Short Fiction

Short Fiction
By Kate Chopin.




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With the Violin
“And he over the mantlepiece with big black eyes, and such long black hair, and a violin; is he your brother too, Papa Konrad? And why do you keep a green branch always hanging over his picture?”
“No, that is not my brother, Sophie; that is an angel whom the good God allowed once, to save a poor desperate human being from sin and death.”
“But where are his wings. Papa Konrad? I never saw an angel look like that; and so black too!”
“There are some angels without wings, little Grissel. Not many I admit; but I have known a few.”
“Tell us how he saved the poor desperate man, Papa Konrad.”
“Well, Sophie, if you will brush up the hearth like a good little housewife; and Ernst throw some coals on the fire; and little Grissel come and sit here on my knee, I will try to tell you the story. It happened a good many weary years ago⁠—as you little ones count them. As many years, I suppose, as Ernst has been living in the world. How old are you, Ernst?”
“Ten years old, going on eleven.”
“Then it was before your time, for it happened just twelve years ago tonight. My! but that was a cold night!”
“Colder than it is tonight, Papa Konrad?”
“Oh, far, far colder. There was no snow on the ground as there is tonight, but the air seemed filtered through ice. People hurried from one shop to another to keep away from the cold. And the coachmen, driving their fine carriages, were wrapped in great furs till only their eyes peeped out. All the shops were ablaze; but there were not many on such a night, willing to stand and look into their windows. Yet there stood the poor devil I am going to tell you about, looking into a jeweler’s big showcase, where the workmen had just laid aside their tools. Those watch-menders, whom you have seen wearing a big round glass in one eye, you know.”
“That’s what you are⁠—a watch-mender, isn’t it, Papa Konrad?”
“To be sure, Sophie. Well, he had been inside, asking for work, and there was none for him. He had said to himself before going in, this shall be my last trial. So now he stood looking absently in at the window; the frozen air penetrating his body; for his clothes were thin and few. He was hungry, and very, very miserable. Only think, he was in a strange city, without friends, and without work, and with no money. He still had a little room, away up in the top story of a very high, rickety old building.”
“How high was the building, Papa Konrad? I bet, not so high as the little windows of the Cathedral steeple.”
“No, no, Ernst, not so high, but quite high enough, that when he reach the top he was faint and exhausted from mounting the stairs. I believe that little room was colder than outdoors. At any rate, it was more cheerless. Another lump of coal on the fire, Ernst; that’s a fine boy, and how strong! Little Grissel is not sleeping? that’s well. The broken windows were rattling in their loose casings, and the bitter cold was sweeping in gusts down the bleak chimney, through the empty fireplace and into the room. He went in and sat right down⁠—for he had no greatcoat to stop and take off, you know. He spread his arms out on the table,