The Victory of
the Moon by Stephen Crane
The Strong Man of the Hills lost his wife. Immediately he went
abroad, calling aloud. The people all crouched afar in the dark of
their huts, and cried to him when he was yet a long distance away: No,
no, great chief, we have not even seen the imprint of your wife's
sandal in the sand. If we had seen it, you would have found us bowed
down in worship before the marks of her ten glorious brown toes, for we
are but poor devils of Indians, and the grandeur of the sun rays on her
hair would have turned our eyes to dust.
Her toes are not brown. They are pink, said the Strong Man from
the Hills. Therefore do I believe that you speak the truth when you
say you have not seen her, good little men of the valley. In this
matter of her great loveliness, however, you speak a little too
strongly. As she is no longer among my possessions, I have no mind to
hear her praised. Whereabouts is the best man of you?
None of them had stomach for this honour at the time. They surmised
that the Strong Man of the Hills had some plan for combat, and they
knew that the best of them would have in this encounter only the
strength of the meat in the grip of the fire. Great King, they said,
in one voice, there is no best man here.
How is this? roared the Strong Man. There must be one who excels.
It is a law. Let him step forward then.
But they solemnly shook their heads. There is no best man here.
The Strong Man turned upon them so furiously that many fell to the
ground. There must be one. Let him step forward. Shivering, they
huddled together and tried, in their fear, to thrust each other toward
the Strong Man.
At this time a young philosopher approached the throng slowly. The
philosophers of that age were all young men in the full heat of life.
The old greybeards were, for the most part, very stupid, and were so
Strong Man from the Hills, said the young philosopher, go to
yonder brook and bathe. Then come and eat of this fruit. Then gaze for
a time at the blue sky and the green earth. Afterward I have something
to say to you.
You are not so wise that I am obliged to bathe before listening to
you? demanded the Strong Man, insolently.
No, said the young philosopher. All the people thought this reply
Why, then, must I bathe and eat of fruit and gaze at the earth and
Because they are pleasant things to do.
Have I, do you think, any thirst at this time for pleasant things?
Bathe, eat, gaze, said the young philosopher with a gesture.
The Strong Man did, indeed, whirl his bronzed and terrible limbs in
the silver water. Then he lay in the shadow of a tree and ate the cool
fruit and gazed at the sky and the earth. This is a fine comfort, he
said. After a time he suddenly struck his forehead with his finger. By
the way, did I tell you that my wife had fled from me?
I know it, said the young philosopher.
Later the Strong Man slept peacefully. The young philosopher smiled.
But in the night the little men of the valley came clamouring: Oh,
Strong Man of the Hills, the moon derides you!
The philosopher went to them in the darkness. Be still, little
people. It is nothing. The derision of the moon is nothing.
But the little men of the valley would not cease their uproar. Oh,
Strong Man! Strong Man, awake! Awake! The moon derides you!
Then the Strong Man aroused and shook his locks away from his eyes.
What is it, good little men of the valley?
Oh, Strong Man, the moon derides you! Oh, Strong Man!
The Strong Man looked, and there, indeed, was the moon laughing down
at him. He sprang to his feet and roared. Ah, old, fat, lump of moon,
you laugh! Have you seen my wife?
The moon said no word, but merely smiled in a way that was like a
flash of silver bars.
Well, then, moon, take this home to her, thundered the Strong Man,
and he hurled his spear.
The moon clapped both hands to its eye, and cried: Oh! Oh!
The little people of the valley cried: Oh, this is terrible, Strong
Man! He has smitten our sacred moon in the eye!
The young philosopher cried nothing at all.
The Strong Man threw his coat of crimson feathers upon the ground.
He took his knife and felt its edge. Look you, philosopher, he said.
I have lost my wife, and the bath, the meal of fruit in the shade, the
sight of sky and earth are still good to me, but when this false moon
derides me, there must be a killing.
I understand you, said the young philosopher.
The Strong Man ran off into the night. The little men of the valley
clapped their hands in ecstacy and terror. Ah! ah! what a battle will
The Strong Man went into his own hills and gathered there many great
rocks and trunks of trees. It was strange to see him erect upon a peak
of the mountains and hurling these things at the moon. He kept the air
full of them.
Fat moon, come closer, he shouted. Come closer, and let it be my
knife against your knife. Oh, to think that we are obliged to tolerate
such an old, fat, stupid, lazy, good-for-nothing moon. You are ugly as
death, while IOh, moon, you stole my beloved, and it was nothing, but
when you stole my beloved and laughed at me, it became another matter.
And yet you are so ugly, so fat, so stupid, so lazy, so
good-for-nothing. Ah, I shall go mad! Come closer, moon, and let me
examine your round, grey skull with this club.
And he always kept the air full of great missiles.
The moon merely laughed, and said: Why should I come closer?
Wildly did the Strong Man pile rock upon rock. He builded him a
tower that was the father of all towers. It made the mountains to
appear to be babes. Upon the summit of it he swung his great club and
flourished his knife.
The little men in the valley far below beheld a great storm, and at
the end of it they said: Look, the moon is dead. The cry went to and
fro on the earth: The moon is dead!
The Strong Man went to the home of the moon. She, the sought one,
lay upon a cloud, and her little foot dangled over the side of it. The
Strong Man took this little foot in his two hands and kissed it. Ah,
beloved! he moaned, I would rather this little foot was upon my dead
neck than that moon should ever have the privilege of seeing it.
She leaned over the edge of the cloud and gazed at him. How dusty
you are. Why do you puff so? Veritably, you are an ordinary person. Why
did I ever find you interesting?
The Strong Man flung his knife into the air and turned back toward
the earth. If the young philosopher had been at my elbow, he
reflected, bitterly, I would doubtless have gone at the matter in
another way. What does my strength avail me in this contest?
The battered moon, limping homeward, replied to the Strong Man from
the Hills: Aye, surely. My weakness is in this thing as strong as your
strength. I am victor with ugliness, my age, my stoutness, my laziness,
my good-for-nothingness. Woman is woman. Men are equal in everything
save good fortune. I envy you not.