Paul Patoff

Paul Patoff, by F. Marion
Crawford

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Title: Paul Patoff
Author: F. Marion Crawford

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PAUL PATOFF
by
F. MARION CRAWFORD
Author of "A Roman Singer," "To Leeward," "An American
Politician," "Saracinesca," Etc.

New York The MacMillan Company London: MacMillan & Co., Ltd.
1911
All rights reserved
Copyright, 1887, by F. Marion Crawford.
Copyright, 1892, by F. Marion Crawford.
First published elsewhere. Reprinted with corrections, April, 1893;
June, 1894; June, 1899; July, 1906; January, 1912.
Norwood Press J. S. Cushing & Co.--Berwick & Smith Norwood Mass.
U.S.A.

PAUL PATOFF.
My dear lady--my dear friend--you have asked me to tell you a story,
and I am going to try, because there is not anything I would not try if
you asked it of me. I do not yet know what it will be about, but it is

impossible that I should disappoint you; and if the proverb says, "Needs
must when the devil drives," I can mend the proverb into a show of
grace, and say, The most barren earth must needs bear flowers when an
angel sows the seed.
When you asked for the story I could only find a dry tale of my own
doings, which I detailed to you somewhat at length, as we cantered
down into the Valley of the Sweet Waters. The south wind was warm
this afternoon, though it brought rain with it and wetted us a little as we
rode; it was soft and dreamy, and made everything look sleepy, and
misty, and a little uncertain in outline. Baghdad sniffed it in his deep
red nostrils, for it was the wind of his home; but Haroun al Raschid
shook the raindrops restlessly from his gray mane, as though he hated
to be damp, and was thinking longingly of the hot sand and the desert
sun. But he had no right to complain, for water must needs come in the
oases,--and truly I know of no fairer and sweeter resting-place in life's
journey than the Valley of the Sweet Waters above the Golden Horn.
That same south wind--when I think, it is a point or two easterly, and it
seems to smell of Persia--well, that same soft wind is blowing at my
windows now in the dark night, and is murmuring, sometimes almost
complaining, then dying away in a fitful, tearful sigh, sorry even to
weeping for its restless fate, sorry perhaps for me and sighing for me.
God knows, there is enough to sigh for in this working-day world, is
there not? I have heard you sigh, too, very sadly, as though something
hurt you, although you are so bright and young and fair. The wind sighs
hopelessly, in great sobs of weariness and despair, for he is filled with
the ghosts of the past; but your breath has a music in it that is more like
the song of the sunrise that used to break out from the heart of the
beautiful marble at dawn.
Poor wind! He is trying to speak to me through the pines,--perhaps he
is bringing a message. It is long since any one brought me a message I
cared to hear. I will open the door to the terrace and let him in, and see
what he has to say.
Truly, he speaks great words:--

"I am the belt and the girdle of this world. I carry in my arms the souls
of the dead and the sins of them; the souls of them that have not yet
lived, with their deeds, are in my bosom. I am sorrowful with the
sorrow of ages, and strong with the strength of ages yet unlived. What
is thy sorrow to my sorrow, or thy strength to my strength? Listen.
"Knowest thou whence I come, or whither I go? Fool, thou knowest not
even of thyself what thou shalt do to-morrow, and it may be that on the
next day I shall have thy soul, to take it away, and hold it, and buffet it,
and tear it as I will. Fool, thou knowest little! The gardens of Persia are
sweet this night; this night the