HOPE OF FALL

Fall blues is creeping into dark corners of my heart. When the birches outside my eastern library window are naked and brown and yellow leaves are dancing slow fox all over the garden in the autumn winds, then I know it's time to search comfort among my books and in the music.
I start reading from "A year in my Garden" by Karel Capek, and let the Moody Blues fill my ears with The Dream.
I quote my mother, who keeps assuring me, "We will get by this time too,---I think."

The Dream ( Graeme Edge )

When the white eagle of the North is flying overhead
The browns, reds and golds of autumn lie in the gutter, dead.
Remember then, that summer birds with wings of fire flaying
Came to witness springs new hope, born of leaves decaying.
Just as new life will come from death, love will come at leisure.
Love of love, love of life and giving without measure
Gives in return a wondrous yearn of a promise almost seen.
Live hand-in-hand and
together we'll stand on the threshold of a dream.

Colleen's Questions & Answers

1. What was the last movie you saw and what did you think of it?

Walt Disney's Fantasia. Serina gave me the new released DVD for Christmas and we enjoyed it as much as we used to love the old video. It's a classic masterpiece in every sense of the word.

2. If time and money were no issue, where in the world would you travel to?
The five golden I's; Israel, Iceland, India, Italy, Ireland . Roots of our civilization.


3. Would you ever consider living in a foreign country?

I might, but not as long as my mother is still alive.
Ireland or Italy have equal priorities, then Gunnar would have to agree, I'd never leave him.

4. Where do your ancestors come from?
All the great great great great grandparents on my mother's side come from the district of Jæren, Norway. My father's mother's ancestors are all from Eastern Norway, but the very best of my forfathers, granddad Erik Herman Ljung came from Sweden.
He was a one in a million man and still means the world to me.

5. What historical figure, (it can be recent history as well), would you meet if you could and why?

Jesus. Because He's the Alpha and Omega.

6. Which historical figures (again, can be recent) are you fascinated by?
People who have had significant influence over my development as a human being.
Handel, Bob Dylan, William Shakespeare, Bach, Louis Armstrong, Astri Lindgren,Gunnar's grandmother, King David, Michelangelo, Giovanni Guareschi, the minister in Sauda Church in the 60- ies, Rolf Idsøe and on and on....

Bob Dylan

Every Grain of Sand

In the time of my confession,
in the hour of my deepest need
When the pool of tears beneath my feet
flood every newborn seed
There's a dyin' voice within me
reaching out somewhere,
Toiling in the danger and in
the morals of despair.

Don't have the inclination to
look back on any mistake,
Like Cain,
I now behold this chain of events
that I must break.
In the fury of the moment
I can see the Master's hand
In every leaf that trembles,
in every grain of sand.

Oh, the flowers of indulgence
and the weeds of yesteryear,
Like criminals,
they have choked the breath
of conscience and good cheer.
The sun beat down upon the steps
of time to light the way
To ease the pain of idleness
and the memory of decay.

I gaze into the doorway of
temptation's angry flame
And every time I pass that way
I always hear my name.
Then onward in my journey
I come to understand
That every hair is numbered
like every grain of sand.

I have gone from rags to riches
in the sorrow of the night
In the violence of a summer's dream,
in the chill of a wintry light,
In the bitter dance of loneliness
fading into space,
In the broken mirror of innocence
on each forgotten face.

I hear the ancient footsteps like
the motion of the sea
Sometimes I turn, there's someone there,
other times it's only me.
I am hanging in the balance
of the reality of man
Like every sparrow falling,
like every grain of sand.

Ruby Tuesday and The Lotus Eaters #7

This is a Standing stone, marking a slate grave from the time, when the druid cult was dominant in our neighborhood. The photo was taken shortly before sundown a week ago. A burnt down church can be spotted in the background.
The standing stones are also known for being phallic symbols. Wow, our landscape are full of them.
The Ulysses also has many sexual references, some placed there by James Joyce, even more found and interpreted by students of literature.
Sexuality is what makes generations coming and going.
As long as it's not obscene or exploiting, I see nothing wrong in that.




The chapter called "Lotus Eaters" is amongst others about escapism.
Also it is about entheology; meaning what's making God to be inside a person.
This may refer to plants or substances eaten by ancient religious people in order to come close to divinity.
Our Christian Holy communion is in Bloom's world, (and in fact also in the Christian's), eating the body of Christ and drinking his blood, our mysterious way of keeping this connection with the Holy. It would have been easier, and less offensive, celebrating Christ in a more"normal" way, with prayers, even dressed in ashes and sacks. However, this is God's way of letting us know how small we are, and how powerful he is..

Leopold Bloom's in particular; in this chapter he literally is walking in a circle, never getting any of his small errands thoroughly done.
I've had those nightmares myself, feels like walking in syrup, hardly moving at all.
Thinking about it, I've been doing the sleep walk, while seemingly awake, but never seeming to get anywhere. "Life is something happening, while you're busy making other plans."

The lotus eaters of Homer gave Odysseus' men lotus petals to eat, and thus made them forget that their aim was sailing to their homeland, Ithaca.
To Leopold Bloom the lotus is a narcotic substance; a cigar is mentioned.

Bloom is a Jew, but not kosher, when it comes to eating.
In this chapter he casually enters a church, and watch from outside the congregation receiving the holy communion.His mind is swirling around, half critically, half indifferently. He has many accurate observations, but somehow he constantly avoids getting deeper engaged.
He's not superficial; he's confused, procrastinating, walking the whole circle through, many question asked, no answers given so far.

From Lotus Eaters:
"The cold smell of sacred stone called him. He trod the worn steps, pushed the swing door and entered softly by the rere.

Something going on: some sodality. Pity so empty. Nice discreet place to be next to some girl. Who is my neighbor? Jammed by the hour to slow music. That woman at midnight mass. Seventh heaven. Women knelt in the benches with crimson halters round their necks, heads bowed. A batch knelt at the altar rails. The priest went along by them, murmuring, holding the thing in his hands. He stopped at each, took out a communion, shook a drop or two (are they in water?) off it and put it neatly into her mouth. Her hat and head sank. Then the next one: a small old woman. The priest bent down to put it into her mouth, murmuring all the time. Latin. The next one. Shut your eyes and open your mouth. What? Corpus. Body. Corpse. Good idea the Latin. Stupefies them first. Hospice for the dying. They don't seem to chew it; only swallow it down. Rum idea: eating bits of a corpse why the cannibals cotton to it.

He stood aside watching their blind masks pass down the aisle, one by one, and seek their places. He approached a bench and seated himself in its corner, nursing his hat and newspaper. These pots we have to wear. We ought to have hats modeled on our heads. They were about him here and there, with heads still bowed in their crimson halters, waiting for it to melt in their stomachs. Something like those mazzoth: it's that sort of bread: unleavened shew bread. Look at them. Now I bet it makes them feel happy. Lollipop. It does. Yes, bread of angels it's called. There's a big idea behind it, kind of kingdom of God is within you feel. First communicants. Hokypoky penny a lump. Then feel all like one family party, same in the theater, all in the same swim. They do. I'm sure of that. Not so lonely. In our confraternity. Then come out a big spreeish. Let off steam. Thing is if you really believe in it. Lourdes cure, waters of oblivion, and the Knock apparition, statues bleeding. "
(James Joyce)

I find no mocking in it; just the eternal wondering, twisting and turning and triple bottoms.
I guess, one finds, what one is looking for most of the time.
"Search and you shall find," Jesus said.

Originated by MaryT, check hers for today

Bloomsday & Calypso #6

16th of June 1904, the day author James Joyce realized he was in love with Nora Barnacle, is the specific day the novel Ulysses is revolving about.
For years it has been celebrated as Bloomsday in Ireland.

But, hey, that's today. Happy Bloomsday everyone!
A whole nation celebrating a novel, where else can that happen than on the isle named Erin.
The rest of the world still shrugging their shoulders and calling the novel difficult or advanced.

Enter: Leopold Bloom/aka Stephen Daedalus/aka Ahasverus/aka Odysseus/aka James Joyce.
Once one has accepted this; the necessity of any Irishman to talk metaphorically, not to get executed as a rebel.
Twisting and turning words and sentences in and out of context, till everything seems to have a triple bottom became Joyce's specialty and the master degree of hundreds of literature students.
The newborn science of psychology, the Darwinism, the philosophers on the continent going in different directions, the streams of contradictions in music, painting, the revolution of natural, physics and chemistry sciences, even fashion changed dramatically. The Church and the British regime were the conservative and often threatening elements in this melting pot of a new world emerging.
Midst in this James Joyce, aka Leopold Bloom, is falling head over heals in love. He and his Nora, aka Molly should stay together for the rest of their lives.
This, and any Irishman's deep double bound love/hate for his homeland,
is skillfully woven into this dinosaur novel.
The great lines painted with a thick brush and beautiful or harsh details carefully engraved with a silver needle.


Calypso,
the name of a sea goddess in Greek mythology, is the title of chapter II.
According to Homer Calypso held Odysseus captured for seven years, before Athene managed to free him and send him home to his beloved Penelope.
To Leopold Bloom this morning is a contradiction of feeding the cat, making breakfast, thinking politics, (the home-rule sun is going up in north WEST behind the shut down Irish Parliament, now Bank of Ireland), waiting upon his beloved Molly, going to the outhouse, listen to the church bells and discussing transmigration of souls.
I'd like to share the cat feeding sequence with you.


"Cup of tea soon. Good. Mouth dry. The cat walked stiffly round a leg of the table with tail on high.

-- Mkgnao!

-- O, there you are, Mr Bloom said, turning from the fire.

The cat mewed in answer and stalked again stiffly round a leg of the table, mewing. Just how she stalks over my writing-table. Prr. Scratch my head. Prr.

Mr Bloom watched curiously, kindly, the lithe black form. Clean to see: the gloss of her sleek hide, the white button under the butt of her tail, the green flashing eyes. He bent down to her, his hands on his knees.

-- Milk for the pussens, he said.

-- Mrkgnao! the cat cried.

They call them stupid. They understand what we say better than we understand them. She understands all she wants to. Vindictive too. Wonder what I look like to her. Height of a tower? No, she can jump me.

-- Afraid of the chickens she is, he said mockingly. Afraid of the chookchooks. I never saw such a stupid pussens as the pussens.

Cruel. Her nature. Curious mice never squeal. Seem to like it.

-- Mrkrgnao! the cat said loudly.

She blinked up out of her avid shameclosing eyes, mewing plaintively and long, showing him her milkwhite teeth. He watched the dark eyeslits narrowing with greed till her eyes were green stones. Then he went to the dresser, took the jug Hanlon's milkman had just filled for him, poured warmbubbled milk on a saucer and set it slowly on the floor.

-- Gurrhr! she cried, running to lap.

He watched the bristles shining wirily in the weak light as she tipped three times and licked lightly. Wonder is it true if you clip them they can't mouse after. Why? They shine in the dark, perhaps, the tips. Or kind of feelers in the dark, perhaps.

He listened to her licking lap."
James Joyce

Proteus, god of the sea.#4

Leora challenged me, and I think Raven in her polite and cautious way tried to warn me, but stubborn headed me could not resist. This Sunday have been the day of Proteus in many variations. My brother Kel, Gunnar and Serina have all been engaged and thrilled by the opening sequence of the Proteus chapter. We have read Homer, Wittgenstein, about Jugend art, searched through glossaries for the best translation of modality(there is none,the Norwegian word is modalitet), we have twisted and turned the sentences till I finally ended up in the bath listening to a skilled Irish actor reading the Ulysses.
Couldn't dream of a better way to spend a sunny summer's day.
All this and football too..

PROTEUS, GOD OF THE SEA.
Menelaus who fought Proteus and won the answer, the way back to Ithacha .

"INELUCTABLE MODALITY OF THE VISIBLE: AT LEAST THAT, IF NO MORE, thought through my eyes.
Signatures of all things I am here to read, seaspawn and seawrack, the nearing tide, that rusty boot.
Snotgreen, bluesilver, rust: coloured signs. Limits of the diaphane. But he adds: in bodies. Then he was aware of them bodies before of them coloured. How? By knocking his sconce against them, sure. Go easy. Bald he was and a millionaire, maestro di color che sanno.(Dante on Aristotle: "the master of the men who know"). Limit of the diaphane in. Why in? Diaphane, adiaphane. If you can put your five fingers through it, it is a gate, if not a door. Shut your eyes and see.


Stephen closed his eyes to hear his boots crush crackling wrack and shells.
You are walking through it howsomever. I am, a stride at a time. A very short space of time through very short times of space. Five, six: the nacheinander. Exactly: and that is the ineluctable modality of the audible. Open your eyes. No. Jesus! If I fell over a cliff that beetles o'er his base, fell through the nebeneinander ineluctably.
I am getting on nicely in the dark. My ash sword hangs at my side. Tap with it: they do. My two feet in his boots are at the end of his legs, nebeneinander. Sounds solid: made by the mallet of Los Demiurgos.
Am I walking into eternity along Sandymount strand? Crush, crack, crick, crick. Wild sea money. Dominie Deasy kens them a'.

Won't you come to Sandymount,
Madeline the mare?

Rhythm begins, you see. I hear. A catalectic tetrameter of iambs marching. No, agallop: deline the mare.

Open your eyes now. I will. One moment. Has all vanished since? If I open and am for ever in the black adiaphane. Basta! I will see if I can see.


See now. There all the time without you: and ever shall be, world without end."
Limit of the diaphane in. Why in? Diaphane, adiaphane. If you can put your five fingers through it, it is a gate, if not a door. Shut your eyes and see.


Stephen closed his eyes to hear his boots crush crackling wrack and shells. You are walking through it howsomever. I am, a stride at a time. A very short space of time through very short times of space. Five, six: the nacheinander. Exactly: and that is the ineluctable modality of the audible. Open your eyes. No. Jesus! If I fell over a cliff that beetles o'er his base, fell through the nebeneinander ineluctably. I am getting on nicely in the dark. My ash sword hangs at my side. Tap with it: they do. My two feet in his boots are at the end of his legs, nebeneinander. Sounds solid: made by the mallet of Los Demiurgos. Am I walking into eternity along Sandymount strand? Crush, crack, crick, crick. Wild sea money. Dominie Deasy kens them a'.

Won't you come to Sandymount,
Madeline the mare?

Rhythm begins, you see. I hear. A catalectic tetrameter of iambs marching. No, agallop: deline the mare.

Open your eyes now. I will. One moment. Has all vanished since? If I open and am for ever in the black adiaphane. Basta! I will see if I can see.

See now. There all the time without you: and ever shall be, world without end."
— James Joyce (Ulysses)

The modality of the sea,
The rhythm of the sea,
The ever changing,
The life giving,
The life ending,
The riddle to be individually solved.
A blogger , Kurt Lindblom says,"Anyway, the phrase basically means the inescapability form of the visible. Vision is a fundamental component of existence. And Stephen is musing over the exact nature of reality--what is real? How can he know what is real? "

I don't agree. Anyone who has been walking along the shore knows for sure that the sea, the waves; the form of the shore, is always changing. Flood, tide, storm, landslides pollution; the ocean is as vulnerable as it is strong. A blind man knows a lot of forms, shapes by using his other senses, also described by Stephen. His ears, his skin, his balance, smell, texture, are all things telling about the real world surrounding him. Any archeologist can tell a lot about what may be hidden under the earth, because of history, forms, shapes of the scenery and the culture he is about to examine.
We can indeed know about things we do not see.
Hebrews 11
¹Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.

Most of the pictures made by Gunnar Jacobsen.
The pictures were added mainly to entertain, but also that you may take time to reflect on the text.

Nestor #3

Stephen Daedalus had this horrible headmaster making his professional life a nightmare.
This ignoramus of a human being, talking down his nose about Irish culture as well as Jews, is first handing over, in cash Stephen's hard earned pay, and in the next moment using his power as master superior, commanding his subordinant to get some weird articles of his printed in "your" newspapers. Yours, referring to Catholic or National papers, with whom the headmaster couldn't bear himself to contact.

It's kind of depressing to observe that the arrogance of people in power has not changed a bit for the last hundred years.
In my opinion it's not religion, nationality or education which are causing most damage or annoyance. Power is in itself a corrupting factor, and it's sought by people gifted with the grace of impudence rather than intelligence. They all seem to have in common a special flotation towards the common goal of unfalsified ruling greed.
The Nestors of this world, will live on in any regime like a plural headed troll.
Somehow I know I'll always remain the witch swimming against the stream, challenging all the Nestors I meet on my way.
I hope and pray that my daughter may come out more compliant.
Those are stormy waters to navigate.

Morning in Sandycove #2

The Ulysses opens at the Martello tower in the small town Sandycove outside Dublin at eight o'clock in the morning.
We visited the place six years ago, one blowing October day.
I'm still shocked by how narrow the place was. Three young men were living there, at least in the novel I now am writing about.
In its absurdity it also becomes very real, because of all the references to places, year, date, even exact hour of the day.
Stephen Daedalus rented this tower from the English government, and for some reason he had let two more or less penniless friends stay there with him. One Oxonian student of Irish culture, an antisemitic by the name of Haines, and an Irish medical student, Buck Mulligan, a mocker of the Church and as the plot goes on, a torturer of his "friend" Stephen Daedalus.
I'm standing in the narrow stairs where all began. Mulligan climbing the stairs as if they led to an altar, only to start a game of spiteful blasphemy.
What started as a friendly student quarreling tongue twisting mocking, ended with young Stephen being forced to hand over the key to the tower to Mulligan, after he had paid for their food.
Lots of symbolism referring to the fact that Ireland was a country suppressed and exploited by the English.

Stephen calls Mulligan an usurper as he leaves the tower, heading for school. He was teaching at the mercy of an unpleasant headmaster, but at least, he made a living there.
One cannot help but be upraised by all the intrigues and foul play among seemingly friends.
This first chapter is called Telemachus, after the son of Odysseus, the one who left his home in Ithaca to go searching for his long lost father. Odysseus had been delayed on his way home from the battle of Troy, and we're going to meet later on .

Stephen may be seen as the modern Telemachus, leaving Erin to look for, not his father, but maybe a more righteous life.
Like the Wild Geese had to flee after James II had lost the Battle of Boyne, thousands and thousands have left their beloved Ireland in flood waves, literally spoken.
America is full of brave Irishmen, who left their country to seek a future and a living overseas.
To me it seems that sympathetic Steven is giving in too easy, but then again, I don't know much about his pre history.

Summer Odyssey #1

This summer I took upon a long planned and twice failed project.
The reading of Ulysses, novel written by James Joyce.
I think I maybe found the reading hard, because critics all over the world tells me so.
Gunnar convinced me, it's not a difficult book, but a rich one.
Feeding and inspiring the mind.

Armed with a glossary, a commentator's book, Homer's Odyssey, a map over Dublin, history of Ireland and a pen, I finally weighed anchor.
Gunnar was a bit reluctant to the idea of me making notes in the actual novel, but that is my way of reading in depth.
My Bible is highlighted from Genesis to the Revelation.

James Joyce used 8 years on writing the novel, no reason for me to try finish reading it in "one sitting", to quote John Cowart.

So far I find all the digressions more interesting than trying to point out a main road from A to Z.
Like life itself, the most interesting things keep popping up, while one is busy making other plans.

I first heard this story told by my uncle Leif in Sunday School 55 years ago. My uncle spellbound 155 mercury children with his interpretation of this story. I hope the adults of today, even how busy and filled with prechristmas stress they might be, can take 7 minutes to read this wonderful story.

Where Love Is, God Is

by Leo Tolstoy

(1885)

IN A CERTAIN TOWN there lived a cobbler, Martin Avdéiteh by name. He had a tiny room in a basement, the one window of which looked out on to the street. Through it one could only see the feet of those who passed by, but Martin recognized the people by their boots. He had lived long in the place and had many acquaintances. There was hardly a pair of boots in the neighbourhood that had not been once or twice through his hands, so he often saw his own handiwork through the window. Some he had re-soled, some patched, some stitched up, and to some he had even put fresh uppers. He had plenty to do, for he worked well, used good material, did not charge too much, and could be relied on. If he could do a job by the day required, he undertook it; if not, he told the truth and gave no false promises; so he was well known and never short of work.

Martin had always been a good man; but in his old age he began to think more about his soul and to draw nearer to God. While he still worked for a master, before he set up on his own account, his wife had died, leaving him with a three-year old son. None of his elder children had lived, they had all died in infancy. At first Martin thought of sending his little son to his sister's in the country, but then he felt sorry to part with the boy, thinking: 'It would be hard for my little Kapitón to have to grow up in a strange family; I will keep him with me.'

Martin left his master and went into lodgings with his little son. But he had no luck with his children. No sooner had the boy reached an age when he could help his father and be a support as well as a joy to him, than he fell ill and, after being laid up for a week with a burning fever, died. Martin buried his son, and gave way to despair so great and overwhelming that he murmured against God. In his sorrow he prayed again and again that he too might die, reproaching God for having taken the son he loved, his only son while he, old as he was, remained alive. After that Martin left off going to church.

One day an old man from Martin's native village who had been a pilgrim for the last eight years, called in on his way from Tróitsa Monastery. Martin opened his heart to him, and told him of his sorrow.

'I no longer even wish to live, holy man,' he said. 'All I ask of God is that I soon may die. I am now quite without hope in the world.'

The old man replied: 'You have no right to say such things, Martin. We cannot judge God's ways. Not our reasoning, but God's will, decides. If God willed that your son should die and you should live, it must be best so. As to your despair -- that comes because you wish to live for your own happiness.'

'What else should one live for?' asked Martin.

'For God, Martin,' said the old man. 'He gives you life, and you must live for Him. When you have learnt to live for Him, you will grieve no more, and all will seem easy to you.'

Martin was silent awhile, and then asked: 'But how is one to live for God?'

The old man answered: 'How one may live for God has been shown us by Christ. Can you read? Then buy the Gospels, and read them: there you will see how God would have you live. You have it all there.'

These words sank deep into Martin's heart, and that same day he went and bought himself a Testament in large print, and began to read.

At first he meant only to read on holidays, but having once begun he found it made his heart so light that he read every day. Sometimes he was so absorbed in his reading that the oil in his lamp burnt out before he could tear himself away from the book. He continued to read every night, and the more he read the more clearly he understood what God required of him, and how he might live for God. And his heart grew lighter and lighter. Before, when he went to bed he used to lie with a heavy heart, moaning as he thought of his little Kapitón; but now he only repeated again and again: 'Glory to Thee, glory to Thee, O Lord! Thy will be done!'

From that time Martin's whole life changed. Formerly, on holidays he used to go and have tea at the public house, and did not even refuse a glass or two of vódka. Sometimes, after having had a drop with a friend, he left the public house not drunk, but rather merry, and would say foolish things: shout at a man, or abuse him. Now, all that sort of thing passed away from him. His life became peaceful and joyful. He sat down to his work in the morning, and when he had finished his day's work he took the lamp down from the wall, stood it on the table, fetched his book from the shelf, opened it, and sat down to read. The more he read the better he understood, and the clearer and happier he felt in his mind.

It happened once that Martin sat up late, absorbed in his book. He was reading Luke's Gospel; and in the sixth chapter he came upon the verses:

'To him that smiteth thee on the one cheek offer also the other; and from him that taketh away thy cloke withhold not thy coat also. Give to every man that asketh thee; and of him that taketh away thy goods ask them not again. And as ye would that men should do to you, do ye also to them likewise.'

He also read the verses where our Lord says:

'And why call ye me, Lord, Lord, and do not the things which I say? Whosoever cometh to me, and heareth my sayings, and doeth them, I will shew you to whom he is like: He is like a man which built an house, and digged deep, and laid the foundation on a rock: and when the flood arose, the stream beat vehemently upon that house, and could not shake it: for it was founded upon a rock. But he that heareth and doeth not, is like a man that without a foundation built an house upon the earth, against which the stream did beat vehemently, and immediately it fell; and the ruin of that house was great.'

When Martin read these words his soul was glad within him. He took off his spectacles and laid them on the book, and leaning his elbows on the table pondered over what he had read. He tried his own life by the standard of those words, asking himself:

'Is my house built on the rock, or on sand? If it stands on the rock, it is well. It seems easy enough while one sits here alone, and one thinks one has done all that God commands; but as soon as I cease to be on my guard, I sin again. Still I will persevere. It brings such joy. Help me, O Lord!'

He thought all this, and was about to go to bed, but was loth to leave his book. So he went on reading the seventh chapter -- about the centurion, the widow's son, and the answer to John's disciples -- and he came to the part where a rich Pharisee invited the Lord to his house; and he read how the woman who was a sinner, anointed his feet and washed them with her tears, and how he justified her. Coming to the forty-fourth verse, he read:

'And turning to the woman, he said unto Simon, Seest thou this woman? I entered into thine house thou gavest me no water for my feet: but she hath wetted my feet with her tears, and wiped them with her hair. Thou gavest me no kiss; but she, since the time I came in, hath not ceased to kiss my feet. My head with oil thou didst not anoint: but she hath anointed my feet with ointment.'

He read these verses and thought: 'He gave no water for his feet, gave no kiss, his head with oil he did not anoint. . . .' And Martin took off his spectacles once more, laid them on his book, and pondered.

'He must have been like me, that Pharisee. He too thought only of himself -- how to get a cup of tea, how to keep warm and comfortable; never a thought of his guest. He took care of himself, but for his guest he cared nothing at all. Yet who was the guest? The Lord himself! If he came to me, should I behave like that?'

Then Martin laid his head upon both his arms and, before he was aware of it, he fell asleep.

'Martin!' he suddenly heard a voice, as if some one had breathed the word above his ear.

He started from his sleep. 'Who's there?' he asked.

He turned round and looked at the door; no one was there. He called again. Then he heard quite distinctly: 'Martin, Martin! Look out into the street to-morrow, for I shall come.'

Martin roused himself, rose from his chair and rubbed his eyes, but did not know whether he had heard these words in a dream or awake. He put out the lamp and lay down to sleep.

Next morning he rose before daylight, and after saying his prayers he lit the fire and prepared his cabbage soup and buckwheat porridge. Then he lit the samovár, put on his apron, and sat down by the window to his work. As he sat working Martin thought over what had happened the night before. At times it seemed to him like a dream, and at times he thought that he had really heard the voice. 'Such things have happened before now,' thought he.

So he sat by the window, looking out into the street more than he worked, and whenever any one passed in unfamiliar boots he would stoop and look up, so as to see not the feet only but the face of the passer-by as well. A house-porter passed in new felt boots; then a water-carrier. Presently an old soldier of Nicholas' reign came near the window spade in hand. Martin knew him by his boots, which were shabby old felt ones, goloshed with leather. The old man was called Stepániteh: a neighbouring tradesman kept him in his house for charity, and his duty was to help the house-porter. He began to clear away the snow before Martin's window. Martin glanced at him and then went on with his work.

'I must be growing crazy with age,' said Martin, laughing at his fancy. 'Stepánitch comes to clear away the snow, and I must needs imagine it's Christ coming to visit me. Old dotard that I am!'

Yet after he had made a dozen stitches he felt drawn to look out of the window again. He saw that Stepánitch had leaned his spade against the wall, and was either resting himself or trying to get warm. The man was old and broken down, and had evidently not enough strength even to clear away the snow.

'What if I called him in and gave him some tea?' thought Martin. 'The samovár is just on the boil.'

He stuck his awl in its place, and rose; and putting the samovár on the table, made tea. Then he tapped the window with his fingers. Stepánitch turned and came to the window. Martin beckoned to him to come in, and went himself to open the door.

'Come in,' he said, 'and warm yourself a bit. I'm sure you must be cold.'

'May God bless you!' Stepánitch answered. 'My bones do ache to be sure.' He came in, first shaking off the snow, and lest he should leave marks on the floor he began wiping his feet; but as he did so he tottered and nearly fell.

'Don't trouble to wipe your feet,' said Martin 'I'll wipe up the floor -- it's all in the day's work. Come, friend, sit down and have some tea.'

Filling two tumblers, he passed one to his visitor, and pouring his own out into the saucer, began to blow on it.

Stepániteh emptied his glass, and, turning it upside down, put the remains of his piece of sugar on the top. He began to express his thanks, but it was plain that he would be glad of some more.

'Have another glass,' said Martin, refilling the visitor's tumbler and his own. But while he drank his tea Martin kept looking out into the street.

'Are you expecting any one?' asked the visitor.

'Am I expecting any one? Well, now, I'm ashamed to tell you. It isn't that I really expect any one; but I heard something last night which I can't get out of my mind Whether it was a vision, or only a fancy, I can't tell. You see, friend, last night I was reading the Gospel, about Christ the Lord, how he suffered, and how he walked on earth. You have heard tell of it, I dare say.'

'I have heard tell of it,' answered Stepánitch; 'but I'm an ignorant man and not able to read.'

'Well, you see, I was reading of how he walked on earth. I came to that part, you know, where he went to a Pharisee who did not receive him well. Well, friend, as I read about it, I thought now that man did not receive Christ the Lord with proper honour. Suppose such a thing could happen to such a man as myself, I thought, what would I not do to receive him! But that man gave him no reception at all. Well, friend, as I was thinking of this, I began to doze, and as I dozed I heard some one call me by name. I got up, and thought I heard some one whispering, "Expect me; I will come to-morrow." This happened twice over. And to tell you the truth, it sank so into my mind that, though I am ashamed of it myself, I keep on expecting him, the dear Lord!'

Stepánitch shook his head in silence, finished his tumbler and laid it on its side; but Martin stood it up again and refilled it for him.

'Here drink another glass, bless you! And I was thinking too, how he walked on earth and despised no one, but went mostly among common folk. He went with plain people, and chose his disciples from among the likes of us, from workmen like us, sinners that we are. "He who raises himself," he said, "shall be humbled and he who humbles himself shall be raised." "You call me Lord," he said, "and I will wash your feet." "He who would be first," he said, "let him be the servant of all; because," he said, "blessed are the poor, the humble, the meek, and the merciful."'

Stepánitch forgot his tea. He was an old man easily moved to tears, and as he sat and listened the tears ran down his cheeks.

'Come, drink some more,' said Martin. But Stepánitch crossed himself, thanked him, moved away his tumbler, and rose.

'Thank you, Martin Avdéitch,' he said, 'you have given me food and comfort both for soul and body.'

'You're very welcome. Come again another time. I am glad to have a guest,' said Martin.

Stepánitch went away; and Martin poured out the last of the tea and drank it up. Then he put away the tea things and sat down to his work, stitching the back seam of a boot. And as he stitched he kept looking out of the window, waiting for Christ, and thinking about him and his doings. And his head was full of Christ's sayings.

Two soldiers went by: one in Government boots the other in boots of his own; then the master of a neighbouring house, in shining goloshes; then a baker carrying a basket. All these passed on. Then a woman came up in worsted stockings and peasant-made shoes. She passed the window, but stopped by the wall. Martin glanced up at her through the window, and saw that she was a stranger, poorly dressed, and with a baby in her arms. She stopped by the wall with her back to the wind, trying to wrap the baby up though she had hardly anything to wrap it in. The woman had only summer clothes on, and even they were shabby and worn. Through the window Martin heard the baby crying, and the woman trying to soothe it, but unable to do so. Martin rose and going out of the door and up the steps he called to her.

'My dear, I say, my dear!'

The woman heard, and turned round.

'Why do you stand out there with the baby in the cold? Come inside. You can wrap him up better in a warm place. Come this way!'

The woman was surprised to see an old man in an apron, with spectacles on his nose, calling to her, but she followed him in.

They went down the steps, entered the little room, and the old man led her to the bed.

'There, sit down, my dear, near the stove. Warm yourself, and feed the baby.'

'Haven't any milk. I have eaten nothing myself since early morning,' said the woman, but still she took the baby to her breast.

Martin shook his head. He brought out a basin and some bread. Then he opened the oven door and poured some cabbage soup into the basin. He took out the porridge pot also but the porridge was not yet ready, so he spread a cloth on the table and served only the soup and bread.

'Sit down and eat, my dear, and I'll mind the baby. Why, bless me, I've had children of my own; I know how to manage them.'

The woman crossed herself, and sitting down at the table began to eat, while Martin put the baby on the bed and sat down by it. He chucked and chucked, but having no teeth he could not do it well and the baby continued to cry. Then Martin tried poking at him with his finger; he drove his finger straight at the baby's mouth and then quickly drew it back, and did this again and again. He did not let the baby take his finger in its mouth, because it was all black with cobbler's wax. But the baby first grew quiet watching the finger, and then began to laugh. And Martin felt quite pleased.

The woman sat eating and talking, and told him who she was, and where she had been.

'I'm a soldier's wife,' said she. 'They sent my husband somewhere, far away, eight months ago, and I have heard nothing of him since. I had a place as cook till my baby was born, but then they would not keep me with a child. For three months now I have been struggling, unable to find a place, and I've had to sell all I had for food. I tried to go as a wet-nurse, but no one would have me; they said I was too starved-looking and thin. Now I have just been to see a tradesman's wife (a woman from our village is in service with her) and she has promised to take me. I thought it was all settled at last, but she tells me not to come till next week. It is far to her place, and I am fagged out, and baby is quite starved, poor mite. Fortunately our landlady has pity on us, and lets us lodge free, else I don't know what we should do.'

Martin sighed. 'Haven't you any warmer clothing?' he asked.

'How could I get warm clothing?' said she. 'Why I pawned my last shawl for sixpence yesterday.'

Then the woman came and took the child, and Martin got up. He went and looked among some things that were hanging on the wall, and brought back an old cloak.

'Here,' he said, 'though it's a worn-out old thing, it will do to wrap him up in.'

The woman looked at the cloak, then at the old man, and taking it, burst into tears. Martin turned away, and groping under the bed brought out a small trunk. He fumbled about in it, and again sat down opposite the woman. And the woman said:

'The Lord bless you, friend. Surely Christ must have sent me to your window, else the child would have frozen. It was mild when I started, but now see how cold it has turned. Surely it must have been Christ who made you look out of your window and take pity on me, poor wretch!'

Martin smiled and said; 'It is quite true; it was he made me do it. It was no mere chance made me look out.'

And he told the woman his dream, and how he had heard the Lord's voice promising to visit him that day.

'Who knows? All things are possible,' said the woman. And she got up and threw the cloak over her shoulders, wrapping it round herself and round the baby. Then she bowed, and thanked Martin once more.

'Take this for Christ's sake,' said Martin, and gave her sixpence to get her shawl out of pawn. The woman crossed herself, and Martin did the same, and then he saw her out.

After the woman had gone, Martin ate some cabbage soup, cleared the things away, and sat down to work again. He sat and worked, but did not forget the window, and every time a shadow fell on it he looked up at once to see who was passing. People he knew and strangers passed by, but no one remarkable.

After a while Martin saw an apple-woman stop just in front of his window. She had a large basket, but there did not seem to be many apples left in it; she had evidently sold most of her stock. On her back she had a sack full of chips, which she was taking home. No doubt she had gathered them at some place where building was going on. The sack evidently hurt her, and she wanted to shift it from one shoulder to the other, so she put it down on the footpath and, placing her basket on a post, began to shake down the chips in the sack. While she was doing this a boy in a tattered cap ran up, snatched an apple out of the basket, and tried to slip away; but the old woman noticed it, and turning, caught the boy by his sleeve. He began to struggle, trying to free himself, but the old woman held on with both hands, knocked his cap off his head, and seized hold of his hair. The boy screamed and the old woman scolded. Martin dropped his awl, not waiting to stick it in its place, and rushed out of the door. Stumbling up the steps, and dropping his spectacles in his hurry, he ran out into the street. The old woman was pulling the boy's hair and scolding him, and threatening to take him to the police. The lad was struggling and protesting, saying, 'I did not take it. What are you beating me for? Let me go!'

Martin separated them. He took the boy by the hand and said, 'Let him go, Granny. Forgive him for Christ's sake.'

'I'll pay him out, so that he won't forget it for a year! I'll take the rascal to the police!'

Martin began entreating the old woman.

'Let him go, Granny. He won't do it again. Let him go for Christ's sake!'

The old woman let go, and the boy wished to run away, but Martin stopped him

'Ask the Granny's forgiveness!' said he. 'And don't do it another time. I saw you take the apple.'

The boy began to cry and to beg pardon.

'That's right. And now here's an apple for you, and Martin took an apple from the basket and gave it to the boy, saying, 'I will pay you, Granny.'

'You will spoil them that way, the young rascals,' said the old woman. 'He ought to be whipped so that he should remember it for a week.'

'Oh, Granny, Granny,' said Martin, 'that's our way -- but it's not God's way. If he should be whipped for stealing an apple, what should be done to us for our sins?'

The old woman was silent.

And Martin told her the parable of the lord who forgave his servant a large debt, and how the servant went out and seized his debtor by the throat. The old woman listened to it all, and the boy, too, stood by and listened.

'God bids us forgive,' said Martin, 'or else we shall not be forgiven. Forgive every one; and a thoughtless youngster most of all.'

The old woman wagged her head and sighed.

'It's true enough,' said she, 'but they are getting terribly spoilt.'

'Then we old ones must show them better ways,' Martin replied.

'That's just what I say,' said the old woman. 'I have had seven of them myself, and only one daughter is left.' And the old woman began to tell how and where she was living with her daughter, and how many grandchildren she had. 'There now,' she said, 'I have but little strength left, yet I work hard for the sake of my grandchildren; and nice children they are, too. No one comes out to meet me but the children. Little Annie, now, won't leave me for any one. "It's grandmother, dear grandmother, darling grandmother."' And the old woman completely softened at the thought.

'Of course, it was only his childishness, God help him,' said she, referring to the boy.

As the old woman was about to hoist her sack on her back, the lad sprang forward to her, saying, 'Let me carry it for you, Granny. I'm going that way.'

The old woman nodded her head, and put the sack on the boy's back, and they went down the street together, the old woman quite forgetting to ask Martin to pay for the apple. Martin stood and watched them as they went along talking to each other.

When they were out of sight Martin went back to the house. Having found his spectacles unbroken on the steps, he picked up his awl and sat down again to work. He worked a little, but could soon not see to pass the bristle through the holes in the leather; and presently he noticed the lamplighter passing on his way to light the street lamps.

'Seems it's time to light up,' thought he. So he trimmed his lamp, hung it up, and sat down again to work. He finished off one boot and, turning it about, examined it. It was all right. Then he gathered his tools together, swept up the cuttings, put away the bristles and the thread and the awls, and, taking down the lamp, placed it on the table. Then he took the Gospels from the shelf. He meant to open them at the place he had marked the day before with a bit of morocco, but the book opened at another place. As Martin opened it, his yesterday's dream came back to his mind, and no sooner had he thought of it than he seemed to hear footsteps, as though some one were moving behind him. Martin turned round, and it seemed to him as if people were standing in the dark corner, but he could not make out who they were. And a voice whispered in his ear: 'Martin, Martin, don't you know me?'

'Who is it?' muttered Martin.

'It is I,' said the voice. And out of the dark corner stepped Stepánitch, who smiled and vanishing like a cloud was seen no more.

'It is I,' said the voice again. And out of the darkness stepped the woman with the baby in her arms and the woman smiled and the baby laughed, and they too vanished.

'It is I,' said the voice once more. And the old woman and the boy with the apple stepped out and both smiled, and then they too vanished.

And Martin's soul grew glad. He crossed himself put on his spectacles, and began reading the Gospel just where it had opened; and at the top of the page he read

'I was an hungred, and ye gave me meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink: I was a stranger, and ye took me in.'

And at the bottom of the page he read

'In as much as ye did it unto one of these my brethren even these least, ye did it unto me' (Matt. xxv).

And Martin understood that his dream had come true; and that the Saviour had really come to him that day, and he had welcomed him.