The Discourager
Having inherited a bequest that made me the master of my time, I threw over my position as underpaid factotum in my uncle’s counting house and determined to travel the world. I was jaded and ill-tempered, and thought the change would do me good. I supplied myself with trunks, maps, Baedekers, and every lightweight comfort to be had, and set off to escape the oppressive bustle of nineteenth-century commerce.
My ship was a mid-size steamer of the White Line, and I found that most of the other passengers were old, ill, or bored. Their conversation revolved around the food and their amenities. I amused myself by admiring the cunning devices on the ship — the tube through which the captain could shout orders to stokers, the telegraph that sent signals to the land we were leaving behind, and other navigational instruments that made sailing a science.
On the fifth day at sea, while loitering in the ship’s library, I picked up a well thumbed periodical of the kind which intersperses uplifting sermons with diverting fiction. One tale began promisingly: “In the very olden time, there lived a semi-barbaric king….” Ah, just the tonic I needed. “He was a man of exuberant fancy, and of an authority so irresistible that, at his will, he turned his varied fancies into facts.” This capricious king had a daughter, it seems, who conceived a passion for a commoner. Her enraged father determined to punish the young man. I had heard of such circumstances. The lady of my choice had without the slightest hesitation yielded to family influence, and — but perhaps it does not become a gentleman to disclose another’s treachery. I distracted myself by relishing the predicament in the tale.
The young man’s fate would be decided in the king’s arena. In the presence of the king, the princess, and the people, he would stand and be made to choose one of two doors. Behind one was a ferocious tiger, starved and ready to spring. If he opened the other door, he would find a fair lady, to whom he would be instantly married amid unrestrained festivities. Only a few of the king’s servants knew which fate lay behind which door.
The clever and resourceful princess used her wits, and her not inconsiderable power, to discover the secret of the doors. Knowing her lover would give her a last beseeching glance as he stood in the arena, she readied herself to give him a signal. Which door would she indicate? I paused, weighing what I knew of her. She was of a firm and independent character — flouting her tyrannical father’s will by falling in love with a commoner made that evident. She had a scheming mind, and the power to bend others to her purposes. Of course she would choose the tiger. How could such a woman endure to be supplanted by another? She must surely prefer that her lover be lost than to think of him in the arms of the lovely maiden who waited behind the other door.
I sipped a brandy and watched the sunset, thinking of the one who had so callously wounded me. The galling truth was, I cared about her still. As I gazed at the horizon, treasured memories passed before my eyes, and I felt an unbidden sensation of goodwill. I decided that the princess would signal her lover to find the lady. Love cannot be so embittered as to destroy its object, whatever the provocation. Love endures — perhaps too long. Was I not on my travels, hoping that time would soften the memory of love disappointed?
Curious to know how the story ended, I read the conclusion. “The question of her decision,” the author wrote, “is not one to be lightly considered, and it is not for me to presume to set up myself as the one person able to answer it. So I leave it with all of you: which came out of the opened door — the lady or the tiger?”
I was exasperated, then amused, by the author’s audacity. Instead of giving a satisfying closure to his conundrum, he had left the mystery ticking like a bomb in the reader’s mind. Doubtless he enjoyed frustrating the reader who liked his explanations complete.
In the following weeks I saw Tangier, Tunis, Malta, and Cairo. Each city afforded brief moments of diversion, and then my despondency returned. In Cairo I was so listless I returned to my hotel and paced from one lounge to another. There was no library, save a few books in German and Greek leaning disconsolately next to the parasol stand. All I could find in English were steamer timetables and descriptions of the city I had already investigated. Restlessly I wandered through the cafe. An inebriated patron was staring in fuddled delight at the nearly empty glass before him. Next to him lay an unregarded periodical which had just arrived in the day’s mail. Quietly, to evade any attempt he might make to engage me in conversation, I seated myself nearby and surreptitiously abstracted it. It was opened to a story titled, “The Discourager of Hesitancy,” and subtitled, “A Continuation of The Lady or the Tiger.” Aha! What luck! Here was the answer to the riddle. Perhaps it would lift my spirits.
Not long after the incident in the arena (the story began), a deputation of five dignified men arrived from a neighboring kingdom to wait on the semi-barbaric king, and were met by the king’s vizier. They had heard of the trial to be faced by the young man, but had not learned of the outcome. Would the king be so kind as to apprise them? Which came out of the opened door, the lady or the tiger?
The vizier smiled and said, “Before you present your request to the king, let me tell you of another incident that came to pass not long ago. A young man of noble birth, hearing of the great beauty of the ladies of our court, asked the king for permission to wed one of them. The strange prince’s presumption roused the king’s fury, but he mastered his anger and ordered that preparations be made for a wedding on the morrow. As the king strode from the audience chamber, the prince asked in perplexity, ‘When am I to see the ladies, that I may choose my bride?’ But there was no answer.
“The following morning a wedding ceremony was held. The prince was astonished to find he would not choose his bride at all. As he stood in confusion, suddenly a silken scarf was wound around his face, so that he was unable to see. All the prince knew of his bride was the gentle, small hand he held as they exchanged vows. The mystery of this practice the prince could not fathom. Soon the long scarf was unwound from his head, and he looked eagerly around. But no lady was at his side.
“‘Where is my wife?’ he asked.
“‘She is here,’ said the king, and led him into an adjoining chamber. There the prince saw forty ladies, all dressed in rich attire, and each more beautiful than the last. The king said loftily, ‘There is your bride! Approach, and lead her forth! But,’ he added ominously, ‘if you attempt to take the wrong lady from my court, you shall be executed instantly. Now, do not hesitate. Step up and take your bride.’
“The bewildered prince walked up and down the line of ladies. Just then one of the fairest gently smiled as he passed her. Another, just as beautiful, slightly frowned. The prince jubilantly declared to himself, ‘My bride is one of these two.’ It was no small thing to have reduced from forty to two his chances of instant death. But which of the two was his bride? He cudgeled his brain. Would not any woman smile when she saw her bridegroom coming toward her? It must be she. The prince reached out his hand to claim the one who had smiled, but then he hesitated. ‘Perhaps the other is my bride. Would not any woman frown when she saw her husband approaching, yet fail to claim her? Would she not knit her lovely brows?’
“The king’s executioner brandished his scimitar, admiring its keenness with pleased deliberation. He was in truth called ‘the discourager of hesitancy,’ ardent in his duty to put a stop to prolonged vacillation. There was but a moment to decide. The king proclaimed, ‘If in ten seconds you do not take the lady we have given you, she who has just been made your bride shall be your widow.’ The prince could not hesitate an instant. He stepped forward and chose. The bells rang, the people cheered, and the lady smiled. He had taken his lawful bride.
“Now, then,” said the vizier to the deputation, “when you can decide among yourselves which lady the prince chose, the one who smiled or the one who frowned, then I will tell you which came out of the opened door, the lady or the tiger.”
The wretch! I hurled the magazine across the room. The first time he made sport of his readers was well enough, but only a scoundrel would tantalize them a second time. I heaped objurgations upon his head, not sparing the editor, the journal’s founder, and my sottish neighbor. This worthy stirred slightly, as if regretting he had not been alert enough to behold the earliest stage of the magazine’s flight. I resolved to confine my attentions to people of flesh and blood.
In Alexandria I made the acquaintance of the American colony, which consisted of government officials, superannuated game hunters, retired soldiers, and their families. At an embassy reception held to celebrate Independence Day, the young people were debating animatedly.
“The one who smiled!” declared a young woman. “Of course she was amused. What a simpleton, not to know his own bride! How she was looking forward to teasing him upon the subject later in the day!”
So! The story had reached this shore as well, and caused as much commotion as the author could have wished.
“No, no, the one who frowned,” another rejoined. “She now was seeing him for the first time. Perhaps she was displeased with what she saw.”
“No, that’s not why she frowned,” said a third. “She was thinking, ‘Can you not detect my scent, the special perfume that was my signal to you?’”
“Perfume?” cried the second. “Signal? Rubbish! She was angry he was taking so long to recognize her.”
“But how was he to know her?” put a third, logically enough.
“That’s the very difficulty,” complained one. “And the rogue refused to tell us!”
“I know he wouldn’t,” said another sadly. “I begged him so prettily. ‘Oh, Mr. Stockton,’ I said, ‘Do please tell us which it was.’”
Oh, so the detestable author had been here, doubtless enjoying the effects of his mischief. If I encountered him, I would certainly not play up to him as these ninnies had. I am not to be played upon like a pipe. No, I would turn the tables, worming out of him the secret of his tales. Shamelessly I eavesdropped on the next words.
“Now he’s gone on to Isfahan,” said one with a sigh, “and we shall never find out.” Well, Isfahan was a fine destination; it was in fact on my program. Isfahan is not on the typical traveler’s itinerary — even though its mosques and ruins are among the rarest, its people did not welcome outsiders, and this discouraged all but the most intrepid, or the most indifferent to life. For myself, I had hired a stout guide and felt no fear. Besides, against the advice of all my friends, I had brought Rex, who made an admirable traveling companion. He demanded no conversation, fell in with my moods, and was easily pleased. He loved to sit at the bow of the ship, his nose into the wind. He was exquisitely trained and had excellent manners. He befriended all the English people on board. At ports of call when I wished to visit a native bazaar I never lacked for volunteers to watch him. He would gaze at me mournfully when I went over the gangplank, but I always brought him back a treat – camel flesh, or mongoose, or implements made of the skins of beasts he had never smelled before. No Irish setter ever had such an education! Faithful Rex was my greatest pleasure, a perfect companion.
Finally I left the coast and made preparations to travel overland to Isfahan. Inexplicably, stout porters were in short supply. I finally discovered they were busy at the quay unloading an unconscionable quantity of baggage from a ship with Greek letters on its prow. Moodily I strolled over and looked at the luggage tags. To my surprise, they all carried the same name, one Frank Stockton. Frank Stockton! The author himself. I had caught him up.
We met. I was crafty. Not indicating that I had any suspicion who he might be, I praised his tusks and spices and carpets and other impedimenta. We exchanged recipes for averting fleabite. In return he admired Rex, and this softened me somewhat. For his part, Rex was in ecstasy. So many trunks to sniff, so many bizarre aromas.
Stockton was a man of middle height, with bushy hair, a forthright gaze, and a plentiful supply of traveler’s tales. He was generous with his belongings, and looked on the world as his playground and on everything that happened as an adventure. In spite of myself, I found him companionable. He was as independent as I, and in a world oppressed by convention, that is no small virtue.
Countrymen who meet far from home often make unspoken alliances, and it seemed natural that we should unite our parties for the overland journey to Isfahan.
A most unexpected event occurred the day before our departure. We were walking through the bazaar, laying in a last few necessaries, when Rex yelped and began pawing at a bundle of rags that lay neglected in a corner. A wail issued from the bundle. It can only be a living creature, I thought. It was, in fact, a baby. We gazed at it, perplexed. No one nearby seemed to belong to it. The crowd melted away; then a few souls inched back to observe our reaction. Our guide, finding we were not on his heels, returned. Seeing our transfixed dismay, he shook his head. “It was adultery,” he said shrugging. “The child will be left to die, or become a slave. It is the will of Allah.” To my surprise Stockton picked it up. He was not indignant or heroic; he made no outraged exclamation. He simply tucked his cigar farther into one corner of his mouth and carried the child — awkwardly, I must admit — at arm’s length. Was it Yankee heroism, or meddling, or merely defying their customs?
“It was either that or leave it behind,” he murmured as we strode along. Just then a small cry came from the wizened face. Stockton started. “Confound it. What shall we feed the creature?” He clearly felt his duty had been done, so it was left to me to call the porter and gesticulate until some milk had been found. This complication added to our baggage and the general uproar that went with us.
As we traveled through the arid, ancient expanse east of the Mediterranean, I pondered my plan to extract from Stockton the answers to his riddles. I knew that the direct approach would fail; he loved nothing better than to enjoy others’ discomfiture. Should I inquire carelessly about how his editor had influenced him, or recount an imaginary wager with a half dozen of my friends? These and other devices revolved in my imagination. But this scheme had to wait, as we had much else to occupy us. We heard about frightfully barbaric brigands in the eastern regions, who caused such terror that the natives rarely left their cities unless driven by some urgent necessity. This puzzled me somewhat. We had seen ourselves that human life was little valued in these parts; did the outlaws impale their victims, or eat them alive, to cause such shudders of horror among a hardened and fatalistic people? But we had pistols and a hunting rifle, so with the bravado of the Anglo-Saxon adventurer we pressed on, and triumphantly added to our recollections the sights of Damascus and Baghdad.
After leaving that fabled city many days behind us, we camped at a curve in the Tigris River, the better to admire the high cliffs opposite and to delve among shards of pottery left by long-vanished civilizations. One morning I awoke to eerie quiet. It took me a moment to place the cause of my unease. There were no familiar sounds of a camp arising — fires being stoked, pots banged, animals scolded. Anxiously I peered out of my tent and called for our guide, for the herdsman, the translator, the head porter. There was no answer. In astonishment I crawled out and found that our entire retinue had vanished. A few bags remained of our once-impressive supply train. Only our interpreter remained; perhaps the others did not trust him enough to include him in their designs. I awoke Stockton and we appraised our situation. He was, as usual, nonchalant. The crew had been terrorized, no doubt, by some superstitious whisper about djinns or magicians. Our rich supply train completed the temptation. Travel to these wilds always entailed such inconveniences. We would manage with the few bags and pack animals they had left us. He would survey our gear, and at the next town we would resupply and find new guides. Stockton seemed almost to relish the challenge, and set about devising new arrangements. The brutes had left behind the baby, of course.
I went outside. The cliffs were breathtaking, soon blotting all consternation from my mind. No doubt Stockton was right. Local help was notoriously unreliable; one simply improvised with gusto and gave thanks for being away from civilization. I wandered along, picking up several curious bits of pottery and a promising old tooth. Turning back, I had a creeping premonition. The silence was even deeper than before. Suddenly, a hundred yards from our encampment a knife was thrust at my throat, my right arm was twisted violently behind me, and I was frogmarched along toward our tent. With horror I realized I had been attacked by the much-feared bandits. Could I warn Stockton? As I opened my mouth to cry out, I saw it was too late. The tent door I had left down was wide open and our animals were gone. Stockton’s cigar was on the ground. He was tied in his camp chair, glaring at his captors. Our interpreter, trussed like a turkey, was white with fear — evidently he knew the abominations practiced by this band. As my captor dragged me in, Rex growled and caught at his wrist. The man aimed his gun. “No!” I shrieked and threw myself between them. I breathed more easily when Rex obeyed my signal and lay down, though he watched suspiciously and made almost soundless rumblings in his throat.
They didn’t tie me, apparently in a hurry to complete their disreputable work, and contented themselves with brandishing a wicked array of weapons ancient and modern. Trying to breathe and gather my wits, I looked at the brigands. There were six of them. Our interpreter whispered, “There are six others outside the camp.” He had gathered something else from their conversation. The desperadoes had fled here from under the very noses of the army sent to capture them, and were recruiting their resources in readiness to retreat into the hills for the winter.
“They must have food,” our interpreter whispered urgently. They were starving, it was clear from their gaunt cheeks and loose clothing. Terrifying they might be to others, but they lived under a fear as great as any they caused. Every man was against them, and nowhere could they call home. I had never realized that the desperate are always fleeing something, too. In the distance we could hear the gun signals of the army.
“Give them our stores,” said Stockton curtly. Good. That would satisfy them, and they would flee their approaching captors. I prayed fervently that they would spare us. One villain who held a knife on the interpreter looked merciless. He would not hesitate to eat us, I was sure. Another robber drove his evil-looking knife into the bale containing most of our remaining supplies, spilling its contents on the tent floor. My heart sank. Even a child could see that there was not enough food for a dozen men for a winter. The villain gathered it up anyway and carried it outside, calling to his comrades.
Our guide blurted out a syllable or two, his eyes turned toward the dog. Rex! The man was betraying us, handing over my faithful friend to satisfy these outlaws. I was speechless with horror and rage. Some of the most brutal in the crew began eyeing Rex with unseemly enthusiasm. I could almost hear them calculating how many meals he would make. Just then the baby wailed and waved its arms, and their attention was drawn to the little figure.
The police guns were closer. Had the bandits gained enough from their raid on us? If they did not leave instantly, they would be taken prisoner. If we did not make a move instantly, they would slay us all.
So which did I give them, the setter or the baby?
