Complete Works of Robert Louis Stevenson (Illustrated) (462 page)

 THE FOUR REFORMERS.

Four reformers met under a bramble bush.  They were all agreed the world must be changed.  “We must abolish property,” said one.

“We must abolish marriage,” said the second.

“We must abolish God,” said the third.

“I wish we could abolish work,” said the fourth.

“Do not let us get beyond practical politics,” said the first.  “The first thing is to reduce men to a common level.”

“The first thing,” said the second, “is to give freedom to the sexes.”

“The first thing,” said the third, “is to find out how to do it.”

“The first step,” said the first, “is to abolish the Bible.”

“The first thing,” said the second, “is to abolish the laws.”

“The first thing,” said the third, “is to abolish mankind.”

THE MAN AND HIS FRIEND.

A man quarrelled with his friend.

“I have been much deceived in you,” said the man.

And the friend made a face at him and went away.

A little after, they both died, and came together before the great white Justice of the Peace.  It began to look black for the friend, but the man for a while had a clear character and was getting in good spirits.

“I find here some record of a quarrel,” said the justice, looking in his notes.  “Which of you was in the wrong?”

“He was,” said the man.  “He spoke ill of me behind my back.”

“Did he so?” said the justice.  “And pray how did he speak about your neighbours?”

“Oh, he had always a nasty tongue,” said the man.

“And you chose him for your friend?” cried the justice.  “My good fellow, we have no use here for fools.”

So the man was cast in the pit, and the friend laughed out aloud in the dark and remained to be tried on other charges.

 THE READER.

“I never read such an impious book,” said the reader, throwing it on the floor.

“You need not hurt me,” said the book; “you will only get less for me second hand, and I did not write myself.”

“That is true,” said the reader.  “My quarrel is with your author.”

“Ah, well,” said the book, “you need not buy his rant.”

“That is true,” said the reader.  “But I thought him such a cheerful writer.”

“I find him so,” said the book.

“You must be differently made from me,” said the reader.

“Let me tell you a fable,” said the book.  “There were two men wrecked upon a desert island; one of them made believe he was at home, the other admitted — ”

“Oh, I know your kind of fable,” said the reader.  “They both died.”

“And so they did,” said the book.  “No doubt of that.  And everybody else.”

“That is true,” said the reader.  “Push it a little further for this once.  And when they were all dead?”

“They were in God’s hands, the same as before,” said the book.

“Not much to boast of, by your account,” cried the reader.

“Who is impious now?” said the book.

And the reader put him on the fire.

The coward crouches from the rod,
And loathes the iron face of God.

 THE CITIZEN AND THE TRAVELLER.

“Look round you,” said the citizen.  “This is the largest market in the world.”

“Oh, surely not,” said the traveller.

“Well, perhaps not the largest,” said the citizen, “but much the best.”

“You are certainly wrong there,” said the traveller.  “I can tell you . . .”

They buried the stranger at the dusk.

THE DISTINGUISHED STRANGER.

Once upon a time there came to this earth a visitor from a neighbouring planet.  And he was met at the place of his descent by a great philosopher, who was to show him everything.

First of all they came through a wood, and the stranger looked upon the trees.  “Whom have we here?” said he.

“These are only vegetables,” said the philosopher.  “They are alive, but not at all interesting.”

“I don’t know about that,” said the stranger.  “They seem to have very good manners.  Do they never speak?”

“They lack the gift,” said the philosopher.

“Yet I think I hear them sing,” said the other.

“That is only the wind among the leaves,” said the philosopher.  “I will explain to you the theory of winds: it is very interesting.”

“Well,” said the stranger, “I wish I knew what they are thinking.”

“They cannot think,” said the philosopher.

“I don’t know about that,” returned the stranger: and then, laying his hand upon a trunk: “I like these people,” said he.

“They are not people at all,” said the philosopher.  “Come along.”

Next they came through a meadow where there were cows.

“These are very dirty people,” said the stranger.

“They are not people at all,” said the philosopher; and he explained what a cow is in scientific words which I have forgotten.

“That is all one to me,” said the stranger.  “But why do they never look up?”

“Because they are graminivorous,” said the philosopher; “and to live upon grass, which is not highly nutritious, requires so close an attention to business that they have no time to think, or speak, or look at the scenery, or keep themselves clean.”

“Well,” said the stranger, “that is one way to live, no doubt.  But I prefer the people with the green heads.”

Next they came into a city, and the streets were full of men and women.

“These are very odd people,” said the stranger.

“They are the people of the greatest nation in the world,” said the philosopher.

“Are they indeed?” said the stranger.  “They scarcely look so.”

 THE CART-HORSES AND THE SADDLE-HORSE.

Two cart-horses, a gelding and a mare, were brought to Samoa, and put in the same field with a saddle-horse to run free on the island.  They were rather afraid to go near him, for they saw he was a saddle-horse, and supposed he would not speak to them.  Now the saddle-horse had never seen creatures so big.  “These must be great chiefs,” thought he, and he approached them civilly.  “Lady and gentleman,” said he, “I understand you are from the colonies.  I offer you my affectionate compliments, and make you heartily welcome to the islands.”

The colonials looked at him askance, and consulted with each other.

“Who can he be?” said the gelding.

“He seems suspiciously civil,” said the mare.

“I do not think he can be much account,” said the gelding.

“Depend upon it he is only a Kanaka,” said the mare.

Then they turned to him.

“Go to the devil!” said the gelding.

“I wonder at your impudence, speaking to persons of our quality!” cried the mare.

The saddle-horse went away by himself.  “I was right,” said he, “they are great chiefs.”

THE TADPOLE AND THE FROG.

“Be ashamed of yourself,” said the frog.

“When I was a tadpole, I had no tail.”

“Just what I thought!” said the tadpole.

“You never were a tadpole.”

SOMETHING IN IT.

The natives told him many tales.  In particular, they warned him of the house of yellow reeds tied with black sinnet, how any one who touched it became instantly the prey of Akaänga, and was handed on to him by Miru the ruddy, and hocussed with the kava of the dead, and baked in the ovens and eaten by the eaters of the dead.

“There is nothing in it,” said the missionary.

There was a bay upon that island, a very fair bay to look upon; but, by the native saying, it was death to bathe there.  “There is nothing in that,” said the missionary; and he came to the bay, and went swimming.  Presently an eddy took him and bore him towards the reef.  “Oho!” thought the missionary, “it seems there is something in it after all.”  And he swam the harder, but the eddy carried him away.  “I do not care about this eddy,” said the missionary; and even as he said it, he was aware of a house raised on piles above the sea; it was built of yellow reeds, one reed joined with another, and the whole bound with black sinnet; a ladder led to the door, and all about the house hung calabashes.  He had never seen such a house, nor yet such calabashes; and the eddy set for the ladder.  “This is singular,” said the missionary, “but there can be nothing in it.”  And he laid hold of the ladder and went up.  It was a fine house; but there was no man there; and when the missionary looked back he saw no island, only the heaving of the sea.  “It is strange about the island,” said the missionary, “but who’s afraid? my stories are the true ones.”  And he laid hold of a calabash, for he was one that loved curiosities.  Now he had no sooner laid hand upon the calabash than that which he handled, and that which he saw and stood on, burst like a bubble and was gone; and night closed upon him, and the waters, and the meshes of the net; and he wallowed there like a fish.

“A body would think there was something in this,” said the missionary.  “But if these tales are true, I wonder what about my tales!”

Now the flaming of Akaänga’s torch drew near in the night; and the misshapen hands groped in the meshes of the net; and they took the missionary between the finger and the thumb, and bore him dripping in the night and silence to the place of the ovens of Miru.  And there was Miru, ruddy in the glow of the ovens; and there sat her four daughters, and made the kava of the dead; and there sat the comers out of the islands of the living, dripping and lamenting.

This was a dread place to reach for any of the sons of men.  But of all who ever came there, the missionary was the most concerned; and, to make things worse, the person next him was a convert of his own.

“Aha,” said the convert, “so you are here like your neighbours?  And how about all your stories?”

“It seems,” said the missionary, with bursting tears, “that there was nothing in them.”

By this the kava of the dead was ready, and the daughters of Miru began to intone in the old manner of singing.  “Gone are the green islands and the bright sea, the sun and the moon and the forty million stars, and life and love and hope.  Henceforth is no more, only to sit in the night and silence, and see your friends devoured; for life is a deceit, and the bandage is taken from your eyes.”

Now when the singing was done, one of the daughters came with the bowl.  Desire of that kava rose in the missionary’s bosom; he lusted for it like a swimmer for the land, or a bridegroom for his bride; and he reached out his hand, and took the bowl, and would have drunk.  And then he remembered, and put it back.

“Drink!” sang the daughter of Miru.

“There is no kava like the kava of the dead, and to drink of it once is the reward of living.”

“I thank you.  It smells excellent,” said the missionary.  “But I am a blue-ribbon man myself; and though I am aware there is a difference of opinion even in our own confession, I have always held kava to be excluded.”

“What!” cried the convert.  “Are you going to respect a taboo at a time like this?  And you were always so opposed to taboos when you were alive!”

“To other people’s,” said the missionary.  “Never to my own.”

“But yours have all proved wrong,” said the convert.

“It looks like it,” said the missionary, “and I can’t help that.  No reason why I should break my word.”

“I never heard the like of this!” cried the daughter of Miru.  “Pray, what do you expect to gain?”

“That is not the point,” said the missionary.  “I took this pledge for others, I am not going to break it for myself.”

The daughter of Miru was puzzled; she came and told her mother, and Miru was vexed; and they went and told Akaänga.  “I don’t know what to do about this,” said Akaänga; and he came and reasoned with the missionary.

“But there
is
such a thing as right and wrong,” said the missionary; “and your ovens cannot alter that.”

“Give the kava to the rest,” said Akaänga to the daughters of Miru.  “I must get rid of this sea-lawyer instantly, or worse will come of it.”

The next moment the missionary came up in the midst of the sea, and there before him were the palm trees of the island.  He swam to the shore gladly, and landed.  Much matter of thought was in that missionary’s mind.

“I seem to have been misinformed upon some points,” said he.  “Perhaps there is not much in it, as I supposed; but there is something in it after all.  Let me be glad of that.”

And he rang the bell for service.

MORAL.

The sticks break, the stones crumble,
The eternal altars tilt and tumble,
Sanctions and tales dislimn like mist
About the amazed evangelist.
He stands unshook from age to youth
Upon one pin-point of the truth.

FAITH, HALF FAITH AND NO FAITH AT ALL.

In the ancient days there went three men upon pilgrimage; one was a priest, and one was a virtuous person, and the third was an old rover with his axe.

As they went, the priest spoke about the grounds of faith.

“We find the proofs of our religion in the works of nature,” said he, and beat his breast.

“That is true,” said the virtuous person.

“The peacock has a scrannel voice,” said the priest, “as has been laid down always in our books.  How cheering!” he cried, in a voice like one that wept.  “How comforting!”

“I require no such proofs,” said the virtuous person.

“Then you have no reasonable faith,” said the priest.

“Great is the right, and shall prevail!” cried the virtuous person.  “There is loyalty in my soul; be sure, there is loyalty in the mind of Odin.”

“These are but playings upon words,” returned the priest.  “A sackful of such trash is nothing to the peacock.”

Just then they passed a country farm, where there was a peacock seated on a rail; and the bird opened its mouth and sang with the voice of a nightingale.

“Where are you now?” asked the virtuous person.  “And yet this shakes not me!  Great is the truth, and shall prevail!”