For a moment I had the uncomfortable feeling of a schoolgirl who does not know her lesson. But I braced up and replied, a trifle defiantly: 'Of course, sir. I should like to know if it is a blessing - if we should wish to live as you have, to be more than a hundred?'

"The world is beautiful,' said the old man, with a quaver of gratitude and warmth in his voice. 'I love it and rejoice in its beauty.'

'Is not the burden of your age sometimes almost unendurably heavy?'

'I am well, and thank God for it morning and night.'

'Of course, that goes without saying. I mean one's feet become weary and one's hands weak. You sit here in your cell. Outside is motion, life, joy.'

The old man smiled. 'As long as the fingers are nimble and the feet are restless man has too little time to think. Not until his limbs are heavy and weary does he stay at home and find in solitude - himself. There are so many hours, quiet hours, that are filled with bliss.'

I felt abashed, but an impulse of contradiction spurred me to ask: 'Is your hearing so keen that you have nothing to wish in that respect?'

'Aye, indeed,' said the old man, with a sigh, ‘it is a long time since I have heard the church bells of Ljutibrod, even when the wind does not carry their sound away into the mountains. Neither do I hear any more the tinkling of the goats' bells in the distance when they are driven in from the pasture of an evening. And I miss that. Yet I cannot complain of my hearing. So many evil and ugly things are spoken in the world that God well knows it is not all loss if we do not hear everything. And then, please understand me young ears hear

what goes on inside. The longer they listen the keener they are for that.'

'And your eyes?' I asked, in an almost timid voice.

Slowly the old man lifted his hand and pointed to the open window, through which a flood of sunlight streamed into the otherwise cheerless room. The golden clarity of late summer hovered over the sharply defined declivities of the Balkans and the lonely solitudes of their remote valleys. An eagle, beating his wings with leisurely majesty, rose from a rocky pinnacle, then, soaring higher and higher in an ascending spiral, at length vanished in the light-filled ether.

'My eyes are good,' said the old monk, 'for they see the soft blue of the sky, the coursing clouds, the mountains of my childhood, and the eagles circling over their summits. Ought I to wish to see the death quiver of the poor victims the bird of prey clutches in his bloody talons as he stoops to his lofty nest? Or the bullet that mercilessly strikes him down from his craggy heights? It is well to see, but better not to see all. It is best to see only what is good.'

The aged monk beckoned to me, and a cheerful radiance suffused his wrinkled countenance. Was it a reflection of the sunshine that shimmered warm and vibrant on the worn flagstones of the floor? Or a beam of light from the hoarded soul-treasures of a century of pious meditation? I do not know. I only know that, obeying a sudden impulse, I bowed and pressed my lips to his cool, tired hand. As I did so, I heard the voices of people approaching and speaking my name. As I left the room I turned for a moment on the threshold and glanced back. The old monk sat in the same position as when I entered-motionless, wrapped in self-communion, his hands

lying quietly in his lap. He smiled and his eyes followed me, though I am sure without seeing me.

The whistle of a locomotive broke the stillness. I was back in the world, the world of every day.

'What in the name of all that is holy kept you so long with that miraculous old man?' asked my seat companion on the train, a tawny, honest fellow from Sofia. 'You don't speak, so far as I know, a single word of Bulgarian, and he does n't understand a word of any other language.'

I started, and a queer thrill gripped my heart. What did you say? He speaks no other language, the old monk?'

'No, my young friend.'

And our questions and answers?

What I had learned of his victory over the illusions of the world, his philosophy of life and old age? Had I merely dreamed it?

Not at all. To-day I understand. There is a channel of communication that requires no words. Thus had I communed with the old monk of Cherepich without the aid of a common tongue or an interpreter. He must have passed from this life long ago—that venerable monk. But the imperishable legacy he bequeathed me that hour in his cloister cell I treasure still the life lesson that the vision of his hundred and fifteen years taught me: that to grow old with profit is the fairest flower of wisdom, and ripens into the sweetest fruit of human life.

Now I am going to tell you a good story. Many years ago a great wedding was to take place in the parish of Svartsjo, in Värmland. It was going to be a church wedding, followed by three days of feasting, and there would be dancing every day from early morning until late into the night.

As there was to be so much dancing, it was most important to have a good musician, and Nils Elofsson, who was giving the wedding, took more trouble over this point than over anything else connected with the party. He did not wish to have the musician who lived in

Svartsjo, by name of Jan Oster, although he was considered the best in the district, because he was so poor and might perhaps have to come to the wedding in ragged clothes and no shoes.

Such a beggar the bailiff would not have leading the wedding procession.

At last he decided to send a message to a man in Jossehernd, who was known familiarly as Fiddler Martin, and ask him to play at the feast. But Fiddler Martin would not agree to come; for had they not in their own parish the best musician in the whole of Värmland?

And as long as Jan Oster was alive there was no need to send for anyone else.

When Nils Elofsson got this answer he thought it over for a day or two, and then sent a message to a musician who lived in Great Rils parish, and was called Olli of Saby, to ask him if he would come and play at his daughter's wedding.

But Olli of Saby answered the same as Fiddler Martin: he sent his compliments to Nils Elofsson, but as long as there was such a wonderful musician in Svartsjo as Jan Oster, he would not come and play.

Nils Elofsson was not pleased that the musicians tried to force him to take a fiddler he did not care for, so he considered it a matter of great importance to find another player.

A few days after he had received Olli's answer he sent a message to Lars Larsson, who lived at Angsgard, in the Ulleried parish. Lars was a well-to-do man who owned his own farm, and he was clever and discreet, and not so hot-headed as the other musicians.

But, just like the others, he immediately thought of Jan Oster, and asked how it was that he was not going to play at the wedding.

Nils Elofsson's messenger thought it wiser to say that as Jan Oster lived in the parish he was too well known, and as Nils Elofsson was giving a great wedding he would rather have a new musician to play.

answered: 'Greet thy master and thank him for his invitation, and I will come.'

Next Sunday Lars Larsson went to Svartsjo Church and swung up the hill just as the bridal procession was starting.

He drove in his own gig with a good horse in front of him, and wore his best black suit and had his violin in a highly polished case. Nils Elofsson was most impressed and considered him a musician to be proud of.

Directly after Lars Larsson arrived, Jan Oster came up to the church with his violin under his arm, and joined the crowd that stood around the bride, just as if he had been ordered to play at the wedding.

Jan Oster had on his old frieze coat that had seen service under many masters, but his wife, in honor of the wedding, had tried to mend the holes in his elbows and had put in large green patches. He was a tall, handsome man, and would have looked well leading the wedding procession if only he had not been so ragged or his face had not been disfigured by lines of misery and anxiety caused through worry and ill-luck.

When Lars Larsson saw Jan Oster arrive he was very annoyed. 'So you also sent a message to this man,' he whispered to the bailiff. 'It may spoil everything to have two musicians at such a great wedding.'

'I did not ask him,' Nils Elofsson assured him, 'and I cannot understand

'Now you are certainly going to give me the same answer as Fiddler Martin and Olli of Saby,' said the messenger, and told him how it had gone with them.

Lars Larsson listened attentively to the man's story, then sat still a long while and thought it over. At last he

'So it must be another fool who has invited him,' replied Lars Larsson; 'but if you will take my advice, don't say anything, but go and welcome him; he is said to be quick-tempered, and who knows that he will not fight and quarrel if you tell him that he is not wanted.'

The bailiff also thought it was hardly the time for quarreling now that the bridal procession was getting into line on the hill by the church. He therefore went across to Jan Oster and bade him welcome.

Then the bridal pair stepped under the canopy, and the bridesmaids and guests walked two and two, followed by the parents and relations, so that the procession was both long and stately.

When everything was ready, one of the guests went up to the musicians and told them to begin the Wedding March.

Both musicians put their violins under their chins, but got no further than that, only waited. It is an old custom in Svartsjo that the best musician always leads the music. The guests looked at Lars Larsson, thinking that he would begin the Wedding March, but he looked at Jan Oster and said: 'It is for Jan Oster to begin.'

Now Jan Oster thought that the fiddler who was dressed like a fine gentleman must naturally be a better musician than he who had come from his poor home in ragged clothes, so he only replied: 'No, certainly not, certainly not.'

Then he saw the bridegroom stretch out and nudge Lars Larsson, saying: 'You must begin.'

When Jan Oster heard the bridegroom say this, he put his violin down and drew to one side.

But Lars Larsson did not move; he remained there quiet and unconcerned, neither did he touch his bow. 'It is Jan Oster who must lead the music,' he said, speaking in a stubborn, firm voice as if he was accustomed to being obeyed.

The procession now began to grow restless with the delay, and the father of the bridegroom went up to Lars Larsson and ordered him to begin,

while the verger came out of the church and made signs to them to hurry as the priest was already waiting at the altar.

'Well, you had better order Jan Oster to play,' answered Lars Larsson. 'We musicians consider him the best in the district.'

"That may be,' was the reply, 'but we farmers consider Lars Larsson to be the best.'

The other farmers gathered round. 'Only begin,' they urged. "The priest is waiting and you are making a fool of us before the whole parish.'

But Lars Larsson remained just as obstinate and firm as before. 'I cannot understand that the parish does not realize what a musician it possesses.'

Nils Elofsson was furious to think that his hand was being forced, and going across to Lars Larsson whispered: 'Now I understand that it must have been you who sent for Jan Oster, and did this to make a fool of him. Now begin or else I will have you beaten.'

Lars Larsson looked him straight in the eye and intimated that he need not lose his temper on such a day, and finished up by saying: 'Yes, you are right, we must put a stop to this.'

He beckoned to Jan Oster to return to his place, and went a pace in front of him and waited a moment to make sure that all could see him; then, throwing his bow away from him, he took out his clasp knife and cut all the four violin strings across so that they snapped with a loud noise.

'It shall never be said that I thought myself a better musician than Jan Oster,' he said.

Now it so happened that Jan Oster had been dreaming about a melody for the last three years, though he had never been able to play it, because whenever he had gone home full of inspiration some household worry or

But when he heard Lars Larsson's violin strings snap, he threw his head back, drew in his breath, and his expression was such as if he were listening to some music that drew him far away. Then he began to play,

of for three years now became a reality to him, and as the music rang out he walked proudly toward the church.

And never had the bridal procession heard such a wonderful melody; it moved them so much that not even Nils Elofsson could remain morose.

One

WHEN d'Annunzio was still a mere gymnasium student, the precocious gifts of the handsome fair-haired boy were already attracting attention. In 1879 his first poems appeared in Chieti, the capital of the province, and the sweetness and strength of the language, the vigor of expression and the easy mastery of the verse, together with the unrestrained and overflowing sensuality that filled them, caught the public 'fancy and made him at fifteen a much discussed and successful poet. One work followed close upon another verses whose art was invariably perfect and whose eroticism was quite as unvarying; poems expressing all the Southern joy in life and sensual pleasure, though not without that dark and tragic overtone that sounds about the fate of every Tannhäuser, old or new. Between the poems came long stories and short ones, in the broad tones or strong colors of the naturalistic epoch, depicting a life of almost animal sensuality, fanatic passions, glory and despair, in the most various levels of South European society.

By the time he had attained twentyone, d'Annunzio could already point to eleven books, among them two novels, Il Piacere and L'Innocente, books full of verbal magnificence, glorious color, and passionate feeling. Neither was there any falling-off in his creative powers as his life began to broaden and his thirst for action and his natural faith began to lead him into new fields, even though many of his works by no means equaled the heights that he had earlier attained. An overmastering temperament lodged in his weak little body, and with it dwelt an astounding capacity for work, to which was added the excessive facility of his gift for language. The critics lauded him and fought for him. All the philistines, all the serious people, were wroth against him. Young poets and artists were inspired by him. Everyone talked about him.

Social success of every kind fell to the lot of one who had achieved fame so early. Women flocked to him and snatched him from each other's hands. He reveled in all the pleasures and re