THE SPIDER AND OTHER TALES

BOOKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR

Published by CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS

THE SPIDER AND OTHER TALES

BY CARL EWALD

TRANSLATED FROM THE DANISH BY ALEXANDER TEIXEIRA DE MATTOS

CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS NEW YORK : : : : : : : 1907

Copyright, 1907, by Charles Scribner’s Sons

Sole Authorized Translation

Published, April, 1907

The Trow Press, New York

THE SPIDER

1

THE hedge had once been full of trees and bushes, but they were cut down and nothing now shot up from their stubs but long, thin twigs.

In between the stubs grew goat’s-foot and fool’s-parsley and more weeds of the same kind, which all look like one another and are called wild chervil by people who know no better.

Their branches were almost as long as those of the bushes. And they were as pretentious as though they really were bushes and as though they did not wither in the autumn and have[4] to start all over again with a little seed, just like some silly daisy or pansy. They strutted and swaggered, they rustled in the wind, they snapped, they lost their leaves and got new ones, exactly as if their time were their own. If any one asked them what they really were, they pretended not to hear, or turned it off as a jest, or refused pointblank to answer.

And then they had beautiful white flowers, which they lifted high in the air, like parasols, whereas the real branches, that grew on the stubs, never got to look like anything but overgrown children and could put forth neither flowers nor fruit.

[5]

2

“Why, here’s quite a wood!” said the mouse, one evening, sitting under the foliage and peeping up with her bright eyes.

“We are the wood,” said the goat’s-foot.

“Pray take a look round,” said the parsley. “If you like us, build your nest in us. All that we can offer you is at your service.”

“Don’t believe them,” said the real bushes. “They only make a show while summer lasts. When autumn comes, they are gone without leaving a trace behind them.”

“I don’t know anything about autumn,” said the parsley.

“I don’t believe in autumn,” said the goat’s-foot. “It’s a cock-and-bull[6] story with which they take in the baby bushes.”

“Autumn exists all right,” said the mouse. “And after that comes winter. Then the thing is to have one’s larder full. It’s well I thought of it. I think I will dig myself a little hole between the stones and begin laying up.”

“Let him burrow in the ground that pleases,” said the parsley.

“We have loftier aims,” said the goat’s-foot.

Then they stood a bit and said nothing. And then the parsley sighed and said what they were both thinking.

“If only a bird would come and build her nest in us!”

“We would shade it and rock it and take such care of it that the real[7] bushes would die of envy,” said the goat’s-foot.

“Won’t you have me?” asked a voice.

A queer, gray individual came walking up the hedge.

“Who are you?” asked the parsley.

“I am the spider,” said the individual.

“Can you fly?” asked the goat’s-foot.

“I can do a little of everything, if need be.”

“Do you eat flies?” asked the parsley.

“All day long.”

“Do you lay eggs?” asked the goat’s-foot. “For, of course, you’re a woman?”

“Yes—thank goodness!” said the spider.

[8]“Then you’re the bird for us,” said the parsley.

“You’re heartily welcome,” said the goat’s-foot. “You look pretty light, so you won’t break our branches. Be sure and begin to build as soon as you please. You’ll find plenty of materials in the hedge.”

“It doesn’t matter in the least if you nip off a leaf here and there,” said the parsley.

“Thanks, I carry my own materials with me,” said the spider.

“I don’t see any luggage,” said the goat’s-foot.

“Perhaps your husband’s bringing it?” asked the parsley.

“I have no husband, thank goodness!” said the spider.

“Poor thing!” said the mouse, who[9] sat listening. “That must be awfully sad for you.”

“Ah, there’s the usual feminine balderdash!” said the spider. “That’s what makes us women such ridiculous and contemptible creatures. It’s always ‘my husband’ here and ‘my husband’ there. I should like to know what use a husband is to one, when all’s said. He’s nothing but a nuisance and a worry. If ever I take another, he sha’n’t live with me, whatever happens.”

“How you talk!” said the mouse. “I can’t think of anything more dismal than if my husband were to live away from me. And I should like to know how I should manage with the children, if he didn’t help me, the dear soul!”

“Children!” replied the spider. “Fiddle-de-dee![10] I don’t see the use of all that coddling. Lay your eggs in a sensible place and then leave them alone.”

“She doesn’t talk like a bird,” said the parsley, doubtfully.

“I too am beginning to be uneasy about her,” said the goat’s-foot.

“You can call me what you like,” said the spider. “In any case, I don’t associate with the other birds. If there are too many of them here, I won’t even stay.”

“Lord preserve us!” said the parsley, who began to fear lest she should go away. “There are hardly ever any here.”

“They flew into the wood when the trees were cut down,” said the goat’s-foot.

“Yes, it’s dull here,” said the long[11] twigs on the stubs. “One never hears a note.”

“It’s all right here,” said the spider. “As long as the flies buzz, I’m content.”

“Here we are!” said the goat’s-foot and the parsley, straightening themselves.

The spider crawled about and looked around her and the mouse kept on following her with her eyes:

“I beg your pardon,” said she. “But why do you build a nest when you leave your eggs to shift for themselves?”

“Listen to me, Mousie,” said the spider. “You may as well look upon me from the start as an independent woman. I think only of myself and my belongings and I look after myself. If I ever condescend to take a[12] husband, the milksop will have to look after himself.”

“Lord, how you speak of him!” said the mouse. “My husband is bigger and stronger than I am.”

“I have never met him,” replied the spider, carelessly. “The men in my family are scarce a quarter as large as I am. Wretched creatures, not worth a fly. I should be ashamed to share my flat with a customer like one of those. But now I’m going to build.”

“You had better wait till it’s light,” said the parsley.

“What will you build with?” asked the goat’s-foot.

“I like the dark, as it happens,” said the spider. “And I carry my own building-materials.”

Then she scrambled to the top of[13] the goat’s-foot and looked round the landscape.

“You must have good eyes to see at night,” said the mouse. “Mine are not bad, but still I shouldn’t care to build a nest by this light.”

“As for eyes, I have eight,” said the spider. “And they see what they have to. I have also eight legs, I may as well tell you, and you needn’t be struck with amazement on that account. Taken all round, I am a woman who knows how to help herself in an emergency. There’s no coddling here and no nonsense.”

Now she pressed her abdomen against the branch of the goat’s-foot on which she was sitting and then took a header into the air.

“She’ll break her neck!” cried the mouse, terrified.

[14]“I haven’t got a neck,” said the spider, from down below. “And, if I had, I wouldn’t break it. You go home to your dear husband and fondle him. When you come back in the morning, you shall see what a capable woman can do who doesn’t waste her time on love and emotions.”

The mouse went away, because she had other things to see to and also because the spider’s words hurt her. But the goat’s-foot and the fool’s-parsley were obliged to remain where they were and so were the long twigs on the stubs. And the spider behaved in such a curious manner that none of them closed an eye all night for looking at her.

The fact is, she did nothing but take headers into the air. She jumped first from one branch and then from another,[15] then crawled up again and jumped once more. And, although she had no wings, as any one could see, she let herself down quite slowly to the ground or to another branch, never missed her jump and did not come to the least harm. To and fro, up and down she went, the whole night long.

“It is a bird,” said the parsley, delightedly.

“Of course,” said the goat’s-foot. “What else could it be?”

But the twigs on the stubs bobbed at one another mockingly:

“She’s never been a bird in her life,” they said. “Can she sing? Have you heard as much as a chirp from her?”

The goat’s-foot and the parsley looked at each other doubtfully. And, when the spider sat still, for a moment,[16] catching her breath, the parsley ventured upon a question:

“Can you sing?”

“Pshaw!” replied the spider. “Do you think I go in for that sort of twaddle? What is there to sing about? Life is nothing but toil and drudgery and, if a lone woman is to hold her own, she must turn to and set to work.”

“Birds sing,” said the goat’s-foot.

“They sing because they are in love,” said the spider. “I am not in love.”

“Wait till the right man comes along,” said the parsley.

“If he does, he’d better look out,” said the spider.

Then she took another header; and so she went on.

[17]

3

But, when the day began to break, the goat’s-foot and the parsley were near snapping with surprise.

The spider was hanging in the air between their branches. She had drawn her legs up under her, bundled herself together and was sleeping like a top.

“Is she on you?” asked the goat’s-foot.

“No,” replied the parsley. “Is she on you?”

“No,” said the goat’s-foot.

“She’s not on us either,” said the twigs.

“It is a bird,” said the parsley and the goat’s-foot, enraptured.

“A bird doesn’t hang in the middle of the air, sleeping,” said the twigs.

[18]“It’s an elf,” said the mouse, who came up at that moment. “Just wait till it’s quite light: then perhaps we shall see.”

And, when the sun rose, they saw.

In between the branches of the goat’s-foot and the fool’s-parsley were stretched a number of very fine threads, which crossed one another and shone in the sun so that it was a delight to see. Other threads ran across them in circles, one outside the other.

“Ah!” said the mouse. “Now I understand. She was sitting in the middle of that. But where has she gone to now?”

“Here I am,” said the spider, from under a leaf. “I can’t stand the bright sunlight. What do you think of my work? But I haven’t finished yet.”

[19]“Pish!” said the mouse. “Frankly speaking, I think it’s a funny sort of nest you’ve made.”

“Nest, nest, nest!” said the spider. “It’s you who’ve been talking of a nest, not I. You keep on taking it for granted that I am a silly, effeminate woman like yourself and the others. What use is a nest to me? I’m all right here under this leaf. It’s shady here and good enough for me. The threads are my web. I catch flies in it. I wonder, shall we have a little rain? Then I can set to again and finish my work.”

Presently, the sun disappeared behind the clouds. A mild and gentle rain fell and when it stopped the spider came out and stretched her eight legs contentedly in the moist air.

[20]And then she set to work.

They all saw how she pulled a multitude of very fine threads at a time from her abdomen. Then she began to unravel them with combs which she had at the ends of her legs, twisted them together into one thick thread and hung it beside the others where she thought that the opening was too large or the net not strong enough. All the threads were greasy and sticky, so that the flies would have to hang fast in them. Later in the day, the web was ready; and they all admired it because it was so pretty.

“Now I’m settled,” said the spider.

At that moment came a starling and sat on the top of one of the long twigs:

“Is there nothing to eat here?” he[21] asked. “A few grubs? A spider or so?”

The goat’s-foot and the parsley said nothing: they almost withered with fright at the idea of losing their lodger. The mouse made off, for safety’s sake, but the twigs on the stubs cried with one breath that a nice fat spider had just come and had spun her web in the night.

“I can see none,” said the starling and flew away.

But the spider, quick as lightning, had let herself down to the ground by a long thread and lay there as still as if she were dead. Now she crept up again and sat in the middle of her web with all her eight legs outstretched.

“That was a near thing,” she said. “Now my turn’s coming.”

[22]Up came a smart little fly, who didn’t see the web but flew in and got caught, poor fellow.

“That’s an earnest,” said the spider.

She bit the fly with her mandibles, which were filled with poison, so that he died at once. Then she ate him. And she did the same with the next three that came into the web. After that, she could eat no more. She let a good many little insects, that had the misfortune to get caught, hang and sprawl, without stirring a limb. When a good fat fly came along, she bit him dead, spun a little web round him and hung him up:

“He may come in handy one day, when I run short,” she said.

“Very sensible,” said the mouse. “That’s really the first thing you’ve said that I can agree with. But,[23] otherwise, I am bound to say I don’t care for your ways. They’re far too sly for me. And then you use poison, like the adder. That, I think, is mean.”

“You think so, do you?” said the spider, with a sneer. “Is it any worse than what you others do? I suppose you blow a trumpet when you sneak out after your prey; eh, you pious little mouse?”

“Indeed I could, if I had a trumpet,” said the mouse. “Thank goodness, I am not a robber and murderer like yourself. I gather nuts and acorns and anything else that comes to hand and I have never hurt a soul.”

“No, you’re a dear little woman of the old-fashioned sort,” said the spider, “You take other people’s leavings[24] and are quite happy. Then you go home and let your husband and children pet and fondle you. I’m not built that way, let me tell you. I don’t care for caresses, but I have an appetite. I want meat: nice, juicy fly-meat; and lots of it. I ask nothing of anybody, but get myself what I want. If things go well, I have all the honour and pleasure myself; if they go badly, I don’t go crying to anybody. It would be a good thing if there were more women like me.”

“You’re so rough,” said the mouse.

“Fiddlesticks!” replied the spider. “It’s all one. I’m no worse than most people. Take the goat’s-foot and the parsley: they fight for the butterflies and bees and steal each other’s light and air as much as they can.”

[25]“Very true,” said the parsley.

“An exceedingly sensible woman,” said the goat’s-foot.

“That’s such an ugly name of yours,” said the mouse.

“Can’t help that,” said the spider. “Some people call me venom-head,[1] because of those few drops of poison I carry in my mandibles. They’re so immensely upset about the poor flies I catch; and they kill a fly themselves if he only settles on their nose. It’s six of one and half a dozen of the other. Nothing but sentimental affectation. Besides, I have no objection to changing my name. You can call me spinner, if you prefer. That’s a word which a dainty little lady like you can pronounce without fainting; and it suits me, because there’s not an[26] animal in the world that spins as beautifully as I do.”

“That’s all very likely,” said the mouse, shaking her head. “But what you do is ugly and you yourself are so hideous that there’s no excusing you.”

“Is that it?” asked the spider and laughed. “Look here, little Mrs. Mouse: I’m rationally dressed. My homely gray clothes suit my work and don’t attract unnecessary attention. Thank goodness, I don’t have to dress up like the others, who deck themselves out to obtain love and happiness and who strut and swagger in a way that a sensible person would be ashamed of. But, of course, the ninnies despise me for my plain frocks. Let them! What do I care for ninnies? And,[27] if they come into my meshes, I’ll eat them.”

The mouse shook her head and went away. The parsley and the goat’s-foot muttered softly to each other. The spider hung in her net, stretched her legs and digested her food.

When the sun came out, she crept under her leaf and then the mouse came back and peeped up:

“Is she asleep?” she asked.

“I think so,” said the parsley. “And you had better not wake her with your chattering.”

“She’s our bird, once and for all,” said the goat’s-foot. “Though she may behave differently from other birds, she has done us the honour and shown us the confidence to build in us and therefore we ask that she may be respected.”

[28]“A nice sort of bird!” said the twigs, with a sneer.

“In any case, she’s better than nothing,” said the parsley.

“Such louts as you had better hold your tongues,” said the goat’s-foot. “No one builds in you, at any rate.”

“She’s not a bird,” said the mouse. “But that’s no reason why she shouldn’t be very good. Now I think that she’s a poor, unhappy old maid, who has fallen out with existence. Perhaps her sweetheart jilted her; that leaves a wound. My first husband ran away with a white mouse, just after my children were born. So I speak from experience.”

“That’s possible,” said the parsley, thoughtfully. “But what can one do in a case like that?”

“We must try and make her happy,”[29] said the mouse. “If she goes on leading this lonely life, she will grow more bitter every day and at last all gentler feelings will be stifled in her. If we could only find a husband for her!”

“Yes, if we only could!” said the parsley.

“Then perhaps she would build a real nest, with little eggs in it,” said the goat’s-foot.

“Perhaps she would sing to her young,” said the parsley.

“That would at once entitle us to rank with the bushes,” said the goat’s-foot.

“What are you talking about?” asked the spider, putting out her head from under the leaf.

“We’re talking about you,” said the mouse. “We were saying that you[30] really ought to get married. It’s not good, in the long run, for a woman to live alone. It makes her queer and sour. If you only knew how delightful it is to see one’s dear little young and feed them and educate them!”

“Stuff!” said the spider.

“It’s the provision of nature,” said the mouse. “And I will do what I can for you, no matter what you say. I see a heap of spiders daily on my way along the hedge. They are certainly much smaller than you, but nice fellows, for all that. Perhaps I may meet a big one, too. Then I shall tell him that there’s a charming young lady over here, longing for a sweetheart.”

“Then you’ll be telling an awful lie,” said the spider. “And you needn’t look for one who is bigger than I,[31] for our men are all miserable under-sized vermin. I tell you, no one looks upon them as worth a straw. It’s long been understood among us that it’s only the women that are good for anything.”

“Well, I’m going,” said the mouse. “I shall find the right man yet. And I feel sure that you’ll be much more amiable when you’re in love.”

“Run away, Mousie,” said the spider. “The man who can please me isn’t born yet. But you have nothing in your head but love and nonsense.”

She killed a fly, spun a web round him and hung him up and then hid under the leaf. The mouse went away, the parsley and the goat’s-foot put their heads together and talked of the future.

[32]

4

The next morning, a really nice gentleman-spider was sitting on the parsley, but a good way off from the snappish young lady.