talk of being an honest woman. Look how the child is dressed. Look how you are.

As soon as the gentleman had gone, his mother, seized upon him and beat him so severely that he screamed for help. A man came in and seized her arms and pinned her to the ground. Look here. The man had said, "'That's enough of that, you she-devil. "'If you try that sort of game again, "'you'll get the worst of it.'

"'The last time he saw the gentleman "'he had been more tender than ever before. "'He had felt hot tears falling on his face. "'Poor little Tobit,' he had said, "'I'm going away to a far country "'and perhaps may never see you again.' "'Then he had heard the gentleman talking to his mother. "'Look, Air Bess,' he said,

"'this is all the money I can scrape together, and this must last you out while I am away. But I hope to be back soon, and then I shall have higher pay. He had cried for many days afterwards, which made his mother very angry. One day, after waiting some time, he had asked when the gentleman would be coming back again from the far country. He won't be coming back again at all, answered his mother, snappishly. He's dead. Got shot in Africa, blast him. Get out and play the whistle. He had gone out in the street.

and cried very much at first, and then it seems he put his grief into music, because he said he had got more pennies than he had ever got before. A little while after, he had heard his mother whispering to a man. "'Darm it,' said the man, "'we can't take that bloody brat with us.' "'Oh, I'll manage that!' The mother had said. After that evening his mother had taken him out into the park,

and it told him she wanted to speak with somebody, and was coming back directly and told him to stay there. He had heard a man's voice, but his mother had never come back again. Fortunately, as soon as the child had finished his story, he went fast asleep. I do not know what I should have said. Its utter loathsomeness reminded me of the one sight I had had of my own face. At dawn I woke the child up. Putting down my thick black veil, I turned home, taking the child with me.

I sent a servant to make inquiries, and the result was as I had expected. The mother had decamped with all her possessions, and not paid the rent. So at last one consolation was sent to me. After having been so long alone, at last I had a companion, one who would not recoil from the sight of me. I determined to give up my nocturnal life and managed to secure a cottage in the remote and desolate part of the country, where one could walk for miles without seeing anyone, and in mercy to my servants stationed them in the nearest town, requiring them only to bring me provisions and do the house once a day. The child was delighted with the country. His placid, absolute

happiness in all his blindness was much more than I had ever experienced in the delight in beauty and the sense of sight. He was very intelligent and phenomenally good, and I managed to teach him music in which he took the keenest pleasure. The piano, of course, was a thing unknown to him before. His only instrument had been a penny whistle. One day I read in the paper that an operation had been successfully performed by a certain eminent oculist on a person born blind. An awful struggle rose in my mind. Supposing the child could be made to see. I thought of the frightful, blank all things which to me had seemed of the greatest value must be to him. And was I to deprive him of that?

Then if he could see and saw me, he would recoil from me in horror. But then I knew that my health was failing, that I should not live long, and was I just to gratify my own selfishness for a short time to condemn him to perpetual darkness when it lay within my reach to save him? It was, as I said before, a frightful struggle. At last I decided I would consult the oculist. I took the child to London. The oculist came and said in his case the operation would be quite simple,

not nearly so difficult as the case mentioned in the papers. It would merely require, well, I don't know what. I know nothing of medical terms, so I consented to have the operation performed. The child was given chloroform and the operation completed. His eyes were bound with bandages, which I was told to take off on the third day. On the third day I did so. I had always thought that the blind, even though born blind, made visual images of things. In his case, it was not so.

The operation had been successful, and he could see. He knew well enough by the touch what a chair or a table was, but I had the greatest difficulty in explaining this or that was a chair or table as he saw it. He seemed quite dazed. Then he said ultimately, And you are the most beautiful person in all the world. End of Section 2. Narcissus.

Section 3 of Studies of Death by Count Stannislaus, Eric Stenbach. This Libervox recording is in the public domain, read by Ben Tucker. The Death of a Vocation It would not seem surprising at first sight that Seraphene de Saint Amaranth incontestably the most beautiful girl of the Paris season, and one of the richest of heiresses should have been married to the Marquis Celestine de Laval, the last representative of one of the most ancient families in France, and that being married, they lived happily ever afterwards. The incident appears entirely commonplace, and rather more fit for the morning post than

anywhere else. But to those who were more intimate with either party, it was an occasion of great surprise. The title of Descent Amaranth was not a very ancient date. Indeed, ill-natured persons assert his name was originally Joseph Levi, and there certainly was a Hebraic strain about him. But then had he not vast wealth, and was he not married to a mundane of the first water, and Serafine herself had received the usual education of the Parisian mundane? At the time I am speaking of, I wish to narrate the actual facts of this case. She was being dragged about to balls and parties after having first of all been spoilt as a child

and then shut up in a convent. She was certainly a very beautiful girl with dark hair and liquid spiritual eyes. But somehow she did not take to balls and parties but hankered after her convent where she determined to become a nun of which of course her parents would not hear. She was not morose

and did not mind going to the third. theater, and things of that kind. But then she would say, yes, this is all great fun, but it is not my life. The one thing she loathed and detested was a ball. She had one of those graceful figures which would look well, even if clothed in a sack. And she was far from being a wanting in the feminine love of dress,

and managed to clothe herself very well. She was also a graceful dancer, but the inane compliments, in conversation, and the lasciviously amorous looks of her many admirers filled her with unutterable loathing. The celebrated sport and igliff man, the Duke de Morley, whom her parents desired to thrust upon her was her special abhorrence. Then how pleased were her parents when she seemed to be taking a fancy to the Marquis de laval? Celestine de laval in many respects resembled her, though of course he had seen much more of the world.

He was a dilettante in literature, art, and music, and somewhat luxurious in his tastes. He had determined for some years to become a monk. Always the courage failed him to take the final step. He would say, All these things I can get on without, they're not necessary to me. I can easily give them up. His friends would say, oh yes, we believe that. But anyhow, although in touch with every latest form of modern thought,

he did not lose his religion. Indeed, it was in connection with that he first met Mademoiselle de Saint-Amorant. He was a good-looking man, with an intellectual type of face of about thirty. It happened one day when he was in a church at Salue. He happened to be seated next to a lady who dropped her prayer book which he handed to her. He was rather struck with her beauty, as he was with all beautiful things, though none of his friends ever remembered his having loved a woman. In France, almost the oriental.

mental system of the harem is kept up. A man may be even intimately acquainted with another man in restaurants and cafes and such like places, and yet never have been introduced into his family, and Celestin had frequently met here and there the Baron de Saint Ammerant. One day meeting him at some circle, Saint Ammeranth begged him to honor him with his presence at a large ball that he was giving in celebration of his daughter's birthday. Now if there was one thing that Celestine hated more than another. It was a ball. Not having an excuse handy he was obliged to accept. So he went. Great was his surprise to find there the girl whom he had met a few days before in church. He was obliged out of common politeness to engage her for one dance.

She said to him, with a singularly candid expression, I'm sure you don't like dancing any more than I do. He answered, No, I do not. Let us rather go and sit out there in the cool, if you do not mind. I think we have seen one another before. Oh, yes, she answered. It was at the Madeline. You picked up my prayer book. You at least go to church. Oh, I'm so utterly tired of this eternal round of balls and parties. Cannot they leave me in peace? I wonder that you should like this sort of thing. But, answered the Marquis, I don't like this sort of thing at all. I was obliged to accept this

invitation. Then blushing and stammering, of course, mademoiselle, I did not mean. Just at this moment, the Duke de Morley came to claim his partner, and so saved him from the difficulty of things one would rather have left unsaid. The long and short of it was that the Marquis de la Val soon became an intimate of the house. The Baron was constantly inviting him to dinner, and the Baron took every opportunity of leaving them alone together, under the impression that he had taken a fancy to her, and she to him, and that she might thus make a brilliant match. In a way, certainly, they had taken a fancy to one another. They had many tastes in common. It was a relief to her after the many smirking admirers to find a man who treated her as an intellectual,

sympathetic being, and he had perhaps very much the same feeling with regard to her. After a time, they became confidential. One day she said to him, You know, my resolution is the same as yours. You have freedom, and I have not. I intend to enter a religious order, and what am I to do? Certainly, my parents keep me as closely confined as I should be in the most enclosed order, and they go on insisting on my being married to one of these wretched creatures with stick-up collars and an inane face whom I loathe the sight of. You know, you are the only man who has ever been at least a friend to me,

and my mother does not like me to have girlfriends, and indeed if I had any, I do not think I should like them. Their ideal of life appears to be that which is my repulsion. So what am I to do? It is really to you only who might understand me that I can appeal for advice. Well, he answered slowly, there is only one possible escape from the difficulty. You will be somewhat surprised to hear what I propose. But if you think about it, you will find it as not so startling after all, namely that you and I should go through a nominal form of marriage

and live together as brother and sister for a while, then you would be free to do as you liked. And we would then part and go to our separate convents. She trembled a little and said, But supposing you should come to love some other woman, and I were to go into a convent, I should be an everlasting drag upon you. He answered, I thought you knew me well enough to suppose that.

Besides, I think, according to the laws of our church, if I may speak plainly, a marriage without consummation is considered null and void. But there's no need to trouble about that. You seem to doubt my vocation. She took his hand and said, I was only afraid for your sake, if you really mean what you say. Well, tis the will of God.

The delight of the baron on hearing his daughter, daughter was engaged was immense. And when the Marquis de LaBalle came to him to make arrangements, he was amiably prepared to behave very generously towards his only child. Great was his surprise when De LaValle refused to accept any dowry whatsoever. After a great deal of pressing, he said, well, if you insist upon it, you can provide her with her trousseau, and though both of us would rather be married as privately as possible, if you wish to have a train of bridesmaid. in a high mass with full orchestra, you are at liberty to pay for it. But after she is my wife, I will not touch a penny of her money.

I have, due merci, quite enough to support us both. So they were married in grand state, and this was, of course, reported as fashionable intelligence in all the papers. They first of all went to his chateau near Nantes, in Brittany, where Laval's mother was rather astonished at their occupying separate rooms. Indeed, the only occasion he entered his wife's room was when they said the breviary together in preparation for their monastic life.

Then they went traveling about Italy. In a quiet way, they amused themselves very much and found they had still more points in common than they had thought before. And making no acquaintances, they found themselves mutually a necessity to one another. They became literally brother and sister, except as is unprecedented in brothers and sisters,

they never quarreled once. One day, a year after their marriage, they came back to his house in Paris. They decided to take the final step. He suggested, half in jest, half in earnest, that she should put on the habit of the Franciscan tertiaries to see what she would look like as a nun, which she did.

He looked at her, tears gathering in his eyes. Oh, Serafine, he said, I shall miss you very much. Suddenly she threw her arms, around him and kissed him for the first time passionately. No, dear, she cried. I cannot leave you. I cannot live without you. Just then there was a loud knock and ring at the door. She went down to the door in her nun's dress. A wretched girl was running along the street. Then she stumbled over something on the doorstep. It cried piteously.

She took it up. It was a child of about one year old, wrapped up in squalid rags. It put out its arms towards her. When she took it in her arms. it ceased to cry. She took it up and without a word laid it upon her husband's lap. The child stretched out its soft clinging arms towards Celestan and turned his forget-me-not-like eyes upon him. It remained quite quiet. She went out of the room noiselessly. After a time she came back, arrayed in her bridal dress. She sat down beside him and put the child between them. Then they sat there for a long time, hand in hand, in utter silence. End of Section 3

The Death of a Vocation Section 4 of Studies of Death By Count Stanasloss, Eric Stenbach The Slebravox recording is in the public domain Read by Ben Tucker Ville d'Amour One time there was much in vogue A peculiarly sweet-toned kind of violin

Or rather, to be accurate, something between a viola and a violin cello. Now they are no longer made. This is the history of the last one that was ever made, I think. This somewhat singular story might in some way explain why they are made no longer. But though I am a poetist, and consequently inclined to believe in the unlikely, this I do not suppose was the history of violaumours in general. I may add by way of prefix that its peculiar sweetness of tone was produced,

by the duplicated reverberation of strings below, with yet another reverberation within the sounding board. But to my story. I was once in Freiburg. Freeburg and Baden, I mean. I went one Sunday to high mass at the cathedral. Beethoven's glorious mass and sea was magnificently rendered by a string quartet. I was specially impressed by the first violin,

a dignified, middle-aged man with a singularly handsome face, reminding one of the portraits of Leonardo da Vinci. He was dressed in a medieval-looking black robe, and he played with an inspiration such as I have seldom, if ever heard. There was likewise a most beautiful boys' treble. Boy's voices, lovely in their timber as nothing else, are generally somewhat wanting in their expression. This one united the most exquisite timber,

with the most complete possible expression. I was going to stay in Freiburg some time, as I knew people there. The first violinist had aroused my curiosity. I learnt that he was an Italian, a Florentine, of the ancient noble family, Da Ripoli. But he was now a maker of musical instruments, not very well off,

who nevertheless played at the cathedral for love, not money. Also that the beautiful treble was his youngest son, and he was a widower with five children. As he interested me, I sought to procure an introduction, which I succeeded at a child. getting without difficulty. He lived in one of those beautiful old houses, which linger still in towns like Freiburg. He seemed somewhat surprised that an English woman should go out of her way to visit him.

Fortunately, I was familiar with Italian, being myself an Italian on the mother's side, and was at that time on my way to Italy. He received me with much affability. I was ushered into a long Gothic room done in black oak. There was a very beautiful Gothic window which was open. It was springtime in the most delightful weather. There was a strong scent of May about the room, emanating from a hawthorn tree immediately opposite the window, which had the extraordinary peculiarity of bearing red and white blossoms at the same time.

The room was full of all sorts of odds and ends of things, caskets, vessels, embroideries, all exquisitely artistic. He told me these were executed by a son and daughter of his. We began to interest one another, and had a long time. talk. As we were talking, in walked a tall, grave-looking young man. He was of the pure atrescan type, dark and indeed somewhat somber. With a perturbed air, not noticing me, he suddenly made this singular remark. Saturn is in conjunction with the moon, I fear that ill may betide Guido. This is my son, Andrea, his father explained, my oldest son. He goes in much for astronomy and indeed also for astrology, in which you probably do not believe.

At that moment in walked another young man. This was the second son, Giovanni. He was also dark, like his brother, and tall, but had a very pleasing smile. He reminded me, rather of the portrait of Andrea del Sarto. It was he who manufactured, to use the word in its proper sense, these beautiful objects which were lying about the table. After him came in two sisters, the elder whose name was Anastasia, was a tall stately girl with dark hair and gray eyes but pale face,

very much like the type we are familiar with from the pictures of Dante Gabriel Rossetti. The younger sister was quite different. She was fair but fair in the Italian manner, that glorious ivory-white complexion so different from the pink and white of the north. Her hair was of that glorious red-gold color which we see in Titian's pictures, but her eyes were dark. Her name was Leperata.

It appears Anastasia was the eldest of the family, then came Andrea and Giovanni, then Lipperata, and lastly Guido, whom I had not seen yet. I omitted to mention, though it does not seem here of any significance at all, that Anastasia wore a blue gown of somewhat stiff, medieval cut, but very graceful all the same. I learnt afterwards it was both designed and made by herself. Presently there entered the room a boy of about fourteen. This was Guido. He was fairer than his brothers, though also somewhat of the Etruscan ten.

type, and was not so tall for his age. He looked singularly fragile and delicate. His complexion was more delicate than a rose petal. He had those long, supple, sensitive hands which indicate the born musician. His somewhat long hair of a shade of brown had a shadow of gold on it, as if it had been golden once. But in his strange-colored eyes which were a gray-blue, streaked with yellow bars, there was a far-off look, like a light, not of this world, shining on a slowly rippling river music. He went straight to the window, also not noticing there was a stranger in the room and said, Ah, how beautiful the may tree is! I shall only see it in bloom once more. He seemed indeed to be looking through the blooming hawthorn at that pale planet Saturn, which then was, for it,

singularly large and brilliant. Andrea shuddered, but Giovanni bent down and kissed him and said, What, Guido, another fit of melancholia? As you imagine, I was interested in this singular family, and soon our acquaintance ripened into intimacy. It was to Anastasia that I was specially drawn, and she to me, Anastasia, inherited the musical tastes of her father, and was herself no mean executant on the violin. Andrea was not only occupied with astronomy and astrology, but even with alchemy, and such-like things and occult sciences generally. The whole family was very superstitious.

They seemed to take astrology and magic as matters of course, but Andrea was by far the most superstitious of them all. It was Giovanni, who was the breadwinner of the family, together with his special sister, Liparata, who assisted him in his work, and herself did the most charming embroideries. The only thing was that their materials were too costly and required a large outlay to be made before they could sell anything.

For though the musicals, instruments the father produced were super excellent of their kind and fetched large prices. He took so much care about his work that he was sometimes years in producing one violin. He was then absorbed in one idea, in producing a viol d'amor, an instrument which he said was the most beautiful in all the world in which had unjustly fallen into disuse. and his viol demur was to excel all others that had ever been made. He had left Florence, he said, because he could not stand this great republic, for though of one of the most ancient noble families he was an ardent Republican,

being converted into the capital of a tenth-rate monarchy. They will take Rome next, he said, and he did not know that what he was saying was soon to come true. They were not well off, certainly, but it was Anastasia. who managed the household and cared for everyone, and she was the most excellent of managerises, and so their life was very simple, but nevertheless was elegant and refined. I very often enjoyed their simple, truly Italian hospitality,

recompensing them by purchasing some specimens of Giovanni's excellent workmanship, and a violin from the old Signor de Ripoli, which I have still and would not part with for the world, though, alas, I myself cannot play upon it. To cut a long story short, I had to go on with my journey, but I did not wholly lose sight of them, so to speak,

and I corresponded frequently with Anastasia. One day, just about a year afterwards, I received the following letter from Anastasia. Dear Cecilia, a great calamity has fallen upon us. It is so out of the common that you would hardly believe it. Of course you know how my father is devoted to his Ville de Mor. You also know that we are almost, rather superstitious, but none to the same degree as Andrea. It appears that one day Andrea

was pouring into some old book, which was in that mongrel tongue, half Latin and half Italian, before the days of Dante when he came across a passage, you know I know nothing about the manufacture of musical instruments, but it appears that leather thongs are necessary to procure the complete vibration of the viol de more. In this passage, it said that preternatural sweetness of tone could be procured if the thongs were made of the skin of those who loved the maker most. I had heard of this superstition before. I think there is some story in connection with Paganini

of a similar nature, but nevertheless quite different. For as the legend goes about Paganini, the strings of a violin were made of the entrails of a person, which necessitated their murder, but here it would appear from the rest of the letter did not do so, and was a free-will offering. Andrea conceived the fantastic idea of cutting off part of his own skin, and having it tanned, unbeknownst to our father,

telling him he had got it from the clinic because he had heard human leather was the best. To effect this, he had to invoke the assistance of Giovanni, who, as you know, was so skillful with all instruments, and as also as perhaps you do not know, a most skillful surgeon. Giovanni, not to be outdone by his brother, performed the same operation on himself. They were obliged to confide in me,

and as you know I am very good as an nurse. and clever bandages and such like, so I managed with a little bandaging and nursing and sewing up the scars to get them quite well again in a very short time. Of course, no word of this was ever said to Lipperata or Guido. And now comes the dreadful part of my story, how Guido could have divined anything I cannot understand.

The only explanation I can offer is this. He is a very studious boy, and very fond of pouring into the old books in Andrea's library. He might have seen the same passage, and with his extraordinary quick intuition, have guessed. Anyhow, he appears to have gone to some quack Jew doctor, and had a portion of his skin cut off in the same manner, and brought the skin to his brothers to be dealt with in the same way, which it was. The operation had been performed badly, and as you know the child is very delicate, and it has had the most disastrous results. He is hopelessly ill, and we do not know what to do.

of course we cannot tell our father. It is equally impossible to tell a doctor. Fortunately, our father does not believe in doctors and trusts in us. It is a good thing all three of us know something of medical science. I think things are getting a little better. He rallied a little yesterday and asked to be taken from his bed to the sofa in the long room. At his own request, he was placed just opposite the matry with the window open. This seemed to revive him.

He became comparatively speaking. quite animated, especially when a slight wind blew some of the red and white blossoms onto his coverlet. Giovanni and I have some hope, but Andrea has not. Lipperata, of course, does not understand what it all means, nor does our father, who is intensely anxious about Guido, whom he loves best of us all. Ever affectionately, Anastasia. P.S. Good news at last. The violaumor is complete. Father came down and played it to us. Oh, what a divine tone it has. Guido first burst into tears and then seemed to grow quite well again for some time afterwards. Father left the Ville de Mor with me that I should play to Guido whenever he wished it.

Yes, there is hope after all, whatever Andrea may say. Not long afterwards I received another letter from Anastasia in deep mourning. It ran thus. The worst has happened. Last Friday, after having been for several days considerably better, Guido seemed almost himself again. I was alone with him in the long room. One thinks of trivialities and great grief. I was wearing that same blue dress I had on when I first saw you. There was a wind also rain, which pattered against the window pane, and the wind blew the blossoms of the May tree

like red-white snow to the ground. This seemed to depress, Guido. He begged me to sing to him, and accompany myself on the viol de mor. It is so sweet of tone, he said, with a sweet sad smile. I am rather tired, though I do not feel much pain now. I shall not see the hawthorn bloom again. I began to sing an old Etruscan ballad, one of those songs that linger about the country parts of Tuscany, of a very simple plaintive cadence,

accompanied softly on the viol de Mor. It would be soothing, I thought, at any rate, and it was. Guido laid his head back and closed his eyes. Gradually the rain ceased and the wind stilled. Guido looked up. That is better, he said. I was afraid of the wind and the rain, and you stopped them with the viol de more. Look, the moon is beginning to shine again.

It was a full moon, and it shone through the hawthorn tree, making strange shadows on the window, and one ray shot direct. on Guido's pale face. Go on singing, he said faintly. I felt some dread presentiment. I dared not stop singing and playing. It seemed that a shadow literally crept through the doorway and came up to the bed and bent over it.

Then suddenly all the strings of the violetamor snapped. A strange wail seemed to come out of the sounding board. I dropped it and looked. Then I saw it was too late. Father took to Viol de Mor and broke it to pieces and cast it into the fire His silent agony is too terrible

To describe I cannot tell you any more now I was in Freiburg Once again and of course the first thing I did Was to go and see my old friends The Signor de Rapoli was very much aged He still plays in the cathedral Did he or did he not ever know what had happened

Anyhow He has made no further attempt to construct a Vial Lordomor, nor may the word even be mentioned in his presence. Giovanni and Lipperata have gone back to Italy, where they have set up a workshop for themselves. It is rumored that Lipperata is shortly to be married, but Anastasia remains with her father. I do not think that she will ever marry. Andrea has become a victim to settled melancholy. He lives quite by himself in a lonely tower.

It was he who had the following inscription put on Guido's tomb. The music and the amor Cé move The soul and the other Stell End of section four Viol Damore Section 5

Of Studies of Death by Count Stanislaus Eric Stenbach The Slibrovox recording is in the public domain Read by Ben Tucker The Egg of the Albatross The top of a disused lighthouse, surrounded by the sea, hardly seems to be a convenient or desirable residence for a

little girl. This was the residence of Marina. The people of Verena did not seem to think there was anything very extraordinary about it. She had always been there. And when her father and mother died, they left her there all alone. Besides, there was something uncanny about her. And although she was a familiar figure in the town, and in fact, rather a pet, at the same time people thought it just as well that she should live a little way off. Verena is an island in the West Indies, not much known to the general public, but nevertheless many foreigners alight there in search of rare orchids and butterflies, and particularly of the eggs of waterfowl, who have there one of their greatest vastnesses. Such foreigners as do come thither are mostly wealthy people,

and have yachts of their own, and on them the island thrives. It is only, every now and then that a steamer touches there. When I say Marina's father and mother died in the lighthouse, I am not strictly accurate because they were not her father and mother, and she, instead of being found under the traditional gooseberry bush, was hauled up in a mackerel net at the early age of three. Where she came from, and what she was, nobody ever knew. When she was picked up, she could not speak at all. She was not drowned. On the contrary, she was swimming about quite naturally, as a puppy or kitten might do. According to the best authorities,

she had the peculiar fairness and other characteristics of the octaroon, but people generally regarded her as something not of this world. She did not seem to understand or respond to any known language. But she soon learned to talk Portuguese. The old people,

whose only child had been drowned years ago, became devoted to this strange sea baby, whom they called Marina from her origin. A new lighthouse had been built, but they were allowed to keep their old quarters. The two old people died almost simultaneously, so leaving Marina alone. She belonged to no one, and nobody particularly wished to take charge of her. But as I have said before, she was rather a favorite in the town when she appeared on market days with her curious wares, for this is how she made her living.

She would gather all manner of curious and iridescent shells and make them into necklaces or boxes. and such-like things. Likewise, she made curious bouquets of dried seaweeds. But her chief source of income were the eggs of the gulls, Gillamonts, sea swallows, penguins, and the like. Strange to say all these wild creatures were perfectly tame to her. They would come to her to be fed, and actually allowed her to take their eggs from their nest.

She never took more than one from each nest. She was singularly nimble of foot. and would climb up to their fastnesses. In this trade she had a specialty. If any one else had attempted to take their eggs, the assembled waterfowl of all kinds would unanimously and unmercifully have attacked them. So once a week the quaint little figure could be seen crossing in her little boat, which she had painted green herself,

encrusted with corals and shells and strange devices. She was very simply clad in one single loose white garment, bound rather curiously with a sea-green sash made of silk. On one exceptionally lucky day she had found means to purchase this one article of finery, which had always attracted her fancy. She was always barefooted, but she wore shell, necklaces, and bracelets, and also wore reeds in her hair of delicate seaweeds. Her eyes were green, her hair of peculiar nuance,

which also in certain lights looked green, so it was not very wonderful for the superstitious people to think her a water sprite. So, though living all alone and unprotected, she was quite safe, as no one would dare to rob or molest her, she spent the rest of her time in swimming and rowing about, or running along the rocks in search of various sea products. Perhaps on these occasions her toilet was less complete than it was on Saturdays. I'm afraid poor Marina was a heathen. Again, what is everybody's business is nobody's business. It was nobody's business to give her religious instruction, or indeed,

any instruction whatever. The priests in that part are not of a very high order, generally even more superstitious than their flocks. The worthy Padre did not care to come much in contact with the creature he thought not quite human. And besides, there was no one to pay him for instructing her. Indeed, some people averred she had never even been baptized. One day some vague sense of religion did waken her.

She saw on a shop window and Taglio, and some green stone representing a venerable-looking old man with a trident, standing between two long-tumbled lines of sea, from which emerged, beautiful figures of maidens with long-streaming hair and beautiful youths playing on spiral-shell trumpets. This pleased her immensely, so much so that she determined to purchase it at the cost of all her savings, which I think amounted to three dollars.

So one day she went to the shop and triumphantly demanded the article, displaying what she supposed to be her vast wealth. But my dear, said the shopman, the price of that is fifty dollars. She stood aghast, fifty dollars, she had never heard of so much money in her life. Then she began to cry silently. There happened to be an intellectual-looking Englishman in the shop

who had come to the island in his yacht in search of orchids. He was struck both with the pathos and the humor of the situation, He paid down the $50 and gave the Entaglio to the child. She could not believe her senses, and disappeared like a flash of lightning, clutching her treasure to her bosom, ran at full speed through the town, jumped into her boat, and rode quickly across, and did not rest till she had reached her airy nest in safety. She had occasionally wandered into the church and got a few confused notions of a cult, which she did not understand.

So by way of imitation she hung up the Entaglio, in the corner of the room, and placed a perpetual light to burn before it. I may here fitly describe what the room was like. It was hexagonal. She had painted it herself with a curious, wavy pattern in her favorite sea green. But all the corners she had encrusted with shells and seaweed, of which she also had fashioned an elaborate freeze. The furniture was very simple indeed.

The only table was utilized to support a large aquarium, which also was a present from a rich foreigner. And that, she had arranged with a conventive, kind of fairy garden, with seaweeds for trees, and all manner of beautiful sea anemones for flowers. The rest of the furniture consisted of two large boxes. In one box she had made herself a luxurious bed with the shed feathers of the wild sea birds. In the other box there was something still more extraordinary at the moment. This story commences, namely an albatross sitting upon her egg. There was no chair, for if she sat down at all, she sat on the floor, also no fireplace,

as in Verena, it is never cold, and she spent most of her time in the open air, and as she found her food on the seashore, she had no need of cooking. Indeed, so self-supporting was she that she would first make a meal on the mollusk and then sell the shell. On exceptional occasions, she would treat herself to a seaweed salad, which is by no means so unpalatable as it. sounds to those who have never tasted one. The windows were always open, and the wild sea birds would fly out and in. She used to buy food for them in the town, which cost her much more than her own food ever did. But her chief friend was an albatross, whom she called Amontana, who had made her nest for three successive years in her box.

Indeed, when the albatross flew out. Marina would sit on the nest and keep the egg warm herself. which the albatross understood as she never flew away unless the little girl was there. Once a day during the season, another bigger albatross, whom she called Wandafra, would come to visit his wife. But he did not see the fun of sitting on the egg if the little girl would undertake that office for him. How she came to choose these names, which conformed to no known language, is difficult to ascertain. All that is known is that, when she was first picked up,

She gabbled some unintelligible jargon, whichever afterwards she had been heard to murmur to herself. One day a steamer did land at Verena. It was quasi-private, and more or less going round the world. There were all sorts and conditions of people in it, or rather, I mean, many sorts. But one condition, e.g. there were collectors who wished to land at Verena to collect various objects which were their particular hobby, and sportsmen who thought it great fun to shoot Gilamots. but no stearred passengers. Among these was a certain German professor called Somler.

Herr Somler collected everything. From being a poor professor of zoology and botany, he had unexpectedly come into a considerable fortune. So now he was enabled to indulge his mania to the full. One Saturday, as usual, Marina went with her wares to the marketplace. It was just at the beginning of the breeding season, and she had an unusually good collection of various eggs.

There came up to her stall a benevolent-looking old gentleman with a long white beard, and a pair of spectacles accompanied by a well-known character in the town, a certain Portuguese Jew called Levi Mendez, who used to act as guide and interpreter to foreigners who landed at the island. The benevolent-looking gentleman took a great interest in Marina's eggs. His knowledge of Portuguese was somewhat limited, so he had to converse chiefly by means of the interpreter. There seemed to be some dispute,

between them, in German a language which of course Marina could not understand. But her quick intelligence divined that the Jew wished to beat down her prices, whereas the German was willing to give her more than she asked. It ended by her Sommler, for this was he, giving her more money than she had ever got before. Then Mendes drew Professor Sommler aside, and this was their conversation. You said you particularly wanted to get an albatross egg, her professor. Now that little girl has one, you know they are rather difficult to get. I know that, said the professor. Besides, in this island there is a peculiar variety of albatross. It would be indeed something if I could get one of their eggs.

Well, said the Jew, I think I could get it for you and cheap too. The child does not know the value of money, if you will pardon me saying so. I think it was injudicious of you to give her so much for those other eggs, and of course she has no notion of comparative value. I certainly should not think of taking advantage of a little girl, said the professor. I will give her a fair price for it, but let us go back and you can arrange for me to see the egg. They came back again to her stall. The Jew said insinuatingly, This great senior is particularly desirous of seeing your albatross egg.

Would you mind showing it to him? "'Oh, no,' said Marina, "'who was impressed by the benevolent appearance of the stranger, "'and only too proud of showing off her treasures. "'What time could we most conveniently come?' asked Mendez. "'A tomorrow afternoon at three,' said the little girl. "'Then our Al-Montana goes out for her afternoon fly.' "'So next day, Herr Sommler, and his guide presented themselves at the lighthouse,

"'where they found Marina sitting as usual on the egg. "'Isn't it beautiful?' she said, rising and pointing the egg out to the professor. "'May the signor look at it?' asked Levi. "'I don't know whether Amontana would like it,' said Marina, "'but if he is very careful with it,' the professor took the egg up in his hand. "'Strange is the mania for collecting. People who would otherwise be incapable of a dishonest action resort even to theft in order to obtain some rare object, which they especially covet.

Tell her, said Herr Sommler, I will give her twenty dollars for it. The signor says he will give you two dollars for it, says Mendez. No, no, no, you must give it me back, cried Marina. No, my zeer, blurted out the German and very broken Portuguese. Not two dollars, but twenty dollars, twenty-five dollars. "'No, this is not to be sold,' cried the little girl. "'Almontana only lays one egg in what will she say if she finds her egg gone?' She began to cry bitterly, but the professor, under the influence of the lust of collection,

calmly put the egg in his pocket, but being naturally of a kindly nature, tried to soothe the child and produced from his pocket two banknotes of twenty dollars each. Marina had never seen a banknote before. She took the paper, not knowing in the least what it meant. You'd better come away, said Mendez, and hurried her somler down the stairs. The child, clutching the banknotes in her hand, followed them, and her little boat managed to overtake their large boat with four rowers. Then she followed them through the town, saying in piteous monotony,

Give me back my egg! Of course a crowd of people gathered together and naturally asked, what all the fuss was about. I do not know what she means, said Mendez. She is mad. See, the signor has bought her Albatross egg. Here is the egg, and he has given her $40 for it. See, she has the $40 in her hand.

And so she had, two crumpled notes, almost crushed to pieces by the skulls of her boat. The people tried to explain that the signor has bought it. It is his, and he has given you a very, very great deal of money for it. suddenly Marina attempted to seize the egg from Mendez and in the scuffle the egg fell to the ground and was smashed Marina turned deadly pale and fell down in a dead faint the German whom I've said before was a kindly man

caused her to be taken to his hotel and instructed his landlady to put her into the best bed she could find the landlady who was a good kind of woman and likewise because she wished to oblige the professor and feared to do any ill to the water sprite treated her with the utmost gentleness. Marina remained for a long time unconscious, and then, reviving to semi-consciousness, fell asleep. Seeing her in a natural sleep, the landlady left her, but she did not wake till dawn. She found herself in a huge room in a large bed.

It was some time before she could realize and recollect. Then, clad only in a nightgown as she was, she opened the window and managed. somehow to slide down the water pipe and escaped. When she got to the fastness again, she called out, Almondana, Almondana, telling as best she could in her strange jargon to the bird what had happened. There was no answer but a long wail. She caught sight of the albatross, circling round and round, lamenting the loss of her only egg.

She went to the window and stretched out her arms and implored Almentana to come in, but she only continued circling round and wailing. At last in her attempts to catch the albatross, she overbalanced herself and fell straight into the water. Of course, the fall was fatal. A strange thing was to be seen that morning on the seashore. The body of a child in a simple white nightgown washed ashore, standing over it with wings outspread, an albatross. Just then a boat came in sight, one of the boats from the steamer.

In it were two Englishmen. one of them was a thick set an aggressively muscular young man of that particularly English type well-formed perhaps but wholly without grace healthy perhaps but holy without bloom or the expression of vitality

those stupid dull apathetic impudent eyes peculiar to this breed features perhaps well-formed but utterly dull and stolid without any charm of expression with a thick coarse abundant growth of hair He was clad in a sort of Knickerbocker suit of a loud check pattern, a stick-up, collar, and a cap.

He carried a gun in his hand. The other was of a different type. An older man was something intellectual and refined about his features. I say, Jenkins, said the young man. Here is a chance. Here's an albatross. We shall be able to get one after all. You remember the devil of fuss we had with that one we hooked,

and the bloody brute went and broke the hook and went, off with it." I thought that was horrible," said the other man. The bird was quite tame and followed the ship for days. Remember the fate of the ancient mariner. Damn the ancient mariner, said the other. No, I didn't suppose you were familiar with the story of the ancient mariner. But there is another consideration of a more practical kind that I wish to urge upon you.

You had better not shoot the arbitros, because the people here have a kind of superstitious regard for them. You might get into a great row if you did. What do I care what these damn bloody Portuguese think? Said the young man, taking aim. He shot, and the shot went home. And at that moment a much larger albatross swooped down and hit him with one terrible blow with his powerful wing.

And his companion had little difficulty in ascertaining that he had been killed at once. Stranger still was the sight that met the eyes of the fisherfolk as they went down to the sea to ply their usual avocation. There was Marina lying dead, and on her bosom the dead albatross shot through the heart, and circling round, in circles sometimes wide and sometimes narrow, a male albatross, bewailing the death of his mate. End of Section 5, the egg of the albatross.

Section 6 of Studies of Death by Count Stanislaus Eric Stenbach. This Librevox recordings in the public. domain, read by Ben Tucker. The True Story of a Vampire Vampire Stories are generally located in Styria. Mine is also. Steria is by no means the romantic kind of place described by those who have certainly never been there.

It is a flat, uninteresting country, only celebrated by its turkeys, its capons, and the stupidity of its inhabitants. Vampires generally arrive at night, in carriages drawn by two black horses. Our vampire arrived by the commonplace means of the railway train, and in the afternoon. You must think I am joking, or perhaps that by the word vampire I mean a financial vampire. No, I am quite serious. The vampire of whom I am speaking, who laid waste our hearth and home, was a real vampire.

Vampires are generally described as dark, sinister-looking, and singularly handsome. Our vampire was, on the contrary, rather fair, and certainly was not at first sight, sinister-looking, and, though decidedly attractive in appearance, not what one would call singularly handsome. Yes, he desolated our home, killed my brother, the one object of my adoration, also my dear father. Yet at the same time, I must say that I myself came under the spell of his fascination, and in spite of all have no ill-will towards him now. Doubtless you have read in the papers, Passim of the Baroness and her beasts.

It is to tell how I came to spend most of my useless wealth on an asylum for straight animals that I am writing this. I am old now. What happened then was when I was a little girl of about thirteen. I will begin by describing our household. We were Poles. Our name was Ronsky. We lived in Sterea.

where we had a castle. Our household was very limited. It consisted with the exclusion of domestics of only my father, our governess, a worthy Belgian named Mademoiselle von Ert, my brother, and myself. Let me begin with my father. He was old, and both my brother and I were children of his old age. Of my mother, I remember nothing. She died in giving birth to my brother, who was only one year, or not as much, younger than myself. Our father was studious, continually occupied, and reading books, chiefly on recondite subjects and in all kinds of unknown languages. He had a long white beard and wore habitually a black velvet skull cap. How kind he was to us.

It was more than I could tell. Still, it was not I who was the favorite. His whole heart went out to Gabriel. Gabriel, as we spelt it in Polish. He was always called by the Russian abbreviation Gavril. I mean, of course my brother, who has... had a resemblance to the only portrait of my mother, a slight chalk sketch sketch which hung in my father's study. But I was by no means jealous, my brother was, and has been, the only love of my life.

It is for his sake that I am now keeping in Westbourne Park a home for stray cats and dogs. I was at that time, as I said before, a little girl. My name was Carmella. My long tangled hair was always, all over the place, and never would be combed straight. I was not pretty, at least looking at a photograph of me at that time I do not think I could describe myself as such. Yet at the same time when I look at the photograph, I think my expression may have been pleasing to some people, irregular features, large mouth and large wild eyes. I was by way of being naughty, not so naughty as Gabriel in the opinion of Mademoiselle Vanert. Madameoiselle Vernet, I may intercalate, was a wholly excellent person, middle-aged,

who really did speak good French, although she was a Belgian, and could also make herself understood in German, which, as you may or may not know, is the current language of Styria. I find it difficult to describe my brother Gabriel. There was something about him strange and superhuman, or perhaps I should rather say, praterhuman, something between the animal and the divine. Perhaps the Greek idea of the faun might illustrate what I mean,

but that will not do either. He had large wild gazelle-like eyes. His hair, like mine, was in a perpetual tangle. That point he had in common with me. And indeed, as I afterwards heard, our mother, having been of gypsy race, it will account for much of the innate wildness there was in our natures. I was wild enough, but Gabriel was much wilder.

Nothing would induce him to put on shoes and stockings, except on Sundays, when he also allowed his hair to be combed, but only by me. How shall I describe the grace? of that lovely mouth, shaped verily on ach demour. I always think of the text in psalm. Grace has shed forth on thy lips, therefore has God blessed thee eternally, lips that seemed to exhale the very breath of life. Then that beautiful life, living elastic form. He could run faster than any deer, spring like a squirrel to the topmost branch of a tree.

He might have stood for the sign and symbol of vitality itself, but seldom could he be induced by Mademoiselle Van Ert to learn lessons, but when he did so he learned with extraordinary quickness. He would play upon every conceivable instrument, holding a violin here, there, and everywhere, except the right place. Manufacturing instruments for himself out of reeds, even sticks. Mademoiselle von Ert made futile efforts to induce him to learn to play the piano. I suppose he was what was called spoiled, though merely in the superficial sense of the word, Our father allowed him to indulge in every caprice.

One of his peculiarities when quite a little child was horror at the sight of meat. Nothing on earth would induce him to taste it. Another thing which was particularly remarkable about him was his extraordinary power over animals. Everything seemed to come tame to his hand. Birds would sit on his shoulder, then sometimes Mademoiselle Vanert and I would lose him in the woods. He would suddenly dart away. Then we would find him, singing softly or whistling to himself, with all manner of woodland creatures around him.

Hedgehogs, little foxes, wild rabbits, marmots, squirrels, and such like. He would frequently bring these things home with him and insist on keeping them. The strange menagerie was the terror of poor Mademoiselle Farnout's heart. He chose to live in a little room at the top of a turret, but which instead of going upstairs, he chose to reach by means of a very tall chestnut tree through the window. But in contradiction to all this, it was his custom to serve every Sunday Mass in the parish church, with hair nicely combed, and with white, suplice, and red cacacac. He looked as demure and tame as possible.

Then came the element of the divine. What an expression of ecstasy there was in those glorious eyes. Thus far, I have not been speaking about the vampire. However, let me begin with my narrative at last. One day my father had to go to the neighboring town, as he frequently had, this time he returned accompanied by a guest. The gentleman, he said, had missed his train, through the late arrival of another at our station, which was a junction and he would, therefore, as trains were not frequent in our parts,

have had to wait there all night. He had joined in conversation with my father in the too late arriving train from the town, and had consequently accepted my father's invitation to stay the night at our house. But of course you know in those out-of-the-way parts We are almost patriarchal in our hospitality. He was announced under the name of Count Vardalec, The name being Hungarian, but he spoke German well enough, Not with the monotonous accentuation of Hungarians,

But rather, if anything, with a slight Slavonic intonation. His voice was peculiarly soft and insinuating. We soon afterwards found out he could talk Polish, and Mademoiselle Van Ert vouched for his good French. Indeed he seemed to know all languages, but let me give my first impressions. He was rather tall with fair wavy hair, rather long, which accentuated a certain effeminacy about his smooth face. His figure had something.

I cannot say what. Serpentine about it. The features were refined, and he had long, slender, subtle, magnetic-looking hands, a somewhat long sinuous nose, a graceful mouth, and an attractive smile, which belied the intense sadness of the expression of the eyes. When he arrived, his eyes were half closed. Indeed, they were habitually so, so that I could not decide their color. He looked worn and worried. I could not possibly guess his age. Suddenly Gabriel burst into the room. A yellow butterfly was clinging to his hair. He was carrying in his arms a little squirrel. Of course he was bare-legged as usual.

The stranger looked up at his approach. Then I noticed his eyes. They were green. They seemed to dilate and grow larger. Gabriel stood, stock still, with a startled look like that of a bird fascinated by a serpent. But nevertheless, he held out his hand to the newcomer. Vardalek, taking his hand,

I don't know why I noticed this trivial thing, pressed the pulse with his forefinger. Suddenly Gabriel darted from the room and rushed upstairs, going to his turret room this time by the staircase instead of the tree. I was in terror what the Count might think of him. Great was my relief when he came down in his velvet Sunday suit and shoes and stockings. I combed his hair and set him generally right. When the stranger came down to dinner his appearance had somewhat altered. He looked much younger.

There was an elasticity of the skin, combined with a delicate, it complexion, rarely to be found in a man. Before he had struck me as being very pale. Well, at dinner we were all charmed with him, especially my father. He seemed to be thoroughly acquainted with all my father's particular hobbies. Once when my father was relating some of his military experiences, he said something about a drummer boy who was wounded in battle. His eyes opened completely again and dilated, this time with a particularly disagreeable expression. dull and dead, yet at the same time animated by some horrible excitement. But this was only momentary.

The chief subject of his conversation with my father was about certain curious mystical books, which my father had just lately picked up, and which he could not make out, but Vardalek seemed completely to understand. At dessert time, my father asked him if he were in great hurry to reach his destination. If not, would he not stay with him? this a little while, though our place was out of the way he would find much that would interest him in this library. He answered, I'm in no hurry. I have no particular reason for going to that place at all, and if I can be of service to you, in deciphering these books I shall be only too glad.

He added with a smile, which was bitter, very, very bitter. You see, I am a cosmopolitan, a wanderer, on the face of the earth. After dinner, my father asked him if he played the piano. He said, Yes, I can a little. And he sat down at the piano. Then he played a Hungarian sardis, wild, rhapsodic, wonderful. That is the music which makes men mad.

He went on in the same strain. Gabriel stood stock-still by the piano, his eyes dilated and fixed, his form quivering. At last he said very slowly at one. particular motive. For want of a better word, you may call it the relash of a sardus, by which I mean that point where the original quasi-slow movement begins again. Yes, I think I could play that. Then he quickly fetched his fiddle and self-made xylophone,

and did actually, alternating the instruments, render the same very well indeed. Vardelich looked at him and said in a very sad voice, "'Poor child, you have the soul of music within you.' I could not understand why he should seem to commiserate instead of congratulate Gabriel on what certainly showed an extraordinary talent. Gabriel was shy even as the wild animals who were tamed to him. Never before had he taken to a stranger.

Indeed, as a rule, if any stranger came to the house by any chance, he would hide himself, and I had to bring him up his food to the turret chamber. You may imagine what was my surprise when I saw him walking about hand in hand with Vardalek the next morning in the garden, talking lively with him, and showing his collection of pet animals, which he had gathered from the woods, and for which we had to fit up a regular zoological gardens. He seemed utterly under the domination of Vardalek.

What surprised us was, for otherwise, we liked the stranger, especially for being kind to him, that he seemed, though not noticeably at first, except perhaps to me who noticed everything with regard to him, to be gradually losing his general health and vitality. He did not become pale as yet, but there was a certain languor about his movements, which certainly there was by no means before. My father got more and more devoted to Count Vardalec. He helped him in his studies, and my father, would hardly allow him to go away, which he did sometimes to Trista, he said.

He always came back bringing us presents of strange Oriental jewelry or textures. I knew all kinds of people came to Trista, orientals included. Still, there was a strangeness and magnificence about these things, which I was sure even then could not possibly have come from such a place as Trista, memorable to me chiefly for its necktie shops. When Vardalek was away, Gabriel was continually asked. asking for him and talking about him. Then at the same time he seemed to regain his old vitality and spirits.

Vardelik always returned looking much older, wan and wary. Gabriel would rush to meet him and kiss him on the mouth. Then he gave a slight shiver, and after a little while began to look quite young again. Things continued like this for some time. My father would not hear of Vardelac's going away permanently. He came to be an inmate of our house. I indeed, and Mademoiselle Van Ert also, could not help noticing what a difference there was altogether about Gabriel. But my father seemed totally blind to it.

One night I had gone downstairs to fetch something, which I had left in the drawing-room. As I was going up again, I passed Vardelix's room. He was playing on a piano which had been specially put there for him, one of Chopin's nocturns, very beautifully. I stopped leaning on the banisters to listen. Something white appeared on the dark staircase. We believed in ghosts in our part. I was transfixed with terror and clung to the banisters. What was my astonishment to see?

Gabriel walking slowly down the staircase, his eyes fixed as though in a trance. This terrified me even more than a ghost would. Could I believe my senses? Could that be Gabriel? I simply could not move. Gabriel, clad in his long white nightshirt, came downstairs and opened the door.

He left it open. Vardelik still continued playing, but talked as he played. He said, this time speaking in Polish, "'Nye umium veradjits, like chie he quohom.' "'My darling, I fain, would spare thee. But thy life is my life, and I must live, I who would rather die. Will God not have any mercy on me?

Oh, oh, life! Oh, the torture of life. Here he struck one agonized and strange chord, then continued playing softly. Oh, Gabriel, my beloved, my life, yes, life. Oh, why life. I am sure this is but a little that I demand of thee. Sure, thy superabundance of life can spare a little to one who is already dead. No, stay.

He said now almost harshly, What must be, must be? Gabriel stood there quite still, with the same fixed vacant expression in the room. He was evidently walking in his sleep. Vardelik played on, then said, Ah, with a sigh of terrible agony, then very gently.

Go now, Gabriel, it is enough. And Gabriel went out of the room and ascend in the staircase at the same, slow pace, with the same unconscious stare. Varilich struck the piano, and although he did not play loudly, it seemed as though the strings would break. You never heard music so strange and so heart-rending. I only know I was found by Mademoiselle Van Ert in the morning in an unconscious state at the foot of the stairs. Was it a dream after all? I am sure now that it was not. I thought then it might be

and said nothing to anyone about it. Indeed, what could I say? Well, to let me cut a long story short, Gabriel, who had never known a moment's sickness in his life grew ill, and we had to sin to Gratz for a doctor, who could give no explanation of Gabriel's strange illness. Gradual, wasting away, he said, absolutely no organic complaint.

What could this mean? My father at last became conscious of the fact that Gabriel was ill. His anxiety was fearful. The last trace of gray faded from his hair, and it became quite white. We sent to Vienna for doctors, but all with the same result. Gabriel was generally unconscious, and when conscious only seemed to recognize Vardelik, who sat continually by his bedside nursing him with the utmost tenderness. One day I was alone in the room, and Vardelik cried suddenly almost fiercely. Send for a priest at once, at once, he repeated, it is now almost too late. Gabriel stretched out his arms, spasmodically, and put them round Vardelik's neck. This was the only

movement he had made for some time. Vardelik bent down and kissed him on the lips. I rushed downstairs and the priest was sent for. When I came back, Vardelik was not there. The priest administered extreme unction. I think Gabriel was already dead, although we did not think so at the time. Vardelik had utterly disappeared, and when we looked for him he was nowhere to be found, nor have I seen or heard of him since. My father died very soon afterwards, suddenly aged and bent down with grief, and so the whole of the Ronski property came into my sole possession. And here I am an old woman generally laughed at for keeping in memory of Gavirte.

an asylum for stray animals, and people do not, as a rule, believe in vampires. End of Section 6. The True Story of a Vampire. Section 7 of Studies of Death by Count Stanislaus Eric Stenbach. This Libervox recording is in the public domain, read by Ben Tucker. The Worm of Luck No, Mama does not love me any longer, and as to Papa, I hate him. Thus spoke a boy of fourteen with proud, defiance dark eyes, standing in the middle of a wood. He was hatless with wind-blown hair, but nevertheless, smartly clad.

In appearance he was very like the well-known John the Baptist of Andrea del Sarto. He was thinking of many things, indeed of his whole life. His own father, he could remember but dimly. He only remembered when he was quite a little child, a dark man, who was very kind to him, and who every night sent him to sleep by a peculiar lullaby, played on a fiddle. Then he remembered a life of tents and caravans and wanderings. Then he was suddenly transferred to a luxurious villa on the Adriatic. At first all went fairly well.

His stepfather was amiable to him, and gave him toys, and his mother rigged him out in elegant sailor suits with gold braid and he became the pet of all the ladies in the neighborhood. He heard one time his stepfather remark, Really, I don't despair of turning Sandor into a gentleman? He did not quite understand what it meant, but somehow the remark galled him. Then there came a hitch. A baby was born.

Then the Groff von Grothheim, having a son and heir, took an aversion to the child of the beautiful gypsy woman, whom he had married in a moment of excessive passion, as the daughters of the gypsies do not give themselves otherwise. Sandor was passionately fond of music, and like every gypsy child could play the fiddle very well. His stepfather detested music. Then again, he himself had a particular aversion to the baby, which he erroneously thought supplanted himself in his mother's affection.

He would not even be in the same room where the baby was, so things got from bad to worse, and that day, when the baby was about three years old, he was sitting in a note. in the drawing room, improvising on his fiddle, quite concealed by palm trees and oleanders, so concealed and inspired that he did not notice his stepfather coming in. His stepfather said furiously, "'Ah, that's you, gypsy! Shut your infertile row! You'll really not fit for civilized society. I heartily wish you would go back to your own people!' His eyes flashed fire, and he went out of the room without a word, and out of the house into the woods, taking nothing

with him but his fiddle. Suddenly he heard through the trees a sound of stringed instruments, a xylophone playing gypsy music. He looked out stealthily and saw three men. Then they ceased playing. The first man said, Where shall we go today? To the right or the left. The second man said.

Perhaps we'd better go to the right, for there there's a town. The third man said, no, we must be returning home. You know, next Sunday is the day of shadows and we have heart. time to get back. The first man answered, "'Of course, I had forgotten that. We must be getting off at once.' Suddenly the boy darted out from the trees and cried, "'Oh, take me with you. I can play the fiddle a little, too.' The first man said very kindly and tenderly,

"'Yes, little one will take you with us, but remember, ours is a hard life. We gypsies don't sleep on feather beds.' The second man said, "'Why, I believe he belongs to our race.' The third man took his sleep. leave and bared his arm. Why? He cried. That is the mark of our clan. What does it all mean? The boy fainted with exhaustion and excitement. The first man took him in his arms and carried him along. Then he said, How like he is to Sandor. The boy revived for a moment and murmured. Yes, my name is Sandor. I was called after my father, and then fainted again. The second man said,

Oh, yes, I understand it all. He might be able to. He might. must be the son of Gisela, who disgraced our race by marrying an alien. The third man said, You see, Gypsy Blood will never be tamed. He has come back to his own people. Yes, said the boy, suddenly vitalized. I will go back to my own people. He called me Gypsy today.

My dear, said the first man, do you know that you are my brother's son? I am your uncle, Farrens. Oh, yes, said the boy. I thought I had seen you before. So Sandor went with the men, and arrived at their more or less permanent quarters, and soon accommodated himself to their life. He was told that if he discovered an owl's nest during that week,

and could take one egg from it to bury it under a hazel tree, after exactly seven years he would find the worm of luck in the same place. Owls' nests are not easy to find, but for anyone who wishes to find their eggs, they have one advantage, that the owl lays a second batch of eggs whilst the former are still in the nest. So by good luck it is possible to secure one whilst she is leaving her nest to procure food for her children. One night he saw some small animal running on the ground. Then a great white owl with a shrill hissing cry leapt from her nest and seized upon it.

Meanwhile, quick as thought, Sandor sprang up the tree and found one egg still unhatched and buried it duly under a hazel tree. On the 23rd of April, he was selected by the clan to represent Green George. He was stripped and garlanded with leaves, then he was pursued about the place like Dionysus. He was a little frightened at this. He thought he was going to be sacrificed, but he said to himself,

Better be sacrificed for my own people than live there with them. But he was not sacrificed, only thrown into the water and effigy. For seven years he dwelt with his clan. On the day he had buried the owl's egg, on digging he found a long green caterpillar, which he ate. He had always played the fiddle remarkably well, but everyone was astonished at the manner he played that night. The gypsies themselves were dumbfounded by his originality and inspiration. So the long and short of it was that Sandor should go and wander alone and play the fiddle and get money for the clan. In one small town he came to, an old professor came up to him, and said,

Why, you play wonderfully, I never heard anyone play like you. What is so specially wonderful is that you manage to evoke so much out of an old cracked fiddle like that. Come with me, and I will give you a strativarius violin, which has come into my hands as a legacy, in which I cannot play myself. All I ask in recompense is that you should play to me once upon it. Sandor accepted. Then for the first time he realized himself his own power. In the next town he came to, he boldly advertised a concert.

The entertainment was given entirely by himself. It was a small but rather fashionable place during its season. The fashionable people, having little distraction, all came out of curiosity to hear, Der Gron George, who advertised himself for a concert. He always called himself now by the name of Gruner George, especially as he was now nearing places where he had been before. The audience was spellbound, and from that time he created a furor.

Money, the greater part of which he remitted to his clan, poured into his hands. He also became a lion of society. Fortunately for him, though a gypsy, he had at one time of his life been familiar with the ways of society. But all this did not turn his head. He sighed for the old wild life again. One day in his wanderings he came back to the place where he used to live. Ha ha, he said, they don't know that Gruner George means me. Tired of luxuries, he often would go out into the woods and sleep in the open air.

This time he determined he would go and sleep exactly there, whence he had run away seven years before. He sat there, playing to himself on his violin, thinking again of all his past life, when a boy came out from the tree, and said, Oh, I love music. Will you let me listen to you? Certainly, he said,

what would you like me to play to you? Oh, anything you like, said the boy, seating himself at his feet. Father hates music and won't allow any music in the house, but I love music, especially this sort of music. He played on and on, then he said to the child, Tell me, what is your name? Mother calls me Jula, he answered, but father calls me Julius or Jules,

because he says he can't bear Hungarian names. Then who is your mother? he asked. Oh, my mother is Countess von Grathheim. The Countess von Grothheim was my mother, too, said Sandor. Then, said the child looking puzzled, You must be my brother. Yes, dear. said he, kissing him.

You are indeed my brother. Then, said he, what is your name? I have no sore name, he answered, but my Christian name is Sandor. Sandor, said the child. Why, only yesterday, mother was saying, Oh, if I only knew what has become poor Sandor. And father said, don't mention his name. He is very well named Sandor, as he has brought Shand.

on our family. I don't in the least know what he meant, added the child innocently. However, said Sandor somewhat bitterly, it is not poor Sandor now. I have plenty of money. I dare say you may have heard of me. I go generally by the name of Gruner George. Why, said the boy,

you, Gruner George? I have been saving up all my pocket money to hear you. And I was going to slip out on the sly one day and go to one of your concerts. Papa wouldn't let me otherwise because I don't know why he can't bear anything to do with gypsies, and now I have heard you for nothing. My dear child, said the young man, you have something to do with gypsies. Mother is a gypsy, as perhaps you don't know.

It was late autumn and singularly mild, but while they were talking the sun had set and it was quite dark. Child, said Sandor, you cannot possibly go home now, but if you will stay here, I promise to take you home tomorrow morning. I know the way, he added with a trace of bitterness. Look here, I will wrap you up in my fur coat. I can make you a very nice bed and pillow out of dead leaves. I'm quite clever at that.

It is not very cold after all. Then he murmured to himself between his teeth. He shall see that gypsy blood can never be tamed. But, said the child, you will be cold yourself. "'Oh, dear, no,' said Sandor. "'I am quite used to lie on the bare ground. "'We gypsies,' he said this in the same contemptuous tone "'that seven years ago his stepfather had used to him,

"'do not lie upon feather beds.' "'So he wrapped the child in his mantle "'and made him a comfortable bed of leaves. "'The child, who was growing sleepy, said, "'Sandor, my brother, won't you play me one thing more?' "'Yes, dear, I will.' He said. Then he played the lullaby with which his own father used to send him to sleep. It had the same effect upon Jula. Then he himself ultimately lay down by the side of his little brother.

A wind arose. A number of leaves were blown upon Gruner George, making a complete coverlet. I was once green, George, he said somewhat sadly. Now I suppose I am yellow George, and he fell asleep too. There was, as there often is in those parts, a quite sudden change of temperature during the night. Thick flakes of snow began to fall, the first of the year, and enveloped the two as in a shroud. Then a sudden hard frost set in, neither noticed. Both were fast asleep, Jula leaning his head upon his brother's shoulder. But the sudden frost killed both the delicately nurtured child and the strong young man.

If anyone had been there, they would certainly have been much surprised to see on that unprecedented, cold morning, a very elegantly dressed lady wandering distractedly through the woods, crying almost wildly, "'Jula! Making distracted appeals. "'Oh, God, have I not lost one that I should lose the other, too?' She came upon the place where they were lying, almost armored within a frozen sheet of snow. "'Jula!' she cried. "'What are you doing here?'

Then she looked and recognized. "'Sandor, my own, my firstborn, you here!' She flung herself upon him and kissed him passionately. "'I am your mother. Don't you know me? Wake up! Speak to me!' Neither of them moved. Then she gradually realized. She did not weep at all. She took off her cloak of rich sable and laid it as a pall over the bodies of her two children. Then she took off all her rings and jewelry,

and cutting off a long tress of her black hair, threaded them together with it, then yoked her two sons together with this strange necklace. I will go back to my own people, she said, and went forth into the woods. End of Section 7, the worm of luck. End of studies of. death by Count Stonislaus Eric Stenbach.