the reason for what you called my foolish whim. You declared that there could be no reasonable ground for such voluntary mutilation. I proposed to enter on a bet with you. You did well not to accept it. "After my second return from India I became acquainted with Emily Harley, the most perfect of women. I adored her. Her fortune and connections pleased my family; I cared only for her beauty, for her angelic disposition. I became one of her crowd of admirers. Ah, my dear Thévenet, I was happy enough to become the unhappiest of all my rivals. She loved me, me before all men, made no secret of it, and yet for that very reason she repelled me. In vain did I beg for her hand; in vain did my parents and her friends beg for me. She remained unmoved. "For a long time I could not discover the cause of her aversion to a marriage with me, whom, by her own confession, she loved to distraction. At last one of her sisters revealed the secret to me. Miss Harley was a marvelous beauty, but she had one defect-she was one-legged, and on account of this imperfection she feared to become my wife. She dreaded that I should despise her for it. My mind was immediately made up. I would share her misfortune. Thanks to you, my dear Thévenet, I became able to do it. "I returned home with a deceptive wooden leg. The first thing I did was to visit Miss Harley. The news had gone abroad, and I myself had written to England to say that I had broken my leg by falling from a horse, and that it had been amputated. I was universally pitied. Emily fainted at our first meeting. For a long time she was inconsolable; but she became my wife. Not until the day after our marriage did I tell her the secret of the sacrifice that I had made in order to win her. She loved me the more tenderly for it. Oh, excellent Thévenet, had I ten legs to lose, I would give them all, without pulling a face, for Emily! "As long as I live I shall be grateful to you. Come to London, visit me, become acquainted with my adorable wife, and then still say, if you can, that I am a fool! "CHARLES TEMPLE." Thévenet communicated the story and the contents of the letter to his friends, laughing heartily as often as he related it. "For all that, he remains a fool!" cried the doctor. His reply to the letter ran as follows: "SIR: I thank you for your valuable present. I call it thus, for I can hardly call it a reward for my small trouble. "I wish you happiness on your marriage with the most charming of all Englishwomen. It is true, a leg is not much to give in exchange for a beautiful, virtuous, and tender wife, if only in the end one is not deceived in one's bargain. Adam had to pay a rib of his own body for the possession of a wife; many another man has paid as much, some even their head. "Nevertheless you will permit me humbly to keep to my original opinion. To be sure, at this moment you are in the right. You now dwell in the paradise of love's springtide. But I, too, am right, with this difference, that the truth of my opinion, like every truth that one hesitates a long time to accept, will be slow to ripen. "Sir, hear what I say. I fear that after two years you will regret having had your leg amputated above the knee. 'It would have done just as well below, you will say to yourself. At the end of three years you will be convinced that the loss of a foot would have been sufficient. At the end of four years you will declare that the sacrifice of the great toe would have been too much. At the end of five, you will assert the same of the little toe. When six years shall have passed, you will confess to me that the paring of the nails would have been quite enough. "All this I say without trying to detract from the merits of your charming wife. Ladies can keep their beauty and their virtues more changeless than men their judgments. In my youth I would at any time have given my life for my beloved; in my life I should never have given a leg. The former sacrifice I would never have regretted, the latter always. For had I made it, I would have said to myself to this very day. "Thévenet, you were a fool!' With which remark, I have the honor to be, sir, your humble servant, "G. THÉVENET." In the year 1793, during the Reign of Terror, having been brought into suspicion of aristocratic leanings by a younger colleague, Thévenet fled to London, in order to save his life from the leveling guillotine. Either because time hung heavily on his hands, or because he wished to seek acquaintances, he went to see Sir Charles Temple. He was directed to that gentleman's mansion. He was announced and received. In an armchair, over a pot of foaming porter, near the chimney, and surrounded by twenty newspapers, sat a stout gentleman, so unwieldy that he could scarcely rise. "Ah, welcome, Mr. Thévenet!" cried the stout gentleman, who was no other than Sir Charles himself. "Don't take it ill that I remain seated, but the infernal wooden leg hinders me in everything. My friend, I suppose you have come to see whether the truth has ripened?" "I come as a refugee, seeking protection of you." "You must be my guest, for, on my life, you are a wise man. You must console me. In truth, Thévenet, I might have been an admiral to-day, if this miserable wooden leg had not rendered me unfit for the service of my country. As it is, I read the papers, and curse myself blue in the face on account of my forced inactivity. Come, console me!" "Your wife will be better able to console you than I." "Not at all. Her wooden leg prevents her from dancing, and so she has taken to cards and gossip. There is no getting along with her. In other things she is an excellent woman." "And so I seem to have been in the right?" "Oh, entirely, my dear Thévenet; but let us be silent on that subject. I acted like an ass. Could I get my leg back, I would not give the paring of a toe-nail! Between you and me, I was a fool! But keep this information to yourself." Wilhelm Müller The Drunkard's Fancy STRAIGHT from the tavern door I am come here; Old road, how odd to me Thou dost appear! Right and left changing sides, Road, thou art drunk! Oh, what a twisted face Thou hast, oh, moon! One eye shut, t'other eye Wide as a spoon. Who could have dreamed of this? Shame on thee, shame! Thou hast been fuddling, Look at the lamps again; Round as they wheel. Steady can go; Look at the drunken lamps, All in a row. |