; & § º: * §: § £º º ; ķ &&# ¿¿.* ### ģ º: 㺠§§§ ¿ ğ ș § ſae $ Ř ∞ ·* ¿? ¿ *::::: ***º sº º: º ----·ANȚĂſae、、、、、、、、、、、、、、、、、、”.■±（√∞ √°√∞x==+7，-，* e =~）; •№»，|× ſ º§-· ~~~~ ·Řſººaerºſã2，4，4，2，2，2ºº2，，。、。、、。！！！！-- *: *）（.*?）（.***…！'w wzºrº~~~ sae§§3.°′4ī£áááſáſſ. TÉźº， wae aerº3： ' > *sºae º țgſ （łºſºw， w ººſ-№ºr PRESTON |- ſ- > 2 * \ . * * * inous, metallic flash fell from the clouds to the earth. She went to a forest at the roadside ; but there it was still darker and more terrible. From moment to mo- ment a noise was heard, as if the terrified trees were whispering to one another in an immense whisper, “What will happen Oh for God’s sake l’” Then came silence. Again from the forest depth was heard *ś some voice. Shudders passed through the woman; she -- . . thought that perhaps the “evil one” was laughing at - the wood devils, or perhaps the host would pass by in a terrible dance at any moment. ! 366 CHARCOAL SKETCHES. “If only out of the forest, if only out of the forest l” thought she ; “and there ahead beyond the forest is the mill and the cabin of Yagodzinski's miller.” She ran on with the last of her strength, catching at the air with parched lips. Meanwhile the sluices of heaven were opened above her head; rain, mixed with hail, fell as if from a bucket ; the wind struck, and with such force that the trees were bent to the earth; the forest was | filled with mist, with steam, with waves of rain; the | road was not to be seen; trees were bending along the earth and roaring and splitting; around was the break- ing of limbs, and then came darkness. The woman felt weak. “Save me, O people !” cried she, in a faint voice; but no one could hear her. The wind blew the voice back into her throat. Then she understood that she could not go farther. She took off her head-kerchief, her apron, stripped her- self almost to her shift, and wrapped up the child; then, seeing a weeping birch near, she crawled to it almost on her hands and knees, and, putting down the child under the branches, fell herself by his side. “O God, receive my soul!” cried she, and she closed her eyes. The storm raged for some time yet, and at last fell away. But night had come; through the intervals be- tween the clouds the stars began to shine. Under the birch was the white, motionless form of the Woman. “Now !” said some voice in the darkness. After a while the noise of a wagon and the splashing of horses' feet in the pools was heard at a distance. This was Hershek, the cow farmer of Lipa, who had sold his geese in Oslovitsi, and was coming home. See- ing Repa's wife, he came down from his wagon. CHARCOAL SKETCHES. 367 CHAPTER X. THE VICTORY OF GENIUS. ERSHEK took the woman from under the birch, and would have taken her to Barania-Glova ; but on the road he met Repa, who, seeing that a storm Was coming, took his wagon and went to meet his wife. She lay all night and the next day in bed; but the following day she got up, for the little boy was sick. Her gossips came and incensed the child with consecrated garlands; and then old Tsisova, the blacksmith's wife, conjured the disease with a sieve in her hands and a black hen. In fact, it helped the child immediately; but the trouble was greater with Repa, who filled himself with vodka- beyond measure; it was not possible to agree with him. on any point. Strange thing, when Marysia came to herself and in- quired for the child, instead of showing her tenderness, he said gloomily, - “Thou wilt fly through towns, and the devil will take the child. I would have given it thee, hadst thou lost him ” Only them did the woman feel great pain, at such ingratitude, and with a voice straight from the heart she tried to reproach him ; but she could go no further than to cry out, “Vavron " And she looked at him through her tears. Repa almost sprang from the trunk on which he was sitting. For a time he was silent, and then said, in a changed voice, “My Marysia, forgive me those words, for I see that I have wronged thee.” Then he roared with a great voice, and began to kiss her feet; and she accompanied him with tears. He felt that he was not worthy of 368 CHARCOAL SKETCHES. such a wife. But that concord did not last long. The grief, which was festering like a wound, began at once to inflame them against each other. When Repa came home, either drunk or sober, he did not speak a word to his wife, but sat on the box and looked at the ground with a wolfish face. He would sit that way whole hours, as if turned into stone. The woman was busy around the room, worked as before, but was silent also. Later, when one wished to speak to the other, it was somehow awkward. So they lived as if in great feeling of offence, and deathlike silence reigned in the cottage. And what had they to say, since both knew that there was no help for them, that their fortune had ended ? After a number of days, some evil thoughts began to come to the man's head. He went to confes- sion to Father Chyzik; the priest would not give him absolution, and commanded him to come next day; but on the morrow, Repa, instead of going to the church, went to the inn. | People heard him say, when drunk, that if the Lord God would not help him, he would sell his soul to the devil; and they began to shun him. A curse, as it were, was hanging over the cottage. People scattered reports sharp as beggars' whips, and said that the mayor and the secretary did well, for such a rascal would bring only God’s vengeance on all Barania-Glova. And against the woman old gossips began to say uncreated things. It came about that Repa's well dried up. So Marysia went for water to the well in front of the inn ; and on the way she heard boys say to one another, “There goes the soldier's wife I’” “Not the soldier's wife, but the devil's Wife ” She went on without speaking a word; but she saw how they made the sign of the cross. She took the jug | CHARCOAL SKETCHES. 369 to go home, and there, before the inn, stood Shmul. When he saw her, he took out the porcelain pipe which hung at his beard, and called to her. “Marysia . " She stopped and inquired, “What do you want?” “Were you at the village court 2" asked he. “I was.” “You were with the priest ?” “I was.” “Were you at the mansion ?” “I was.” “Did you go to the chief ?” “I did.” “And you got nothing 2* She merely sighed, and Shmul continued, – “Well, you are such fools that in all Barania-Glova there is nothing more foolish. And what did you go for 2 ” “Where was I to go?” “Where 2° answered the Jew, “and on what is the contract 2 On paper; if there is no paper, there is no contract; tear the paper, and that is enough.” ſ “Oh, how you talk | " said she, “if I could have got at that paper I should have torn it long ago.” “But don’t you know that the secretary has the paper ? Well! I know that you can do much with him ; he said to me himself, ‘Let Repa's wife come and ask me, and I, said he, will tear the paper, and that's the end of it.” Marysia said nothing, but took the jug by the ear and went toward the brick house ; meanwhile it had grown dark out of doors. / 24 370 CHARCOAL SKETCHES. CHAPTER XI. ENDED MISFORTUNE. HE Great Bear had gone down already, and the triangle had risen, when the door squeaked in Repa's cottage; his wife came in quietly. She entered and stood as if fixed to the floor, for she thought that her husband would be sleeping as usual in the inn; but he was sitting on the box at the wall, with his fists resting on his knees, and looking at the floor. The coals were burning out in the chimney. T- “Where hast thou been 2° inquired Repa, gloomily. Instead of answering, she fell on the floor, and lay be- fore his feet, with great weeping and sobbing. “Wavron Wavron 1" cried she, “for thee it was that I yielded my- self to shame. He deceived me, then abused and put me out. Vavron, have pity on me, at least thou, my heart Wavron 1 Vavron 1’’ Repå took his axe out of the box. “No,” said he, with a calm voice; “thy end has come at last, poor woman. Take leave of this world now, for thou shalt see it no more; thou wilt not sit in the cot- tage any longer, poor woman; thou wilt lie in the church- yard — ” She looked at him with terror. “DOst wish to kill me 2 ” “Well, Marysia,” said he, “do not lose time for nothing; make the sign of the cross, and then will be the end; thou wilt not even feel it, poor thing.” “Vavron, wilt thou, indeed 2 ° CHARCOAL SKETCHES. 371 “Lay thy head on the box.” “Wavron 1 ° “Lay thy head on the box 1° cried he, with foam on his lips. “Oh, for God's sake, save me ! People ! Sa —” A dull blow was heard, then a groan, and the blow of a head against the floor; then a second blow, a fainter groan; then a third, a fourth, a fifth, and a sixth blow. On the floor gushed a stream of blood; the coals in the chimney were quenched. A quiver passed through the woman from head to foot; then her body stretched, and was motionless. Soon after a broad, bloody conflagration rent the dark- ness; the buildings of the mansion were blazing, EPILOGUE. ND now I will whisper something in your ear, reader. They would not have taken Repa to the army. An agreement like the one in the inn was not sufficient. But you see peasants do not know these things; the “intelli- gence,” thanks to neutrality also, not much therefore Pan Zolzik, who knew a little of this, calculated that in every case the affair would drag on, and fear would throw the woman into his arms. And that great man was not mistaken. You ask what happened to him 2 Repa, when he had set fire to the buildings of the mansion, was going to take vengeance on him, but at the cry of “Fire!” the whole village was up, and Zolzik escaped. He continues in his office of secretary in Barania-Glova, and at present he has the hope of being chosen judge. 372 CHARCOAL SKETCHES. He has just finished reading “Barbara Ubryk,” and hopes that Panna Yadviga may press his hand any day under the table. Whether those hopes of the judgeship and the pressure will be justified, the future will show. THE ORGANIST OF PONIKLA. THE ORGANIST OF PONIKLA, HE snow was dry, squeaking, and not over deep ; but Klem had long legs, therefore he walked briskly over the road from Zagrabie to Ponikla. He went the more briskly because a good frost was coming, and he was dressed scantily in a short coat and a still shorter sheepskin overcoat above it, in black trousers and thin, patched boots. Besides, he had a hautboy in his hand; on his head a cap lined with the wind; in his stomach a couple of glasses of arrack ; in his heart delight ; and in his soul many causes for the delight. That morning he had signed a contract with Canon Krayevski, as the future organist of Ponikla. Up to that time he had strolled about like any wretched gypsy, from inn to inn, from wedding to wedding, from fair to fair, from festival to festival, seeking profit with his haut- boy, or on the organ, which he played better than any organist in that region. Now he was to settle down at last and have a fixed life beneath his own roof. A house, a garden, a hundred and fifty rubles a year, other earnings On Occasions, a personal position, almost half spiritual, an occupation in the Service of God, - who would not re- spect such a station ? Not long since any Matsek in Zagrabie, or Ponikla, if settled on a few, morgs of land, looked on Pan Klen as a nobody; now people would take off their hats to him. An organist and, moreover, in such an immense parish 376 THE ORGANIST OF PONIKLA. – that was not a bundle of straw Klen had been sighing this long time for that position; but while old Melnitski lived, it was not to be thought of. The old man's fingers were stiff, and he played badly; but the canon would not send him away for anything, since he had been twenty years with him. But when the “lysa "struck the old man so badly in the pit of the heart that in three days he died, Pan Klen did not hesitate to ask for the position, and the canon did not hesitate to give it, for a better organist could not be found in that region. How such skill came to Pan Klen on the hautboy, the Organ, and various other instruments which he under- stood, it was difficult to discover. He had not received the gift from his father, for his father, a man of Zagrabie, served during youth in the army, and did not work in his old age at music; he twisted hemp ropes, and played on no instrument beyond a tobacco-pipe, which was always between his mustaches. From childhood Klen did nothing but listen wherever there was music. While a stripling, he went to “blow the bellows" for Melnitski at Ponikla. Afterward, when certain musicians came to Zagrabie, he ran away with them. He strolled about whole years with that company. God knows where he played, surely wherever it happened: at fairs, weddings, and in churches; only when the com- pany broke up, or died, did he return to Zagrabie, as poor as a church mouse, haggard, and living like a bird on a branch. He continued to play, sometimes for the public, sometimes for the Lord God. And, though people reproached him with want of sta- bility, he became famous. They said of him in Zagrabie and in Ponikla, “Klen, just Klen. But when he begins to play it is no offence to the Lord, and it is a delight to THE ORGANIST OF PONIKLA 377 man : " Others said to him, “Fear God, Pan Klen, what devil is sitting within thee ?” And in real fact some sort of devil was sitting in that thin wretch with long legs. During the life of Melnitski, whenever he took the old Organist's place on great holi- days and festivals, he sometimes forgot himself thoroughly at the organ. This would happen, especially in the middle of mass, when people in the church were ab- sorbed in prayer, when the censers had sent incense over the whole nave, and everything living was singing, when Klen had let himself out, and the service, with the ringing of great and little bells, with the odor of myrrh, amber, and fragrant plants, with the gleaming of lights and the glitter of the monstrance, had so elevated every soul that the whole church seemed flying off on wings to the sky. The canon, now raising, now lowering the monstrance, closed his eyes in ecstasy, and Pan Klen did the same in the choir; and it seemed to him that the organ itself was playing; that voices from the tin pipes rose like waves, flowed like rivers, rushed like torrents, gushed like fountains, poured like rain; that they were filling the whole church; that they were under the dome, and before the altar, in the rolls of incense, in the light of the Sun, and in the Souls of the people, – some awful and majestic like thunder, others like the singing of people, speaking in living words, still others sweet, fine, like falling beads, or the trilling of nightingales. And after mass, Pan Klen came down from the choir dazed, with eyes staring, as if after sleep; but as a simple man, he said, and thought, that he had tired him- self out. The canon in the sacristy put some money in his hand, and some praise in his ear; then he went out among the people, who were thronged around the church; 5 and there they raised their hats to him, though he 378 THE ORGANIST OF PONIKLA, lived as a lodger in Zagrabie; and they admired him beyond measure. . But Pan Klen went in front of the church not to hear, “Hei! See There goes Klen " But he went to see that which was dearest to him in Zagrabie, in Ponikla, and in the whole world, Panna Olka, the daughter of the tile-maker of Zagrabie. She fastened into his heart like a wood-tick, with her eyes, which were like star-thistles, with her bright face, and her lips red as cherries. Pan Klen himself, during the rare moments in which he looked on this world with sound judgment, and in which seeing that the tile-maker would not give him his daughter, thought that it would be better to let her go; but he felt, with terror, that he could not let her go ; and with great alarm he repeated to himself, “Hei! she has got in Thou wilt not pull her out with pincers l’ For her it was surely that he stopped wandering about, for her he lived; and when he played on the organ he thought that she was listening, and therefore he played better. And she loving, to begin with, his “talent” for music, loved him afterward for himself; and that Pan Klen was for her the dearest of all, though he had a strange, dark face, eyes that were looking somewhere else, a scant coat, a still scanter overcoat, and legs as long and as slim as the legs of a stork. But “the father,” the tile-maker, though he, too, carried air in his pockets for the most part, was unwilling to give Olka to Klen. “Any one will look at the girl,” said he ; “why should such a fellow as Klen fix her fate 2* and he hardly let the man into the house, and sometimes he would not let him in. But when old Melnitski died, everything changed right away. THE ORGANIST OF PONIKLA. 379 Klen, after signing the contract, went with all speed to the tile-maker's. “I do not say,” said the tile-maker to him, “that some- thing must Surely happen right away; but an organist is not a tramp.” And, inviting him into the house, he treated him to arrack, and feasted him as a guest. And when Olka came in, the father rejoiced with the young people because Klen had become a man; he would have his house, garden, and, next to the canon, would be the great person in Ponikla. So Klen had sat with them from midday till evening, to his own great delight and to Olka's ; and now he was returning by the road to Ponikla, on Squeaking snow and in twilight. It was preparing for frost; but what cared Pan Klen 2 He merely went faster and faster; and, while going, he thought of that day, thought of Olka, and he was warm. A happier day in his life there had never been. After an empty, treeless road, through frozen meadows covered with snow, now red and now blue beneath the sky, he carried his gladness like a lantern which he had to light him in the dark. He remembered again and again all that had happened: his conversation with the canon; the signing of the contract; every word with the tile-maker and Panna Olka. When they were alone for a while she said to him, “It was all one to me ! I would have gone with you, Anton, without that, even be- yond the sea; but for father it is better in this way !” He kissed her on the elbow with great gratitude, saying, “God reward thee, Olka, for the ages of ages, amen l’’ And now, when he recalled it, he was a little ashamed of himself, for having kissed her on the elbow, and for having said too little to her; for he felt that if the tile-maker would have permitted, she would have 380 THE ORGANIST OF PONIKLA. gone with him to the edge of the world. Such an honest girl! And then she would have gone with him if neces- sary along that empty road in the snow. “Oh, thou, my pure gold l’ thought Pan Klen, “since it is so, thou wilt be a lady.” Then he went still more swiftly, and the Snow Squeaked more loudly. Soon he began to think, “Such a woman will not deceive a man.” Then great gratitude mastered him. And indeed if Olka had been there with him, he would not have held out; he would have thrown his hautboy on the ground, and pressed her to his bosom with all the strength in his bones. He ought not to have acted differently an hour earlier; but it is always so : wherever a man has to do anything or say anything from the heart, he “becomes a fool, and has a wooden tongue.” It is easier to play on the Organ. Meanwhile, the golden and red stripes which were shining on the western sky changed gradually into golden ribbons and golden knots, and finally they van- ished. Darkness came ; and the stars twinkled in the heavens, looking sharply and dryly on the earth, as is usual in winter. The frost grew severe, and began to bite the ears of the future organist of Ponikla; so, know- ing the road perfectly, Pan Klen decided to cut across the field, and reach his own house the more quickly. After a while he seemed black on the level, snowy ex- panse, tall, sticking up ridiculously. It occurred to him that to kill time he might play a little before his fingers got stiff; and as he thought so he did. His voice sounded strangely in the night and on that waste, as if he were frightened a little by that white, melancholy plain; and it sounded all the more strangely that Klen played the most joyous things. He recollected that he had begun to play and sing, after one and another glass at the tile- THE ORGANIST OF PONIKILA. 381 maker's, that Olka accompanied him gladly with her thin little voice. He wished now to play those same songs, so he began with that with which she had begun: “Level, O God, the mountains with the valleys, Let them be very level! Bring, O God, my love, Bring him early 1” But the song did not please the tile-maker, for it seemed to him a “peasant song,” and he commanded Klen to sing a “noble song.” Then they took up another, which Olka had learned in Zagrabie : — “Pan Ludwig went a hunting, He left Helunia like a picture. Pan Ludwig came home, the music was playing. The trumpeters trumpeting, Helunia was sleeping.” This was more to the taste of the tile-maker. But when pleasure seized them they laughed most at the “Green Pitcher.” The lady in that song, before she laughed at the end, cried and sang piteously for her broken pitcher: “My green pitcher, Oh, the Pan broke it !” But the Pan falls to consoling her : — “Quiet, Panna, weep not, I will pay thee for thy pitcher l’’ Olka prolonged as much as possible, “My gre-e-e-en pitcher,” and then laughed. Klen took his lips from the hautboy, and answered her as the Pan, with a great flourish : — “Quiet, Panna, weep not — ” And now, remembering in the night that gladness of the daytime, he played to himself “My Green Pitcher,” and smiled in addition, as much as his lips would allow, 382 THE ORGANIST OF PONIKLA. employed as they were in blowing the hautboy. But as the frost was violent, and his lip were freezing to the mouthpiece of the instrument, and his fingers were stiff going over the keys, he ceased to play and went on, somewhat panting, and with his face in a mist which rose from his breath. After a time he got tired, for he had not counted on this, that in fields snow lies more deeply than on a beaten road, and that it is not easy to draw one's legs out of it. Besides, in meadows in some places there are hollows, made even by drifts through which one must wade to the knee. Klen began to regret then that he had left the road, for some wagon might have come along on the way to Ponikla. The stars twinkled more and more sharply; the frost became more severe, but Pan Klen even sweated ; still, when the wind rose at moments, and blew toward the river, he became very cold. He tried to play again, but as he had to keep his mouth closed he tortured himself all the more. At last a feeling of loneliness seized him. Round about it was so empty, silent, and remote that he was wonder-stricken. In Ponikla a warm house was Waiting for him; but he preferred to think of Zagrabie, and said to himself, “Olka is going to sleep; but there, praise be to God, it is warm in the house.” And at the thought that it was warm and bright there for Olka, Pan Klem's honest heart rejoiced all the more, the colder and darker the way was for him. The meadows ended at last, and then began pastures grown over here and there with juniper. Pan Klen was so tired now that a great desire seized him to sit down, with his hautboy, under the first sheltered bush, and rest. “But I shall freeze if I do so,” thought he, and went on. THE ORGANIST OF PONIKLA. 383 Unfortunately, among junipers, as along fences, Snow- drifts form sometimes. Klen passed through a number of these, and became so exhausted that finally he said to himself, - “I will sit down. Unless I fall asleep I shall not freeze; and to keep from sleeping, I will play again, “My Green Pitcher.’” He sat down, played again, again the vanishing voice of the hautboy was heard in the silence of might, and over the snow. But Klem's eyelids stuck together more and more, and the notes of the “Green Pitcher,” growing weaker, and gradually growing silent, were silent alto- gether at last. Still he struggled against sleep; he was conscious yet; he was thinking still of Olka; but at the same time he felt himself in a greater desert, more and more alone, as if forgotten; and wonderment seized him that she was not there with him in that loneliness and that night. He murmured, “Olka where art thou ?” And Once more he spoke as if calling her, — “Olka ” The hautboy dropped from his stiffened hands. Next morning the dawn shone on his sitting figure, with the hautboy near his long legs, and his face was blue, astonished as it were, and at the same time fixed in listening to the last note of the song, “My Green Pitcher.” LUX IN TENEBRIS LUCET. LUX IN TENEBRIS LUCET: OMETIMES in the autumn, especially in November, such wet and gloomy days come that life becomes repulsive even to a healthy man. From the time that Ramionka had fallen ill and stopped work on his statue of “Compassion,” bad weather had caused him more suf- fering than sickness itself. Every morning, when he had dragged his body out of bed, he rubbed the great sweating window of his studio and looked upward, in the hope that he would see some little strip of blue sky; but every morning disappointment awaited him. An oppres- sive lead-colored mist hung over the earth; rain was not falling, still the paving stones in the yard looked like sponges soaked in liquid ; everything was wet, slippery, penetrated through and through with water, single drops of which falling from the eave-troughs sounded with a peculiar and desperate monotony, as if measuring that sluggish time of sadness. The window of the studio looked out on a courtyard, which was bounded by a garden. The grass beyond the paling was green yet with a sort of sickly greenness, in which were death and decay; but the trees with their yellow leaves, and their branches black from dampness and also effaced by the mist somewhat, seemed dead alto- gether. From among those trees came every evening the * Ilight shineth in the darkness. 388 LUX IN TENEBRIS LUCET. cawing of crows, which had flown in from the forests and fields to the city for winter quarters, and which, with a great clattering of wings, settled down for the night On the branches. The studio in days like this was as gloomy as the place for bones in a cemetery. Marble and plaster of Paris need azure. In that leaden light the whiteness had something sad in it; figures in dark terra-cotta lost all precision of lines and changed into indefinite forms almost terrible. Dirt and disorder increased the gloom of the studio. On the floor was a thick layer of dust, formed from pieces of dry terra-cotta ground fine from trampling; to this was added mud from the street. The naked walls were merely ornamented here and there with models of hands and feet in plaster of Paris; near the window hung a small mirror, above it a horse skull, and a bouquet of artificial flowers quite black from dust. In the corner was a bed covered with a quilt, old and rumpled; near the bed a commode; on this an iron candle- stick. - Ramionka, through reasons of economy, kept no sepa- rate lodging-place; he slept in the studio. Usually the bed was concealed by a screen, but the screen had been removed to let the sick man look out more easily through the window near the foot of his bed, and see if the weather were clearing. Another and larger window placed in the ceiling of the studio was covered with dust on the out- side to such a degree that even on bright days a gray and gloomy light passed in through it. But the weather did not clear. After a number of days of darkness the clouds settled down thoroughly, the air was penetrated to the last degree with a watery, heavy mist, and became still darker. Kamionka, who so far had LUX IN TENEBRIS LUCET. 389 lain on the bed in his clothing, felt worse, so he undressed and lay down for good. Speaking precisely, he was not so much sick with any definite disease as he was bowed down, dissatisfied, exhausted, and sad in general. His weakness cut the feet from beneath him. He had no wish to die; but neither did he feel strength to live. The long hours of the dismal day seemed longer because he had no one for company. His wife had been dead twenty years; his relatives lived in another part of the country; and he did not live with his colleagues. In recent years every acquaintance had withdrawn from him because of his ever-increasing sorrow. At first, his dis- position amused people; but later, when he grew stranger and stranger, when every jest roused a permanent feeling of offence in him, even those nearest the man broke off all relations with him. People took it ill of him also that with age he had grown devout, and his sincerity was suspected. Malicious tongues said that he sat in church only to receive Orders from churches through his relations with priests. This was not true. His piety did not flow from deep and calm faith, perhaps, but it was unselfish. What, however, lent a show of truth to the critics, was the penuriousness which increased more and more in Kamionka. For a number of years he had lived in his studio to lessen expenses; he lived God knows on what food, and injured his health so much that at last his face was as yellow and transparent as if moulded from wax. He avoided people also for this, lest some one might ask of him sometime a favor. In general, he was a man of broken character, em- bittered and uncommonly unhappy. Still his was not a Common nature at bottom, for even his faults had artistic 390 LUX IN TENEBRIS LUCET. traits which were special to him. Those who judged that With his penuriousness he must have collected a consider- able property were mistaken. In truth, Kamionka was poor; for all that he owned he had spent on engravings of which he had whole portfolios at the bottom of his bureau; these, from time to time, he counted with the greed and the care of a usurer counting his money. He concealed this taste the more carefully, perhaps, because it had grown on the basis of great misfortune and deep feeling. On a time, a year more or less after the death of his Wife, he saw in an antiquarian's collection an old engrav- ing, representing Armida. In the face of this Armida he detected a likeness to the face of his dead one. He bought the engraving immediately, and from that time on he sought copperplates, those at first representing only Armida, then, as the fancy increased, every other. Those who have lost persons much loved by them are forced to attach life to something, or they could not exist. As to Kamionka, no one would have thought that this rather aged Original and egotist had ever loved his wife more than he loved his existence. It is likely, moreover, that had she not died, life would have flowed on for him more broadly, more calmly, and more in human fashion. Be that as it may, love in Kamionka survived his happy days, his youth, and even his talent. His piety, which in the course of years turned into a custom resting on the preservation of external forms, flowed from this love of his also. Kamionka, without being a man of deep faith, began after the death of his wife to pray for the dead one, since this seemed to him the only thing he could do for her, and thus a kind of thread kept them together. Natures apparently cold are often able to love with great power and persistently. After the death of his wife, LUX IN TENEBRIS LUCET. 391 Kamionka's whole life and all the thoughts that he had, entwined themselves around her memory, and drew food from it, just as plant parasites draw food from the tree on which they are growing. But from memories of that sort the human plant can gain nothing but poisonous juices made up of sorrow and enormous vexation, hence Kamionka too poisoned himself, grew distorted, went to nothing. Had he not been an artist, he would not have survived, perhaps, but he was saved by his calling. After the death of his wife, he began to make a monument to her. It is useless for the living to say that it is all one to the dead in what graves they are lying. Kamionka wished that it should be beautiful there for his Zosia, and he worked with his heart no less than his hands. This was why he did not become insane the first half year, but grew inured to despair. The man was out of joint and unhappy; but art saved the artist. From that moment, Kamionka existed by virtue of his calling. People who look at statues and images in galleries do not divine that artists may serve their art homestly or dishonestly. In this regard, Ramionka was without reproach. He had no wings at his shoulders, – he possessed only talent somewhat above the common, and perhaps, therefore, art could not fill Out his life, or give him recompense for all losses; but he respected it deeply, and was ever sincere with regard to it. During the long years of his labor, he had never tempted it, and had never committed injustice regarding it, either in view of fame, profit, praise, or blame. He always did that which he felt. During his happy years, when he lived like other men, he was able to say things touching art which were quite uncommon, and after that, when people began to turn aside from him, he thought frequently of 392 LUX IN TENEBRIS LUCET. this art in his lonely studio, in a manner which was lofty and honest. He felt greatly abandoned ; but in this there was no cause for wonder. People's relations must have a certain medium measure in virtue of which the exceptionally unhappy are cut off from life. For that very reason, they are covered with as much strangeness and as many faults as a stone thrown up from a torrent is covered with moss, when it ceases to rub against others. Now when Kamionka was ill, no living soul looked into his studio, with the exception of a servant-woman, who came twice a day to make tea for him, and serve it. At every visit, her advice was to call in a doctor; but he, fearing the outlay, would not give his consent to this. At last he became very weak; perhaps for the reason that he took nothing into his mouth except tea. But he had no desire then for anything, either for eating, or work, or life. His thoughts were as if withered like those leaves on which he looked through the window; and those thoughts of his answered perfectly to that autumn, to that drizzle, to that leaden darkness. There are no worse moments in life than those in which a man feels that he has accomplished what he had to accomplish, that he has outlived that which he had to outlive ; and that nothing more in this world belongs to him. Kamionka had lived almost fifteen years in continual dread that his talent would exhaust itself; now he was sure that it had, and he thought with bitterness that even art was desert- ing him. He felt therewith weariness and exhaustion in every bone of his body. He did not expect a sudden death; but he did not believe in a return to health. In general, there was not one spark of hope in him. If he wished for anything it was only that the weather would brighten, that the sun would shine into his studio. LUX IN TENEBRIS LUCET. 393 For he thought that in that case he might gain con- solation. He had always been specially sensitive to slush and to darkness; such days had always deepened his sadness and depression, and what must it now be when that “hopeless time,” as Kamionka called it, was joined to his sickness Every evening when the servant brought tea he in- quired : “Is it not clearing on the edge of the sky somewhere 2° “There is such a mist,” answered she, “that one man cannot see another.” Kamionka, hearing this answer, closed his eyes and lay motionless a long time. { - In the yard it was always quiet save that drops of rain pattered evenly and monotonously in the gutters. About three o'clock one afternoon it was so dark that |Kamionka was forced to light a candle. And he was so weak that he did this with no little difficulty. Before he reached for a match he meditated a long time; then he extended his arm lazily; the thinness of this arm, evident through the shirt sleeve, filled him, as a sculptor, with repugnance and bitterness. When he had lighted the candle he rested again, without moving, till the evening arrival of the servant, listening with closed eyes to the drops sounding in the gutter. His studio looked strange then. The flame of the can- dle lighted the bed with Kamionka lying on it, and came to a focus in a shining point on his forehead with its skin dry and yellow as if polished. The rest of the room was sunk in darkness, which grew denser each moment. But as it grew dark outside the statues became more rosy and acquired life. The flame of the candle now sank, now rose, and in that quivering light the statues too seemed to sink and rise exactly as if they were rising on tiptoe 394 DUX IN TENEBRIS LUCET. to gain a better look at the face of the sculptor, and be convinced that their creator was living. And indeed there was a certain immobility of death in that countenance. But at times the blue lips of the sick man stirred with a slight movement, as if in prayer, or as if he were cursing his loneliness and those dreadful drops of moisture which measured with even monotony the hours of his sickness. One evening the woman came a little drunk, therefore more talkative than usual. “There is so much work on my head that I can barely look in twice a day,” said she “if you would call a re- ligious, a sister of charity costs nothing, and she would be better for a sick man.” This advice pleased Kamionka, but he, like others who are afflicted, had the habit of always opposing whatever advice people gave him ; so he would not agree. But after the woman had gone he began to think thus: “A sister of charity costs nothing, but what aid she might give, and what comfort " Kamionka, like every sick man left to himself, experienced much suffering and struggled with a thousand petty miseries, which annoyed him as much as they made him impatient. More than once he lay for whole hours with a crooked neck before he would move to arrange his own pillow. Often in the night he was cold and would have given God knows what for a cup of tea; but if it was difficult to light a candle, how was he to think of making tea : A sister of charity would do all this with the mild readiness usual to those sisters. Oh, how much easier to be sick if one had their assistance W. The poor man came at last to think of sickness under such conditions as something desirable and pleasant, and he wondered in his soul if the like happiness were ac- cessible to him even. LUX IN TENEBRIS LUCET. 395 It seemed, too, that if a sister were to come and bring with her a little joyousness and solace to the studio, per- haps the weather would clear up outside, and the Sound- ing drops of water cease to pursue him. He regretted at last that he had not accepted the advice of the woman immediately. Night was approaching, long and gloomy, and the woman was to look in at him only next morning. He understood now that that night would be for him more grievous than all the nights which had ever preceded it. Then he thought what a Lazarus he was — and in dis- tinction to his present wretchedness his former happy years stood before his eyes as if living. And as a moment before the thought of the sister of charity, so now the remembrance of those years joined itself in the same won- derful manner in his weakened brain, with the under- standing of Sun and light and fair weather. He began to think of his dead one, and to speak with her, as he had the habit of doing when he was ill. At last he wearied himself, felt that he was growing weak, and fell asleep. The candle was burning slowly. Its flame from being rosy was blue, then it gleamed brightly a number of times, and died. Deep darkness embraced the studio. But meanwhile in the yard drops of rain fell as evenly and gloomily as if by means of them darkness and grief were distilled through all nature. Kamionka slept long and lightly, but all at once he woke with a certain wonderful impression that some- thing uncommon was happening in the studio. The morning dawn was in the world. The marbles and plasters of Paris began to grow white. The broad Vene- tian Window opposite his bed was penetrated more and more with pale light. 396 LUX IN TENEBRIS LUCET. In this light Kamionka saw a figure sitting at his bedside. He opened his eyes widely and looked at the figure: it was that of a sister of charity. She was sitting motionless, turned slightly toward the window, with her head inclined. Her hands were laid on her knees, – and she seemed to be praying. The sick man could not see her face, but he saw plainly her white head-dress and the dark outline of her rather frail shoulders. His heart began to beat somewhat nervously, and these questions flew through his head, - “When could the servant have brought in this sister of charity; and how did she enter ?” Next he thought that perhaps something seemed to him thus because he was weak, then he closed his eyes. But after a while he opened them again. The sister of charity was sitting on the same spot, motionless as if sunk in prayer. - A wonderful feeling composed of fear and delight began to raise the hair on the head of the sick man. Something attracted his eyes with incomprehensible power to that figure. It seemed to him that he had seen it somewhere, but where and when he could not remember. An irresistible desire to see her face seized him, but the white head-dress concealed it. Kamionka, without knowing why, did not dare to speak or to move, or hardly to breathe. He felt only that the sensation of fear and delight was possessing him more and more powerfully, and he asked with astonishment, “What is this 2° Meanwhile there was perfect day. And what a mar- vellous morning that must be outside! Suddenly with- out any transition there came into the studio a light as LUX IN TENEBRIS LUCET. 397 powerful, bright, and joyous as if it were springtime and May. Waves of golden glitter, rising like a flood, began to fill the room, to overflow it so mightily that the marbles were drowned and dissolved in that brightness; the walls were covered with it and then disappeared altogether. Ramionka found himself as it were in some bright space without boundary. Then he noticed that the covering on the head of the sister began to lose its white stiffness, that it trembled at the edges, melted, dissolved like clear mist, and changed into light. The sister turned her face slowly toward the sick man, and then the deserted sufferer saw in the bright aureole the well-known hundred times beloved features of his dead wife. He sprang from the bed, and from his breast came a cry, in which all his years of sorrow, tears, suffering, and despair were united, – “Zosia Zosia : ” And seizing her, he drew her to him ; she threw her arms around his neck. More and more light came into the room. “Thou didst not forget me,” said she at last, “hence I have come. I obtained an easy death for thee.” Ramionka held her in his arms all the time, as if in fear that the blessed vision would vanish from him together with the light. “I am ready to die,” answered he, “if thou wilt stay with me.” She smiled at him with her angelic smile, and taking one arm from his neck she pointed downward, and said, – “Thou art dead already. Look l’ 398 LUX IN TENEBRIS LUCET. He looked in the direction of her hand, and behold, under their feet, he saw through the window in the ceil- ing of his own gloomy and lonely studio, and there on the bed lay his own corpse, with widely opened mouth, which in the yellow face seemed a dark hole as it were. And he looked on that emaciated body as something foreign. But after a while all began to vanish from his eyes, for that surrounding brightness, as if urged by a wind from beyond this world, went off somewhere into infinity. ON THE BRIGHT SHORE. ON THE BRIGHT SHORE. CHAPTER I. HE artist was sitting beside Pani Elzen in an open carriage; on the front seat were her sons the twin brothers, Romulus and Remus. He was partly convers- ing with the lady, partly thinking of a question which required prompt decision, and partly looking at the sea. There was something to look at. They were driving from Nice toward Monte Carlo by the so-called Old Cornice; that is, by a road along impending cliffs, high above the water. On the left, the view was hidden by naked tower- ing rocks, which were gray, with a rosy pearl tinge ; on the right was the blue Mediterranean, which ap- peared to lie immensely low down, thus producing the effect of an abyss and of boundlessness. From the height on which they were moving, the small fishing boats seemed like white spots, so that frequently it was diffi- cult to distinguish a distant sail from a seamew cir- cling above the water. Pani Elzen had placed her hand on Svirski’s arm ; her face was that of a woman delighted and forgetful of what she is doing; she gazed with dreamy eyes over the mirror of the sea. Svirski felt the touch; a quiver of delight ran through him, and he thought that if at that moment Romulus and Remus had not been in front of them, he might have 26 402 ON THE BRIGHT SHORE. placed his arm around the young woman, perhaps, and pressed her to his bosom. But straightway a certain fear seized him at the thought that hesitation would then have an end, and the question be settled. “Stop the carriage, please,” said Pani Elzen. Svirski stopped the carriage, and they were silent a limOnent. “How quiet it is here after the bustle of Monte Carlo I" said the young widow. “I hear only music,” answered the artist; “perhaps the bands are playing on the iron-clads in Villa Franca.” In fact, from below came at intervals muffled sounds of music, borne thither by the same breeze which brought the odor of Orange-blossoms and heliotropes. Beneath them were visible the roofs of villas, dotting the shore, and almost hidden in groves of eucalyptus, while round about were large white spots formed by blossoming almond-trees, and rosy spots made by peach blossoms. Lower down was the dark-blue sunlit bay of Villa Franca, with crowds of great ships. The life seething there presented a marvellous contrast to the deep deadness of the naked, barren mountains, above which extended the sky, cloudless and so trans- parent that it was monotonous and glassy. Everything was dimmed and belittled amid that calm greatness; the carriage with its occupants seemed, as it were, a kind of beetle, clinging to the cliffs along which it was climbing to the summit with insolence. - “Here life ends altogether,” said Svirski, looking at the naked cliffs. Pani Elzen leaned more heavily on his shoulder and answered with a drowsy, drawling voice, — “But it seems to me that here life begins.” ON THE BRIGHT SHORE. 403 After a moment Svirski answered with a certain emo- tion, “Perhaps you are right.” And he looked with an inquiring glance at her. Pani Elzen raised her eyes to him in answer, but dropped them quickly, as if confused, and, though her two sons were sitting on the front seat of the carriage, she looked at that moment like a maiden whose eyes could not en- dure the first ray of love. After that, both were silent; while from below came snatches of music. Meanwhile, far away at sea, at the very entrance to the bay, appeared a dark pillar of smoke, and the quiet of the company was broken by Remus, who sprang up, and cried, - “Tiens ! le “ Fohmidable ' | * Pani Elzen cast a glance of displeasure at her younger son. She knew the value of that moment, in which every next word might weigh in her fate decisively. “Remus,” said she, “will you be quiet 2" “But, mamma, it is the ‘Fohmidable ' ' " + “What an unendurable boy!” “Pouhquoi?” I “He is a duhen " [duren, a simpleton]; but this time he is right,” called out Romulus, quickly; “yesterday we were at Villa Franca,”— here he turned to Svirski. “You saw us go on velocipedes; they told us there that the whole squadron had arrived except the ‘Fohmidable, which was due to-day.” To this Remus answered with a strong accent on every last syllable, – “Thou art a duhen, thyself l’’ The boys fell to punching each other with their elbows. * Romulus and Remus lisp or pronounce r in the Parisian manner, hence the use of h instead of r in the above words, both French and Polish. 404 ON THE BRIGHT SHORE. Pani Elzen, knowing how Svirski disliked her sons' style of speech, and generally the manner in which they were reared, commanded them to be silent. “I have told you and Pan Kresovich,” said she, “not to speak among yourselves in any language but Polish.” Kresovich was a student from Zürich, with incipient lung disease; Pani Elzen had found him on the Riviera, and engaged him as tutor for her sons, after her acquaint- ance with Svirski, and especially after a public declara- tion of the malicious and wealthy Pan Vyadrovski, that respectable houses had ceased to rear their sons as coln- mercial travellers. Meanwhile the unlucky “Formidable” had spoiled the temper of the sensitive artist. After a time, the carriage, gritting along the stones, moved on. “You took their part, and I brought them,” said Pani Elzen, with a sweet voice; “you are too kind to the boys. But one should be here during moonlight. Would you like to come to-night?” “I like to come always; but to-night there will be no moon, and of course your dinner will end late.” “That is true ; but let me know when the next full moon comes. It is a pity that I did not ask you alone to this dinner — With a full moon, it must be beautiful here, though on these heights I have always a throbbing of the heart. If you could see how it throbs at this moment; but look at my pulse, you can see it even through the glove.” - She turned her palm, which was confined so tightly in the Danish glove as to be turned almost into a tube, and stretched it to Svirski. He took the hand in both of his, and looked at it. - “No,” said he ; “I cannot see the pulse clearly, but perhaps I can hear it.” ON THE BRIGHT SHORE. 405 And, inclining his head, he put his ear to the buttons of her glove; for a moment he pressed the glove firmly to his face, then touched it lightly with his lips, and said, - “In years of childhood I was able sometimes to catch a bird, and its heart beat just this way. The beating here is just as in a captured bird ' " She laughed, almost with melancholy, and repeated, “As in a captured bird.’ But what did you do with the captured birds 2" “I grew attached to them, immensely. But they always flew away.” “Bad birds.” “And thus my life arranged itself,” continued the artist, with emotion; “I have sought in vain for some- thing which would consent to stay with me, till at last I have lost even hope.” “Do not lose that ; have confidence,” answered Pani Elzen. Svirski thought then to himself, that, since the affair had begun so long before, there was need to end it, and let that come which God permits. He felt at the moment like a man who closes his eyes and ears with his fingers; but he felt also that it was needful to act thus, and that there was no time for hesitation. “Perhaps it would be better for you to walk a little,” said he. “The carriage will follow, and, besides, we shall be able to speak more in freedom.” “Very well,” answered Pani Elzen, with a resigned VOICé. Svirski punched the driver with his cane; the carriage halted; and they stepped out. Romulus and Remus ran forward at once, and only stopped, when some tens of yards ahead, to look from above at the houses in Eze, and roll stones into the olive-groves growing below. Svirski 406 ON THE BRIGHT SHORE. and Pani Elzen were left alone; but that day some fatality seemed to weigh on them, for before they could use the moment they saw that a horseman, coming from the direction of Monaco, had stopped near Romulus and Remus. Behind him was a groom dressed in the English manner. “That is De Sinten,” said Pani Elzen, with impatience. “Yes, I recognize him.” In fact, they saw next moment before them a horse's head, and above it the equine face of young De Sinten. He hesitated whether or not to salute and go on, but considering evidently that if they had wanted to be alone they would not have brought the boys, he sprang from the horse, and, beckoning to the groom, began to greet them. “Good-day,” answered Pani Elzen, somewhat dryly. “Is this your hour 2* “It is. Mornings, I shoot at pigeons with Wilkis Bey, so I cannot ride lest I disturb my pulse. I am now seven pigeons ahead of him. Do you know that the ‘Formid- able comes to Villa Franca to-day, and to-morrow the admiral will give a ball on deck 2" “We saw it arrive.” “I was just going to Villa Franca to see one of the officers whom I know, but it is late. If you permit, I will go with you to Monte Carlo.” Pani Elzen nodded, and they went on together. De Sinten, since he was a horseman by nature, began at once to speak of the “hunter,” on which he had come. “I bought him from Waxdorf,” said he. “Waxdorf lost at trente et quarante, and needed money. He bet inverse, and hit on a lucky series, but afterward fortune changed.” Here he turned to the horse. “He is of pure Irish blood, and I will give my neck that there is not a ON THE BRIGHT SHORE. 407 better hunter on the whole Cornice; but it is difficult to mount him.” “Is he vicious 2° inquired Svirski. “Once you are in the saddle, he is like a child. He is used to me; but you, for instance, could not mount him.” At this Svirski, who in matters of sport was childishly vain, asked at Once, — “FLOW is that 2 ” “Do not try, especially here above the precipice . " cried Pani Elzen. But Svirski had his hand on the horse's shoulder already, and a twinkle later was in the saddle, without the least resistance from the horse; perhaps the beast was not at all vicious, and understood, too, that on the edge of a cliff above a precipice it was better not to indulge in pranks. The rider and the horse disappeared at a slow gallop along the turn of the road. “He rides very well,” said De Sinten; “but he will spoil my horse's feet. There is no road here for riding.” “The horse has turned out perfectly gentle,” said Pani Elzen. “I am greatly pleased at this, for here an accident happens easily — and I was a little afraid.” On his face, however, there was a certain concern ; first, because what he had said about the horse's stub- bornness at mounting seemed like untruth, and, second, because there existed a secret dislike between him and Svirski. De Sinten had not, it is true, at any time serious designs touching Pani Elzen ; but he would have preferred that no one should oppose him in such designs as he had. Besides, some weeks before, he and Svirski had engaged in a rather lively talk. De Sinten, who 408 ON THE BRIGHT SHORE. was an irrepressible aristocrat, had declared, during a dinner at Pani Elzen's, that to his thinking man begins only at the baron. To this Svirski, in a moment of ill-humor, answered with an inquiry, - “In what direction ?” (up or down). De Sinten took this reply so seriously that he sought advice of Vyadrovski and Councillor Kladzki as to how he ought to act, and learned, with genuine astonish- ment, that Svirski had a coronet on his shield. A knowledge of the artist's uncommon strength, and his skill in shooting, had a soothing effect, perhaps, on the baron's nerves; it suffices that the negotiation had no result, except to leave in the hearts of both men an indefinite dislike. From the time that Pani Elzen seemed to incline decidedly toward Svirski, the dislike had become quite Platonic. - But this dislike was more decided in the artist than in De Sinten. No one had supposed that the affair of the widow and the artist could end in marriage; but among their acquaintances people had begun to speak of Svirski's feelings toward Pani Elzen, and he had a sus- picion that De Sinten and his party were ridiculing him as a man of simple mind. They, it is true, did not betray themselves by the slightest word on any occasion; but in Svirski the conviction was glimmering that his suspicion was justified, and this pained him, specially out of regard for Pani Elzen. He was glad, therefore, that on this occasion, thanks to the horse's gentleness, De Sinten seemed a person who, without reason, told things which were untrue; hence he said, on returning, — “A good horse, and specially good because he is as tame as a sheep.” He dismounted, and they walked on together, three of ON THE BRIGHT SHORE. 409 them, and even five, for Romulus and Remus followed closely. Pani Elzen, to spite De Sinten, and perhaps from a wish to be rid of him, turned the conversation to pictures and art in general, of which the young sportsman had not the faintest idea. But he began to retail gossip from the Casino, and congratulated the young woman on her luck of yesterday; she listened with constraint, being ashamed, in presence of Svirski, of having taken part in play. Her vexation was increased when Romulus called Out, — “Mamma, but did you not tell us that you never play; will you give us a louis d'or for that ?” “I sought Councillor Kladzki, wishing to invite him to dinner to-day; when I found him he and I played a little,” answered she, as if speaking to no one in particular. “Give us a louis d'or apiece,” repeated Romulus. “Or buy us a little roulette table,” added Remus. “Do not annoy me ! Let us go to the carriage,” said she, turning to Svirski. Then she took farewell of De Sinten. “At seven, did you say ?” inquired he. “At seven.” They parted; and after a while Svirski found himself again at the side of the beautiful widow. This time they occupied the front seat, since they wished to look at the setting Sun. “People say that Monte Carlo is more sheltered than Mentone,” remarked the widow; “but, oh, how it bores me at times | That endless noise, that movement, those acquaintances which one must make, willingly or unwill- ingly. Sometimes I wish to rush away and spend the rest of the winter in some quiet corner where I should see only those whom I see with pleasure — What place do you like best ?” 410 ON THE BRIGHT SHORE. “I like San Raphael greatly ; the pines there go down to the sea.” “True, but it is far from Nice,” answered she, in a low voice ; “and your studio is in Nice.” A moment of silence followed, after which Pani Elzen inquired, - “But Antibes 2 ” “True ! I forgot Antibes.” “Besides, it is so near Nice. After dinner you will stop with me a little and talk of a place where one might escape from society.” “Do you wish really to flee from people 2" “Let us talk sincerely; I detect doubt in your question. You suspect me of speaking as I do so as to appear better, or at least less shallow, than I am — And you have a right to your suspicion, since you see me always in the whirl of society. But my answer is this : We move frequently with a force not our own, because once we were impelled in a given direction, and endure now in spite of us the results of previous life. As to me, it may be that this is because of the weakness of woman, who has not strength to free herself without the aid of another — I confess this — But that fact does not save one from yearning greatly and sincerely for some quiet corner and a calmer life. Let people say what they choose, we women are like climbing plants, which creep along the ground when they cannot grow upward. For this reason, people are often mistaken, thinking that we creep of our own choice. By creeping, I understand empty society life, without lofty thought. But how am I, for example, to defend myself against this Some one begs permission to present an acquaintance; the man presented makes a visit, after that a second, a third, and a tenth — what am I to do 2 Not permit ON THE BRIGHT SHORE. 411 the presentation ? Of course I permit it; even for this reason, that the more people I receive, the more indiffer- ent I am to each, and the more each is prevented from occupying an exceptional position.” “You are right,” said Svirski. “But do you see that in this way is created that current of social life from which I cannot tear myself with my own strength, and which wearies and tortures me to such a degree that at times I could scream out from pain.” “I believe you.” “You ought to believe me; but believe also that I am better and less vain than I seem. When doubts come to you, or when people speak ill of me, think to yourself: She must have her good side. If you will not think thus, I shall be very unhappy.” “I give you my word, that I wish always to think the best of you.” “And you should think so,” said she, with a soft voice; “for though everything which is good in me were more stified than it is, it would bloom out afresh were I near you, so much depends on those with whom one associates — I should like to say something; but I am afraid — ” “Say it.” “You will not think me fanciful, or even worse ? I am not fanciful ; I talk like a sober-minded woman who states only that which is real, and looks at things coolly. At your side, for example, I should regain my former spirit, as calm and collected as when I was a girl; and now I am almost a grandmother — thirty-five years of age.” Svirski looked at her with a clear face, very nearly in love; then he raised her hand slowly to his lips, and said, - 412 ON THE BRIGHT SHORE. “Ah! In comparison with me you are really a child. Forty-eight is my age – and that is my picture " said he, pointing to the setting sun. She began to gaze at that light which was reflected in her shining eyes, and said, in a low voice, as if to herself, “Great, marvellous, beloved sun " Then silence followed. The calm ruddy light was falling on the faces of both. The sun was setting in genuine majesty and grandeur. Beneath it, slender clouds, recently blown asunder, took on the forms of palm lilies, and were gleaming like gold. The sea along the shore was sunk in shadow ; farther out, in open spaces, lay a boundless light. In the valley, the motionless cypress- trees were outlined sharply on the lily-colored back- ground of the sky. CHAPTER II. HE guests invited by Pani Elzen assembled at the Hôtel de Paris at seven o'clock. A separate room and also a smaller One adjoining, in which coffee was to be served, had been assigned for the dinner. The lady had issued invitations to a dinner “without ceremony;” but the gentlemen, knowing what to understand by this, came in dress-coats and white neckties. Pani Elzen appeared in a pale rose-colored, low-necked dress with a great fold in the back extending from the top of the bodice to the bottom of the skirt. She looked fresh and young. She had a finely cut face, and a small head, by which principally she had charmed Svirski at the beginning of their more intimate acquaintance. Her plump shoulders had, especially at the edge of the dress, the appearance and transparency of mother-of-pearl; but ON THE BRIGHT SHORE. 413 her arms from the elbow to the wrist were slightly red- dened, seemingly rough ; that, however, merely heightened the impression of their nakedness. In general, she was radiant with gladness, good-humor, and that brilliancy which women have when they are happy. Among the invited guests, besides Svirski and De Sinten, came the old councillor, Kladzki, with his nephew Sigismund, a young man of no great social experience, but forward, whose eyes gleamed at Pani Elzen too ex- pressively, and who did not know how to conceal what he felt ; next, was Prince Valerian Porzetski, a man forty years of age, bald, with a large head coming to a point at the top like that of an Aztec ; Pan Vyadrovski, rich and sarcastic, the owner of oil wells in Galicia, a lover of art and a dilettante; finally, Kresovich, a student, the temporary tutor of Romulus and Remus, a man whom Pani Elzen invited because Svirski liked his fanatical face. The point with the lady was always, and more espe- cially on that day, to have an “intellectual” salon, as she expressed it. She could not, however, turn the con- versation at first from local gossip and the happenings of the Casino, which Vyadrovski called the “Slav world,” — more of Slav speech was heard there, he said, than any other. Vyadrovski’s life in Monte Carlo was spent generally in ridiculing his fellow-countrymen and the younger Slav brothers. That was a hobby which he mounted gladly, and galloped without rest. So he began at once to relate how, two days before, there remained in the “Cercle de la Méditerranée,” at six in the morning, Seven persons, all of Slav blood. “We are born thus,” said he, turning to the hostess. “In other countries people count: Nine, ten, eleven, twelve, etc.; but every real Slav says, in spite of himself: 414 ON THE BRIGHT SHORE. Nine, ten, knave, queen, king — Yes; to the Cornice comes the cream of our society, and here they make cheese of it.” Prince Valerian, of peaked head, announced now, in the tone of a man who is discovering new truths, that every passion which exceeds the measure is ruinous, but that to the “Cercle de la Méditerranée" belonged many foreigners of distinction with whom it was useful and worth while to make acquaintance. It was possible to serve one's country everywhere. For instance, he had met there three days before an Englishman, a friend of Chamberlain, who had inquired of him touching our country; and he described on a visiting-card the economic and political condition in general, and the social aspira- tions in particular. Beyond doubt, the card would go, if not to Chamberlain, who is not here, to Salisbury, and that would be better. Probably, also, he would meet Salisbury at the ball which the French admiral is to give, and during which the whole “Formidable" would be illuminated d giorno by electricity. Kresovich, who was not only a consumptive, but a man of another style of thought, a man who hated that society in which he was forced to appear as the tutor of Romulus and Remus, snorted ironically and as venom- ously as a hyena when he heard of this visiting- card. Pani Elzen, wishing to turn attention from him, said, – “But here people are putting forward the wonders of electricity. I have heard that the whole road from Nice to Marseilles will be lighted by electricity.” “An engineer, Ducloz, drew up such a plan,” said Svirski; “but he died two months ago. He was such a fanatical electrician that very likely he desired in his will to have his grave lighted by electricity.” ON THE BRIGHT SHORE. 415 “Then,” said Wyadrovski, “he should have on his tomb the inscription, O Lord, grant him eternal rest, and may electric light shine on him for the ages of ages. Amen : ” But Kladzki, the old councillor, attacked Vyadrovski, and said that he was trifling with grave subjects which were beyond witticism; then he attacked the whole Ri- viera. “All,” said he, “from people to things, is simply a show and a jest. Everywhere they pretend to be ‘marquises, counts, and viscounts;' but they are really on the watch to snatch away handkerchiefs. As to comfort, it is the same. In my office at Veprkoviski, five rooms could be put, each as large as the little den which they have given me in the hotel. The doctors have sent me to Nice for fresh air; but, as God lives, that Promenade des Anglais has the vile odor of a lodging- house in Cracow; my nephew Sigismund can testify to this.” - But Sigismund's eyes were crawling out of his head as he looked at Pani Elzen's arms; and he did not hear what his uncle was saying. “Remove to Bordighieri,” said Svirski. “Italian dirt is artistic at least ; while French dirt is vile.” “Still you are living in Nice 7" “I am, because I could not find a studio beyond Venti- miglia. Were I to move, I should prefer Antibes, on the other side.” When he had said this, he looked at Pani Elzen. At the corners of her mouth a faint smile appeared, and she dropped her eyes. Next moment, however, wishing, as it seemed, to turn conversation toward art, she spoke of Rumpelmayer's exhibition, and of the new pictures which she had seen two days before, and which the French journalist, Krauss, called impressionist-decadent. 416 ON THE BRIGHT SHORE. At this Vyadrovski raised his fork, and inquired, in the tones of a Pyrrho, - “What are the decadents in general 2" “From a certain point of view, they are people who ask of art itself the various sauces with which it is served,” answered Svirski. Prince Valerian, however, felt wounded by what old Kladzki had said of “marquises, counts, and viscounts.” “Even the adventurers who come here,” said he, “are high-class adventurers, and are not satisfied with snatching the handkerchief from your nose. Here one meets corsairs of grand style. But besides them come all who are richest, or most exquisite in the world. Here financial magnates meet people of high blood on equal footing; this is especially good, for let the world refine itself Pan Kladzki should read such a book as the ‘Idylle Tragique,' and be convinced that, in ad- dition to suspected people, the highest social spheres come here also – precisely such as we shall meet on the ‘Formidable, which, for that occasion is to be lighted à giorno by electricity.” Prince Valerian forgot evidently that he had given in- formation already about the lighting of the “Formidable.” In fact, it was not the subject of conversation just then ; and immediately they began to talk of the “Idylle Tra- gique.” Young Kladzki, mentioning the hero of that novel, said: “It was good enough for such a fellow, since he was dunce enough to give up a woman for a friend; he, Kladzki, would not do that for ten friends, he would not for his born brother, since that was his property, and his own.” But Vyadrovski interrupted him; for French novels, with which he was carried away, were another hobby of his on which he cultivated a higher school of galloping over authors and their productions. ON THE BRIGHT SHORE. 417 “But what enrages me to the utmost,” said he, “is this sale of painted foxes for foxes of genuine color. If those gentlemen are realists, let them write the truth. Have you turned attention to their heroines ' A tragedy begins, very well the lady struggles with herself, ‘wrestles dreadfully' through half a volume; but, as God lives, I know from the first page what will be, how all will end. What a bore, and how often has it happened before this I accept those heroines, and their place in literature too; but let no one sell them to me for tragic vestals. What is the tragedy for me, when I know that such rent souls have had lovers before the tragedy, and will have others after it ! They will ‘struggle again as they have done already, and everything will end in the same fashion. What a lie, what a loss of moral sense, of truth, what a turning of heads ! And to think that among us this stuff is read, this merchandise accepted as genuine; that these drawing-room farces are taken as tragedies, and received as important In this way, all difference between an honest woman and a harlot is effaced; and a society position is created for puppets without a nest of their own. This French gilding suits our puppets, and they exhibit themselves under the authority of such and such authors. There is no principle in it, no character, no feeling of duty, no moral sense; there is nothing in it but false aspirations, and false posing for a psychological riddle.” Vyadrovski was too intelligent not to understand that by speaking in this fashion he was throwing stones at Pani Elzen, but, being thoroughly malevolent, he spoke so purposely. Pani Elzen listened to his words with all the greater vexation, because there was truth in them. Svirski was burning with a wish to answer rudely; but he knew that he could not take Vyadrovski's words as 27 418 ON THE BRIGHT SHORE. having any application, so he chose to give a new turn to the conversation. s “In French novels, something else has always struck me,” said he ; “namely, this, that it is a world of bar- ren women. In other countries, when two people fall in love, either according to law or outside of it, the result is a child; but in French novels, no one has chil- dren. How strange this is . It does not seem to occur to those gentlemen who write novels that love cannot remain without results.” “As the Society, so the literature,” said old Kladzki. “It is known that in France population is decreasing. In the upper society a child — is an exception | * “Mais c'est plus commode et plus elégant,” answered De Sinten. “The literature of sated idlers who must disappear with it,” said Kresovich, who had snorted previously. “What do you say ?” inquired De Sinten. The student turned his resolute face to the baron, “I say the literature of sated idlers!” Prince Valerian discovered America a second time. “Every class has its beauties and its pleasures,” said he. “I have two passions : politics and photography.” But the dinner was nearing its end ; a quarter of an hour later all passed into the adjoining room for coffee. It seemed to Pani Elzen that a certain negligence ought to please Svirski, as he was an artist and somewhat of a gypsy, so she lighted a very slender cigarette, and, leaning on the arm of her easy-chair, crossed her legs. But, being of comparatively low stature, and a trifle broad in the hips, she raised her dress too high by this posture. Young Kladzki dropped his match immedi- ately, and looked for it so long that his uncle punched him slightly in the side, and whispered angrily, - ON THE BRIGHT SHORE. 419 “What are you thinking of ; where are you?” The young man straightened himself and said in a whisper, “That is what I do not know.” Pani Elzen knew from experience that even well-bred men, when they can take some advantage, become rude in presence of women, especially if those women are un- protected. This time she had not observed young Kladzki's movement; but when she saw the unrestrained and almost cynical smile with which he answered his uncle, she felt convinced that he was talking of her. And in her heart she had a contempt for all that society except Svirski and Kresovich, the tutor, whom she sus- pected of being in love with her, notwithstanding his hatred for women of her circle. But that evening Vyadrovski brought her almost to a nervous attack; for it seemed as though for what he had eaten and drunk, he had undertaken to poison every spoonful of her coffee, and every moment of her time. He spoke generally, and as it were objectively, of women, without crossing the bounds of politeness, but at the bottom of his words there was not only cynicism, but a completeness of allusion to Pani Elzen's character and social position, which was simply offensive, and to her, immensely disagreeable, especially before Svirski, who both suffered and was impatient. A stone fell from her heart, therefore, when at last the guests went away and only the artist remained. “Aal" exclaimed she, breathing deeply, “I feel the beginning of neuralgia, and I know not myself what is happening to me.” “They tormented you?” “Yes, yes — and more than tormented . " “Why do you invite them 2" She approached him feverishly, as if losing control of her nerves, and said, – 420 ON THE BRIGHT SHORE. “Sit quietly, do not move I cannot tell — perhaps I destroy myself in your eyes; but I need this as a medi- cine. Oh, yes! To remain a moment in this way at the side of an honest man — a moment in this way !” All at once her eyelids were bedeved abundantly; but she put her finger to her lips time after time as a sign not to speak, and to let her remain silent. But Svirski was moved, since he had always grown soft as Wax at sight of woman's tears. The confidence which she showed him, conquered the man and filled his heart with tenderness. He understood that the decisive mo- ment had come, so, putting his arm around her, he said, “Stay with me forever; give me a right to yourself.” Pani Elzen made no answer; great tears were flowing from her eyes, but they were silent tears. “Be mine,” repeated Svirski. She put her hand on his other shoulder, and nestled up to him as a child to its mother. Svirski, bending over, kissed her forehead, then he fell to kissing tears from her eyes, and gradually the flame seized him ; in a moment he caught her in his athletic arms, pressed her with all his strength to his breast, and sought her lips with his lips. But she defended herself. “No no l’” said she, with panting voice. “Thou art not like others—later | No 1 no Have pity!” Svirski held her in his embrace; she bent backward; at that moment he was just like other men ; happily for Pani Elzen, there was a knock at the door. They Sprang apart. “Who is there 2° inquired Pani Elzen, impatiently. The gloomy head of Kresovich appeared in the doorway. “Pardon me,” said he, in a broken voice. “Romulus is coughing, and perhaps he has a fever; I thought it necessary to inform you.” ON THE BRIGHT SHORE. 421 Svirski stood up. “Should you not send for a doctor 7 ° Pani Elzen had recovered her usual self-possession already. “I thank you,” said she ; “if necessary, we will send from the hotel; but first I must see the boy. Thank you! but I must go — so till to-morrow ! Thank you !” And she stretched her hand to him, which Svirski raised to his lips. “Till to-morrow — and every day. Till we meet again " Pani Elzen, when alone with Kresovich, looked at him inquiringly, and asked, - “What is the trouble with Romulus 2 ” The student grew paler than usual, and answered al- most rudely, - “Nothing.” “What does this mean Z * asked she, with a frown. “It means — dismiss me, otherwise — I shall go mad!” And turning he walked out. Pani Elzen stood for a moment with flashes of anger in her eyes and with wrinkled brows; but her forehead smoothed gradually. She was thirty-five years of age, it is true, but here was a fresh proof that no man had thus far been able to resist her. Next moment she went to the mirror as if to seek in it confirmation of that thought. Svirski returned to Nice in a car without other pas- sengers; he raised to his face from moment to moment a hand which retained the odor of heliotrope. He felt dis- turbed, but also happy; and the blood was rushing to his head, for his nostrils were inhaling Pani Elzen's favorite perfume. 422 ON THE BRIGHT SHORE. CHAPTER III. EXT morning the artist woke with a heavy head, as if after a night spent in drinking, and, moreover, with great alarm in his heart. When light falls in the daytime on theatrical decorations, that which seemed magic the night before looks a daub. In life, the same thing takes place. Nothing unexpected had hap- pened to Svirski. He knew that he had been going toward this, that he must go to it; but now, when the latch had fallen, he had a feeling of incomprehensible fear. He understood that as late as yesterday he might have withdrawn; and regret took possession of him. In vain did he repeat to himself that it was not the time for reasoning. Various reproaches which formerly he had made to himself regarding Pani Elzen, and above all regarding marriage with her, returned to him with re- newed force. The voice which formerly had whispered unceasingly in his ear, “Do not be a fool!” began to cry, “Thou art a fool!” And he could not put down this voice either by arguments, or by repeating, “It has hap- pened!” for reason told him that the folly had become a fact, and that the cause lay in his own weakness. At that thought shame possessed him. For had he been young, he would have had youth as his excuse. Had he made the acquaintance of that lady on the Riviera, had he heard nothing of her before, his igno- rance of her character and her past would have justi- fied him ; but he had met her before. He had seen her rarely, it is true; but he had heard enough, when people in Warsaw spoke more of her than of any one else. She was called there the “Wonder woman,” and humorists ON THE BRIGHT SHORE. 423 had sharpened their wits on her, as a knife is sharpened on a grindstone ; this, however, had not prevented men from crowding to her salon. Women, though less favor- able, received her also out of regard for the remoter or nearer relationship which connected her with the society of the city. Some, especially those whose interest it was that opinion in general should not be too strict, even rose in defence of the beautiful widow. Others, less yielding, still did not dare to close their doors against her, for the reason that they had not courage to take this course earlier than others. Once a local comedy writer, on hearing some one reckon Pani Elzen among the “demi-monde,” answered, “She is neither the half world nor the whole world, she is rather three- quarters.” But since everything in great cities is effaced, Pani Elzen's position was effaced in time. Her friends said, “We cannot, of course, ask too much of Helena ; but she has her own really good traits.” And, without noting it, they conceded greater freedom to her than to other women. At one time it was stated by some one that for a period before the death of her husband, she had not lived with him ; at another it was whispered that she was rearing Romulus and Remus like jesters, or that she had no thought for them of any kind; but to such malevolent statements attention would have been turned only if Pani Elzen had been a woman of less beauty and less wealth, or had kept a less hospitable house. Among themselves, men had not been backward in speaking of the “Wonder woman,” — not even those who were in love with her; they talked of her through jealousy; only those were silent who, at the given moment, were fortunate, or who wished to pass as more fortunate than others. In general, malice was such that 424 ON THE BRIGHT SHORE. according to report Pani Helena had one man for the Winter in the city, and another for the summer. Svirski knew all this. He knew it better than other men, for an acquaintance of his in Warsaw, a certain Pani Bronich, a near relative of the beautiful widow, told him of an event painful to Pani Elzen, which ended in a grievous illness. “What that poor Helena suffered, God alone knows; but perhaps in His mercy He brought it about before the time, so as to save her from greater moral suffering.” Svirski, however, admitted that this “event before the time ’’ might be a pure invention ; still it was less possible for him than for others to be deceived as to Pani Elzen's past, and least of all was it possible for him to believe that she was a woman to whom he could confide his peace with safety. Still, all these facts roused his curiosity, and drew him to her specially. When he heard of her presence at Monte Carlo, he desired, with intentions not entirely honest, perhaps, to approach her and know her better. |He wanted also, as an artist, to analyze the charm exer- cised on men by that woman, who was talked of every- where. But he met only disenchantment from the first. She was beautiful and physically attractive; but he saw that she lacked goodness and kindness toward people. In her eyes a man was of value only in so far as he was useful to her in some way. Beyond that, she was as in- different as a stone. Svirski did not note in her either any feeling for mental life, art, or literature. She took from them what she needed, giving nothing in return. He, as an artist and a man of thought, understood perfectly that such a relation betrays at the basis of things a nature which, despite all elegant semblances, is vain, rude, and barbarous. But to him women of that kind had ON THE BRIGHT SHORE. 425 been known from of old. He knew that they impose on the world by a certain force which position and a mighty merciless egotism confers. Of that sort of creature, it had been said often in his presence, “A cold, but clever woman.” He had always thought of such persons without respect and with contempt. They were to his mind devoid not only of lofty spiritual finish, but of intellect. Beasts have the mind which snatches everything for itself, and leaves nothing to others. In Pani Elzen, as in Romulus and Remus, he saw a type in which there is no culture below the surface; be- neath is an unknown plebeian depth. Beyond that, he was struck by her cosmopolitan character. She was like a coin, so worn that one could hardly discover to what country it belonged. And he was penetrated by disgust, not only as a man of qualities opposite to hers, but also as a man of a society really higher, and who knew that in England, for instance, or France or Italy, people would not deny the soil from which they had grown and would look with contempt on cosmopolitan twigs without a TOOt. Vyadrovski was right when he said that Romulus and Remus were reared like commercial travellers, or like porters in a great hotel. It was known universally that Pani Elzen's father possessed a title, that was true; but her grandfather was the manager of an estate; and Svir- ski, who had a high sense of humor, thought it ridiculous that these great-grandsons of a farm bailiff not only did not know Polish well, but like genuine Parisians could not pronounce r. They offended him too in his charac- ter of an artist. The boys were good-looking, even beauti- ful; Svirski, however, felt, with his subtle artistic sense, that in those two bird skulls, which resembled each other, and in those faces, the beauty was not inherited through a 426 ON THE BRIGHT SHORE. series of generations, but was as if by accident, by physical chance, which had come from their twinship. In vain did he say to himself that their mother too was beautiful; the feeling adhered to him always that that beauty did not belong to the mother or the sons, and that in this, as in the question of property, they were parvenus. It was only after long intercourse with them that this impression was weakened. Pani Elzen, from the beginning of their acquaintance, commenced to prefer Svirski and to attract him. He was of more value to her than the rest of her acquaint- ances; he bore a good family name; he had considerable property and a great reputation. He lacked youth, it is true; but Pani Elzen herself was thirty-five years of age, and his form of a Hercules might take the place of youth. Finally, for a woman who had been mentioned without respect, to marry him meant the recovery of honor and position. She might suspect him of other inclinations and a fickle disposition ; but he possessed kindness and — like every artist — a certain basis of simplicity in his soul; hence, Pani Elzen thought herself able to bend him to her will. In the end of ends she was influenced not by calculation only, but by this too, that as he let himself be attracted, he attracted her. At last she said to herself that she loved him, and she even believed that she did. With him that happened which happens to many, even perfectly intelligent people. His reason ceased to act when his inclinations were roused, or, worse still, it en- tered their service; instead of striving to conquer, it undertook to find arguments to justify them. In this fashion Svirski, who knew and understood every weak point, began to make excuses, twisting, mollifying, explain- ing. “It is true,” thought he, “that neither her nature ON THE BRIGHT SHORE. 427 nor her conduct, so far, give guarantees; but who can say that she is not tortured by her present life, that she is not yearning with all her soul for another? In her action there is undoubtedly much coquetry; but again who will say that she has not developed that coquetry because she has fallen in love with me sincerely 2 To imagine that a person, even filled with faults and failings, has no good side, is childish. What a medley is the human soul! There is merely need of proper conditions to develop the good side, and the bad will disappear. Pani Elzen has passed her first youth. What stupidity to suppose that no voice in her is calling for calm, rest, honor, and healing. And just for these reasons perhaps a woman like her values more than others an honest man, who would make her feel certain of all things.” This last thought seemed to him uncommonly profound and appropriate. Formerly sound judgment had declared that Pani Elzen wanted to catch him, but now he answered, “She is right; we may say of any woman, even one of the most ideal character, who wishes to unite herself to a man whom she loves, that she wants to catch him.” As to the future, the hope also of children quieted him. He thought that he would have something to love, and she would be obliged to break with vain, social life, for she would not have time for it ; and before children could grow up, her youth would have passed; after that her house would attract her more than society. Finally, he said, “In every case life must arrange itself; before old age comes I shall live a number of years with an interesting and beautiful woman, near whom every week day will seem a festival.” And those “few years” became in fact the main charm for him. There was something humiliating for Pani Elzen in this, that he feared no extraordinary event for the single reason that her youth, and therefore possibilities, must 428 ON THE BRIGHT SHORE. soon pass. He did not confess this to himself, though it was the basis of his consolation; and he deceived himself, as is ever the case with people in whom reason has become the pander of their wishes. And now, after the event of the previous evening, he woke up with immense alarm and disgust. He could not avoid thinking of two things: first, that if any man had told him a month, before that he would propose to Pani Elzen, he would have thought that man an idiot; second, that the charm of relations with her which lay in uncertainty, in unfinished words, in the mutual divining of glances and thoughts, in the deferred confessions and in mutual attractions, was greater than that which flowed from the present condition. For Svirski it had been more agreeable to prepare the engagement than to be engaged; now he was thinking that if in the same proportion it would be less agreeable to become a hus- band than to be an affianced, deuce take his fate. At moments the feeling that he was bound, that he had no escape, that, whether he wished or not, he must take Pani Elzen with Romulus and Remus into his life-boat seemed to him simply unendurable. Not wishing then as a man of honor to curse Pani Elzen, he cursed Romu- lus and Remus, with their lisping, their bird-like, narrow heads and bird-like skulls. “I have had my cares, but really I have been as free as a bird, and I could put my whole soul into my pictures,” said he to himself; “now, Satan knows how it will be ” And the cares of an artist, which he felt at that moment, spoiled his good-humor, though they turned his thoughts in another direction. Pani Elzen and the whole marriage question receded into the second place; and into the first came his picture, “Sleep and Death,” on which he had been working for a number of months, ON THE BRIGHT SHORE. 429 and to which he attributed immense importance. This picture was a protest against the accepted idea of death. Frequently, while talking with artists, Svirski had been indignant at Christianity because it had brought into life and art the representation of death as a skeleton. That seemed to him the greatest injustice. The Greeks had imagined Thanatos" as a winged genius; that was correct. What can be more disgusting and frightful than a skeleton 2 If death be represented in that way, it should not be by Christians, who conceive death as a return to new life. According to Svirski, the present idea was born in the gloomy German soul which created Gothic archi- tecture, — solemn and majestic, but as gloomy as if the church were a passage, not to the glories of heaven, but to underground gulfs. Svirski had marvelled always that the Renaissance had not recreated the symbol of death. Indeed, if Death had not always been silent, and had de- sired to complain, it would have said, “Why do people depict me as a skeleton 2 A skeleton is just what I have no wish to be, and will not be l’” In Svirski's picture the genius of Sleep was delivering, mildly and quietly, the body of a maiden to the genius of Death, who, bending down, extinguished in silence the flame of a lamp burning at her head. Svirski when painting had said to himself, “Oh, what wonderful silence there is here !” and he wanted that silence to appear from the lines, the form, the expression, and the color. He thought also that if he could convey that feeling, and if the picture could interpret itself, the work would be both new and uncommon. He had another object also: following the general current of the time, he had convinced himself that painting should avoid literary ideas; but he understood that there was an immense 1 Death. 430 ON THE BRIGHT SHORE. difference between renouncing literary ideas, and a passion- less reflection of the external world as is shown in photo- graphic plates. Form, color, stain — and nothing more as if the duty of an artist were to destroy in himself the thinking essence He recollected that whenever he had seen pictures by English artists, for example, he had been impressed, first of all, by the mental elevation of those artists. It was evident from their canvases that they were masters of a lofty mental culture, greatly developed intellects, thinking deeply, often even learned. In Poles, on the contrary, he saw always something which was directly the opposite. With the exception of a few, or at best of a small number, the generality was composed of men capable, but lacking thought, men of uncommonly small development, and devoid of all culture. They lived, nourished somewhat by crumbs of doctrines falling from the French table, and crumbs which had lost much of their savor. These artists did not admit for a moment that it was possible to think out anything original touching art, and especially to produce original creations in a Polish style. To Svirski, it was clear, also, that a doctrine which enjoins absence of thought must please their hearts. To bear the title of artist, and at the same time be mentally a minor, is convenient. To read, know, think — deuce take such toil Svirski thought that if even a landscape is simply a state of soul, that soul should be capable not only of the moods of a Matsek (a peasant), but should be subtle, sen- sitive, developed, and expanded. He had quarrelled about this with his comrades, and had discussed with them passionately. “I do not require you,” said he, “to paint as well as the French, the English, or the Spanish — I demand that you paint better Above all, that you paint in your own style; whoso does not strive for this should ON THE BRIGHT SHORE. 431 make copper kettles.” He showed, therefore, that if a picture represents a stack of hay, or hens Scratching in a yard, or a potato field, or horses at pasture, or a corner of sleeping water in a pond, there should, above all, be a soul in it; hence he put into his pictures as much of his own self as he could, and besides he “confessed himself” in other pictures, the last of which was to be Hypnos and Thanatos (Sleep and Death). The two geniuses were almost finished; but he had no success with the head of the maiden. Svirski understood that she must be not only beautiful, but possess great in- dividuality. Models came who were really good, but not sufficiently individual. Madame Lageat, at whose house the artist had taken his studio, and who was an old ac- quaintance, had promised to find him one, but the work advanced slowly. Some new model was to appear that morning; but she had not come, though it was eleven o'clock. All this, combined with his yesterday's proposal, caused Svirski to be in doubt touching not only his own peace of mind, but his artistic future in general, and his picture in particular. Hypnos seemed to him at that moment somewhat heavy, Thanatos somewhat stupid. Finally, he thought that since he could not work, he would better stroll to the shore, where a sight of the sea might clear mind and Soul. Just at the moment when he was ready to go, the bell sounded in the entrance, and next appeared in the studio two Scottish plaids, two heads of hair, and the two bird faces of Romulus and Remus; after them came Kresovich, paler than usual and gloomier than ever. “Good-day, sir! Good-day, sir!” cried the two boys. “Mamma sends these roses and invites you to lunch.” While speaking, they shook bunches of tea and moss 432 ON THE BRIGHT SHORE. roses, then handed them to Svirski, and began to run about and look at the studio. They wondered especially at the sketches representing naked bodies, and were stopped by them, for they stood before these sketches, and, punching each other with their elbows, said, - “ Tiens ! ” “Regarde l’ Svirski, who was angered by this, looked at his watch and said, – “If we are to be in time for lunch, we must go at once.” He took his hat, and they went out. There were no car- riages near the studio, so they walked. The artist passed on with Kresovich, and inquired, - “Well, how are your pupils 2" Kresovich, turning to him his malignant, sneering face, answered, – “My pupils 2 Oh, nothing ! They are as healthy as fish, and are comfortable in their Scottish dresses. There will be fun with them ; but not for me.” “Why so 2° “Because I am going to-morrow.” “Why so 2° asked Svirski, with astonishment. “I knew nothing of this; no one mentioned it. I am sorry ” “They are not sorry,” answered Kresovich. “Perhaps they do not understand.” “They will never understand. Neither to-day, nor at any time in their lives | Never !” “I hope that you are mistaken,” said Svirski, dryly; “but in every case it is unpleasant for me to hear this.” “Yes | " continued the student, as if speaking to him- self. “A pity, but a pity for time lost. What do they care for me, or I for them 2 It is even better that they should be as they will be. A man who wishes to sow wheat must plough in the grass; and the weaker it is, the ON THE BRIGHT SHORE. 433 easier it is to plough it in. Much might be said of this matter; but it is not worth while, especially not for me. The microbes are eating me, anyhow.” “Consumption has never threatened you. Before Pani Elzen asked you to teach, she questioned the doctor about your health — and you should not wonder at that, for she was anxious about her children. The doctor assured her that there was no danger.” “Of course not. I have discovered a certain remedy against microbes.” “What is the remedy ?” “It will be announced in the papers. Such discoveries as that are never hidden under a bushel.” Svirski glanced at Kresovich, as if to convince himself that the man was not speaking in a fever; meanwhile they reached the station, which was swarming with people. The visitors at Nice were going as usual in the morning to Monte Carlo. At the moment when Svirski was buy- ing a ticket, Vyadrovski saw him. “Good-morning,” said he, coming up; “you are going to the Mountain 2 ° “Yes. Have you a ticket 2" “I have a monthly one. The train will be crowded.” “We can stand in a passage.” “This is a genuine Exodus, is it not ? And each one carries his mite to the widow. Good-morning, Pan Kresovich What say you of life in this place 2 Make some remark from the point of view of your party.” Kresovich blinked as if unable to understand what was asked of him, then answered, - “I enroll myself in the party of the silent.” “I know, I know ! — a strong party: it is either silent OT ex losive 5) and he laughed. 5 c 28 434 ON THE BRIGHT SHORE. Meanwhile the bell rang, and there was need of haste. From the platform came the call, “En voiture en Voiture : " The next moment Swirski, Kresovich, Vyadrovski, and the two boys were in the passage of a C8.T. “With my sciatica this is pleasant l’ said Vyadrovski. “See what is going on. Useless to think of a seat. A regular migration of nations !” Not only the seats, but the passages were crowded with people of every nationality. Poles, Russians, Eng- lish, French, Germans, all going with a rush to break the bank, which daily repulsed and broke them, as a cliff jutting out from the shore breaks a wave of the sea. Women were crowding up to the windows, – women from whom came the odor of iris and heliotrope. The Sun shone on the artificial flowers in their hats, on satin, on lace, on false and genuine diamond ear-rings, on jet glittering like armor on projecting bosoms increased with india-rubber, on blackened brows, and on faces covered with powder or rouge, and excited with the hope of amusement and play. The most practised eye could not distinguish the demi- monde who pretended to be women of society, from women of society who pretended to be of the demi-monde. Men with violets in their buttonholes examined that crowd of women with inquiring and insolent gaze, in- specting their dresses, their faces, their arms, and their hips, with as cool minuteness as if they were inspecting, for example, objects set out for sale. There was in that throng a kind of disorder of the market-place, and a species of haste. One moment the train rushed into the darkness of tunnels, again the Sun glittered in the win- dows, the sky, the sea, palm groves, Olive groves, villas, the white almond-trees, and a moment later night embraced all again. Station appeared after station. New crowds ON THE BRIGHT SHORE. 435 thronged into the cars, elegant, exquisite, hurrying on, as it were, to a great, glad festival. “What a true picture of a breakneck life ” said Vyadrovski. “What is this true picture ?” “This train. I might philosophize till lunch-time; but since I prefer to philosophize after lunch, perhaps you would consent to lunch with me?” “Excuse me,” answered Svirski; “I am invited by Pani Elzen.” “In that case I withdraw ” And he smiled. The supposition that Svirski was to marry Pani Elzen had not entered his head for an instant. He felt even certain that the artist was concerned in the same way as others; but, being an admirer of artists in general, and of Svirski in particular, he felt glad that Svirski was beating his opponents. “I represent property,” thought he ; “Prince Valerian a title; young Kladzki youth; and De Sinten the world of fashionable fools. All these, especially here, possess no small value, and still the Wonder woman took Svirski. She is surely a person of taste.” And looking at the artist he began to mutter, “Jo triumpe, tu moraris aureos Currus — ” “What do you say ?” inquired Svirski, who had not heard because of the noise of the train. “Nothing ! A hiccough from Horace. I will say that since you refuse me, I will give a breakfast of condolence to myself, De Sinten, Prince Valerian, and Kladzki.” “Indeed! why do you wish to condole 2" asked Svirski, pushing forward suddenly, and looking into his eyes almost threateningly. “For the loss of your society,” answered Vyadrovski, Coolly. “But, my dear sir, what cause have you in mind 2’’ 436 ON THE BRIGHT SHORE. Svirski shut his lips and gave no answer; but he thought, “His cap burns the head of a criminal. Were I to marry any ordinary girl of the country, the idea would never have come to my head that any man could have me in mind when speaking with irony and malice.” Pani Elzen, freshened, young, and comely, was waiting for them at the station. It was evident that she had come only the moment before, for she breathed hur- riedly, and there was a flush on her face which might be taken for emotion. When she gave Svirski both hands at greeting, Vyadrovski thought, — “Yes, he has beaten us all by seven lengths. She seems really in love.” And he glanced at her almost favorably. In a white flannel robe, with sailor collar, and with gleaming eyes, she seemed to him, in spite of slight traces of powder on her face, younger and more enchanting than ever. For a moment he was sorry that he was not the happy man whom she had come to greet, and he thought that the method by which he had sought her favor, through rely- ing on the utterance of stinging words, was stupid. But he comforted himself with the thought of how he would sneer at De Sinten and the other “ distanced men.” After the greeting, Svirski thanked her for the roses; and she listened with a certain vexation, glancing momen- tarily at Vyadrovski, as if ashamed that he was a witness of those thanks. On his part, Vyadrovski understood that he would do better to leave them. But all went together again in a lift up the mountain on which was the Casino and the garden. On the way, Pani Elzen recovered self-control thoroughly. “To lunch at once 1 to lunch have an appetite like a whale!” | 2, said she, joyously. “I ON THE BRIGHT SHORE. 437 Vyadrovski muttered to himself that he would like, God knows, to be Jonah ; but he did not say this aloud, thinking that were Svirski to take him by the collar and throw him out of the lift, as he deserved for his joke, he would fall too far. In the garden he took leave of them at once, and went his way; but he looked around and saw Pani Elzen lean On Svirski's arm and whisper something in his ear. “They are talking of the dessert after lunch,” thought he. But he was mistaken, for, turning her charming head to the artist, she whispered, - “Does Vyadrovski know 2° “He does not,” answered Svirski. “I met him only at the train.” When he had said this he felt a certain fear at the thought that Pani Elzen mentioned the betrothal as a fixed fact, and that he would have to announce it to every one; but the proximity of Pani Elzen, her beauty and her charms, so acted on him that he grew serene and took courage. The lunch was eaten with Romulus, Remus, and Kreso- vich, who, during a whole hour, said not one word. After black coffee, Pani Elzen permitted her boys to go toward Rocca Brune under guidance of their tutor; then she asked Svirski, - “Which do you prefer, to ride or to walk 2" “If you are not tired, I would rather walk,” answered he, “Very well. I am not tired at all. But where shall we go? Would you look at the pigeon-shooting 2* “Willingly, but we shall not be alone there. De Sinten and young Kladzki will be sure to exercise after lunch.” “Yes; but they will not trouble us. When pigeons are the question, these two young men grow deaf and 4.38 ON THE BRIGHT SHORE. blind to all else that happens around them. For that matter, let them see me with my great man ” And, turning her head, she looked with a smile into his eyes : — “Doesn’t the great man wish that himself?” “Of course, let them see us !” answered Svirski, rais- ing her hand to his lips. “Then we will go down; I like well enough to see the shooting.” “Let us go.” And after a while they were on the great steps leading to the shooting gallery. “How bright it is here! How pleasant and how happy I am l’” said Pani Elzen. Then, though there was no one near them, she asked in a whisper, “But you ?” “My light is with me!” answered he, pressing her arm to his breast. And they began to descend. The day was uncom- monly bright, the air golden and azure; the sea was dark in the distance. “We will stay here awhile,” said Pani Elzen. “The cages are perfectly visible from this spot.” Beneath them was a green half-circle covered with grass, extending far into the sea. In this half-circle were placed, in a curving line on the ground, cages con- taining pigeons. Moment after moment, some one of those cages was opened suddenly, and a frightened bird rushed through the air; then a shot was heard, and the pigeon fell to the ground, or even into the sea, where boats were rocking with fishermen in them waiting for their prey. Sometimes it happened, however, that the shot missed. Then the pigeon flew toward the sea, and afterward, mov- ON THE BRIGHT SHORE. 439 ing in a circle, returned to seek refuge in the cornice of the Casino. “From here we do not see the marksmen, and do not know who fires,” said Pani Elzen, joyously, “so we will guess; if the first pigeon falls, we will remain in Monte Carlo ; if it escapes, we will go to Italy.” “Agreed. Let us look Out it comes I’ A cage fell open that instant, but the bird, as if dazed, remained on the spot. They frightened the pigeon by rolling a wooden ball toward it; next a shot thundered. The bird did not fall at once, however; it made straight for the sea, coming down gradually to the surface, as if wounded; but at last it vanished completely in the bright- ness of the sun. “Maybe it fell, maybe it did not fall! The future is uncertain,” said Svirski, laughing. “It is that unendurable De Sinten,” said Pani Elzen, pouting like an angry child. “I will bet that is he Let us go down.” And they went farther down toward the shooting, among cactuses, sunflowers, and goat grass clinging to the walls. Pani Elzen stopped at every report of a gun, and in her white robe, on the great steps, against the green background, she looked like a statue. “There is nothing after all which drops into such splendid folds as flannel,” said Svirski. “Oh, you artist l” exclaimed the young widow. And there was irony in her voice, for she felt a little angered that Svirski at that moment was thinking not of her, but of the folds into which various kinds of cloth fall. “Let us go.” A few minutes later they were under the roof of the shooting gallery. Of acquaintances they found only De Sinten, who was shooting on a bet with a Hungarian 440 ON THE BRIGHT SHORE. count. The two men were dressed in reddish English costume with caps of the same material buttoned down on the visor, and barred stockings, both very distin- guished, both with witless faces. But, as Pani Elzen had foreseen, De Sinten was so occupied with shooting that he did not notice the widow and the artist at first, and only after a time did he come and greet them. “How are you succeeding 2" inquired the lady. “I am victorious ! I am almost sure of a great winning.” Here he turned to Svirski. “But do you shoot ?” “Of course; but not to-day.” “And I,” continued De Sinten, looking significantly at Pani Elzen, “am to-day lucky in play.” They called him just then to the shooting. “He wanted to say that he is unlucky in love,” said Svirski. “Imbecile ! Could it be otherwise ?” But in spite of these words of blame, it was evident by the face of the beautiful lady that she was not angry that testimony was given in presence of Svirski of how en- chanting she was, and how much desired by all, - and that was not to be the last testimony of the day. “I wanted to ask you about something,” said the artist, after a moment of silence; “but I could not ask during lunch in presence of the boys and Kresovich. Kresovich told me on the way that he was leaving you, or, at least, that he is the tutor of the boys for the last day. Is this true, and why is it !” “It is true. First of all, I am not sure of his health. A few days since I sent him to the doctor. The doctor declared again that he is not threatened with con- sumption, otherwise I should not have kept him an hour; but in every case he looks worse and worse; he is ON THE BRIGHT SHORE. 441 peculiar, excitable, often he is unendurable. That is the first reason. And, then, do you know his opinions 2 They will not be accepted by Romulus and Remus. The boys are reared in such fashion that those opinions cannot take root in them. Besides, I do not wish them in childhood to know of such things, to meet with such an erratic spirit, with such ill-will toward that sphere of society to which my sons belong. You wished them to speak with some one in their own language; that was sufficient for me ; that was for me a command. This is the kind of person that I am, and such shall I remain. I understood, too, that they ought to know their own lan- guage somewhat. At present great attention is given to this subject, and I confess that people are right. But even in this regard Kresovich is too erratic.” “I am Sorry for him. There are certain wrinkles in the corners of his eyes which show him to be a fanatic. His face is a strange one, and really he is a curious man.” “Again art is speaking through you,” said Pani Elzen, smiling. But after a moment she grew serious, and on her face even anxiety appeared. “I have another reason,” said she. “It is difficult for me to speak of it; but still I will tell you, for with whom am I to be outspoken if not with my great man 2 – such a loved one, and so honest, who is able to under- stand everything. You see I have noticed that Kreso- vich has lost his head, and fallen in love with me to madness; under these conditions he could not remain near -— ” “How is that, and he too !" “Yes” answered she, with downcast eyes. And she struggled to pretend that the confession Caused her pain; but just as a moment before after the 442 ON THE BRIGHT SHORE. Words of De Sinten, there flew across her mouth a smile of flattered self-love and feminine vanity. Svirski took note of that smile, and a bitter, angry feeling straitened his heart. “I have succumbed to the epidemic,” said he. She looked at him a moment, and asked in a low voice, — “Was that said by a jealous man, or by an ungrateful One 2 ° “You are right,” answered he, evasively. “If that be the position, Kresovich should go.” “I will settle with him to-day, and that will be the end.” They ceased talking; nothing was heard save the shots of De Sinten and the Hungarian. Svirski, how- ever, could not forgive her that smile which he had caught on the wing. He said to himself, it is true, that Pani Elzen was obliged to act with Kresovich as she had acted, that there was nothing over which to be angry — still he felt rising vexation in his soul. On a time, at the beginning of his acquaintance with Pani Elzen, he saw her riding; she was some yards ahead; after her hurried De Sinten, young Kladzki, Prince Valerian, Wilkis Bey, and Waxford. On Svirski, the group produced the fatal impression at the moment, that it was a kind of chase after a woman. At present the picture stood in memory before him so vividly and with such sharpness that his artistic nature suffered really. “It is absolutely true,” said he to himself, “that all are running after her, and if I had been thrown in clearing some obstacle, the next man behind would have caught her.” But further meditation was stopped by Pani Elzen, ON THE BRIGHT SHORE. 443 who declared that she was growing cold in the shade, and wished to warm herself a trifle in the Sun. “Let us go to your rooms, and do you get a Wrap,” said Svirski, rising. They set out for the upper terrace, but halfway on the steps she stopped all at once and said, - “You are dissatisfied with me. In what have I of fended ; have I not done what was proper ?” Svirski, whose discontent had calmed somewhat on the way, and who was touched by her alarm, said, - “Pardon an old original; I beg you to do so.” Pani Elzen wanted absolutely to find out what had made him gloomy, but in no way could she get an an- swer. Then, half jesting, half sad, she fell to com- plaining of artists. How unendurable, how strange they are, men whom any little thing offends, any little thing pains; they shut themselves up at once in themselves and then run to their lonely studios To-day, for instance, she had noted three times, she said, how the artist was in him. That was bad | Let this wicked artist as punishment stay for dinner, then stay till evening. But Svirski declared that he must return to his studio; then he confided to her his anxieties of an artist, his trouble in finding a model for “Sleep and Death,” and finally the hope which he connected with that picture. “I see from all this,” answered the young widow, smiling, “that I shall have one terrible, permanent rival, art.” “That is not a rival,” answered Svirski; “it is a divin- ity which you will serve in my company.” At this the symmetrical brows of the beautiful lady frowned for an instant; but meanwhile they reached the 3. 444 ON THE BRIGHT SHORE. hotel. That day Svirski became convinced that Paradise Would open to him only by marriage. And on the train he was thankful to Pani Elzen for that conviction. CHAPTER IV. ANI ELZEN, before beginning her toilet for dinner, summoned Kresovich so as to pay him. She summoned him with a certain Curiosity in her soul as to what their parting would be. During life, she had seen so many people fashioned, as it were, by a single cutter on one common pattern, that this young original had held her attention for some time ; and now, when he was to leave in a little while, and take a broken heart with him, he occupied her still more. She felt sure that his passion would betray itself in some way, and she had even a slightly concealed wish that it should betray itself, promising, not altogether sincerely, that she would restrain it by one look or one word, should it dream of surpassing a certain measure. |Kresovich, however, came in cool, with a face rather ominous than loving. Pani Elzen, when she looked at him, thought that Svirski, as an artist, could not help noting that head, for there was in it something quite exceptional. Those features were as if of iron, — features in which will surpassed intelligence, giving them an expression which to a certain degree was dull, but also implacable. Svirski had divined long before that Kreso- vich was one of those men who, once seized by a given idea, have a faith which no breath of doubt can ever dim. T)oubt never undermines the capacity for action in men like him, for the reason that a persistent and ON THE BRIGHT SHORE. 445 powerful character is joined to a certain narrowness of thought. Fanaticism flourishes on this soil alone. Pani Elzen, in spite of her society understanding, was too frivolous to grasp this. Kresovich would have attracted her attention only had he been an exceptionally hand- some fellow ; but since he was not, she met the man the first time she saw him as she would a thing; and it was only Svirski's unconscious teaching which brought her to turn attention to the student. At present she re- ceived him politely, and, after paying what she owed, in a voice cold, it is true, and indifferent as usual, but with words which were very polite, expressed sorrow that her intended departure from Monte Carlo, soon to take place, was a hindrance to further relations between them. Kresovich, putting the money into his pocket mechanically, answered, - “I informed you yesterday that I could teach Romulus and Remus no longer.” “It is just that which pleases me,” answered she, raising her head. Evidently she wished, at least at first, to keep the conversation in a ceremonial tone, and impose that tone on Kresovich. But it was enough to look at him to see that he had the unbending determination to say all that he had resolved in his mind to say. “You have paid me in genuine money,” said he ; “do not then give me counterfeit coin for the road.” “What do you mean 2" “I mean this,” said he, with emphasis; “that you do not part with me because of your journey, nor have I thanked you for the service. There is another cause, and what that is you know as well as I do.” “If I know, perhaps I do not wish to hear of it, nor to mention it,” answered Pami Elzen, haughtily. 446 ON THE BRIGHT SHORE. He approached one step toward her, putting his hands behind him, and rearing his head almost threateningly. “But it is unavoidable,” said he “first, because in a moment I shall go away, and, second, for other reasons too, of which you will know to-morrow.” Pani Elzen rose with frowning brow and somewhat with the theatrical posture of an offended queen. “What does this mean 2 ” He drew still nearer, so that his mouth was barely a few inches from her face, and began to speak with con- centrated energy. “This means that I ought to have hated you and all your circle; but I have fallen in love with you. This means that for your sake I have degraded myself in my own conscience ; for this cause I shall mete out my own punishment to myself. But precisely for this reason I have nothing to lose, and you must pay me for my iniquity, otherwise there will be a catastrophe l’ Pani Elzen was not frightened, for in general she had no fear of men. She did not fear Kresovich's con- sumption either, since the local physician had quieted her perfectly on that point. Her astonishment alone was real; anger and fear were merely apparent. Amazement sprang up in her heart at once, “But he is a bird of prey, ready to tear me to pieces.” For her nature, wrapped up as it was in corruption and fond of novelty, every adventure, especially when it flattered her female van- ity, had an unspeakable charm. For this cause her moral sense was astonished at nothing. If Kresovich had implored her for one moment of delight, for the right to kiss the hem of her garment with humility, and on his knees, she would have given command to throw him out of doors. But this man, terrible, almost wild, this representative of a sect of whose tremendous ON THE BRIGHT SHORE. 447 energy fabulous tales were related in her social circle, seemed demonic, so different from all men whom she had seen up to that time that she was seized with ecstasy. Her nerves were greedy of novelty. She thought, too, that in case of resistance, the adventure might take on proportions altogether unforeseen, and turn into a scandal; for that lunatic was really ready for anything. But Kresovich continued, covering her face with his burning breath, – “I love, and I have nothing to lose. I have lost health, I have destroyed my future, and have demeaned myself —I have nothing to lose ! Do you understand 2 To me it is all one whether at your call ten men run in here or a hundred; for you it is not all one ! Afterward I shall go; and the secret will be lost — I swear !” Pani Elzen cared only for preserving appearances, which the hypocritical woman always tries to preserve and to deceive herself. Turning her eyes, filled with feigned terror, to his face, which was really like the face of a madman, she asked, – “Do you want to kill me?” “I Want pay — not in money !” answered he, in a stified voice. Then growing paler yet, he seized her in his arms; and she began to defend herself. But she did so like a fainting woman whom terror deprives of strength and consciousness. 448 ON THE BRIGHT SHORE. CHAPTER V. VIRSKI, on arriving at Villa Franca, got out and Went to the harbor; for it occurred to him that he might return to Nice by boat. He found, just at the edge of the harbor, a fisherman, an old acquaintance, who, pleased at the sight of a liberal customer, undertook with usual Ligurian boastfulness to take him “even to Corsica though the Sirocco were to turn the sea bottom upward.” But the question was only of a short trip, all the easier because there was not the slightest breeze. Svirski took his place at the stern, and they moved over the Smooth Sea. After a time, when they had passed the luxurious private yachts, they approached ironclads, whose calm, black immensities were outlined firmly and distinctly in the afternoon sunlight. The deck of the “Formidable " was garlanded already with lamps of various colors, for the ball of the following evening, to which Svirski was to receive an invitation. At the bulwarks were sailors, who, seen from below, looked like pygmies when compared with the ship. The iron walls of the vessel, the smoke-stacks, the masts, the rigging, were reflected in the transparent water as in a mirror. From time to time among the iron- clads pushed a boat, which from a distance seemed a black beetle, moving its row of legs symmetrically. Beyond the vessels began empty space, in which the sea surface, as is usual when anything leaves the harbor, rose and fell, though there was no wind, now raising, now letting down Svirski's boat, with a movement at once broad and agree- able. Soon they were approaching lofty cliffs, on the right side of the harbor, along which extended a gray, dusty road ; lower down was a parade-ground, where ON THE BRIGHT SHORE. 449 soldiers were practising on trumpets. At last, when they had turned the promontory, against which waves were rolling, they sailed into deep water. - Beyond the harbor there is always some breeze, there- fore the fisherman hoisted his sails. Svirski, instead of steering toward Nice, turned to the open sea. They went straight ahead, rocked by the swell. The sun was lowering toward evening. The rocky cliffs and the sea had grown purple; everything round about was calm, quiet, and so immense that, in spite of himself, Svirski thought how contemptible and petty life was in view of those elements which surrounded him at that moment. Suddenly he felt as if his own affairs, and those of other men, had gone somewhere very far off. Pani Elzen, Romulus, Remus, and all his acquaintances along the shore, all that swarm of people filled with fever, unrest, paltry ambitions, and wretched desires, were belittled in his eyes. As a man accustomed to analyze what happens within him, he was frightened at that impression; for he considered that if he loved Pani Elzen really, her portrait would not be covered by anything, would not be dimmed, would not be decreased, would not disappear. Such had been the case with him formerly. Svirski remembered that when a woman whom he loved got married, he went on a journey. At that time he learned first to know Italy, Rome, Sicily, and the sea, and the coast of Africa; and no impression dimmed in his mind the memory of the beloved woman. In the galleries of Florence and Rome, on the sea and in the desert, she was with him ; through her he received every impression, and everywhere he said to her, as if present, “Look at this l’” The difference between those distant years and to-day filled him with sadness. But the calm of the Sea acted on him in a manner that 29 450 ON THE BRIGHT SHORE. Was healing. They had sailed out so far that the shores began to be concealed. Then the sun went down; one star twinkled, and then another. The dolphins, which in the evening twilight passed before the boat with the motion of waves, disturbing the calm surface with their sharp backs, sank in the depth, and from no point came an echo. The surface of the water had grown so smooth that at moments the sails became limp. Finally, the moon rose from beyond the mountains, pouring a greenish light over the sea and illuminating it far off to the limit of the horizon. A Southern night began, as mild as it was silent. Svirski sheltered himself in the coat lent him by the fisherman, and meditated: “All that surrounds me is not only beauty, but truth as well. The life of man, if it is to be normal, should be ingrafted on the trunk of nature, grow out of it, as a branch grows out of a tree, and exist in virtue of those same laws. Then it will be truthful and besides moral, for morality is at bottom nothing else than the agreement of life with the universal law of nature. For instance, simplicity and calm surrounds me; I understand this, and I feel it is as an artist; but I have n’t it in myself as a man, for my life, and the life of these people among whom I live, has departed from nature, it has ceased to fit itself to that law, to be its result, and has made itself a lie. Everything in us is artificial, even the feeling of natural laws has perished in us. Our relations are founded on falsehood. Our senses are crooked; our souls and our impulses sick. We deceive one another and even ourselves, till at last no man is sure that he wishes really that toward which he is striving, or that he will strive toward that which he wishes.” And there, in presence of that night, of that infinity of ON THE BRIGHT SHORE. 451 the sea, of the stars, of all nature, of its calmness, its simplicity, its immensity, he was seized by a feeling of the gigantic falsehood of the relations between men. False seemed to him his love for Pani Elzen; false her relation to him, to her children, to other men, to society; false the life on that bright shore; false their present and false their future. “I am encircled, as if by a net,” thought he ; “and I know not how to tear myself out of it.” And indeed that was true. For if all life is a false- hood, what is to be done in face of that fact 2 Return to nature ? Begin some sort of life half savage, half peasant? Break with people and become a reformer right away ? Svirski felt too old for this, and too sceptical. For such a course one needs to have the dogmatism of Rresovich, and to feel evil as a spur to battle and reform, not as a mere impression which may grow faint to-morrow ! But another thought came to Svirski's mind as a recompense. The man who does not feel in him- self power to reform the world, may flee from it, for a time, at least, and draw breath. For instance, he could go to Marseilles the next day, and a couple of days later somewhere else, Out on the open Ocean, hundreds of miles from the shore, from sickly life, from lies and deceptions. In this way all would be settled immediately, or rather cut off as if with a knife. And in one monent he was seized by such a desire to turn that idea into action that he gave command to return to Nice. “The wild beast, which feels itself in a net,” thought he, “tries first of all to get out. That is its first right — and just that is in accord with nature, hence it is moral. The net around me is not Pani Elzen alone, but all things taken together. I feel perfectly that in marrying her I shall marry a life of lies. That might 452 ON THE BRIGHT SHORE. happen even without her fault, and through the neces- sity of things — from such a complication one is always free to escape.” And now he pictured other scenes to himself, -scenes which he might see in his flight: broad deserts with Water and with sand, unknown lands and people, the sincerity and truth of their primitive life, and finally the variety of events, and all the difference between days to come and the present. - “I Ought to have done this long since,” said he to himself. Then a thought entered his mind which could come only to an artist, that if he should leave his betrothed Suddenly and go to Paris, for example, the act would belong to “vile literature; ” but should he shoot off beyond the equator, to the land where pepper grows, the fact of leaving her would be diminished in view of the distance, the affair would make another impression, would appear more original, and, for that very reason, in better taste. “But I,” thought he, “will go devilish far !” Meanwhile from a distance Nice rose before him in the form of a bundle of lights. In the middle of that bundle was the building called “Jetée Promenade,” which gleamed in the form of a gigantic lighthouse. As the boat, urged by a strong breeze, approached the harbor, every one of those lights changed, as it were, into a pillar of fire, which quivered on the moving water near the shore. The sight of these gleams sobered Svirski. “The city — and life l’ thought he. And at once his former plans began to fall apart like dream-visions born of night and emptiness. That which a moment earlier he thought justifiable, necessary, and easy of accomplishment, seemed a whim devoid of the ON THE BRIGHT SHORE. 453 essence of reality, and in part dishonest. “With life, whatever it be, one must reckon. Whoso has lived under its laws the years that I have, must feel respon- sible to it. It is no great thing to say to one's self: I used them as long as they were pleasant, but the moment they were painful I went back to nature.” Then he fell to thinking more connectedly, not of general theories, but of Pani Elzen. “By what right could I leave her ? If her life has been artificial and false, if her past is not clear, I, who knew that, might have refrained from proposing. At present I could have the right to break with her only in case I discovered in her evil which she concealed, or if she committed some fault touching me. But she has committed no fault of that sort. She has been honest and sincere with me. Besides, there is something in her which attracts me; if not, I should not have pro- posed. At moments I feel that I love her; and because doubt comes at times on me, must she be the sufferer? My flight would in every case be an injustice to the woman, and who knows that it would not be a blow.” He understood now, that to think of flight and per- mit it are, for a decent man, two opposite poles. He could only think of it. He could appear before the eyes of Pani Elzen more easily, and ask her to return his word to him; but to flee from danger was a thing directly opposed to his personal nature and the charac- ter of his stock, which was thoroughly civilized. Be- sides, at the very thought of doing injustice to a woman, the heart quivered in him; and Pani Elzen grew nearer and dearer to him. They had sailed almost into the harbor; and a moment later the boat arrived. Svirski paid, and taking a seat in a carriage, gave directions to drive to his studio. On 454 ON THE BRIGHT SHORE. the street, amid the glare of lamps, the noise and the movement, he was carried away again by a yearning for that quiet, that endless spread of water, that calm- ness, that boundless truth of God, from which he had parted a moment before. At last, when he was near the studio, the following idea came to his head: “It is a marvellous thing that I, who feared women so much, and was so distrustful of them, have in the end of ends chosen one capable of rousing more fear than all the others.” There was in that a certain fatality, as it were ; and Svirski would have found beyond doubt in that concourse of things material for meditation during a whole evening, had it not been that as he entered the servant gave him two letters. In one, was an invitation to the ball of the following day on board the “Formidable,” the other was from Pani Lageat, the owner of the house. She informed him of her departure in a couple of days for Marseilles, and at the same time told him that she had found a model who ought to satisfy his most extravagant taste, and who would come the next morning. CHAPTER VI. THE promised miracle came on the following morn- ing at nine. Svirski was dressed and waiting with impatience and nervousness; happily his fears proved unfounded. The first glance satisfied him. The model was tall, slender, very graceful; she had a small head, a delicate face, a beautiful structure of forehead, long eyelashes, and great freshness of complexion. But, be- yond all, Svirski was charmed by this, that she had ON THE BRIGHT SHORE. 455 “her own " style of face, and in her expression there was something girl-like. “She has noble movements,” thought he ; “and if she is formed as she seems, then ‘Eureka l' I will engage her for a long time, and take her with me.” He was struck also by her timidity and a look, as it were, of fright. He knew, it is true, that models some- times feign timidity. He admitted, however, that this One did not. “What is thy name, my child 2" asked he. “Maria Cervi.” “Art thou from Nice 2 ° “From Nice.” “Hast ever been a model ?” “No, sir.” “Trained models know what is needed; with new ones there is trouble. Thou hast never been a model in thy life 2'' “No, sir.” “How didst thou get the wish to be a model ?” She hesitated, and blushed somewhat. “Pani Lageat told me that I should be able to earn something.” “True, but evidently thou art afraid. What dost thou fear ! I will not eat thee! How much dost thou ask for a sitting 2* “Pani Lageat told me that you would pay five francs.” “Pani Lageat was mistaken. I pay ten.” Joy gleamed in the girl's face, and her cheeks grew still redder. “When must I begin '" asked she, with a somewhat trembling voice. “To-day, immediately,” answered Svirski, pointing to the picture already begun. “There is the screen; go 456 ON THE BRIGHT SHORE. behind, undress to the waist only. Thou wilt sit for the head, the bosom, and a part of the stomach.” She turned to him an astonished face; her hands dropped slowly along her dress. “How is that, sir?” asked she, looking at him with terrified eyes. “My child,” answered the artist, a little impatiently, “I understand that it may be difficult the first time. But either thou art a model, or thou art not. I need the head, the bosom, and a part of the stomach; I need these absolutely; dost thou understand 2 And be sure, at the same time, that there is nothing bad in me; but, first of all, think it over — and quickly ; for, if thou art not willing, I shall look for another.” He spoke as a man somewhat vexed; for in his mind the point was that just she should be the model, and that he should not have to look for another. Meanwhile silence came. The model grew pale very evidently; still, after a while, she went behind the screen. Svirski fell to pushing the easel toward the window, with a noise, thinking, meanwhile, – “She will gain the habit, and in a week will laugh at her scruples.” Next, he arranged the sofa on which the model was to lie, took his brush, and began to grow impatient. “Well, how is it 2 Art thou ready ?” Silence. “Well, make up thy mind. What jokes are these ?” Just then from behind the screen came a trembling, imploring voice, with the prayer, — “I have thought it over, sir. In our house there is poverty; but still — I — cannot If you would be kind and take the head — for three francs, or even for two — if you would have the kindness.” ON THE BRIGHT SHORE. 457 And these words came with sobbing. Svirski turned toward the screen, dropped his brush, and opened his mouth. Unparalleled astonishment seized him, for the model was speaking in his own native tongue. “Is the lady a Pole 2'' asked he at last, forgetting that a moment before he had said thou to her. “Yes, sir. That is, my father was an Italian, but my grandfather is a Pole.” A moment of silence ensued. Svirski recovered, and said, - “Arrange your dress; I will take only your head.” But evidently she had not begun to undress, for she came from behind the screen at once, confused, full of fear yet, and with traces of tears on her cheeks. “I thank you,” said she. “You are — I beg your pardon ; but — ” “Be at rest,” said Svirski. “Here is the chair; have no fear. You will pose for your head; I had no wish to offend you. You see that picture. I wanted a model for this figure here. But since it is so painful to you, the question is changed, especially as you are a Pole.” Tears began to flow over her cheeks again; but she looked at him through her blue eyes with gratitude; he found a bottle of wine, poured out half a glass, and, giving it to her, said, - “Drink this. I have biscuits here somewhere, but deuce knows where they are. I ask you to drink. There, it is all right. Your hand trembles; but there is no danger here — I beg you to be calm.” And saying this he looked at her with the sympathy of his honest eyes, and said after a while, – “Poor Child !” Then he stepped aside, and put the easel in its old place, saying while he did so, - 458 ON THE BRIGHT SHORE. “There is no posing to-day. You are too much ex- cited. To-morrow, we will begin work early ; to-day, we will talk a little. Who could guess that Maria Cervi was a Pole ! Your grandfather is a Pole then, is he not ? Is he alive 2 ” “Yes; but he has not walked for the last two years.” “What is his name 2'' “Orysevich,” answered she, speaking somewhat with a foreign accent. “I know that name. Has he been long in this country 2” “Grandfather has been sixty-five years out of Poland. First, he was in the Italian army, and then in the bank of Nice.” “BIOW. Old is he 3’’ “Nearly ninety.” “Your father's name was Cervi ?” “Yes. My father was from Nice; but he served also in the Italian army.” “Then he is dead 2’ “Five years.” “And your mother is alive 2" “She is. We live together in Old Nice.” “Very well. But now one more question. Does your mother know that you want to become a model ?” To this the girl answered in a hesitating voice, “No, mamma does not know. Pani Lageat told me that in this way I could earn five francs a day; and as there is poverty in our house, – very great poverty, - I had no other way.” Svirski took in the girl from head to foot with quick glance, and understood that he was listening to truth. Everything testified to poverty, - her hat, her dress, which was so worn, or rather consumed by age, that ON THE BRIGHT SHORE. 459 every thread in it was visible, her gloves, darned and faded. “Go home now,” said he, “and tell your mother that there is an artist named Svirski who wishes you to sit to him as a model for the head. Say also that this artist will come, at recommendation of Pani Lageat, to ask you to sit with your mother in his studio, for which he offers you ten francs a day.” Panna Cervi began to thank him, without knowing how to find speech, weeping and confusing her words, with a voice full both of tears and delight. He saw what was happening within her, and said, - “Very well. I shall come in an hour. You seem to me a very honest girl. Have confidence in me. I am something of a bear, but I understand more things than one. We shall arrange this affair, and the trouble will pass. Ah! yes, one point more. I do not wish to give you money at once, for you would have to explain the matter; but in an hour I will bring all that is needed on account. I too had troubles formerly, and know what prompt aid means. You have nothing to give thanks for, a trifle ! Till we meet again — in an hour.” So, after he had asked again for her address, he con- ducted the girl to the steps; and, when an hour had passed, he took his seat in a carriage and gave directions to drive to Old Nice. All that had happened seemed to him so peculiar that he could think of nothing else. He felt too the delight which every honest man feels when he has acted as he ought, and when he may become a providence to some person. “If that is not an honest and a good girl,” thought he of Panna Cervi, “I am the dullest mule in Liguria.” But he did not admit that anything similar could 460 ON THE BRIGHT SHORE. happen. On the contrary, he felt that he had struck a very honest woman's soul, and at the same time he was delighted that that soul was enclosed in such a young and beautiful body. The carriage stopped at last in front of an old and battered house near the harbor. The woman at the gate pointed contemptuously enough to Pani Cervi’s apart- ment.S. “Poverty indeed!” thought the artist, as he went up the sloping steps. After a while he knocked at the door. “Come in ” answered a voice. Svirski entered. A woman about forty years of age received him ; she was dressed in black; a brunette, sad, thin, evidently broken by life : but she had nothing common about her. At her side stood Panna Maria. “I know all, and I thank you from my soul and heart l” said Pani Cervi; “may God reward and bless you.” Thus speaking, she caught his hand and bent her head as if to kiss it ; but he withdrew the hand quickly; anxious to drive away ceremony at the earliest, and break the ice of first acquaintance, he turned to Panna Maria, and, shaking his finger at her, said, with the freedom of an old acquaintance, — “Ah, this little girl has let out the secret !” Panna Maria smiled at him in answer, a little Sadly, a little perplexed. She seemed to him fair, more beauti- ful than in the studio. He noticed also that she had around her neck a narrow, lily-colored ribbon which she had not worn before; and this touched him still more as a proof that evidently she did not consider him an old grandfather, since she had dressed for him. Then Pani Cervi said, - ON THE BRIGHT SHORE. 461 “Yes, Maria told everything. God watched over her, and over us, so that she met such a man as you.” “Panna Maria told me of the difficult circumstances in which you are living,” answered Svirski; “but, believe me, that even in those circumstances it is happiness to have such a daughter.” “Yes,” said Pani Cervi, calmly. “Meanwhile I owe gratitude to you; for I was look- ing, and looking in vain, till at last a head fell from heaven to me. Now I am sure of my picture. I must only make sure that my model does not run away l’ Meanwhile, he drew out three hundred francs and forced Pani Cervi to take them, assuring her that he would make a great profit, for he would receive much money, thanks to Panna Maria; and then he declared that he would like to make the acquaintance of the “grandfather,” for he had always had a weakness for old soldiers. Hearing this, Panna Maria ran to the adjoining cham- ber; soon the noise of a wheeled chair was heard, and the grandfather was rolled into the room. Evidently the old man had been prepared to receive the guest, for he was in uniform, with all his orders acquired in Italy. Svirski saw before him an old man whose face had grown Small and wrinkled; his moustaches and hair were white as milk; his blue eyes opened widely, and looked some- thing like the eyes of an infant. “Grandfather,” said Maria, bending over him in such fashion that the old man could see her lips, and speaking not in a loud voice, but slowly and precisely, “this is Pan Svirski, a fellow-countryman and an artist.” The old man turned his blue eyes toward the visitor, and looked at him persistently, meanwhile blinking as if summoning his mind. 462 ON THE BRIGHT SHORE. “A fellow-countryman 2" repeated he, “Yes | – a fel- low-countryman.” Then he smiled, looked at his daughter, his grand- daughter, and again at Svirski; he sought words for a time, and asked at last, with an aged, trembling voice, — “And what will there be in spring 2* Evidently there remained to him some single thought, which had outlived all the others, but which he had not been able to express. So, after a while, he leaned his trembling head against the back of the chair, and began to look at the window, smiling, however, at that thought, and repeating, — “Yes, yes! It will be l’’ “Grandfather always acts that way,” said Maria. Svirski looked at him for a time with emotion; then Bani Cervi began to speak of her father and her husband. Both had taken part in the wars against Austria for Italian independence. They had lived some time in Florence; and only after the occupation of Rome did they return to Nice, where Cervi’s family originated. There Orysevich gave his daughter to his young comrade in arms. Both men found places in the bank, thanks to relatives in Nice. All succeeded well till Cervi was killed in a railroad accident, a few years before, and Orysevich lost his place through old age. From that time their trouble began, for the only capital which the three persons had to support them was sixty lires, which the Italian government gave the old man. That was enough to keep them from dying, but not enough to give them life. The two women earned a little by sewing or teaching; but during summer, when life died away in Nice, when it was impossible to earn anything, their slender supplies were swallowed up. Two years before the old soldier had lost the use of his legs altogether; he ON THE BRIGHT SHORE. 463 was frequently sick, and had to be cared for; through this their condition grew worse and worse. Svirski, while listening to this narrative, made note of two things. First, that Pani Cervi did not speak as good Polish as her daughter. Evidently the old man, in the years of his campaigning, could not devote himself to the education of his daughter in the same degree as he had afterward to the education of his granddaughter. But the second thing was more important for Svirski. “This granddaughter,” thought he, “being such a beautiful girl, might, especially in Nice, on that shore where idlers Squander millions every year, keep carriages, servants, and have a drawing-room finished in satin. But she wears a threadbare dress, and her only ornament is a faded lily-colored ribbon. There must be some strength which has kept her from evil. For this,” said he to him- self, “two things are requisite, – pure nature and honor- able traditions; there is no doubt that I have found both.” And he began to have a pleasant feeling among those people. He noticed also that poverty had not destroyed in the two women traces of good-breeding, a certain ele- gance which comes from within and seems inborn. Both mother and daughter had received him as a providence; but in their words and manners one could notice more delight at making the acquaintance of an honest man, than at the aid which he brought them. It might be that the three hundred francs which he left with the mother saved the family from many cares and humilia- tions, but still he felt that mother and daughter were more thankful to him because he had acted in the studio like a man of true and tender heart, who understood the girl's pain, her modesty, and sacrifice. But to him the greatest pleasure came from noting that in Panna Maria's 464 ON THE BRIGHT SHORE. timidity, and in her charming glances, there was an anxiety which a young girl might experience before a man to whom she feels obliged with her whole soul, but who at the same time, according to Svirski's expression, “is not out of the current yet.” He was forty-five years of age, but, in spite of a young heart, he began at mo- ments to doubt himself, so that the lily-colored ribbon and this observation caused him real pleasure. Finally, he talked to them with the same respect and attention as with women of the best society, and, seeing that he enter- tained them more and more by this means, he felt satis- fied. At parting, he pressed the hands of both ; and when Panna Maria returned the pressure, with drooping eye- lashes, but with all the strength of her warm young hand, he went out a little dazed, and with a head so full of the fair model that the driver of the carriage in which he took a seat had to ask him twice where he wished to go. - On the road he thought that it would not do to put the head of “Panna Maria” on a body naked to the waist, and he began to persuade himself that even for the picture it would be better to cast some light drapery over the bosom of the sleeping maiden. “When I get back, I will bring in the first model I find, and work the picture over, so that to-morrow the thing will be ready,” said he to himself. Then it occurred to him that still he would not be able to hire such a model as Panna Cervi perma- nently and take her with him; at this thought he was sorry. Meanwhile the carriage stopped at the studio. Svirski paid, and stepped out. - “A despatch for you,” said the concierge. The artist was roused as if from sleep. ON THE BRIGHT SHORE. 465 “Ah! Very well, give it here !” And taking the despatch, he opened it impatiently. But he had scarcely cast his eyes on it, when astonish- ment and terror were reflected on his face, for the tele- gram was as follows: — - Kresovich shot himself an hour ago. Come. HELENA. CHAPTER VII. ANIELZEN met Svirski with a troubled and excited face; her eyes were dry, but reddened, as if from fever, and full of impatience. “Have you received no letter 7 ° inquired she, hurriedly. “No. I have received nothing but your telegram. What a misfortune !” “I thought that perhaps he had written to you.” “No. When did it happen 2° “This morning a shot was heard in his chamber. A servant ran in and found him lifeless.” “Was it here in the hotel ?” “No. Fortunately he moved to Condamine yesterday.” “What was the cause 2" “How am I to know 2° answered she, impatiently. “So far as I have heard he was not given to play.” “No. They found money on his person.” “You relieved him of his duties yesterday ?” “Yes; but at his own request.” “Did he take the dismissal to heart 2" “I cannot tell,” answered she, feverishly. “If he had wished, he might have gone sooner. But he was a mad- man, and this explains everything. Why did he not go sooner 2° 30 466 ON THE BRIGHT SHORE. Svirski looked at her very attentively. “Calm yourself,” said he. But she, mistaken as to the meaning of his words, answered, - “There is so much that for me is disagreeable in this, and there may be so much trouble. Who knows but I shall have to give some explanation, Some evidence — can I tell what ? Oh, a fatal history ! — besides there will be people's gossip. First, Vyadrovski’s — But I wanted to beg you to tell among acquaintances, that that unfortu- nate lost at play, that he lost even some of my money, and that that was the cause of his act. Should it come to testifying before a court, it would be better not to say this, for it might be proved untrue; but before peo- ple, it is necessary to talk so. If he had gone even to Mentone, or to Nice | Besides, God only knows whether he has not written something before his death purposely to take revenge on me ! Only let a letter of that sort reach the papers after his death ! From such persons everything may be expected. As it was, I wished to leave here; but now I must — ” Svirski looked more and more attentively at her angry face, at her compressed lips, and said at last, — “An unheard of thing !” “Really unheard of . But would it not increase gossip were we to go from here to-morrow?” “I do not think it would,” said Svirski. Then he inquired about the hotel in which Kresovich had shot himself, and declared that he would go there, get information from the servants, and occupy himself with the dead man. She tried to stop him with uncommon stubborness; till at last he said, – “Madame, he is not a dog, but a man; and it is necessary in every case to bury him.” ON THE BRIGHT SHORE. 4.67 “Somebody will bury him anyhow,” answered she. But Svirski took leave of her and went out. On the steps of the hotel he drew his hand across his forehead, then covered his head with his hat and said, - “An unheard of thing !” He knew from experience to what degree human selfish- ness may go; he knew also that women in selfishness, as well as in devotion, surpass the common measure of men ; he remembered that during life he had met typical per- sons in whom, under an external crust of polish, Was hidden an animal selfishness in which all moral sense ended exactly where personal interest began ; still, Pani Elzen had been able to astonish him. “Yes,” said he to himself, “that unfortunate was the tutor of her children; he lived under the same roof with her; and he was in love with her. And she Not even one word of pity, of sympathy, of interest — Nothing and nothing! She is angry at him for causing her trouble, for not having gone farther away, for having spoiled her season, for exposing her to the possibility of appearing in court and of being subjected to the gossip of people; but the question of what took place with that man has not entered her head; or why he killed himself, and if it were not for her sake. And in her vexation she forgot even this, that she was betraying herself before me; and if not for her heart's sake, for her reason’s sake, she ought to have appeared before me differently. But what spiritual barbarism Appearances, appearances, and un- der that French bodice and accent, absence of soul and a primitive African nature, — a genuine daughter of Ham. Civilization stuck onto the skin, like powder And this same woman asks me to report around that he played away her money. Tfu ! May a thunderbolt split her l’ With such thoughts and imprecations he reached Con- 468 ON THE BRIGHT SHORE. damine, where he found easily the little hotel in which the event had taken place. There was a doctor in Kresovich's room, also an official of the tribunal, who rejoiced at the artist's arrival, hoping that he would be able to give some items concerning the dead man. “The suicide,” said the official, “left a letter directing to bury him in a common ditch so as to send the money on his person to Zürich, to a given address. Moreover, he has burned all papers, as is shown by traces in the chimney.” Svirski looked at Kresovich, who was lying on the bed with open, terrified eyes, and with lips pursed together, as if to whistle. “The dead man considered himself an incurable,” said the artist; “he mentioned that himself to me, and took his life very likely for that reason. He never entered the Casino.” Then he told all that he knew concerning Kresovich, and afterward left the money needed for a separate grave, and went out. Along the road he recalled what Kresovich had said to him in Nice about microbes, as well as his answer to Vyadrovski, that he would enroll himself in the party of the “silent ; ” and he reached the conviction that the young student had really occupied himself for a long time with the project of taking his own life, and that the main cause of his act was the conviction that he was con- demned to death in every case. But he understood that there might be collateral causes, and among them his unhappy love for Pani Elzen, and the parting with her. These thoughts filled him with sadness. The corpse of Kresovich, with lips fixed as if for whistling, and with the terror before death in his eyes, did not leave the artist's mind. But he thought that ON THE BRIGHT SHORE. 469 no one would sink into that terrible night without dread, and that all life, in view of the inevitableness of death, is one immense, tragic absurdity; and he returned to Pani Elzen in great depression of spirit. She drew a deep breath of relief when she learned that Rresovich had left no papers. She declared that she would send as much money as might be needed for his funeral; and only then did she speak of him with a cer- tain regret. She strove in vain, however, to detain Svirski for a couple of hours. He answered that he was not himself that day, and must return home. “Then we shall meet in the evening,” said she, giving him her hand at parting. “I intended even to drop in at Nice and go with you.” “Where 2 ” asked Svirski, with astonishment. “Have you forgotten ? To the ‘Formidable.’” “Ahl Are you going to that ball ?” “If you knew how weighed down I am, especially after such a sad event, you would weep over me. I am sorry, too, for that poor fellow ; but it is necessary — it is necessary even for this reason, that people should not make suppositions.” “Is it ! Till we meet again : " said Svirski. And a moment later, while sitting in the train, he said to himself, - “If I go with you to the ‘Formidable, or any other place, I am a dead crab l’ CHAPTER VIII. UT next morning, he received Pani Cervi and Panna Maria with a gladder heart. At sight of the fair, fresh face of the girl even delight seized him. 470 ON THE BRIGHT SHORE. Everything had been prepared in the studio; the easel was in its place; the sofa for the model pushed forward and covered properly. Pani Lageat had received the strictest command not to admit any one, not even “Queen Victoria herself,” should she come. Svirski now opened and now closed the curtains which hid the window of the skylight; but while drawing the cords he looked unceasingly at his charming model. Meanwhile the ladies removed their hats, and Panna Maria inquired, - “What must, I do now 2° “First of all, it is necessary to let down your hair,” said Svirski. He approached her, and she raised both hands to her head. It was clear that this confused her somewhat, and seemed strange, but also nice. Svirski gazed at her confused face, at her drooping eyelashes, at her form bent backward, at her exquisite outline of hips, and said to himself that, in that great dust heap of Nice, he had discovered a genuine double pearl. The hair fell, after a moment, on her shoulders. Panna Maria shook her head, wishing to spread her hair, which then covered her completely. “Corpo Dio !” exclaimed Svirski. Then came the turn for a more difficult task, - placing the model. Svirski saw plainly that her heart was beating with more life in the maiden, that her breast was moving more quickly, that her cheeks were flushed, that she had to conquer herself and overcome an instinctive resistance, which she herself could not define, and at the same time she was yielding with a certain alarm which resembled an unknown delight. “No I this is no common model,” said Svirski to him- ON THE BRIGHT SHORE. 471 self; “this is something else; and I am not looking on her merely as an artist.” In fact, he also felt troubled, and his fingers trembled a little while he was placing her head on the pillow ; but, wishing to save her and him- self from embarrassment, he spoke to her jestingly, feign- ing temper. “Lie quietly, in that way ! Besides, we must do some- thing for art. Oh, the position is perfect now ! In this way the profile comes out beautifully on the red back- ground. If you could see it ! But that cannot be. You must not laugh You must sleep. Now I will paint.” And he began to paint; but while painting he chatted, as his custom was, told stories, and asked Pani Cervi of past times. He learned from her that “Maria” had held a good position the year before as reader for a Polish countess, the daughter of a great manufacturer of Lodz, Atrament by name ; but the position lasted only till the countess learned that Maria's father and grand- father had served in the Italian army. This was a great disappointment, for the dream of mother and daughter had been that Maria should hold such a place with some lady who passed every winter in Nice; for in that case they would have no need to separate. The artist was roused in Svirski meanwhile. He wrinkled his brows, concentrated his mind, looked across the handle of the brush, and painted persistently. From time to time he laid down the pallet, approached the model, and, taking her lightly by the temples, corrected the position of her head. At such movements he bent toward her more nearly perhaps than was required by the interest of art; and, when the warmth from her youthful body struck him, when he looked at her long eyelashes and her lips slightly parted, a quiver went through his 472 ON THE BRIGHT SHORE. bones, his fingers began to tremble nervously, and in Spirit he called to himself, - “Hold up, old man What the deuce is this? hold up !” She simply pleased him with his whole soul. Her confusion, her blushes, her timid glances, which still Were not devoid of maiden coquettishness, made him happy beyond expression. All this proved to Svirski that she did not look on him as too old. He felt that he pleased her also. The grandfather in his time must have told her wonderful things about his country- men; he had roused her imagination, perhaps; and now at last one of them had come in her way — not some Common man, but one honorable and famous, who, besides, had appeared as in a fairy tale, at the moment of direst need, with assistance and an honest heart. How could she help feeling sympathy for him and looking at him with interest and gratitude 2 All this caused the time to pass for Svirski till midday in such a manner that he did not even notice it. But at midday Panna Maria was the first to declare that she must return, for her grandfather was alone, and it was time to think of lunch for him. Svirski then begged the ladies to come in the afternoon. If they could not leave the old man alone, perhaps they had an acquaintance who would consent to stay with him for two hours. Maybe the gatekeeper, or her husband, or some one else of the family would do so? It was a question of the picture. Two sittings a day would be an excellent thing ! After that there might be some new work; mean- while, two sittings a day would be useful for both sides. If there should be expense in finding some one to care for the old man, he, Svirski, would consider it a favor if he were permitted to bear it, for first of all he was anxious about the picture. ON THE BRIGHT SHORE. 473 Two sittings were really too profitable to be refused by Pani Cervi in view of poverty at home. It was agreed, therefore, that they would come at two in the afternoon. Meanwhile the fortunate Svirski resolved to conduct them home. At the gate they were met by his hostess, who gave Svirski a bunch of moss roses, saying that they were brought by two handsome boys attended by a wonderfully dressed servant. The boys wanted absolutely to enter the studio; but she, remem- bering his command, did not permit them. Svirski answered that she had done well, then, taking the roses, he gave them all to Panna Maria. After a while they were on the Promenade des Anglais. To Svirski, Nice seemed beautiful and animated in a way that he had never seen before. The variety and bus- tle on the “Promenade,” which had angered him at other times, began now to amuse him. On the way he saw Wyadrovski and De Sinten, who halted at sight of him. Svirski bowed and went on, but in passing he noted how De Sinten put a monocle to his eye to look at Panna Cervi, and heard his “Prristi : ” 1 full of astonishment. Both even followed them awhile, but opposite the “Jetée Promenade" Svirski called a carriage and took the ladies home. On the way, he was seized by a desire to invite the whole family to lunch ; but he thought that there would be trouble with the old man, and that, in view of their short acquaintance, Pani Cervi might be surprised at such a sudden invitation. But he promised himself that when the grandfather had some person to care for him he would, under pretext of Saving time, arrange a lunch in the studio. Taking leave of the mother and daughter at the gate, he hurried into the first hotel he found and 1 For the French Sapristi. 474 ON THE BRIGHT SHORE. ordered lunch. He swallowed a few kinds of food, without knowing himself what he was eating. Pani Elzen, Romulus, and Remus, with the moss roses, shot through his mind repeatedly, but in a way which was really ghost-like. A few days before the beautiful widow and their relations were questions of prime importance for him, Over which he had tortured his head not a little. He recalled also that internal struggle through which he had passed on the sea while returning to Villa Franca. Now he said to himself, “This has ceased to exist for me, and I will not think again of it.” So he felt not the least alarm, not the least compunction. On the contrary, it seemed to him that a kind of oppressive burden had dropped from his shoulders, and all his thoughts ran to Panna Cervi. His eyes and his head were full of her; by the power of imagination he saw her again, with dishevelled hair and closed eyelids; and when he thought that in an hour he would touch her temples with his fingers, that he would bend over her again and feel the warmth radiating from her, he felt elated, as if by wine, and for the second time asked himself, - “Hei, old man, what is happening thee ?” When he reached home, he found a telegram from Pani Elzen, “I expect you to dinner at six.” Svirski crushed the paper and put it in his pocket; when Pani Cervi and her daughter arrived, he had forgotten it altogether, so that when his work was done at five he began to think where to dine, and was angry that he had nothing to do with himself that evening. ON THE BRIGHT SHORE. 475 CHAPTER IX. EXT day when Pani Lageat brought a lunch for three persons to the studio, she stated that an hour before the same two handsome boys had come, this time, however, not with a strangely dressed servant, but with a youthful and beautiful lady. “The lady wanted absolutely to see you; but I told her that you had gone to Antibes.” “To Toulon ] to Toulon : * cried the artist, joyously. Next morning there was no one to whom Pani Lageat could give that answer, for only a letter came. Svirski did not read it. That day it happened that while trying to correct Panna Cervi’s “position,” he put his hand under her shoulder, and raised her so that their bosoms almost met, and her breath struck his face. Meanwhile her face changed from emotion, and he said to himself that if such a moment lasted longer, it would be worth while to give life for it. That evening he talked to himself as follows: “The senses are playing in thee, but not as at other times; now thy soul rushes forth after them, and rushes forth because this is a child who in this ‘pudridero' of Nice has re- mained as pure as a tear. This is not even her merit, but her nature; where could such another be found 2 This time I am not deceiving myself, and I am not talking any- thing into myself, for reality is speaking.” And it seemed to him that a sweet dream was taking hold of him. Unfortunately, after sleep comes waking. To Svirski, it came two days later in the form of one more telegram, which, shoved in through an opening in the 476 ON THE BRIGHT SHORE. door intended for letters and newspapers, fell on the floor in presence of both women. Panna Maria, while preparing to let down her hair, saw the telegram first, and, raising the envelope, handed it to Svirski. He opened it unwillingly, looked; and confusion was evident on his face. “Pardon me, ladies,” said he, after a while. “I have received such news that I must go at once.” “I hope at least that it is nothing bad,” said Panna Maria, with alarm. “No, no! But perhaps I shall not be able to return to the afternoon sitting. In every case work is over for to-day; but to-morrow I shall be calm.” Then he took leave of them somewhat feverishly, but with exceeding cordiality, and next moment he was in a carriage which, at his command, was to go straight to Monte Carlo. When he had passed the “Jetée Promenade,” he took out the telegram and read it again. It was as follows : — I expect you this afternoon; if you do not come by the four o’clock train, I shall know what to think, and how to act. MORPHINE. Svirski was simply frightened at the signature, espe- cially as he was under the recent impression of the event with Kresovich. “Who knows,” said he in his mind, “to what a woman may be brought, not by genuine love, but by wounded vanity ? I should not have acted as I have. It was easy to answer her first letter — and break with her. It is not proper to trifle with any one, whether good or bad. At present I must break with ON THE BRIGHT SHORE. 477 her decisively; but I must go without waiting for the four o’clock train.” And he urged on the driver. At moments he strength- ened himself with the hope that Pani Elzen would not, in any case, attempt her own life. That seemed utterly unlike her. But at moments he was possessed by doubt. If that monstrous egotism of hers is turned into a feel- ing of offence, would it not urge her to some insane act 2 He remembered that there was a certain stubborn- ness in her character, a certain decision, and no little courage. Regard for her children, it is true, ought to restrain her; but did she really care for those children 3 And at thought of what might happen, the hair rose on his head. Conscience moved in him again, and a profound internal struggle began. The picture of Panna Cervi passed before his eyes every moment, rousing bitter and immense regret. He repeated to himself, it is true, that he was going to break with Pani Elzen, that he would break with her decisively; at the bottom of his soul, however, he felt a great fear. What would happen if that woman, vain and malicious, as well as determined, should say to him, “Thee, or morphine” 2 And mean- while, with the alarm and uncertainty, there was born in his mind a disgust; for it seemed to him that the ques- tion could be put that way only by some counterfeit heroine belonging to “vile literature.” But still what would happen if she should put it so 2 In society, espe- cially in the society of Nice, there are many women who belong to “vile literature.” In the midst of these thoughts, and in a cloud of gray dust, he arrived finally at Monte Carlo, and ordered the driver to stop in front of the Hôtel de Paris. But before he had time to alight he descried Romulus and Remus 478 ON THE BRIGHT SHORE. on the turf with netted clubs in their hands, throwing up balls under the care of a Cossack whom Pani Lageat had called the strangely dressed servant. They, when they saw him, ran up. “Good-day, sir!” “Good-day.” “Good-day ! Is mamma upstairs 2" “No, Mamma has gone bicycling with M. de Sinten.” Silence followed. “Ah mamma has gone bicycling with De Sinten ?” repeated Svirski. “Well l’’ And after a while he added, - “True ! she expected me only at four o'clock.” Then he began to laugh. “The tragedy ends in a farce. But this, however, is the Riviera ! Still what an ass I am I?’ “Will you wait for mamma 2° asked Romulus. “NO. Listen, my boys. Tell your mamma that I came to say good-bye to her, and that I am sorry not to find her, because I am going on a journey to-day.” Then he gave directions to return to Nice. That evening he received one telegram more, in which there was the single word, “Scoundrel !” After reading it he fell into excellent humor, for the telegram was not signed this time, “Morphine.” CHAPTER X. Two weeks later the picture “Sleep and Death" was finished. Svirski began another which he in- tended to call “Euterpe.” But his work did not ad- vance. He said that the light was too sharp; and for whole sittings, instead of painting, he was looking at the ON THE BRIGHT SHORE. 479 bright face of Panna Cervi. He seemed to be seeking the proper expression for Euterpe. He gazed so persist- ently that the lady grew red under the influence of his eyes; he felt in his breast an increasing disquiet. At last, on a certain morning, he said suddenly, in a kind of strange, altered voice, — “I notice that you ladies love Italy immensely.” “We and grandfather,” answered Panna Cervi. “I, too. Half my life passes in Rome and in Florence. There the light is not so sharp at present, and it would be possible to paint whole days. Oh, yes! Who could help loving Italy And do you know what I think sometimes 2 ° - Panna Maria lowered her head, and, opening her lips somewhat, began to look at him carefully, as she always did when listening to him. “I think that every man has two fatherlands : one his own, the nearer, and the other Italy. Only think, all culture, all art, all science, everything came from there. Let us take, for instance, the Renaissance. . . . Really, all are, if not the children, at least the grandchildren of Italy.” “True,” answered Panna Maria. “I do not know whether I mentioned that I have a studio in the Via Margutta in Rome, and that when the light becomes too sharp in this studio I am yearning for that one. Here it is — if we should all go to Rome — that would be perfect Afterward we could go to Warsaw.” “There is no way to carry out that plan,” answered Panna Maria, with a sad smile. But he approached her quickly, and, taking her two hands, began to speak, looking at her with the greatest tenderness in his eyes. 480 ON THE BRIGHT SHORE. “There is a way, dear lady, there is a way ! Do you not divine it !” And when she grew pale from happiness, he pressed both her palms to his breast, and added, = “Give me thyself and thine — ” THAT THIRD WOMAN. 3] THAT THIRD WOMAN. CHAPTER I. HE rent for that studio in which Antek Svyatetski and I lived and painted, was unpaid, first, because we had about five rubles joint capital, and, second, because we felt a sincere repugnance to paying house-rent. People call us artists squanderers; as for me, I would rather drink away my money than Waste it in paying a house-owner. Our house-owner was not a bad fellow though, and, moreover, we found means of defence against him. When he came to dun us, which was usually in the morning, Antek, who slept on a straw bed on the floor, and covered himself with a Turkish curtain used by us as a background for portraits, would rise to a sitting pos- ture, and say in Sepulchral tones, – “It is well that I see you, for I dreamed that you were dead.” The house-owner, who was superstitious, and dreaded death evidently, was confused at once and beyond meas- ure. Antek would throw himself back on the straw bed, stretch his legs, fold his hands across his breast, and continue, – “You were just like this; you had white gloves on your hands, the fingers were too long; on your feet patent- 484 THAT THIRD WOMAN. leather boots; for the rest, you were not changed much.” Then I would add, “Sometimes those dreams come true.” It seems that this “ sometimes" brought the man to despair. At last he would fall into a rage, slam the door after him ; and we could hear him rush downstairs four steps at a time, Swearing by what the world stands on. Still the honest soul did not like to send the house-bailiff to us. In truth, there was not much to take ; and he had calculated that were he to bring other artists to that studio, and the kitchen adjoining, the story would be the same, or still worse. Our sharp method grew dull in time, however. The house-owner became accustomed to the thought of death. Antek had the idea to finish three pictures in the style of Würtz, “Death,” “Burial,” and “Waking from Leth- argy.” Naturally our man was to figure in all of them. Such funereal subjects became a specialty for Antek, who, as he says himself, paints “corpses big, medium, and small size.” This is the reason, of course, why no one buys his pictures; for, subjects aside, he has talent. He has sent to the Paris Salon two “corpses,” and as I also sent my “Jews on the Vistula,” which in the cata- logue of the Salon are christened “Jews on the Baby- lon,” we were both waiting impatiently for the decision of the jury. Of course Antek foresaw that the worst would hap- pen, that the jury would be made up of perfect idiots, and even if not made up of idiots, I am an idiot, he is an idiot, our pictures are idiotic, and reward for them would be the summit of idiocy How much blood that monkey has spoiled in me dur- THAT THIRD WOMAN, 485 ing the two years that we have lived in one studio, I cannot tell. Antek's whole ambition is to pass for a moral “corpse.” In company he poses as a drunkard, which he is not. He will pour down two or three tiny glasses of vodka, and turn to see if we are looking; if not sure that we are, he will punch one of us with his elbow frown and Say, in subterranean tones, – “Yes, how low I have fallen, that far ! Is it possible 2" We answer that he is a fool. He falls into a rage then ; nothing can bring him into worse humor than to show disbelief in his moral fall. Still, he is an honest fellow to the marrow of his bones. Once he and I went astray in the mountains of Salz- kammergut, near Zell am See. Since night had come it was easy to break one's neck. “Dost hear,” said Antek to me, “thou hast more talent than I, therefore life is a greater loss to thee. I will go ahead. If I fall, thou wilt stay on the spot till morning, and in the morning thou Canst save thyself somehow.” “Thou wilt not go ahead; I will go, because I can see better.” “If I don't break my neck to-day,” said Antek, “I’ll finish in the canal — it’s all one to me.” We fall to disputing. Meanwhile it has become as dark as in a cellar. In the end of ends we conclude to go at hazard. We advance cautiously. The place is wide enough at first, but afterward nar- rower and narrower. As far as we can see, on the right and left are abysses, probably bottomless. The ridge grows still narrower, and, what is more, pieces of stone, loosened by the wind, fall away from under our feet. 486 THAT THIRD WOMAN. “I will go on my hands and knees; ’t is impossible to go any other way !” said Antek. In truth, 'tis impossible to go any other way, so we go on Our hands and knees, advancing like two chimpanzees. But soon it appears that that too is impossible. The back of the cliff becomes as narrow as a horse's back. Antek sits astride of it, I also, and leaning on Our hands put down before us we pushed forward with uncommon damage to our clothing. After a certain time I hear the voice of my comrade, – “Vladek 2 ° “What is it, 2 ” “The ridge has come to an end.” “And what is there beyond 2’ “Emptiness — there must be a precipice.” “Take a stone and throw it, we will listen to hear if it is a long time falling.” In the darkness I hear Antek feeling to find a frag- ment of crumbling rock. “I am throwing,” said he, “listen.” I open both ears. Silence “Haven’t you heard anything 2* “No ’’ “We have ended up nicely . The place must be a hundred fathoms deep.” “Throw once more.” Antek finds a larger stone, throws it. No sound ! “What does this mean, no bottom, or what ?” asked Antek. “Hard to help it ! We will sit here till morning.” We are sitting there. Antek throws a couple of THAT THIRD WOMAN. 487 stones more ; all in vain. An hour passes, a Second, at last I hear my friend's voice, — “Vladek, but don't go to sleep — hast a cigarette 2* It appears that I have cigarettes, but we have used up our matches. Despair The hour may be one in the morning, or not even so late. Very fine rain be- gins to fall. Around us, darkness impenetrable. I come to the conclusion that people who live in towns or in villages have no idea of what silence is, -silence like that which surrounds us, silence which rings in our ears. I almost hear the blood coursing in my veins; I hear the beating of my own heart perfectly. At first the position interests me. To sit in the midst of the silent night on the back of a cliff, as on a horse, and right over a bottom- less abyss, that could not be done by some shopkeeper of the city; but soon the air becomes cold, and, to crown everything, Antek begins to philosophize, – “What is life 2 Life is just swinishness. People talk about art art May I and art be Art is pure monkeying with nature, and meanness besides. Twice I have seen the Salon. Painters sent in so many pic- tures that one might have made canvas beds of them for all the Jews living; and what were these pictures? The lowest possible pandering to shopkeepers' tastes, painted for money, or the stuffing of stomachs. A chaos of art, nothing more Were that art, I would that par- alysis had struck it ; luckily there is no real art upon earth — there is only nature. Maybe nature is swinish- ness also. The best would be to jump down here — and end everything quickly. I would do so if I had vodka; but as I have no vodka, I will not, for I have made a vow not to die sober.” I was used to this gabbling of Antek's; still, in that silence and bewilderment, in cold, in darkness, at the 488 THAT THIRD WOMAN. edge of a precipice, his words made even me gloomy. Fortunately he talked himself out and stopped. He threw a couple of stones more, repeated a couple of times more, “Not a sound,” and then for three hours we were silent. It seemed to me that daybreak would come before long, when suddenly we heard a calling and the sound of wings. It was dark yet, and I could see nothing; I was certain, however, that eagles were beginning to circle over the precipice. “Kra! kra !” was heard with greater force above and in the darkness. It astonished me to hear such a multitude of voices, just as if whole legions of eagles were passing. But, happen what might, they were heralding daylight. After a while, I saw my hands resting on the rocky edge ; then Antek's shoulders were outlined in front of me, precisely like a dark object on a ground somewhat less dark. That ground grew paler each instant. Then a rich, light silver tone began to shine in on the rocks and on Antek’s shoulders. This color filled the dark- ness more and more, just as if into that darkness some one were pouring a silver liquid which permeated it, mixed with it, and from black made it gray, from gray pearl-color. There was also a certain severity and damp- ness about us; not only the cliff but the air too seemed moist. Now more light comes every moment. I am looking, trying to fix in my mind those changes in tone, and am painting a little in my soul, when all at once Antek's cry interrupts me, – “Tfu ! idiots | * And his shoulders vanish from my eyes. “Antek " I cry, “what are thou doing?” THAT THIRD WOMAN. 489 “T)on’t howl look here !” I bend over, look — what appears 7 I am sitting on a rocky cliff which slopes down to a meadow, lying per- haps a yard and a half below me. The moss deadened the sound of the stones, for the meadow is very level; at a distance the road is visible, and on it crows, which I took for eagles. To walk home with the greatest com- fort it was merely necessary to take our legs off the rock. Meanwhile, we had been sitting on that rock, our teeth chattering, through the whole of God's night. I know not why, but while waiting in the studio with Antek for the house-owner, that adventure of a year and a half before came to my mind, as if it had happened the previous day. That recollection gave me great solace; therefore I said at once, — “Dost remember, Antek, how we thought ourselves sitting on the edge of a precipice, and it turned out that there was a level road right before us? It may be the same to-day. We are as poor as church mice, as thou knowest; the house-owner wants to turn us out of the studio; meanwhile all things may change. Let some sluice of glory and money open out to us.” Antek was sitting just then on the straw bed, pulling on his boots, grumbling the while that life was made up of pulling boots on in the morning and pulling them off at night; that only the man had sense who had courage to hang himself, which, if he, Antek, had not done hitherto, it was simply because he was not only a supreme fool, but a low coward besides. My outburst of optimism interrupted his meditation; So he raised his fishy eyes and said, - “Thou, beyond all men, hast something to rejoice at ; the other day Suslovski drove thee from his house and 490 THAT THIRD WOMAN. the heart of his daughter; to-day the house-owner will drive thee from the studio.” Alas! Antek told the truth. Three days before I was the betrothed of Kazia Suslovski, but on Tuesday morn- ing—yes, on Tuesday, I received from her father the following letter: — DEAR SIR, - Our daughter, yielding to the persuasion of her parents, has consented to break the tie which for her would have been a misfortune. She may find a refuge at all times on the bosom of her mother and under the roof of her father; but it pertains specially to us, her parents, to avoid this extremity. Not only your material position, but your frivolous character, which, in spite of every effort, you are unable to conceal, inclines us and our daughter to return you your word, and to break with you further rela- tions, which, however, does not change our good will toward yOu. With esteem, HELIODOR SUSLovs KI. Such was the letter; I agree more or less with this, that out of my material position dog's boots might be made; but what that pathetic gorilla knows of my character I, in truth, do not understand. Kazia's head brings to mind types from the time of the Directory; and it would be finer if she would dress her hair, not in the fashion of to-day, but of that time. I tried even to beg her to do so, but in vain, since she has no mind for such things. But she has a complexion as warm as if Fortuni had painted it. For that very reason I loved her sincerely; and the first day, after receiving the letter from her father, I went about as if poisoned. Only on the second day, and that in the evening, did I feel a little easier, and say to my- self, “If not, then not.” It helped me most to bear the THAT THIRD WOMAN. 491 blow that I had my head filled with the Salon and with my “Jews.” I was convinced that the picture was a good One, though Antek predicted that it would be thrown, not only out of the Salon, but out of the ante- chamber. I began the picture the year before in this Way: It is evening. I am walking alone for amusement by the Vistula. I look; I see a basket of apples lost in the river; street Arabs are fishing the apples out of the Water; and on the bank are sitting a whole Jewish family in such despair that they are not even lamenting, they are clasping their hands, and looking into the water, as dumb as statues. There is an old Jew there, a patri- arch, a poor devil; an old Jewess; a young Jew, a colos- sal creature as big as Judas Maccabaeus; a maiden, freckled somewhat, but with immense character in the outline of her nose and mouth; finally two little Jews. Twilight is coming; the river has a bronze reflection which is simply miraculous. The trees on Saxon Island are all in the light of evening; beyond the island is water, widely spread, tones purple, ultra-marine, tones almost steel, then again tones passing into purple and violet. The aërial perspective, splendid The transition from some tones to others so subtile and marvellous that the soul just pipes in a man; round about it is quiet, bright calm. Melancholy over all things so that there is a wish to weep ; and that group in mourning, sitting as if each person in it had been posing in studios. In a moment the thought flashed into my head: That is my picture I had my portfolio with me, and colors, for I never go walking without them ; I begin to sketch on the spot, but I say to the Jews, - “Sit as you are, don’t move — a ruble to each one at dark.” 492 THAT THIRD WOMAN. My Jews see the point, in a twinkle, and, as it were, grow to the ground. I sketch and sketch. The street Arabs crawl out of the water, and soon I hear behind me, — “Painter painter | When a man steals a thing, he says that he found it.” But I answer them in their jargon, and win them at Once ; they even stop throwing chips at the Jews, so as not to injure my work. But, as an offset, my group fall unexpectedly into good humor. “Jews,” cry I, “be sorrowful;” but the old woman answers, – “With permission, Pan artist, how can we be sorrowful when you promise us each one a ruble 2 Let him be sad who has no profit.” I have to threaten them that I will not pay. I sketched for two evenings; then they posed for me two months in the studio. Let Antek say what he pleases, the picture is good, for there is nothing cold in it; it has pure truth and a tremendous lot of nature. I left even the freckles on the young Jewess. The faces might be more beautiful; but they could not be truer or have greater character. I thought so much of this picture that I bore the loss of Kazia more easily. When Antek reminded me of her, the subject seemed One of long ago. Meanwhile, my comrade pulled on his other boot, and I heated the samovar. Old Antonia came with cakes; Antek had been persuading this woman in vain for a year to hang herself. We sat down to tea. “Why art thou so glad ' " asked Antek, peevishly. “Because I know that thou wilt see something of uncommon interest to-day.” At this moment we hear steps approaching the studio. THAT THIRD WOMAN. 493 “Thy house-owner . There is thy ‘something un- common '' " Saying this, Antek gulps down his tea, which is so hot that tears fill his eyes. Up he springs; and since Our little kitchen is in the passage, he hides in the studio behind the costumes, and from his hiding-place cries, with a panting voice, — “Thou ! he loves thee immensely, talk thou to him.” “He is dying for thee '' answer I, flying to the cos- tumes, “talk thou to him " Meanwhile the door opens, and who comes in 3 Not the house-owner, but the watchman of the house in which the Suslovskis are living. We rush out from behind the costumes. “I have a letter for you,” says the watchman. I take the letter. By Hermes it is from Kazia I tear open the envelope, and read as follows, – I am certain that my parents will forgive us. Come at once; never mind the early hour. We have just returned from the waters in the garden. KAZIA. I have no idea what the parents really have to forgive me, but neither have I time to think of it, for I am losing my head from amazement. Only after a while do I give the letter to Antek, and say to the watchman,— “Friend, tell the young lady that I will come right away — wait, I have no small money, but here are three rubles [all I have] change the bill, take a ruble for your- self, and bring me the rest.” Speaking in parenthesis, the monster took the three rubles, and did not show himself again. He knew, the abortion, that I would not raise a scandal at Suslovski's, and took advantage of the position most dishonorably. But at the time I did nºt even notice it. 494 THAT THIRD WOMAN. “Well, Antek, what ?” ask I. “Nothing ! Every calf will find its butcher.” The haste with which I was dressing did not permit me to find an answer befitting this insult from Antek. CHAPTER II. A QUARTER of an hour later I ring at Suslovski's. Kazia herself opens the door. She is comely; she has about her yet the warmth of sleep, and also the freshness of morning, which she brought from the garden in the folds of her muslin robe, which is pale blue in color. Her hat, just removed, has dishevelled her hair some- what. Her face is smiling; her eyes are smiling; her moist lips are smiling, — she is just like the morning. I seize her hands, kiss them, and kiss her arms to the elbows. She bends to my ear and inquires, – “But who loves better 2° Then she leads me by the hand to the presence of her parents. Old Suslovski has the mien of a Roman who is sacrificing pro patria the life of his only child; the mother is dropping tears into her coffee, for both are at coffee. But they rise at sight of us, and Papa Suslovski speaks, – “Reason and duty would command me to answer, no but the heart of a parent has its rights — if this is weak- ness, let God judge me !” Here he raises his eyes in proof that he will be ready to answer, if the tribunal of Heaven begins to write a protocol that moment. I had never seen anything more Roman in my life, unless macaroni sold on the Corso. The moment is so impressive that a hippopotamus might THAT THIRD WOMAN. 495 burst from emotion. The solemnity is increased by Pani Suslovski, who crosses her hands, and says in a tearful voice, — “My children, should you have trouble in the world at any time take refuge here — here !” While saying this, she pointed to her bosom. She could not fool me ! I was not to be taken for preservation there — there ! If Kazia had offered me a similar refuge, it would have been different. Still I am amazed at the honesty of the Suslovskis, and my heart is filled with gratitude. I drink so many glasses of coffee from emotion that the Suslovskis begin to Cast anxious glances at the coffee-pot and the cream. Kazia fills my cup continually; I try at the same time to press her foot under the table. But she draws it back always, shaking her head meanwhile, and smiling so roguishly that I know not how I escaped jumping out of my skin. I sit an hour and a half; but at last I must go, for in the studio Bobus is waiting for me, – Bobus who takes drawing-lessons, and leaves me a note each time, with a coat of arms on it, but I lose those notes generally. Kazia and her mother conduct me to the entrance; I am angry at that, for I want Kazia alone to conduct me. What a mouth she has My road leads through the city garden. It is full of people coming from the waters. On the way I notice that all halt at sight of me. I hear whispers, “Magor- ski! Magorski that's he –” Young ladies, dressed in muslim of every shade under which their forms are out- lined wonderfully, cast glances at me which seem as if wishing to say, “Enter the dwelling is ready l’” What the devil, am I so famous, or what ? I fail to understand. I go on — always the same thing. At the entrance 496 THAT THIRD WOMAN. of the studio, I come against the house-owner, as a ship against a rock. Oh, the rent But the man approaches me and says, - “My dear sir, though I have annoyed you some- times, believe me, I have so much — just permit me simply — ” With that he seizes me around the neck and hugs me. Ha! I understand, Antek must have told him that I am going to marry; and he thinks that in future I shall pay my rent regularly. Let him think so. I thunder upstairs. On the way I hear a noise in our quarters. I rush in. The studio is dark from smoke. There I find Yulek Rysinski, Wah Poterkevich, Franek Tsepkovski, old Sludetski, Karminski,Voytek Mihalak, - all amusing themselves by driving the elegant Bobus around on a string; but seeing me, they let him go, barely alive, in the middle of the studio; then they raise an unearthly uproar. “We congratulate congratulate 1 congratulate 1” “Up with him 1" In one moment I am in their arms, and for a certain time they hurl me up, howling meanwhile in a way befitting a pack of wolves; at last I find myself on the floor. I thank them as best I can, and declare that they must all be at my wedding, especially Antek, whom I engage in advance as my best man. Antek raises his hands and says, – “That soap thinks that we are congratulating him on his marriage.” “But on what are you congratulating me?” “How is that, don’t you know 2° asked every voice. “I know nothing; what the hangman do you want 2" “Give him the morning number of ‘The Kite,’” cries Poterkevich. THAT THIRD WOMAN. 497 They give me the morning number of “The Kite,” shouting, one interrupting the other, “Look among the despatches 1’’ I look at the despatches, and read the following, — “Special telegram to the ‘The Kite.’ Magorski's picture, ‘The Jews on the river of Babylon, received the great gold medal of the Salon of the present year. The critics cannot find words to describe the genius of the master. Albert Wolff has called the picture a revelation. Baron Hirsch offers fifteen thousand francs for it.” I am fainting ! Help! I have lost my senses to that degree that I cannot utter a word. I knew that my pic- ture Was a Success, but of such a success I had not even dreamed. The number of “The Kite ” falls from my hand. They raise it and read to me among current comments the following notes on the despatch, – “Note I. We learn from the lips of the master himself that he intends to exhibit his picture in our garden of sirens. “Note II. In answer to a question put by the vice-pres– ident of the Society of Fine Arts to our master, whether he intends to exhibit his masterpiece in Warsaw, he an- swered : ‘I would rather not sell it in Paris than not exhibit it in Warsaw.” We hope that those words will be read by our posterity (God grant remote) on the monument to the master. “Note III. The mother of our master, on receiving the despatch from Paris, fell seriously ill from emotion. “Note IV. We learn at the moment of going to press, that the mother of our master is improving. “Note W. Our master has received invitations to ex- hibit his picture in all the European capitals.” Under the excess of these monstrous lies, I return to my senses a little. Ostrynski, the editor of “The Kite,” 32 498 THAT THIRD WOMAN. and at the same time an ex-suitor of Kazia's, must have gone mad, for this passes every measure. It is natural that I should exhibit the picture in Warsaw; but, I. I have not mentioned that matter to any one; II. the vice-president of the Society of Fine Arts has made no inquiry of me touching anything; III. I have given him no answer; IV. my mother died nine years ago; V. I have not received an invitation from any quarter to exhibit my picture. Worse than all, it comes to my mind in One moment that if the despatch is as truthful as the five notes, then farewell to everything. Ostrynski, who half a year since, in spite of the fact that her parents were for him, received a basket 4 from Kazia, wished perhaps purposely to make a fool of me; if that is the case “he will pay me with his head, or something else,” as says the libretto of a certain opera. My Colleagues pacify me, however, by saying that Ostrynski might fabricate the notes, but the despatch must be genuine. At the same time Stah Klosovich comes with a morn- ing number of “The Courier.” The despatch is in “The Courier.” I recover breath. Now congratulations in detail begin. Old Sludetski, false to the core, but in manner Sweet as syrup, shakes my hand and says, – “Beloved God! I have always believed in the genius of my colleague, and I have always defended him [I know that he used to call me an ass]; but — Beloved God, per- haps my colleague does not wish that such a fa-presto as I should call my colleague, colleague; in that event let my colleague forgive an old habit, Beloved God!” In my soul I wish him hanged; but I cannot answer, 1 Refusal. THAT THIRD WOMAN. 499 for at that moment Karminski draws me aside and tells me in an undertone, but so that all hear him, - “Maybe my colleague needs money, if he does, let him say the word, and then — ” Karminski is known among us for his professed Will- ingness to oblige. Time after time he says to some of us, “If my colleague needs aid, let him say the word; and then — till we meet again : " In truth, he has money. I answer that if I do not find it elsewhere, I will apply to him. Meanwhile other men come, true as gold; and they squeeze me till my sides ache. At last Antek appears; I see that he is moved, but he con- ceals his emotion, and says roughly, - “Though thou art becoming a Jew, as I See, I congratulate thee!” “Though thou art becoming a fool, as I see, I thank thee,” and we embrace with all our strength. Poter- kevich mentions that it is dry in his throat. I have m't a copper; but Antek has two rubles; others have as much. A contribution follows, and punch. They drink my health, throw me up again; and because I tell them that the affair with the Suslovskis is settled, they drink Razia's health also. With that Antek comes to me and says, – “Dost think, youthful idiot, that they had n’t read the despatch before the young woman wrote to thee ?” Oh, the monkey how gladly I would give him a club on the head. On one side the horizon was growing bright for me; on the other, the devil was darkening it. Anything might be expected of the Suslovskis; but that Razik 1 should be capable of such calculation Still it was very likely that they had read the despatch at the waters in the morning, and invited me straightway. * A form of endearment for Kazia. 500 THAT THIRD WOMAN. At the first moment I want to fly to the Suslovskis, and stand before their eyes. But I cannot leave my com- pany. Meanwhile Ostrynski comes, elegant, cold, self- confident, gloved as usual. Shrewdness is shining from him, as light from a fire, for he is a rogue in full armor. From the threshold he begins to wave his cane protect- ingly, and says, – “Congratulations to the master; I too congratulate.” He uttered that “I” with an emphasis, as if congratu- lation from him meant more than from any other man. Perhaps it did really. “How much you have invented " cried I; “as truly as you see me here, I learned all about myself in ‘The Kite.’” “How does that concern me?” asked Ostrynski. “I said nothing about exhibiting the picture either.” “But now you do,” answered he, phlegmatically. “And he has no mother, so his mother has not grown weak | * cried Voytek Mihalak. “That concerns me little,” repeated Ostrynski, with dignity taking off his second glove. “But is the despatch true 2 ° “True.” That assurance pacifies me thoroughly. Through thankfulness I pour out punch for him. He puts his lips to the edge of the glass, drinks a sip, and says, – “First to your health, and a second draught I drink you know to whom. I congratulate you doubly.” “Where do you get your information ?” Ostrynski shrugs his shoulders. “Suslovski was in the editorial rooms before eight o'clock this morning.” Antek begins to mutter something about mean people in general; I can restrain myself no longer; I seize my hat. Ostrynski follows me out; but I leave him on the THAT THIRD WOMAN. - 501 street; and a couple of minutes later I am ringing at Sus- lovski's for the second time. Kazia opens the door; her parents are not at home. “ Kazia 1" ask I, severely, “didst thou know of the despatch 2" “I knew,” answered she, calmly. “But, Kazik l’” “What was to be done, my dear? Do not wonder at my parents; they must of course have some reasonable cause to accept thee.” “But thou, Kazia 2" “I seized the first opportunity; dost take that ill of me, Vladek 2 ” The question grows clear, and it seems to me that Razia is perfectly right. Speaking plainly, why did I rush hither like a madman 2 Kazia comes up and rests her head on my shoulder. I put my arm around her waist; she drops her face toward my arm, closes her eyes, pushes up her rosy mouth and whispers, – “No, no, Vladek not now — only after marriage, I implore thee.” In view of that request, I press her lips to mine, and we remain in that way as long as the process of breath- ing permits. Kazia's eyes become languishing. At last, she screens them with her arm, and says, – “But I begged thee not to — ” The reproach and the look melt me to such a degree that I kiss her a second time. When you love some one, you have naturally a greater desire to give a kiss than a blow to that person. And I love Kazia beyond measure and wit, during life till death, after death ! She, or none, and that's the end of it ! Kazia, with panting voice, expresses the fear that I have lost respect for her. Dearest creature, what non- 502 THAT THIRD WOMAN. Sense she utters I pacify her as best I can, and we begin to talk reasonably. An agreement is made between us that if the parents pretend that they heard of the despatch only after my coming, I am not to let them know that I am aware how affairs stand. I bid farewell then to Kazia, promising to come in the evening. In fact, I must rush to the office of the Society for Pro- moting Fine Arts; through it I can communicate most easily with the secretary of the Salon. CHAPTER III. SEND a despatch stating that I accept Baron Hirsch's price; but stipulate, first, to exhibit the picture in Warsaw, etc. For the sending of despatches and other needs I bor- row money in the institution. It is given without hesita- tion. Everything goes as if on oil. In “The Kite ” and “The Courier" appears my biogra- phy, in which, however, there is not one word of truth; but as Ostrynski says, “How can that concern me?” I have received also a request from two illustrated papers; they wish to publish my portrait and reproduce my picture. Let them do so. Money will be as abundant as Water. CHAPTER IV. WEEK later I receive the earnest money from Baron Hirsch. The remainder will be paid when the pur- chaser obtains possession of the canvas. Meanwhile, the IBank of Commerce fires onto the table for me five thou- THAT THIRD WOMAN. 503 sand francs in louis d'or. In life I have not seen so much money. I come home laden down like a mule. There is an assembly in the studio. I throw my coin on the floor; and since I have never wallowed in gold, I begin to wallow in it. After me Antek wallows. The house-owner comes in, and thinks that we have lost Our Senses. We amuse ourselves like cannibals. CHAPTER V. NE day Ostrynski informs me that he feels happy that he got a basket from Kazia, for prospects are opening before him of which I cannot have the least idea. I am very glad of this, or rather, it is all one to me; I believe meanwhile that Ostrynski will take care of him- self in this life. When he was trying for Kazia, her parents were on his side, especially Father Suslovski; Ostrynski had even a complete preponderance over him, pushed to the degree that that Roman lost his statuesque- ness in presence of this suitor. Kazia, however, could not endure him from the first moment of their acquaint- ance. It was some unconscious repugnance; as to other things I am perfectly sure that he did not offend her with that with which he offends me, and all who know his nature thoroughly. He is a wonderful man, or rather a wonderful man of letters. There are, of course, not only among us, but in all the greater centres of litera- ture and art, men of whom, when you think, you ask in- voluntarily, Whence comes their importance 2 To this category belongs my friend of “The Kite.” Who would believe that the secret of Ostrynski's significance and the reason of his mental position is this, that he does not love and does not respect talents, – especially literary talents, 504 THAT THIRD WOMAN. — and that he simply lives by disregarding them 2 He has for them the contempt of a man to whom regularity of life, a certain incisive quickness and great shrewdness Secure in Society permanent victories over them. One should see him at sessions, at artistic and liter- ary meetings, at jubilee dinners; with what condescend- ing irony he treats men who in the region of creativeness have ten times more power than he ; how he pushes them to the wall; how he confuses them with his logic, with his judgment; how he overwhelms them with his literary importance Whenever Antek thinks of this, he calls for a slat from the bedstead with which to crack Ostrynski's skull; but Ostrynski's preponderance does not astonish me. People of genuine talent are frequently awkward, timid, devoid of marked quickness and mental equilibrium. It is only when genuine talent is alone with itself that wings grow out on its shoulders; Ostrynski in such a position could only go to sleep, for he has absolutely nothing to say to himself. The future brings order, gives rank, and assigns to each man his own proper place. Ostrynski is too clever not to know this; but in his soul he laughs at it. For him, 't is enough that at present he has greater significance than others, and that people count more with him than with men better than he. We painters stand less in his way. Still he advertises the talents of writers at times, but only when urged by the interest of “The Kite ” and in opposition to “The Courier.” For the rest, he is a good comrade, an agree- able person. I can say that I like the man; but — devil take him — we've had enough of Ostrynski. THAT THIRD WOMAN. 505 CHAPTER VI. HEY will make me slam the door some day. What a comedy Since I have won reputation and money, Suslovski, in spite of my forethought, treats me simply with contempt; his wife, all Kazia's relatives, male and female, meet me frigidly. On the first evening Suslovski announces that if I suppose that my new position has influenced their action, or if I suppose — which for that matter is evident in me — that I am doing them a favor, I am mistaken. Though ready to sacrifice much for the happiness of their child, still even that only child cannot ask them to sacrifice their human dignity. The mother adds, that, in case of need, the child will know where to seek refuge. The honest Kazia defends me at moments very angrily ; but they are in wait for every word of mine. Barely do I open my mouth when Suslovski bites his lips, looks at his wife and nods, as if to say, “I knew that it would come to this.” Such a saw have they fixed for me from morning till evening. And to think that all this is hypocrisy, that its special service is to keep me in their net, that at the bottom of the question they are after my fifteen thousand francs, and that they are as anxious for them as I am, though our motives are different. It is time to finish. They have brought me to this that I seem to myself to have committed really some scoundrelism in getting the gold medal and the fifteen thousand francs for my picture. 506 THAT THIRD WOMAN. CHAPTER VII. HE day of my betrothal is drawing near. I buy a beautiful ring in the style of Louis XV. which does not please the Suslovskis, nor even Kazia, for in that whole house there is no one who has an idea of real art. I must work much yet over Kazia to destroy in her vulgar preferences and teach her to feel artistically; but since she loves me, I am hopeful. I invited no one to the betrothal except Antek. I wanted him to visit the Suslovskis as a preliminary; but he declared, that though physically and morally bank- rupt, he has not become so degraded yet as to go visiting. It cannot be helped I forewarn the Suslovskis that my friend is an original beyond compare, but a painter of genius and the most honest man in the world. Suslovski, learning that my friend paints “corpses,” raises his brows, declaring that hitherto he has had to do with decent people, that his whole official career is un- spotted, and that he hopes my friend will respect the manners prevailing in an honorable and decorous house. I confess to myself that I am not free from fears touching Antek, and from the morning hours I am at war with him. He insists on wearing leggings. I per- suade, I implore, I entreat. At last he gives way, declaring that he sees no reason decisively why he should not remain a fool. It is a pity that his shoes remind one of explorers in Central Africa; for no blacking has touched them since they were brought from the shoemaker's on credit Still worse, Antek's head looks like the Summit of the Carpathian Mountains, covered with forests, torn by THAT THIRD WOMAN. 507 columns of wind. I must put up with this, for there is no comb on earth which could conquer that forelock; but I force him to put on a frock coat, instead of the blouse which he wears every day. He does this, but has the look of one of his corpses, and falls into sepulchral humor. - On the street people turn to look at his knotty stick and his immense tattered hat; but I am accustomed to this. We ring; we enter. In the antechamber, the voice of Cousin Yachkovich reaches me; he is discoursing on Overpopulation. Cousin Yachkovich is always discoursing on overpopulation; that is his hobby. Kazia looks in her muslin like a cloud, and pretty. Suslovski is in a dress-coat; the relatives are in dress-coats; the old aunts are in silk gowns. Antek's entrance makes an impression. They look at him with a certain disquiet. He looks around gloomily, and informs Suslovski that in truth he would not have • come “unless Vladek were getting married, or something of that sort.” This “something of that sort” is received most fatally. Suslovski straightens himself with dignity, and inquires what is meant by “something of that sort.” Antek answers that it is all one to him ; but “for Vladek " he might even knock his heels off, especially if he knew that Pan Suslovski cared anything about the matter. My future father-in-law looks at his wife, at me, at Kazia, with a look in which amazement is struggling with mortification. Happily I Save the position, and, with presence of mind rare with me, beg my future father-in-law to present me to those members of his family with whom I am still unacquainted. 508 THAT THIRD WOMAN. The presentation follows; then we sit down. Kazia sits near me, and lets her hand stay in mine. The room is full of people ; but all are stiff and silent. The atmos- phere is heavy. Cousin Yachkovich begins again at his talk on over- population. My Antek looks under the table. In the silence the voice of Yachkovich is heard with increasing shrillness; not having a front tooth, whenever he has to pronounce S2, he utters a prolonged hiss. “The most dreadful catastrophe may arise from this for all Europe,” said Yachkovich. “Emigration,” put in some one from aside. “Statistics show, that emigration will not prevent over- population.” Suddenly Antek raises his head and turns his fishy eyes toward the speaker. “Then Chinese customs should be introduced among us,” says he, with a gloomy bass. “With permission, — what Chinese customs ?” “In China parents have the right to smother imbecile children. Well, then, with us, children should have the right to kill imbecile parents.” It has come ! The bolt has struck; the sofa groans under the aunts; and I am lost. Suslovski closes his eyes, and loses speech for a season. Silence. Then is heard the voice of my coming father-in-law, trembling with terror, – “My dear sir, I hope, that as a Christian—” “Why must I be a Christian 2 ° interrupts Antek, shaking his head ominously. Another thunderbolt . The sofa with the aunts begins to tremble as if in a fever; it vanishes from my sight; I feel the earth opening beneath me. All is lost; all hope is vain. THAT THIRD WOMAN. 509 Suddenly Kazia's laughter rings out, resonant as a bell; then Yachkovich bursts into laughter, not knowing why; after Yachkovich, I laugh, also not knowing why. “Father l’ cries Kazia, “Wladek forewarned father, that Pan Svyatetski [Antek] is an original. Pan Svyatetski is joking; he has a mother, I know that, and he is the best of sons to her.” A rogue, not a maiden, that Kazia — not only does she invent, but she divines. In fact, Antek has a mother, and he is a good son to her. Kazia's words make a certain diversion. The entrance of a servant with wine and cake makes a still greater diversion. That servant is the watchman who took my last three rubles; but now he is arrayed in a dress-coat, and comes out with the dignity of a waiting-man. He keeps his eyes fixed on the tray; the glasses rattle, and he moves forward as slowly as if he were carrying glasses filled with water. I begin to fear that he will drop them all to the floor ; fortunately my fear proves barren. After a while the glasses are filled. We proceed to the act of betrothal. A little cousin holds a porcelain plate on which two rings are lying. The eyes are creeping out of her head with curiosity, and the whole ceremony causes her such evident pleasure that she is dancing together with the plate and rings. Suslovski rises; all rise; the noise of the chairs is heard as they are pushed back. Silence follows. I hear one of the matrons remark in a whisper, how she had hoped that my ring “would be better.” In spite of this remark there is such solemnity of feeling that flies are dropping from the wall. Suslovski begins to speak, - “My children, receive the blessing of your parents.” Kazia kneels; I kneel as well. 310 THAT THIRD WOMAN. What a physiognomy Antek must have at this moment, what a face I dare not look at him ; I look at Kazia's muslin robe, which, on the faded red sofa, makes a very nice spot. The hands of Suslovski and of Pani Suslovski rest on our heads; then my future father-in-law says, - “My daughter, thou hast had the best example at home of what a wife should be to a husband, therefore I need not teach thee thy duties, which moreover thy hus- band will indicate to thee.” (I hope so.) “But I turn to thee, Pan Vladislav — ” Here begins a speech during which I count to one hundred, and having counted to a hundred, I begin again at one. Suslovski the citizen, Suslovski the official, Suslovski the father, Suslovski the Roman, had the op- portunity of showing all his grandeur of Soul. The words: child, parents, duties, future, blessing, thorns, pure con- science, buzz around my ears like a swarm of wasps, sit on my head, sting me on the above-mentioned ears as well as on my neck and forehead. It must be that I tied my cravat too tightly, for it is suffocating me. I hear the weeping of Pani Suslovski, which affects me, for at heart she is an honest woman ; I hear the sound of the rings, held on the plate by the dancing little cousin. O Lord Christ, what a face that Antek must have At last we rise. The little cousin thrusts the plate under my very eyes. Kazia and I exchange rings. Uf! I am betrothed I suppose this to be the end; but no, Suslovski calls us to go and beg a blessing of all the aunts. We go. I kiss five hands which are like the feet of storks. All the aunts hope that I will not deceive their confidence. - w What the devil confidence can they have in me? THAT THIRD WOMAN. 511 Cousin Yachkovich seizes me in his embraces. Abso- lutely I must have tied my cravat too tightly. But the worst is over. Tea is brought in. I sit near Razia, and it seems to me all the time that I do not see Antek. The monkey, he frightens me once more ; when the question whether he will have rum in his tea is asked, he answers that he drinks rum Only by the bottle. At last the evening is ended successfully. We go out. I draw in the air with full breast. In- deed, my cravat was too tight. Antek and I walk on in silence. The silence begins to weigh on me and soon becomes unendurable. I feel that I must talk to Antek, tell him something of my happi- ness, how handsomely all has passed, how I love Kazia — I prepare, but it is of no use ! At last when just near the studio I say, - “Own up, Antek, that life is still beautiful.” Antek halts, casts a frowning glance at me, and says, – “POOdle ” That night we conversed no more with each other. CHAPTER VIII. WEEK after the evening of betrothal my “Jews” arrive for exhibition. The picture is placed in a separate hall, and a special fee is charged for admission. One half of the net proceeds is for me. At the exhibi- tion there is probably a throng from morning till evening. I see it only once; but as people look at me more than at the picture, I shall not go again, for why should I be angry for nothing. If my picture were a masterpiece, such as has never been seen in the world till this day, people would rather satisfy that curiosity in virtue of 512 THAT THIRD WOMAN. which they go to see “Krao” or the Hottentot who eats live pigeons. Such a Hottentot am I at this moment. I should be Satisfied were I really a poodle; but I am too much of a painter not to be enraged by such degradation of art be- fore a fashionable peculiarity. CHAPTER IX. HREE weeks ago few persons knew of my existence, but now I begin to receive tens of letters, for the greater part love-letters. I may wager that of five four begin with these words: “It may be that when you have read this letter, you will despise the woman who, etc. — ” I will not despise the woman, on condition that she will keep away from me. Were it not for Kazia, perhaps, to tell the truth, I should n’t shrug my shoulders so much at such a torrent of feeling. How can such an “unknown " hope that a man who has never seen her will answer the invitation of an in- visible woman 2 This makes me specially indignant. Remove first the curtain, O fair unknown and when I behold thee, I will say to thee — Oi! I will say nothing, because of Kazia. I receive also an anonymous missive, from Some gray- haired friendess, in which I am called master, and Kazia a little goose. “Oh, master, is she a wife for thee ?” inquires my gray- haired friendess. “Is that a choice worthy of him on whom the eyes of the whole country are turned 2 Thou art a victim of intrigue, etc.” THAT THIRD WOMAN. 513 A wonderful supposition, and a still more wonderful demand, that I should marry not to please my heart but the public And poor Kazia is already in their way ! There are greater crimes surely than anonymous letters, but there is no greater — how can I express myself justly 2 But never mind The end of my betrothal is not fixed yet, but it will come before long. Meanwhile I shall tell Kazia to array herself famously, and I will escort her to the exhibition. Let the world see us together. Antek's two corpses have come also from Paris. The picture is called “The Last Meeting,” and represents a young man and a young woman lying on the dissecting- table. At the first glance the idea is interpreted per- fectly. It is clear that those two dead ones loved each other in life, that misery separated and death united them. The students bending over the corpses have come out in the picture somewhat rigid ; there are faults in the perspective of the dissecting-room; but the “corpses” are painted superbly. Such corpses that icy cold comes from them . The picture did not receive even mention, perhaps for the reason that the subject is wonderfully unpleasant; but critics praised it. Among our “painters” there are beyond doubt many talents. For instance, at the side of Antek's Corpses Franek Tsepkovski exhibited “The Death of Koretski.” Immense strength in it, and immense individuality. Antek calls Franek an idiot; first, because Franek has a forelock, and wears his beard Wedge-form ; second, be- cause he dresses according to the latest fashion; and, third, because he is terribly well-bred and ceremonious, and mentions rather frequently his high-born relatives. But Antek is mistaken. Talent is a bird that builds its 33 514 THAT THIRD WOMAN. nest where it pleases, at one time in a wild desert, at another in a trimmed garden. I have seen, in Monachium and Paris, painters who looked like laborers in a brewery, then others like bar- bers or dandies, you would not give three coppers for the men; still One and the other beast of them had in his soul such exaltation, such uncommon feeling of forms and colors, and such a power of projecting that feeling out of himself onto canvas Ostrynski, who has a trite phrase for everything, would have written in mentioning them in his “Kite,” Spiritus flat ubi vult (the spirit bloweth where it listeth). In Antek's opinion, historical painting is “obscure barbarism.” I do not paint historical subjects, and per- sonally the question is all one to me, but I hear this opinion on every side as being progressive. People have made a saw of it, and it begins to annoy me. Our Polish painters have one defect: they become wedded to certain doctrines touching art, live under their slippers, look at everything with the eyes of these doctrines, force art to them, and are rather apostles than painters. In contrast to painters mentioned above (in connection with Monachium and Paris), I have known others whose lips were worn off in talking of what art is, and what it should be ; but when it came to the brush they could not do anything. More than once I have thought that a theory of art should be framed by philosophers, and if they framed nonsense — let them answer; but painters should paint what the heart dictates to each man, and to know how to paint is the main thing. To my thinking, the most wretched talent is worth more than the most splendid doctrine, and the most splendid doctrine is not worthy to clean the boots of freedom. THAT THIRD WOMAN. 515 CHAPTER X. WAS with Kazia and the Suslovskis at the exhi- bition. There are crowds before my picture at all times. They began to whisper the moment we entered; and this time they looked mostly, not at the picture, and not at me, but at Kazia. The women especially did not take their eyes from her. I saw that she was pleased with this fabulously; but I did not take it ill of her. I take it worse that she said of Antek's corpses, “that is not a decent picture.” Suslovski declared that she had taken the words out of his mouth; but I was raging. To think that Kazia too should have such a view of art From anger I took farewell of them at once, on pre- tence that I must see Ostrynski. I went to his office, it is true, but to induce him to dine with me. CHAPTER XI. SAW a miracle, and that's the end of it. Now for the first time I understand why a man has eyes. Corpo di Bacco ; what beauty I am walking with Ostrynski; I see on a sudden at the corner of Willow Street some woman passing quickly. I stand as if fixed to the earth; I become oak ; I become stone; I stare; I lose consciousness; without knowing it I seize Ostrynski by the cravat ; I loosen his cravat — and — save me, or I die What that she has perfect features 2 It is not the features, she is simply an artist's ideal, a masterpiece as 516 THAT THIRD WOMAN. •=e^* * outline, a masterpiece as coloring, a masterpiece as senti- ment. Greuze would have risen from the dead in her presence, and hanged himself then for having painted so much ugliness. I gaze and gaze. She is walking alone, – how alone 7 Poetry is walking with her; music, spring, splendor, and love are walking with her. I know not whether I should prefer to paint her immediately; I should rather kneel before her and kiss her feet, because such a woman was born. Finally, do I know what I would do She passes us as serenely as a summer day. Ostrynski bows to her; but she does not see him. I wake from my amazement and Cry, — “Tet us follow her | * “No,” answers Ostrynski; “have you gone mad 2 I must tie my cravat. Give me peace that is an acquaint- ance of mine.” “An acquaintance of yours ? Present me.” “I do not think of it; look to your own betrothed.” I hurl a curse at Ostrynski and his posterity to the ninth generation; then I wish to fly after the unknown. To my misfortune, she has entered an open carriage. Only from a distance do I see her straw hat and red parasol. “Do you know her really 2” ask I of Ostrynski. “I know all people.” “Who is She 2’’ “Pani Helena Kolchanovski of the house of Turno, otherwise Panna Vdova [Miss Widow], so called.” “Why Miss Widow 2° “Because her husband died at their wedding supper. If you have recovered, I will tell you her history. There was a rich, childless bachelor, Kolchanovski de Kolcha- novo, a noble of the Ukraine. He had immensely hon- *. *~ THAT THIRD WOMAN. 517 orable relatives who hoped to be his heirs, and an im- measurably short neck, which gave the greater hopes to the heirs. I knew those heirs. They were in truth per- fectly honorable people; but what's to be done º The most honorable and the least interested of them could not refrain from looking at Kolchanovski's neck. This annoyed the old man so intensely that out of spite to the family he paid court to a neighbor's daughter, drew up a document, conveyed to her all his property, then married her; after the ceremony there was dancing; at the end of the dancing a supper; at the end of the supper apoplexy killed him on the spot. In that way Madame Helena Kolchanovski became Miss Widow.” “Was that long ago?” “Three years. At that time she was twenty-two years of age. Since then she might have married twenty-two times; but she does nºt want to marry. Peo- ple supposed that she was waiting for a prince. It turned out that that was not true; for she fired a prince out a little while ago. Besides I know well that she has no pretensions; the best proof of which is that Pani Kol- chanovski lives to this time in close friendship with our well-known, sympathetic, gifted, etc., Eva Adami, who was a friend of hers in the boarding-school.” Hearing this, I just jumped from joy. If that is true, no more of Ostrynski. My beloved, honest Evusial will Smooth the way for my acquaintance with Pani Helena. “Well, then you won't take me to her ?” asked I of Ostrynski. “Decidedly not; if any man wishes to make the ac- quaintance of any one in the city, why, he will make it.” answered Ostrynski; “but because you put me out with * A form of endearment for Eva. 518 THAT THIRD WOMAN. Kazia, I do not wish people to say in the present case that I caused — Do I know 2 Be in good health !” 1 CHAPTER XII. WAS to dine with the Suslovskis, but I wrote them that I could nºt come. My teeth have never ached, it is true, but then they might ache. Helena did not go from my eyes all day; for what sort of a painter would he be, who would not think of such a face 2 I painted in my soul ten portraits of her. To my mind came the idea of a picture, in which such a face as Helena's would make a splendid impression. It was only necessary to see her a couple of times more. I flew to Eva Adami's, but did not find her. In the even- ing I receive a card from Kazia with an invitation for the morning to waters in the garden, and then to coffee. Those waters and that coffee are a regular saw I cannot go; for if I do not find Eva at home in the morning, I shall not catch her all day. Eva Adami (that is her stage appellation ; her real name is Anna Yedlinski) is an exceptional maiden. I have enjoyed her friendship this long time, and we say “ thou” to each other. This is her ninth year on the stage, and she has remained pure in the full sense of the word. In theatres, there are, it is true, plenty of women who are innocent physically; but if their corsets could betray all the desires of those women, I suppose that the most shameless baboon, on hearing the story, might blush at all points not covered with hair. The theatre spoils souls, especially female souls. 1 This means farewell. THAT THIRD WOMAN. 519 It is difficult even to ask that in a woman, who every evening feigns love, fidelity, nobleness, and similar quali- ties, there should not be developed at last an instinctive feeling that all these virtues belong to the drama, but have no connection with life. The immense difference between art and reality confirms her in this feeling; rivalry and envy roused by applause poison the heart's noblest impulses. Continual contact with people so spoiled as actors excites lower instincts. There is not a White Angora Cat which would not be soiled in such an environment. This environment can be conquered only by great genius, which purifies itself in the fire of art; or a nature so thoroughly aesthetic that evil does not pass through it, as water does not pass through the feathers of a Swan. Of such impermeable natures is Eva Adami. At night, at tea, and the pipe more than once, I have talked with my colleagues about people belonging to the world of art, beginning with the highest, that is, poets, and ending with the lowest, that is, actors. A being who has imagination developed beyond ordi- nary mortals, a being impressionable beyond others, sen- suous, passionate, a being who, in the domain of happiness and delight, knows everything, and desires with unheard of intensity, - that is an artist. He should have three times the character and will-power of others to conquer temptation. Meanwhile, as there is no reason why a flower, beauti- ful beyond others, should have greater strength to resist wind, there is no reason why an artist should have more character than an ordinary person. On the con- trary, there is reason why, as a rule, he has less, for his vital energy is wasted in that gulf which divides the world of art from the world of every-day reality. 520 THAT THIRD WOMAN. He is simply a sick bird, in a continual fever, — a bird which at times vanishes from the eye beneath the clouds, and at times drags its wearied wings in the dust and the mire. Art gives him a disgust for dust and mire; but life takes strength of flight from him. Hence that dis- cord which is so frequent between the external and the internal life of artists. The World, when it asks more from artists than from others, and when it condemns them, is right perhaps; but Christ, too, will be right when He saves them. Ostrynski maintains, it is true, that actors belong to the artistic world as much as clarionets and French horns belong to it. But that is not true; the best proof is Eva Adami, who is a thorough artist, both by gifts and that feeling which has preserved her from evil as a mother would. In spite of all the friendship which I have for Eva, I had not seen her for a long time; when she saw me then, she was very glad, though she had a certain astonished look, which I could not explain. - “How art thou, Vladzio !” I asked she. “For a wonder I see thee.” I was delighted to find her. She wore a Turkish morning gown with split sleeves; it had red palm-leaves on a cream-colored ground, and was bordered with wide embroidery in old gold. The rich embroidery was re- flected with special beauty in her pale face and violet eyes. I told her so, and she was greatly pleased. I came to the point then at once. “My golden diva thou knowest Pani Kolchanovski, that wonderful lady of the Ukraine !” “I do ; she was my schoolmate.” “Take me to her.” 1 A form of endearment for Vladek or Vladislav. THAT THIRD WOMAN. 521 Eva shook her head. “My golden, my good one, as thou lovest me “No, Vladek, I will not take thee!” “See how bad thou art; but at One time I was almost in love with thee.” - What a mimosa that Eva is . When she hears this, she changes, puts her elbow on the table (a miracle, not an elbow), puts her pale face on her palm and asks, – “When was that ?” I was in a hurry to speak of Helena ; but since on a time I had in truth almost fallen in love with Eva, and since I wish now to bring her into good humor, I begin the narrative, – “We were going once, after the theatre, to the botani- cal garden. Dost thou remember what a wonderful night that was 2 We were sitting on a bench near the fountain ; thou hadst just said, ‘I should like to hear a nightingale.' I was sad for some reason, and took off my cap, for my head was aching; and thou, going to the fountain, moistened a handkerchief, and put it on my forehead with thy hand. Thou didst seem simply as good as an angel, and I thought to myself: If I take that hand and put my lips to it, all will be over ! I shall be in love to the death.” “And then what ?” asks Eva, in an undertone. “Thou didst step aside quickly, as if divining something.” Eva sat a while in thought, then woke from it and said with nervous haste, “Let us not speak of this matter, I pray thee.” “Well, let us not speak of it. Dost thou know, Eva, I like thee too well to fall in love with thee ? One feel- ing excludes the other. From the time that I made thy acquaintance, I have had for thee a real genuine feeling" | 22 522 THAT THIRD WOMAN. “But,” said Eva, as if following her own thoughts, “is it true that thou art betrothed ?” “True.” “Why hast thou not told me of it !” “Because the engagement was broken, and then re- arranged not long since. But if thou tell me that as betrothed I should not become acquainted with Pani Helena, I will answer, that I was a painter before I was betrothed. However, thou hast no fear for her ?” “Do not imagine that. I will not take thee to her, for I do not wish to expose her to people's tongues. They say that for some weeks half Warsaw is in love with thee; they relate uncreated things of thy conduct. No longer back than yesterday, I heard a witticism, that thou hast made the ten commandments of God into One for thy own use. Knowest thou into what one 2 ° “What One 2 ° “Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s wife — in vain.” “Thou, O God, seest my suffering ! but the witticism is good.” “And surely pointed.” “Listen to me, Evus;" art thou willing to hear the whole truth 2 I have ever been timid, awkward : I have not had, and have not now success with women. People imagine, God knows what ; and meanwhile they do not suspect how much truth there is in the cry, Thou, O God, seest my suffering !” “Povero maestro !” “Give peace to thy Italian ; take me to Pani Helena.” “My Vladek, I cannot ; the more thou art thought a Don Juan, the less does it beseem me, an actress, to take thee to a lone woman who attracts the attention that Hela 3 does.” 1 Eva. 2 Helena. THAT THIRD WOMAN. 523 “Then why dost thou receive me?” “I am different. I am an actress, and can apply to myself the words of Shakespeare, ‘Be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as Snow, thou shalt not escape calumny.’” “It is possible to lose one's senses in such a case. Every one may know her, may be at her house, may look at her; but I may not And why Z Because I have painted a good picture and have made some reputation.” “From thy point of view, thou art right,” said Eva, smiling. “Thou dost not suspect that I knew before- hand why thou hast come to me. Ostrynski was here, and he persuaded me that it was ‘better' not to take thee to Hela.” “Ha, I understand 1– and thou hast promised him 2" “I have not ; I was even angry; still I think it is ‘better’ not to take thee. Let us talk now of thy picture.” “Do not torment me with the picture and painting. But since things are so, let them be so I This is what I will tell thee: in the course of three days I will make the acquaintance of Pani Kolchanovski, even if I have to go in disguise to her.” “Dress up as gardener and take her a bouquet — from Ostrynski.” But at that moment an idea altogether different comes to me; this idea seems so splendid that I strike my forehead, forget my anger and the offence which a moment before I felt that Eva had committed, and say, — “Give thy word not to betray me.” “I give it,” says the curious Eva. “Know, then, that I shall disguise myself as an old minstrel. I have a whole costume and a lyre; I have been in the Ukraine, and know how to sing songs. Pani 524 THAT THIRD WOMAN. Helena is from the Ukraine; she will be sure to receive me. Dost thou understand now 2 ” “What an original idea 1" cried Eva. Eva is artistic to such a degree that the idea cannot but please her; besides, she has given her word not to betray me, and she has no objection to make. “What an original idea 1" repeats she. “Hela so loves her Ukraine that she will just sob when she sees a min- strel in Warsaw ; but what wilt thou tell her ? How wilt thou explain thy coming to the Vistula 2° My enthusiasm is communicated to Eva in spite of her. For a time we sit and conspire in the best fashion possi- ble. We agree that I am to put on the disguise; and Eva is to take me in a carriage to avoid the curiosity of on- lookers. Pani Hela is to know nothing till Eva betrays the secret herself, when she chooses. Eva and I amuse ourselves with this plan, perfectly; then I fall to kissing her hands, and she keeps me for lunch. I spend the evening at the Suslovskis. Kazia is a little gloomy because I did not come in the morning; but I endure her humors like an angel, besides, I am thinking of my adventure of the morrow and — of Hela. CHAPTER XIII. LEVEN o'clock in the forenoon. Only somehow Eva is not visible. I am wearing a coarse linen shirt, open at the breast, a coat somewhat worn, but fairly good, a girdle, boots, everything that is needed. The hair of a gray wig falls in my eyes; and he would have been a keen man who could have recognized that as a wig; my beard was a masterpiece of patience. From eight o'clock in the THAT THIRD WOMAN. 525 morning I had been fastening, by means of isinglass, white hair among my own, and I had become gray in such fashion that in old age I shall not grow gray more natu- rally; diluted sepia gave me swarthiness; and Antek made wrinkles with the power of a genius. I seemed to be seventy years old. Antek insists that, instead of painting, I could earn my bread as a model, which would in truth be with greater profit to art. Half-past eleven — Eva is coming. I send to the carriage a bundle containing my usual clothing, since, for aught I know, I may be obliged to change costume; I take the lyre then, and go down; at the door of the carriage I cry, - “Slava Bogu !” 1 Eva is astonished and enchanted. “A wonderful beekeeper, a wonderful grandfather l’’ repeats she, laughing. “Such a thing could only come to the head of an artist l’’ Speaking in parenthesis, she herself looks like a sum- mer morning. She is in a robe of raw silk and a straw hat with poppies. I cannot take my eyes from her. She came in an open carriage. Therefore people begin at Once to surround us; but what does she care for that At last the carriage moves on ; my heart beats with more animation; in a quarter of an hour I shall see the Helena dreamed of. We have not driven a hundred yards when I see Ostrynski at a distance coming toward us. That man must be omnipresent Seeing us, he halts, bows to Eva, then looks quickly at both of us, especially at me. I do not admit that he recognizes me; still, after we pass him * This is Russian. Glory to God. 526 THAT THIRD WOMAN. I look around, and see that he is standing there all the time, following us with his eyes. Only at the turn do We lose him from sight. The carriage moves on rather Swiftly; still it seems to me that the ride lasts an age. At length we stop in the alley of Belvedere. We are before Hela’s house. I fly to the door as if shot at it. Eva runs after me, crying, — “What a hateful old grandfather l’’ The servant, in a very showy livery, opens the door; and the next instant opens his eyes very widely at sight of me. Eva allays his astonishment, saying that the grandfather came with her, and we go upstairs. The waiting-maid appears in a moment, declares that the lady is dressing in the next chamber, and vanishes. “Good-day, Hela : * cries Eva. “Good-day, Evus !” answers a wonderful, a fresh voice, “right away right away ! I shall be ready in a moment.” “Hela, thou knowest not what is waiting for thee, nor whom thou wilt see. I have brought thee a “grandfather,’ — the most genuine ‘grandfather-minstrel' that has ever walked over the steppes of the Ukraine.” A cry of joy is heard in the chamber; the door opens suddenly, and in rushes Hela, in her corsets, her hair hanging down. “A grandfather a blind grandfather here in Warsaw " “He is not blind; he sees | * cried Eva, hurriedly, not wishing to carry the jest too far. But it was late, for that instant I throw myself at Hela’s feet, and cry, - “Cherub of the Lord | * I embrace her feet with both hands, raising my eyes the while ; I see a little more than the form of those THAT THIRD WOMAN. 527 feet. Nations kneel down | People come with censers A Venus of Milo a perfect one ! “Cherub l’ I repeat, with genuine ecstasy. My minstrel enthusiasm was explained by this, that after long wandering I had met the first Ukraine soul. Notwithstanding that, Hela withdraws her feet from my hands and hurries away. I see her bare shoulders during the twinkle of an eye, and her neck, which reminds me of Psyche in the Neapolitan Museum. She vanishes then through the doorway; but I remain kneeling in the middle of the room. Eva threatens me with her parasol, and laughs, hiding her rosy face in a bouquet of reseda. Meanwhile a dialogue is begun through the door in the most beautiful dialect ever spoken from the Pripet to Chertomelik. I had prepared myself for every possible query, there- fore I lie as if from notes. “I am a beekeeper, from near Chigirin. My daughter wandered after a Pole to War- saw ; and I, old man, was grieving, grieving on the bee- farm, till I wandered on after her. Good people give me coppers for singing — and now what ? I shall see my dear child, give her my blessing, then return home, because I yearn for Mother Ukraine. There I am to die among the beehives. Every man must die; and it is time for old Philip this long while.” What a thing the actor nature is Evus knows who I am; but she is affected so much by my rôle that she be- gins to nod her beautiful head in a melancholy manner, and looks at me with sympathy. Hela's voice quivers from the other room, also with emotion. The door opens a little; a wonderfully white arm appears through the opening; and, unexpectedly, I find myself in possession of three rubles, which I receive; I 528 THAT THIRD WOMAN. cannot do otherwise, and what is more, I pour out on Hela's head a torrent of blessings in the names of all the Saints. I am interrupted by the waiting-maid with the an- nouncement that Pan Ostrynski is downstairs, and inquires if the lady will receive him. “Don’t let him in, my dear !” cries Eva, in alarm. Hela declares that of course she will not receive him. She even expresses astonishment at such an early visit. I, to tell the truth, also do not understand how Ostrynski, who boasts, and is celebrated for his knowledge of social forms, should come at that hour. “There is something in this,” says Eva. But time fails for further explanations, since Hela appears at that moment already dressed, and breakfast is announced. Both ladies pass into the dining-room. Hela wishes to seat me at the table; but I refuse, and sit with my lyre at the threshold. Soon I receive a plate so filled with food that if six grandfathers of the Ukraine were to eat all of it, they might have a fit of indigestion. But I eat, for I am hungry, and while eating I look at Hela. In truth, a more beautiful head there is not in any gal- lery on earth. As I live, I have not seen such transparent eyes; it is simply possible to see all thoughts through them, just as the bottom of a clear stream is seen. Those eyes possess this power also, that they begin to laugh be- fore the mouth ; by this the face is brightened, as if a sun- ray had fallen on it. What incomparable sweetness in the form of the mouth ! That is a head somewhat in the style of Carlo Dolce, though the outline of the brows and the eyes bring to mind Raphael in his noblest type. . At last I cease to eat; I gaze and gaze; I would gaze till death. THAT THIRD WOMAN. 529 “Thou wert not here yesterday,” says Hela to Eva. “I hoped all the afternoon to see thee run in.” “In the morning I had a rehearsal, and in the afternoon I wanted to see Magorski's picture.” “Didst see it !” “Not well, for there was a crowd — and thou?” “I went in the morning. What a poet – one wishes to weep with those Jews.” Eva looks at me, and my soul rises. “I will go again, and as often as I can,” says Hela. “Let us go together; maybe we can go to-day ? It was so agreeable to me not only to look at that picture, but to think that such power appeared among us.” And people do not glorify that woman Then I hear further, — “It is a pity that such strange things are told of that Magorski. I confess that I am dying of curiosity to know him.” -* “Ah !” says Eva, carelessly. “Thou knowest him, I suppose ?” “I can assure thee that he loses much on closer acquaintance ; presumptuous, vain, Oh, how vain " I have such a desire to show Eva my tongue that I can barely restrain myself; she turns her roguish violet eyes toward me, and says, – “Somehow thou hast lost appetite, grandfather ?” I’ll show her my tongue; I can’t restrain myself! But she spoke again to Hela, - “Yes, Magorski is much worthier of admiration than of acquaintance. Ostrynski has described him as a genius in the body of a ‘barber.’” I should cut off Ostrynski's ears if he had said anything similar; I knew that Eva has the devil at her collar; but in truth she is exceeding the measure. Fortunately, 34 530 THAT THIRD WOMAN. breakfast comes to an end. We go out to the grounds, Where I am to give my songs. This annoys me some- what, and I should rather be with Hela as a painter than a minstrel. But it is hard to escape I sit at the wall in the shade of chestnut-trees, through the leaves of which the sun penetrates, forming on the ground a multitude of bright spots. Those spots quiver and twinkle, vanish and shine out anew, just as the leaves move. The garden is very deep, so the sound of the city barely reaches it, especially since it is dulled by the noise of fountains in the garden. The heat is great. Among the thick leaves, the twittering of sparrows is heard; but it is faint and, as it were, drowsy. At last there is silence. I see that a perfectly harmonious picture is forming : A garden, a background of trees, spots of sunlight, foun- tains, those two women with uncommonly beautiful faces one of them leaning against the other; and I see an old minstrel sitting with a lyre at the wall, - all this has its own charm which affects me as a painter. Meanwhile I remember my rôle, and begin to sing with feeling, — “People say that I am happy; I laugh at their saying, For they know not how often I am covered with tears “I was born in misfortune, In misfortune I perish. Why didst bear me, O mother, In that evil hour?” Eva is affected, for she is an artist; Hela because she is from the Ukraine; and I — because both are so beautiful that the sight of them enchants me. Hela listens without exaggerated attention, without false enthusiasm; but in her transparent eyes I see that the listening gives her pure, genuine pleasure. THAT THIRD WOMAN. 531 How different from those Ukraine women who come to Warsaw for the carnival, and during a contra-dance annoy partners with tales of homesickness for the Ukraine; while, in fact, as an acquaintance of mine puts it, no power could draw one of them with hooks from Warsaw and the carnival to her Ukraine ! Hela listens, keeps time with her exquisite head; at moments she says to Eva, “I know that,” and sings with me; I surpass myself. I cast forth from my bosom and memory a whole stock of material from the steppe, be- ginning with hetmans, knights, and Cossacks, and ending with falcons, Sonyas, Marusyas, steppes, grave-mounds, and God knows what I am astonished myself, whence so much comes to me. Time passes as in a dream, I return a trifle weary, but enchanted. CHAPTER XIV. N the studio I find, most unexpectedly, the Suslovskis and Kazia. They have come to give me a surprise. Why did Antek tell them that surely I should be back soon 2 Neither Kazia nor the Suslovskis know me, because I am disguised. I approach Kazia and take her hand; she draws back, somewhat frightened. “Kazia, dost thou not know me?” And laughter seizes me at sight of her astonishment. “But it is Vladek,” says Antek. Kazia looks at me more carefully; at last she cries, – “Tfu ! what an ugly grandfather l’’ I an ugly grandfather I am curious to know where she saw a handsomer. But for poor Kazia, reared in the 532 THAT THIRD woMAN. ascetic principles of her father, of course every minstrel is ugly I withdraw to our kitchen, and after a few minutes reappear in my natural form. Kazia and her parents in- quire what this masquerade means. “A very simple thing. You see, sometimes we painters render one another a friendly service, and pose to one another for pictures. As Antek, who posed to me for an old Jew. You did n’t know him, Kazia, did you, in the picture ? I am posing for Tsepkovski. Such is the cus- tom among painters, especially as there is a lack of models in Warsaw.” “We have come to give thee a surprise,” said Kazia; “besides, I have never visited a studio in my life. Oh, what disorder Is it this way with all painters ?” “More or less, more or less.” Pan Suslovski declares that he would rather find a little more system ; and in this respect he hopes for a change in the future. I want to break his head with my lyre. Meanwhile Kazia smiles with coquettishness, and says, – “There is one painter, a great good-for-nothing, with whom it will be different; only let me take the matter in hand, all will be put in order, arranged, cleaned, fumigated.” Thus speaking, she raises her nose, which is in the air, looks at the festoons of spider-webs adorning the corners of our studio, and adds, – “Such disorder might discourage a merchant even. Some one will come, and immediately find himself, as it were, in an old clothes shop. For example, look at that armor; terrible how rusty it is Still, all that is needed is to call a servant, tell her to crush a little brick; and all will begin to shine like a new samovar.” THAT THIRD WOMAN. 533 Jesus Mary She talks of merchants, and wants to clean with brick-dust my armor dug out of a tomb – O Kazia, Kazia Suslovski, now happy, kisses her on the forehead; and Antek gives out certain ominous sounds which call to mind the grunting of a wild boar. Kazia threatens me with forefinger on her nose, and talks on, — “I beg thee to remember that all will be changed.” Then she concludes, “And if a certain gentleman will not come to us this evening, he will be bad, and people will not love him.” So saying, she closes her eyes. I cannot say that there was not much charm in those tricks of hers. I promise to come ; and I conduct my future family to the ground- floor. Returning, I find Antek looking awry and distrustfully on a whole package of hundred ruble notes which are lying on the table. “What is that ?” “Dost know what has happened 2* “I do not.” “I, like a common thief, robbed a man.” “How 2 ” “I sold him my corpses.” “And is that the money 2” “It is ; I am a low usurer.” I embrace Antek; I congratulate him from my whole heart; he begins to relate how it happened, – “I sit here after your departure, till some gentleman comes and asks if I am Svyatetski. I answer, “I am curious to know why I should not be Svyatetski!' Then he says, “I saw your picture and I want to buy it.' I say, ‘You are free to do so; but permit me to say that a 534 THAT THIRD WOMAN. man must be an idiot to buy a wretched picture.’ ‘ I am not an idiot,’ says he ; ‘but I have a fancy to buy pictures painted by idiots.” “If that is so, very well, I answer. He asks the price. I say, ‘What is that to me !” “I will give you so much and so much 3' ‘That is well if you will give that price, then give it.’ He gave it, and went away. He left his card with the name Byalkovski, M. D. I am a low usurer, and that's the end of the matter | * “Long life to the corpses Antek, get married.” “I would rather hang myself; I am a low usurer, noth- ing more.” CHAPTER XV. N the evening I am at the Suslovskis; Kazia and I are in the niche in which there is a small sofa. Pani Suslovski is sitting at a table lighted by a lamp, and is sewing on something for Kazia's trousseau. Pan Sus- lovski sits at a table reading, with dignity, the evening number of “The Kite.” Somehow I am not myself; I wish to dissipate that feeling by pushing up very near Kazia. In the salon silence is supreme; it is interrupted only by Kazia's whisper. I beg to embrace her; she whispers, “Vladek, papa will see us.” With that “papa.” begins to read aloud, “The picture of our well-known artist, Svyatetski, ‘The Last Meeting,' was bought to-day by Dr. Byalkovski for fifteen hundred rubles.” “That is true,” I add. “Antek sold it this morning.” Then I try to embrace Kazia, and again I hear her whisper, — “Papa will see us — ” THAT THIRD WOMAN. 535 My eyes turn involuntarily to Pan Suslovski. I see on a sudden that his face is changing; he shades his eyes with his hands and bends over “The Kite.” What the devil can he find there of such interest ? “Father, what is the matter ?” asks Pani Suslovski. He rises, advances two steps toward us, then halts, transfixes me with a glance, and, clasping his hands begins to nod his head. “What is the matter ?” I ask. “See how falsehood and crime come always to the surface,” answers Suslovski, pathetically. “My dear sir, read to the end, if shame will permit.” Thus speaking, he makes a movement as if to wrap himself in his toga, and gives me “The Kite.” I take the number, and my glance falls on an announcement entitled: “A Minstrel of the Ukraine.” I am confused somewhat, and read hurriedly the following, — “Some days since a rare guest came to our city in the person of a decrepit minstrel who visits Ukraine families resident among us, begging them for alms, and singing songs in return. It is said that our well-known and sym- pathetic actress, Eva Adami, is particularly occupied with him ; he was seen with her in a carriage no longer ago than this morning. In the first days of the appearance of this guest from a distance, a wonderful report rose that under the coat of the minstrel is hidden one of the most famous of our artists, who, in this manner, without arrest- ing the attention of husbands and guardians, finds easy access to boudoirs. We are convinced that this report has no foundation, even for this reason alone, that our diva would never consent to further an undertaking of that kind. The old man, according to our information, has wandered in here straight from the Ukraine. His intelli- gence is dulled somewhat ; but his memory is perfect.” 536 THAT THIRD WOMAN. “Hell ” Suslovski is so enraged that he cannot recover his voice; at last he casts forth his superabundance of indignation, — “What new falsehood, what excuse will you find to justify your conduct Have we not seen you to-day in that shameful disguise ? Who is that minstrel?” “I am that minstrel,” I answer; “but I do not under- stand why you find that disguise shameful.” At that moment Kazia snatches “The Kite ” from my hand and begins to read. Suslovski wraps himself still more closely in the toga of indignation and continues, – “Scarcely have you passed the threshold of an honest house when you bring with you corruption; and before you are the husband of that unfortunate child, you, in company with women of light character, betray her; you trample already on her confidence and ours; you break your plighted word — and for whom ? For a hetaira of the theatre l’ Anger carries me off at last. “My dear sir,” say I, “enough of those commonplaces. That hetaira is worth ten such false Catos as you. You are nothing to me yet; and know this, that you annoy me! I have enough of you with your pathos, with your —” Here words fail me; but I have no further need of them, for Suslovski is opening his waistcoat, as if wishing to say, - “Strike spare not, here is my breast !” But I have no thought of striking; I declare simply that I am going, lest I might say something more to Pan Suslovski. In fact, I leave without saying farewell to any one. The fresh breeze cools my heated head. Nine o'clock in the evening, and the night is very calm. I must walk THAT THIRD WOMAN. 537 to regain my composure, therefore I fly to the Alley of the Belvedere. The windows in Hela's villa are dark. Evidently she is not at home. I know not myself why that causes me immense disappointment. If I could see even her shadow on the window-pane, I should grow calm ; but as it is, anger bears me away again. What I shall do with that Ostrynski at the first meet- ing — I know not. Fortunately, he is not a man who withdraws before responsibility. But speaking precisely, what claim have I against him The article is written with infernal dexterity. Ostrynski denies that the minstrel is a disguised painter; he stands up, as it were, for Eva ; but at the same time betrays the whole secret to Hela. Evidently he is trying to compromise Eva in the opinion of Hela ; he takes vengeance on me for Kazia, and covers me besides with ridicule. If only he had n’t said that my intelligence is blunted The deed is done. In Hela's eyes I am covered with ridicule. She reads “The Kite.” Oh, what a dish of hash, and what bitterness for Eva How that Ostrynski must triumph! Surely I must do something; but if I know what, may I become a reporter for “The Kite ” It occurs to me to take counsel with Eva. She plays to-day ; I will fly to the theatre and see her after the play. There is time yet. Half an hour later I am in her dressing-room. Eva will finish directly; meanwhile, I look around. Our theatres are not distinguished, as is known, for luxury of furnishing. A chamber with white walls; two 538 THAT THIRD WOMAN. jets of gas quivering from the draught; a mirror; a wash- stand; a number of chairs; and in one corner a long chair, probably the private property of the diva, – this is her dressing-room. Before the mirror a multitude of toilet articles, a cup of black coffee partly drunk, boxes with rouge and white, lead for the brows, a number of pairs of gloves, still retaining the form of the hand, and among them two false tresses; at the side walls bunches of costumes, white, rose-colored, dark, light, and heavy; on the floor are two baskets full of things pertaining to female costumes. The room is full of odor of toilet powder. What a medley everywhere; how everything has been cast about in a hurry ! How many colors and reflections; what shadows; what a play of light from the quivering gas-jets That is a picture of its own kind; there is character in it. Of course there is nothing here more than in an Ordinary dressing-room of a woman, still there is some- thing which causes that chamber to seem, not a dressing- room, but a sanctuary of some kind; there is a certain spell and charm there. Above this disorder, this medley and hurry, between these scratched walls, hovers the inspiration of art. A thunder of applause is heard. Ha! it is finished. Through the walls come to my ears the sound of calling; “Adami ! Adami !” A quarter of an hour passes; they are shouting yet. At last Eva rushes in ; she is in the character of “Theodora.” She has a crown on her head; her eyes blackened underneath; on her cheeks a blush of rouge; her dishevelled hair falls like a storm on her naked neck and shoulders. She is feverish and exhausted to that degree that she speaks to me in a whisper barely audible. THAT THIRD WOMAN. 539 “How art thou, Vladek 2" and removing her crown hurriedly, she throws herself in her regal robes on the long chair. Evidently she cannot utter words; for she looks at me silently, like a suffering bird. I sit near her, place my hand on her head, and think only of her. I see in those blackened eyes the flame of unquenched ecstasy; I see on that forehead simply the stigma of art. I see that the woman brings to the altar of that theatri- cal Moloch her health, blood, and life, that breath is lack- ing in her breast at that moment. Such pity embraces me, such Sorrow, such sympathy, that I know not what to do. We sit some time in silence; at last Eva points to a number of “The Kite ” lying on the toilet table, and whispers, – “What a vexation, what a vexation l’’ Suddenly she bursts into nervous weeping, and trem- bles like a leaf. I know that she is weeping from weariness, not be- cause of “The Kite;” for that article is buffoonery which every one will forget to-morrow ; and the whole of Ostrynski is not worth one tear from Eva ; still my heart is straitened the more. I seize her hands and cover them with kisses. I take her; I press her to my breast. My heart begins to beat with growing violence; something amazing takes place in me. I kneel down at Eva's knees, not knowing myself what I am doing; a cloud covers my eyes; suddenly I seize her in my arms, without thinking what I do. “Vladek, Vladek, pity!” whispers Eva. But I press her to my stormy breast; I know nothing of anything. I have lost my wits I kiss her on the forehead, mouth, eyes; I can only say, - 540 THAT THIRD WOMAN. * I love thee I love — ” With that Eva's head drops back; her arms enclose my neck feverishly, and I hear the whisper, — “I have loved thee this long time.” CHAPTER XVI. F for me there is a dearer creature on earth, I am a pickled herring. They say that we artists do everything under the first impression of the moment; that is not true for it seems that I loved Eva long ago, only I was ass enough not to see it. God alone knows what took place in me while I attended her home that evening. We went hand in hand, without speaking. From moment to moment I pressed Eva's arm to my side, and she pressed mine. I felt that she loved me with all her power. I conducted her upstairs, and when we were in her little drawing-room, the position became in some way so awkward for us that we did n’t dare to look into each other's eyes. But when Eva covered her face with her hands, I removed them gently and said, – “Evus, thou art mine, is it not true !” And she nestled up to me. “I am, I am.” She was so beautiful, her eyes were drowsy, and at the same time gleaming, there was such a sweet weariness in her whole posture that I could not break away from her. And in truth she could not break from me; she wished, as it were, to reward herself for continued silence, and for such a long-concealed feeling. I returned home late. Antek was not sleeping yet ; THAT THIRD WOMAN. 541 he was drawing by lamplight, on wood, for one of the illustrated papers. * “There is a letter here for you,” said he, without rais- ing his eyes from his work. I take a letter from the table and feel a ring through the envelope. Good that ring will do for to-morrow. I open the letter, and read as follows, – I know that the return of this ring will cause pleasure, for you had this in view evidently. As to me, I do not think of rivalling actresses. KAZIA. At least it is brief. From this letter anger alone is looking forth, nothing more. If any shade of charm surrounded Kazia in my eyes hitherto, that shade is blown away now beyond return. A wonderful thing! all supposed that Eva was the cause of my disguise and of all those adventures; and in truth the cause of what follows will be Eva. I crush the letter, put it in my pocket, and go to bed. Antek raises his eyes from his work, and looks in expectation that I will say something; but I am silent. “That scoundrel Ostrynski was here this evening after the theatre,” said Antek. CHAPTER XVII. N the morning about ten o'clock I wish to fly to Eva; but I cannot, for I have guests. Baron Kartofler comes and engages a duplicate of my “Jews.” He offers me fifteen hundred rubles; I want two thousand. The bargain is made at that price. After his departure I receive an order for two portraits 542 THAT THIRD WOMAN. from Tanzenberg. Antek, who is an Anti-Semite, reviles me as a Jewish painter; but I am curious to know who would buy productions of art, if not the “finance.” If the “finance” is afraid of Antek's corpses, the fault is not mine. I am with Eva at one o'clock. I give her the ring, and declare that we shall go to Rome after our marriage. Eva consents with delight. We are as much given to talking to-day as we were to silence last evening. I tell her of the order which I have received, and we rejoice together. I must finish the portraits before our depart- ure; but “the Jews" for Kartofler I will paint in Rome. When we return to Warsaw, I will fit up a studio, and we will live as in heaven. While forming these projects, I tell Eva that we will keep the anniversary of yesterday as a holiday all our lives. She hides her face on my shoulder, and begs me not to mention it. Then she winds the split sleeves of her gown round my neck, and calls me her great man. She is paler than usual; her eyes are more violet than usual, but they are beaming with gladness. Ah what an ass, that having near me such a woman I was seeking for happiness elsewhere, in a circle where I was a perfect stranger, and which was strange to me. What an artistic nature that of Eva She is my betrothed, accepts the rôle at once, and involuntarily plays the part of a young and happy affianced. But I do not take that ill of a beloved creature, after so many years in a theatre. After dinner we go to Hela Kolchanovski's. From the moment that Eva can present me as her betrothed, the minstrel trick becomes innocent and can cause no misunderstanding between those two ladies. In THAT THIRD WOMAN. 543 fact, when Hela heard of the engagement, she received us with open arms, and was delighted at Eva's happiness. We laugh like three maniacs at the “grandfather,” and at that which the “grandfather” had to hear concerning the painter Magorski. Yesterday I wanted to put a stiletto into Ostrynski; to-day I am astonished at his cleverness. Hela laughs so heartily that her transparent eyes are filled with tears. Speaking in parenthesis, she is marvel- lous. When she inclines her head at the end of the visit, I cannot take my eyes from it; and Eva herself is under its spell to such a degree that during the day she imi- tates unconsciously that bending of the neck and that look. We agree that, after our return from abroad, I shall paint a portrait of Hela ; but first I shall make my Eva in Rome, if I can reproduce those features, which are so delicate that they are almost over-refined, and that face, so impressionable that every emotion is reflected in it as a cloud in clear water. But I shall succeed; why should n't I? The evening “Kite ” publishes uncreated tales of the Orders which have come to me; my income is reckoned by thousands. That in a small degree is the reason, perhaps, that next day I receive a letter from Kazia, stating that she returned the ring under the influence of anger and jealousy, but if I come and we fall at the feet of her parents, they will let themselves be implored. I have enough of that falling at the feet and those forgivenesses. I do not answer. Let him fall at Sus- lovski's feet who wants to ; let Kazia marry Ostrynski I have my Eva. But my silence casts an evident panic on the Sus- 544 THAT THIRD WOMAN. lovski family; for a few days later the same messenger comes with a letter from Kazia, but this time to Antek. Antek shows me the letter. Kazia prays him to come for a moment's conversation concerning an affair on which her whole future depends; she reckons on his heart, on that sense of justice which from the first glance of the eye she divined in him. She has the hope that he will not refuse the prayer of an unhappy woman. Antek curses, mutters something under his nose about low Philistines, and about the necessity of hanging both them and their posterity at the next opportunity; but he goes. I divine that they wish to influence me through him. CHAPTER XVIII. A* TEK, who in reality has a soft heart, is won over evidently. For a week he goes to the Suslovskis regularly; for three days he walks around me, frowns, looks at me just like a wolf. At last one day at tea he inquires peevishly, “Well, what dost thou think of doing with that girl 7” “With what girl?” “With that Suslovski, or what is her name 2" “I don’t think of doing anything with that Suslovski, or what is her name.” A moment of silence follows, then Antek speaks again, – “She is whining whole days, till I cannot look at 33 her. What an honest soul | At that moment too his voice trembles with emotion; but he snorts like a rhinoceros and adds, – THAT THIRD WOMAN. 545 “A decent man does not act in that fashion.” “Antek, thou art beginning to remind me of Papa Suslovski.” “I would rather remind thee of Papa Suslovski than wrong his daughter.” “I beg thee to drop me.” “Very well ! I can even not know thee at all.” With this the conversation ends, and thenceforth I do not speak to Antek. We pretend not to know each other, which is the more amusing since we live together. We drink tea together in the morning, and it never occurs to either of us to move out of the studio. The time of my marriage is approaching. Through the intermediary of “The Kite ” all Warsaw knows of that now. All look at us ; all admire Eva. When we were at the exhibition, they surrounded us so that we could not push through. My unknown friendess sends an anonymous letter in which she warns me that Eva is not the wife for a man like me. “I do not believe what is said of the relations between Panna Adami and Pan Ostrynski [writes my friendess]; but thou, O master, art in need of a wife who would devote herself altogether to thy greatness; Panna Adami is an artist herself, and will always be drawing water to her own mill.” Antek goes continually to the Suslovskis, but surely as a comforter, for the Suslovskis must know of my intentions. I have obtained an unlimited leave of absence for Eva. She begins to wear her hair as a village maiden; she dresses very modestly and wears robes closed to the neck. This becomes her very much. The scene in the 35 546 THAT THIRD WOMAN. dressing-room has not been repeated. Eva does not per- mit it. The utmost right I have is to kiss her hands. That makes me greatly impatient; but I flatter myself that it affects her in the same way. She loves me madly. We spend whole days together. I have begun to give her lessons in drawing. She is swallowed up in those lectures, and painting in general. CHAPTER XIX. HUNDER hurling Zeus, at what art thou gazing from the summit of Olympus 2 Things are done of which philosophers have never dreamed. On the eve of my marriage Antek comes to me, nudges me with his elbow, and, turning aside his dishevelled head, says gloomily, - “Vladek, dost thou know I have committed a crime 2 ” “Well, since thou hast mentioned it,” I answer, “what sort of a crime !” Antek looks at the floor fixedly, and says, as if to himself, - “That such a drunkard as I, such an idiot without talent, such a moral and physical bankrupt should marry such a maiden as Kazia is an out-and-out crime.” I do not believe my ears; but I throw myself on my friend's neck without regard to the fact that he pushes me away. His marriage will be in a couple of days. THAT THIRD WOMAN. 547 CHAPTER XX. FTER a residence of some months in Rome, Eva and I receive a splendid card inviting us to the wedding of Pan Ostrynski and Panna Helena Turno, primo voto, Kolchanovski. We cannot go, for Eva's health does not permit. Eva paints continually, and makes innmense progress. I receive a gold medal in Pest. A certain rich Croat bought my picture. I have entered into relations with Goupil. CHAPTER XXI. SON is born to me in Verona. Eva herself says that she has never seen such a child. - Uncommon. CHAPTER XXII. OR some months we are in Warsaw. I have fitted up a splendid studio. We visit the Ostrynskis rather frequently. He has sold “The Kite,” and is now “President of the Society for Distributing Barley Grits to Laborers out of Employment.” Nothing can give an idea of his lordliness or the gratitude with which he is surrounded. He pats me on the shoulder and says to me: “Well, benefactor " He patronizes literary talents also, and receives on Wednesdays. She is as beautiful as a dream. They have no children. 548 THAT THIRD WOMAN. CHAPTER XXIII. H, save me or I die of laughter. Antek and his wife have come home from Paris. She poses as the wife of an artist of golden Bohemia; he wears silk shirts, has a forelock, and Wears his beard wedge-form. I understand all; I understand that she could overcome his habits, his character; but how did she conquer his hair 3 — that re- mains for me an endless puzzle. Antek has not stopped painting “corpses; ” but he paints also genre pictures of village life. He has great Success. He paints portraits too; these, however, with less result, for the carnation always recalls the “corpse.” I asked him, through old friendship, if he is happy with his wife. He told me that he had never dreamed of such happiness. I confess that Kazia has disappointed me in a favorable sense. I too should be perfectly happy, were it not that Eva begins to be a little weak, and, besides, the poor thing becomes peevish. I heard her crying once in the night. I know what that means. She is pining for the theatre. She says nothing, but she pines. I have begun a portrait of Pani Ostrynski. She is simply an incomparable woman Regard for Ostrynski would not restrain me, of course, and were it not that to this hour I love Eva immensely, I know not — But I love Eva immensely, immensely THE END. TRANSLATOR'S NOTES. HARCOAL SKETCHES were written in the Pico House, Los Angeles, California, in 1878. Perhaps the hotel is in existence yet; in that case the register for the above year contains the signature of Sienkiewicz and the number of his room. These Charcoal Sketches, as the author informed me, are founded on facts observed by him, and give a picture of life in the district where he was born and where he spent his youth. Ignorance, selfish class isolation, and resultant social helplessness, are depicted in remarkable relief and unsparingly. There is not collective intelligence and strength enough in Barania-Glova to save Repa's wife from ruin and murder. Pan Floss is driven from his land of “Little Progress” and has to pay for Sroda’s oxen, which the owner himself turned in on his neighbor's clover; since Pan Floss is a noble and Sroda a peasant, the latter thinks himself justi- fied in taking what he can from the noble in the night or the daytime, by fair means or foul. Pan Skorabevski has no wish to annoy himself in aiding peasants; if he wants anything from them, or wishes to defend himself against them, he calls in Pan Zolzik. The great public forces of Barania-Glova are the vile Zolzik, and Shmul without conscience. Father Chyzik, the priest, consider- ing that his whole business is with another world, has no thought for the temporal welfare of Repa's wife. 550 TRANSLATOR'S NOTES. The following is a translation of most of the names in Charcoal Sketches: — Barania-Glova . . . . Sheep's Head. Burak . . . . . . . Beet. Krucha Wola . . . . . Brittle will. Kruchek . . . . . . A small raven, or rather a rook. It is a name given frequently to a dog. Lipa . . . . . . . . Basswood. Maly Postempovitsi . . . Little Progress. Oslovitsi . . . . Asstown. Repa . . . . . . . Turnip. Shmul . . . . . . . Samuel. Sroda . . . . . . . Wednesday. White Crawfish . . . . A phrase meaning eggs. Zolzik . . . . . . . Strangler. 2 weinos . . . . . . Two noses. Tartar Captivity is a sketch preliminary to “With Fire and Sword.” Though it appears as a fragment of a memoir, it is an original production written by Sienkie- wicz in the style of the seventeenth century. Here the author uses for the first time the two main historical elements of Polish society: nobility and the Church. These two elements were raised to an ideal height in the Polish mind. Zdaniborski was a noble sincere and naïve, who considered the position and privileges of the nobility to be as sacred and inviolable as those of the Church ; both he believed to be the direct product of God’s will. Mayors of the air, referred to in Chapter V., were men appointed to keep alive fires which would fill the air with a smoke disagreeable to the plague or pest, and prevent it, or rather her, from approaching. The plague or pest in the popular mind was represented as a female who went around killing people. TRANSLATOR'S NOTES. 551 On the Bright Shore. All persons who have read “Children of the Soil” will remember Svirski, the sym- pathetic artist in that book; this same Svirski is the hero of the present narrative. That Third Woman. In this narrative the only char- acter needing explanation is, I believe, the minstrel. In Little Russia and the Ukraine the minstrel called “Kobzar,” from kobza, the instrument on which he plays, and also “Did " (grandfather), because he is generally old and sometimes blind, is a prominent figure to this day. In centuries past he played a great part by rousing popular feeling and carrying intelligence from place to place. At present his rôle is to entertain people who wish to hear either what the minstrel himself improvises, or the ballads of that region. The Duma, or ballad of the Ukraine, is famous. 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