THE [BRARY 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CAL IFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 SIELANKA, 
 AND OTHER STORIES.
 
 THE WORKS OF 
 
 HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ. 
 
 AUTHORIZED UNABRIDGED TRANSLATIONS BY 
 JEREMIAH CURTIN. 
 
 LIBRARY EDITION. 
 
 Historical &omanceg. 
 
 Poland, Turkey, Russia, and Sweden, 
 
 WITH FIRE AND SWORD, i vol. 
 THE DELUGE. 2 vols. 
 PAN MICHAEL, i vol. 
 
 Rome in the time of Nero. 
 "Quo VADIS." i vol. 
 
 hotels of iflfltotoern $olao. 
 CHILDREN OF THE SOIL, i vol. 
 WITHOUT DOGMA. (Translated by Iza Young.) 
 
 Sijort Stories. 
 
 MANIA, and Other Stories, i vol. 
 SIELANKA, A FOREST PICTURE, and Other Stories, 
 i vol. 
 
 ON THE BRIGHT SHORE, i vol. 
 LET Us FOLLOW HIM. i vol. 
 %* The above two are also included in the volume 
 entitled " Hania." 
 
 YANKO THE MUSICIAN, and Other Stories, i vol. 
 LILLIAN MORRIS, and Other Stories, i vol. 
 
 *#* The tales and sketches included in these two 
 volumes are now reprinted with others by Sienkie- 
 wicz in the volume entitled " Sielanka, a Forest 
 Picture, and Other Stories."
 
 BARTEK, THE VICTOR. 
 Photogravured after a drawing by J. Rosen. 
 
 SIELANKA, Frontispiece.

 
 SIELANKA: 
 
 a JForest Picture, 
 AND OTHER STORIES. 
 
 BY 
 HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ, 
 
 AUTHOR OF "QUO VADI8," " WITH FIRE AND SWORD,' 
 "THE DELUGE," "PAN MICHAEL," ETC. 
 
 AUTHORIZED UNABRIDGED TRANSLATION 
 FROM THE POLISH 
 
 BY 
 
 JEREMIAH CURTIN. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY. 
 
 1899.
 
 Copyright, 1893, 1894, 
 BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY. 
 
 Copyright, 1898, 
 BY JEREMIAH CITRTIN. 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 
 SSntorrsttg $)rt*0: 
 JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A.
 
 Library 
 
 P< 
 
 7/52 
 
 / 2?2 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 SIELANKA. A FOREST PICTURE 3 
 
 FOR BREAD 25 
 
 ORSO Ill 
 
 WHOSE FAULT? 139 
 
 THE DECISION OF ZEUS 159 
 
 ON A SINGLE CARD 175 
 
 YANKO THE MUSICIAN 255 
 
 BARTEK THE VICTOR 267 
 
 ACROSS THE PLAINS 339 
 
 FROM THE DIARY OF A TUTOR IN POZNAN 417 
 
 THE LIGHT-HOUSE KEEPER OF ASPINWALL 441 
 
 YAMYOL. A VILLAGE SKETCH 463 
 
 THE BULL-FIGHT. A REMINISCENCE OF SPAIN . . . 477 
 
 SACHEM 505 
 
 A COMEDY OF ERRORS 519 
 
 A JOURNEY TO ATHENS 541 
 
 ZOLA ("DOCTOR PASCAL") 571 
 
 688685
 
 INTRODUCTORY. 
 
 HPHE present volume and " Hania," which pre- 
 ceded it, contain all the stories in Sienkie- 
 wicz's collected works. Of seventeen titles in the 
 contents of this volume, nine, beginning with 
 " Yanko the Musician," and ending with " A Com- 
 edy of Errors," belong to stories which have ap- 
 peared in the two small volumes, " Yanko the 
 Musician" and "Lillian Morris." 
 
 It will not detract from the interest of that 
 pathetic and beautiful story, " The Lighthouse 
 Keeper of Aspinwall," to state that it is founded 
 on fact. 
 
 The experiences of Bartek the Victor and the 
 Tutor of Poznan touch German traits keenly. 
 On a broader field, and in detail, German charac- 
 ter will be exhibited in " The Knights of the 
 Cross," a work of intense and deep interest which 
 Sienkiewicz is writing at present. In this work 
 the author shows us Poland just as she is emerging 
 from desperate peril to become a strong Common-
 
 vi INTRODUCTORY. 
 
 wealth ; lie shows us also the Knights of the 
 Cross, the most effective German power of that 
 period, a power which was striving to master all 
 Eastern Europe and subject the Slav race wher- 
 ever resident ; finally he shows that same German 
 power cast down by the Slavs at Tannenberg, cast 
 down not to rise in its old form at any time. 
 
 JEREMIAH CURTIN. 
 
 BRISTOL, VERMONT, U. S. A.
 
 SIELAKKA. 
 
 A FOREST PICTURE.
 
 SIELANKA. 
 
 A FOREST PICTURE. 
 
 ON a broad plain, in a deep forest, stood the cottage of 
 the forester Stepan. The cottage was thatched 
 with straw, and built of round logs, the spaces between 
 which were stuffed with moss. At the side of the cot- 
 tage were two outbuildings, in front of it a piece of 
 inclosed field and a well with a sweep ; the well, fallen in 
 and sloping, held water covered with duck plant. 
 
 Before the windows grew sunflowers and wild holly- 
 hocks, tall, slender, and covered with blossoms, as if with 
 a swarm of butterflies ; among the sunflowers peeped out 
 the red heads of poppies ; around the hollyhocks twined 
 red and white sweet peas and morning-glories ; close to 
 the ground grew nasturtiums, yellow crocuses, marigolds, 
 golden primroses, and asters, pale, because deadened and 
 concealed from sunlight by the grayish leaves of the sun- 
 flowers, and by hollyhocks. 
 
 In the enclosure, on both sides of the path leading to 
 the house, vegetables had been planted : carrots, beets, 
 and cabbages ; farther on, in separate fields, with every 
 breath of wind moved waves of blue flax blossoms ; far- 
 ther was the dark green of potato leaves ; and on the 
 rest of the broad plain a fleece of grain changed now 
 into a lighter, now into a darker color up to the edges of 
 a lake which washed the plain on one side. 
 
 There were not many trees near the cottage, a few 
 cherry-trees with dark, glittering leaves, and one birch
 
 4 SIELANKA. 
 
 with long, slender branches, which stood so near the cot- 
 tage that every breeze cast its green tress on the sunken 
 moss-covered straw roof ; a stronger wind bent the birch 
 toward the wall, and when all the branches and all the 
 waves of leaves touched the roof; one might think that 
 the birch loved the cottage and was seizing it in its arms. 
 
 This birch was full of sparrows, and the sound of its 
 branches was mingled with the twittering and noisy 
 uproar of the birds. Doves busied themselves at the 
 gable, and that place was full of their talk, their cooing 
 and enticing, as it were with requests and questions, as 
 happens usually among doves, a wonderfully noisy and 
 talkative people. 
 
 At times some unknown alarm frightened them, then 
 around the cottage rose the sound of wings ; the air was 
 filled with the whirl of flying, and with a multitude of 
 white birds. We have heard the disturbance, the tumult, 
 and the flapping of their strong tail-feathers. A whole 
 flock has flown out on a sudden, and in rings and circles 
 it wheels, draws near, flies off and separates in the blue ; 
 now it is glittering with white feathers under the sun ; 
 now it is hanging over the cottage, hesitating, fluttering 
 in the air, and at last falls, like a cloud of snowflakes, on 
 the gray straw roof of the cottage. 
 
 If this happened in the redness of the morning, or the 
 evening, then in the gleams of the air those doves seemed 
 not white, but rosy, and like little flames, or scattered 
 rose leaves which were falling on the roof and the birch- 
 tree. 
 
 In the evening when the sun had sunk behind the pine 
 woods, the conversation at the gable, and twittering on 
 the birch, grew quiet gradually. The sparrows and 
 doves shook the dew from their wings, and prepared for 
 rest; sometimes one of them cooed or twittered again;
 
 SIELANKA. 5 
 
 but each time more rarely, more quietly, more drowsily, 
 and at last was silent. Darkness fell from heaven to the 
 earth; the cottage, the cherry-trees, and the birch grew 
 dull in outline, mingled together, were concealed in and 
 covered with mist, which rose from the lake. 
 
 Around the plain, as far as the eye could see, extended 
 a wall of dark pines and thicket. This wall was broken 
 in one place, and, going to a distance in the form of a cor- 
 ridor, widened more and more. In the corridor and the 
 widening the waves of the lake stammered, and washed 
 the edge of the plain. The lake was long, for the other 
 end of it was almost lost in the distance, and through a 
 haze, as it were, one could see a red roof with a tower 
 standing at the other side of a little church, and a dark 
 strip of forest which shut out the horizon not far beyond 
 the church. 
 
 The pine-trees looked down from the high, sandy shores 
 of the lake as if into a mirror, and there seemed to be 
 another forest in the water, and if the forest on land 
 moved, that in the water moved also; when there was 
 noise on land, there seemed to be noise in the water ; "when 
 amid the silence of the air the forest stood motionless, on 
 the smooth, unwrinkled water every needle of the pines 
 was outlined distinctly, and the trees went straight down 
 as rows of columns, going somewhere far, far into infinity. 
 
 In the centre of the lake the water reflected the sun in 
 the daytime, in the morning and the evening a ruddy 
 light, in the night the moon and stars ; and it seemed as 
 deep as the vault of heaven is high above us, high 
 beyond the sun, the moon, and the stars. 
 
 In the cottage dwelt Stepan, the forester, and his 
 daughter, sixteen years of age, Kasia by name. Kasia 
 was in that cottage what the aurora is in the sky. She 
 was reared in great innocence and fear of God. Her dead
 
 6 SIELANKA. 
 
 uncle, who in his time had eaten bread from various ovens, 
 and in his old age was an organist in the neighboring 
 church, taught her to read pious books ; and what her 
 uncle had not finished in his teaching, forest seclusion had 
 taught. Hence the bees had taught her to labor ; doves 
 to be pure ; the gray sparrows to twitter joyously to her 
 old father ; the still water of the lake, calmness ; the 
 peace of the heavens, earthly peace ; the early church 
 bell, piety ; and the goodness of God, the goodness of 
 people. 
 
 Therefore Kasia and her father led a peaceful life, and 
 were as happy as in the calmness and seclusion of a 
 forest one may be happy in this world. 
 
 Once on the Saturday before Whitsuntide old Stepan 
 came home at noon. He had gone around a piece of 
 forest, and was wearied, for he had returned from morasses 
 and swampy thickets. Kasia put his dinner before him, 
 and after dinner, when she had fed the dog and washed 
 the plates and pots, she said, 
 
 " Father ? " 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " I will go to the forest." 
 
 " Go, go. Let a wolf or some other vermin meet thee." 
 
 " I will go for plants. To-morrow will be Whitsunday ; 
 we must have plants for the church." 
 
 " Well, go." 
 
 Kasia put a yellow kerchief, with blue flowers worked 
 on it, over her head, and, looking for a basket to hold the 
 plants, began to sing, 
 
 "Oi, the young falcon has come, the gray falcon has flown 
 to us!" 
 
 The old man fell to scolding her good-naturedly. 
 
 " Hadst thou as much wish to work as to sing ? " said he.
 
 SIELANKA. 7 
 
 Kasia, who had risen on tip-toe to look on the shelf, 
 turned her face toward her father, laughed joyously, 
 and, showing her white teeth, sang on, as if teasing him : 
 
 " He shouts in the forest, he seeks his dear cuckoo, in the wood 
 he seeks for her." 
 
 " Thou wouldst be glad also to coocoo a falcon to thyself," 
 said the old man. " Perhaps a falcon from the tar pit ? 
 But that is folly. Thou wilt not earn a morsel of bread 
 by thy singing." 
 
 To that Kasia answered, 
 
 "'Oh, shout not young falcon, seek not, poor falcon ! 
 Thy cuckoo is drowned in the lake, she is now at the bottom.' 
 
 " And let father keep the house, I will come back before 
 evening and milk the cows. But some one must drive 
 them from the oak grove." She found her basket, kissed 
 her father's hand, and went out. 
 
 Stepan found his wicker net, which was already begun, 
 went in front of the cottage and sat down. He took 
 his cords and a needle, shut one eye and tried to thread 
 the needle ; he failed to the right, he failed to the left, he 
 spat, at last he aimed well, struck, drew the cord through, 
 and began to bind the net. 
 
 But from time to time he looked after Kasia. Kasia 
 went along the left bank of the lake, and on the lofty 
 edge of the bank she was as plainly seen as in a picture. 
 Her white shirt, red petticoat, and yellow kerchief seemed 
 many-colored from a distance, like a flower. Though 
 spring, the heat was unendurable. 
 
 When she had gone about half a verst from the cottage, 
 she turned to one side and entered the pine wood. The 
 hour was after midday. It was hot in the world, but 
 cool in the forest. Kasia went straight ahead all the
 
 8 SIELANKA. 
 
 time, suddenly she stopped, laughed, and blushed like a 
 cherry. 
 
 Before her, on a path which vanished in the depth of 
 the forest, stood a youth eighteen years of age perhaps. 
 
 This youth was the tar-boiler from the edge of the 
 forest, who was going just then to Ste pan's cottage. 
 
 " May He be praised ! " said the tar-boiler. 
 
 " For the ages of ages ! " 
 
 Kasia was silent, but she rubbed her eyes from bash- 
 fulness, and then, raising her apron, she covered her face 
 with it, looking from under the edge of the apron with a 
 smile into Yasio's face. 
 
 " Kasia ? " 
 
 " What, Yasio ? " 
 
 " But is thy father at home ? " 
 
 " He is." 
 
 The tar-boiler, poor fellow, did not want, perhaps, to 
 inquire about the father ; but somehow he was frightened 
 and inquired in spite of himself. Then he was silent and 
 waited. Would Kasia say something first ? 
 
 Kasia stood there doing nothing, but twisting the end 
 of her apron, terribly bashful, till at last she said, 
 
 " Yasio ? " 
 
 "What, Kasia?" 
 
 " But is not the tar pit smoking to-day ? " 
 
 She too wanted to ask about something else. 
 
 " Why should n't it smoke ? It never stops smoking. 
 I left lame Franek there ; but thou, Kasia, art twisting 
 out somehow, like a fox, onto the tar pit." 
 
 "Ei ! because I am going for plants." 
 
 " I will go with thee, and when we come back, if thou 
 refuse not, I will go to the cottage." 
 
 " I ought to refuse." 
 
 " If thou like me, refuse not ; but if thou like me
 
 SIELANKA. 9 
 
 not, then refuse. Say, Kasia, a little word. Dost like 
 me?" 
 
 " Thou fate ! Oh, iny fate ! " and Kasia covered her 
 face with her hands. " What must I say ? I like thee, 
 Yasio, like thee, 1 like thee terribly," said she, in a low 
 voice. 
 
 And then before the tar-boiler could give her an answer, 
 she cried, uncovering her blushing face and eyes, 
 
 " Let us go for the plants ; let us go in a breath ! " 
 
 They went then, the tar-boiler and Kasia. They were 
 radiant with love ; but these simple children did not dare 
 yet to speak of it. They only felt it, they knew not them- 
 selves what they felt. But it troubled them in some 
 way, and was sweet. And never had the forest above 
 their heads sung to them so wonderfully with its sounds, 
 never had the breath of the wind seemed so delicious, so 
 fondling, never had the noise of the pine wood, the rustle 
 of the breeze, the voices of birds, and that sound of the 
 forest seemed such an angel's orchestra, sweet, though 
 enormous, as just at that moment filled so with awkward- 
 ness and unconscious delight. 
 
 Oh, sacred power of love, what a good angel of light 
 art thou, what a rosy dawn in darkness, what a rainbow 
 on the weeping clouds of misfortune ! 
 
 In the pine wood went a resonant echo from tree to 
 tree ; it repeated the barking of a dog, and soon Burek 
 ran up ; he had escaped from the cottage, had followed 
 on Kasia's trail, had run up panting ; with great delight 
 he sprang onto Kasia with his big paws, and onto the 
 tar-Loiler, and then he looked at one and the other with 
 his wise and mild eyes, as if wishing to say, 
 
 " You are in love, I see ! That is good ! " 
 
 And he wagged his tail with delight; then he ran 
 with a great rush, making larger and larger circles,
 
 10 SIELANKA. 
 
 till at last he stopped, barked once more joyfully, and 
 dashed into the forest, looking around from time to time 
 at the youth and the maiden. 
 
 Kasia put her hand to her forehead, and looking up 
 through the leaves at the bright sun, exclaimed, - 
 
 " Oh, for God's sake ! It is two hours after midday, 
 and not a plant yet ! Go thou, Yasio, to the left, I will 
 go to the right, and collect. We must hurry, as God is 
 dear to me ! " 
 
 They separated and went into the forest, but they 
 went forward not far from each other, and at the 
 same pace, so that one never left the eyes of the other. 
 In the ferns, as on a green wave, among the trees ap- 
 peared the colored petticoat and the yellow kerchief of 
 Kasia. The slender maiden appeared to sail on amid the 
 berry-bushes, mosses, and ferns. One might have said 
 that she was a rusalka, or a vila of the forest; every 
 moment she bent down and stood erect again, and so 
 on, and on ; passing the pines, she vanished from the 
 tar-boiler's eyes ; then he stopped, 'put his hands to his 
 mouth and called with a great voice, 
 
 " Hoop, hoooop ! " 
 
 Kasia, hearing this, stopped, with a smile, and pretend- 
 ing not to see, but to seek him, she answered, with a thin 
 little voice, 
 
 " Yasio ! " 
 
 And the echo answered, 
 
 " Yaa-a-sio ! " 
 
 Meanwhile, Burek had sniffed a squirrel on a tree ; so 
 he stood at the foot of it, raised his eyes and jaws up- 
 ward, and went to barking. The squirrel, sitting on the 
 branch, covered itself roguishly with its tail, raised a paw 
 to its snout, and rubbing its nose, seemed to play with 
 fingers at Burek, and to ridicule his anger. Kasia,
 
 SIELANKA. 11 
 
 observing this, laughed with a silvery, resonant laugh ; 
 the tar-boiler followed her example, and the forest was 
 filled with noise, and crying of people, and echoes, and 
 laughter, and joyous happiness. 
 
 At times silence came down for some moments ; noth- 
 ing spoke but the sound of the forest. A slight breeze 
 played in the leaves of the fern ; the old pine-trees 
 groaned once and then all was stillness ! 
 
 Next was heard distinctly the measured beating of a 
 woodpecker. It seemed as if some one were knocking at 
 some other one's door, and that after a while a mys- 
 terious forest voice asked, 
 
 " Who is there ? " 
 
 Then the wiewilga whistled with a sweet voice; the 
 hoopoo raised the golden crown on his head, and opening 
 his beak as long as a needle, cried, " Hu ! hu ! hu ! hup ! 
 hup!" In the hazel thicket the linnets applauded; green 
 titmice circled around among the leaves ; from time to 
 time on a pine-top some crow napped his black wings, 
 hiding in the forest from heat. 
 
 It was afternoon, the sky was very clear, not even a 
 small cloud on it, and above the green dome of leaves 
 extended the blue dome of heaven, immense, limitless, 
 blue gray at the edges, deepest azure in the centre. In 
 the sky was the great golden sun ; space was filled with 
 light; and the air was so clear and transparent that the 
 most remote objects came out of the blue distance defi- 
 nite to the eye, clear in form, not hazy. From the height 
 of heaven the kind Creator had taken in with His eye 
 the whole region. In the field the grain with its golden 
 wave bowed to Him ; the heavy heads of wheat rustled ; 
 the thin heads of oats trembled like bells. In the air, 
 filled with brightness of the sun and with azure, floated 
 here and there a spring spider thread, blue from the
 
 1-2 SIELANKA. 
 
 azure, and golden from the sun, a real thread from 
 the distaff of the Mother of God. 
 
 In depressed valleys, between strips of wheat, the 
 dark fleece of meadows looked green. Here and there, 
 where a spring bubbled forth in the grass, the green 
 was brighter, and that whole meadow spot was covered 
 with yellow buttercups ; the eye was struck by an ex- 
 cess of golden glitter. In wet places the alders looked 
 dark ; from these came a coolness and moisture. 
 
 But in the forest, among pines, it was sultry, and there 
 was great silence. It seemed that a sort of drowsiness 
 and faintiiess had embraced the whole region. 
 
 After a while the breeze stopped, and then the woods 
 and wheat fields and grass remained motionless. The 
 leaves hung on the trees as if cradled to sleep ; the noise 
 of birds had grown silent, the moment of rest had 
 arrived. But that seemed a rest from excess of sweet- 
 ness, a drowsiness of nature. The great dome of heaven 
 seemed to smile, and somewhere, high, high in the unat- 
 tainable blue, the great God delighted Himself benevo- 
 lently with the delight of the fields, the woods, the 
 meadows, and waters. 
 
 Meanwhile the tar-boiler and Kasia wandered on in 
 the forest, selecting plants, laughing or chatting joyously. 
 A peasant, like a bird, sings when he can, for such is his 
 nature. The tar-boiler sang a simple, but melancholy 
 song. The last word of the song is drawn out accord- 
 ing to its melody, prolonged, sad ; and thus prolonged 
 and sad did the tar-boiler and Kasia continue it, and 
 the echo sang to them in accompaniment ; in the dark 
 depth of the forest, pine gave the echo to pine, and the 
 song begun in words, ran through the row of pines in 
 the forest distance with a sigh more and more indefinite, 
 lighter, weaker, till it turned at last into silence.
 
 SIELANKA. 13 
 
 Then Kasia sang a more gladsome song, beginning 
 with the words, " I will become a gold ring ! " This is 
 a beautiful song. A young, wilful maiden contends with 
 her lover and tells the methods by which she intends to 
 escape. 
 
 But she has no weapons against him. When she de- 
 clares that she will become a gold ring and roll along 
 the gray highroad, he threatens to discover the ring 
 with swift eyesight ; when she wishes to become a golden 
 fish in the river, he sings to her of a silken net ; when 
 a wild duck on the lake, he stands before her as a hunter. 
 When at last the poor maiden sees that she cannot hide 
 on earth from him, she sings, 
 
 " I will be a star in the sky, 
 I will shine as men need me. 
 I will not be thy love, 
 I will not do thy will." 
 
 But the young man, disheartened by nothing, replies : 
 
 " I will bow down in church nicely, 
 I will pay for holy mass, and the star will fall. 
 Thou must be my love, 
 Thou must do my will. " 
 
 The girl sees that there is no escape for her on earth, 
 or in the sky, so she agrees with the will of Providence 
 and sings, 
 
 "I see, God's judgment I see, 
 Wherever I hide thou wilt find me. 
 I must be thy love, 
 I must do thy will." 
 
 " Seest thou, Kasia ? " asked the tar-boiler. 
 "What, Yasio?" 
 And he sang, 
 
 " Thou must be my love, 
 Thou must do my will."
 
 14 SIELANKA. 
 
 Kasia was bashful again ; but she laughed, and wishing 
 to talk, said, 
 
 " I have collected a lot of plants ; I must put them in 
 water, or they will wither in the heat before evening." 
 
 There was great heat indeed ; the wind had ceased alto- 
 gether. In the forest, even in the shade, the air was 
 quivering with boiling heat, the pines gave out a strong, 
 resinous odor. Kasia's delicate, golden-tinged face was 
 moist, and her blue eyes looked wearied. She took the 
 kerchief from her head and cooled herself; meanwhile 
 the tar-boiler took the basket of plants from her hand, 
 and said, 
 
 "Hear me, Kasia. A quarter of a mile from here 
 is a spring between the alders. Let us go and drink 
 water." 
 
 Both went. In fact after a short time the forest earth 
 yielded to the foot ; among the trees, instead of bill-berries, 
 ferns, and dry moss, appeared damp green turf, one alder 
 appeared and another, after them whole rows. They 
 entered a dark, damp grove where the sunlight, passing 
 through leaves, took on their color and painted people's 
 faces light green. 
 
 Yasio and Kasia went farther into shade and damp- 
 ness. A pronounced coolness, pleasant after the heat of 
 the forest, surrounded them, and soon among the rows 
 of alders, they saw in the black, turfy ground a deep 
 brook, overgrown here and there with sweet flag, reeds, 
 or covered with great round leaves of the water-lily, 
 which the peasants call "the white one." 
 
 It was a beautiful place, quiet, secluded, shady, even a 
 little dark. 
 
 The clear brook wound among the trees. The lilies, 
 rocked by the light movement of the water, swayed 
 gently with their white flowers ; bending toward one
 
 SIELANKA. 15 
 
 another, they seemed to kiss; above their broad leaves, 
 which lay like shields on the surface of the water, dark 
 sapphire-colored grasshoppers moved around in the air 
 with broad and rustling wings, so delicate and slender 
 that people call them " water maidens " justly ; black 
 butterflies, with white mourning borders, sat on the points 
 of the flag. On the ruddy background of turf bloomed 
 blue forget-me-nots. Here and there rustled a clump of 
 slender reeds, on which the wind played its usual songs. 
 On its banks grew gloomy thickets of the snowball, and 
 under the thickets were heads of lilies of the valley and 
 the water-bell, and the pimpernel hung its white head 
 over the clear water; the silvery threads of larkspur, 
 pulled out by the current, waved in long and thin tresses. 
 As to the rest, solitude, that was it ! wild seclusion, for- 
 gotten by people, peaceful, occupied only by the world of 
 birds, flowers, and insects. 
 
 In such a silence nymphs and rusalkas dwell usually, 
 as well as other good and bad forest divinities. So when 
 Kasia, who went ahead, stopped first on the bank and 
 looked at the water, in which her charming, slender 
 form was reflected, she might have seemed indeed a beau- 
 tiful apparition of the woodland, such as foresters meet in 
 the woods sometimes, or as bargemen meet when floating 
 down among trees with their flat-boats. She was without 
 a kerchief on her head ; the wind had blown her tresses 
 apart somewhat, and stirred the hair on her forehead. 
 She was bright-haired and sunburnt ; she had eyes smiling, 
 but blue as star-thistles, and lips also smiling. Besides, 
 she was tall and slender, a perfect rusalka! Nobody 
 would swear that, frightened by an eye, she would not 
 spring into the water, or vanish in mist, in a rainbow, 
 or in sunlight, that she would not change suddenly into 
 a lily or a snowball, which, when thou shouldst wish to
 
 16 SIELANKA. 
 
 pluck it, would say in human speech, though in speech 
 like the rustle of a tree, 
 
 " Touch me not ! " 
 
 Kasia bent from the turf over the water till her tresses 
 fell on her arms, then she turned to the tar-boiler, 
 
 " But how shall we drink," asked she. 
 
 "As the birds drink," replied Yasio, and pointed at a 
 number of wagtails, and to kingfishers, beautiful as a 
 rainbow ; these were drinking at a distance, raising their 
 bills toward the sky. 
 
 The tar-boiler knew how to help himself better than birds 
 do, for he took an enormous leaf of water-lily, twisted it 
 into a funnel, and, taking water, reached it to Kasia. 
 
 Kasia drank, and the tar-boiler drank. She plucked 
 some forget-me-nots ; he took out his knife, cut a willow 
 twig and made a whistle. 
 
 The whistle was finished soon. Yasio put it to his lips 
 and played a simple song, like those which shepherds play 
 ill the evenings on a meadow. The pleasant sounds 
 spread with inexpressible sweetness in that seclusion. 
 After a time the tar-boiler took the whistle from his lips, 
 and listened to catch, with his ear, the echoes playing in 
 the alders ; and it seemed that together with them the 
 clear brook heard that voice, and the dark alders, and 
 the birds hidden in the reeds. Everything grew silent, 
 but, after a while, as if in answer, as if in challenge, was 
 heard a light whistle, after it a second and a third. It 
 grew still more silent. That was the nightingale, the 
 nightingale had challenged the whistle, and had begun to 
 sing. 
 
 All listened to that singer of. the Lord. The water-lilies 
 raised their heads above the water; the forget-me-nots 
 nestled up to one another ; the reeds ceased to rustle ; no 
 bird dared raise a voice ; the unwise and ruffled cuckoo
 
 SIE LANKA. 17 
 
 alone flew up over the water with quiet wing, sat on a 
 knot, raised its head, opened its bill widely, and said 
 inanely, " Ku-ku ! ku-ku ! " 
 
 But afterward it was evidently ashamed that it had 
 acted so t stupidly, for it was silent on a sudden. 
 
 In vain did Kasia, standing on the edge of the brook 
 with forget-me-nots in her hand, turn to that side 
 whence the voice of the cuckoo had come, and inquire : 
 
 "Cuckoo, oh, blue cuckoo, have I long to live ?" 
 
 The cuckoo said nothing in answer. 
 
 " Cuckoo, shall I be rich ? " 
 
 The cuckoo said nothing. 
 
 Then the tar-boiler said, 
 
 " Cuckoo, gray cockoo, will my wedding come soon ? " 
 
 The cuckoo said nothing. 
 
 " He will not answer," said Yasio. " Let us go back." 
 
 On returning they found the great stone near which 
 they had left the basket and dry plants. Kasia sat on 
 the grass under it and began to weave garlands. Yasio 
 helped her. Burek planted himself before them, stretched 
 forward his shaggy paws, dropped out his tongue, and 
 began to pant from exertion, looking around carefully to 
 discover some living creature at which to rush and make 
 an uproar. But it was silent in the woods round about. 
 The sun was inclining toward the west, and through 
 the leaves and the needles of the pines its rays came in 
 ever ruddier, covering the ground of the forest with great 
 golden spots. The air was dry ; on the west the great 
 golden light of evening was spreading like a sea of molten 
 gold and amber. A calm, warm spring evening was burn- 
 ing in the sky. In the forest the labor of the day was 
 ceasing gradually. The hammering of the woodpecker 
 had grown still ; black and reddish ants were returning 
 in rows to their ant-heaps, which were red from the 
 
 2
 
 18 SIELANKA. 
 
 evening light and the rays of the sun ; some of them were 
 carrying pine-needles in their mouths, others, insects. 
 Among the plants were whirling here and there small 
 forest bees, buzzing gladly as usual : " Dana, oh, dana ! " 
 completing the last load of honey dust. Prom cracks in 
 the split bark of trees were emerging the gloomy, blind 
 legions of the night: in the torrents of golden light 
 moved swarms of moths, gnats scarcely visible to the eye ; 
 mosquitoes began their sad songs. On the trees birds 
 chose their places for sleep. At one moment a yellow- 
 beaked blackbird or crow napped its wings. After seiz- 
 ing a tree, the birds fought about the best branch. But 
 those voices grew rarer and rarer and weaker. Gradually 
 they ceased altogether, and silence was broken only by 
 the rustle of the trees. The hazel bush raised its grayish 
 leaves upward; the royal oak muttered, or the birch 
 moved its tresses. After that there was silence. 
 
 The evening grew still redder, and in the east the 
 deep blue of heaven became darker ; now all the sounds 
 of the forest were mingled in majestic and low, though 
 immense, choruses, that was the forest, which, before it 
 goes to sleep, before night, prays and repeats its " Our 
 Father : " the trees declare the praise of God to other 
 trees, and thou mightst say that they were discoursing in 
 human speech. 
 
 Ah ! only very innocent souls understand this mighty 
 and blessed speech. Ah ! only very innocent hearts 
 listen and understand when the first chorus of the fathers 
 of oaks begins the converse, 
 
 " Eejoice, sister pines, the Lord has given us a calm 
 and warm day, and now a starry night is falling on the 
 earth. The Great Lord, Mighty, mightier than we, but 
 kind, hence praise be to Him on the heights, and on the 
 waters, and on land, and in the air ! "
 
 SIELANKA. 19 
 
 And the pines consider the words of the oak for a 
 while, and then answer in a concordant chorus, 
 
 "Ah, behold, O Lord, in Thy praise, as an offering of 
 incense, we drop sweet balsam and a strong and mighty 
 resinous odor. Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed 
 be Thy name ! " 
 
 And then the birches, 
 
 " The twilight of evening is burning in the sky, O 
 Lord, and in the gleams of it our leaves are golden and 
 burning. Hence, with our golden leaves, we raise a hymn 
 to Thee, O Lord, and our slender branches play like 
 harps, Thou, our good Father ! " 
 
 And then the melancholy fir, 
 
 " On our gloomy foreheads, tortured with heat, the 
 evening dew is falling. Praise to the Lord ! Brothers 
 and sisters, rejoice, for the dew of the evening is falling ! " 
 
 And amid these choruses the aspen alone trembles 
 timidly, for the aspen gave wood for the cross to crucify 
 our Redeemer, and at intervals only it groans in a low 
 voice, " O Lord, have pity on me ! " 
 
 And again, when the oaks and pines have grown silent 
 for a space, from the foot of them rises a low, timid, 
 small voice, as weak as the buzzing of a mosquito, as 
 feeble as silence itself. That little voice sings, 
 
 " I am a berry, O Lord ! small and sheltered in the 
 moss. But Thou wilt hear me, distinguish me, and love 
 me ; for though small, I am pious, arid I sing to Thee to 
 increase Thy glory ! " 
 
 So prays the forest daily, and such a concert rises every 
 evening to the heavens from the earth, and flies high, 
 high, up, where there is no created thing, where there is 
 nothing save the silver star dust and the Milky Way, and 
 the stars and above the stars God ! 
 
 At such a moment the sun sinks his radiant head in
 
 20 SIELANKA. 
 
 the distant sea ; the field-worker turns upward his plough- 
 point and hastens to his cottage. The lowing cattle 
 return from the field, sounding their wooden bells ; the 
 sheep raise clouds of golden dust. Then darkness falls. 
 In the distant village the well-sweep squeaks, the win- 
 dows gleam, and from afar, afar, comes the barking of 
 dogs. 
 
 But when Kasia had sat down to weave garlands under 
 the mossy stone, the sun had not sunk yet beyond the 
 forest. On the contrary, its rays, broken by the shadows 
 of limbs and leaves, threw light on her face. The work 
 did not advance hurriedly, for Kasia was wearied by heat 
 and running through the forest. Her sunburnt hands 
 twisted the strands of the plants. The warm wind kissed 
 her temples and face, and the sound of the trees lulled 
 her to slumber. Her large sleepy eyes became gleaming ; 
 her lids began to close slowly ; she rested her head on 
 the stone ; once more she opened her lids widely, like 
 a child which looks on God's world with wonder, then 
 the sound of trees, the rows of tree-trunks, the forest 
 earth covered. with pine-needles, and the heavens visible 
 through the branches, grew indistinct before her, began 
 to mingle, she smiled, and fell asleep. 
 
 Her head at that moment was in a mild shade, but the 
 shirt over her bosom was covered with a light like that 
 of morning, and it shone all rosy and purple. A slight 
 breathing moved her bosom, and she was so wonderful 
 in that sleep, and in those afternoon gleams, that Yasio 
 looked on her as he would on an image in the church all 
 glittering in gold, and like a many-colored rainbow. 
 
 Kasia's hands held a still unfinished green garland. 
 She was sleeping evidently with a light and pleasant 
 sleep, for she smiled in her sleep, like a child talking 
 with angels. Perhaps too she was talking with angels,
 
 SIELANKA. 21 
 
 for she was as pure as a child, and she had served God all 
 that day, weaving garlands for the church on the morrow. 
 
 Yasio sat near her, but he did not sleep. His simple 
 breast was expanded by feeling ; he felt as if his soul had 
 gained wings, and was ready to fly into heavenly spaces. 
 A hei ! hei ! he knew not himself what was happening 
 within him, so he turned his eyes to the sky, and it 
 might have been said that love had transfixed him. 
 
 And long yet slept Kasia, and long both sat thus. 
 
 Meanwhile the shade of evening came. The remnants 
 of the purple light were struggling with shade. In the 
 forest it had grown dark silent. From the reeds of 
 the lake, from the direction of the cottage and the plain, 
 came the night calls of the bittern. 
 
 All at once, in the little church beyond the lake, the 
 Angelus sounded. That sound flew over the peaceful 
 lake, flew on the wings of the evening breeze, pure, reso- 
 nant, and far reaching. This summoned the faithful to 
 prayer, and at the same time announced rest, " Enough 
 of toil and heat," said the bell ; " fold yourselves to sleep 
 under the wing of the Lord. Go, go, ye wearied, to God, 
 in Him is rejoicing ! Here is quiet, here is joy, here is 
 sleep ! here is sleep ! here is sleep ! here is sleep ! " 
 
 The tar-boiler removed his cap at the sound of the 
 bell. Kasia shook the sleep from her eyes, and asked, 
 
 " Are they ringing ? " 
 "The Angelus." 
 
 Both knelt near the moss-covered stone, as near an 
 altar. Kasia began to recite in a melancholy voice : 
 
 " The angel of the Lord declared unto Mary " 
 
 "And She conceived of the Holy Ghost," answered 
 Yasio. 
 
 " Behold the handmaid of the Lord 
 
 And thus kneeling, those simple children prayed. The
 
 22 SIELANKA. 
 
 calm summer lightning flew from the east to the west, 
 and in its light came down from heaven a crowd of 
 winged angels, and hung over the heads of those two. 
 And then they mingled with angels, and they were them- 
 selves almost angels, as it were, for there was nothing 
 clearer, purer, and more innocent on earth than those 
 two.
 
 JFOE BKEAD.
 
 FOR BREAD. 
 I. 
 
 ON THE OCEAN MEDITATION A STORM THE 
 ARRIVAL. 
 
 ON the broad waves of the ocean the German steamer 
 Bliicher was rocking as it sailed to New York from 
 Hamburg. 
 
 That was its fourth day on the voyage ; two days before 
 it had passed the green shores of Ireland, and had come 
 out on the open ocean. From the deck, as far as the eye 
 could see, nothing was visible save the green and gray 
 plain; ploughed into furrows and ridges, swaying heavily, in 
 places foaming, in the distance darker and darker and 
 blending with the horizon, which was covered with white 
 clouds. 
 
 The light of these clouds fell in places on the water 
 too, and on that pearly background the black body of the 
 vessel was outlined distinctly. The prow of that body 
 was turned to the west ; now it rose on a wave with great 
 labor, now it plunged into the depth, as if drowning ; at 
 moments it vanished from the eye ; at moments, lifted on 
 the back of a billow, it rose so high that the bottom of it 
 was visible, but the steamer went forward. The sea 
 moved toward it, and it toward the sea, cleaving the 
 water with its breast. Behind it, like a giant serpent, 
 chased a white road of foaming water ; sea-gulls flew after 
 the rudder, turning somersaults in the air and piping like 
 Polish lapwings.
 
 26 FOR BREAD. 
 
 The wind was favorable; the vessel was going with 
 half steani, but all sails were raised on it. The weather 
 grew better and better. In places among the rent clouds 
 bits of blue sky could be seen changing their forms 
 unceasingly. From the moment that the Bliicher had 
 left the port of Hamburg, the weather had been windy, 
 but without storm ; the wind blew toward the west, but 
 at times it ceased; then the sails dropped with a flap- 
 ping, to swell out again like the breast of a swan. The 
 sailors, in close-fitting knit jackets, tightened the line in 
 the lower yard of the mainsail, chanting a melancholy : 
 " Ho ho o ! " They bent and straightened themselves 
 in time with the sound, and their voices were mingled 
 with the midshipmen's whistles, and the feverish puffing 
 of smoke-stacks which hurled out broken bundles or 
 rings of black smoke. 
 
 The passengers had come out on deck numerously. 
 In the stern of the steamer were those of the first-class, 
 in black overcoats and caps ; toward the prow had as- 
 sembled the particolored multitude of emigrants who 
 lived between decks. Some of these were sitting on 
 benches, smoking short pipes ; others, lying down ; others, 
 leaning against the bulwarks, were gazing into the water. 
 
 There were women with children in their arms, and 
 with tin cups fastened to their girdles ; there were 
 young people walking backward and forward from the 
 prow to the bridge, preserving their balance with diffi- 
 culty and staggering from moment to moment as they 
 sang: "Wo ist das deutsche Vaterland!" and thinking, 
 perhaps, that they would never again see that " Vaterland," 
 still gladness did not leave their faces. Among the pas- 
 sengers were two, the saddest of all, and separated, as 
 it were, from the others : an old man and a young girl. 
 Neither understood German, and they were really alone
 
 FOR BREAD. 27 
 
 and among strangers. Who were they ? each one of us l 
 would have divined at the first glance that they were 
 Polish peasants. 
 
 The man was called Vavron Toporek, and the girl 
 was Marysia, his daughter. They were going to America, 
 and had taken courage a moment before to come out on 
 deck for the first time. On their faces, thin from sickness, 
 were depicted both fear and astonishment. They looked, 
 with frightened eyes at their companions of the journey, 
 at the sailors, at the steamer, at the smoke-stacks, belch- 
 ing forth mightily, at the terrible walls of water which 
 hurled wreaths of foam to the deck of the steamer. They 
 said nothing to each other, for they dared not. Vavron 
 held the railing with one hand, and his four-cornered cap 
 with the other, lest the wind might sweep it away from 
 him; Marysia held to her father, and when the ship 
 inclined more steeply, she held to him more closely, and 
 cried in a low voice from fear. After a certain time the 
 old man broke the silence, 
 
 "Marysia!" 
 
 " But what ? " 
 
 " Dost see ? " 
 
 " I see." 
 
 " And dost wonder ? " 
 
 " I wonder." 
 
 But she feared still more than she wondered ; it was 
 the same with old Toporek. 
 
 Happily for them, the waves decreased ; the wind went 
 down ; and the sun broke forth through the clouds. 
 When they saw the " dear beloved sun," it became easier at 
 their hearts; for they thought to themselves that that 
 sun was "just the very same as in Lipintse." Indeed 
 everything was new and unknown to them; that sun 
 
 1 Poles, as the author is.
 
 28 FOR BREAD. 
 
 disk alone, gleaming and radiant, seemed as it were an 
 old friend and guardian. 
 
 Meanwhile the sea became smoother and smoother ; 
 after a time the sails slackened ; and from the lofty bridge 
 was heard the whistle of the captain, and the sailors 
 rushed to reef them. The sight of these sailors suspended, 
 as if in the air above an abyss, filled Toporek and Mary- 
 sia with wonder a second time. 
 
 " Our boys could not do that," said the old man. 
 
 " Wherever Germans go, Yasko can go," replied 
 Marysia, 
 
 " Which Yasko ? Is it Sobkov ? " 
 
 " How Sobkov ? I mean Smolak, the groom." 
 
 " He is a smart fellow, but drive him from thy head. 
 Thou art not for him, nor he for thee. Thou art to be a 
 lady ; and he, as he is a groom, will remain a groom." 
 
 " But he has land too." 
 
 " He has, but it is in Lipintse." 
 
 Marysia said nothing ; but she thought to herself that 
 whatever was fated would not fail, and she sighed sadly. 
 Meanwhile the sails were reefed ; but the screw stirred 
 the water so mightily that the whole steamer quivered 
 from its movements. The rocking had stopped almost 
 completely. In the distance the water seemed even now 
 smooth and azure. From moment to moment new figures 
 came up from below : laborers, German peasants, street 
 idlers from various seaports, people going to America to 
 seek fortune, not work ; a throng took possession of the 
 deck, so Vavron and Marysia, to crowd no one, sat on a 
 coil of rope in the very point in the prow. 
 
 "Tatulo (papa), shall we go long through the water 
 yet ? " inquired Marysia. 
 
 "Do I know. Whomever thou may ask, no one will 
 answer in Catholic fashion."
 
 FOR BREAD. 29 
 
 " But how shall we talk in America ? " 
 
 "Have men not said that there is a cloud of our 
 people there?" 
 
 " Tatulo ? " 
 
 " What ? " 
 
 "To wonder there is something to wonder at, still it 
 was better in Lipiutse." 
 
 "Better not blaspheme for nothing." 
 
 But after a while Vavron added, as if speaking to 
 himself, 
 
 "The will of God!" 
 
 The girl's eyes filled with tears; and both began to 
 think of Lipintse. 
 
 Vavron Toporek considered why he was going to 
 America, and how it had happened. How had it hap- 
 pened ? Well, half a year before, in the summer, they 
 had seized his cow in a clover field. The owner of the 
 clover, who took her, wanted three rubles damages ; 
 Vavron would not give them. The man went to law. 
 The case dragged on. The injured owner of the clover 
 wanted now not only the damage for the clover, but the 
 cost of keeping the cow, and the cost increased daily. 
 Vavron refused it; since he was sorry for the money. 
 He had spent no little for the suit itself ; it dragged on, 
 and dragged on. The cost increased all the time. Finally 
 Vavron lost the case. Besides, for the cow he had in- 
 curred cost, God knows how much; as he had no money 
 to pay, his horse was taken ; and the court sentenced him 
 to arrest for resistance. Toporek squirmed like a snake, 
 for the harvest was just coming, so hands and energy 
 were needed for work. He was late at bringing in his 
 grain, then rain began to fall ; the wheat grew in the 
 bundles. Hence he thought that by the single damage to 
 that clover all his little property would be wasted ; that
 
 30 FOR BREAD. 
 
 he had lost so much money, a part of his cattle, all his 
 year's grain ; and that before the new harvest either he 
 and the girl would have to eat earth, or beg bread. 
 
 As the man had been well-to-do and successful before, 
 so terrible despair seized him now, and he fell to drinking. 
 In the public house he made the acquaintance of a German 
 who was bargaining for flax, as he said, through the vil- 
 lages ; but really he was luring people beyond the sea. 
 
 The German told Vavron miracles and wonders about 
 America. He promised him more land for nothing than 
 there was in all Lipintse, and with a forest, and with 
 meadows ; Vavron's eyes laughed. He believed and he 
 did not believe ; but the Jew dairy-man supported the 
 German, and said that the Government there gave each 
 man as much land "as he could use." The Jew had 
 learned this from his nephew. On his part, the German 
 showed an amount of money which not only a peasant's 
 eyes, but even the eyes of an heir, had not seen in his 
 lifetime. They tempted the man till they convinced 
 him. Why should he stay at home? For one loss he 
 had spent so much money that he might have kept a 
 man for it. Was he to yield himself to ruin ? Was he 
 to take a staff in his hand and sing at the church: 
 " Holy heavenly, angelic Lady ? " " Nothing of that will 
 come ! " thought he. He struck hands with the German, 
 sold out before Saint Michaels, took his daughter, and 
 now he was sailing to America. 
 
 But the journey was not the success he had expected. 
 In Hamburg people had dragged much money from him ; 
 on the steamer he and his daughter went between decks 
 in the steerage. The rocking of the ship, and the end- 
 lessness of the ocean terrified them. No man could 
 understand him, and he could understand no man. They 
 were thrown around, each of them, like a thing, pushed
 
 FOR BREAD. 31 
 
 aside like a stone on a highway ; the Germans, their fellow- 
 passengers, reviled him and Marysia. At dinner-time, 
 when all crowded with their plates to the cook who dis- 
 tributed food, they were pushed away to the very last, 
 so that more than once they had to suffer from hunger. 
 On that ship it was strange and sad. Save the care of 
 God, Vavron felt none other above him. He put on a 
 bold face before the girl, raised his cap on the side of his 
 head, told Marysia to admire things, admired everything 
 himself, but trusted in nothing. At times he was seized 
 by fear that perhaps those "pagans," as he called his 
 fellow-passengers, would throw him and Marysia into the 
 sea, perhaps they would force them to change their 
 religion, or sign some paper, yes ! even a " cyrograf ." 
 
 The steamer itself, which went on day and night over 
 the boundless ocean, shook and roared, raising water and 
 foam, that steamer which puffed like a dragon, and drew 
 after it at night a line of fiery sparks, seemed to him some 
 kind of power which was suspicious and very uncanny.- 
 Childish fears, though he did not confess them, straitened 
 his heart; for that Polish peasant, torn away from his 
 native nest, was in truth a helpless child, and really at 
 the mercy of God. Besides, he could understand nothing 
 that he saw, nothing about him ; so it is not a wonder 
 that, when he was sitting on that coil of rope, his head 
 bent under the weight of oppressive uncertainty and 
 vexation, the breeze of the ocean sang in his ear and 
 seemed to repeat the word : " Lipintse ! Lipintse ! " at 
 times also it piped like the whistles of Lipintse ; the sun 
 said : " How art thou, Vavron ? I have been in Lipiutse." 
 But the screw whirled the water with still mightier 
 force, and the smoke-stack puffed more loudly, more 
 quickly, they were like two evil spirits drawing him 
 farther and farther from Lipintse.
 
 32 FOR BREAD. 
 
 But other thoughts and memories were pursuing 
 Marysia, like that foaming road, or the gulls which flew 
 after the steamer. She remembered how one evening 
 in the autumn, not long before their departure, she went 
 to the well, which had a sweep above it, to draw water. 
 The first stars were twinkling in the sky, and she was 
 drawing the sweep, singing : " Yasio was watering the 
 horses Kasia had come to the well ' and somehow 
 she felt as sad as a swallow twittering before its depar- 
 ture. Then from the pine wood, from the dark one, the 
 swamp gave forth a drawling sound ; that was Yasko 
 Smolak, the groom, letting her know that he saw the 
 well-sweep inclining, and that he would come from the 
 pasture immediately. Indeed there was trampling ; he 
 rode up ; he sprang from his horse ; he shook his yellow 
 forelock ; and she remembered what he said to her as if it 
 had been music. She closed her eyes, and it seemed to 
 her that Smolak was whispering again to her, in a 
 quivering voice, 
 
 " If thy father is stubborn, I will give up all in the 
 mansion ; I will sell my cottage, my village land, and 
 go My Marysia," said he, " wherever thou shalt be, 
 I will fly through the air as a stork to thee, or swim as a 
 duck through the water, or roll on the road as a gold 
 ring, and find thee, thou, my only one ! Have I fortune 
 without thee ? Whither thou turnest, I shall turn also. 
 Whatever happens thee, will happen me also; one life 
 and one death to us. And as I have promised here 
 above the water of this well, so may God desert me as 
 I desert thee, Marysia, my only one." 
 
 Eemembering these words, Marysia saw the well and 
 the great ruddy moon above the pine wood, and Yasko as 
 if living. She found solace in that memory and great 
 comfort. Yasko was resolute ; hence she believed that
 
 FOR BREAD. 33 
 
 he would do what he had promised. Then all she 
 wished was that he might be there, and listen with her 
 to the sounds of the ocean. In his company, all would 
 be livelier and more cheerful, for he feared no man, and 
 could help himself anywhere. What was he doing then 
 in Lipintse ? The first snows must have fallen. Had he 
 gone with his axe to the forest, was he harnessing horses, 
 had they sent him to some place from the mansion, with 
 the sleigh? was he cutting openings in the ice of the 
 pond ? Where was he, dear fellow ? Here Lipintse 
 appeared to her just as it had been : snow squeaking on 
 the road, the ruddy light of evening between dark, leafless 
 tree branches, flocks of crows flying from the pine wood 
 to the village with cawing, smoke rising skyward from 
 the chimneys, the frozen sweep at the well, and in the 
 distance pine woods ruddy in the light of evening, and 
 snow-covered. 
 
 Ah, where is she now ! Where has her father's will 
 brought her! In the distance, as far as the eye can 
 reach, nothing but water, green furrows, foaming ridges, 
 and on those boundless fields of water that one ship, 
 like a lost bird ; heaven above them, a desert beneath, a 
 mighty sound as it were the weeping of waves and the 
 whistling of winds, and off there, before the beak of the 
 vessel, the ninth land, or the end of the world. 
 
 Yasko, poor fellow, wilt thou meet her there ? Wilt 
 thou fly thither through the air in the form of a falcon ? 
 or wilt thou swim through the water disguised as a fish ? 
 or art thou thinking of her in Lipintse ? 
 
 The sun inclined toward the west gradually, and was 
 going down in the ocean. On the wrinkled billows the 
 broad sunny pathway, stretched behind, shaped itself into 
 golden scales, changed, glittered, shone, was consumed and 
 perished somewhere in remoteness. The ship, sailing on
 
 34 FOR BREAD. 
 
 over that fiery ribbon, seemed to pursue the fleeing sun. 
 The smoke, bursting from the smoke-stack, grew ruddy ; 
 the sails and damp ropes became rosy; the sailors fell 
 now to singing ; meanwhile the radiant circle increased 
 and settled down lower toward the ocean. Soon only one 
 half of the shield was seen above the water, then only 
 rays, and after that the whole west was filled with one 
 immense ruddiness, and it was unknown in those gleams 
 where the brightness of the waves found its end, and the 
 sky its beginning. The air and the water were penetrated 
 in like manner with light, which quenched gradually ; 
 the ocean sounded with one great but mild voice, as if 
 it were murmuring an evening prayer. 
 
 In such moments the soul in a man receives wings, 
 and what he had to remember, he remembers ; what he 
 loved, he loves still more ardently; that after which he 
 yearns, to that does he fly now. 
 
 Vavron and Marysia felt, both of them, that though 
 the wind was bearing them like helpless leaves, the tree 
 from which they were borne was not in the direction in 
 which they were going, but that from which they were 
 coming : the Polish land, that grain land, waving in one 
 field, grown over with pine-trees, dotted with straw roofs, 
 full of meadows, of golden buttercups, and gleaming 
 water, full of storks and swallows, crosses by the road- 
 side, white mansions among lindens ; she, who with a 
 pointed cap under her feet, with the word " Praised ! " 
 greets and answers " for the ages of ages," she the vener- 
 able, she the sweetest mother, so true, beloved above all 
 others on the earth ! Hence what their peasant hearts 
 had not felt before, they felt then. Vavron removed his 
 cap ; the evening light fell on his hair, growing gray ; his 
 mind was laboring, for the poor man knew not how he 
 was to tell Marysia what his belief was. At last he
 
 FOR BREAD. 35 
 
 said : " Marysia, it seems to me as if something had 
 remained there beyond the sea." 
 
 " Our fate has remained, and love has remained there," 
 answered the girl, in a low voice, raising her eyes as if in 
 prayer. 
 
 Meanwhile it had grown dark. The passengers had 
 begun to leave the deck ; on the ship, however, there 
 was an unusual movement. The night is not always 
 calm after a beautiful sunset, so the whistles of the 
 officers were heard continually, and sailors were hauling 
 ropes. 
 
 The last purple gleams were quenched on the sea, 
 when a mist rose from the water ; the stars twinkled in 
 the sky, and then vanished. The mist thickened before 
 the eye, hiding the heavens, the horizon, and even the 
 vessel. Only the smoke-stack and the great central mast 
 were now visible ; the figures of the sailors seemed, from 
 some distance, like shadows. An hour later, all was 
 hidden in a whitish fog, even lanterns hanging on the mast- 
 heads, even sparks flying out through the smoke-stack. 
 
 The vessel did not rock in the least ; one might have 
 said that the sea had grown feeble and had flattened out 
 under the weight of the fog. 
 
 Night had come down, in fact, blind and silent. Sud- 
 denly, in the midst of the silence, and from the remotest 
 rim of the horizon, were heard wonderful rustles, like the 
 heavy breathing of some giant breast nearing the vesseL 
 At times it seemed as if some one were calling in the 
 darkness, then that a whole distant chorus of voices were 
 answering with infinite sadness and complaining tear- 
 fully. Those calls were running from darkness and 
 endlessness toward the steamer. 
 
 Sailors, when they hear these sounds, say that the tem- 
 pest is calling winds out of hell.
 
 36 FOR BREAD. 
 
 In fact these calls grew more and more definite. The 
 captain, wearing a rubber coat with a hood, stood on 
 the highest bridge ; an officer took his usual place before 
 a lighted compass. On the deck was no passenger now. 
 Vavron and Marysia had gone down to the common 
 cabin also. There was silence. The lamps, fastened in a 
 very low arch, shone with a gloomy light on the interior 
 and the crowds of emigrants sitting beside their bunks 
 near the walls. The cabin was large but gloomy, as 
 cabins in the fourth class are usually. Its ceiling and 
 walls were very nearly one, therefore those bunks at the 
 ends, divided by partitions, were more like dark dens than 
 beds, and the entire cabin produced the impression of one 
 immense cellar. The air in it was filled with the odor 
 of tarred canvas, ship cables, bilge water, and dampness. 
 Where could be found in it a comparison with the beauti- 
 ful rooms of the first class ! A passage of even two weeks 
 in such cabins would poison lungs with bad air, bring 
 a sickly pallor to faces, and cause scurvy frequently. 
 
 Vavron and his daughter were out only four days ; 
 still if one were to compare the former Marysia of 
 Lipintse, the healthy and blooming, with her of to-day, 
 made haggard by sickness, he would not have known 
 her. Old Vavron too had grown as yellow as wax, for 
 the first days neither of them had gone on deck. They 
 thought it forbidden. Or for that matter did they know 
 what was permitted and what was forbidden ? They 
 had hardly dared to move ; moreover they feared to leave 
 their things. And now not only they, but all, were sitting 
 with their effects. -The entire steerage was strewn with 
 bundles belonging to emigrants; this increased the dis- 
 order and gloomy appearance. Bedding, clothing, sup- 
 plies of provisions, various utensils, and tin dishes, mixed 
 together, were thrown in smaller or larger heaps over the
 
 FOR BREAD. 37 
 
 whole floor. Upon them were sitting emigrants, nearly 
 all Germans. Some were chewing tobacco, others smok- 
 ing pipes ; the rolls of smoke struck the low ceiling, 
 and, forming a long streak, obscured lamp-light. A 
 number of children were crying in the corners, but the 
 usual noise had ceased, for the fog had penetrated all 
 with a sort of fear, alarm, and gloom. The most ex- 
 perienced of the emigrants knew that it foreboded a 
 storm. It was a secret at that time to no one, that dan- 
 ger was coming, and perhaps death was near. Vavron 
 and Marysia could inform themselves in nothing, though 
 when any one opened the hatchway for a moment those 
 distant, ill-omened voices, coming up from infinity, were 
 heard with distinctness. 
 
 Both were sitting in the depth of the room, in its 
 narrowest portion, therefore not far from the prow of 
 the steamer. The movement there was disagreeable; 
 hence their fellow-passengers pushed them to that place. 
 The old man strengthened himself with bread brought 
 from Lipintse, and the girl, who disliked to do nothing, 
 braided her hair for the night. 
 
 Gradually, however, the general silence, interrupted 
 only by the crying of children, began to astonish the 
 girl. 
 
 " Why do the Germans sit to-night so quietly ? " in- 
 quired she. 
 
 " Do I know ? " answered Vavron, as usual. " It must 
 be that they have a holiday, or something." 
 
 All at once the ship trembled mightily, exactly as if it 
 had shivered before something terrible. The tin dishes 
 lying around rattled gloomily, the flame in the lamps 
 danced and gleamed up, some frightened voices inquired: 
 
 " What is it ? What is it ? " 
 
 But there was no answer. A second shock, weightier
 
 38 FOR BREAD. 
 
 than the first, shook the steamer ; the prow rose suddenly, 
 and went down with equal suddenness, and at the same 
 time a wave struck with dull force the round window 
 on one side. 
 
 "A storm is coming!" whispered Marysia in terror. 
 
 Meanwhile something howled around the steamer like 
 a pack of wolves, then it sounded like a pine wood when 
 a whirlwind is breaking it suddenly. The wind struck 
 once and a second time ; it put the steamer on its 
 side, then turned it around, raised it aloft, and hurled 
 it into the depth. The rigging creaked, tin vessels, 
 bundles, bags, and utensils flew along the floor, hurled 
 from corner to corner. Some passengers fell flat ; feathers 
 from pillows flew through the air, and the lamp chimneys 
 jingled mournfully. 
 
 All was noise and uproar : the plashing of water pour- 
 ing in on the deck, the struggling of the ship, the scream- 
 ing of women, and the weeping of children, the chasing 
 for effects, and, in this disturbance and chaos, nothing 
 was heard but the shrill sound of whistles, and, from 
 moment to moment, the dull tramp of sailors hurrying 
 along on the upper deck. 
 
 " Virgin of Chenstohova ! " whispered Marysia. 
 
 The prow of the ship, in which both were sitting, shot 
 into the air, and then went down as if frantic. Though 
 Vavron and Marysia held to the sides of their plank 
 berths, they were thrown so that at moments they struck 
 the ceiling. The roar of the billows increased ; the groans 
 of the deck grew so piercing that it seemed as though beams 
 and planks would burst in with a crash any moment. 
 
 "Hold on, Marysia!" shouted Vavron, trying to out- 
 shout the roar of the tempest ; but fear soon closed his 
 throat, and those of others. Children stopped crying; 
 women stopped screaming; all breasts breathed only
 
 FOR BREAD. 39 
 
 hurriedly, and hands held with effort to various fixed 
 objects. 
 
 The rage of the tempest rose increasingly. The ele- 
 ments were unchained ; the fog thickened with darkness, 
 the clouds with water, the whirlwind with foam ; billows 
 struck the ship as if they had been sent from cannon, 
 they hurled it to the right, to the left, and from the 
 clouds to the bottom of the sea. At moments the foam- 
 ing summits of waves passed over the whole length of 
 the steamer ; gigantic masses of water seethed in one 
 awful disorder. 
 
 The oil lamps in the room began to quench. It became 
 darker and darker ; it seemed to Vavron and Marysia that 
 the darkness of death was approaching. 
 
 " Marysia ! " began the man, with a broken voice, for 
 breath failed him. " Marysia, forgive me for delivering 
 thee to death. Our last hour has come. We shall not 
 look again on the world with our sinful eyes. We shall 
 have no confession, no anointment ; we are not to lie in 
 the earth, but go from the water to the terrible judgment, 
 poor girl!" 
 
 And while he was speaking thus, Marysia understood 
 that there was no rescue. Various thoughts flew through 
 her head, and something called in her soul, 
 
 " Yasko, Yasko, my heart's love, dost thou hear me in 
 Lipintse ? " 
 
 Terrible sorrow pressed her heart, and she sobbed 
 aloud. The sobbing filled the room where all were as 
 silent as if at a funeral. One voice called out from a 
 corner : " Still ! " but stopped, as if frightened by its own 
 sound. Then a lamp chimney fell to the floor, and the 
 flame went out. It was still darker. The alarm of 
 silence reigned everywhere, when Vavron's voice was 
 heard suddenly in the silence,
 
 40 FOR BREAD. 
 
 " Kyrie eleison ! " 
 
 " Chryste eleison," responded Marysia, sobbing. 
 
 w Christ listen to us !" 
 
 " Father in heaven, God, have mercy on us ! " said the 
 two, repeating the Litany. 
 
 In the dark room the voice of an old man, and re- 
 sponses, broken by sobbing, coming from a girl sounded 
 with wonderful solemnity. Some of the emigrants un- 
 covered their heads. Gradually the girl's weeping ceased, 
 the voices grew calmer, clearer; outside the tempest 
 howled a response to them. 
 
 All at once a scream was heard among those who were 
 standing nearer the exit. A wave had beaten the door in 
 and rushed to the cabin ; the water flowed to every cor- 
 ner with a plashing; women began to scream and save 
 themselves on the bunks. It seemed to all that the end 
 had come. 
 
 After a while an officer on duty, all wet and red-faced, 
 entered with a lantern in his hand. He pacified the 
 women with a few words, saying that the water had come 
 only by accident ; afterward he added, that as the vessel 
 was on the open sea there was no great danger. In fact 
 an hour passed, two hours. The tempest raged more and 
 more madly. The vessel groaned, went down prow fore- 
 most ; the deck sank ; it lay on one side, but the vessel 
 did not sink. People were quieted a little ; some went to 
 sleep. Again a number of hours passed; through the 
 upper, grated window a gray light broke in. Day came 
 on the ocean, pale, as if frightened, gloomy, dark ; but it 
 brought a certain hope and solace. 
 
 When Vavron and Marysia had said all the prayers 
 that they had in their memories, they climbed up to their 
 plank beds and fell asleep, soundly. 
 
 They were roused only by the sound of the bell calling
 
 FOR BREAD. 41 
 
 to breakfast. But they could not eat. Their heads felt 
 as heavy as if they had been leaden ; the old man was 
 worse still than the girl. In his benumbed brain nothing 
 could fix itself. The German who persuaded him to go 
 to America had told him, it is true, that he must cross 
 water ; but he had never supposed it such a great water 
 that he would have to sail so many days and nights on 
 it. He had thought that he would cross on a scow, as 
 he had crossed water more than once in his lifetime. If 
 he had known that the sea was so enormous, he would 
 have remained in Lipintse. Besides, one other thought 
 struggled in him unquietly : had he not given to damna- 
 tion his own soul and the soul of his daughter ? Was it 
 not a sin for a Catholic from Lipintse to tempt the Lord 
 God, and put himself into an abyss, over which he was 
 sailing now the fifth day to another shore, if in general 
 there was any shore on the other side ? His doubts and 
 fears had seven days more of increase to them. 
 
 The storm raged forty-eight hours longer, then it went 
 down in some fashion. Vavron and Marysia made bold 
 to go out on deck again; but when they saw rolls of 
 water rocking yet, black, and, as it were, enraged, those 
 mountains advancing against the ship, and those bottom- 
 less, moving valleys, again they thought that only the 
 hand of God, or some power not of man, could save them. 
 
 At last it became perfectly clear. But day followed 
 day, and before the ship nothing was visible except 
 always water and water without end, at one time green, 
 at another blue, and mingling with the sky. On that sky 
 passed at times, high up, small, bright clouds, which, grow- 
 ing red in the evening, laid themselves to sleep in the dis- 
 tant west. The ship pursued these clouds over the water. 
 Vavron thought that perhaps in truth the sea did not end 
 anywhere, but he took courage and resolved to ask.
 
 42 FOR BREAD. 
 
 Once he took off his cap and, bowing submissively to a 
 passing sailor, inquired, 
 
 " Great, mighty lord, shall we go quickly to the end of 
 the voyage ? " 
 
 Oh, wonder ! the sailor did not snort with laughter, but 
 stopped and listened. On his red face cut by the wind 
 was to be recognized the working of memory, and of cer- 
 tain recollections which could not arrange themselves in 
 conscious thought at first. After a while he asked, 
 
 "Was?" 
 
 " Shall we come to land soon, great, mighty lord ?" 
 
 " Two days, two days," repeated the sailor, with diffi- 
 culty, holding up at the same time two fingers. 
 
 " I thank humbly." 
 
 " Whence are ye ? " 
 
 " From Lipintse." 
 
 " What is that Lipintse ? " 
 
 Marysia, who came up during the talk, blushed greatly, 
 but raising her timid eyes on the sailor, she said, with 
 that thin little voice with which village girls speak, 
 
 " We are from Poznan." 
 
 The sailor looked thoughtfully at a bronze nail in the 
 bulwark ; then at the girl, at her hair, bright as flax, and 
 something as it were emotion appeared on his weather- 
 beaten face. After a while he said seriously : 
 
 " I have been in Dantzig I understand Polish I am 
 a Kashub l your brother ; but that was long ago ! Jetzt 
 bin ich Deutsch." 
 
 When he had said this, he raised the end of the rope 
 which he had held before in his hand, turned away, and 
 calling out in sailor fashion : " Ho ! ho ! o ! " he began to 
 draw it. 
 
 1 The Kashubs, a variety of the Poles, live southwest of Dantzig ; they 
 number between one and two hundred thousand ; their language differs 
 somewhat from the ordinary Polish.
 
 FOR BREAD. 43 
 
 From that time, whenever Vavron and Marysia were 
 on deck, he smiled in a friendly manner at Marysia 
 when he saw them. They were greatly delighted, for 
 they had a living soul inclined to them on this German 
 steamer. But the journey now was not to last long. 
 The next morning, when they went out on deck, a won- 
 derful sight struck their eyes. They saw something danc- 
 ing on the sea, and when the ship approached that object, 
 they saw that it was a great red cask moved gently by the 
 waves ; in the distance was a second like it, and a third, and 
 a fourth. The air and the water were somewhat misty, but 
 not greatly so, besides it was silvery and mild ; the surface 
 of the water was smooth, noiseless, and, as far as the eye 
 reached, more and more casks were dancing on the water. 
 Whole clouds of white birds with black wings were flying 
 behind the ship, crying and whistling. On the deck there 
 was an uncommon movement. The sailors had put on 
 fresh clothing ; some were washing the deck ; others were 
 cleaning the brass fastenings of the bulwarks and the 
 windows ; on the mast was hung out one flag, and at the 
 stern of the steamer another, a larger one. 
 
 Animation and delight had seized all the passengers ; 
 everything living had run out on the deck : some brought 
 up their bags and began to strap them. 
 
 Seeing all this, Marysia said, 
 
 " Surely we are coming to land." 
 
 A more cheerful spirit entered her and Vavron. At 
 last Sandy Hook showed itself on the west, and another 
 island with a great edifice standing in the centre ; in 
 the distance was a condensed fog, as it were a cloud, 
 as it were a collection of smoke, stretched in strips above 
 the sea, indefinite, distant, dim, formless. At sight of 
 this there was a great murmur; all pointed to it; the 
 steamer, on its part, whistled shrilly, as if from delight.
 
 44 FOR BREAD. 
 
 " What is that ? " inquired Vavron. 
 
 " New York," said the Kashub, who was standing at 
 his side. 
 
 Now the columns of smoke seemed to separate, to be 
 lost, and on the background on which they had been, 
 in proportion as the steamer cleaved the silvery water, 
 appeared the outlines of houses, roofs, chimneys ; pointed 
 spires were denned more clearly on the blue ; with the 
 spires were the tall chimneys of factories, over the chim- 
 neys columns of smoke spreading in soft, bushy forms 
 above. Below, in front of the city, a forest of masts, and 
 on the points of them thousands of flags which the breeze 
 moved as if they were flowers on a meadow. The steamer 
 drew nearer and nearer. The fair city rose as if from 
 under the water. Great delight and astonishment seized 
 Vavron ; he removed his cap, opened his lips and gazed ; 
 he gazed, and then said to the girl, 
 
 " Marysia ! " 
 
 "0 for God's sake!" 
 
 "Dost see?" 
 
 "I see!" 
 
 "Dost wonder?" 
 
 " I wonder." 
 
 But Vavron not only wondered, he desired. Seeing the 
 green shores on both sides of the bay, and the dark lines 
 of groves, he continued, 
 
 " Well, praise be to God ! If they would only give me 
 land right away, here near the city, with that meadow, it 
 would be close to the market. The fair would come : a 
 man might drive a cow, drive a pig, and sell them. I 
 see that people are here as numerous as poppy seeds. 
 In Poland I was a peasant, but here I shall be a 
 lord." 
 
 At that moment the splendid National Park deployed
 
 FOR BREAD. 45 
 
 before his eyes in all its length, and Vavron, when he saw 
 those groups and clusters of trees, said again, 
 
 " I will bow down low to the great, mighty commissioner 
 of the Government, I will talk to him cunningly to give 
 me even sixty acres of this forest, and afterward an addi- 
 tion. If an inheritance, then an inheritance. I can send 
 a man with wood in the morning to the city. Glory to 
 the Highest ! for I see that the German did not deceive 
 me." 
 
 Lordship smiled somehow at Marysia also, and she 
 knew not why that song came to her head which brides 
 sang to bridegrooms at weddings in Lipintse, 
 
 " What sort of bridegroom art thou ? 
 Thy whole outfit is a cap and a coat." 
 
 Had she, perhaps, the design of singing something 
 similar to poor Yasko, when he should come for her and 
 she should be an heiress ? 
 
 Now a little steamer from the quarantine flew toward 
 the great one. Four or five men came on board. Conver- 
 sation and outcries set in. Soon another steamer came 
 up from the city itself, bringing agents of hotels and 
 boarding-houses, guides, money-changers, railroad agents ; 
 all these shouted in heaven-piercing voices, crowding and 
 circling around the whole deck. Vavron and Marysia 
 had fallen, as it were, into a vortex, and could not tell 
 what to do. 
 
 The Kashub advised the old man to change his money, 
 and promised not to let people cheat him. Vavron fol- 
 lowed his advice. He received forty-seven dollars in 
 silver for what he had. Before all this was finished, 
 the steamer had approached the city so nearly that not 
 only the houses could be seen, but people on the streets. 
 They passed every moment larger or smaller vessels ; at
 
 46 FOR BREAD. 
 
 last they reached the wharf and pushed into a narrow 
 dock of the port. 
 
 The journey was ended. 
 
 People poured out from the steamer like bees from a 
 hive. Along the narrow gangway, from the deck to the 
 shore, flowed a many-colored throng ; the first class, then 
 the second, and at last the steerage passengers, bearing 
 their effects. 
 
 When Vavron and Marysia, pushed by the throng, 
 approached the gangway, they found the Kashub near 
 them. He pressed Vavron's hand firmly, and said, 
 
 " Bruder ! I wish luck 1 and to thee, girl, God aid thee ! " 
 
 " The Lord God repay ! " answered both ; but there was 
 no time for further farewell. The crowd urged them 
 along the gangway, and in a moment they found them- 
 selves in a broad custom-house building. 
 
 The custom-house officer, dressed in gray overcoat with 
 a silver star, felt of their packages, then called, "All 
 right!" and pointed to the exit. They went out, and 
 found themselves on the street. 
 
 " Tatulo ! but what shall we do ? " 
 
 "We must wait. The German said that a commis- 
 sioner would come from the Government and inquire for 
 us." 
 
 They stood at a wall waiting for a commissioner ; 
 meanwhile the uproar of an unknown and immense city 
 surrounded them. They had never seen anything like 
 it. The streets were straight, broad, and on them were 
 crowds of people, as in time of a fair; in the middle 
 of the street were carriages, omnibuses, freight wagons. 
 Eound about sounded a strange, unknown tongue; the 
 shouts of workmen and hucksters were heard. From 
 moment to moment entirely black people pushed past; 
 they had big woolly heads. At sight of these Vavron
 
 FOR BREAD. 47 
 
 and Marysia made the sign of the cross on themselves, 
 piously. Something marvellous to them was that city, 
 so noisy, so full of voices, so full of whistling of locomo- 
 tives, clatter of wagons, and shouting of men. All people 
 there were running as quickly as if hunting down some 
 one, or fleeing from some one, and besides what swarms 
 of them ! What strange faces ; now black, now olive color, 
 now reddish ! Just where they were standing near the 
 harbor the greatest activity reigned ; from some steamers 
 they were unloading bales ; at other steamers they were 
 putting them in. Wagons arrived every moment ; trucks 
 clattered on cross-walks; a hurly-burly and an uproar 
 raged as in a sawmill. 
 
 In this way passed one hour and a second ; they were 
 standing at the wall waiting for the commissioner. 
 
 A strange sight on the American shore, in New York, 
 was that Polish peasant, with long hair growing gray, in 
 his square-topped cap, with lamb-skin body, that girl 
 from Lipintse, in a dark-blue jacket, and with beads 
 around her neck. 
 
 But strangers passed without even looking at them. 
 In New York, people wonder at no face, at no dress. 
 
 Another hour passed ; the sky became cloud-covered ; 
 rain fell, mixed with snow , a cold, damp wind came in 
 from the sea. 
 
 They remained waiting for the commissioner. 
 
 The peasant nature was patient; but something in 
 their souls began to grow heavy. 
 
 They had felt lonely on the steamer, amid strange 
 people, and that desert of water had been terrible and 
 evil. They had implored God to conduct them, like 
 wandering children, over the abysses of the ocean. They 
 had thought that if once they could put foot on land 
 their misfortune would end. Now they had come ; they
 
 48 FOR BREAD. 
 
 were in a great city ; but in that city, in the uproar of 
 men, they felt all at once that it was lonelier still, and 
 more terrible than ever it had been on the steamer. 
 
 The commissioner was not coming. What would they 
 do if he should not come at all, if the German had 
 deceived them ? 
 
 The poor peasant hearts quivered with dread at the 
 thought. What would they do? They would just 
 perish. 
 
 Meanwhile the wind passed through their clothing, 
 the rain wet them. 
 
 " Marysia, art thou not cold ? " inquired Vavron. 
 
 " Cold, tatulo," answered the girl. 
 
 The city clock struck another hour; it was growing 
 dark in the world. The movement at the wharf ceased ; 
 street lamps were lighted; one sea of gleaming lights 
 flashed through the city. Laborers from the wharf, sing- 
 ing with hoarse voices, strolled along in smaller or larger 
 groups into the city. Gradually the street was deserted 
 completely. The custom-house was closed. 
 
 They remained waiting for the commissioner. 
 
 At last night came, and it was quiet at the water, save 
 that, from time to time, the dark smoke-stacks of ferry- 
 boats belched out bundles of sparks with a hiss, which 
 died in the darkness, or a wave splashed, striking the 
 stone embankment. At times was heard the song of a 
 drunken sailor returning to his ship. The light of the 
 lamps became pale in the fog. They waited. 
 
 Even if they had had no wish to wait, where could 
 they go ? What were they to do ? Where were they to 
 turn ? Where were they to lay their wearied heads ? 
 The cold pierced them more sharply; hunger tortured 
 them. If they had even a roof above their heads, for 
 they were wet to the skin.
 
 FOR BREAD. 49 
 
 Ah ! the commissioner had not come, and he would not 
 come, for there was no such commissioner. The German 
 was an agent of the transportation company ; he took a 
 percentage for each person, and cared for nothing more. 
 
 Vavron felt that the legs were tottering under him, 
 that some gigantic weight was crushing him, that God's 
 anger must be hanging over him. 
 
 He suffered and waited as only a peasant can. The 
 voice of the girl, shivering from cold, roused him at last 
 from his torpor. 
 
 " Tatulo." 
 
 " Be quiet. There is no mercy above us ! " 
 
 " Let us go back to Lipintse." 
 
 " Go drown thyself " 
 
 " God, God ! " whispered Marysia, quietly. 
 
 Grief seized Vavron. 
 
 " Oh, orphan, poor girl ! May God take pity even on 
 thee ! " 
 
 But she heard him no longer. Leaning her head 
 against the wall, she closed her eyes. Sleep came, 
 broken, oppressive, feverish. And in a dream, as it were 
 a picture in a frame, Lipintse, and as it were the song of 
 Yasko, the groom, 
 
 " What bride art thou ? 
 Thy whole outfit 
 Is a garland of rue." 
 
 The first rays of daylight in the port of New York fell 
 on the water, the masts, and the custom-house building. 
 
 In that gray light one might have distinguished under 
 a wall two sleeping figures with pallid, bluish faces ; they 
 were covered with snow, and were as still as if dead. 
 But in the book of their misfortune only the first leaves 
 had been turned. We will read the others later on. 
 
 4
 
 50 FOR BREAD. 
 
 IL 
 
 IN NEW YOKK. 
 
 PASSING in New York from wide Broadway toward the 
 wharf, in the direction of Chatham Square, and cross- 
 ing a number of adjacent streets, the traveller comes 
 upon a part of the city which increases in poverty, 
 squalor, and gloom. The narrow streets become ever 
 narrower. The houses, built, it may be, even by the 
 Dutch colonists, have cracked and bent over in course 
 of time ; the roofs on them have sagged, the plaster 
 fallen in great part from the walls, and the walls them- 
 selves sunk into the earth, till the tops of the basement 
 windows are barely above the street pavement. A 
 marvellous crookedness is present there, instead of the 
 favorite straight lines of America ; roofs and walls, stand- 
 ing out of line, crowd together and rise, one above 
 another, showing disordered aggregations of shaggy roofs. 
 
 Because of its position near the water, the puddles in 
 the street-ruts in this part of the city hardly ever dry, 
 and the small squares, securely closed, are like little 
 ponds filled with thick, black, stagnant water. The 
 windows of the tumble-down houses gaze gloomily into 
 this water, the foul surface of which is varied with 
 scraps of paper and pasteboard, bits of glass, wood, and 
 pieces of tin from bales. With similar fragments, whole 
 streets are covered, or rather the entire layer of mud 
 which conceals them. Everywhere are visible human 
 misery, dirt, and disorder. 
 
 In this division of the city are " boarding-houses," or 
 inns, in which, for two dollars a week, it is possible to find 
 lodging and entire maintenance ; here also are drinking
 
 FOR BREAD. 51 
 
 houses, or " bar rooms," in which whalers find every 
 kind of rough men for their vessels ; and secret agencies 
 of Venezuela, Ecuador, and Brazil persuade people to 
 tropical colonization, and obtain a respectable number of 
 victims for the yellow fever ; restaurants, feeding their 
 guests with salt meat, rotten oysters, and fish, which 
 surely the water itself brought to shore ; secret places for 
 dice playing ; Chinese laundries ; various refuges for 
 sailors ; finally dens of crime, hunger, misery, and tears. 
 
 Still that part of the city is active ; for all the immi- 
 grants who cannot find even a temporary place in the 
 barracks of Castle Garden, and who wish not, or are 
 unable to go to the so-called " work houses," huddle 
 together, live and die there. On the other hand, it may 
 be said, that if immigrants are the scum of European 
 society, the inhabitants of these retreats are the scum of 
 immigration. The people here are idle, partly through 
 want of work, and partly through desire. 
 
 Here in the night-time revolver shots are heard with 
 sufficient frequency, shouts for help, hoarse screams of 
 rage, drunken songs, or the howls of negroes butting their 
 heads -against one another. Every little while in the 
 daytime whole crowds of loafers, in torn hats, and with 
 pipes between their teeth, look on at fist battles, betting 
 meanwhile from one to five cents on black eyes. White 
 children and woolly headed little negroes, instead of 
 passing their time at school, wander through the streets, 
 playing with pieces of ox ribs, or looking in the mud for 
 remnants of vegetables, bananas, or lemons ; destitute 
 women stretch their hands to a better dressed passer-by, 
 in case he wanders in there. 
 
 In this human Gehenna we find our old acquain- 
 tances, Vavron Toporek and Marysia, his daughter. The 
 " inheritance " which they had hoped for was a dream,
 
 52 FOR BREAD. 
 
 and like a dream had it vanished ; but reality presents 
 itself to us now in the form of a little room sunk in the 
 earth, having one window with broken panes. On the 
 walls of the room is foul, black mould with streaks of 
 dampness ; at the wall stands a rusty little iron stove 
 with holes in it, and a three-legged table ; in one corner a 
 small bundle of barley straw takes the place of a bed. 
 
 This is all. Old Vavron, kneeling before the stove, is 
 searching in the cold ashes to find a potato somewhere, 
 and to that search he returns now in vain the second 
 day; Marysia is sitting on the straw clasping her knees 
 with her hands, and looking at the floor with fixed stare. 
 The girl is ill and emaciated. She is the same Marysia, 
 as it were: but her cheeks, once blooming, are deeply 
 sunken ; her complexion has grown pallid and sickly, 
 her whole face as if smaller than before ; her eyes are 
 larger and staring. On her face the effects of foul air, 
 gnawing grief and vile food are evident. They had lived 
 on potatoes only ; but for two days potatoes are lacking. 
 Now they know not what to do or how to exist any 
 longer. It is now the third month that they have lived 
 on this street and inhabited this den ; their money is 
 gone. Old Vavron tried to find work ; but no one under- 
 stood even what he wanted ; he went to the wharf to 
 carry packages and load coal into ships ; but he had no 
 wheelbarrow, and, moreover, he got a black eye right 
 away ; he wanted to find work with an axe in building 
 piers, men gave him a black eye the second time. Besides, 
 what sort of a laborer is he who does not understand 
 what people say to him ? Wherever he thrust in his 
 hand, to whatever he wished to betake himself, whither- 
 soever he went, people laughed him out, threw him out, 
 pushed him out, beat him ; consequently he found 
 nothing ; he was neither able to earn money or beg it
 
 FOR BREAD. 53 
 
 from any source. His hair whitened from gnawing grief ; 
 hope was exhausted, and hunger began. 
 
 In his own country, among his own people, were he to 
 lose everything, were disease to harass him, were his 
 children to drive him from his cottage, he would need 
 simply to take a staff in his hand and stand under a 
 cross at the roadside, or at the door of some church, and 
 sing: " God the merciful, hear Thou my cry !" A rich 
 man, passing, would give him ten coppers ; a lady would 
 send from her carriage a little girl with money in her rosy 
 hand, and with great eyes fixed on the grandfather (the 
 beggar) ; a peasant would give a loaf of bread ; a peasant 
 woman, a bit of bacon, and he might live, even as a bird 
 which neither ploughs nor sows. Besides, whenever he 
 stood at a cross, its arms would be over his head, above 
 that the heavens, and round about fields. In that quiet 
 of the country the Lord God would hear his complaint. 
 There, in that city, something was roaring as terribly 
 as in an enormous machine ; each one, rushing straight- 
 forward, looked ahead so directly that no man saw 
 another's misfortune. Dizziness seized the brain ; a 
 man's hands fell ; his eyes could not take in all that 
 thrust itself on them, nor could one thought catch 
 another. All was so wonderful, foreign, repelling, and 
 scattering that the man who could not turn in that 
 whirl was shot out of the circle and broken, like an 
 earthen pot. 
 
 " Ei ! what a difference ! There in quiet Lipintse, 
 Vavron was a householder and a counsellor ; he had land, 
 the respect of people, a sure spoonful of daily food ; on 
 Sunday he went out before the altar with a candle ; but 
 here he was the last of all, he was like a dog which has 
 wandered into a strange yard, timid, trembling, curled up, 
 and famished.
 
 54 FOR BREAD. 
 
 In the early days of his misfortune memory said fre- 
 quently, " It was better in Lipintse." His conscience 
 cried to him, " Vavron, why hast thou deserted Lipintse ? " 
 Why ? because God had deserted him. The man would 
 bear his cross, would suffer, if to that way of the cross 
 there was an end in any place ; but he knew well that 
 every day would bring a still harder trial, and every 
 morning the sun would shine upon still greater misery 
 for him and Marysia. What then ? Was he to twist a 
 rope, say an Our Father, and hang himself ? The man 
 would not wink an eye in face of death ; but what would 
 happen to his daughter ? When he thought of all this, 
 he felt that not only had God deserted him, but that his 
 mind was deserting him. There was no light in that 
 darkness which he saw before him, and he could not 
 even name the greatest pain that he felt. 
 
 The yearning for Lipintse was that greatest pain. It 
 tortured him night and day, and tortured him the more 
 terribly because he knew not what he needed, or whither 
 the peasant soul in him was tearing, or why that soul was 
 howling from torture ; but he needed the pine wood, the 
 fields, and the cottages thatched with straw, and lords 
 and peasants, and priests, and all that over which a part 
 of his native sky was hanging, and to which the heart 
 becomes so attached that it cannot tear itself away, 
 and if it is torn away it bleeds. The man felt that 
 something was crushing him into the earth. At moments 
 he would have been glad to seize his hair and smash his 
 head against the wall, or throw himself on the ground, 
 or howl like a dog on a chain, or call as if in frenzy 
 whom ? he knew not himself. Now he is just bending 
 under this unknown burden, just falling, and here the 
 strange city roars and roars. He groans and calls Jesus ; 
 but there is no crucifix there ; no man answers ; the city
 
 FOR BREAD. 55 
 
 roars and roars ; and on the straw sits his daughter with 
 eyes staring at the floor, famishing and suffering in si- 
 lence. A wonderful thing ! he and the girl were always 
 together, but often they did not speak one word to each 
 other for days. They lived as if greatly offended. It was 
 evil and oppressive for them to live in that way, but of 
 what could they speak ? It is better not to touch fes- 
 tering sores. What could they talk about except this, 
 that there was no money in the pocket, no potatoes in 
 the stove, no counsel in the head. 
 
 Assistance they got from no one. .Very many Poles 
 inhabit New York, but none who are prosperous live 
 near Chatham Square. 
 
 On the second week after the arrival they made the 
 acquaintance, it is true, of two Polish families, one from 
 Silesia, the other from near Poznan itself ; but those were 
 dying of hunger a long time. The Silesians had lost two 
 children already ; the third child was sick, still for two 
 weeks it slept under an arch of a bridge with its parents, 
 and all lived only on what they found on the streets. 
 Later they were taken to a hospital, and it was unknown 
 what had happened them. Equal evil came to the second 
 family, and even greater, for the father drank. Marysia 
 saved the woman while she could ; but now she herself 
 needed rescue. 
 
 She and her father might have betaken themselves to 
 the Polish church at Hoboken. The priest would at least 
 have informed others concerning them; but did they know 
 that there was any Polish church, or Polish priest ; or 
 could they speak with any one, or inquire of any one ? So 
 every cent expended was for them, as it were, a step 
 toward the abyss of misery. 
 
 They were sitting at that moment, he at the little stove, 
 she on the straw. One hour and a second hour passed.
 
 56 FOR BREAD. 
 
 In the room it had become darker and darker ; for, though 
 it was midday, mist had risen from the water, as is usual 
 in spring-time, a dense, penetrating mist. Though it was 
 warm out of doors, both were trembling from cold in that 
 room; at last Vavron lost hope of finding anything in 
 the ashes. . 
 
 " Marysia," said he, " I cannot endure this any longer, 
 and neither canst thou ; I will go to the water to find 
 driftwood; we will heat up the stove even, and I may 
 find something to eat." 
 
 She made no answer, so he went. He had learned 
 already to go to the river and fish out bits of boards 
 from boxes and crates which the water brought to shore. 
 So do all who have no means to buy coal. He was cuffed 
 frequently while doing this, but frequently not ; some- 
 times he happened to find a thing to eat, certain rem- 
 nants of spoiled vegetables thrown out of ships ; and at that 
 occupation, when he went about in the mist and sought 
 what he had not lost, he forgot at moments his mis- 
 fortune, and the grief which hunted him more than all. 
 
 He came at last to the water ; and because it was 
 " lunch " time there circled about the shore only a few 
 little boys, who began, it is true, to cry at the man, throw 
 black mud and mussels at him ; but these did not hurt. 
 Small boards enough were dancing on the water, one 
 wave brought them in, another took them out to deep 
 places. Soon he had captured enough of them. 
 
 Bunches of green stuff of some sort were floating on 
 the water; perhaps there was something in these fit to 
 eat ; but, being light, they did not come to shore, hence he 
 could not get them. The boys threw out lines and cap- 
 tured them in that way ; he, having no line, merely 
 looked on greedily and waited till the boys went away, 
 then he searched the remnants and ate what seemed to
 
 FOR BREAD. 57 
 
 him fit to be eaten. He did not remember that Marysia 
 had eaten nothing. 
 
 But fate was to smile on him. On the way home he 
 met a large wagon with potatoes which had stuck fast in 
 a rut while going to the wharf. Vavron seized the 
 spokes straightway and pushed the wheel, together with 
 the teamster. The work was so hard that it made his 
 back ache ; but at last the horses gave a sudden pull, 
 the wagon came out, and because it was loosely laden a 
 good number of potatoes fell to the mud from it. The 
 teamster did not even think of collecting them ; he 
 thanked Vavron for his assistance, cried " Get up ! " to 
 the horses, and drove on. 
 
 Vavron rushed immediately for the potatoes, gathered 
 them greedily with trembling hands, hid them in his 
 breast, and straightway a better feeling entered his 
 heart. In hunger a morsel of bread found seems a for- 
 tune discovered; hence the man, while returning home, 
 muttered, 
 
 " Well, thanks be to God, the Highest, that He looked 
 down on our misfortune. There is wood, the girl will 
 make a fire ; there are potatoes enough for two meals. 
 The Lord God is merciful ! There will be more cheer in 
 the room right away. The girl has not eaten for a day 
 and a half ; she will be delighted. The Lord God is 
 merciful!" 
 
 Thus talking to himself, he carried the wood in one 
 hand, with the other he felt every moment to be sure 
 that the potatoes were not falling from his bosom. He 
 bore a great treasure ; hence he raised his eyes to heaven 
 and muttered, 
 
 " I thought to myself : I will steal ! and here, without 
 stealing, they fell from the wagon. We have not eaten, 
 but we shall eat. The Lord God is merciful ! Marysia
 
 58 FOR BREAD. 
 
 will rise from the straw right away when she knows that 
 I have potatoes." 
 
 Meanwhile Marysia had not left the straw from the 
 time that her father had gone out. Formerly when 
 Vavron had brought wood in the morning, she would heat 
 the stove, bring water, eat what there was, and then gaze 
 for whole hours at the fire. She, too, had tried to find 
 work. They had even hired her in a boarding-house 
 to wash dishes and sweep; but since they could not 
 talk to her, and because she did her work badly, not 
 understanding her employers, they sent her away in two 
 days. After that she looked for nothing and found 
 nothing. She sat whole days in the house, afraid to go 
 out in the street, for drunken sailors would attack her 
 there. Through this idleness she was still more unhappy. 
 Homesickness devoured her as rust eats out iron. She 
 was even more unhappy than Vavron, for besides hunger, 
 and all those sufferings which she endured, besides the 
 conviction that there was no help, no salvation, no to- 
 morrow, to the terrible yearning for Lipintse was added 
 the thought of Yasko, the groom. He had promised her, 
 it is true, and said, " Whithersoever thou turnest, will I 
 turn ; " but she went away to be an heiress and a lady, 
 and now how all had changed, 
 
 He was a young man, working at a great house ; he had 
 his inherited share in the village land: and she had 
 become as poor, and as hungry, as a mouse in the church 
 of Lipintse. Would he come, and even should he come, 
 would he take her to his bosom, would he say to her, 
 Poor girl, beloved of my heart ! or would he say, Go off, 
 beggar's daughter ? What is her dower now ? rags. The 
 dogs in Lipintse would bark at her ; but still something 
 so draws her there that in truth the soul would be glad 
 to fly out of her and speed away as a swift swallow over
 
 FOR BREAD. 59 
 
 the water, and even to die, if only there. There he is, 
 Yasko, mindful or not, but greatly beloved ; only near 
 him could she have peace, and joy, and gladness, of all 
 people, only with him in the world. 
 
 When there was a fire in the stove, and hunger did not 
 torment as to-day, the flames, hissing, shooting up sparks, 
 jumping and glittering, spoke to her of Lipintse, and 
 reminded her how she sat long ago with other girls 
 spinning. Yasko, looking in from another room, cried, 
 " Marysia, let us go to the priest, for thou art dear to 
 me!" And she answered, "Be silent, you rogue!" And 
 it was so pleasant for her, so joyous in her soul, as even 
 at that time when he invited her from a corner to a 
 dance'in the middle of the room, he drew her by force, 
 and she, covering her eyes with her arm, whispered, 
 " But go away, I am ashamed ! " When the flames re- 
 minded her of this, sometimes tears covered her face ; but 
 now, just as there was no fire in the stove, there were no 
 tears in her eyes, for she had cried out all her tears. She 
 felt great exhaustion and weariness ; she lacked strength 
 even to meditate ; but still she endured patiently, merely 
 looking forward with great eyes, like a bird which some 
 one is torturing. 
 
 She was looking in that manner this time, also sitting 
 on the straw. Meanwhile some one moved the door of 
 the room. Marysia, with the thought that that was her 
 father, did not move her head till the voice of a strange 
 man called out to her, 
 
 " Look here ! " 
 
 This was the owner of the tumble-down house in which 
 they were living, an old mulatto, gloomy-faced, dirty, 
 tattered, with cheeks puffed out with tobacco. 
 
 When she saw him, the girl was terribly frightened. 
 They owed a dollar for the coming week, and had not
 
 60 FOR BREAD. 
 
 one cent. All that she might effect was through hu- 
 mility, so, approaching him, she took hold of his feet, 
 and kissed his hand. 
 
 " I came for the dollar," said he. 
 
 She understood the word dollar, and, shaking her 
 head, spoke in broken English, looked imploringly, and 
 tried to explain that they had spent everything, that 
 that was the second day since they had eaten, that 
 they were hungry, and that he ought to take pity on 
 them. 
 
 " God will repay thee, great, mighty lord," added she, in 
 Polish, not knowing what to say or what to do. 
 
 The great, mighty lord did not understand, it is true, 
 that he was great, mighty, but he divined that he would 
 not get the dollar. He divined so clearly indeed that, 
 seizing with one hand the bundles containing their effects, 
 he took the girl with the other by the arm, pushed her 
 lightly upstairs, conducted her to the street, and, throw- 
 ing the things at her feet, opened the door of an adjacent 
 bar-room and called, 
 
 " Hei ! there is a room for you ! " 
 
 "All right!" answered some voice from within. "I 
 will come in the evening." 
 
 The mulatto vanished then in the dark entrance, and 
 the girl remained alone on the sidewalk. She put her 
 bundles in a niche of the house, so that they might not 
 roll in the mud, and, standing near them, waited, humble 
 as ever, in silence. 
 
 The drunken men who passed by did not touch her 
 this time. It was dark in the room, but outside there 
 was much light, and in that light the girl's face seemed 
 as emaciated as after a great illness. Only her bright, 
 flaxen hair remained as before ; her lips had grown blue ; 
 her eyes were sunken and black underneath; the bones
 
 FOR BREAD. 61 
 
 stood forth in her cheeks. She was like a flower which 
 is withering, or a girl who must die. 
 
 Passers-by looked at her with a certain consideration. 
 An old negro woman asked her some question, but, 
 receiving no answer, passed on offended. 
 
 Meanwhile Vavron hastened homeward with that 
 pleasant feeling which in very poor people is roused by 
 an evident proof of God's kindness. He had potatoes 
 now; he was thinking how he and Marysia would eat 
 them ; how to-morrow again he would go around wagons ; 
 but of the day after to-morrow he was not thinking at 
 that moment, for he was very hungry. When from a 
 distance he saw the girl standing on the pavement in 
 front of the house, he wondered greatly, and hastened 
 still more. 
 
 " But why art thou standing here ? " 
 
 " The house-owner has driven us out, father." 
 
 " Has he driven us out ? " 
 
 The wood fell from Vavron's hand. That was too 
 much indeed ! To drive them out at that moment when 
 there was wood and potatoes ! What could they do now ; 
 where could they cook the potatoes ; with what could they 
 nourish themselves ; whither could they go ? After the 
 wood, Vavron hurled his cap into the mud. " Jesus, 
 Jesus ! " he turned around ; he opened his mouth ; he 
 looked wildly at the girl and repeated once more, 
 
 " Did he drive us out ? " 
 
 Then he wished as it were to go somewhere, but turned 
 at once, and his voice became deep, hoarse, and threaten- 
 ing, when he said again, 
 
 " Why didst thou not beg him, thou blockhead ? " 
 
 She sighed. 
 
 " I begged him." 
 
 " Didst thou take him by the knees ? "
 
 62 FOR BREAD. 
 
 " I did." 
 
 Again Vavron turned on the spot, like a worm which 
 some one has pierced. It became entirely dark in his 
 eyes. 
 
 " Would to God thou wert dead ! " cried he. 
 
 The girl looked at him with pain. 
 
 " Tatulo ! how am I to blame ? " 
 
 " Wait here, stir not. I will go and beg him to let us 
 even cook the potatoes." 
 
 He went. After a while an uproar was heard in the 
 entrance, a trampling of feet, loud voices, and then out 
 flew Vavron to the street, pushed evidently by a strong 
 hand. 
 
 He stood a moment, then said to the girl, mildly, 
 
 " Come." 
 
 She bent down over the bundles to take them ; they 
 were very heavy for her exhausted strength ; but he 
 did not help her, as if he had forgotten, as if he did not 
 see that the girl was barely able to carry them. 
 
 Two such wretched figures, the old man and the girl, 
 would have attracted the attention of passers-by if those 
 passers-by had been less accustomed to spectacles of misery. 
 Whither could they go ? Into what other darkness, into 
 what other misfortune, into what other torture ? 
 
 The girl's breath came with more and more difficulty ; 
 she tottered once, and a second time. At last she said, 
 with entreaty in her voice, 
 
 " Father, take the rags ; I cannot carry them." 
 
 He was roused, as if from sleep, 
 
 " Throw them away, then ! " 
 ' But they will be of use." 
 
 " They will not be of use." 
 
 Seeing all at once that the girl hesitated, he cried in a 
 rage,
 
 FOR BREAD. 63 
 
 " Throw them away, for I am going to kill thee ! " 
 This time she obeyed in terror, and they went on. The 
 man repeated a number of times yet, 
 
 " If it is that way, then let it be that way ! " 
 He was silent, but something uncanny was gazing out 
 of his eyes. Through narrow streets, still muddier, they 
 were approaching the remotest harbor. They went out 
 onto a large pier resting on piles ; they passed near a 
 building with an inscription, " Sailors' Asylum," and 
 went down close to the very water. Men were building 
 a new dock in that place. The lofty timbers of a pile- 
 driver rose high above the water, and among the plank 
 and beams persons occupied with the work were circling 
 about. Marysia, when she had come to a pile of timber, 
 sat down on it, for she could not go farther. Vavron sat 
 near her in silence. 
 
 It was four in the afternoon. The whole wharf was 
 seething with life and movement. The mist had fallen 
 away ; the calm rays of the sun cast their light and gra- 
 eious warmth on the two unfortunates. The breath of 
 spring came to land, fresh, full of life, and joyous. Eound 
 about there was so much azure and light that the eyes 
 blinked under the excess of them. The surface of the 
 sea blended charmingly with the sky. In those blue ex- 
 panses nearer the middle of the harbor were masts stand- 
 ing motionless, smoke-stacks, flags waving lightly in the 
 breeze. On the horizon, vessels sailing into the harbor 
 seemed to move upward, or to push themselves out of 
 the water. The tightly raised and swollen sails, looking 
 like clouds, all in sunlight shone with blinding whiteness 
 on the azure of the sea. Some vessels going out to the 
 ocean left a foaming trail behind them. They were 
 going in the direction in which Lipintse lay, hence for 
 them both toward the place of lost happiness, that is,
 
 64 FOR BREAD. 
 
 peace and a better lot. The girl thought how could 
 they have sinned so greatly, what could they have done 
 against the Lord God, that He, the merciful, had turned 
 His face from them in the midst of strange people, and 
 thrown them out on that distant shore ? In His hand 
 was the power to return them happiness ; and how many 
 ships were sailing away toward that land, and sailing 
 away without taking them. She was wearied. Marysia's 
 poor mind flew once more toward Lipintse and Yasko, 
 the groom. Was he thinking of her ? Did he remember 
 her ? She remembered him, for it is only in happiness 
 that people forget ; in misfortune, in loneliness, thought 
 winds itself around the beloved one, as hops around a 
 poplar tree. But he ? Perhaps he has despised his 
 former loving, and has sent matchmakers to another 
 cottage. Besides, it would be even a shame for him to 
 think of one so wretched, one who has nothing in this 
 world but a garland of rue, and for whom, if any one is 
 to send a matchmaker, it is death alone who will do so. 
 
 As she was sick, hunger did not torment her much, but 
 sleep, which came of suffering and weakness, overcame 
 her; the lids closed over her eyes, and her pallid face 
 dropped toward her breast. At moments she woke and 
 opened her eyes, then she closed them again. She 
 dreamed that while walking along certain chasms and 
 precipices she fell down like Kasia, in the peasant song : 
 " Into the deep Dunayets," and immediately she heard 
 distant singing clearly, 
 
 " Yasko on the high mountain saw that fall ; 
 He let himself down on a silken cord to Marysia; 
 But the cord was too short, an ell was still wanting. 
 Marysia, dear girl, give thy tress to me." 
 
 Here she woke suddenly, for it seemed to her that the 
 tress was gone, and that she was falling into the abyss.
 
 FOR BREAD. 65 
 
 The dream vanished. Not Yasko was sitting near her, 
 but Vavron ; and not the " Dunayets " was visible, but 
 the harbor of New York, currents, scaffoldings, masts, 
 and smoke-stacks. Again certain vessels sail out into 
 the open, and from them came the singing. A calm, 
 warm, clear, spring evening was reddening the sky. The 
 surface of the water became like a mirror ; every vessel, 
 every pile, was reflected as if another were beneath it, 
 and all was beautiful round about. A certain happiness 
 and great bliss were in the air; it seemed that the whole 
 world was rejoicing. They two alone were unhappy and 
 forgotten. The laborers began to return home ; they 
 alone had no home. 
 
 Hunger with iron hand was rending Vavron's entrails 
 more and more. The man sat gloomy and cloudy ; but 
 something, which seemed a terrible determination, began 
 to depict itself on his face. Whoso might look at him 
 would be frightened, for that face had the expression of 
 a beast and a bird, because of hunger; but, at the same 
 time, it was as despairingly calm as the face of a dead 
 man. For a whole hour he had not spoken one word to 
 the girl ; but when night had come, when the dock was 
 deserted completely, he said, with a strange voice, 
 
 " Let us go, Marysia." 
 
 " Where ? " asked she, drowsily. 
 
 " To those platforms above the water. Let us lie down 
 on the planks there, and sleep." 
 
 They went. In the utter darkness they had to creep 
 along very carefully, so as not to fall into the water. 
 
 The American structure of beams and planks formed 
 numerous windings, and as it were a wooden corridor, at 
 the very end of which was a platform of plank, and 
 beyond it a pile-driver. On this platform, covered with a 
 roof to protect from rain, stood the men who drew the 
 
 5
 
 66 FOR BREAD. 
 
 ropes of the pile-driver; but now there was no one 
 there. 
 
 When they reached the very end, Vavron said, 
 
 " Here we shall sleep." 
 
 Marysia fell rather than placed herself on the planks, 
 and, though a swarm of mosquitoes attacked them, she 
 fell asleep soundly. 
 
 Suddenly in the dark night Vavron's voice roused her : 
 
 " Marysia, rise up ! " 
 
 There was something in that call of such nature that 
 she woke at once. 
 
 " What is it, tatulo ? " 
 
 In the silence and darkness of night the voice of the 
 old peasant was deep and terrible, but calm, 
 
 " Girl ! Thou wilt famish no longer from hunger. 
 Thou wilt not go to strange thresholds for bread ; thou 
 wilt not sleep out of doors. People have deserted thee. 
 God has deserted thee ; thy fate is ended, then let even 
 death show thee kindness. The water is deep ; thou wilt 
 not suffer." 
 
 She could not see him in the darkness, though her eyes 
 were widely open from terror. 
 
 "I will drown thee, poor girl, I will drown myself, 
 too," continued he. "There is no salvation for us, no 
 mercy above us. To-morrow thou wilt have no wish to 
 eat ; thou wilt be happier to-morrow than to-day." 
 
 But she had no wish to die. She was eighteen years of 
 age, and had that attachment to life, that fear of death, 
 which youth gives. The whole soul in her shuddered to 
 its depth at the thought that to-morrow she would be a 
 drowned corpse, that she would go into some darkness, 
 that she would be lying among fish and vile creatures 
 at the slimy bottom of the water. For nothing in the 
 world ! Eepugnance and terror indescribable seized her
 
 FOR BREAD. 67 
 
 at that moment, and her own father, speaking thus in 
 the darkness, seemed to her some kind of evil spirit. 
 
 During this time his hands were resting on her emaci- 
 ated shoulders, and the voice continued, with its terrible 
 calmness, 
 
 " If thou scream, no man will hear thee. I shall only 
 push thee ; the whole will not last two Our Fathers." 
 
 " I do not want to die, father. I do not ! " cried 
 Marysia. " Have you no fear of God ? Oh, dear, golden 
 father, take pity on me ! What have I done to you ? 
 You know I have not complained of my fate ; I have 
 suffered hunger and cold with you father ! " 
 
 His breathing became quicker, his hands closed like 
 vices; she begged more and more despairingly against 
 death. 
 
 " Take pity on me ! mercy ! oh, mercy ! but I am your 
 child. I am poor ; I am sick ; I am not long for the 
 world anyhow. Take pity on me ! I am afraid." 
 
 Thus moaning, she clung to his coat, pressed her lips 
 imploringly to those hands which were thrusting her into 
 the abyss. But all this seemed merely to urge him on. 
 His calmness passed into madness ; he began to rattle in 
 the throat, and snort. At moments there was silence 
 between them, and if any man had been standing near he 
 would have heard only the loud breathing and struggling, 
 and the creaking of planks. The night was dark. It 
 was late, and aid could come from no place, for that was 
 the very end of the port, at which even in the daytime 
 there were no people save laborers. 
 
 " Mercy ! mercy ! " cried Marysia, shrilly. 
 
 At that moment one hand drew her violently to the 
 very edge of the scaffolding, a second began to beat her 
 head to stifle her cries. But those cries roused no echo ; 
 some dog merely howled in the distance.
 
 68 FOR BREAD. 
 
 The girl felt that she was weakening. At last her 
 feet were in emptiness ; only her hands clung to her 
 father, but her hands were weak. Her screams for 
 rescue grew fainter and fainter ; her hands at last tore off 
 a piece of the coat, and Marysia felt that she was flying 
 into the abyss. 
 
 She had indeed fallen from the platform, but on the 
 way she grasped a brace and hung above the water. 
 
 The man bent over, and, dreadful to relate, fell to 
 loosening her hands. 
 
 A crowd of thoughts, like a flock of frightened birds, 
 fly through her brain in the form of images, and light- 
 ning flashes, Lipintse, the well-sweep, the departure, the 
 ship, the storm, the Litany, the misery of New York, 
 finally that which is happening to her. Then she sees 
 a ship, immense, with lofty prow, on it a throng of 
 people, and out of that throng two hands are stretched 
 toward her. As God lives ! that is Yasko standing there ; 
 Yasko stretches his hand out, and, above the ship, and 
 above Yasko, is the Mother of God smiling, surrounded 
 with immense brightness. At sight of this she pushes 
 apart the people on shore: "Most holy Virgin! Yasko! 
 Yasko ! " One moment more once again she raises her 
 eyes to her father : " Oh, father ! the Mother of God is 
 up there, the Mother of God is up there ! " 
 
 The next moment those same hands which were push- 
 ing her into the water seize her weakening arms, and 
 draw her up with a kind of preterhuman strength. Now 
 she feels the plank of the structure under her feet ; again 
 an arm surrounds her, but the arm of a father, not an 
 executioner, and her head falls on his breast. 
 
 When she recovered from her faint, she saw that she 
 was lying quietly near her father ; and, though it was 
 dark, she saw him lying in the form of a cross, and saw
 
 FOR BREAD. 69 
 
 that deep, penitent sobs were shaking him, and rending 
 his breast. 
 
 " Marysia," said he, at length, in a voice broken with 
 sobs, " forgive me, child." 
 
 The girl sought his hand in the darkness, and, putting 
 it to her pale lips, whispered, 
 
 " Father ! may the Lord Jesus forgive you as I forgive." 
 
 Out of the pale clearness which for some time had 
 been on the horizon came the moon at last, large, mild, 
 full, and again something wonderful happened. Marysia 
 saw whole swarms of little angels, like golden bees, and 
 they floated to her on the moon-rays, buzzing with their 
 little wings, circling, winding, and singing with childlike 
 voices, 
 
 " Maiden tormented, peace to thee ! Poor little bird, 
 peace to thee ! Flower of the field, peace to thee ! Pa- 
 tient and silent, peace to thee ! " 
 
 Thus singing, they shook over her the cups of white 
 lilies, and little silver bells which sounded, 
 
 " Sleep to thee, maiden ! sleep to thee ! sleep ! sleep ! 
 sleep ! " 
 
 And it became so pleasant for her, so clear, so calm, 
 that she fell asleep really. 
 
 The night passed, and began to grow pale. Dawn 
 caine. Light whitened the water. The masts and smoke- 
 stacks came out of the darkness and drew nearer ; Vav- 
 ron was kneeling now, bent over Marysia. 
 
 He thought that she had died. Her slender form lay 
 motionless ; her eyes were closed her face, pale as linen, 
 with a bluish tinge, calm and deathlike. In vain did 
 the old man shake her arm, she quivered not, neither did 
 she open her eyes. It seemed to Vavron that he too 
 would die ; but, putting his hand to her mouth, he felt 
 that she was breathing. Her heart was I eating, though
 
 70 FOR BREAD. 
 
 faintly ; he understood that she might die any moment. 
 If a pleasant day rose from the mist of the morning, if 
 the sun warmed her, she would waken, otherwise she 
 would not. 
 
 The sea-gulls circled above her as if concerned for her 
 safety ; some of them sat on a neighboring pillar. The 
 morn ing mist vanished slowly under the breath of wind 
 from the west. It was a spring breeze, warm, full of 
 sweetness. 
 
 Then the sun rose. Its rays fell first on the top of the 
 pile-driver, then, descending lower and lower, cast their 
 golden light on the deathlike face of Marysia. They 
 seemed to kiss it, to fondle it, and as it were embrace it. 
 In those rays, and in that garland of bright hair, di- 
 shevelled from the struggle of the night and from damp- 
 ness, the face seemed simply angelic ; but Marysia, too, 
 was almost an angel through her suffering and mis- 
 fortune. 
 
 A beautiful, rosy day came up from the water ; the sun 
 warmed with increasing strength ; the wind blew with 
 pity on the maiden ; the sea-gulls, circling like a garland, 
 cried, as if they wished to rouse her. Vavron, taking off 
 his coat, covered her feet with it, and hope entered his 
 heart. 
 
 Indeed the blueness left her face gradually ; her cheeks 
 gained a slight rose-color ; she smiled once and a second 
 time ; and finally she opened her eyelids. 
 
 Then that old peasant knelt on the pier, raised his 
 eyes heavenward, and tears flowed in two streams along 
 his wrinkled face. 
 
 He felt once and forever that that child was now the 
 sight of his eyes, the soul of his soul, and as it were a 
 sacredness beloved above everything. 
 
 She not only woke, but she woke feeling better and
 
 FOR BREAD. 71 
 
 more lively than the day previous. The pure air of the 
 harbor was more wholesome for her than the poison air 
 of the room. She had returned to life indeed, for, sitting 
 on the plank, she said immediately, 
 
 " Father, I want very much to eat." 
 
 " Come, daughter, to the edge of the water, we may find 
 something there," said he. 
 
 She rose without great effort and went. Evidently 
 that day was to be somehow exceptional in the days of 
 their misfortune, for barely had they gone a few steps 
 when they saw there near them on the scaffolding 
 a handkerchief thrust in between two beams, in it was 
 cooked corn and salt meat. The simple explanation of 
 this was that some laborer working at the wharf had put 
 away yesterday a part of his food for to-day. Laborers 
 there had that custom ; but Vavron and Marysia inter- 
 preted it still more simply. Who put that food there ? 
 In their opinion He who thinks of every bird and flower, 
 every grasshopper and ant. 
 
 God! 
 
 They repeated Our Father and ate, though there was 
 not much there, and then went along the water to the 
 main docks. New strength entered into them. Going to 
 the custom-house, they turned up Water Street toward 
 Broadway. With halts, this occupied two hours, for the 
 road was a long one. At times they sat on boards or 
 empty boxes. They went on, not knowing themselves 
 why they went ; but somehow it seemed to Marysia that 
 they ought to go to the city. On the way they met a 
 multitude of goods-wagons going to the wharf. On 
 Water Street the movement was not slight. Doors 
 opened and out came people who went hurriedly to their 
 daily labor. 
 
 In one of these doorways appeared a tall, gray-mus-
 
 72 FOR BREAD. 
 
 tached gentleman with a young boy. When he came out, 
 he looked at Vavron and Marysia, at their dress ; his 
 mustache quivered, astonishment appeared on his face, 
 then he looked more quickly, and smiled. 
 
 A human face smiling at them in a friendly manner in 
 New York was a wonder, a witchery, at sight of which 
 both were astounded. 
 
 The gray-haired man approached them, and asked, in 
 the purest Polish, 
 
 " And you people, whence come you ? " 
 
 A thunderbolt as it were had struck them. Vavron, in- 
 stead of answering, became as pale as a wall and tottered, 
 believing neither his ears nor his eyes. Marysia, recover- 
 ing first, fell at once to the feet of the old gentleman, 
 embraced them, and said, 
 
 "From Poznan, serene heir, from Poznan." 
 
 " What are ye doing here ? " 
 
 " We are in need, in hunger, in terrible misfortune, 
 dear master." 
 
 Here her voice failed. Vavron cast himself flat at the 
 feet of the old gentleman, kissed the hem of his overcoat, 
 and, holding to it, thought that he had caught a piece of 
 heaven. 
 
 " This is a lord for thee, and he is our lord. He 
 will not let a man die ; he will save, he will not let us 
 perish." 
 
 The young lad who was with the gray-haired gentle- 
 man stared ; people gathered around, gaped, and looked 
 wonderingly at one man kneeling before another and 
 kissing his feet. In America this is unheard of. The 
 old gentleman grew angry at the gapers. 
 
 " This is no ' business ' of yours," said he to them in 
 English; "go about your own business!" Then he 
 turned to Vavron and Marysia,
 
 FOR BREAD. 73 
 
 " We will not stand on the street ; come with me." 
 
 He conducted them to the nearest restaurant, where 
 they entered a room apart, and he shut himself in with 
 them and the boy. Again they fell at his feet, which he 
 forbade, and scolded them angrily, 
 
 "An end to this ! We are from the same country, chil- 
 dren of one mother." 
 
 Here, evidently, smoke from a cigar which he had in 
 his mouth began to affect his eyes, for he wiped them 
 with his hand, and asked, 
 
 " Are you hungry ? " 
 
 " For two days we have eaten nothing ; but to-day we 
 found a little near the water." 
 
 " William ! " said he to the lad, " order them something 
 to eat." Then he continued, 
 
 " Where do you live ? " 
 
 " Nowhere, serene lord, nowhere." 
 
 " Where have you slept ? " 
 
 " Above the water." 
 
 " You were driven from your lodgings ? " 
 
 " Driven." 
 
 " You have no things except those on your bodies ? " 
 
 " We have not." 
 
 " You have no money ? " 
 
 " We have not." 
 
 " What will you do ? 
 
 " We know not." 
 
 The old gentleman, inquiring quickly, and as it were 
 angrily, turned all at once to Marysia, 
 
 " How old are you, girl ? " 
 
 " I shall finish the eighteenth year Assumption day." 
 
 " You have suffered much ? " 
 
 She made no answer, but bowed to his feet with 
 humility.
 
 74 FOR BREAD. 
 
 The smoke began evidently to bite the old gentleman's 
 eyes again. 
 
 At that same moment beer and hot meat were brought 
 in. The old gentleman commanded them to begin eating 
 at once, and they answered that they dared -not do that 
 in his presence ; he told them that they were fools. But, 
 in spite of his temper, he seemed an angel from heaven 
 to them. 
 
 When they had eaten, clearly that delighted him much ; 
 he asked them to tell how they had come to America, 
 and through what they had passed. So Vavron told 
 him all, withheld nothing, just as he would confess to a 
 priest. The old gentleman was angry, he scolded; and 
 when it came to telling how Vavron wanted to drown his 
 own daughter, he cried, 
 
 " I would have flayed thee ! " 
 
 Then he said to Marysia, 
 
 " Come here, girl ! " 
 
 When she went up to him, he took her head between 
 his hands and kissed her on the forehead ; then he thought 
 a while, and said, - 
 
 " You have passed through misery. But this is a good 
 country ; only a man must know how to manage." 
 
 Vavron stared at him: this worthy wise gentleman 
 called America a good country ! 
 
 " It is true, stupid fellow," said he, observing Vavron's 
 astonishment, " a good country ! When I came here, I 
 had nothing ; now I have a morsel of bread. For you 
 peasants, though, land-tilling is the work, not wandering 
 about the world. When you go away from home, who 
 will remain over there ? You are of no use in this coun- 
 try ; but to come here is easy, to go back is difficult." 
 
 He was silent a time, then added, as if to himself, 
 
 " I am here forty and some years, and I have forgotten
 
 FOR BREAD. 75 
 
 the country over there. But at times homesickness seizes 
 me. William must go there ; let him see how his fathers 
 lived. This is my son," said he, pointing to the boy. 
 "William, thou wilt bring me a handful of earth from 
 home to put under my head in the coffin." 
 
 " Yes, father," answered the boy, in English. 
 
 " And for my breast, William, and for my breast ! " 
 
 " Yes, father." 
 
 The smoke now affected the old gentleman's eyes so 
 terribly that his eyeballs were as if covered with glass. 
 Then he was angry and, pointing to the boy, said, 
 
 " This fellow understands Polish, but he likes English 
 better. It has to be so here. What falls here is lost for 
 the old thresholds. Go, William, tell thy sister that we 
 shall have guests for dinner and for the night." 
 
 The boy rushed away quickly. The old gentleman 
 fell to thinking, and was silent a long time; then he 
 said, as if to himself, 
 
 " Even send them home, the cost would be great, and, 
 besides, what would they return to? They have sold 
 what they had; they would go to begging. In service 
 God knows what would happen to the girl. Since they 
 are here, they must try to find work. Send them to 
 some colony ; the girl will marry after a while. She 
 and her husband will save something; if they want to 
 go home, they will take the old man. Hast heard of our 
 colonies in this country ? " said he then to Vavron. 
 
 " I have not heard, great, mighty lord." 
 
 " Oh, people ! how they start here ! By the dear God ! 
 You will not be lost. In Chicago there are twenty thou- 
 sand like thee, in Milwaukee as many, in Detroit a good 
 number, in Buffalo many. They work in factories ; but 
 for a peasant, farming is better. We might send thee to 
 Radomia, to Illinois, hm ! land is dear there. They are
 
 76 FOR BREAD. 
 
 founding a new Poznan on the prairies of Nebraska ; but 
 that is far away. The railroad fare is costly. There is 
 the Panna Maria (Virgin Mary) colony in Texas ; that is 
 far away also. Best of all is to go to Borovina, especially 
 since I can get free tickets, and what I give thee in hand 
 save for housekeeping." 
 
 He thought a while still more deeply. 
 
 "Listen, old man," said he on a sudden. "They are 
 founding a new colony in Borovina in Arkansas. That 
 is a nice country and warm, and the land is almost vacant. 
 There thou wilt get a hundred and sixty acres from the 
 Government for nothing, and from the railroad for a small 
 price dost understand ? To begin housekeeping, I will 
 give money, and I will give thee tickets, for I can do so. 
 Ye will go to Little Rock ; from that place thou must go 
 in a wagon. Thou wilt find others there who will go 
 with thee. Besides, I will give thee letters. I wish to 
 help thee, for I am thy brother ; but I care more a hun- 
 dred times for thy daughter than for thee. Dost under- 
 stand ? Thank God who sent you both to me ! " 
 
 Here his voice became perfectly mild. 
 
 " Listen, child," said he to Marysia, "here is my card; 
 keep it sacredly. Whenever trouble presses thee, shouldst 
 thou be alone in the world and without assistance, find 
 me. Thou art a poor child and good. If I die, William 
 will care for thee. Do not lose the card. Come with 
 me now." 
 
 On the road he bought linen for them and clothing ; 
 then he took them to his house and entertained them. 
 That was a house filled with kind people, for William 
 and Jennie occupied themselves with both as if they 
 had been relatives. William treated Marysia as if she 
 had been some " lady ; " this embarrassed her terribly. 
 In the evening a number of young girls, nicely dressed
 
 FOR BREAD. 77 
 
 and kind, with bangs on their foreheads, visited Panna 
 Jennie. These took Marysia among them, wondered that 
 she was so pale, and so pretty, that she had such bright 
 hair, that she bent to their feet and kissed their hands, 
 at this they laughed greatly. 
 
 The old gentleman went among the young people, 
 shook his white head, muttered, was angry at times, 
 spoke now in English, now in Polish, spoke with Marysia 
 and Vavron of his and their distant native places, re- 
 called, forgot, and from time to time the smoke of the 
 cigar affected his eyes evidently, for he rubbed them 
 often in secret. 
 
 When all separated to sleep, Marysia could not restrain 
 her tears, seeing that Panna Jennie prepared the bed for 
 her with her own hands. Oh, how kind these people 
 were ! But what wonder, the old gentleman was also 
 from Poznan ! 
 
 On the third day Vavron and Marysia were on the 
 way to Little Rock. The old man had a hundred dollars 
 in his pocket, and had forgotten his misery altogether. 
 Marysia felt above her the visible hand of God, and be- 
 lieved that that hand would not let her perish ; that as it 
 had brought her out of misfortune, it would bring Yasko 
 also to America, and watch over both, and would let 
 them even return to Lipintse. 
 
 Meanwhile cities and farms shot past the car-windows. 
 That was different entirely from New York. There were 
 fields and pine woods in the distance, and cottages and 
 trees growing around them ; a fleece of every kind of grain 
 was green in great streaks on the earth, exactly as in 
 Poland. At sight of this Vavron's breast swelled so that 
 he had the wish to shout, " Hei, ye pine woods, ye green 
 fields ! " Herds of cows and flocks of sheep were pas- 
 turing on meadows; on the edges of forests men with
 
 78 FOR BREAD. 
 
 axes were visible. The train flew farther and farther. 
 Gradually the country became less populated. The farms 
 vanished, and the country opened out into a wide and 
 unoccupied prairie. The wind bent waves of grass on it, 
 and it glittered with flowers. In places there wound, in 
 the form of a golden ribbon, roads covered with yellow 
 blossoms, upon which no wagon had ever passed. Lofty 
 grass plots, mulleins, and thistles nodded their heads as 
 if greeting the traveller. Eagles floated on broad wings 
 over the prairie and surveyed the grass carefully. The 
 train tore on, as if wishing to fly to that place where 
 those prairie expanses are lost to the vision and blend 
 with the sky. From the car-window were seen whole 
 flocks of rabbits and prairie dogs. At times the horned 
 head of a deer appeared above the grass. Nowhere were 
 church spires, or towns, or villages, or a house, nothing 
 save stations, and between stations and behind them no 
 living soul. 
 
 Vavron looked at all this, tortured his brain, but could 
 not understand how so much " goodness," as he called 
 land, should lie idle. 
 
 Day and night passed. One morning they entered 
 forests in which the trees were entwined with plants as 
 thick as the arm of a man, which made the forest so 
 dense that one would have to cut with an axe through it, 
 as through a wall. Unknown birds were singing in these 
 green densities. Once it seemed to Vavron and Marysia 
 that amid these labyrinths they saw certain horsemen 
 with feathers on their heads, and faces as red as polished 
 brass. Seeing those forests, and unoccupied prairies, and 
 empty pine woods, all these unknown wonders and strange 
 people, the old man could not restrain himself at last, and 
 said, 
 
 " Marysia ? "
 
 FOR BREAD. 79 
 
 " What, father ? " 
 
 " Dost see ? " 
 
 " I see." 
 
 " And dost wonder ? " 
 
 " I wonder." 
 
 They passed a river now three times wider than the 
 Varta, and late that night they arrived at Little Eock. 
 
 From there they had to inquire for the road to Boro- 
 vina. We will leave them here for the moment. The 
 second division of their wandering for bread is finished. 
 The third was to be worked out in the woods, amid the 
 sound of axes, and in the oppressive heat of life in a 
 colony. Whether there were fewer tears in it, less 
 suffering and misfortune, we shall know before long. 
 
 III. 
 LIFE IN THE COLONY. 
 
 WHAT was Borovina ? A colony to be founded. But 
 evidently the name was thought out in advance, starting 
 from the principle that where there is a name there 
 must be a thing. Preliminarily Polish, and even Ameri- 
 can, papers, published in New York, Chicago, Buffalo, 
 Detroit, Milwaukee, Manitowoc, Denver, Calumet, in a 
 word, in all places where it was possible to hear Polish 
 speech, announced, urbi d orbi (to the city and the 
 world) in general, and to Polish colonists in particular, 
 that whoever of them wished to be healthy, rich, happy, 
 eat fatly, live long, and after death receive salvation 
 surely, should inscribe himself for a share in an earthly 
 paradise, or in Borovina. 
 
 The advertisements declared that Arkansas, in which 
 Borovina was to rise, was a country still unoccupied, but
 
 80 FOR BREAD. 
 
 the wholesomest on earth. It is true that the town of 
 Memphis, lying at the very border on the other bank of 
 the Mississippi, was a hotbed of yellow fever ; but, accord- 
 ing to the advertisements, neither yellow, nor any other 
 fever could cross such a river as the Mississippi. On 
 the higher bank of the Arkansas River it did not exist, 
 because the neighboring Indians, the Choctaws, would 
 scalp it without mercy. Fever trembles at sight of a 
 redskin. Because of this combination of circumstances, 
 colonists of Borovina would dwell in a perfectly neutral 
 zone between fever on the east and Indians on the west. 
 Having before it, "moreover, such a future. Borovina would, 
 in a thousand years, contain, beyond doubt, two million 
 inhabitants ; and land, for which to-day one dollar and 
 fifty cents an acre was paid, would be sold at auction for 
 no less than a thousand dollars a square yard. 
 
 It was difficult to resist such promises and prospects. 
 Those to whom the neighborhood of the Choctaws was 
 less pleasing, were assured by advertisements that this 
 valiant tribe was animated by a most particular sym- 
 pathy for Poles, that therefore it was proper to look for- 
 ward to most agreeable relations. Moreover, it was 
 known that when the railroad passed through the prairies, 
 and there would be telegraph poles in the form of crosses, 
 those crosses would soon serve as monuments above the 
 graves of Indians ; and since the land of Borovina was 
 obtained from the railroad, the disappearance of the 
 Indians was a question of time, nothing more. 
 
 The land had been acquired, indeed, from the railroad ; 
 this assured the colony connection with the world, an out- 
 let for products, and future development. The advertise- 
 ments had forgotten to add, it is true, that this railroad 
 was only projected, and that the sale of sections of 
 land, granted roads by the Government in uninhabited
 
 FOR BREAD. 81 
 
 places, was to guarantee, or rather to complete, the capital 
 needful to build. This omission was, however, pardon- 
 able in business so complicated. Moreover, it involved 
 this difference for Borovina, that the colony, instead of 
 being on the line of the road, was in a deep wilderness 
 to which one had to go amid immense difficulties, with 
 wagons. 
 
 From these omissions, various disputes might rise, 
 which were only temporary, however, and would cease at 
 once with the building of the road. Besides, it is known 
 that advertisements in America are not to be taken liter- 
 ally, for as plants transferred to American soil flourish 
 surely, but at the cost of their fruit, in like manner ad- 
 vertisements in American papers increase so in every 
 direction that at times it is difficult to separate the one 
 grain of truth from rhetorical chaff. 
 
 But putting aside everything which in the advertise- 
 ments touching Borovina should be considered as hum- 
 bug, so called, it might still be supposed that that colony 
 would not be worse than a thousand others, the rise of 
 which was announced with no less exaggeration. 
 
 The conditions appeared in many respects favorable, 
 hence a multitude of persons, and even of Polish families, 
 scattered throughout the Union, from the Great Lakes 
 to the palm forests of Florida, from the Atlantic to 
 the coast of California, inscribed themselves as settlers 
 in the colony about to be founded. Mazovians from 
 Prussia, Silesians, people of Poznan, Galicia, Lithuanians 
 from Augustov, and Mazovians from near Warsaw, who 
 worked in factories in Chicago and Milwaukee, and who 
 for a long time had been sighing for a life which a 
 peasant should lead, seized the first opportunity to escape 
 from Stirling cities, blackened with smoke and soot, and 
 betake themselves to the plough and axe in the broad 
 
 6
 
 82 FOR BREAD. 
 
 fields, forests, and prairies of Arkansas. Those for whom it 
 was too hot at Panna Maria in Texas, or too cold in Min- 
 nesota, or too damp in Detroit, or too hungry in Eadomia 
 in Illinois, joined with the first, and a number of hundreds 
 of people, mostly men, but still a good many women and 
 children, moved to Arkansas. The name " Bloody Arkan- 
 sas " did not overmuch terrify the colonists. Though, 
 to tell the truth, this section abounds yet in thieving 
 Indians, and so-called outlaws or robbers, fleeing from 
 justice, and wild squatters who cut timber on Ked Kiver 
 in defiance of Government, and various other adventurers 
 or scoundrels avoiding the gallows ; though hitherto the 
 western part of the State was famous for savage struggles 
 between Indians and the white buffalo-hunters, and for 
 the terrible " lynch " law, still it was possible to help 
 one's self in all this. The Mazovian who feels a knotty 
 club in his fist, and especially when he has a Mazovian at 
 each side of him and a Mazovian behind, will not yield 
 much to any one, and to the man who crawls into his 
 path he is ready to shout, " Do not move, do not push in 
 here, or we will pound you till you are lame ! " It is 
 also known that Mazovians like to keep together and 
 settle so that Matsek may hurry at any moment to help 
 another Matsek with a club. 
 
 The rallying point for the majority was Little Eock ; but 
 from Little Kock to Clarksville, the settlement nearest 
 Borovina was a little farther than from Warsaw to 
 Cracow, and, what was worse, colonists had to pass 
 through an uninhabited country, and make their way 
 through forests and deep water. In fact a. number of 
 people, unwilling to wait for the whole company, started 
 on alone, and perished without tidings; but the main 
 camp arrived successfully, and fixed itself in the midst 
 of the forest.
 
 FOR BREAD. 83 
 
 When the colonists reached the place, they were in 
 truth greatly disenchanted. They had hoped to find in 
 the colony lands, forests, and fields ; they found only 
 forests, which had to be felled. Black oak, redwood, 
 cottonwood, the light-colored sycamore, and the dark 
 hickory stood side by side in one mass. 
 
 That wilderness was no joke, lined with chaparral 
 below, entangled with hanging plants above, which went 
 from tree to tree like cables and ropes, forming, as it were 
 hanging bridges, curtains, as it were, festoons covered 
 with flowers, and so dense, so packed and entangled, that 
 the eye could not see in the distance as in our forests ; 
 and whoso went into them more deeply could not see the 
 sky above his head, but had to wander in darkness, and 
 might go astray and be lost forever. One and another 
 Mazovian looked at his fist, at his axe, then at those oaks, 
 a number of yards in circumference, and more than one 
 man grew sad. It is well to have timber for a cottage 
 and for fuel ; but for one colonist to cut down a forest of 
 a hundred and sixty acres, pull the stumps out of the 
 ground, level the land, and then plough it, is the work 
 of years. 
 
 But there was nothing else to be done, hence the day 
 after the arrival of the company each man made the sign 
 of the cross on himself, spat on his hands, caught up his 
 axe, grunted, whirled the axe, struck ; and from that 
 time forth the noise of axes was heard in that Arkansas 
 forest, and at times too songs attended with echoes, 
 
 " Kasenko came. He came from the mansion, 
 Dear, darling Kasenko. 
 Come to the pinewood, 
 Come to the pinewood, come to the dark one." 
 
 The camp stood at the bank of a river, or rather on a 
 broad plain at the edge of which were to stand in a quad-
 
 84 FOR BREAD. 
 
 rangle the cottages ; in the middle, with time, was to be 
 a church and a school. But that was far ahead ; mean- 
 while the wagons in which the colonists' families had ar- 
 rived were put in line. Those wagons were arranged in 
 a triangle so that in case of attack people might defend 
 themselves behind them as in a fortress. Beyond the 
 wagons, on the rest of the plain, were the mules, horses, 
 oxen, cows, and sheep, watched by a guard composed of 
 armed young men. The people slept in the wagons, or 
 inside the triangle at fires. 
 
 In the daytime women and children remained in the 
 camp ; the presence of men was known only by the 
 sound of axes, which filled the whole forest. At night 
 wild beasts howled in the thickets, jaguars, Arkan- 
 sas wolves, and coyotes. Terrible gray bears, which fear 
 the glare of fire less than other beasts, approached rather 
 near the wagons at times ; wherefore gunshots were heard 
 frequently in the darkness, and shouts of " Hurry to kill 
 the beast ! " Men who had come from the wild regions 
 of Texas were trained hunters, for the greater part, and 
 those obtained with ease, for themselves and their fami- 
 lies, the flesh of wild beasts ; namely, antelopes, deer, and 
 buffaloes, for that was the time of spring migration when 
 those animals went northward. The rest of the colonists 
 nourished themselves with supplies bought in Clarksville 
 or Little Rock, and composed of Indian corn and salt 
 pork. Besides, they killed sheep, a certain number of 
 which had been brought by each family. 
 
 In the evening, when a large fire was made near the 
 wagons, the young people danced, after supper, instead 
 of going to sleep. A certain man who could play had 
 brought with him a violin ; on this he played the Obertas 
 by ear, and when the sound of the violin was lost 
 amid the noise of the forest and under the open sky,
 
 FOR BREAD. 85 
 
 others helped the player in American fashion with tin 
 plates. 
 
 Life passed noisily in hard work, and moreover without 
 order. The first thing was to build cottages ; in fact, on 
 the green plain there soon appeared the bodies of a num- 
 ber of them, and all the surface of the place was covered 
 with shavings, pieces of bark, and similar leavings of 
 wood. Eedwood was easily worked ; but often they had 
 to go far to find it. Some put up temporary tents of 
 canvas taken from the wagons. Others, especially the 
 unmarried, who were less careful of having a roof above 
 their heads, and were more averse to pulling stumps, 
 began to plough in places where the forest had no under- 
 growth, and where oak and hickory were rarer. Then 
 was heard for the first time since that Arkansas forest 
 was a forest, " Hets, kso, bys ! " 1 
 
 But in general such a weight of work fell on the colo- 
 nists that they knew not where to put their hands first, 
 whether to build houses, or clear the land, or hunt. 
 
 At the very beginning it came out that the agent of 
 the colony had bought the land from the railroad on 
 hearsay, and had never been there, otherwise he would 
 not have taken a dense forest, since it was equally easy 
 to buy pieces of prairie partly covered with timber. He 
 and the agent of the railroad came, it is true, to the 
 place to survey the sections, and show each man his 
 own ; but when they saw how matters stood really, they 
 delayed a couple of days, then quarrelled, went away as 
 if for surveying tools to Clarksville, and showed them- 
 selves never again in the colony. 
 
 Soon it appeared that some colonists had paid more 
 than others ; and, what was worse, no man knew where 
 his section lay, or how to survey that which fell to him. 
 1 Polish exclamations used in driving oxen.
 
 86 FOR BREAD. 
 
 The colonists remained without leadership, without any 
 authority which might bring their affairs into order and 
 settle disputes. They did not know well how to work. 
 
 Germans would have begun surely to cut down the 
 timber in company, and, after they had cleared a certain 
 space, put up the houses with combined labor ; then they 
 would have measured out the land at each house. But 
 every Mazovian wanted to occupy his own ground imme- 
 diately, put up his own house, and* cut the forest on his 
 own section. Besides, each man wanted to take his place 
 in the middle of the plain where trees were fewest, and 
 water nearest. From this rose disputes, which increased 
 quickly, when the wagon of a certain Griinmanski ap- 
 peared as if it had fallen from the sky. This Pan Griin- 
 manski, in Cincinnati where Germans live, called himself, 
 simply Griinman ; but in Borovina he added " ski," so 
 that his business might go on better. His wagon had a 
 lofty canvas top, on both sides of which was a black 
 inscription in great letters, " Saloon," and underneath, in 
 smaller letters, " Brandy, whiskey, gin." 
 
 How that wagon had passed the dangerous wilderness 
 between Clarksville and Borovina, how prairie adven- 
 turers had not broken it, why Indians, who were maraud- 
 ing in small bands, frequently very near Clarksville, had 
 not taken the scalp from Pan Grunmanski's head is his 
 secret ; it is enough that he arrived and began a per- 
 fect business that very day. But that same day also the 
 colonists began to quarrel. To the thousand disputes 
 about sections, tools, sheep, and places at the fire, were 
 added very foolish things ; for instance, among the colo- 
 nists a certain provincial American patriotism was roused. 
 Those who had come from Northern States began to 
 praise their former homes at the expense of the colony 
 and of colonists from Southern States, and vice versa.
 
 FOR BREAD. 87 
 
 Where separation from the mother country and life 
 among strangers had eaten through the native char- 
 acter, one might have heard frequently this North 
 American Polonism, colored by the slang, " I don't care 
 a d ! " 
 
 " But why praise your Southern country ? " asked a 
 young fellow from Chicago. " With us in Illinois, wher- 
 ever you look is a railroad, and wherever you are in a 
 car a short mile brings you to a city. You want to farm, 
 you want to build a house, you don't need to gnaw tim- 
 ber ; you buy lumber and that is the end of it." 
 
 " With us one canon is worth whole blocks in your 
 place." 
 
 " And you, God d ! What do you touch me for ? 
 
 I was there, sir, and I am here, sir, and what sort of a 
 fellow are you ? " 
 
 " Quiet, or I will take a shingle, or I will wet your 
 head in the creek, if you get mad. What do you want 
 of me?" 
 
 In the colony evil was done directly ; that society 
 brought to mind a drove of sheep without a shepherd. 
 Quarrels about land grew more violent. It came to 
 fights in which comrades of certain towns or settlements 
 joined against those who came from others. The more 
 experienced, the elder or wiser secured, it is true, respect 
 and importance gradually ; but they were not always 
 able to keep them. Only in moments of danger did the 
 common instinct of defence command those colonists to 
 forget their quarrels. Once on an evening when a com- 
 pany of renegade Indians stole sheep, the men rushed 
 together in pursuit, without a moment's hesitation. The 
 sheep were recovered ; one of the Indians was so beaten 
 that he died soon after ; the most perfect harmony
 
 88 FOR BREAD. 
 
 reigned that day, but the next morning there was quar- 
 relling again at the forest. Concord returned when, in 
 the evening, the fiddler played, not a dance, but various 
 songs, which each man had heard long before under 
 thatched roofs, then conversation stopped. All sur- 
 rounded the musician in a great circle ; the sound of 
 the forest accompanied him ; the blazing fires hissed and 
 shot up sparks ; some dropped their heads gloomily as 
 they stood there, the souls flew out of them and went 
 beyond the sea. More than once the moon rose high 
 above the forest, and still they were listening. But ex- 
 cept these short intervals, everything became more and 
 more unhinged in the colony. Disorder increased, hatred 
 burrowed into them. That little society, cast away 
 among those forests, almost separated from the rest of 
 humanity, deserted by its leaders, had neither the power 
 nor the knowledge to help itself. 
 
 Among the colonists we find two figures known to us : 
 the old man, Vavron Toporek, and his daughter, Marysia. 
 Arriving in Arkansas, they had to share the common lot 
 in Borovina. Indeed, at first they were in a better con- 
 dition than others. Whatever a forest may be, it is not 
 the pavement of New York ; moreover, in New York they 
 had nothing ; here, they had a wagon, some live-stock 
 bought cheaply in Clarksville, and a few tools for field- 
 work. There, a terrible yearning was gnawing them ; 
 here, hard work did not let the mind wander from the 
 present. 
 
 The old man felled trees from morning till evening ; he 
 hewed off chips and prepared logs for the cottage. The 
 girl washed clothes in the river, made a fire, cooked; 
 but, in spite of heat, exercise and the air of the forest 
 obliterated gradually the traces of her sickness which 
 she had incurred through want in New York. The
 
 FOR BREAD. 89 
 
 burning breeze from Texas banned her pale face and 
 covered it with a slightly golden hue. Young men from 
 San Antonio, and from the Great Lakes, who jumped at 
 each other with fists on any pretext, were agreed only in 
 this, that Marysia's eyes looked from under her bright 
 hair as star-thistles in wheat, and that she was the pret- 
 tiest girl that human eye had ever seen. 
 
 The beauty of Marysia was useful to Vavron. He 
 picked out for himself a strip of the nicest forest, and no 
 one opposed him, for all the young men were on his side. 
 More than one helped him in the felling of trees, the 
 hewing of beams, or in putting them in place for hewing ; 
 but the old man, since he was shrewd, knew their reasons, 
 and said from time to time, 
 
 "My daughter walks the plain like a lily, like a lady, 
 like a queen. To whom I wish, to him I will give her ; 
 but I shall not give her to this man or that, for she is a 
 landowner's daughter. Whoso will bow lower and please 
 better, to him I will give her, not to a straggler." 
 
 So whoever helped Vavron thought that he was help- 
 ing himself. 
 
 Vavron was better off even than others ; and in general 
 he would have been quite well to do if the colony had 
 had any future before it. But things grew worse daily. 
 One week passed and another. Eound about the plain 
 they cut trees ; the ground was covered with chips ; here 
 and there rose the yellow walls of houses ; but what was 
 done was a trifle in comparison with what those men 
 should have done. The green wall of the forest yielded 
 only slowly before the axes. Those who went into 
 the forest more deeply brought back strange tidings : 
 that that forest had no end whatever ; that farther on 
 there were terrible swamps and bayous in it, morasses, 
 and some kind of sleeping water under the trees ; that
 
 90 FOR BREAD. 
 
 wonderful creatures of some sort were dwelling there ; 
 that certain steaming things, like spirits, pushed along 
 through the thickets, serpents of some kind hissed there ; 
 that voices cried, " Do not come ! " Certain imps seized 
 men by the clothing and would not let them go. A 
 young man from Chicago declared that he had seen the 
 very devil in person, that Satan raised his terrible shaggy 
 head from the mud and snorted at him so that he was 
 barely able to run home. 
 
 A colonist from Texas explained to the man from 
 Chicago that he must have seen a buffalo ; but he would 
 not believe this. So the superstition of fear added to the 
 terrible position. A few days after seeing the devil, it 
 happened that two smart young men went into the forest 
 and were seen no more. Some people fell ill with pain in 
 the back from overwork, and then fever attacked them. 
 Quarrels about division of land increased to the degree 
 that it came to wounds, blood, and battles. If any man 
 failed to brand his cattle, others denied his ownership. 
 The camp lost cohesion; wagons were removed to all 
 corners of the plain, so as to be as far from one another 
 as possible. They could not agree as to who should go 
 out to guard the cattle ; sheep began to die. 
 
 Meanwhile one thing became more and more evident : 
 before the grain sown on the edge of the forest would be 
 green, and the increase of cattle come, the. supply of pro- 
 visions would fail, and hunger appear. Despair seized 
 people. The sound of axes in the forest decreased, for 
 patience and courage had begun to fail. Every man 
 would have continued his work if some one could have 
 said to him, " Here, this is thine forever." But no one 
 knew what was his, and what was not his. The just 
 complaints against leaders increased. People said that 
 they had been led into the wilderness to die for nothing.
 
 FOR BREAD. 91 
 
 Whoever had some money yet sat in his wagon and drove 
 away to Clarksville. But there were more who, having 
 put their last copper into the colony, had nothing with 
 which to return to their former homes. These wrung 
 their hands, seeing certain ruin. 
 
 At last the axes stopped cutting ; but the forest 
 sounded as if jeering at men's helplessness. "Cut for 
 two years, and then die of hunger," said man to man. 
 But the forest sounded as if it were jeering. A certain 
 evening Vavron came to Marysia and said, 
 
 " I see that everything is going to ruin, and we also 
 are going to ruin." 
 
 " The will of God," answered the girl. " He has been 
 merciful and will not desert us now." 
 
 Thus speaking, she raised her blue eyes to the stars, 
 and in the gleams of the fire she looked like a church 
 image. And the young men from Chicago, and the 
 hunters from Texas, looking at her, said, 
 
 " And we will not desert thee, Marysia, thou morning 
 dawn." 
 
 She thought to herself that there was only one with 
 whom she would go to the end of the earth, one, Yasko 
 in Lipintse. But he, though he had promised to swim 
 through the sea after her, to fly as a bird after her, roll 
 as a ring after her on the highway, had not swum, had 
 not flown, he alone had deserted her, hapless girl. 
 
 Marysia could not but know that evil was going on in 
 the colony, but she had been in such distress, God had 
 freed her from such abysses ; her soul had become so 
 serene in misfortune that nothing could deprive her of 
 faith in Heaven's aid. 
 
 Besides she remembered that the old gentleman in 
 New York, who had helped them to rise out of misery 
 and reach that place, had given her his card, saying, that
 
 92 FOR BREAD. 
 
 should misfortune oppress her to call to him, he would 
 save her always. 
 
 Every day brought new peril for the colony. People 
 flew from it by night, and what happened to them it is 
 difficult to tell. Round about the forest sounded and 
 mocked. 
 
 At last old Vavron fell ill from exertion. Pain began 
 to pass through his spine. For two days he paid no 
 attention to it, but on the third he could not rise. The 
 girl went to the forest, collected moss and covered with 
 it the wall of the house, which was ready and lying on 
 the grass ; she placed her father on the moss and pre- 
 pared for him medicine with whiskey. 
 
 " Marysia," muttered the old man, " death is coming to 
 me now through the forest ; thou wilt remain alone in 
 the world, poor orphan. God is punishing me for my 
 grievous sins ; I took thee beyond the sea, and ruined 
 thee. Painful will my end be." 
 
 " Father," answered the girl, " God would have pun- 
 ished me if I had not come with you." 
 
 " If thou wert not alone when I leave thee, if I might 
 bless thee for marriage, T should die more easily. Marysia, 
 take Black Orlik as husband; he is geod, he will not 
 desert thee." 
 
 Black Orlik, an unerring hunter, from Texas, who 
 heard this, threw himself on his knees at once. 
 
 " father ! bless us ! " said he, " I love this maiden 
 as my own life. I know the forest, and I will not let her 
 die." 
 
 Saying this he looked with his falcon eyes on Marysia 
 as on a rainbow ; but she, bending down to the feet of her 
 father, said, 
 
 " Do not force me, father, I shall be his whom I prom- 
 ised, or no man's."
 
 FOR BREAD. 93 
 
 " Thou wilt not be his whom thou hast promised, for I 
 will kill him. Thou must be mine, or else no man's," 
 answered Orlik. " All will perish here ; thou wilt perish 
 with them unless I rescue thee." 
 
 Orlik was not mistaken. The colony was going to 
 nothing ; again a week passed and a second week. Sup- 
 plies were near the end. They had begun to kill working 
 cattle. The fever seized new victims day by day ; people 
 began now to curse, now to cry in loud voices to Heaven 
 for deliverance. 
 
 One Sunday, the old men, boys, women, and children, 
 all knelt on the ground and sang a supplication. A hun- 
 dred voices repeated, "Holy God, Holy Mighty, Holy 
 and Invincible, have mercy on us ! " The forest ceased 
 to move, ceased to sound, and listened. Only when the 
 hymn was ended did the forest sound again, as if speak- 
 ing terribly. " Here I am king ; here I am lord ; here I 
 am the mightiest." 
 
 But Orlik, who knew the forest, fastened his black 
 eyes on it, looked at it somehow strangely, and then said 
 aloud, 
 
 " Well, let us grapple." 
 
 The people looked in turn at Orlik, and a certain con- 
 solation entered their hearts. Those who knew him 
 when in Texas had great trust in the man, for he was 
 famed even in Texas. He had really grown wild in the 
 prairies, and was as strong as an oak-tree. He used 
 to go alone against a bear. In San Antonio, where he 
 had lived before, they knew well that sometimes, when 
 he took a gun and went to the desert, he was absent 
 for two months, and always returned in health, sound. 
 They nicknamed him " Black," because he was burned 
 from the sun. They said even that on the Mexican 
 boundary he had been a bandit, but that was untrue.
 
 94 FOR BREAD. 
 
 He brought back only skins; he brought Indian scalps 
 sometimes till the local priest threatened to curse him. 
 Now in Borovina he was the only man who cared for 
 nothing and was concerned about nothing. The forest 
 gave him food and drink ; the forest clothed him. So 
 when people began to flee and lose their heads, he took 
 everything in hand, and managed like a gray goose in 
 the sky, having behind him all who were from Texas. 
 When, after the prayer, he challenged the forest, people 
 thought to themselves : " He will invent something." 
 
 Meanwhile the sun went down. High among the 
 black branches of the hickories the brightness of gold 
 shone for a while yet, then reddened, and was quenched. 
 The wind shifted to the south at nightfall. Orlik took 
 his gun and went to the forest. 
 
 Night had begun when, in the dark distance, people 
 saw as it were a great golden star, as it were a coming 
 dawn, or a sun which rose with tremendous swiftness, 
 spreading red and bloody light. 
 
 " The forest is burning ! The forest is burning ! " 
 shouted people in the camp. 
 
 Clouds of birds rose with a clatter from every side of 
 the forest, screaming, croaking, twittering. Cattle in the 
 camp began to bellow pitifully ; dogs howled ; people ran 
 about in terror, not knowing but the fire might come on 
 them, though the strong south wind could only drive 
 the flames away from the plain. Meanwhile in the dis- 
 tance rose a second red star, then a third. Both of these 
 were merged quickly in the first, and the conflagration 
 roared on over increasing expanses. The flames spread 
 like water ; they ran along dry, interlaced lianas and wild 
 grape-vines ; the forest trembled. The wind tore burning 
 leaves away and bore them, like fiery birds, farther and 
 farther.
 
 FOR BREAD. 95 
 
 Hickories burst in the fire with a report like the 
 sound of cannon. Eed serpents of fire wound them- 
 selves over the resinous bark of the wilderness. Hissing, 
 roaring, the breaking of limbs, the deep howl of flames, 
 mingled with the uproar of birds, and the bellowing of 
 beasts filled the air. Heaven-touching trees tottered like 
 flaming pillars and columns. Climbing plants, burned 
 at the windings, broke away from the trees and, swing- 
 ing terribly, like satanic arms, passed forward sparks and 
 fire from tree to tree. 
 
 The sky grew red as if another conflagration were 
 there. It was as clear as daylight. Then all the flames 
 blended into one sea of fire, and went through the forest 
 like the breathing of death, or the anger of God. 
 
 Smoke, heat, and the odor of burning filled the air. 
 People in the camp, though no danger threatened them, 
 shouted and cried to one another ; when all at once, from 
 the direction of the burning, came Orlik in the sparks, 
 in the glare. His face was darkened with smoke, and 
 terrible. When all stood around him in a circle, he 
 leaned on his musket, and said, 
 
 " You will not cut timber ; I have burned the forest. 
 To-morrow you will have on that side fields, as many 
 as each man may wish for." Then, approaching Marysia, 
 he said, 
 
 " You must be mine ; it was I who burnt the forest. 
 Who here is stronger than I ? " 
 
 The girl shivered through her whole frame, for the 
 conflagration shone in the eyes of Orlik, and he seemed 
 to her terrible. For the first time since their coming, 
 she thanked God that Yasko was far away in Lipintse. 
 
 Meanwhile the roaring conflagration receded farther 
 and farther. The dawn was cloudy, and threatened rain. 
 
 At daybreak, some people went to look at the burned
 
 96 FOR BREAD. 
 
 region ; but they could not go near, because of heat. 
 The second day, smoke like a fog filled the air, so that 
 one man could not see another twenty steps distant. 
 That night rain began, which soon passed into a frightful 
 downpour. Perhaps the fire, by disturbing the air, had 
 caused the settling of clouds ; but, besides, it was the 
 spring season, during which on the lower Mississippi, at 
 the meeting of the Arkansas and Eed River, enormous 
 rains fall. Another cause of these rains is the evapora- 
 tion of water, which, in Arkansas, covers the whole 
 country in the form of swamps, small lakes, and streams, 
 which are increased in spring by the melting of snow on 
 the distant mountains. 
 
 The whole plain grew soft, and turned gradually into 
 a great pond. People who had been wet for whole days 
 now fell ill. Some left the colony for Clarksville ; but 
 they returned quickly, with news that the river had risen, 
 that the ford was impassable. 
 
 The condition of affairs had grown terrible ; a month 
 had passed since the coming of the colonists ; supplies 
 might give out, and it was impossible to replenish them 
 from Clarksville. But hunger threatened Vavron and 
 Marysia less than others, for the strong hand of Orlik 
 was over them. Every morning he brought to the wall 
 of the house on which Vavron was lying game, either 
 shot or trapped by him. Orlik put up his own tent to 
 protect the old man and Marysia from rain. They had 
 to accept the assistance which he almost imposed, and 
 be bound by gratitude ; he would not take pay, he wanted 
 nothing but Marysia. 
 
 " Am I the only one on earth ? " pleaded the girl. 
 "'Go seek some one else, since I love another." 
 
 " Though I should walk the world through," said 
 Orlik, " I should not find another like thee. For me
 
 FOR BREAD. 97 
 
 thou art the only one, and must be mine. What wilt 
 thou do when thy father dies ? Thou wilt come to me 
 thyself, and I will take thee, as a wolf takes a lamb ; I 
 will bear thee to the forest, but I will not eat thee. 
 Thou art mine, thou alone! Who will forbid me to 
 take thee ? Whom do I fear in this place ? Let thy 
 Yasko come, I want him." 
 
 As to Vavron, Orlik seemed to be right. The old man 
 grew worse and worse ; at times he was raving, and spoke 
 of his sins, of Lipintse, and said that God would not let 
 him see it again. Marysia shed tears for him, and for 
 herself. Orlik's promise that if she would marry him, 
 he would go with her, even to Lipintse, was bitterness, 
 not consolation. To return to Lipintse where Yasko 
 was, and return there another's, not for anything ! better 
 die under the first tree she came to. She thought that it 
 would end thus. 
 
 A new trial fell on the colony. 
 
 Rain poured down more and more. One dark night, 
 when Orlik had gone to the forest as usual, a shrill, 
 despairing cry was heard in the camp, " Water ! water ! " 
 When the people rubbed their sleepy eyes, they saw 
 in the darkness, as far as vision extended, one white 
 plain, plashing under the downpour, and moved by the 
 wind. The broken and dimmed light of night showed a 
 steel-like reflection on the wrinkles and ripples of the 
 water. On the side of the forest, where stumps were 
 sticking up, and where, from the burnt forest, was heard 
 the plashing and sound of new waves flowing, as it seemed, 
 with great impetus. A cry rose in the whole camp. 
 Women and children took refuge in the wagons; men 
 ran with all their might to the western side of the plain, 
 where the trees were not cut. The water hardly reached 
 to their knees, but was rising rapidly. The sound from 
 
 7
 
 98 FOR BREAD. 
 
 the side of the forest increased, and was blended with 
 shouts of alarm, with the calling of names, and with 
 prayers for rescue. Soon larger animals began to retreat 
 from place to place before the weight of the water. It 
 was evident that the force of the current was increasing. 
 Sheep swam along, and, with plaintive bleating, called 
 for assistance, till they vanished, carried off toward the 
 trees. Eain poured as if from a bucket, and became 
 every moment more terrible. The distant sound changed 
 into one immense thunder and roar of mad waves ; wagons 
 trembled under the pressure of them. It was evident 
 that this was no common rainfall, but that the Arkansas 
 Eiver, and all streams running into it, had overflown. 
 That was a deluge, a tearing out of trees by the roots, a 
 rending of forests, a terror, an unchaining of elements, 
 darkness, death. 
 
 One wagon, standing near the burnt forest, turned over. 
 In answer to the piercing screams for help from the 
 women enclosed in it, a few dark figures rushed out of 
 the forest ; but the water swept these men away, whirled 
 them around, and bore them toward the trees, to destruc- 
 tion. On other wagons other men climbed to the canvas 
 coverings. The rain roared more and more ; greater and 
 greater darkness fell on that gloomy plain. At moments 
 some beam with a human figure clinging to it shot past, 
 hurled up and down ; at moments the dark figure of a 
 beast, or a man, emerged ; sometimes an arm was thrust 
 up from the deluge and then fell back forever. 
 
 The water roared with increasing rage, and drowned 
 everything, drowned the bellows of perishing beasts, 
 and the cries " Jesus ! Jesus ! Mary ! " On the plain were 
 formed eddies and whirlpools ; the wagons vanished. 
 
 And Vavron and Marysia ? That house wall on which 
 the old man lay, under Orlik's tent, saved them, for it
 
 FOR BREAD. 99 
 
 floated on like a raft. The water carried it around the 
 whole field, and bore it toward the forest, there knocked 
 it against one tree and another, and, pushing it finally into 
 the current of the river, bore it farther in the darkness. 
 
 The girl, kneeling near her old father, raised her hands 
 to Heaven, calling for salvation ; but only blows of waves 
 driven by the wind gave her answer. The tent was torn 
 away, and the raft itself might be broken any moment, 
 since before and behind were floating uprooted trees, 
 which might crush or upset it. 
 
 At last it stuck in the branches of some tree, only the 
 top of which was visible above water ; out of that top at 
 that moment came the voice of a man, 
 
 " Take my gun and stand on the other side, so the raft 
 will not tip when I jump on it." 
 
 She and Vavron had barely done what was commanded, 
 when some figure sprang from a limb to the raft. 
 
 It was Orlik. 
 
 " Marysia," said he, " as I have said, I will not leave 
 thee. God aid me ! I will bring thee out of this deep 
 water also." 
 
 With the hatchet which he had he cut a straight limb 
 from the tree, trimmed it in a twinkle, pushed the raft 
 away, and paddled. 
 
 When he had worked into the regular current, they 
 went on with lightning speed. Whither ? they knew 
 not, but on they went. 
 
 Orlik from time to time pushed away trees, branches, 
 or he turned the raft to avoid a standing tree. His 
 gigantic strength seemed to increase. His eyes, in spite 
 of the darkness, descried every danger. Hour succeeded 
 hour. Every other would have fallen from weariness, 
 but in him toil left no trace. Toward morning they came 
 out of the forest, for no tree-tops were visible. But the
 
 100 FOR BREAD. 
 
 whole circle of the world seemed one sea. Immense 
 whirls of yellow, foaming water went around with a roar 
 on that empty flatness. 
 
 Daylight grew clearer. Orlik, seeing no tree in the 
 neighborhood, ceased paddling for a moment and turned 
 to Marysia, 
 
 " Marysia, thou art mine now, for I snatched thee from 
 death." 
 
 His head was uncovered, and his face, wet and flushed 
 from heat, warmed by the battle with the flood, it had 
 such an expression of strength that Marysia for the first 
 time dared not answer that she had promised another. 
 
 " Marysia," said he, softly, " Marysia of my heart ! " 
 
 " Where are -we floating to ? " asked she, wishing to 
 change the conversation. 
 
 "What care I, if with thee, my beloved." 
 
 " Paddle on, while death is before us." 
 
 Orlik paddled again. 
 
 Vavron felt worse and worse. At times he had a fever, 
 at times it left him; but he weakened. The suffering 
 was too great for his worn-out, old body. He was 
 approaching the end, eternal relief, and great peace. At 
 midday he woke, and said, 
 
 "Marysia, I shall not wait till to-morrow. Oi, my 
 daughter, would to the Lord that I had not left Lipintse, 
 and had not brought thee here ! But God is merciful ! I 
 have suffered not a little ; He will forgive me my sins. 
 Bury me, if thou shalt be able, and let Orlik take thee to 
 the old gentleman in New York. He is a good man ; he 
 will pity thee and give thee means for the road, and thou 
 wilt return to Lipintse. I shall never return. God, Thou 
 the merciful, let my soul fly there as a bird and even look 
 at the place ! " 
 
 Here delirium seized him again, and he began to speak,
 
 FOR BREAD. 101 
 
 "To Thy protection I flee, Holy Mother of God ! " cried he, 
 on a sudden. " Do not throw me into the water, for I am 
 not a dog ! " and then, evidently, it occurred to him that 
 he had wished to drown Marysia because of their misery, 
 for again he cried, " My child, forgive ! forgive ! " 
 
 She, poor thing, was lying near his head, sobbing ; 
 Orlik was paddling, and tears were stopping his throat. 
 
 In the evening it became clear. The sun, at the moment 
 of setting, appeared over the flooded country, and was 
 reflected in the water with a long, golden streak. The old 
 man was dying. But God took pity on him, and gave 
 him a peaceful death. At first he said, in a sad voice : 
 
 " I went away from Poland, from that land over there," 
 but afterward, in the wandering of his fever, it seemed to 
 him that he was returning to it. He thought that the 
 old gentleman in New York had given him money for the 
 road, and to buy land, so he and Marysia were going 
 back. They are on the ocean ; the steamer is sailing night 
 and day ; the sailors are singing. Then he sees the port 
 in Hamburg from which they had sailed ; various places 
 appear before his eyes. German speech is heard around 
 him; but the train is flying onward, so Vavron feels that he 
 is nearer and nearer home ; a sure joy swells his breast ; 
 another atmosphere, beloved, greets him from his native 
 place. What is that ? the boundary ! The poor peasant 
 heart is beating like a hammer. He is going on ! 
 God ! God ! and here are the fields of the Matseks, and 
 their pear-trees ; here are gray cottages and the church. 
 There a villager follows the plough in his sheepskin cap. 
 He stretches his hands to him from the train. man .' 
 man ! I cannot speak. They go farther. But what 
 is that ? That is Pryremble, and beyond Pryremble is 
 Lipintse. He and Marysia are moving along the road, 
 and weeping from joy. It is spring. The wheat is in
 
 102 FOR BREAD. 
 
 blossom ; the beetles are droning in the air ; in Pryremble 
 they are ringing the Angelus. Jesus ! Jesus ! why is 
 there so much happiness for him, sinful man ? Over that 
 hill, and there a cross and guide-post, and the boundary of 
 Lipintse. They are not walking now, but flying as if on 
 wings ; now they are on the hill, at the cross, at the guide- 
 post. The man throws himself on the ground ; he bellows 
 from happiness ; he kisses the ground, and crawling up to 
 the cross embraces it, he is in Lipintse. Yes. He is 
 now in Lipintse, for only his dead body is resting on that 
 stray raft on the flood of water ; his soul has flown to the 
 place of its rest and its happiness. 
 
 In vain did the girl work over him. " Father, father ! " 
 Poor Marysia, he will not return to thee. He is too 
 happy in Lipintse. 
 
 Night came. The stick was dropping out of Orlik's 
 hand from fatigue ; hunger tormented him. Marysia, 
 kneeling over her father's body, was repeating with broken 
 voice an " Our Father ; " all round, to the remotest verges 
 of the horizon, there was nothing but water. 
 
 They had come out above the bed of some large river, 
 for the current was bearing them away again quickly. It 
 was impossible to steer the raft. Perhaps that was merely 
 a current circling about a hollow in the prairie, for fre- 
 quently it carried them in a circle. Orlik felt that his 
 strength was deserting him. On a sudden he sprang to 
 his feet, and cried, 
 
 " By the wounds of Christ, there is a light ! " 
 
 Marysia looked in the direction in which he had 
 stretched his arm. In fact some light gleamed in the 
 distance ; from it a line was reflected on the water. 
 
 " That is a boat from Clarksville ! " cried Orlik, " sent 
 out to save people. If only it would not miss us ; Marysia, 
 I will save thee. Hoop ! hoop ! "
 
 FOR BREAD. 103 
 
 At the same time he paddled with all his might. 
 Indeed the flame increased, and in the red light from it 
 something which looked like a large boat was outlined. 
 It was very far away yet, but they were approaching 
 each other. After a time, however, Orlik saw that the 
 boat was not pushing forward ; the raft had floated into 
 a great and broad current, going in a direction opposite to 
 that of the boat. 
 
 All at once the pole broke in Orlik's hand from pres- 
 sure. They were without an oar. The current carried 
 them farther and farther ; the light decreased. 
 
 Happily a quarter of an hour later the raft struck a 
 lone tree in the prairie, and it stuck in the branches. 
 Both cried for help, but the noise of the current extin- 
 guished their voices. 
 
 "I will shoot," said Orlik; "they will see the light, 
 they will hear the report." 
 
 He had barely thought of it when he raised the barrel 
 of his musket, but instead of a report came the dull click 
 of the hammer. The powder was wet. 
 
 Orlik threw himself at full length on the raft. There 
 was nothing to be done. He lay as if dead for a while, 
 then he rose, and said, 
 
 " Marysia, I would have taken another girl long ago, in 
 spite of her, and carried her to the forest. I thought to 
 do so with thee ; but I dared not, I loved thee. I went 
 alone about the world like a wolf, and the common herd 
 feared rne, but I feared thee. Marysia! Thou must 
 have given me some philter ? But thou wilt not marry 
 me : death is better ! I will save thee, or perish ; but if I 
 perish, do thou of my heart take pity and say an ' Our 
 Father ' for Orlik. In what have I offended thee ? I 
 have done thee no wrong. Ei ! Marysia, Marysia, fare- 
 well, thou my love and my sun ! "
 
 104 FOR BREAD. 
 
 And before she had noted what he wished to do, he 
 threw himself into the water and began to swim. For a 
 while she saw his head in the darkness, and his arms 
 breaking the water against the current, for he was a 
 strong swimmer. But soon he disappeared from her eyes 
 He was swimming to the boat to find rescue for her. 
 The swift current hampered his movements, as if some one 
 were dragging him from behind ; he pulled himself out, 
 pushed forward. If he could avoid that current, if he 
 could strike another, a favoring one, he would swim to 
 the boat, he would do so most certainly. Meanwhile, in 
 spite of superhuman efforts, he could move only slowly. 
 Thick, yellowish water, often threw foam in his eyes ; 
 then he raised his head, took breath, and strained his 
 eyes in the darkness to see where the boat with the 
 light was. Sometimes a stronger wave pushed him back, 
 sometimes it hurled him upward ; he breathed with 
 increasing difficulty ; he felt that his knees were stiffen- 
 ing. He thought, " I shall not swim there ; " then some- 
 thing whispered in his ear, as if it were the beloved voice 
 of Marysia, " Save me ! " and again he cut the water 
 with his hands desperately. His cheeks swelled ; his 
 mouth threw out water ; his eyes were protruding from 
 his head. If he should turn, he could swim back to the 
 raft with the current ; but he did not even think of doing 
 so, for the light of the boat was nearer and nearer. In 
 fact the boat was coming toward him, borne by the same 
 current with which he was struggling. All at once he 
 felt that his knees and his legs were stiff altogether. A 
 few more desperate efforts, the boat ever nearer, " Help ! 
 Eescue ! " 
 
 The last word was drowned by the water which filled 
 his throat. He sank, a wave passed over his head ; but 
 he swam out again. The boat was right there, right
 
 FOR BREAD. 105 
 
 there. He hears the plash and the noise of the oars in 
 the rowlocks ; for the last time he strains his voice and 
 cries for help. 
 
 They hear him, for the plash becomes quicker. 
 
 But Orlik went down again ; an immense eddy bore 
 him away. For a moment yet he was black on the 
 wave, then one hand rose above the water, after that the 
 other, and then he vanished. 
 
 Meanwhile Marysia, alone on the raft with the corpse 
 of her father, was looking at the distant light like a 
 person demented. 
 
 But the current bore it toward her. She saw the boat 
 with a number of oars, which in the light moved like 
 the red legs of a giant worm. Marysia began to call 
 desperately. 
 
 " Eh, Smith," said some voice in English. " Hang me, 
 if I don't hear cries for help, and if I don't hear them 
 a second time." 
 
 After a while strong arms bore Marysia to the boat ; 
 but Orlik was not there. 
 
 Two months later Marysia came out of the hospital in 
 Little Rock, and, with money collected by kind people, 
 she went to New York. 
 
 But this money was not enough. She had to make a 
 part of the road on foot ; but, speaking a little English 
 now, she was able to beg of conductors to take her free. 
 Many people had pity on the poor, sick, pallid girl, with 
 the great blue eyes, more like a shadow than a person, 
 and begging alms with tears. It was not people who 
 were tormenting her, but life and its conditions. What 
 had that field flower of Lipintse to do in the whirl of 
 America, in that gigantic " business " ? How was she to 
 help herself? The car there had to pass over her and 
 crush her frail body, as every car passes over a flower 
 which has fallen in front of it.
 
 106 FOR BREAD. 
 
 A hand, emaciated, trembling from weakness, pulled a 
 bell on Water Street. That was Marysia, who had come 
 to seek aid of the old gentleman from Poznan. 
 
 Some stranger opened the door to her, an unknown 
 person. 
 
 " Is Pan Zlotopolski at home ? " 
 
 " Who is he ? " 
 
 " An old gentleman." Here she showed his card. 
 
 " He is dead." 
 
 " He is dead ? And his son ? Pan William ? " 
 
 "He has gone away." 
 
 " And Panna Jennie ? " 
 
 " She has gone away." 
 
 The door was closed before her. She sat on the door- 
 step and rubbed her face. She was in New York again, 
 alone, without assistance, without protection, without 
 money, dependent on the will of God. 
 
 Will she stay there ? Never ! She will go now to the 
 wharf, to the German docks, to seize the captain's feet, 
 and beg him to take her ; and if they will have kindness, 
 she will go through Germany on begged bread, and return 
 to Lipintse. Her Yasko is there. Besides him she has 
 no one in the broad world now. If he will not take her 
 in, if he has forgotten her, if he will reject her, she can 
 even die near him. 
 
 She went to the wharf and crawled at the feet of the 
 German captains. They would have taken her ; for were 
 she to freshen up a little she would be a nice girl. 
 They would be glad but then the rules did not permit 
 besides, it is a vexation. So let them alone. 
 
 The girl went to sleep on that same place where she 
 had slept once with her father on that night when he 
 wanted to drown her. She nourished herself with what 
 the water threw up, as she had in New York with her 
 father. Happily, the summer was warm.
 
 FOR BREAD. 107 
 
 Every day, just after dawn, she was at the German 
 docks begging a favor, and every day vainly. She had 
 peasant endurance, but strength was deserting her. She 
 felt that if she could not go back quickly she would die 
 soon, as all had died with whom fate had connected her. 
 
 A certain morning she dragged herself to the German 
 docks with effort, and thinking that that was the last 
 time, for to-morrow her strength would not be sufficient. 
 She resolved not to beg, but to walk onto the first 
 steamer sailing for Europe and hide somewhere quietly ; 
 when they sailed out and found her, they would not 
 throw her into the water ; if they should, well, let them 
 do so. It is all the same to her how she dies, if die she 
 must. But at the gangway leading to the steamer 
 persons going on board are watched carefully, and the 
 guard pushed her away at the first trial. 
 
 She sat on a post near the water, and thought to her- 
 self that fever might seize her. She began to laugh, and 
 muttered, 
 
 " I am an heiress, Yasko, but I kept faith with thee. 
 Dost thou not know me ? " 
 
 The hapless girl caught no fever, but insanity seized her. 
 Thenceforward she went every day to the wharf to look 
 for Yasko. People grew accustomed to her and gave her 
 alms sometimes. She thanked them with humility, and 
 laughed like a child. This lasted two months perhaps. 
 One time, however, she did not go to the wharf, and was 
 seen there no more. But the " Police Gazette " announced 
 on the following morning that at the very end of the pier 
 had been found the body of a dead girl, of unknown name 
 and origin.
 
 ORSO.
 
 ORSO. 
 
 THE last days of autumn are for Anaheim, a small 
 town in Southern California, days of amusement 
 and celebration. The grape-gathering is finished then 
 altogether, so the town swarms with laboring people.' 
 Nothing is more picturesque than the view presented by 
 that population, formed, in its minority, of Mexicans, but 
 mainly of Cahuilla Indians, who come for work from the 
 wild mountains of San Bernardino, which lie in the 
 depth of the country. Both Indians and Mexicans dis- 
 pose themselves on the streets and market squares, or 
 so-called " lolas," where they sleep under tents, or simply 
 under the naked sky, always serene at that season. 
 
 The pretty town, surrounded by groups of eucalyptus, 
 castor, and pepper trees, is seething as though with a 
 bustling and noisy fair, and forms an astonishing con- 
 trast to the deep and dignified silence of the cactus- 
 covered desert, which begins immediately beyond the 
 vineyards. In the evening, when the sun hides its shin- 
 ing circle in the depth of the ocean, and when, on the 
 ruddy sky, are seen also the rosy bright lines of wild 
 geese, ducks, pelicans, mews, and cranes, stretching in 
 thousands from the mountains toward the ocean, fires are 
 kindled in Anaheim and amusement begins. Negro min- 
 strels shake their tambourines, and at every fire are to be 
 heard the sound of drums and the plaintive tones of the 
 banjo. The Mexicans dance on spread-out ponchos their 
 favorite bolero; the Indians accompany them, holding in
 
 112 ORSO. 
 
 their teeth long white reeds of kiotte, or giving out shouts 
 of " E viva ! " The fire, nourished with redwood, crackles 
 and shoots sparks, and in its bloody gleams are seen leap- 
 ing figures, while round about are local settlers, with 
 their handsome wives and daughters on their arms, wit- 
 nessing the amusement. 
 
 The day, however, on which the last cluster of grapes 
 is trodden out by Indian feet, is the greatest holiday ; for 
 then comes from Los Angeles the travelling circus of 
 Herr Hirsch, a German, and also the owner of a menag- 
 erie, composed of monkeys, cougars, African lions, one 
 elephant, and a number of parrots, grown foolish from 
 age, this is "the greatest attraction of the world!" 
 
 The Cahuillas, indeed, give the last " pesos," which they 
 have not been able to drink away, only to see, not so 
 much wild beasts, for of those in San Bernadino there is 
 no lack, but circus women, athletes, clowns, and all the 
 wonders of the circus, which to them, at least, seem 
 " great medicine," that is, magic, possible of accomplish- 
 ment only through supernatural powers. 
 
 The man who should think, however, that the circus 
 was an attraction merely for Indians, negroes, and China- 
 men, would draw upon himself the just and, God knows, 
 the dangerous wrath of Herr Hirsch. The arrival of the 
 circus brings after it a gathering not only of the sur- 
 rounding settlers, but even of inhabitants of the neigh- 
 boring smaller towns, Westminster, Orange, and Los 
 Nietos. Orange Street is so packed with wagons and 
 buggies, of forms the most varied, that it is impossible to 
 push through; all the great world of settlerdom has 
 risen as one man. Young, smart, little misses, with 
 bright bangs over their eyes, sitting in the front seats, 
 drive over people charmingly along the streets, twittering 
 and showing their teeth as they do so ; Spanish senoritas
 
 ORSO. 118 
 
 from Los Nietos, cast long shaded glances from under 
 their tulle veils ; married dames, from the neighborhood, 
 dressed in the latest fashion, lean with pride on the arms 
 of sunburnt farmers, for whom a torn hat, jeans panta- 
 loons, and a flannel shirt, which, for want of a cravat, is 
 fastened with hooks and eyes, serve as an entire costume. 
 
 All that world exchanges greetings, calls, looks with 
 careful eye at dresses to see how far they are " very fash- 
 ionable," and gossips a little. 
 
 Among American buggies covered with flowers and 
 looking like great bouquets young men ride on mustangs 
 and bend forward on their high Mexican saddles, as they 
 glance stealthily under the hats of young maidens. The 
 half-wild horses, frightened by the uproar and noise, roll 
 their bloody eyes, rear, and neigh ; but the daring riders 
 do not even seem to take note of their movements. 
 
 All speak of " the greatest attraction," or the details 
 of the evening representation, which is to surpass in 
 splendor everything seen hitherto. 
 
 Indeed, the gigantic show-bills announce real wonders. 
 The director himself, Herr Hirsch, " an artist at the whip," 
 is to give a concert with the wildest known African lion. 
 The lion is to hurl himself, according to programme, on the 
 director, whose only defence is the whip. But that ordi- 
 nary weapon becomes, in his wonder-working hands (al- 
 ways according to programme), a fiery sword and a shield. 
 The end of that whip is to bite like a rattlesnake, flash like 
 lightning, hit like a thunderbolt, and keep continually at a 
 distance the monster, which struggles in vain and tries to 
 rush on the artist. But that is not the end yet. The 
 sixteen-year-old Orso, the "Hercules of America," born 
 of a white father and an Indian mother, is to carry six 
 men, three on each shoulder; besides this, the director 
 offers a hundred dollars to any man, " without regard to 
 
 8
 
 114 ORSO. 
 
 color of skin," who can throw the young athlete in 
 wrestling. An indefinite report is circling through Ana- 
 heim, that Grizzly-killer has come purposely from the 
 San Bernardino mountains for a trial with Orso. He is 
 a trapper, celebrated for courage and strength, who, since 
 California became California, is the first man who dared 
 to attack a grizzly bear with an axe and a knife. 
 
 The probable victory of the " bear-killer " over the six- 
 teen-year-old athlete of the circus rouses all the male 
 population of Anaheim to the utmost ; for, if Orso, who 
 hitherto had thrown the strongest " Yankees " between 
 the Atlantic and the Pacific, comes off victorious, immor- 
 tal glory will settle on all California. 
 
 The minds of the women are not less roused by the 
 following item of the programme, which states that the 
 same powerful Orso will carry on a thirty-foot pole little 
 Jennie, " the wonder of the world," of whom the hand- 
 bill announces that she is the most beautiful maiden that 
 has lived on earth " during the Christian era." 
 
 Though Jennie is only thirteen, the director offers one 
 hundred dollars to any girl, "without reference to the 
 color of her skin," who will compete in beauty with 
 "the angel of the air." The misses, the little misses, 
 and the smallest misses from Anaheim and the environs 
 turn up their noses in contempt, when they read this 
 part of the programme, and declare that it would not 
 be " ladylike " to undertake such competition. Still, each 
 of them would rather give up her rocking-chair than not 
 be present at the evening exhibition, and not see that 
 childlike rival, in whose beauty, however, in compari- 
 son, for instance, with the sisters Bimpa, no one believes. 
 
 The two sisters Bimpa, the elder, Eefugio, and the 
 younger, Mercedes, are sitting carelessly in a beautiful 
 gy" J us t reading the bill. On their wonderful faces
 
 ORSO. 115 
 
 not the least emotion is noticeable, though they feel that 
 the eyes of Anaheim are turned to them at that moment, 
 as if imploring them to save the honor of the whole 
 county, and turned also with patriotic pride, founded on 
 the conviction that more beautiful than those two flow- 
 ers of California, there are not in all the mountains and 
 canons of this world. Oh ! but they are beautiful, those 
 sisters Eefugio and Mercedes ! It is not for nothing that 
 pure Castilian blood is flowing in their veins ; to this blood 
 their mother refers continually, expressing at the same 
 time her lofty contempt for all kinds of colored people, as 
 well as for persons with light hair, that is, "Yankees." 
 
 The forms of the two sisters are slender, lithe; in their 
 movements are certain mysteries, languid, and so luxuri- 
 ous that when any young man approaches them the heart 
 struggles in his breast from unconfessed and unknown 
 desire. A charm breathes from Eefugio and Mercedes, as 
 odor from magnolias. Their faces are delicate, their com- 
 plexions transparent, though blushing with a slight rosi- 
 ness, like the gleam of dawn ; their eyes are dreamy and 
 black, sweet, and in expression innocent and sensitive. 
 Wrapped in the folds of their muslin rebozos, in a buggy 
 filled with flowers, they are sitting there so pure, calm, 
 and beautiful that they seem even not to know their 
 own beauty. Anaheim looks at them, devours them with 
 its eyes, is proud of them, is in love with them. What 
 must that Jennie be if she is to bear away the victory 
 from them ? " The Saturday Weekly Review " wrote, it 
 is true, that when little Jennie climbs to the end of the 
 pole, resting on the powerful shoulder of Orso, when she 
 is on the point of that pole, hanging over the earth, ex- 
 posed to death, and begins to spread out her arms and 
 flutter like a butterfly, it grows silent in the circus, and 
 not only eyes, but hearts follow, with trembling, every
 
 116 ORSO. 
 
 movement of the wonderful child. " Whoever has seen 
 her once on the pole, or on horseback," concludes the 
 " Saturday Eeview," " will never forget it, for the great- 
 est artist on earth, even Mr. Harvey of San Francisco, 
 who painted the Palace Hotel, would not have been able 
 to paint anything like her." 
 
 The youth of Anaheim, sceptical and enamoured of the 
 sisters Bimpa, assert that there is " humbug " in that ; 
 still, it will be decided finally only in the evening. 
 
 Meanwhile the movement around the circus increases 
 with every moment. From the midst of the long wooden 
 sheds surrounding the canvas circus proper, comes the 
 roaring of lions and of the elephant ; parrots, attached to 
 rings hung at the sheds, make an uproar with heaven- 
 piercing voices ; the monkeys hang by their own tails, 
 or are teased by the public, held at a distance by ropes 
 stretched around the buildings. 
 
 Finally, a procession emerges from the chief building, 
 the object of which is to excite curiosity to the degree of 
 amazement. The head of the procession is formed by an 
 enormous chariot drawn by six horses with plumes on 
 their heads. Grooms, in the French costume of pos- 
 tilions, drive from their saddles. On wagons are cages 
 with lions, in each cage sits a lady with an olive branch. 
 After the wagons marches an elephant covered with a 
 carpet, a tower is fixed on his back, and bowmen are 
 sitting in the tower. 
 
 Trumpets sound, drums are beaten, lions roar, whips 
 are cracked ; in a word, the whole caravan moves for- 
 ward like a brawl, with outcry and uproar; that is not 
 enough, behind the elephant rolls a machine with a boiler 
 as in a locomotive, an organ on which steam plays, or 
 rather bellows and whistles out in the most infernal man- 
 ner, the national " Yankee Doodle." At times the steam
 
 ORSO. 117 
 
 is stopped in the pipes, and then comes out the ordinary 
 whistle from the pipe, which does not decrease, however, 
 the enthusiasm of the crowd, who cannot contain them- 
 selves from delight, when they hear that roaring music by 
 steam. The Americans cry, " Hurrah ! " the Germans, 
 " Hoch ! " the Mexicans, " E viva ! " the Cahuillas howl 
 like wild beasts, with ecstasy. 
 
 Crowds follow the procession ; places around the circus 
 are deserted ; the parrots cease their uproar ; the monkeys 
 cease to jump. "The greatest attraction" does not take 
 part, however, in the procession. In the chariots are 
 neither the director, " incomparable at the whip," nor the 
 "invincible Orso," nor "Jennie, the angel of the air." All 
 that is reserved till evening, to produce then the greatest 
 impression. 
 
 The director is sitting somewhere in the shed, or peep- 
 ing in at his cash office, where his negroes show their 
 white teeth to the public ; he looks in and is angry in 
 every case. Orso and Jennie have their own exercise in 
 the circus. Under the canvas reign silence and gloom. 
 
 The background, where seats rise higher and higher, is 
 almost completely dark ; the greatest amount of light falls 
 through the canvas roof on the arena, which is sprinkled 
 with sawdust and sand. By those gray rays of light, 
 which pass through the canvas, is seen a horse, standing 
 at the barrier. There is no one near him, the large, broad 
 beast is wearied evidently ; he drives away flies with his 
 tail, and nods as much as he can with his head, which is 
 tied with white reins, and bent toward his breast. By 
 degrees the eye discovers other objects too, such as a pole 
 lying on the sand, the pole on which Orso carries Jennie 
 usually, and a number of hoops with blotting paper pasted 
 across them, through which Jennie has to spring ; but all 
 these are lying cast about carelessly. The whole half-
 
 118 ORSO. 
 
 lighted arena, and the circus, altogether gloomy, makes 
 the impression of an empty house, with windows broken 
 long before. The seats, rising in tiers, shone on only in 
 some places, look like a ruin ; the horse, with drooping 
 head, does not enliven the picture. 
 
 Where are Orso and Jennie? One of the rays of 
 light stealing in through the openings, in which the dust 
 turns and dances, falls like a spot of gold on the seats of 
 the farther benches. That spot advances according to 
 the movement of the sun, and at last illuminates the 
 group composed of Orso and Jennie. 
 
 Orso is sitting on a bench, near him, Jennie; her 
 pretty, childish, little face is nestled up to the shoulder 
 of the athlete, her arm is around his neck, and holds by 
 the other shoulder. The eyes of the little girl are lifted, 
 as if listening attentively to the words of her comrade, 
 who, bent above her, moves his head sometimes, as if 
 explaining and interpreting something. Thus nestled up 
 to each other, they might be taken for two lovers, were it 
 not that the legs of Jennie, clothed in pale rose-colored 
 tights, without reaching the ground, were swinging back 
 and forth with a movement perfectly childlike, which is 
 called also making pots, her raised eyes express listen- 
 ing, and a powerful exertion of thought, rather than any 
 romantic feeling. Also her form is only taking on the 
 first outlines of a woman. 
 
 In general, Jennie is still a child, but such a charming 
 one that, without offence to Mr. Harvey of San Francisco, 
 who painted the Palace Hotel, it would be difficult for 
 him to imagine anything similar. Her little face is 
 simply angelic; her great, pensive blue eyes, of a deep, 
 sweet, confiding expression, her dark brows are outlined 
 with incomparable purity, on a forehead, white, and as it 
 were sunk in thought, on which a yellow, silky, and a
 
 ORSO. 119 
 
 trifle disordered forelock casts its shadow, which not 
 only Mr. Harvey, but a certain other painter named 
 Eembrandt, would not have been ashamed of. The little 
 maid reminds one of both Cinderella and Gretchen ; 
 and the nestling posture, which she has taken, betrays a 
 timid disposition, requiring protection. 
 
 By this posture, in the manner of Greuze, is set off 
 wonderfully the circus costume formed of a short gauze 
 skirt embroidered with silver tinsel, so short that it does 
 not cover her knees, and rose-colored tights. 
 
 Sitting in the beam of golden light, on a deep and dark 
 background, she looks like some sunny, transparent vision, 
 and her slender figure presents a direct contrast to the 
 angular form of the young athlete. 
 
 Orso, dressed in flesh-colored tights, seems naked at a 
 distance ; and that same beam illuminates his overgrown, 
 unsymmetrical limbs, his too prominent breast, his lank 
 stomach, and his legs too short in proportion to his body. 
 His powerful form seems to be merely struck out 
 roughly with an axe. He has all the traits of a circus 
 athlete, but carried to such a degree that they are 
 almost a caricature. Besides he is ugly. At times, when 
 he raises his head, his face is visible; the features are 
 regular, perhaps, even very regular, but somehow stiff, 
 and, as it were, hewn out. His low forehead, and black 
 hair, falling down to his nose, like the forelock of a horse, 
 inherited undoubtedly from his Indian mother, give his 
 face a threatening and gloomy appearance. He is at 
 once like a bull and a bear, and in general he has tre- 
 mendous, but vicious power. In fact, he is not at all 
 kindly. 
 
 When Jennie passes near the stalls of the horses, 
 those honest creatures turn their heads, look at her with 
 their wise eyes, and neigh quietly as if they wished to
 
 120 ORSO. 
 
 say, " How do you do, darling ? " but at sight of Orso, 
 they crouch from fear. He is a self-concentrated fellow, 
 gloomy and muttering. Herr Hirsch's negroes, who per- 
 form the duties of jockeys, clowns, minstrels, and rope- 
 walkers, cannot endure him, and annoy him as much 
 as they can; because he is a half-breed, they make 
 nothing of him, and express aloud their contempt. The 
 director, who, to tell the truth, does not risk much in 
 setting up a hundred dollars against every one who 
 may wish to try him, hates the youth, and also fears 
 him, but in the same way in which a trainer of wild 
 beasts fears, for example, a lion, that is, he flogs him for 
 any reason. 
 
 It is done also for this cause, that Herr Hirsch con- 
 siders that if he should not beat the youth, he would 
 himself be beaten by him; but in general he holds the 
 principle of that Creole woman who looked on beating as 
 a punishment, and not beating as a reward. 
 
 Such is Orso. For some time, however, he has become 
 better, for he began to love little Jennie greatly. It 
 happened a year before that when Orso, who looked after 
 animals, was cleaning the cage of a cougar, the beast 
 thrust out his paw between the bars, and wounded him 
 in the head rather severely. The athlete went into the 
 cage then, and, after a terrible struggle between him 
 and the beast, he was the only survivor. He was so 
 severely wounded, however, that he fainted, and was sick 
 after that for a long time, especially since the director 
 flogged him for breaking the spine of the cougar. 
 
 In the time of his illness, little Jennie showed him 
 much sympathy, dressed his wounds in the absence of any 
 one else, and, in unoccupied hours, she sat near him, and 
 read to him the Bible, that is, "the good Book," which 
 mentions loving one another, and forgiveness, and
 
 ORSO. 121 
 
 charity, in, one word, things concerning which mention 
 was never made in Herr Hirsch's circus. 
 
 Orso, hearing that Book, labored a long time with his 
 Indian head, and at last came to the conclusion that, if 
 life in the circus were as in that Book, he would not be so 
 cross-grained. He thought, too, that he would not be 
 beaten, and, perhaps, he would even find some one to 
 love him. But who? Not the negroes, and not Herr 
 Hirsch, perhaps little Jennie, whose voice sounded as 
 sweetly in his ears as the voice of a maukawis bird. 
 
 Because of this thought, he wept much on a certain 
 evening ; he began to kiss Jennie's little hands, and from 
 that time he loved her greatly. Thenceforth, when dur- 
 ing the evening exhibition the little girl rode on horse- 
 back, he was always in the arena, and followed her with 
 careful eye. Holding before her hoops with blotting 
 paper pasted across, he smiled at her, and when to the 
 accompaniment of the music, " Ah, death is near ! " he 
 carried her on the point of the pole, to the great terror 
 of the spectators, he was alarmed himself. He knew 
 well at that time, that if she fell, there would be no one in 
 the circus with the " good Book ; " he did not let her out 
 of his sight therefore, and that carefulness of his, and 
 that alarm, as it were, in his movements added to the 
 terror of the spectacle. When, called out by a storm of 
 applause, they ran together into the arena, he pushed 
 her ahead always, so that most of the applause should 
 fall to her, and he muttered with delight. That surly 
 fellow could talk with her only, and he opened his mind 
 only before her. He hated the circus, and Herr Hirsch, 
 who was quite different from the people of the "good 
 Book." 
 
 Something always drew him to the edge of the horizon, 
 to woods and to prairies. When the travelling company
 
 122 ORSO. 
 
 in its journeys happened to be near uninhabited regions, 
 such instincts rose in him as rise in a tame wolf, on 
 seeing a forest for the first time. That inclination, per- 
 haps, he inherited not from his mother only, for his 
 father was certainly some trapper, wandering over the 
 plains. He confided these desires to little Jennie, and 
 related to her also how people live in the wilderness. 
 For the greater part he divined that, but he knew a little 
 of it from the hunters of the plains, who came to the 
 circus occasionally, sometimes to bring game to Herr 
 Hirsch, sometimes to try for the hundred dollars which 
 the director appointed for overcoming Orso. 
 
 Little Jennie listened generally to these conversations 
 and Indian visions, opening her blue eyes widely, or 
 thinking. Orso himself never went into the desert. She 
 was always with him, and it was so pleasant for them, 
 that it was just wonderful. Every day they saw some- 
 thing new ; they had their own housekeeping ; they had, 
 therefore, to take everything into consideration. 
 
 They were sitting then in the streak of light and talk- 
 ing, instead of trying new jumps. The horse was stand- 
 ing in the arena, annoyed. Little Jennie, leaning up to 
 Orso's shoulder, had her thoughtful eyes fixed in space, 
 and was swaying her legs persistently and weighing in 
 her little head how it would be in the wilderness ; and at 
 times she threw out a question so as to know better how 
 it would be. 
 
 " And where is one to live ? " asked she, raising her eyes 
 to her comrade. 
 
 "It is full of oak-trees there. A man takes an axe 
 and builds a house." 
 
 "Well," said Jennie, "but till the house is built ?" 
 
 " It is always warm there. Grizzly Killer said that it 
 was very warm."
 
 ORSO. 123 
 
 Jennie began to swing her legs still more energetically, 
 in sign that if it was warm she did not care for anything 
 else ; but after a while she stopped again. She has in 
 the circus a dog which she calls Mr. Dog, and a cat 
 called Mr. Cat; she wanted therefore to decide some- 
 thing touching them. 
 
 " But will Mr. Dog and Mr. Cat go with us ? " 
 
 "They will," answered Orso, and he muttered with 
 delight. 
 
 " Shall we take the ' good Book ' with us too ? " 
 
 " Yes ! " said Orso, and he muttered still more loudly. 
 
 "Well," twittered the little maiden, "Mr. Cat will 
 catch birds for us, and Mr. Dog will bark if anything 
 ugly wants to come to us ; and you will be husband, and 
 I shall be wife, and they will be our children." 
 
 Orso was made so happy that he could not even 
 mutter, so Jennie continued, 
 
 "And there will be no Herr Hirsch, and there will be 
 no circus, and we will never do any work ! And only 
 but no," added she, after a while, " the good Book says 
 that we must labor, so sometimes I will jump through a 
 hoop, or two hoops, or three hoops, or four hoops ! " 
 
 Evidently Jennie could not imagine to herself labor in 
 another form than jumping through hoops. After a 
 while she asks again, 
 
 " Orso, and shall I really be with you all the time ? " 
 
 "Yes, Jee, I love you very much." 
 
 His face lighted up when he said that, and he became 
 almost good-looking. Still he did not know how he 
 loved that little bright-haired head. He loved her as a 
 mastiff his mistress. But for the rest in his whole life 
 only her. He looked like a dragon near her ; but how 
 does that hurt him ? In no way. 
 
 " Jee, listen to what I say."
 
 124 ORSO. 
 
 Jennie, who a moment before had stood up, wishing to 
 look at the horse, now, so as not to lose any of Orso's 
 words, rested her elbows on his knee, and putting her 
 chin on both palms, began to listen with upraised head. 
 
 At this moment, however, to the misfortune of the 
 children, the artist of the whip came into the circus, and 
 came in the very worst humor, for the trial with the lion 
 had failed utterly. The beast had lost his hair from age, 
 and would have been glad had they given him holy 
 peace even once. He would not rush at the artist for 
 anything, under blows of the club he only hid in the 
 interior of the cage. The director thought, in despair, 
 that if that loyal disposition did not leave the lion before 
 evening, the concert on the whip would fail, for to beat 
 a lion which slinks away is no greater trick than to eat 
 a lobster tail first. 
 
 The humor of the director was still worse when the 
 negro who was selling tickets for the standing-room 
 reported that apparently the Cahuillas had drunk away 
 all the money received from grape-gathering; they had 
 come, it is true, in large numbers to the office, but 
 instead of money for tickets, they offered blankets, marked 
 U. S., or their wives, especially the old ones. 
 
 A failure of money with the Cahuillas was no small 
 loss to the artist, for he had counted on a " crowded 
 house," and there could be no " crowded house " unless 
 the standing-room were occupied ; therefore the director 
 wished at that moment that all the Indians had only one 
 back, and that he could give a concert on that back in 
 presence of all Anaheim. He entered the circus building 
 in this state of mind, and seeing, at the barrier, the 
 horse standing idle, with a wearied look, he wanted to 
 turn a handspring from anger. Where could Orso and 
 Jennie be ? Shading his eyes with his hand, so that the
 
 ORSO. 125 
 
 light coming through the canvas might not dazzle him, 
 the director looked into the interior and saw Orso, and 
 Jennie kneeling before him with her elbows on his 
 knees. At this sight, he dropped the end of the whip to 
 the ground. 
 
 " Orso ! " 
 
 A thunderbolt striking the group of two children 
 could not have produced in them greater astonishment. 
 Orso sprang to his feet and went by the passage between 
 the benches, with that hurried movement of a beast going 
 to the voice of his master ; after him followed little 
 Jennie, with eyes widely opened from astonishment, 
 catching the benches along the way. 
 
 Orso, when he had come down to the arena, stopped at 
 the parapet, gloomy and silent. The gray light falling 
 from above illuminated sharply his Herculean body on 
 short legs. 
 
 " Nearer ! " cried the director, with hoarse voice. 
 
 Meanwhile the end of his whip was moving along the 
 sand with the ominous movement of the tail of a tiger 
 while waiting in ambush. 
 
 Orso advanced a few steps, and for some time both 
 looked into each other's eyes. 
 
 On the whole, the director had the face of a tamer who 
 has entered a cage to flog a dangerous beast, but at the 
 same time observes him. 
 
 Rage gained the upper hand of wariness. His thin 
 legs, in elkskin breeches and high-top boots, were danc- 
 ing under him from anger. Maybe, too, it was not the 
 idleness of the children alone which roused that anger. 
 
 Above between the benches Jennie was looking on 
 both, as a doe might look on two bucks. 
 
 " Hoodlum ! dog-catcher, low cur ! " hissed the director. 
 
 The whip described a circle with the swiftness of light-
 
 126 ORSO. 
 
 ning ; it whistled, hissed, and struck. Orso whined with 
 a low sound, and threw himself forward a step; but 
 another blow stopped him at once, then a third, a fourth, 
 a tenth. The concert had begun, though there were no 
 spectators yet. The raised arm of the great artist 
 scarcely moved ; his hand merely turned, as if it had been 
 a part of some machine fixed on a pivot, and every turn 
 was answered with a blow on the flesh of Orso. It 
 seemed that the whip, or rather the poisonous end of it, 
 filled all the space between the athlete and the director, 
 who, exciting himself gradually, fell into genuine artistic 
 ecstasy. The master was simply improvising. The lash, 
 gleaming in the air, had twice described on the neck of 
 the athlete bloody traces, which powder was to cover in 
 the evening. 
 
 Orso was silent in the dance ; but after every blow he 
 moved a step forward, the director a step backward. 
 In this way they went around the whole arena ; and then 
 the director pushed out of the arena, precisely as a beast- 
 tamer out of a cage, and finally vanished at the entrance 
 to the stables, exactly like a tamer. 
 
 But, in passing out, his glance fell upon Jennie. 
 . " To horse ! " cried he. " Beckoning with you will 
 come later ! " 
 
 His voice had not ceased sounding when the white 
 skirt gleamed in the air, and Jennie sprang in a twinkle 
 to the horse's back, like a monkey. 
 
 The director vanished behind the curtain ; the horse 
 began to gallop around, striking the barrier sometimes 
 with his hoofs. 
 
 "Hep! hep!" cried Jennie, in a thin voice. "Hep! 
 hep ! " but that " hep ! hep ! " was at the same time a sob. 
 The horse, running faster and faster, struck with his 
 hoofs, bending away from the barrier more vigorously.
 
 ORSO. 127 
 
 The little maiden, standing on the saddle, with her feet 
 pressed one to the other, seemed hardly to touch it with 
 the tips of her toes ; her bare, rosy arms kept her balance 
 with quick movements ; her tresses and the gauze circus 
 skirt, borne back by the current of air, flew after her 
 slight form, which was like a bird circling in the air. 
 
 " Hep ! hep ! " cried she again. Meanwhile tears filled 
 her eyes, so that she had to raise her head to see any- 
 thing; the running of the horse made her dizzy; the 
 rising tiers of benches, the walls, and the arena began to 
 whirl around her. She staggered once, a second time, 
 and at last fell into Orso's arms. 
 
 " Oh, Orso ! poor Orso ! " said the child, sobbing. 
 
 " What is the matter, Jee ? " whispered the youth. 
 " Why are you crying ? Don't cry, Jee ! It does n't 
 pain me much, not much at all." 
 
 Jennie threw both of her arms around his neck, 
 and began to kiss his cheeks. Her whole body trembled 
 from excitement, and her weeping passed almost into 
 spasms. 
 
 " Orso ! Oh, Orso ! " repeated she, unable to speak 
 further, and her arms pressed violently around his neck. 
 If she had been flogged herself, she could not have cried 
 more ; at last he fell to soothing in turn and pacifying 
 her. Forgetting his pain, he took her in his arms, pressed 
 her to his heart ; and his nerves, roused by the flogging, 
 caused him to feel for the first time that he loved her not 
 merely as a mastiff loves his mistress. He breathed 
 quickly, and his lips began to whisper, with interrupted 
 breath, 
 
 " Nothing pains me any more ; when you are near me, 
 I am very happy Jennie, Jennie ! " 
 
 Meanwhile the director was striding through the 
 stables and foaming from rage. Jealousy was diving
 
 128 ORSO. 
 
 into his heart. He had seen the little maiden on her 
 knees before Orso, and for a certain time the wonderful 
 child had begun to rouse in him as it were the dawn of 
 low feelings, not sufficiently developed yet. But he sus- 
 pected her and Orso of a romance, hence he desired ven- 
 geance. He would find a wild delight in beating her, 
 in beating her very soundly ; and he could not resist this 
 desire. After a while he called her. 
 
 She tore away from the arms of the athlete, and in a 
 twinkle disappeared in the dark entrance to the stables. 
 Orso was as if dazed, for, instead of following her, he 
 went with tottering step to a bench, and, sitting down, 
 began to pant violently. 
 
 The girl, when she had run into the stable, saw no one 
 at first, for it was darker there than in the arena. But, 
 fearing that she might be censured for not obeying the 
 command at once, she called, in a low and alarmed 
 voice, 
 
 " I am here, sir, I am here ! " 
 
 At that moment the hand of the director seized her 
 little hand, and a hoarse voice said, 
 
 " Come ! " 
 
 If he had been angry at her, or had shouted, it would 
 have frightened her less than that silence in which he led 
 her toward the dressing-room of the circus. She held 
 back, and, resisting with all her strength, repeated as 
 quickly as she could, 
 
 " Dear, kind Herr Hirsch ! I will never 
 
 But he took her by force to the long, closed chamber 
 in which was the store of costumes, and locked the door. 
 
 Jennie threw herself on her knees, and, with upraised 
 eyes and crossed hands, trembling like a leaf, covered with 
 tears, she tried to bend him by entreaty ; but he, taking 
 a whip from the wall, said, in answer,
 
 ORSO. 129 
 
 " Lie down ! " 
 
 Then she seized his feet in despair, for she was almost 
 dying of terror. Every nerve in her was quivering like a 
 distended chord in a musical instrument. But in vain 
 did she press her pale lips imploringly to his polished 
 boot-legs. On the contrary, her terror and prayers seemed 
 to excite him still more. Grasping her by the girdle of 
 her skirt, he placed her on a pile of robes lying on the 
 table ; then, for a while yet, he stopped the violent move- 
 ment of her feet, and at last struck. 
 
 " Orso ! Orso ! " screamed the girl. 
 
 At that same moment the door shook on its hinges, 
 cracked from top to bottom, and the whole half of it, 
 broken out by gigantic strength, fell with a crash to the 
 ground. 
 
 In the opening stood Orso. 
 
 The whip fell from the director's hand, and his face 
 was covered with the pallor of a corpse, for Orso had a 
 terrible look indeed. Instead of eyes only the whites of 
 them were visible. His large mouth was covered with 
 foarn ; his head was bent forward like the head of a bull, 
 and his whole body was collected, as if for a plunge. 
 
 " Out of here ! " shouted the director, striving to cover 
 his fear with a shout. 
 
 But the bond was broken ; Orso, usually as obedient 
 as a dog to every motion, simply bent his head lower and 
 moved on ominously toward the artist of the whip, 
 stretching as if by superior force his iron muscles. 
 
 " Help ! Help ! " shouted the artist. 
 
 They heard him. 
 
 Four immense negroes ran in with all speed from the 
 stables through the broken door and rushed at Orso. A 
 terrible conflict began at which the director gazed with 
 chattering teeth. For a long time only a group of inter-
 
 130 ORSO. 
 
 woven dark bodies were to be seen struggling in convul- 
 sive whirls, moving, winding round each other, storming ; 
 in the silence which surrounded them was heard at one 
 time a groan, at another, a snorting or the wheezing of 
 nostrils. But after a while one of the negroes, hurled 
 out as if by superhuman force from that formless mass, 
 balanced in the air and fell at the side of the director, 
 striking his head with a dull thump on the floor ; soon a 
 second man flew out ; and finally above the crowd of 
 strugglers rose only Orso, more terrible than ever, blood- 
 stained, his hair standing on his head. His knees were 
 still pressing down two negroes in a swoon. He sprang 
 up and rushed at the director. 
 
 The artist closed his eyes. 
 
 In that same second he felt that his feet were no 
 longer touching the earth, he felt that he was flying 
 through the air ; after that he felt nothing, for striking 
 the remaining half of the door with his whole body, he 
 fell on the ground without consciousness. 
 
 Orso wiped his face, and approached Jennie. 
 
 " Come ! " said he, mildly. 
 
 He took her by the hand, arid they walked out. The 
 whole town was just running after the procession of 
 wagons, and the machine playing " Yankee Doodle," 
 therefore it was perfectly empty around the circus. Only 
 the parrots, swinging in their hoops, were filling the air 
 with their cries. 
 
 The children went hand in hand, straight ahead toward 
 the place where at the end of the street an immense field 
 of cactuses was visible. In silence they passed houses 
 covered by the shade of eucalyptus, then they passed the 
 slaughter-house, around which were circling thousands 
 of black starlings with red wings. They sprang across 
 the great irrigation ditch, entered a forest of orange-
 
 ORSO. 131 
 
 trees, and coming out of that found themselves among 
 cactuses. 
 
 They were now in the desert. 
 
 As far as the eye could reach the thorny plants rose 
 higher and higher ; the intricate leaves growing from 
 other leaves stopped the road, catching Jennie's dress 
 with their thorns. Sometimes the cactuses rose so high 
 that the children were as if in some forest, but neither in 
 that forest could any one find them. They went on, turn- 
 ing now to the right, now to the left, only to be farther. 
 In places where the pyramids of cactuses were fewer, they 
 could see on the very edge of the horizon the blue moun- 
 tains of Santa Ana. They went toward the mountains. 
 Ash-colored locusts were singing in clumps of cactuses ; 
 sun rays came down in floods to the earth ; the dried 
 soil was varied with a network of cracks ; the stiff cactus 
 leaves seemed to grow soft from the heat ; flowers were 
 drooping and half withered. 
 
 The children went on, silent and thoughtful. But 
 everything about them was so new that soon they both 
 yielded to their impressions completely and forgot even 
 suffering. Jennie's eyes ran from one clump to another ; 
 now she dropped her inquisitive glance into the middle 
 of the cactuses, asking from time to time, in a low 
 voice, 
 
 " Is this the desert, Orso ? " 
 
 But the desert did not seem empty. From the farther 
 clumps came the calling of cock partridges, and round 
 about were heard various wonderful clapping, clicking, 
 mutterings, in a word, the most varied voices of small 
 creatures living among cactuses. Now a whole flock of 
 partridges rose on the wing, now crested runners fled on 
 long legs, black squirrels sprang into the ground at the 
 approach of the children ; on all sides hares and rabbits
 
 132 ORSO. 
 
 were running ; susliks, sitting on their hind legs before 
 their holes, were like fat German farmers standing in the 
 doors of their houses. 
 
 After a short time the children went on. Soon Jennie 
 was thirsty. Orso, in whom Indian inventiveness had 
 been roused, evidently, helped her by plucking prickly 
 pears. There was a multitude of them growing on the 
 same leaves with blossoms. It is true that in gathering 
 them both pricked their hands with the thorns which 
 were as delicate as hair, but to them the fruit tasted ex- 
 cellently ; being both sweetish and sourish, it destroyed 
 thirst and hunger. The desert fed the children, like a 
 mother. When strengthened, they were able to go 
 farther. The cactuses towered higher and higher ; it 
 might be said that one plant was growing on the head of 
 another. 
 
 The ground on which they travelled rose gradually, 
 but continually. Looking around once more from the 
 foothills, they saw Anaheim, half lost in the distance, 
 like a great group of trees growing on a low plain. There 
 was no longer a trace of the circus. For whole hours they 
 went on very enduringly toward the mountains, which 
 were outlined more and more clearly. The region about 
 began to take on another aspect. Among the cactuses 
 appeared various bushes, and even trees. The woody 
 part of the foothills of Santa Ana began. Orso broke 
 one of the smaller trees and, trimming off the branches, 
 made a club, which in his hand might be a terrible 
 weapon. The instinct of the Indian whispered to him 
 that in the mountains it was better to have even a stick 
 than empty hands, especially since the sun had begun to 
 sink toward the west, gradually. Its great fiery shield had 
 passed far beyond Anaheim, and was dropping toward the 
 ocean. After a while, it disappeared, but in the west
 
 ORSO. 133 
 
 red, golden, and orange lights of evening were stretched 
 over the whole sky, like long belts and stripes. The 
 mountains bristled up in those gleams ; the cactuses took 
 on various fantastic forms, like men and animals. Jennie 
 felt wearied and sleepy ; but both hastened with all their 
 strength to the mountains, though they did not them- 
 selves know why. In fact they soon saw cliffs, and, 
 coming to them, discovered a stream ; after they had 
 drunk water, they went farther along its course. Mean- 
 while the cliffs, at first scattered and broken, were 
 changed into solid walls, then into walls still higher, 
 and soon they entered a canon or ravine. 
 
 The evening lights were quenched ; darkness, ever in- 
 creasing, embraced the earth. In places where the lianas 
 threw themselves from one side of the canon to the 
 other, making, as it were, a vault over the stream, it was 
 perfectly dark and quite terrible. Above was to be 
 heard the noise of trees, which could not be seen from 
 below. Orso divined that this was the wilderness, and 
 that surely it was full of wild beasts. From time to time 
 there came from it various suspicious voices ; and when 
 night fell they heard distinctly the hoarse bellowing of 
 bucks, the roar of cougars, and the mournful voices of 
 coyotes. 
 
 " Are you afraid, Jee ? " inquired Orso. 
 
 " No ! " answered the little maiden. 
 
 But she was very tired, and could not walk farther. 
 Orso took her in his arms and carried her. He ad- 
 vanced continually with the hope of coming upon 
 some squatter, or upon Mexican tents. Once or twice 
 it seemed to him that he saw in the distance the gleam- 
 ing eyes of a wild beast. He pressed to his bosom, 
 with one arm. Jennie, who was sleeping, and with the 
 other held his club firmly. He was greatly wearied him-
 
 134 ORSO. 
 
 self. In spite of his gigantic strength, Jennie began to 
 weigh him down, all the more since he carried her with 
 his left arm ; the right he wished to have free for de- 
 fence. At times he stopped to draw breath ; then he 
 went farther. He halted on a sudden and listened care- 
 fully. It seemed to him that from a distance came the 
 sound of bells such as the squatters hang on cows arid 
 goats for the night. Going forward hurriedly he soon 
 came to a turn in the stream. The sound of the bells 
 became more distinct, and finally the barking of dogs 
 was added to it. Orso was certain now that he was ap- 
 proaching some dwelling. It was high time for him ; he 
 had exhausted himself during the day, and strength be- 
 gan to fail him. He passed another turn and saw a light ; 
 as he went forward his quick eyes discerned a fire. A 
 dog, evidently tied to a tree, was pulling and barking. At 
 last he saw a man sitting near the fire. 
 
 " God grant," thought he, " that this is a man from the 
 good ' Book.' " 
 
 Then he decided to rouse Jennie. 
 
 " Jee ! " cried he, " wake up ; we shall eat ! " 
 
 " What is it ? " asked the maiden. " Where are we ? " 
 
 " In the wilderness." 
 
 She woke up. 
 
 " But what light is that ? " 
 
 " Some man lives there. We shall eat." 
 
 Poor Orso was very hungry. 
 
 By this time they were near the fire. The dog barked 
 more violently, and the old man sitting by the fire 
 shaded his eyes and looked into the darkness. After a 
 while he asked, 
 
 " Who is there ? " 
 
 "It is we," answered Jennie, with her thin little voice; 
 " and we want very much to eat."
 
 ORSO. 135 
 
 " Come near ! " said the old man. 
 
 Coming from behind a great rock which had concealed 
 them, they stood before the fire, holding each other by 
 the hand. The old man looked at them with astonish- 
 ment, and out of his mouth came the involuntary cry : 
 
 " What is this ? " 
 
 For he beheld a spectacle which, in the uninhabited 
 mountains of Santa Ana, might astonish any man. Orso 
 and Jennie were wearing their circus costumes. The 
 comely little maiden, dressed in rose-colored tights and a 
 short skirt, appearing suddenly, looked, in the gleam of 
 the fire, like some fantastic sylph. Behind her stood the 
 uncommonly sturdy youth, dressed in flesh-colored tights, 
 through which his muscles were visible like knots on 
 an oak. 
 
 The old squatter looked on them with staring eyes. 
 
 " What kind of people are you ? " asked he. 
 
 The little woman, counting evidently more on her own 
 eloquence than on that of her comrade, began to twitter : 
 
 " We are from the circus, dear sir. Herr Hirsch beat 
 Orso terribly, and then he wanted to flog me ; but Orso 
 would not let him flog me, and he beat Herr Hirsch and 
 four negroes ; and then we ran away into the wilderness ; 
 and we walked a long time through the cactuses, and 
 Orso carried me ; then we came here, and we want very 
 much to eat." 
 
 The old hermit's face brightened slowly, and his eyes 
 rested with a kind, fatherly expression on the charming 
 child who hurried in talking, as if she wanted to tell 
 everything in a breath. 
 
 " What is your name, little one ? " asked he. 
 
 " Jennie." 
 
 " Well, then, welcome, Jennie, and you, Orso ! I see 
 people seldom. Come to me, Jennie."
 
 136 ORSO. 
 
 The little maiden, without hesitation, threw her bare 
 arms around the old man's neck, and kissed him heartily. 
 He seemed to her to be out of the "good Book." 
 
 " But will Herr Hirsch find us here ? " asked she, 
 removing her rosy lips from the withered face of the 
 settler. 
 
 " He will find a bullet ! " replied the old man. And 
 after a while he added, " Do you say that you want 
 to eat?" 
 
 " Oh, very much ! " 
 
 The squatter raked in the ashes and took out a splendid 
 hind leg of a deer, the odor of which spread all around. 
 Then they sat down to eat. 
 
 The night was magnificent ; in the sky high above the 
 canon rolled the moon ; in the thicket the mauhawis 
 began to sing sweetly, the fire crackled joyfully, and Orso 
 muttered from delight. He and the little girl ate as if 
 paid for it ; but the old hermit could not eat, and it is 
 unknown why. In looking at little Jennie, he had tears 
 in his eyes. Maybe he had been a father long ago, and 
 maybe in the mountains he saw people rarely. 
 
 From that time on those three persons passed their 
 lives together.
 
 WHOSE FAULT? 
 A DRAMATIC PICTURE IN ONE ACT.
 
 WHOSE FAULT? 
 A DEAMATIC PICTURE IN ONE ACT. 
 
 CHARACTERS : 
 
 YADVIGA KARLOVETSKI. 
 LEO, A Painter. 
 A SERVANT. 
 
 In the dwelling of YADVIGA KARLOVETSKI. 
 SCENE I. 
 
 SERVANT (conducts LEO in). The lady will come imme- 
 diately. 
 
 LEO (alone). I cannot repress my emotion, or the 
 throbbing of my heart. Three times did I grasp the bell, 
 and three times I wished to withdraw. Alarm seizes my 
 whole being. Why did she summon me? (Takes out a 
 letter.} " Would you have the kindness to come to me on 
 an affair which will not suffer delay. Notwithstanding 
 all that has passed and perished, I trust that you will not 
 refuse a woman's prayer. Yadviga Karlovetski." Per- 
 haps I should have acted far more wisely, safely, and 
 honestly, had I left this letter unanswered ; but I tempted 
 myself, I persuaded myself that nothing could happen, 
 that it would be simply brutal not to come. The soul, 
 poor moth, flies to the light which may burn it, but can 
 neither warm nor enlighten it. What drew me hither ? 
 Was it love ? Or can I myself tell whether I love yet this 
 woman, so unlike my former white maiden, this half
 
 HO WHOSE FAULT ? 
 
 lioness whose reputation is rent by people's tongues ? 
 Nol It was rather a kind of painful curiosity which 
 attracted me; that immense sorrow which two years 
 could not assuage ; that thirst for every explanation of 
 " Why ? " repeated amid sleepless nights. Well, let her 
 see this emaciated face, let her look from near by at a 
 broken life. I could not resist : such revenge belongs to 
 me. But I shall preserve dignity, set my teeth and not 
 groan. What has happened cannot be undone, and I 
 swear to myself, that is the word (clenching his fists), that 
 it shall never be undone. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 YADVIGA Centering). I beg pardon for letting you 
 wait so long. 
 
 LEO. It is my fault, of course. I came too early, 
 though I tried to come at the appointed hour. 
 
 YADVIGA. No. I must be frank and say how it was. 
 Formerly we were so well acquainted but we have not 
 seen each other for two years. I invited you, but I was 
 not sure that you would come ; so, when the door-bell 
 rang after two years (with a smile) I needed a little 
 time to control my emotion. I thought that time was 
 needed somewhat by both of us. 
 
 LEO. I am calm, madam, and listen to you. 
 
 YADVIGA. I wished too that we should greet each 
 other as people who have forgotten the past, who know 
 that it will not return, and are immediately as good 
 friends I dare not say as brother and sister ; so, here 
 is my hand, and now pray be seated, and say if you accept 
 the agreement. 
 
 LEO. I accommodate myself to your wishes. 
 
 YADVIGA. In that case I will say further, that such 
 an agreement, resting on mutual good-will, excludes ex-
 
 WHOSE FAULT? 141 
 
 cessive coldness. We must be natural, sincere, and 
 outspoken. 
 
 LEO. All that will be a little difficult indeed, but 
 
 YADVIGA. It would be difficult, were it not for the 
 first condition : not a word touching the past ! If we 
 hold to this point, both of us, good-will may appear of 
 itself, and we may become friends in time. What have 
 you been doing these two years ? 
 
 LEO. Pushing the wheelbarrow of life, like all mortals. 
 Every Monday I thought to myself that in a week there 
 would be another Monday. There is a certain amusement 
 in this, I assure you, to see how such days unwind like 
 thread from a ball, and how everything which has hap- 
 pened goes off and vanishes gradually from the eye, like 
 a bird which flies away. 
 
 YADVIGA. That amusement is pleasant for those to 
 whom a new bird will fly from the future with a new 
 song. But in the opposite case 
 
 LEO. In the opposite case we may imagine greater 
 amusement, this, that when everything is unwound from 
 the ball nothing will remain. Memories are very pain- 
 ful on occasions. It is lucky that time dulls them, other- 
 wise they would prick like a thorn. 
 
 YADVIGA. Or burn like fire. 
 
 LEO. Wise Nature has invented a cure for that. Fire 
 without fuel must die, and dead coals do not burn. 
 
 YADVIGA. We both chase, in spite of us, the bird 
 that has flown. But no matter. Have you painted 
 much recently ? 
 
 LEO. I never do anything else : I think, and I paint. 
 True, I have not invented much thus far, and I have not 
 finished much painting. That is not my fault, however. 
 But tell me plainly, why have you summoned me ? 
 
 YADVIGA. That will reveal itself. First, even my
 
 142 WHOSE FAULT? 
 
 curiosity to see a great man should be an explanation 
 You have painted so much that your name is known in 
 all Europe to-day. 
 
 LEO. You may suspect me of conceit, but I think 
 really that I have not been a chance pawn on the society 
 chessboard, and this is the reason perhaps, that for two 
 years I have been thinking, but could not understand 
 why I was killed and thrown aside, like a common pawn. 
 
 YADVIGA. But our agreement ? 
 
 LEO. That is a story told circumstantially, as it were, 
 by a third person. Satisfying another condition of our 
 agreement, sincerity, I add that I have grown accustomed 
 to my wheelbarrow. 
 
 YADVIGA. Let us not mention it. 
 
 LEO. I forewarn you that that will be difficult. 
 
 YADVIGA. It should be easier for you. You are the 
 chosen one of art, the glory of a whole people, and at the 
 same time a spoiled child. You have something to live 
 for, something to draw from. From the flowers cast at 
 his feet, a man may always select the most beautiful, or 
 not select, and walk ever on flowers and flowers. 
 
 LEO. Till he drops. 
 
 YADVIGA. No ! passes on to immortality. 
 
 LEO. Yearning for death on the road. 
 
 YADVIGA. That is too pessimistic ; it is like the man 
 who says that he is accustomed to his wheelbarrow. 
 
 LEO. I wished merely to paint the reverse of the medal. 
 Besides pessimism is very fashionable to-day. I beg you 
 not to take my words literally. In a drawing-room ex- 
 pressions are shifted on the thread of conversation like 
 beads in a rosary. That is simply an amusement. 
 
 YADVIGA. Let us amuse ourselves then (After a 
 while.} But how many changes ! I cannot take them in. 
 If any one had told me two years ago that we should be
 
 WHOSE FAULT? 143 
 
 sitting here to-day so distant, conversing as we are, and 
 looking at each other with such watchful curiosity, like 
 two utter strangers, I should not have believed it. Oh, 
 this is very entertaining indeed ! 
 
 LEO. It does not become me to recall our agreement. 
 
 YADVIGA. And still you recall it I thank you ! This 
 melancholy turn is the fault of my nerves. But I feel 
 that it does not become me. Even though vanity were 
 my only restraint, I shall not enter that thorny path 
 again, be assured. I too amuse myself as I can, and 
 return to former memories only because I am bored. For 
 some days past I have suffered atrociously. 
 
 LEO. And therefore commanded me to come. I fear 
 that my person will not be a very rich source of amuse- 
 ment. I am a man with a poor disposition for joyous- 
 ness ; as a subject of diversion, I have too much value, 
 I am too proud and too honest. Permit . me to take 
 leave. 
 
 YADVIGA. I beg you to pardon me. I had no wish to 
 offend you. Without returning to former memories, I can 
 say, that pride is your greatest defect ; had it not been for 
 pride, many very sad things would not have happened. 
 
 LEO. Without returning to former memories, I answer 
 you that that is the only sail which has remained on my 
 bark. The wind of life has torn all the others. Had it 
 not been for this last one, 1 should have gone, I think, to 
 the bottom long ago. 
 
 YADVIGA. On the contrary, I judge that to be a rock 
 on which has been shattered not only your ship But 
 no more of this ! So much the worse for those who had 
 faith in good weather and a smooth sea. Let us not per- 
 mit even this time the current to bear us to places where 
 we do not wish to sail. 
 
 LEO. And where beyond doubt there are shallows
 
 144 WHOSE FAULT? 
 
 YADVIGA. Ei ! we are carrying on a strange conversa- 
 tion. It seems to me that this is a net in which truth at 
 the bottom of the soul is struggling in vain, without 
 power to break the meshes. But, perhaps, it is better so. 
 
 LEO. It is far better. You wrote to me that you 
 summoned me on an affair which does not suffer delay 
 I am listening to you. 
 
 YADVIGA. Yes! (With a smile.) A society lady is free 
 to have fancies and whims, at times inexplicable fancies, 
 which however gentlemen are not free to refuse. Now I 
 wish to have my portrait painted by the hand of the 
 master Leo. Are you willing to paint it ? 
 
 LEO. Madam 
 
 YADVIGA. Ah ! the forehead of the lion is wrinkled 
 precisely as if by this wish I had desired to inflict some 
 insult on him. 
 
 LEO. I think only that society ladies have fancies at 
 times very hard to explain, and quite unlike pleasantries. 
 
 YADVIGA. This question has two sides. The first, the 
 formal one, appears in this form : Pani Yadviga Kar- 
 lovetski begs most politely the renowned master, Leo, to 
 paint her portrait. That is all ! The master, who, as is 
 known, paints many portraits, has no reason to refuse. 
 An artist cannot refuse a portrait any more than a doctor 
 advice. Only another side remains the past. But we 
 have agreed not to mention it. 
 
 LEO. Permit me, madam 
 
 YADVIGA (interrupting). Ah ! my woman's diplomacy 
 knows how to tie the knot and hide the ends in water. 
 How I am amused by your vexation ! But there is some- 
 thing else in this. Admit that I am an empty creature, 
 full of female vanity, petty envy, and jealousy. Now you 
 have painted the portraits of Pani Zofia and Pani Helena, 
 I wish to have mine also. This is a thing not refused
 
 WHOSE FAULT? 145 
 
 women. Your fame reaches me from all sides ; round 
 about I hear the words, " Our great master ! " Society is 
 tearing you to pieces. God knows how many bosoms are 
 heaving for you with a sigh. All can have your works ; 
 all may approach you, see you, boast of your acquaintance ; 
 I alone, the comrade of your childhood's years, your old 
 acquaintance, I alone am banned. 
 
 LEO. Pani Yadviga ! 
 
 YADVIGA. Ah, you have called me by name ! I thank 
 you, and beg pardon earnestly for what I have said. It 
 was woman's vanity that spoke, nothing more ; I beg you 
 not to be frightened at my nerves. You see how danger- 
 ous it is to excite me. At times I am very lonely, after- 
 ward I am unendurable. But now I am calm. For that 
 matter, I give you three days for reflection. If you will 
 not come, I beg you to write me (smiling sadly}. Only I 
 warn you, that if you neither write nor come, I shall tell 
 on all sides that you are afraid of me, and thus I shall 
 pacify my vanity. Meanwhile, out of regard for my 
 nerves, not another word about refusal, not a word. I 
 am a trifle ill, and therefore capricious. 
 
 LEO. In three days I will write (rising to go} ; and 
 now I beg leave 
 
 YADVIGA. Oh ! ho ! Not so easily ! I think seriously 
 that you are afraid of me. I know indeed that I have 
 the reputation of a flirt and of being fickle ; I know 
 that people even speak ill of me ; but really I am not 
 so black as I seem. Besides we are such good acquaint- 
 ances, who once who have not seen each other for two 
 years. So let us talk a little. I beg you to give me 
 your hat. That is right ! Now let us talk. Indeed, we 
 can be friends yet. I at least What have you in 
 view for the future, besides painting my portrait ? 
 
 LEO. We should exhaust a conversation about me very 
 
 10
 
 146 WHOSE FAULT? 
 
 quickly. Let us choose another subject, more interesting. 
 Speak of yourself, of your life, your family. 
 
 YADVIGA. My husband, as usual, is in Chantilly. 
 Mamma is dead ! Poor mamma, she was very friendly 
 to you ; she loved you much (After a while.) I, as you 
 see, have grown old ; I have changed beyond recognition. 
 
 LEO. At your age the words, " I have grown old," are 
 simply a bold challenge thrown out by a woman who is 
 not afraid that people will believe her. 
 
 YADVIGA. I am twenty-three years of age, hence I am 
 not speaking of years ; but one may grow old morally. 
 I feel to-day that I resemble in no way that Yadvinia of 
 Kalinovitse whom you knew so well. My God ! when 
 I remember that trust, that faith in life, those illusions 
 of a maiden desiring to be happiness to herself and some 
 one else, that enthusiasm for everything good and noble! 
 whither has all that vanished, whither has it gone ? 
 And to think that I was really that honest field-flower, 
 and to-day - 
 
 LEO. To-day a grand lady 
 
 YADVIGA. To-day, when I see such a sceptical smile 
 as I saw on your face a moment ago, it seems to me that 
 sometimes I am ridiculous, that I am so even often ; as 
 often as I sit down to an ideal embroidery-frame, and on 
 the canvas of the forgotten, vanished, and despised past 
 embroider faded flowers. That is an old fashion of the 
 time when faithfulness was taken seriously, and people 
 sang songs about Philo. 
 
 LEO. At this moment you are dropping into a strain 
 of the newest fashion. 
 
 YADVIGA. Am I to weep, or can I take up a broken 
 thread ? Difficult ! Times change. Be assured that I 
 have my better moments, in which I laugh heartily at 
 everything (giving him a cigarette). Do you smoke!
 
 WHOSE FAULT? 147 
 
 LEO. No, madam. 
 
 YADVIGA. I do. This is also a diversion. Sometimes 
 I hunt par force with my husband ; I read Zola's novels ; I 
 make visits ; I receive ; and every morning I think how to 
 kill time. One day I succeed another I fail. Apropos, 
 you know my husband, of course ? 
 
 LEO. I knew him long ago. 
 
 YADVIGA. He is very fond of hunting, but only par 
 force. We never hunt otherwise. 
 
 LEO. Let us be sincere. Cast aside this false note. 
 
 YADVIGA. On the contrary. In these times we need 
 impressions which rouse the nerves. The latest thing in 
 music, as well as in life, is composed of dissonances. I do 
 not wish to say by this that I am unhappy with my 
 husband. It is true that he lives always in Chantilly, 
 so I see him only once in three months; but this shows 
 confidence on his part. Does it not ? 
 
 LEO. I know not, and have no wish to decide, and 
 above all I ought not to know of it. 
 
 YADVIGA. It has seemed to me that you ought to 
 know of it. I beg you to be assured that with no other 
 person should I be so outspoken; but we are such old 
 acquaintances. I do not complain. I surround myself 
 with young people who feign to be in love with me. 
 There is not substance to the value of a copper in what 
 they say ; they lie till one's ears wither ; but the form 
 is very beautiful, for they are all well-bred. Count 
 Skorzevski visits me also, you must have heard of him. 
 I recommend him to you as a model for Adonis. Ha! 
 ha ! you could not recognize the " field-flower 1 from 
 Kalinovitse." 
 
 LEO. True, I could not recognize it. 
 
 1 Yadviga, or Yadvinia, as she calls herself on page 146, par. 3, is from 
 Kalinovitse, hence she calls herself here the " field-flower of Kalinovitse."
 
 148 WHOSE FAULT? 
 
 YAD\IGA. Ha ! but life rolls on. 
 
 LEO. In jests 
 
 YADVIGA. At which one does not wish always to laugh. 
 If this were not such a sceptical age, I should pretend to 
 be a wild, romantic nature striving to deaden some 
 despair. But romantic times have passed, hence I wish 
 really to fill up a great void. I too unwind my ball, 
 though not always with pleasure. At times I seem to 
 myself so mean, vain, and miserable that I run to that 
 praying-stool there, which I inherited from my mother ; I 
 cry out my fill over it, and I pray and then again I 
 laugh at the weeping and the praying. So it goes round 
 and round! Do you know that people weave scandal 
 about me ? 
 
 LEO. I do not listen to them. 
 
 YADVIGA. How kind of you ! So I will tell you why 
 they weave these scandals. A certain missionary asked 
 a negro what his idea of evil was. The negro thought 
 awhile, and answered, "Evil is when somebody steals 
 my wife." " And good, what is that ? " asked the mission- 
 ary. " Good," answered the negro, " is when I steal some 
 other man's wife." My husband's friends agree with 
 that negro. Each one of them would be glad to do such 
 a good deed, and steal another man's wife. 
 
 LEO. That depends on the wife. 
 
 YADVIGA. True ! but every word and look is the bait. 
 "When the fish avoids the hook, the fisherman's vanity is 
 indignant. That is why they invent lies about me. (After 
 a while.) You great people are full of simplicity. Hence 
 you assert that this depends on the wife. 
 
 LEO. True, it does. 
 
 YADVIGA. Morbleu ! as my husband says, and if the 
 wife is bored ? 
 
 LEO. I take farewell of you.
 
 WHOSE FAULT? 149 
 
 YADVIGA. Why ? Does what I say offend you ? 
 
 LEO. More than offends it pains. Perhaps this may 
 seem ridiculous to you to-day, but here in my bosom I 
 bear flowers, withered, it is true, long since dead ; but, for 
 me, they are precious, and you are trampling them at this 
 moment. 
 
 YADVIGA (with an outburst). Oh, if those flowers had 
 not died ! 
 
 LEO. They are lying in my heart and that is a 
 grave. Let us leave the past in peace. 
 
 YADVIGA. True, you are right, let us leave it in 
 peace. What is dead will not rise again. I wish to 
 speak calmly. Look at my position : What defends me, 
 what arm sustains me, what shields me ? I am young, 
 and not ugly perhaps ; so no one approaches me with a 
 simple, honest heart, but always with a snare in his eyes 
 and on his lips. What have I to raise against that 
 weariness, regret, emptiness ? In life, even a man must 
 hold to something; but I, a weak woman, am like a boat 
 without a rudder, without an oar, without a light to 
 which I might steer. Still my heart is tearing forth to 
 happiness. Will you understand that a woman must be 
 loved, and must love somebody in the world, otherwise, 
 through lack of genuine feeling, she will grasp after the 
 first semblance of it, the first shadow 
 
 LEO (feverishly). Poor 
 
 YADVIGA. Do not laugh sneeringly. Be kinder, be 
 less harsh to me. I have not even any one before 
 whom I could complain, and for that reason I do not 
 dismiss Count Skorzevski. I am disgusted with his 
 beauty ; I despise his perverse mind ; but I do not dismiss 
 him, for he plays like a trained actor, and when I look 
 at his play the echoes of ancient memories are roused 
 in me (After a while.) With what shall I fill life ?
 
 150 WHOSE FAULT? 
 
 Science ? art ? even if I loved them they will not love 
 me, for they are not living beings. No ! in truth they 
 are not ! No duties are pointed out to me, no objects, no 
 basis. Everything with which other women live, which 
 forms their world, their happiness, their heartfelt conso- 
 lation, their strength, their tears and smiles, are closed 
 to me. Morally, I am like a beggar ; I have nothing to 
 live on. Like an orphan, I have no one to live for. I 
 am not even free to yearn for an honest life and a quiet 
 one ; I may only nourish myself with regret, and defend 
 myself with the fragments of faded flowers, and remem- 
 brances of the past, pure, honest, and beloved Yadvinia. 
 Ah ! again I am breaking the agreement I beg your 
 pardon ! 
 
 LEO. Pani Yadviga ! life has become a tangle for 
 both of us. If I were very unhappy, if everything aban- 
 doned me, the love of an idea, love of country would 
 remain. 
 
 YADVIGA (thoughtfully}. The love of an idea of 
 country. In this there is something very great. You 
 bring glory to the country by every picture you paint, 
 you glorify its name ; but what can I do ? 
 
 LEO. Whoever lives simply, suffers, fulfils obligations 
 in silence, serves it. 
 
 YADVIGA. What obligations ? Let me have them. 
 One great ideal love does not suffice me for daily life. I 
 am a woman ; I must cling to something, wind around 
 something, like an ivy; otherwise I shall fall to the 
 ground indeed, and people will walk on me. (With an 
 outburst.) If I could even respect that 
 
 LEO. Pani Yadviga ! Stop before you come to him 
 whom you have in mind. I "have not even the right to 
 know of your family relations. 
 
 YADVIGA. True ! not only not the right, but not the
 
 WHOSE FAULT? 151 
 
 duty, or the wish. Friendly hearts alone know how to 
 give solace ; only suffering ones know how to give sym- 
 pathy. You are lost gazing at the stars; the wheel of 
 human misfortune passes by, and you do not turn your 
 head, though that misfortune should shout at you : this 
 is your fault. 
 
 LEO. My fault ? 
 
 YADVIGA. Oh, do not wrinkle your brow and press 
 your lips (folding her arms). I wish to make no re- 
 proach I have forgiven long ago, and now I, the giddy 
 woman, whom people see joyous and smiling, am so poor 
 that I should not have strength even for hatred. 
 
 LEO. Enough I have heard your history ; do not 
 bring me to tell you mine. Should you hear it, a still 
 greater burden would fall on your shoulders. 
 
 YADVIGA. No ! no ! We might have been happy, 
 and we are not. This is the fault of both. What de- 
 spair to think that we parted for a mere nothing, for one 
 inconsiderate expression, and parted forever (she covers 
 her face with her hands) without hope, without salva- 
 tion ! 
 
 LEO. That expression was for you, madam, a nothing ; 
 but I remember it to this moment with my heart and 
 brain. I was not then what I am to-day. I was poor, un- 
 known, and you were all my future, my object in life, my 
 wealth. 
 
 LADVIGA. Oh, Leo ! Leo ! what a golden dream that 
 was 
 
 LEO. But I was proud, for I felt that there was a 
 spark of divinity in me. I loved you beyond every- 
 thing, and nothing darkened the sky above me, till one 
 evening Pan Karlovetski appeared, and the very next 
 evening you told me that you were giving more than you 
 received
 
 152 WHOSE FAULT? 
 
 YADVIGA. Leo 1 
 
 LEO. What inclined you to give that slap on the face 
 to my proud wretchedness, I do not know to this mo- 
 ment. You could 'not have loved that man then, but 
 barely had he shown himself, when you humiliated me. 
 There are wrongs which a man who feels his dignity can- 
 not endure, hence those were the last words which I 
 heard from you. 
 
 YADVIGA. In truth, when I hear what you say, I need 
 to keep myself in check. Hardly had that man shown 
 himself, when you burst out in jealousy. I said that I 
 gave more than I received. You thought, did you, that I 
 was speaking of money, not of feeling ? And suspected 
 that I wished to throw my wealth in your eyes. You 
 considered me capable of that? Was that why you did 
 not pardon ? Was that why you went away ? Was that 
 why you broke your life and mine ? 
 
 LEO. It is too late to speak of this ! Too late ! You 
 knew then, and you know to-day, that I could not under- 
 stand your words otherwise. In him you felt a man of 
 your society of which you were so fond that more than 
 once it seemed to me that this society was dearer to you 
 than even our love. In these doubts of suffering you did 
 not set me at rest. You were amused by the idea of 
 extending a hand to me first. I, in a moment when 
 the measure was passed, in a moment of humiliation, 
 rejected that hand. You knew this then, you know it 
 to-day. 
 
 YADVIGA. I know it to-day, but I did not know it then. 
 I swear to you by the memory of my mother ! But even 
 had it been so, why did you not forgive ? God ! in 
 truth one might lose one's senses. And there was 
 neither time nor means to explain anything. You went 
 away and showed yourself no more. What could I do ?
 
 WHOSE FAULT? 153 
 
 When you became angry, when you so confined yourself 
 within your own person, sorrow pressed my heart and 
 I am ashamed even to-day to tell it; but I looked into 
 your eyes like a lap-dog which wishes to dissipate anger 
 with submission. What could I do ! I thought to my- 
 self : At parting, I will press his hand so honestly and 
 so cordially that he will understand and forgive. At 
 parting, my hand dropped, for you bowed from a distance. 
 I swallowed my tears and humiliation, and thought : He 
 will return to-morrow. A day passed, two, then a week, 
 a month 
 
 LEO. Then you married. 
 
 YADVIGA (with an outburst). Yes ! useless tears and 
 time taught me that that parting was forever; hence 
 anger rose in my heart, the wish for revenge on you and 
 myself. I wanted to be lost, for I said to myself : That 
 man does not love me and never has loved me. I married 
 then as if I were to spring from a window through 
 despair, for I believed yet that you did not love me. 
 
 LEO. Madam, do not blaspheme ! Do not bring me 
 to an outburst I not love you ? Look at the pit which 
 you opened under my feet. Count the sleepless nights 
 in which I tore my breast from pain ; count the days in 
 which I called to you, as if from a cross ; look at this 
 thin face, at these trembling hands, and say again that 
 I did not love you ! What has happened to me ? What 
 has my life been without you ? To-day this head is in 
 laurels ; but here in my breast it is dumb, empty ; inex- 
 haustible sorrow is here, with unwept tears ; but in my 
 eyes are eternal darkness. Oh, by the living God ! I loved 
 you with every drop of my blood, with every thought ; 
 and I could not have loved otherwise. Losing you, I lost 
 everything: my star, my strength, my faith, my hope, 
 my wish for life, and not only happiness, but the power
 
 154 WHOSE FAULT? 
 
 of happiness. Woman, do you understand the meaning 
 of this expression : I lost the power of happiness ? Did 
 I not love you ? Oh, despair, God alone knows how 
 many nights I called to Him : Lord ! take my talent, 
 take my fame, take my life, and return for one moment 
 to me my Yadviga, as she once was 
 
 YADVIGA. Enough. God ! what is happening to me ! 
 Leo ! I love thee. 
 
 LEO. My Yadviga ! (Presses her to his bosom. A mo- 
 ment of silence.) 
 
 YADVIGA. I have found thee again. I loved thee 
 always. Ah ! how wretched I was in the world with- 
 out thee. I have defended that love thus far from every 
 one. Thou knowest not of this, but I used to see thee ! 
 That caused me delight and pain. I could not live 
 longer, so I summoned thee. I did that purposely. If 
 thou hadst not come, something terrible would have hap- 
 pened. Now we shall not separate ; we shall never be 
 angry with each other, shall we ? (A moment of 
 silence.) 
 
 LEO (wakening as if from sleep). Madam, forgive me. 
 The present moment thrust itself in instead of the past, 
 so I let myself be borne away by an illusion. Pardon 
 me ! 
 
 YADVIGA. What sayest thou, Leo ? 
 
 LEO (severely). I forgot for a moment, madam, that 
 you are the wife of another. 
 
 YADVIGA. Oh, thou art ever just and honorable. No, 
 we shall not carry on a guilty romance. I know thee, 
 my great, noble Leo ! The hand which is extended to 
 thee is pure, I swear it. Pardon me also a moment of 
 forgetfulness. I stand here now, and I say that I will not 
 be thine till I am free. But I know that my husband 
 will consent to a divorce. I will leave him all my
 
 WHOSE FAULT? 155 
 
 property, and, since I wounded at one time your pride, for 
 the fault was mine ; yes ! only mine ! you will take me 
 poor, in this one dress will you not ? It will be well 
 so ? Then I shall be your lawful wife. O my God ! and 
 I shall be honest, and loving, and loved. I yearned for it 
 so much with all my soul. Of our future I cannot think 
 without tears. God is so good ! When thou shalt return 
 from thy studio in the evening, thou wilt not return to 
 empty walls, or to regrets, but I shall wait for thee, I will 
 share every delight with thee, every sorrow, I will share 
 them with thee as a crust of bread. In truth, I cannot 
 keep from tears. See, I am not so wicked, so malicious ; 
 I was only poor. I loved thee always ! Oh ! thou art 
 not kind ; had it not been for thy pride this would have 
 happened long ago. Tell me once more that thou lovest 
 me, that thou wilt consent to take me when I am free, 
 wilt thou not, Leo ? 
 
 LEO. No, madam 
 
 YADVIGA. Leo, my beloved ! Perhaps I have not heard 
 clearly, for it cannot find place in my head that when I 
 am hanging over an abyss of despair and am grasping the 
 brink with my hands, thou, thou, instead of giving me a 
 hand, art treading on my ringers with a foot ! No, that 
 cannot be ! Thou art too good to do that. Do not reject 
 me ! Life now would rend me still worse. I have no 
 one in the world but thee, and thou seest that with thee 
 I lose at once, not only happiness, but all that is best in 
 me yet, which calls for life, quiet, and sacredness. But 
 now it would be finished forever. Thou knowest not how 
 happy thou wouldst be thyself, if thou wouldst forgive 
 and save me. But thou dost love me. Thou hast said 
 so ; I have heard it ! Now I, as if drowning, stretch my 
 hands to thee, Leo, save me ? 
 
 LEO. It is time to finish this mutual torture. Madam,
 
 156 WHOSE FAULT? 
 
 I am a weak man ! I should give way if I should wish 
 to spare you were it not that my suffering and dead heart 
 can give nothing now except tears and compassion. 
 
 YADVIGA. Dost thou not love me ? 
 
 LEO. I have no strength for happiness. I loved you. 
 My heart quivered for a moment at the memory of it, as 
 for the memory of a dead woman; but that woman is 
 dead. In pain and torture I tell you that I do not love 
 you. 
 
 YADVIGA, Leo ! 
 
 LEO. Have pity on me, and forgive me. 
 
 YADVIGA. Dost thou not love me ? 
 
 LEO. What is dead will not rise again. I take farewell 
 of you. 
 
 YADVIGA (after a while). If you think that you have 
 humiliated me sufficiently, that you have trampled me 
 enough, that you have taken vengeance enough, then go. 
 (He wishes to go.) No ! no ! remain take pity on me 
 
 LEO. Let God take pity on you and on me, Yadviga, 
 God ! (He goes out.) 
 
 YADVIGA. It is over ! 
 
 THE SERVANT (enters). Count Skorzevski 1 
 
 YADVIGA. Ah ! Beg him to enter ! Beg him to 
 enter ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! (laughs spasmodically).
 
 THE DECISION OF ZEUS.
 
 THE DECISION OF ZEUS. 
 
 ONE evening Apollo and Hermes met on the Pnyx, 
 and, standing on the edge of the rock, looked at 
 Athens. 
 
 The evening was wonderful ; the sun had advanced from 
 the Archipelago to the Ionian Sea, and was bringing his 
 radiant head slowly into the smooth turquoise-colored 
 liquid plain. But the summits of Hymettus and Pen- 
 telicus were gleaming yet, as if covered with molten gold. 
 The brightness of evening was in the sky; and the 
 whole Archipelago was sunk in the gleams of it. The 
 white marbles of the Propyleus, the Parthenon, and the 
 Erechtheum seemed rosy, and as light as if the stone had 
 lost all weight, or as if those buildings were a dream- 
 vision. The point of the gigantic spear of Athene 
 Promachus blazed in the gleam like a torch lighted above 
 Attica. 
 
 In the sky floated, with outspread wings, a few falcons 
 moving toward their night repose, to nests concealed in 
 mountain cliffs. 
 
 People were returning in crowds from field labor to the 
 city. Along the road from the Piraeus passed mules and 
 asses carrying panniers at their sides, full of olives or 
 golden grapes ; behind them, in ruddy clouds of dust, 
 came flocks of crooked-horned goats, in front of each 
 flock a white bearded he-goat, at the sides watchful dogs, 
 behind herdsmen playing on bagpipes or slender whistles 
 of thin oat-straw.
 
 160 THE DECISION OF ZEUS. 
 
 Among the flocks wagons bearing the divine barley 
 moved slowly on drawn by sluggish oxen ; here and there 
 passed divisions of hoplites arrayed in brass armor, hasten- 
 ing to their night watch at the Piraeus or in Athens. 
 
 Lower Athens was still seething with life. At the great 
 fountain near the Poikile, young girls in white garments 
 were drawing water, laughing loudly, or defending them- 
 selves against boys, who were throwing ivy or grapevine 
 fetters over them. Others, who had taken water already, 
 had amphoras on their shoulders, and, with arms raised 
 upward, were moving toward their homes, graceful and 
 charming, like immortal nymphs. 
 
 A mild breeze, blowing from the plain of Attica, brought 
 to the ears of the two divinities sounds of laughter, sing- 
 ing, and kisses. 
 
 The Far-shooting Apollo, for whose eyes nothing under 
 heaven was more precious than a woman, turned to the 
 Slayer of Argus, and said, 
 
 "0 son of Maia, how beautiful are the women of 
 Athens!" 
 
 " And virtuous, my Kadiant One," answered Hermes ; 
 " for they are under the tutelage of Pallas Athene. " 
 
 The god of the Silver-bow was silent, and looked, and 
 continued to listen. Meanwhile the red of evening 
 quenched slowly ; movement stopped by degrees. Scythian 
 slaves closed the gates, and finally all things were silent. 
 Immortal night cast a dark curtain, dotted with stars, 
 over the Acropolis, the city, and the region about. 
 
 But darkness did not last long. Soon pale Selene rose 
 from the Archipelago, and sailed like a silver boat through 
 the expanse of the sky. Again the marbles of the 
 Acropolis shone, but this time with a light which was 
 bright green, and they resembled still more a dream- 
 vision.
 
 THE DECISION OF ZEUS. 161 
 
 "It must be confessed," said the Far-shooter, "that 
 Athene has chosen a marvellous abode." 
 
 " Ha, she is wise ! Who could choose better than 
 she ? " answered Hermes. " Besides, Zeus has a wonderful 
 weakness for her. If she just begs him for something, 
 strokes his beard ; straightway he calls her his Tritogeneia, 
 beloved daughter, promises and permits everything with 
 a nod of his head. " 
 
 " Tritogeneia annoys me at times," muttered the son of 
 Latona. 
 
 "I, too, have noticed that she becomes annoying," 
 answered Hermes. 
 
 " As an old peripatetic, and besides she is disgustingly 
 virtuous, just like Artemis, my sister." 
 
 " Or like her own wards, the women of Athens." 
 
 The Radiant Apollo turned to the Slayer of Argus : 
 
 " Thou speakest a second time, as if purposely, of the 
 virtue of Athenian women. Are they in truth so 
 unbending ? " 
 
 " Fabulously so, son of Latona ! " 
 
 " Is it possible ! " said Apollo. " But thinkest thou that 
 there is even one in this city who could resist me ? " 
 
 " I think there is." 
 
 " Resist me, Apollo ? " 
 
 " Thee, Radiant Divinity." 
 
 " Me, the god who subdues by poetry, who charms by 
 music and song ? " 
 
 " Thee, Radiant One ! " 
 
 "If thou wert an honest god, I should be willing to 
 wager with thee. But, Slayer of Argus, if thou lose, thou 
 wilt fly off at once with thy sandals and staff, and that is 
 the last that I shall see of thee ! " 
 
 "No. I will put one hand on the earth, the other 
 on the sea, and swear by Hades. This oath is re' 
 
 11
 
 162 THE DECISION OF ZEUS. 
 
 spected not only by me but even by the magistrates of 
 Athens." 
 
 " Well, thou art exaggerating again ! But I agree ! If 
 thou lose, thou must bring to me, in Thrinacia, a herd of 
 long-horned oxen, which thou wilt steal from whomever 
 thou wishest, as thou didst steal, in thy time, when a boy, 
 my herds in Pieria." 
 
 " Agreed. But what shall I get if I win ? " 
 
 " Make thy own choice." 
 
 " Listen to me, Far-shooter, I will be outspoken, which, 
 as thou knowest, does not happen with me often. 
 Once sent by Zeus, I do not remember on what errand, 
 I was flying over thy Thrinacia, and I saw Lampetia 
 with Phsethusa, who was guarding thy cattle there. From 
 that moment I have had no peace. Lampetia does not 
 leave my eyes, does not leave my memory ; I love her, and 
 sigh night and day to her. If I win, if in Athens there 
 be found a woman so virtuous as to resist thee, thou shalt 
 give me Lampetia. I ask nothing more. " 
 
 He of the Silver-bow nodded. 
 
 "Very gladly, since love can fix itself even in the 
 heart of the patron of merchants. I will give thee 
 Lampetia, the more readily since now she cannot agree 
 with Phaethusa ; I may say, in parenthesis, that both are 
 in love with me, and, therefore, are quarrelling." 
 
 Great joy shot from the eyes of the Slayer of Argus. 
 
 " The wager is made, then," said he. "But one thing, 
 I will select for thee the woman on whom thou art to try 
 thy divine power." 
 
 " If she is beautiful." 
 
 " She will be worthy of thee." 
 
 " Confess that thou hast already selected one." 
 
 " I confess." 
 
 " A maiden, a wife, or a widow ? "
 
 THE DECISION OF ZEUS. 163 
 
 " Of course a wife. Thou mightst influence a maiden 
 or a widow by a promise of marriage." 
 
 " What is her name ? " 
 
 " Eriphyle, she is the wife of a baker." 
 
 " Of a baker ? " asked the bright god, with a wry face ; 
 " that pleases me less." 
 
 " What dost thou wish ? I move most frequently in 
 those circles. Eriphyle's husband is not at home now ; 
 he has gone to Megera. The woman is the most beau- 
 tiful person that has ever walked mother earth." 
 
 " I am curious." 
 
 " One condition more, my Silver-bowed. Promise me 
 that thou wilt use only means worthy of thee, and that 
 thou wilt not act, for instance, like that boor, Ares, or 
 even, speaking among ourselves, like our common father, 
 the Cloud-compeller." 
 
 " For whom dost thou take me ? " asked Apollo. 
 
 " Then all the conditions are accepted, and I can show 
 thee Eriphyle." 
 
 The air bore away immediately both gods from the 
 Pnyx, and soon they were hanging over a house at some 
 distance from the Stoa. The Slayer of Argus raised the 
 whole top of the house with his powerful hand, as 
 easily as a female, cooking food, might raise a pot-lid; 
 and, pointing out a woman sitting in a shop, closed from 
 the street by a copper grating and a woollen curtain, he 
 said, 
 
 "Look!" 
 
 Apollo looked, and was petrified. 
 
 Never had Attica, never had the Grecian land, given 
 forth a more beautiful flower than that woman. She 
 was sitting at the light of a triple lamp, bent over a 
 table, and was writing something diligently on marble 
 tablets. Her long, drooping lashes cast a shadow on her
 
 164 THE DECISION OF ZEUS. 
 
 cheeks ; at times she raised her head and eyes as if pon- 
 dering and calling to mind what she had to write yet ; and 
 then her marvellous eyes could be seen, so blue, that, 
 compared with them, the turquoise surface of the Archi- 
 pelago would have seemed pale and faded. It was simply 
 the face of Kypris, white as sea-foam, rosy as the 
 morning dawn, with lips of the color of Syrian purple, 
 and golden waves of hair, beautiful, the most beautiful 
 on earth, beautiful as a flower, as light as a song. 
 
 When she dropped her eyes, she seemed calm and 
 sweet ; when she raised them in thought, inspired. The 
 divine legs began to tremble under the Kadiant Apollo ; 
 all at once he rested his head on the shoulder of Hermes, 
 and whispered, 
 
 " Hermes, I love her ! This one, or none ! " 
 
 Hermes smiled shrewdly, and would have rubbed his 
 palms under the folds of his robe, had he not held his 
 staff in the right hand. 
 
 Meanwhile the golden-haired woman took a new tablet, 
 and began to write on it. She opened her divine lips, 
 and her voice whispered, like the sound of a lyre, 
 
 " Melanocles, a member of the Areopagus, for bread 
 during two months, forty-five drachmse and four oboli ; 
 for the sake of round numbers let us write forty-six 
 drachmae. By Athene ! let us write fifty ; my husband 
 will be satisfied. Ah, Melanocles, if thou wert not able 
 to fasten onto us for false weights, I would not give 
 thee credit. But one must be on good terms with that 
 locust." 
 
 Apollo did not hear the words ; he only intoxicated 
 himself with the sound of her voice, the charm of her 
 figure, and whispered, 
 
 " That one, or none ! " 
 
 The golden-haired woman wrote on,
 
 THE DECISION OF ZEUS. 165 
 
 " Alcibiades, for unleavened cake on honey from Hy- 
 mettus, for the hetsera Chrysalis, three minae. He never 
 verifies accounts, besides, he slapped me on the shoulder 
 once in the Stoa ; we will write down, then, four minae. 
 If he is a fool, let him pay. And this Chrysalis, too I 
 She feeds, I suppose, her carp in the pond with cakes, or, 
 maybe, Alcibiades is fattening her purposely to sell her 
 afterward to Phoenician merchants for ivory rings to put 
 on his harness." 
 
 Apollo did not hear the words; he was intoxicated 
 with the voice, and whispered to Hermes, 
 
 " That one, or none ! " 
 
 But Maia's son covered the house on a sudden, and the 
 wonderful vision disappeared. To the Eadiant god, it 
 seemed that the stars were vanishing, the moon blacken- 
 ing, and the whole world hiding under the darkness of 
 Cimmerian regions. 
 
 " When is the wager to be decided ? " inquired Hermes. 
 
 " To-day, immediately ! " 
 
 "During her husband's absence, she sleeps in the shop. 
 Thou mayst stand on the street before the grating. If 
 she pushes the curtain aside, and opens the grating, I 
 have lost my wager." 
 
 " Thou hast lost ! " cried the Far-shooting Apollo. 
 
 And not so swiftly does summer lightning pass at night 
 from the east to the west, as he shot over the salt waves 
 of the Archipelago. There, when he had begged Amphi- 
 trite for an empty turtle-shell, he fastened on it sun rays, 
 and returned to Athens with a finished lyre. 
 
 In the city all was perfectly silent ; the lights were 
 extinguished; only houses and temples stood white in 
 the gleam of the moon, which was sailing high in the 
 heavens. 
 
 The shop was situated in a gap of the wall ; and in it,
 
 166 THE DECISION OF ZEUS. 
 
 behind the grating and a curtain, slept the most beautiful 
 Eriphyle. The. Eadiant Apollo, halting on the street, be- 
 gan to touch the strings of his lyre. Wishing to rouse 
 his beloved gently, he played at first as low as the song 
 of mosquitoes in a spring evening above the Ilissus. But 
 the song rose gradually, like a mountain stream when 
 divine rain is falling, and more and more powerful, 
 sweeter, more entrancing ; it filled the whole air, which 
 now quivered voluptuously. Athene's mysterious bird 
 flew in silent flight from the direction of the Acropolis, 
 and sat motionless on a column near by. 
 
 Then a bare arm worthy of Phidias or Praxiteles, whiter 
 than the marble of Pentelicus, pushed the curtain aside. 
 The heart in the Radiant god quivered from emotion. 
 
 But the voice of Eriphyle was heard, 
 
 " What wretched fellow is that, dragging about in the 
 night and thrumming. It is not enough that one works 
 to weariness in the day; they won't let us sleep at night 1" 
 
 " Eriphyle ! Eriphyle ! " cried the Bearer of the Silver- 
 bow. And he sang, 
 
 " From Parnassus of lofty peaks, 
 Where, in light, amid azure, 
 Inspired muses circle 
 And sing inspired songs to me, 
 I, divine, adored light, 
 Have descended. Open thy arms, 
 A moment on thy bosom, Eriphyle, 
 Will to me be eternity." 
 
 " By the sacred, sacrificial flour ! " called the baker's 
 wife, "that scapegrace is singing to me, and wants to turn 
 my head. But wilt thou not go home, thou torment!" 
 
 Apollo, wishing to convince her that he was no com- 
 mon mortal, shone all at once so that from the light of
 
 THE DECISION OF ZEUS. 167 
 
 him the earth and the air became radiant ; but Eriphyle 
 seeing that, exclaimed, 
 
 " The good-for-nothing has hidden a lantern under his 
 skirt, and gives himself out as some god ! daughter 
 of mighty Zeus ! they know how to torment us with 
 taxes, but keep not even a Scythian guard in the city to 
 take giddy heads like this one to prison." 1 
 
 Apollo did not own himself beaten yet, and sang on, 
 
 " Ah, open thy white arms ! 
 I will give endless glory, 
 Thy name shall be heard through the world, 
 Above every goddess of the sky. 
 Thou shalt have immortality ; 
 I will adorn thee, O beautiful, 
 Through the power of a divine word, 
 So that no Grecian queen 
 Will have the like homage. 
 
 " Ah, open, open thy arms 1 
 
 I will rob the sea of its azure, 
 
 The dawn of its purple and gold, 
 
 The stars of their sparks, the dew of its flowers, 
 
 And of this brilliant web 
 
 I will make for my only one 
 
 The rainbow robes worn by Kypris." 
 
 The voice of the god of poetry sounded so marvellously 
 that it called forth a miracle. There, in the immortal 
 night, the golden spear quivered in the hands of Athene 
 as she stood on the Acropolis, and the marble head of 
 the gigantic statue turned somewhat toward the lower 
 city, to hear the words of the song more distinctly. 
 Heaven and earth listened ; the sea ceased to roar, and 
 lay in silence at its shores ; even pale Selene (the moon) 
 
 1 Scythian slaves were used in Athens to watch over the order and 
 safety of the city.
 
 168 THE DECISION OF ZEUS. 
 
 stopped her night journey through the sky, and halted 
 over Athens, immovable. 
 
 When Apollo ceased, a light breeze rose and bore the 
 song through all Greece, and wherever a child in the 
 cradle heard even one note of it, that child became a 
 poet. 
 
 But before Latona's son had finished, the angry Eriphyle 
 screamed loudly, 
 
 " What a fool ! He wishes to traffic here in stars and 
 dew. Because my husband is not at home, thou thinkest 
 that everything is permitted. Ei ! a scandal that my 
 servants are not here, I would teach thee sense ! But I 
 will break thee, soap, of straggling in the night with 
 thy music ! " 
 
 Then, she seized a kneading-bowl with acid for making 
 yeast, and throwing the liquid through the grating, she 
 covered the bright face of Apollo, his radiant shoulders, 
 his radiant robe and lyre with it. 
 
 Apollo groaned, and, covering his inspired head with 
 the skirt of his wet robe walked away abashed and angry. 
 
 Hermes, who was waiting on the Pnyx, seized his sides 
 from laughter, stood on his head, and brandished his staff 
 with delight. But when the suffering son of Latona 
 approached him, the cunning guardian of merchants 
 feigned sympathy, and said, 
 
 " I grieve that thou has lost, Far-shooter." 
 
 " Be off, thou rascal ! " answered Apollo, in anger. 
 
 " I will go only when thou givest Lampetia." 
 
 " May Cerberus rend thy calves ! I will not give Lam- 
 petia ; and I say, be off, or I will break thy staff on thy 
 own head ! " 
 
 The Slayer of Argus knew that when Apollo was 
 angry, there were no jokes with him, so he pushed aside, 
 with forethought, and said,
 
 THE DECISION OF ZEUS. 169 
 
 " If thou wish to deceive me, be Hermes in future, and 
 I will become Apollo. I know that thou art more power- 
 ful than I, and canst do me wrong ; but happily there is 
 one above thee, and he will judge us. I summon thee, 
 Apollo, to the court of the son of Chronos ! Come with 
 me!" 
 
 Apollo was frightened at mention of the son of 
 Chronos (Zeus) ; he dared not refuse, and they went. 
 
 Meanwhile, it had begun to dawn. Attica was emerg- 
 ing from the shade. Eosy-fingered Aurora had appeared 
 in the sky in the direction of the Archipelago. 
 
 Zeus had passed the night on the summit of Ida ; but 
 whether he had slept, or had not slept, or what he was 
 doing there, no one knew, for. the Mist-gatherer had 
 sheltered himself with a cloud so dense that Hera herself 
 could not see him. 
 
 Hermes trembled a little as he drew near the father of 
 gods and men. 
 
 " Justice is on iny side," thought he ; " but suppose 
 Zeus wakes up angry, suppose before hearing the case 
 that he takes each of us by a leg, whirls us above his 
 head, and hurls us about three hundred Athenian stadia. 
 He has some regard for Apollo ; but with me he will 
 make no ceremony, though I am his offspring." 
 
 But the fears of Maia's son were vain. Zeus was sit- 
 ting on the ground, gladsome, since for him the night had 
 passed pleasantly ; and in cheerful glory he was enjoy- 
 ing the circle of the earth with gleaming eyes. The 
 earth, delighted under the father of gods and men, 
 produced beneath him the bright grass of May, and 
 young hyacinths. He leaned on his arms, passed his 
 fingers over the curling flowers, and rejoiced in his lofty 
 heart. 
 
 When he saw this, the son of Maia recovered, and,
 
 170 THE DECISION OF ZEUS. 
 
 giving obeisance to his parent, began boldly to inculpate 
 Apollo ; and flakes of snow fall not so thickly in a storin 
 as fell the eloquent words of Hermes. 
 
 When he had finished, Zeus was silent for a while, and 
 then spoke to Apollo. 
 
 " Is all this true, Eadiant One ? " 
 
 " True, father," answered Apollo, " but if thou com- 
 mand me to pay the wager, after the shame which has 
 met me, I will go to Hades, and give light to the shades 
 there." 
 
 Zeus reflected and considered. 
 
 "Then this woman," asked he, at last, "remained 
 deaf to thy music, to thy song, and rejected thee with 
 contempt ? " 
 
 " She poured a pot of yeast on my head, Wielder of 
 Thunderbolts ! " 
 
 Zeus frowned, and from that frown Ida trembled im- 
 mediately. Fragments of cliffs rolled to the sea with 
 tremendous report, and forests fell like stalks of grain 
 broken by wind. 
 
 Both gods were frightened, and waited with throbbing 
 hearts for the sentence. 
 
 " Hermes," said Zeus, " cheat men as much as may please 
 thee, for men like to be cheated. But let the gods alone, 
 for if I should flash up in anger and hurl thee into the 
 ether, thou wouldst fall and sink in the ocean so deeply 
 that even my brother, Poseidon, could not dig thee out 
 with his trident." 
 
 Divine terror seized Hermes by the smooth knees ; but 
 Zeus spoke on, with an ever-increasing voice, 
 
 "A virtuous woman, especially if she loves another, is 
 able to resist Apollo. But certainly and always a stupid 
 woman will resist him. Eriphyle is stupid, not virtuous ; 
 and that is why she resisted him. In this thou hast
 
 THE DECISION OF ZEUS. 171 
 
 cheated the Eadiant and thou wilt not get Lampetia, 
 Now, go in peace ! " 
 
 The gods departed. 
 
 Zeus sat alone in joyful glory for a while. He looked 
 in silence after the departing Apollo, and muttered, 
 
 " Oh, it is true, a stupid woman can resist him ! " And 
 immediately after, since he had not rested much, he 
 beckoned to Sleep, who, sitting on a neighboring tree in 
 the form of a sparrow-hawk, was awaiting orders from 
 the father of gods and men.
 
 ON A SINGLE CARD. 
 
 PERSONAGES.
 
 ON A SINGLE CARD. 
 
 PERSONAGES. 
 
 PRINCE STAROGRODSKI. 
 
 STELLA, his daughter. 
 
 YERZY PRETVITS, STELLA'S betrothed. 
 
 KAROL, COUNT DRAGOMIR, a friend of PRETVITS. 
 
 COUNTESS MILISHEVSKI. 
 
 YAN, COUNT MILISHEVSKI. 
 
 ANTONI JUK, Secretary of the District Council. 
 
 DOCTOR YOZVOVICH. 
 
 PANI CHESKI. 
 
 PODCHASKI. 
 
 SERVANT. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 The stage represents a drawing-room with the main door 
 opening on a garden. In the side walls are doors to 
 adjoining chambers. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 PRINCESS STELLA, PANI CHESKI. 
 
 PANI CHESKI. Why tell me the news only now ? In- 
 deed, my dear Stella, I am inclined to be angry at thee. 
 How is this ? I live one verst away ; I taught thee be- 
 fore thou wert given into the hands of French and Eng- 
 lish governesses ; I see thee almost daily ; I love thee, 
 little girl, with my whole soul ; and for weeks thou hast 
 not brought thyself to say : I am betrothed. Do not 
 torment me longer, at least now, and say who he is.
 
 176 ON A SINGLE CARD. 
 
 STELLA. Guess, mother. 
 
 PAN: CHESKI. Since them sayest mother, do not ask 
 me to guess. 
 
 STELLA. But I wish thee to guess, to say : " Naturally 
 it is he and no other." Thou wilt not believe how that 
 will natter me, how it will please me. 
 
 PANI CHESKI. Ah, then it is Count Dragomir. 
 
 STELLA. Ah ! 
 
 PANI CHESKI. Dost thou blush ? True, he has not 
 been long here ; but how pleasant, how sympathetic, how 
 gladsome he is ! Oh, my old eyes see clearly, and when 
 I looked at you together, I thought right away : A beau- 
 tiful couple ! perhaps something will come of that. 
 
 STELLA. Nothing will come of it, mother. Count 
 Dragomir is very sympathetic indeed, but my betrothed 
 is Pan Yerzy. 
 
 PANI CHESKI. Pan Yerzy Pretvits ? 
 
 STELLA. Yes. Does this astonish thee ? 
 
 PANI CHESKI. No, my dear child. May God bless 
 thee ; why should I be astonished ? Only I like Count 
 Dragomir so much that I thought him the man Pan 
 Yerzy Pretvits ! Oh, not in the least ! I do not wonder 
 at all that he fell in love with thee. But that too was 
 rather sudden. How long hast thou known him ? In my 
 Bervinko I hear nothing of what happens in the neigh- 
 borhood. 
 
 STELLA. Three months. My betrothed inherited an 
 estate here from the Yazlovetskis, and came, as thou 
 knowest, from a great distance. He was a near relative 
 of the Yazlovetskis, and is descended himself from a great 
 family. Thou, beloved lady, hast heard of the Pretvitses ? 
 
 PANI CHESKI. Nothing and nothing. What do I care 
 for heraldry ! 
 
 STELLA. On a time, but whole ages ago, the Pretvitses
 
 ON A SINGLE CARD. 177 
 
 were related to us. That family is very famous. Oh, 
 otherwise papa would not have consented. Well, Pan 
 Pretvits came here, received the estate left him by the 
 Yazlovetskis, became acquainted with us and 
 
 PANI CHESKI. And fell in love with thee. In his 
 place I should have done the very same. That raises him 
 in my eyes. 
 
 STELLA. But did he need it ? 
 
 PANI CHESKI. No, dear kitten be at rest. People 
 laugh at me, I assure thee, because always I see in per- 
 sons everything that is best. Of a nice family, young, 
 rich, genteel, well-bred, but 
 
 STELLA. But what ? 
 
 PANI CHESKI. Some birds have sung to me, for even I 
 do not remember who told me, that he is somewhat like 
 a storm. 
 
 STELLA. His life was like a storm, but that high- 
 hearted man was not broken, in it. 
 
 PANI CHESKI. All the better. Listen, my child, such 
 men are the best, the truest. The more I think over the 
 matter, the more sincerely do I congratulate thee. 
 
 STELLA. Thanks, and I am glad that I have been out- 
 spoken with thee. I am indeed very lonely here. Papa 
 is always ailing ; our doctor has not been in the house for 
 three months. 
 
 PANI CHESKI. But do not annoy us with that doctor. 
 
 STELLA. Thou hast never liked him. 
 
 PANI CHESKI. Thou knowest that I am not prepos- 
 sessed against people ; but I cannot like him. 
 
 STELLA. Dost thou know that they have offered him 
 a chair in the University, and that he is striving for 
 election to the diet? Mother, thou art unjust indeed, for 
 he simply sacrifices himself for us. Such a famous man, 
 and well-to-do, and learned, still he stays with us, though 
 
 12
 
 178 ON A SINGLE CARD. 
 
 the whole world is open to him. I should certainly have 
 asked his advice. 
 
 PANI CHESKI. Love, my dear Stella, is not a disease 
 never mind the doctor, let God help him. Tell me better, 
 kitten, but sincerely, dost thou love much ? 
 
 STELLA. Seest thou, all passed suddenly. True, 
 Countess Milishevski came also with her sou. I saw 
 that I was in question ; and I was afraid, though need- 
 lessly, that papa might be on their side. 
 
 PANI CHESKI. Thou dost not answer my question 
 
 STELLA. How speak definitely. Yerzy's life, mother, 
 is a series of heroic deeds, sacrifices, and dangers. Once 
 he was near death, and would not be living to-day had it 
 not not been that Count Dragomir saved him. How he 
 loves the Count for that act ! Distant deserts, loneliness, 
 continuous suffering are evident on my betrothed. But 
 when his life is unfolded before me, it seems, indeed, 
 that I love that iron man greatly. If thou knew how 
 timidly, and still how lovingly he declared what he feels 
 for me, and added afterward that he knew that his hands 
 were too rough 
 
 PANI CHESKI. Not too rough, because honest. After 
 what thou hast said, I give all my soul to him. 
 
 STELLA. But still, mother, in spite of all this, I feel 
 at times very unhappy. 
 
 PANI CHESKI. And how is that, Stella ? Why ? 
 
 STELLA. Because at times we are unable to under- 
 stand each other. Feelings, mother, are of two classes : 
 one as firm and immovable as cliffs, the other like streams 
 which are transparent. Now when I examine Yerzy's 
 feelings, I see their greatness and unshaken character; 
 but my soul is not reflected in them as a face in a clear 
 river. I love him, that is true ; but at moments it seems 
 to me that I could love him more, that I do not put all
 
 ON A SINGLE CARD. 179 
 
 the strength of my heart into this attachment, and then 
 I feel unhappy. 
 
 PANI CHESKI. I can hardly understand thy words, I 
 take life simply : I love, or not. Ei ! Stella dear, the 
 world is so wisely arranged, and God is so good, that 
 nothing is simpler than happiness. But one must not 
 confuse God's affairs. Be calm, child ! Thou art in love 
 terribly. What is the use in talking ! 
 
 STELLA. Oh, I need just thy confidence in the future, 
 thy optimism. I knew that thou, dear sincerity, would 
 frown, and say, " What is the use in talking." Eight 
 away I am brighter and more joyous. Only I am a little 
 afraid of our doctor. But what is this ? (Looking through 
 the window.) Our gentlemen : Pan Yerzy and Count 
 Dragomir. 
 
 PANI CHESKI (looking through the window). Thy be- 
 trothed looks nicely ; but so does Count Dragomir. Has 
 he been visiting Yerzy long ? 
 
 STELLA (looking through the window). Two weeks. Pan 
 Yerzy invited him purposely. They are coming now. 
 
 PANI CHESKI. And the little heart is going, puk ! 
 puk! 
 
 STELLA. Oh, be not my enemy, evil woman ! 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 PANI CHESKI, STELLA, YERZY, COUNT DRAGOMIR. DRAG- 
 OMIR has his left arm in a sling. 
 
 SERVANT (opening the door). The Princess is in the 
 drawing-room. 
 
 STELLA (greeting). Are you not somewhat late to-day, 
 Pan Yerzy. 
 
 YERZY. Yes, the sun is just setting. But we could
 
 180 ON A SINGLE CARD. 
 
 not come earlier. Do you know that there was a fire in 
 the neighboring village ? We went to it. 
 
 PANI CHESKI. We have heard of it. I suppose a 
 number of houses were burned. 
 
 YERZY. The fire broke out in the morning, and has 
 been quenched just now. About twenty families are 
 without a roof and without bread. We are late also, 
 because the Count had an accident. 
 
 STELLA (with animation). True ! His arm is in a 
 sling. 
 
 DRAGOMIR. Nothing serious. If there were no worse 
 wounds in the world, courage would be sold on all 
 market squares. A slight scratch 
 
 STELLA. How did he get it, Pan Yerzy ? 
 
 YERZY. I was at the other end of the street at the 
 time, and I could see nothing through the smoke. They 
 told me simply that Karol had rushed into a burning 
 house 
 
 STELLA. O my God I 
 
 DRAGOMIR (laughing}. I think that my deed gains 
 by distance. 
 
 PANI CHESKI. Well, let the gentleman tell it himself. 
 
 DRAGOMIR. People shouted before me that in a house, 
 the roof of which had just begun to burn, was a woman. 
 Then, judging that that female salamander, fearless of 
 fire, was some enchanted beauty, perhaps, I went in 
 through pure curiosity. It was a little dark there from 
 smoke. I looked, and convinced myself firmly that I 
 have no luck in anything ; for my salamander was only 
 an old Jewess who was packing broken feathers into a 
 bag. Amid flakes of goose-down she looked like whatever 
 may please you; but not like an enchantress. I screamed 
 that the house was burning ; she, in the darkness, took 
 me evidently for a thief, and screamed also, or we both
 
 ON A SINGLE CARD. 181 
 
 screamed. At last, seeing that there was no help, I 
 seized the salamander in my arms, and bore her out, 
 fainting from fear, not by the window even, but by the 
 door. 
 
 YERZY. But thou hast not added that the roof fell in 
 and a rafter struck thy arm. 
 
 DRAGOMIR. If that is the way, I will break the bonds 
 of modesty and add, that the mayor made a speech to 
 me. He said something, I think, about a monument 
 which they are to raise in the square to me. But, believe 
 me, Yerzy and his men put the fire out. I think that 
 the village ought to raise two monuments. 
 
 PANI CHESKI. I know that one of you is worthy of 
 the other. 
 
 STELLA. God be praised that nothing worse has met 
 you, Count. 
 
 DRAGOMIR. Something very good has met me, your 
 sympathy. 
 
 PANI CHESKI. And you have mine too ; as to Pan 
 Yerzy, I have a question with him. 
 
 YERZY. Touching what, dear lady ? 
 
 PANI CHESKI. Ei, Pan Yerzy, Pan Yerzy ! (To Stella 
 and DRAGOMIR.) Go you to the Prince, and we will 
 have a little talk here. 
 
 STELLA. Ah, mother, thou, I see, hast the wish to turn 
 Pan Yerzy's head. 
 
 PANI CHESKI. Quiet, thou rogue ! I am just the one 
 to vie with thee. But know, my dear, that every autumn 
 had its spring. Well, go ! 
 
 STELLA (to DRAGOMIR). Let us go. Papa is in the 
 garden, and I fear that he is worse again. A pity that 
 the doctor is not here.
 
 182 ON A SINGLE CARD. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 PANI CHESKI, YERZY, and, later, STELLA. 
 
 PANI CHESKI. I ought to scold you, Pan Yerzy, as I 
 scolded my young lady, for secrecy. But Stella has told 
 me everything, so I only say : God bless you both ! 
 
 YERZY (kissing Tier hand}. Thank you. 
 
 PANI CHESKI. I reared that child from being the 
 smallest little mite ; I was ten years with her, so I know 
 what a treasure you are getting. You told her that your 
 hands were too rough. I answered her at once : " Not too 
 rough, because they are honest." But Stella is a very 
 delicate flower ; there is need to love her much, and to 
 guard her. You will be able to do that, will you not ? 
 
 YERZY. What shall I say to you ? As far as it is in 
 human power to give happiness to that being who for me 
 is sacred, I wish to give it. 
 
 PANI CHESKI. With all my soul I say : God bless you ! 
 
 YERZY. The Princess looks on you as a mother, hence 
 I will talk as frankly as with a mother. My life has 
 been very difficult. At one moment it hung on a thread. 
 I was saved then by Count Dragomir, whom I love and 
 esteem as a brother ; but later on 
 
 PANI CHESKI. Stella told me. You were living far 
 away 
 
 YERZY. I was among empty steppes, half wild, among 
 strangers, so very lonely and yearning for my country, 
 and the last member of a noble family. Besides a proud 
 soul, though struck by misfortune, as by a hammer, is 
 ashamed to groan, and shuts pain within itself, and great 
 torture comes through this. Indeed, at times, there was 
 not a living being near me. 
 
 PANI CHESKI. God was above the stars, Pan Yerzy.
 
 ON A SINGLE CARD. 183 
 
 YERZY. Oh ! that is another thing. But the heart 
 cast on earth must love some one on earth and have 
 some person near it. So with all that need of loving, I 
 prayed God to let me love some person. He heard me 
 and gave her. Do you understand now ? 
 
 PANI CHESKI. Oh, I understand ! 
 
 YERZY. How soon all changed after that ! I inherited 
 an estate here, and returned ; then I became acquainted 
 with the Princess, and now I love her as the accomplish- 
 ment of my prayer, as the reward for my suffering, as my 
 heartfelt everything on earth. Oh, be at rest, Pani ! 
 
 PANI CHESKI. Indeed I will. My honest Pan Yerzy, 
 be of good cheer, you are worthy of Stella, and with you 
 she will be happy. My golden, my beloved Stella ! 
 
 STELLA (appearing in the garden door, and clapping her 
 hands). Perfect news ! Perfect news ! The doctor will 
 come in a moment ; he is in the village. Papa is already 
 calmer and in better humor. 
 
 PANI CHESKI. But do not flutter about, do not run 
 too fast, and grow red from over-exertion. Where is the 
 Prince ? 
 
 STELLA. In the garden, he is drinking coffee. He 
 invites you to come. 
 
 YERZY. We will go. 
 
 STELLA (goes in advance, and then halts). But, I beg 
 you not to tell the doctor what has happened between us 
 I wish to tell him first. I have begged papa already 
 to keep the secret. [They go out. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 DOCTOR YOZVOVICH enters through the principal door. 
 DOCTOR (to SERVANT). Yan ! take my things upstairs, 
 the package which I left at the entrance send by a mes- 
 senger to Pan Antoni, the secretary of the district council
 
 184 ON A SINGLE CARD. 
 
 SERVANT (bowing}. I obey, Pan Doctor ! [Goes out. 
 
 DOCTOR (coming to the front of the stage). At last ! 
 after three months of absence. How quiet and calm 
 everything is here ! After a while I will greet them as 
 the future member. I have thrown six years into this 
 abyss between us, iron labor, sleepless nights, science, 
 reputation, and now let us see ! (He approaches the door 
 to the garden.) Here they are; she has not changed 
 any. 
 
 SCENE V. 
 
 Through the garden door enters STELLA, PANI CHESKI, at 
 their side YERZY, behind, DRAGOMIR, on the arm of 
 PRINCE STAROGRODSKI. 
 
 STELLA. Oh, our doctor ! our beloved doctor ! How are 
 you, Pan Stanislav ? We had grown weary waiting for 
 you. 
 
 PANI CHESKI (inclining coldly). Especially the Prince. 
 
 DOCTOR (kissing STELLA'S hand). Good-evening, Prin- 
 cess ! And I was in a hurry to return. I have come for 
 a longer time to rest a little. And the Prince, how is he, 
 in health ? 
 
 PRINCE (embracing him). Dear boy! Weak, weak! 
 Thou hast acted perfectly in coming. Thou wilt see at 
 once how I am. 
 
 DOCTOR. Now, Prince, perhaps you will have the 
 kindness to present me to the rest of the society. 
 
 PRINCE. Ah, of course ? Doctor Yozvovich, my min- 
 ister of the interior I said well, did I not? for thou art 
 occupied with my health, Count Karol Dragomir. 
 
 DRAGOMIR. Your name is at present strange to no one, 
 hence, properly, I should be presented. 
 
 PRINCE (presenting). Pan Yerzy Pretvits, our neighbor,
 
 ON A SINGLE CARD. 185 
 
 and (STELLA makes a sign to her father^) and this I 
 wish to say, and this 
 
 YERZY. I, if I mistake not, am a comrade of your 
 school days. 
 
 DOCTOR. I did not wish to mention it first. 
 
 YERZY. I greet a former comrade heartily. The time 
 is long passed, but we lived intimately. Indeed I am 
 delighted, sincerely, especially after what I have heard of 
 you. 
 
 DRAGOMIR. As of the good spirit of this house. 
 
 STELLA. Oh, that is true ! 
 
 PRINCE. Wait, let me tell what I have to say of him. 
 
 YERZY. How many times did the first scholar, Yoz- 
 vbvski, solve problems for Pretvits. 
 
 DOCTOR. You have a rare memory. 
 
 YERZY. Yes, comrade, for I remember also that in 
 those days we did- not say " Pan " to each other. So now 
 again I greet thee heartily, Stanislav. 
 
 DOCTOR. The heartiness is mutual. 
 
 YEKZY. But I remember that after finishing the course, 
 thou didst study law. 
 
 DOCTOR. Later, I became a doctor of medicine. 
 
 PRINCE. Well, sit down. Or will you stand ? Yau, 
 here ! a light ! 
 
 STELLA. How pleasant it is that you gentlemen are 
 acquainted ! 
 
 DOCTOR. The school bench, like misery, unites people. 
 But afterward society divides them. Yerzy had a bril- 
 liant position secured ; I had to find mine. 
 
 PRINCE. He found his, but in blows. 
 
 DRAGOMIR. In two parts of the world. 
 
 PANI CHESKI. That was really manful. 
 
 DOCTOR. Ha, he followed his instinct ! While in 
 school he rode, shot, wielded the sword.
 
 186 ON A SINGLE CARD. 
 
 YEKZY. Better than he learned ? 
 
 DOCTOR (laughing). Yes ! We called him the hetman, 
 for he led us in our student wars. 
 
 DEAGOMIR. Yerzy, I recognize thee. 
 
 PANI CHESKI. But now I think that he will stop 
 warring. 
 
 STELLA. Who knows ? 
 
 YERZY. Beyond doubt he will. 
 
 DOCTOR. As for me, I was the worst among those in 
 the ranks ; I never had a taste for such amusements. 
 
 PRINCE. For those are the amusements of nobles, not 
 of doctors. 
 
 DOCTOR (laughing). We are beginning to quarrel 
 already ! Prince, you are proud that your forefathers, 
 who were knights, killed crowds of people. If you will 
 learn how many I have killed with my medicines, I will 
 guarantee that no ancestor of your princely race can boast 
 of such numbers. 
 
 DRAGOMIR. Bravo, that is perfect ! 
 
 PRINCE. What does this worthless man say ? And he 
 is my doctor ! 
 
 STELLA. Papa, the doctor is joking. 
 
 PRINCE. I thank him for such jokes. But the world 
 is going topsy-turvy, that is undoubted. 
 
 DOCTOR. And, Prince, we shall live a hundred years 
 yet. (To YERZY.) Come, tell me thy adventures. Those 
 present know thy life; but for me it is new. (They go 
 toward the window.) 
 
 PRINCE. You cannot believe how unhappy I am not to 
 be rid of this worthless fellow. He is the son of a black- 
 smith from Stanislavov. I sent him to school, for I 
 wished to employ him, and then he went himself to the 
 University. 
 
 DRAGOMIR. And is a doctor of law and of medicine. 
 A clever man, that is evident.
 
 ON A SINGLE CARD. 187 
 
 STELLA. Oh, such a clever one ! 
 
 PANI CHESKI. So wise that I am afraid of him. 
 
 DEAGOMIR. But the Prince must be glad ? 
 
 PRINCE. Glad, glad ! People have turned his head ; 
 they have made of him some kind of democrat or sans 
 culotte. But he is a good doctor, and I am weak. I lack 
 juices in the stomach. (To DRAGOMIR.) Do you know 
 this? 
 
 DRAGOMIR. Your complaint is an old one 
 
 PANI CHESKI. Twenty years. 
 
 PRINCE. My Cheski ! Sorrow and public service have 
 taken my health away. 
 
 PANI CHESKI. Pshaw ! the Prince is well. 
 
 PRINCE (angrily}. I say that I am ill. Stella, dear, I 
 am ill, am I not ? 
 
 STELLA. Now, papa, you will be better right away. 
 
 PRINCE. He alone keeps me on my feet. Stella also 
 would die of heart affection were it not for him. 
 
 DRAGOMIR. If that be true, he is a man beyond price. 
 
 STELLA. Oh, we owe him eternal gratitude. 
 
 PRINCE (looking at YERZY). Pretvits will need him. 
 What thinkest thou, Stella, will he need him ? 
 
 STELLA (laughing'). How am I to know, papa ? 
 
 DRAGOMIR. Indeed, more than once I envy those iron 
 men who take the world by storm. In this battle they 
 develop strength in themselves ; our strength fades and 
 vanishes, for nothing ever rouses it. We may be of suffi- 
 ciently noble metal, but rust weakens us ; they strengthen 
 themselves in life. That is a sad necessity. 
 
 PANI CHESKI. But, Pan Yerzy ? 
 
 DRAGOMIR. Yerzy, also, has passed through much. 
 But there is a difference between them, which is felt, 
 though to define it is difficult. Look, gentlemen, at those 
 two men. When the storm blows, Yerzy resists like a
 
 188 ON A SINGLE CARD. 
 
 tree of a hundred years' growth ; but a man like the doctor 
 controls the wind and commands it to push on his boat. 
 There is in him a certain greater capacity for life. Hence 
 the result is easily foreseen. The older the tree, though 
 strong, the more it is pulled by storms, the earlier must 
 it wither. 
 
 PRINCE. More than once I have said that we are 
 withering like old trees. Some other kind of brush is 
 growing; it is nothing but a thicket though. I have 
 dried up and withered already three fingers' length at 
 least. 
 
 STELLA. Whoever is good has a right to life, therefore 
 we should not doubt ourselves. 
 
 DRAGOMIR. Hence I do not doubt, even because of 
 what the poet says : " He is a saint on earth who has 
 been able to gain the friendship of saints." (Bowing to 
 STELLA.) 
 
 STELLA (threatening). If he has not gained this friend- 
 ship through flattery. 
 
 DRAGOMIR. Only let me not envy the doctor. 
 
 STELLA. Friendship is not exclusive, even if I look on 
 the doctor as a brother. 
 
 PRINCE. What art thou chattering, Stella ? He is as 
 much a brother of thine as I am a radical. I cannot 
 endure the man, though I cannot dispense with him. 
 
 PANI CHESKI. How, Prince, whom can you not endure ? 
 
 DRAGOMIR (laughing}. And why ? 
 
 PRINCE. Why ? Have I not told you ? He does what 
 he likes with us, disposes of the whole house as he wishes. 
 Believes in nothing, except in some, there what is it, 
 Stella what ? And besides, he is as ambitious as Satan. 
 He is a professor of the Academy already, like some 
 spiritual person, and, moreover, is trying to be elected to 
 the diet. Have you heard ? He will be a deputy, then
 
 ON A SINGLE CARD. 189 
 
 serene, great, mighty ! But I should not be Starogrodski, 
 if I permitted that. (Aloud.*) Yozvovich ! 
 
 DOCTOR (under the window). What do you command, 
 Prince ? 
 
 PRINCE. Is it true that thou art canvassing for election ? 
 
 DOCTOR. At your service, Prince. 
 
 PRINCE. Pani Cheski, have you heard ? Is not the 
 world topsy-turvy ? Yozvovich ! 
 
 DOCTOR. What, Prince ? 
 
 PRINCE. And perhaps thou wilt become a minister ? 
 
 DOCTOR. Perhaps. 
 
 PRINCE. You have heard ? And perhaps thou thinkest 
 that I shall say of thee His Excellency ? 
 
 DOCTOR. It would fall out so; every station has its 
 honor. 
 
 PRINCE. I take the company to witness. Yozvovich, 
 dost wish that my bile should overflow ? 
 
 DOCTOR. Let the Prince be at rest. My Excellency 
 will always look after his Serene bile. 
 
 PRINCE. True. Irritation injures me. Does it not, 
 Yozvovich, injure me ? 
 
 DOCTOR. Injures as to bile, but gives appetite. (He 
 and YERZY approach the speakers.) 
 
 STELLA. Of what were you talking, gentlemen ? 
 
 DOCTOR. I was listening to Yerzy's narratives. Won- 
 derful, terrible things ! Yerzy made a mistake ; he should 
 have come to the world two hundred years earlier. It 
 is bad for Bayards at present. 
 
 PANI CHESKI. Providence is above all men. 
 
 DRAGOMIR. I believe in that also. 
 
 DOCTOR. If I were a mathematician, without contra- 
 dicting you, I should simply say that since in many cases 
 the value of X is unknown, it is necessary to help one's 
 self.
 
 190 ON A SINGLE CAKD. 
 
 PKINCE. What is he saying ? 
 
 STELLA. Oh, dear doctor, I beg you not to talk so 
 
 sceptically, for you will have war, not with papa, but 
 with me. 
 
 DOCTOR. My scepticism ends where your words be- 
 gin so I yield unconditionally. 
 
 STELLA.. What a polite deputy 1 
 
 SCENE VI. 
 The above and a servant. 
 
 SERVANT. Tea is on the table ! 
 
 YERZY. I must take leave of you, Prince, and, you 
 Princess. 
 
 STELLA. How is this ? So far we have always had 
 to be the first to say : " It is late," but now you leave us 
 so early. 
 
 DOCTOR (aside). My old comrade is on an intimate 
 footing here. 
 
 YERZY. Pardon me. It is pleasanter here than ever ; 
 but to-day I must be at home without fail. Besides I 
 leave Dragomir to take my place. 
 
 STELLA. To grow angry would be to fix conceit in 
 you ; still I beg an explanation. 
 
 YERZY. The people who were burnt out are at my 
 house. I must arrange to give them food and a sleeping 
 place. 
 
 PANI CHESKI (aside). He knows how to renounce 
 pleasure for duty. (Aloud.) Stella ! 
 
 STELLA. I listen, mother. 
 
 PANI CHESKI. To-morrow we will occupy ourselves 
 with a collection and take them some clothing. 
 
 DOCTOR. And I will go with you. This will be the
 
 ON A SINGLE CARD. 191 
 
 first case when not misery seeks the doctor, but the 
 doctor misery. 
 
 PANI CHESKI. Perfect ! 
 
 PRINCE {striking with his cane). Pretvits ! 
 
 YERZY. What do you command, Prince ? 
 
 PRINCE. You say that those poor people are in terrible 
 need? 
 
 YERZY. Very terrible need. 
 
 PRINCE. Do you say that they will die of hunger ? 
 
 YERZY. Almost, Prince. 
 
 PRINCE. Justice to them. God is punishing them for 
 choosing such deputies as this. (Pointing to the DOCTOR.) 
 
 DOCTOR (with a bow.) They have not chosen me yet. 
 
 STELLA. Papa ! 
 
 PRINCE. Stella, what did I want to say ? Aha ! Pret- 
 vits ! 
 
 YERZY. I hear, Prince. 
 
 PRINCE. Didst thou say that they would die of 
 hunger ? 
 
 YERZY. I said, almost 
 
 PRINCE. Well ! Go to the cashier Florkevich ; tell him 
 to give a thousand florins for those needy people (strikes 
 with his cane). Let them know that I will not allow 
 any man to die of hunger where I am. 
 
 STELLA. Dear, beloved father ! 
 
 DRAGOMIR. I knew that it would end that way. 
 
 DOCTOR. This is in true princely fashion. 
 
 PRINCE. And so, Pan Yozvovich, Noblesse oblige. Does 
 His Excellency understand, Pan Yozvovich? 
 
 DOCTOR. I understand, Serene Prince. 
 
 PRINCE (giving his arm to PANI CHESKI). And now let 
 us go to tea. [YERZY takes farewell, and departs. 
 
 DOCTOR. I must take leave too. I am tired, and be- 
 sides I must write letters.
 
 192 ON A SINGLE CARD. 
 
 PRINCE. As God lives, one might think that he was 
 a minister already. But come later to see me, for with- 
 out thee I shall not go to sleep. 
 
 DOCTOR. I shall come, Prince. 
 
 PRINCE (muttering). A man is immediately healthier 
 and gladder the moment that Robespierre comes. 
 
 STELLA. Pan Stanislav, wait a moment. I do not 
 drink tea, so I will only seat papa, and return at once, I 
 have something to say to you. 
 
 DOCTOR. At your service, Princess. 
 
 SCENE VII. 
 DOCTOR, alone, then, STELLA. 
 
 DOCTOR. What are those men doing here, and what 
 does she want to tell me ? Can it be ? But no ! That 
 is impossible. I am somehow disquieted, but still all 
 will be explained soon. Oh, what a fool I am ! She 
 wishes simply to tell me what she knows of the Prince's 
 health. This moonlight evening so acts on me that I 
 would just take a guitar in my hand. 
 
 STELLA (entering). Pan Stanislav. 
 
 DOCTOR. I am here, Princess. 
 
 STELLA. I tried not to keep you waiting long. I will 
 sit here near you, and we will talk; as- we talked long ago, 
 when I was small and weak, and you cured me. I re- 
 member that more than once I fell asleep, and you car- 
 ried me, sleeping, in your arms. 
 
 DOCTOR. The pet of the whole house was very weak 
 in those days. 
 
 STELLA. If I am healthy at present, it is owing only 
 to you ; I am a plant reared by your hand. 
 
 DOCTOR. And therefore my merit and greatest
 
 ON A SINGLE CARD. 193 
 
 praise. In the life which I have passed there were 
 few calm, warm moments, and I found peace only in 
 this house. 
 
 STELLA. You were always uniformly kind, and I 
 consider you an elder brother. You are not angry over 
 this? 
 
 DOCTOR. Such words of yours are the only smile of 
 my life. Not merely do I honor you, but I love you very 
 deeply as a sister, as my own child. 
 
 STELLA. I thank you. In no one's reason and justice 
 have I so much confidence as in yours, therefore I have 
 wished to speak of important things. I hope even that 
 what I say will give you pleasure, as it does me, because 
 you rise more and more above common people.. Is it 
 certain that you are to be a deputy ? 
 
 DOCTOR (unquietly). That is only probable. But 
 speak of that which relates to yourself. 
 
 STELLA. my God ! But you will not leave papa, 
 will you ? 
 
 DOCTOR (with a deep breath of relief). You wish to 
 speak of the Prince's health. 
 
 STELLA. I know that papa is better now. Indeed, I 
 did not think that this was so difficult. I am a little 
 afraid of your harsh judgments on people. 
 
 DOCTOR (with forced calmness). But do not torture 
 my curiosity. 
 
 STELLA. Then I will close my eyes and tell, though 
 this is not easy for any young lady. Have you known 
 Pan Yerzy a long time ? 
 
 DOCTOR (still more uneasily). I know him, Princess. 
 
 STELLA. How does he please you ? 
 
 DOCTOR. Of what use is my opinion to you ? 
 
 STELLA. He he is my betrothed. 
 
 DOCTOR (rising). Betrothed ! 
 
 13
 
 194 ON A SINGLE CARD. 
 
 STELLA. My God ! Then my choice does not please 
 you ? (A moment of silence.) Pan Stanislav 
 
 DOCTOK. A moment only a moment. Your choice, 
 if it came from the heart and will, must be good. But 
 for me this news was unexpected, so I received it with 
 too much interest perhaps. But I could not take it in- 
 differently, through good-will for your house. For that 
 matter, my opinion here means nothing. I wish you 
 happiness, and desire your happiness, Princess. I wish 
 your happiness with all my heart. 
 
 STELLA. I shall be calmer now. Thank you. 
 
 DOCTOK. Eeturn to your father. The happiness which 
 has fallen on your house has taken me a little off my 
 feet, for it fell unexpectedly. I need to recover. I need 
 to accustom myself to the thought. In every case I 
 congratulate you on the choice. Eeturn to your father. 
 
 STELLA. Good-night ! (She halts in the door a mo- 
 ment, looks at the DOCTOK and goes out. ) 
 
 SCENE VIII. 
 
 DOCTOR YOZVOVICH, alone. 
 DOCTOR. Too late, too late ! 
 
 (The curtain falls.') 
 
 END OF FIRST ACT.
 
 ON A SINGLE CARD. 195 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 The same drawing-room. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 DOCTOR YOZVOVICH and ANTOXI JUK. 
 
 DOCTOR. Antoni, come this way ! Here we can talk 
 freely. They are renovating my rooms. What do you 
 bring from the city ? 
 
 ANTONI. Good news. In an hour a deputation of 
 
 electors will come. You must say something to them 
 
 you understand? Something about enlightenment, 
 
 roads, bridges, unjust taxes on salt and grinding. But for 
 
 that matter, you know this better than I do. 
 
 DOCTOR. I know, I know ; and how is my programme ? 
 
 ANTONI. An immense impression. The thing was 
 written with coolness, dignity, and scientific accuracy. 
 Though the figures strike the eye, they are unanswerable. 
 The conservative journals are in a rage, all the more that 
 nothing is left them to do but spit. 
 
 DOCTOR. That is well. What further ? 
 
 ANTONI. Three days ago you were tottering in the 
 suburbs ; but I discovered this, assembled the electors, and 
 fired off a little speech. ' Citizens,' said I, in conclusion, 
 ' for all your troubles and those of society, I know only 
 one cure : It is called Yozvovich ! Long life to progress ! ' 
 I lashed the conservatives also a little, but moderately. 
 1 called them belly-feeders. 
 
 DOCTOR. It is impossible to say how moderate that 
 was on thy part. Thou art a practical man, Antoni. 
 There is hope then of victory ? 
 
 ANTONI. Almost a certainty of it. But whether we 
 win now or not, the future is before us. And do you
 
 196 ON A SINGLE CARD. 
 
 know why ? Because avoiding all election outbursts, we, 
 meeting here two of us, and speaking of our affairs, need 
 not break into laughter before each other, like Eoman 
 augurs. Progress and truth are on our side, and every 
 day makes new breaches in that rotten wall which we 
 are undermining. We are merely assisting the ages, 
 hence we must conquer. I speak with coolness. This 
 people of ours, those electors, are sheep yet ; but we wish 
 to make men of them, and in this is our strength. The 
 opposite camp will howl, will be enraged, will hurl mud 
 at us, will undermine us, will blacken us ; but we have 
 sharp teeth. On our side is justice, intelligence, science ; 
 on theirs, escutcheons which the mice are gnawing. As 
 to me, did I not feel that justice and progress were in my 
 principles, I should be the first to spit on all this and go 
 to a monastery. 
 
 DOCTOR. Still it would be fatal if we were not to win 
 this time. 
 
 ANTONI. I am certain that w r e shall win. Among them 
 there is a panic as after a defeat. For them, you are a 
 terrible candidate. There is only one dangerous op- 
 ponent, Husarski, a rich noble ; he is popular. The 
 other, Milishevski, is an advantage to you. By his 
 candidacy they merely divide themselves. I pushed him 
 forward a little myself. 
 
 DOCTOR. Once in the diet, I shall work for influence. 
 
 ANTONI. And you will get it. I believe this and 
 therefore spare no labor. Ha, ha ! " They have taken 
 everything from us," said Count Hornitski, in the club, 
 yesterday, " significance, money, even good manners." 
 Well, I, at least, have not borrowed their good manners. 
 Devil take them ! 
 
 DOCTOR. True, thou hast not taken good manners 
 from them.
 
 ON A SINGLE CARD. 197 
 
 ANTONI. But people say in the city that thy Prince 
 has given a thousand florins to the people who were burned 
 out. This may make a bad impression for us. Thou, too, 
 shouldst do something. 
 
 DOCTOR. I have done what was proper. 
 
 ANTONI. And now, I will tell thee something more 
 Well then, yesterday But what the deuce is the 
 matter ? lam speaking, and thou art thinking of some- 
 thing else. 
 
 DOCTOR. Pardon. A great personal misfortune has 
 struck me. I cannot think so freely as usual. 
 
 ANTONI. What is there new ? 
 
 DOCTOR. Thou couldst not understand, Antoni. 
 
 ANTONI. On the contrary I could. I am the driver of 
 the carriage in which thou art travelling. I should 
 know of everything. 
 
 DOCTOR. No. This in no way concerns thee. 
 
 ANTONI. But it concerns thy energy, which, as it seems, 
 thou art losing. We need no Hamlets. 
 
 DOCTOR (cjlodmily). Thou art mistaken, Antoni. I 
 have not yielded the victory. 
 
 ANTONI. I see. In speaking of this thy teeth are 
 gritting somehow ; besides, hang me, if it lies in thy 
 character to yield the victory. 
 
 DOCTOR. Perhaps not. Work to make me deputy. I 
 shall lose two games, if thou losest. 
 
 ANTONI. They must have burnt thee devilishly, for 
 thy hissing is terrible. 
 
 DOCTOR. An old story. A peasant slept not for six 
 years ; he ate not ; he made his hands bloody ; he bent his 
 back and carried planks to build his cottage ; after six 
 years the lord came, kicked the cottage, and said, " Here 
 must my castle stand." We are sceptical enough to laugh 
 at this.
 
 198 ON A SINGLE CARD. 
 
 ANTONI. He was a genuine lord. 
 
 DOCTOR. A lord descended from lords, with a head so 
 lofty that he paid no attention to what was cracking 
 under his feet. 
 
 ANTONI. That history is to my taste. And what did 
 the peasant do ? 
 
 DOCTOR. Agreeable to old peasant tradition,, he is 
 thinking of punk and steel. 1 
 
 ANTONI. A splendid thought! In truth, we despise 
 tradition too much. There are very wholesome things 
 in it. 
 
 DOCTOR. Enough. Let us speak of something else. 
 
 ANTONI (looking around). An old house, and impos- 
 ing. What a cottage it would be ! 
 
 DOCTOR. Of what art thou speaking ? 
 
 ANTONI. Nothing. Yozvovich, has the old Prince a 
 daughter ? 
 
 DOCTOR. Yes. What of it ? 
 
 ANTONI (laughing). Ha, ha ! As God lives, ladies' 
 perfumes have come to me. From thy misfortune and 
 thy history, I catch the odor of some princess's petticoat. 
 Behind the deputy is Yozvovich, as behind a dresscoat is 
 the dressing-gown. Be greeted in the dressing-gown, 
 beloved deputy ! Oh, what an odor of perfumes here ! 
 
 DOCTOR. Sell thy subtleties at another market. This 
 is a personal question. 
 
 ANTONI. By no means, for it signifies that thou art 
 putting only half thy soul in affairs of the public. This 
 is giving them to the deuce. Look at me : they hunt me 
 like a dog in the daily papers ; they ridicule me in com- 
 edies ; but I care not, I will say more, I feel that I shall 
 remain always below, though I lack neither power nor 
 intelligence. I might strive for the first place in the 
 
 1 For setting fire.
 
 ON A SINGLE CARD. 199 
 
 camp, for leadership ; but still I do not do so. Why ? 
 Because I know myself thoroughly. I know that I have 
 neither firmness, dignity, nor tact. I have been, and I 
 am, an impulsive fellow, a tool which those like thee 
 make use of, and which may be kicked out to-morrow, 
 when it ceases to be useful. But vanity does not blind 
 me ; I care not myself ; I work for my convictions, that 
 is the end. They may eject me from my office any day ; 
 in my house want appears frequently, and though I love 
 my wife and my little boys Let us leave all this. 
 When the play is on, let it continue ; and when it is a 
 question of convictions, I will live, agitate, and storm 
 for it. I have put my whole soul into this. But in thy 
 case a princess's petticoat stands in the way ! I did not 
 expect this of thee, Yozvovich. Tfu ! spit on everything, 
 and come with us ! 
 
 DOCTOR. Thou art mistaken, Brutus. I wish not 
 martyrdom, but victory ; and the more personal ties there 
 are which bind me to the cause, the more zealously 
 shall I serve it with mind, heart, and action, with 
 everything that makes a man dost understand ? 
 
 ANTONI. Ainen ! His eyes are glittering like those of 
 a wolf. I know thee. 
 
 DOCTOR. What more dost thou wish ? 
 
 ANTONI. Ei ! nothing now. I will say only that our 
 programme is : Strike opposing principles, not people. 
 
 DOCTOR. Let thy maiden virtue be at rest; I shall 
 poison no man. 
 
 ANTONI. I believe. Still I should say something 
 more. I know thee well, I value thy energy, thy science, 
 thy sound sense, but I should not like to stand in thy 
 path. 
 
 DOCTOR. All the better for me. 
 
 ANTONI. For that matter, if it is a question of the
 
 200 ON A SINGLE CARD. 
 
 nobility ; then, in spite of our programme, I give them to 
 thee. But thou art not to take their heads off. 
 
 DOCTOR. Of course. Now go back and work for me, or 
 rather for us. 
 
 ANTONI. For us, Yozvovich. Do not forget that. 
 
 DOCTOR. Without an oath, I shall not forget it. 
 
 ANTONI. But how manage that young noble ? 
 
 DOCTOR. Dost wish to extort assurances ? 
 
 ANTONI. To begin with, I do not need them, since in 
 our camp there is shrewdness enough. The question is 
 simply of the Prince's daughter. My thought comes 
 always to this, that thou mayst sacrifice the cause for 
 her. Working for thee, I answer for thee ; so let us be 
 outspoken. 
 
 DOCTOR. Let us be outspoken. 
 
 ANTONI. Then thou hast said to thyself : I will un- 
 horse that young noble ; well, unhorse him. That is thy 
 affair, but I ask again : Dost thou wish to be a deputy for 
 us, or for the Princess ? This again is my affair. 
 
 DOCTOR. I place my cards on the table before thee. 
 I, thou, and all of us new men have this in us, that we 
 are not dolls cut out of paper, and painted in one 
 color. There is in us room for convictions, love, 
 hatred, in a word, as I have said already, for everything 
 of which a complete man is made. Nature gave me a 
 heart, and the right to life, so I desire happiness. It gave 
 me a mind, so I serve a chosen idea. What harm does 
 one do the other ? Why oppose the Princess to the cause ? 
 Art thou a reasonable and sober-minded man ? Why 
 dost thou wish to put a phrase in place of reality ? I have 
 a right to happiness, and I shall win it, and I shall be 
 able to reconcile life with an idea, like a sail with a boat. 
 I shall advance all the more securely. Understand me. 
 In this is our strength, that we are able to reconcile ; and
 
 ON A SINGLE CARD. 201 
 
 in this is our superiority over them, for they simply do 
 not know how to live. What my value will be without 
 that woman I know not. Thou hast called me Hamlet. 
 I might become one ; but the people need no Hamlets. 
 
 AN TON i. Thou art whirling my head around as in a 
 mill, and it seems to me again that thou art right. Still, 
 thou wilt fight two battles instead of one, and thou wilt 
 divide the forces. 
 
 DOCTOR. I have forces enough ! 
 
 ANTONI. Tell me briefly, is she betrothed ? 
 
 DOCTOR. She is. 
 
 ANTONI. And she loves her betrothed ? 
 
 DOCTOR. Or deceives herself. 
 
 ANTONI. In every case, she does not love thee. 
 
 DOCTOR. Him, first of all, must I set aside. Mean- 
 while do thou fly away and work. 
 
 ANTONI (looking at his watch). In a moment the 
 deputation to thee will be here. 
 
 DOCTOR. That is well. The Prince is coming with 
 Countess Milishevski, and her son is my opponent. Let 
 us go. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 PRINCE, STELLA, PANI CHESKI, COUNTESS MILISHEVSKI, 
 YAN MILISHEVSKI, PODCHASKI. 
 
 COUNTESS. So I say, Prince, that one cannot under- 
 stand such a thing. At present the world is growing 
 utterly wild, it seems. 
 
 PRINCE. I say the same, Countess. Stella, do I not ? 
 
 STELLA. Oh, very often. 
 
 COUNTESS (in a whisper to her son). Sit near the 
 Princess, and entertain her, Jean, do thy best. 
 
 YAN. Yes, mamma !
 
 202 ON A SINGLE CARD. 
 
 COUNTESS. But this insolence has passed the measure. 
 I sent Pan Podchaski to the electors, and they answered, 
 " We want no deputies without heads." I am only aston- 
 ished that the Prince is not indignant. To what has it 
 come, and to what will it come ? I fly about here ; I run, 
 I circle around like a fly ; I move heaven with my prayers, 
 and they dare oppose to my son one Yozvovich. 
 
 PKINCE. Gracious lady, what can I do to remedy the 
 position ? 
 
 COUNTESS. But who is this Pan Yozvovich ? A doc- 
 tor ! What is a doctor ? Jean has influence, significance, 
 connections, relatives, but who is Yozvovich ? Whence 
 did he bring himself to this place ? Who has ever heard 
 of him ? In truth, I cannot speak calmly, and think that 
 the end of the world must be coming. Is that not the 
 case, Pan Podchaski ? 
 
 PODCHASKI (with a bow). True, Countess, my benefac- 
 tress ! The anger of God ! never has it thundered so 
 often 
 
 PKINCE. Thundered ? Pani Cheski, has it thundered ? 
 
 PANI CHESKI. It is usual at the end of spring. No 
 significance. 
 
 COUNTESS (whispers). Jean, do thy best. 
 
 YAN. I am doing so, mamma. 
 
 COUNTESS. Prince, you will see that they will not 
 elect Yan deputy purely through hatred of us, through 
 spite against us. Would he not be a successful deputy ? 
 Has he not finished a scientific course in Metz ? They 
 say that he is ignorant of the country, has no knowledge 
 of its needs. But first of all we should not permit Yozvo- 
 vich to mean anything in the country. Should we, 
 Prince ? 
 
 PRINCE. Not permit him, Countess, when he permits 
 himself !
 
 ON A SINGLE CARD. 203 
 
 COUNTESS. This is precisely the eiid of the world, that 
 men like him can permit themselves what they like. They 
 have the insolence to say that my son cannot be a good 
 deputy, but Pan Yozvovich can. Jean always excelled in 
 science at Metz. Jean, didst thou not always excel in 
 science and talent ? 
 
 YAN. I excelled, mamma. 
 
 PODCHASKI. The end of the world! Your words, 
 Countess, are sacred. 
 
 STELLA. What did you devote yourself to, specially ? 
 
 YAN. I, Princess, studied the history of heresies. 
 
 PRINCE. What did he study, Pani Cheski ? 
 
 COUNTESS. They have always reproached us with this, 
 that so far we have not had talents among us, and still, 
 for diplomacy, no small talent is needed. 
 
 PODCHASKI. The Count has the mien of a diplomat, 
 indeed. 
 
 PRINCE. No, as God lives not greatly ! 
 
 PANI CHESKI. The Count is reticent and dignified. 
 
 YAN. On the contrary, madam, I speak enough some- 
 times. 
 
 COUNTESS. As to me, I declare in advance, that if Jean 
 is not elected, it will be the Prince's fault. 
 
 PRINCE. My fault ? 
 
 COUNTESS. How can you, Prince, permit such a person 
 as Yozvovich to oppose people of society ? How can you 
 retain him ? 
 
 PRINCE. To tell the truth, it is not I who retain him, 
 but he me, for had it not been for him {He makes 
 a sign with his hand.) 
 
 COUNTESS. All the greater reason to restrain him. 
 He is needed in your house, and when he is at the 
 diet, who will look after you ? 
 
 PRINCE. That is true, Stella, is it not true ?
 
 204 ON A SINGLE CARD. 
 
 COUNTESS. You must forbid him, Prince. I will not 
 go till you promise to forbid him. This is an unheard- 
 of thing ! You have the right ; besides he is with you ; 
 you have reared him, and you have power over htm. 
 
 STELLA. Dear lady, the doctor is papa's friend. Papa 
 can only pray him, and I know not whether his prayer 
 would be effectual. 
 
 COUNTESS (with anger). Has it come to this, then ? 
 So the Prince will support him, and become a tool in his 
 hands, and through him serve the democracy ? 
 
 PRINCE. What ? I serve the democracy ? Stella, dost 
 thou hear ? I serve the democracy ? (He strikes with 
 his cane.) 
 
 COUNTESS. All men will say so. Pan Yozvovich is 
 the candidate of the democracy. 
 
 PRINCE. But I am not, and if it comes to this, I will 
 not permit him to be its candidate. We have had enough 
 of this, let it end once for all. Those democracies of Pan 
 Yozvovich have become fish-bones. They must not say 
 that I am a tool of the democracy ! (He rings, the SER- 
 VANT enters) Beg the doctor to come this minute. 
 
 COUNTESS. This time he is a genuine prince. 
 
 PRINCE. I serve the democracy ! 
 
 STELLA, Papa ! papa ! 
 
 CO*UNTESS. Meanwhile we will take leave of the 
 Prince. Jean, make ready. Adieu, dear Stella, adieu, 
 my child. (To her son.) Kiss the Princess's hand. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 The above, DOCTOR YOZVOVICH. 
 
 DOCTOR. I beg your pardon, Prince, if I am late, but 
 a deputation waited on me. I had to finish with it. 
 
 COUNTESS. What ? is there a deputation here ? 
 Jean, do your best!
 
 ON A SINGLE CARD. 205 
 
 DOCTOR (with a bow). Hurry, Count, for they are 
 going. 
 
 PODCHASKI. Serene Prince, I fall at your feet. 
 
 [The COUNTESS, YAN, and PODCHASKI go out; 
 after them, STELLA and PANI CHESKI. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 DOCTOR YOZVOVICH and the PRINCE. A moment of silence. 
 
 PRINCE (striking the floor with his cane). I give notice, 
 Pan Yozvovich, that I forbid you to stand for election. 
 
 DOCTOR. But if I do not obey ? 
 
 PRINCE. You will enrage me. 
 
 DOCTOR. Prince, you close my future. 
 
 PRINCE (in a passion}. I reared you from early 
 boyhood. 
 
 DOCTOR. I preserve your life. 
 
 PRINCE. I have been a father to you. 
 
 DOCTOR. Let us speak more calmly, Prince. If you 
 have been a father to me, I have shown the attachment 
 of a son. But a father should not close the road to a 
 public career against his son. 
 
 PRINCE. A public career is not for such persons as 
 you. 
 
 DOCTOR (smiling). A moment ago, Prince, you called 
 me a son. 
 
 PRINCE. What son ? What kind of a son ? 
 
 DOCTOR. As the sonship, so the obedience. 
 
 PRINCE. Ah, he wriggles out, he wriggles out ! Stella ! 
 But she is gone ! 
 
 DOCTOR. Prince, were I really your son, I should have 
 a title, property, in a word, all that you have; but as 
 a poor man, I must open the road to myself, and no one 
 has the right to close it against me, especially when it is 
 straightforward and honorable (laughing") ; unless, Prince,
 
 206 ON A SINGLE CARD. 
 
 you wish to adopt me, so that the family might not 
 die out. 
 
 PEINCE. What are you saying, Yozvovich ? 
 
 DOCTOR. I was only jesting. No, dear Prince, let us 
 not irritate each other, for that is harmful. 
 
 PRINCE. True, irritation harms me. Why the devil 
 will you not give up that election, my boy? 
 
 DOCTOR. You should put yourself in my position. 
 That is my future. 
 
 PRINCE. Meanwhile, people attack me here, irritate 
 me, and bring me to my bed. When young, I was in 
 many a battle and feared nothing ; I can show my deco- 
 rations. I had no fear of death in battle ; but these 
 Latin diseases of the doctors Why look at me so ? 
 
 DOCTOR. I look as usual. But as to disease, I will 
 tell you, Prince, it is more in your imagination than in 
 reality. Your organism is strong, and, with my aid, you 
 will live to the years of Methuselah. 
 
 PRINCE. Are you certain of that ? 
 
 DOCTOR. Most certain. 
 
 PRINCE. Honest lad, and you will not leave me ? 
 
 DOCTOR. You may be sure that I shall not. 
 
 PRINCE. Then become a deputy or a devil, if you 
 like ! Stella ! But she is not here ! As God lives, that 
 Milishevski, have you noticed him, is a fool, is he not ? 
 
 DOCTOR. I cannot contradict. 
 
 SCENE V. 
 The same, STELLA, PANI CHESKI. 
 
 STELLA. I came in because I was afraid that you gen- 
 tlemen might contradict each other too much. How has 
 it ended ? 
 
 PRINCE. How ? That worthless man does what he
 
 ON A SINGLE CARD. 207 
 
 wishes. It lacked little of his commanding me to beg 
 him to accept the nomination. 
 
 DOCTOR. Indeed, the Prince has been pleased to agree 
 to my plans, and permits me to try for election. 
 
 PRINCE. Yes, I have permitted. 
 
 STELLA (threateningly}. Ah, dear doctor ! 
 
 PANI CHESKI. So many endeavors and disputes ! 
 Would it not be better for one to yield to the other ? For 
 that matter, the proverb says : " The wise yield to the 
 foolish." 
 
 DOCTOR. We hold to this principle so far in all 
 questions. 
 
 STELLA. Papa, come now to the garden. Pan Yerzy 
 and Count Dragomir have come. They are waiting at 
 the boats, for we are to sail over the lake. The Count is 
 to come here for me, when all is ready. 
 
 PRINCE. Pani Cheski, let us go, then. (They go.*) 
 Have you noticed that Milishevski ? 
 
 SCENE VI. 
 DOCTOR YOZVOVICII, STELLA ; later, COUNT DRAGOMIR. 
 
 STELLA. How is father's health, dear doctor ? 
 
 DOCTOR. The very best. But you are really pale. 
 
 STELLA. Oh, I am well. 
 
 DOCTOR. Then a little pensive it must be. 
 
 STELLA. Not even that. Perhaps more serious than 
 formerly. 
 
 DOCTOR. As usual with a betrothed. 
 
 STELLA. Yes. 
 
 DOCTOR. Still you should be amused and diverted, for 
 health's sake. 
 
 STELLA. Really, I have no wish for amusement. 
 
 DOCTOR. If not amusement, at least gladsomeness
 
 208 ON A SINGLE CARD. 
 
 We are all of us here too serious for you ; often, perhaps, 
 we cannot understand you. 
 
 STELLA. You are all even too kind, doctor. 
 
 DOCTOR. At least anxious. If you have a moment of 
 time, Princess, let us sit down and talk. Let my anxiety 
 explain this boldness. With the dignity of a betrothed 
 is joined usually serenity and happiness. Whoso gives 
 away a heart without regret cannot be sad at anything, 
 and looks serenely toward the future. 
 
 STELLA. In every future there is something which at 
 moments may fill the most daring soul with disquiet. 
 
 DOCTOR. What is that, Princess ? 
 
 STELLA. Even this, that that future is coming for the 
 first time. 
 
 DOCTOR. More than once you have called me a sceptic, 
 and still I say, Whoso loves believes. 
 
 STELLA. What is to be inferred from that, doctor ? 
 
 DOCTOR. That whoso doubts 
 
 STELLA. Pan Stanislav ! 
 
 DOCTOR. I make no inquiry, Princess. At moments I 
 see that serenity vanishes from your face ; therefore I ask 
 as a doctor, as a friend. Set me at rest, Princess. I 
 pray you remember that this question is put by a man 
 whom you have called a brother, and who alone knows 
 how dear to him is the happiness of such a sister. I 
 have no one in the world ; all my family feelings are 
 bound up with this house. I have a heart which is solici- 
 tous. Quiet my alarms, that is all I ask of you ? 
 
 STELLA. What alarms ? I cannot tell - 
 
 DOCTOR. Alarms which I hardly dare to confess. 
 Since I have corne, my eyes have not left you ; and the 
 more I see, the more I fear. You dread the future ; you 
 do not look at it with trust and hope 
 
 STELLA. Permit me to go
 
 ON A SINGLE CARD. 209 
 
 DOCTOR. No, Princess, I have the right to ask ; and if 
 you dare not look into the depth of your own heart, I 
 have the right to say even, that this is weakness, and a 
 lack of courage, and later such culpable weakness is 
 punished by loss of one's own happiness and that of 
 others. I, too, suffer while asking you ; but there is need 
 to ask, there is need. Listen to me, Princess. In whom- 
 ever there is even a shadow of doubt, that person is mis- 
 taken as to the nature of his or her feelings. 
 
 STELLA. Doctor ! Is it possible to mistake so ? 
 
 DOCTOK. It is possible. Sometimes it is possible to 
 mistake sympathy for compassion, and pity for love. 
 
 STELLA. What a ghastly mistake ! 
 
 DOCTOR. Which one recognizes when the heart rushes 
 in another direction. Then the seriousness of a be- 
 trothed becomes a secret pain. If I mistake, pardon 
 me. 
 
 STELLA. Pan Stanislav, I do not wish to think of such 
 things. 
 
 DOCTOR. Then I am not mistaken. Do not look at me 
 with fear ; I wish to save you, dear child. Where is your 
 heart ? If you recognize at this moment that you do 
 not love Yerzy, this very moment will inform you whom 
 you do love. No, I will not withdraw the question ! 
 Where is your heart ? As God lives, if you love some 
 one not your equal, he will raise himself to you. But 
 no ! I am going mad ! 
 
 STELLA. I wish to withdraw, and I must. 
 
 DOCTOR (stopping Tier). No ! you will not go till you 
 answer whom do you love ? 
 
 STELLA. Spare me, doctor, or I shall doubt everything ! 
 Take pity on me ! 
 
 DOCTOR (violently). Whom do you love ? 
 
 14
 
 210 ON A SINGLE CARD. 
 
 SCENE VII. 
 The same and COUNT DRAGOMIR. 
 
 DRAGOMIR. Princess ! 
 
 STELLA. Ah ! 
 
 DRAGOMIR. What is this ? Have I frightened you ? 
 I have come only to say that we are waiting at the boats. 
 What is the matter ? 
 
 STELLA. Nothing. Let us go. 
 
 [DRAGOMIR gives Tier his arm ; they go out. 
 
 SCENE VIII. 
 
 DOCTOR YOZVOVICH, alone. 
 
 DOCTOR (looking after them}. Ah, I un-der-stand. 
 (Curtain falls.) 
 END OF SECOND ACT. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 The same drawing-room. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 PODCHASKI enters first, after him, the SERVANT. 
 
 PODCHASKI. Tell the doctor that Pan Podchaski salutes 
 him, and is waiting for him, on urgent business. 
 
 SERVANT. The doctor is very busy, for the Princess is 
 ill ; but I will tell him. [Goes out. 
 
 PODCHASKI (alone). Fiu ! Fiu ! The Countess sends me 
 to the suburbs. " Podchaski fly ! Podchaski agitate ! 
 Podchaski persuade ! " But money she gives not. I fly ; 
 I bow down ; I persuade ; I press the hands of vulgar 
 people till their eyes start ; but when I ask her to lend 
 me a hundred florins, she says, "We shall see after
 
 ON A SINGLE CARD. 211 
 
 election ! " Is that the case ? Well indeed ! So I have 
 to lend to the woman and not she to me ? Must I drink 
 with shopkeepers at my own expense ? I would rather 
 drink alone ! To the deuce with such a service ! I fall 
 at the feet of the Countess, my benefactress. I kiss her 
 feet. If that 's to be the way, I shall succeed somewhere 
 else. This is a fool's service ! I would rather go over to 
 the doctor. Persons like him pay, for they are clever. 
 And since he will take the whole party, one would rise 
 in significance. She is an aristocrat, but refuses to lend 
 a noble a hundred florins. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 PODCHASKI, DOCTOR YOZVOVICH. 
 
 PODCHASKI. I salute you, Pan Doctor, I extend myself 
 at the feet of the doctor, my benefactor. 
 
 DOCTOR. With what can I serve you, Pan Podchaski ? 
 
 PODCHASKI. My benefactor, I come directly without 
 delay to my business. It is known to you, my benefactor, 
 that I have given my services to Countess Milishevski. 
 
 DOCTOR. Somewhat. 
 
 PODCHASKI. As a former country resident, for I had 
 land here 
 
 DOCTOR. After losing the land, you live in Lychakov ; 
 and you are agitating for young Count Milishevski against 
 me. 
 
 PODCHASKI. God forbid - That is, I did; but I opened 
 my eyes in season. What was possible happened. The 
 Milishevskis have certain relations among shopkeepers 
 among citizens who respect descent. But be confident, 
 my benefactor. 
 
 DOCTOR. In brief, what do you want ? 
 
 PODCHASKI. God knows, my benefactor, I served the 
 Countess faithfully, and spent no little money ; but when
 
 212 ON A SINGLE CARD. 
 
 I consulted my conscience, I could not go against such a 
 wise man as you, unless to the harm of the country, and 
 that I do not wish. 
 
 DOCTOR. I recognize your feelings of a citizen. You 
 do not wish to go against me? 
 
 PODCHASKI. No, my benefactor, I do not. 
 
 DOCTOR. You are right. So you are with me ? 
 
 PODCHASKI. If I may be bold to offer my services. 
 
 DOCTOR. I accept. 
 
 PODCHASKI (aside). I understand such a man a 
 hundred florins are the same as in my pocket. (Aloud.) 
 My gratitude 
 
 DOCTOR (interrupting). My gratitude will appear after 
 election. 
 
 PODCHASKI. After e-lec-tion ! 
 
 SCENE III. 
 The above, YAN MILISHEVSKI, later, ANTONI. 
 
 YAN. Good-day, doctor ! Is mamma not here ? 
 
 DOCTOR. No, Count, she is not. 
 
 YAN. We came here together, but mamma went 
 straight to the Prince's apartments ; I stopped behind a 
 little, and now I cannot find the Prince's apartments. 
 (Seeing PODCHASKI, who bows to him.) Ah ! Podchaski, 
 what are you doing here ? 
 
 PODCHASKI. I fall at the feet of the Count. Oh, I 
 came for advice. I have rheumatism in my feet, rheuma- 
 tism in my head 
 
 YAN. Will you have the kindness, doctor, to show me 
 where the Prince's chambers are ? 
 
 DOCTOR. On the left, in the amphitheatre. 
 
 YAN. Thanks. But later I should like to see you. 
 
 DOCTOR. At your service. (YAN goes to the door, where 
 he stumbles against ANTONI.)
 
 ON A SINGLE CARD. 213 
 
 ANTONI. I beg your pardon ! 
 
 YAN. Pardon ! (He puts up his eye-glasses, looks at him 
 with curiosity, then goes out.) 
 
 ANTONI (to the DOCTOK). I looked for thee in thy 
 rooms, and did not find thee, so I hurried here, for they 
 told me that thou wert here. Listen to me. Immensely 
 important things. (Sees PODCHASKI.) How is this ? You, 
 our opponent, here ? 
 
 PODCHASKI. No longer an opponent, my benefactor. 
 
 ANTONI (looking at him a moment). All the better. 
 But leave us alone now. 
 
 PODCHASKI (aside). Oh, that is bad ! (Aloud.) I com- 
 mend myself to the memory of my benefactors. (Aside.) 
 The devils have taken the hundred florins. [Goes out. 
 
 ANTONI. What did he want here ? 
 
 DOCTOR. Money. 
 
 ANTONI. But he offered votes I thought so. Didst 
 give him anything ? 
 
 DOCTOK. No. 
 
 ANTONI. That is well. We shall not bribe. Agitation 
 is another thing. But never mind. Dost know ? It was 
 lucky that they put up Milishevski, otherwise you would 
 have lost, for Husarski would have had a majority. As it 
 is even, he is terrible ; he has a majority in some districts. 
 
 DOCTOR. Will they beat us, Antoui ? 
 
 ANTONI. No ! I shall prevent that. Uf, how tired I 
 am ! I will rest even for five minutes. (Sits down.) Oh, 
 as I love God, what soft sofas there are here. In Hus- 
 arsty's districts we need to give money for some public 
 purposes. Hast thou money ? 
 
 DOCTOR. A little. 
 
 ANTONI. Some beginning afterward thou wilt have 
 support from the diet. We will found some small school. 
 Uf, how tired I ain !
 
 214 ON A SINGLE CARD. 
 
 DOCTOR. Well, here is the key to the bureau ; there is 
 a little ready money there and a bank check. 
 
 ANTONI. Very well, but I must rest. Meanwhile, 
 what news have we here ? Thou hast grown thin ; thy 
 eyes are sunken. Thou must be in grief. As God lives, 
 I did not love my wife in that way. Speak, while I rest, 
 but speak sincerely. 
 
 DOCTOK. Have no fear, I shall be frank with thee. 
 
 ANTONI. What more ? 
 
 DOCTOR. That marriage will not take place. 
 
 ANTONI. Why ? 
 
 DOCTOR. A time has come when these people succeed 
 in nothing. 
 
 ANTONI. To the garret with thy peacocks ! What is 
 that man-eater, Pretvits, doing ? 
 
 DOCTOR. It would take long to tell. The Princess has 
 mistaken her pity and sympathy for something deeper. 
 To-day she knows that she does not love him. 
 
 ANTONI. Thou art kind. In truth, one might say that 
 some fatality pursues these people. It is the lot of races 
 who have outlived themselves. 
 
 DOCTOR. The relentless logic of things. 
 
 ANTONI. So she will not marry Pretvits ? Eeally, I 
 am sorry for them. But deuce take them ! 
 
 DOCTOR. She would marry him, even if she had to 
 keep her word at the price of her life. But some third 
 man is mixed up in the business Count Dragomir. 
 
 ANTONI. Wherever one moves there is a count ! So 
 he is betraying Yerzy ? 
 
 DOCTOR. Let the man who taught thee to judge peo- 
 ple return thy money. 
 
 ANTONI. To tell the truth, I would not give five cop- 
 pers for all your drawing-room great questions. 
 
 DOCTOR. She and Dragomir do not understand that
 
 ON A SINGLE CARD. 215 
 
 they are in love. But some irresistible force attracts 
 them to each other; what it is they do not inquire. 
 They are innocent children. 
 
 ANTONI. Therefore, I ask, what benefit will come to 
 thee of this ? 
 
 DOCTOK. Listen, democrat ! When two knights are 
 in love with one castellan's daughter, the love usually 
 has a dramatic ending, and the castellan's daughter falls 
 to some third man. 
 
 ANTONI. But the knights ? 
 
 DOCTOR. The least thought for them ; let them perish ! 
 
 ANTONI (declaiming}. 
 
 " On his grave moss is growing. 
 Ah ! but the cockerel is dead ! " 
 
 What will happen, thinkest thou ? 
 
 DOCTOR. I know not. Pretvits is a violent man. I 
 prophesy nothing ; I see only the logic of things, which 
 favors me, and I shall not be such a fool as to oppose my 
 own fortune. 
 
 ANTONI. Oh, I am certain that if the need come thou 
 wilt even help it ! 
 
 DOCTOR. Ha ! I am a doctor. My duty is to help 
 nature. 
 
 ANTONI. Here is the programme ready ! I know thee ! 
 But one thought occurs to me : How dost thou know 
 that it is as thou sayest ? Perhaps all this is random talk. 
 
 DOCTOR. I can get most perfect information through 
 the former governess of the Princess, Pani Cheski. 
 
 ANTONI. Learn at the earliest. 
 
 DOCTOR. Pani Cheski will come here soon ; I asked 
 her purposely. 
 
 ANTONI. Then I shall be off. One thing more : Do 
 not help nature too much, for that would be
 
 216 ON A SINGLE CARD. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 The same, PANI CHESKI. 
 
 PANI CHESKI (entering). Did you wish to speak with 
 me? 
 
 DOCTOK. I did. 
 
 ANTONI (bows to PANI CHESKI, then to the DOCTOR). I am 
 going for the money and will return soon with the receipts. 
 
 DOCTOR. Very well. [ANTONIO goes out. 
 
 PANI CHESKI. Who is that gentleman ? 
 
 DOCTOR. A steersman. 
 
 PANI CHESKI. How is that ? 
 
 DOCTOR. He is steering the ship on which I sail ; for 
 the rest he is a wonderfully honest man. 
 
 PANI CHESKI. I do not understand well. Of what 
 did you wish to speak with me ? 
 
 DOCTOR. Of the Princess. You and she are like 
 mother and daughter, so you must know everything. 
 What is the matter with her? She is hiding some dis- 
 appointment. As a doctor, I ought to know everything ; 
 for to cure physical illness one should often know moral 
 causes. (Aside.) Spirit of Esculapius, forgive me this 
 phrase ! 
 
 PANI CHESKI. My good Pan Yozvovich, of what are 
 you asking ? 
 
 DOCTOR. I told you that the Princess is concealing 
 some disappointment. 
 
 PANI CHESKI. I know not. 
 
 DOCTOR. You and I love her equally, hence let us be 
 outspoken. 
 
 PANI CHESKI. I am ready. 
 
 DOCTOR. Well, does she love her betrothed ? 
 
 PANI CHESKI. What do you ask, doctor ? If she did
 
 ON A SINGLE CARD. 217 
 
 not, would she be his betrothed ? In truth, you so like 
 to reason about everything that sometimes you interfere 
 more than is needful. Whom should she love ? Natu- 
 rally, since she is his betrothed, she loves him. I con- 
 sider this so simple that I do not even talk any more 
 with Stella about it. 
 
 DOCTOR. You say, madam, that you do not talk any 
 more ; therefore you have talked before ? 
 
 PANI CHESKI. True. She told me that she knew not 
 whether she loved him enough. But every pure soul 
 fears that it may not do its duty. What could come to 
 your mind ? 
 
 DOCTOR. I only wished to know. (Aside.) A waste of 
 time here ! 
 
 SCENE V. 
 The same, YAN MILISHEVSKI. 
 
 YAN. So far I have not been able to find rnamma. 
 Good-day, Pani. Perhaps I interrupt ? 
 
 PANI CHESKI. No, we have finished. She will do her 
 duty, be quiet on that point. 
 
 DOCTOR. Thank you. [PANI CHESKI goes out. 
 
 YAN. Doctor ? 
 
 DOCTOR. I hear. 
 
 YAN. I must talk of things that are very delicate. 
 
 DOCTOR. I beg you to be outspoken. 
 
 YAN. Let us make an agreement like good people. 
 Mamma wishes me to become a deputy, but I have no wish 
 that way. 
 
 DOCTOR. Excess of modesty. 
 
 YAN. You are not sincere, and I know not how to de- 
 fend myself. I should not be a candidate at all were it 
 not for mamma. You see the affair is in this way : when
 
 218 ON A SINGLE CAED. 
 
 mamma wants anything, it must come. All the Srokos- 
 hynskis are of that kind ; mamma is a Srokoshynski. 
 
 DOCTOR. But you have your own will. 
 
 YAN. In this lies the misery, that things have so 
 shaped themselves that the Milishevskis alway obey 
 women. We are distinguished for that. 
 
 DOCTOR. A knightly characteristic. But how can I 
 serve you ? 
 
 YAN. I shall not hinder you as a candidate. 
 
 DOCTOR. Sincerity for sincerity. Thus far instead 
 of hindering, you have helped me. 
 
 YAN. I know not how, but if that be true, then help 
 me in turn. 
 
 DOCTOR. How ? 
 
 YAN. This matter is especially delicate. But a secret 
 from mamma. 
 
 DOCTOR. Naturally. 
 
 YAN. Mamma wishes me to marry the Princess ; but 
 I do not wish to marry her. 
 
 DOCTOR. You do not wish ? 
 
 YAN. You are astonished ? 
 
 DOCTOR. I confess 
 
 YAN. I do not wish to marry her, because I do not 
 wish. When a man has no desire to marry, well, he has 
 no desire. Imagine that I love another. Perhaps I do. 
 It is enough that she is not the Princess. Naturally, 
 when mamma says, " Jean, do your best ! " I go on, for 
 what am I to do ? The Milishevskis know how to 
 manage men, but as for women, oh, ho! 
 
 DOCTOR. But I cannot understand how I may be 
 useful. 
 
 YAN. Doctor, you know that you can do anything in 
 this house, so bring it about in secret from my mother, 
 that I should be refused.
 
 ON A SINGLE CARD. 219 
 
 DOCTOR. Count, for you I shall do what is humanly 
 possible. 
 
 YAN. I thank you. 
 
 DOCTOR. And I will undertake this the more gladly 
 since the Princess is betrothed. 
 
 YAN. But I did not know that any one was climbing 
 into my way here. 
 
 DOCTOR (aside). A good idea ! (Aloud.) Pan Yerzy 
 Pretvits. 
 
 YAN. Then they wished to make a fool of me ! 
 
 DOCTOR. Pan Pretvits is an insolent man. I even 
 confess to you that you were right when you called this 
 a delicate affair. Pan Pretvits is feared ; so if you yield 
 people may think 
 
 YAN. They may think that I am afraid ? Well, I 
 will not give way. Oh, my dear sir, I see that you do 
 not know the Milishevskis at all. It is only women 
 that we are not able to manage ; but no Milishevski 
 was ever a coward. I know that people laugh at me; 
 but if any one calls me a coward, I will teach him not 
 to laugh. I will show quickly whether I am a coward. 
 What about Pan Pretvits ? Where is he now ? 
 
 DOCTOR. At this moment in the garden. (Pointing 
 through the window. ) You see him there by the lake. 
 
 YAN. Till we see each other ! 
 
 SCENE VI. 
 DOCTOR, alone, later, ANTONI. 
 
 DOCTOR. Many fathers are childless ! Ha ! ha ! 
 
 ANTONI (running in). Art thou at home ? Here are 
 the receipts. Why art thou laughing ? 
 
 DOCTOR. Milishevski has rushed off to challenge 
 Pretvits to a duel
 
 220 ON A SINGLE CARD. 
 
 ANTONI. What ? Are they mad ? 
 
 DOCTOR. Pretvits will stand before her in a pretty 
 light, this knight without reproach, if he has an en- 
 counter with such a fool. In a pretty light ! 
 
 ANTONI. But hast thou wound it up so ? 
 
 DOCTOR. As I told thee, I will help nature. 
 
 ANTONI. Assist for thyself, but I am off. 
 
 DOCTOR. Farewell ! But no, I will go with thee ; I 
 cannot permit that the adventure go too far. 
 
 ANTONI. I wanted to tell thee, besides, that with thy 
 money I bought food for my little boys. I will return 
 it later. Do you permit ? 
 
 DOCTOR. How canst thou ask, Antoni ? \_He goes out. 
 
 SCENE VII. 
 
 STELLA, with a hat in her hand, COUNT DRAGOMIR. 
 They enter the door from the garden. 
 
 STELLA. The walk has tired me a little. You see, 
 Pan Karol, how feeble I am. (Sits down.) Where is 
 Pan Yerzy ? 
 
 DRAGOMIR. With young Milishevski, who asked for 
 a talk with him. The Countess is discussing with the 
 Prince. It seems to me that there is a little scene there. 
 The Countess did not know that you were betrothed, and 
 likely she had her plans. But, pardon me, Princess, 
 I laugh, and that causes you suffering. 
 
 STELLA. I should wish to laugh, did I not know that 
 this caused papa trouble. Also, I am sorry for Count 
 Milishevski. 
 
 DRAGOMIR. I understand what in his position a truly 
 loving heart may feel ; as to Yan, I am at rest. He will 
 console himself, if his mother commands him.
 
 ON A SINGLE CARD. 221 
 
 STELLA. At times it is possible to mistake people 
 greatly. 
 
 DRAGOMIR. Are you talking of me, or Milishevski ? 
 
 STELLA. Let it be of you. Before we met, people men- 
 tioned you to me as a collection of all the perfections. 
 
 DRAGOMIR. And you have found me a collection of all 
 the faults. 
 
 STELLA. I have not said that. 
 
 DRAGOMIR. But you think it, I believe. As to me, I 
 am not mistaken, the portrait of you painted by Yerzy 
 and the doctor agrees with reality. 
 
 STELLA. How was it painted ? 
 
 DRAGOMIR. With wings at the shoulders. 
 
 STELLA. That means that I have as much dignity as 
 a butterfly ? 
 
 DRAGOMIR. The wings of angels are consonant with 
 dignity. 
 
 STELLA. Eeal friendship should tell the truth. I 
 pray for some bitter truth. 
 
 DRAGOMIR. Shall it be very bitter ? 
 
 STELLA. As wormwood, or as life is at times. 
 
 DRAGOMIR. You are not kind toward me. 
 
 STELLA. For what sin must I do penance ? 
 
 DRAGOMIR. For lack of friendship toward me. 
 
 STELLA. I am the first to appeal to friendship ; biit in 
 what condition of it do I fail ? 
 
 DRAGOMIR. You share with me joyousness, amuse- 
 ment, laughter ; but when a moment of sadness or bitter- 
 ness comes, you keep the bitter flowers and the thorns 
 for yourself. Share such moments too, \ beg earnestly. 
 
 STELLA. I have never wished to disturb your joyous- 
 ness ; it was not egotism on my part. 
 
 DRAGOMIR. Neither is my joyousness egotistic. Yerzy 
 told me of you when I came here ; he said, " I can only
 
 222 ON A SINGLE CARD. 
 
 gaze at her, and pray to her ; them art younger, more 
 gladsome, try to amuse and divert her." So I brought 
 all my joyousness here, as wares on my shoulders, and 
 laid them at your feet. But for some time I have seen 
 that I only torture you. I see a cloud on your face ; I 
 suspect some secret sorrow and, as a real friend, I would 
 give my life to dispel it. 
 
 STELLA (in a low voice). Count. 
 
 DKAGOMIK (clasping his hands'). Permit me to speak. 
 In life I have been a thoughtless fellow ; but I followed 
 the voice of my heart, and with my heart I divined your 
 sadness. From that moment a shadow fell on my joy- 
 ousness; but I conquered it. Tears once shed never 
 return; but a friendly hand may arrest a tear on the 
 way to the eye. I overcame myself, so as not to let 
 tears go to your eyes. If I have erred, if I have 
 chosen the wrong road, I beg forgiveness. Your life 
 will be arranged like a bouquet of flowers, so be joyous, 
 be gladsome. 
 
 STELLA (gives him her hand, with emotioii). I shall be 
 in your company. I am a capricious girl, petted, and a 
 little ill. Often I do not know myself what' the trouble 
 is. I am happy, really happy. Those are passing mo- 
 ments; I promise amendment. We shall spend more 
 than one moment joyously yet. 
 
 DEAGOMIR. In that case what do we care, as Pani 
 Cheski says. Let us try to overcome ourselves ; we will 
 laugh, run in the garden, play tricks on Mamma Mili- 
 shevski and her son. 
 
 STELLA. I divine the secret of your gladsomeness and 
 happiness, it is honesty of heart and kindness. 
 
 DEAGOMIR. No, I am very heedless. But so far I have 
 lived peacefully enough ; real happiness, however, does not 
 lie in peace.
 
 ON A SINGLE CARD. 223 
 
 STELLA. Sometimes I think that it does not exist in 
 the world at all. 
 
 DRAGOMIR. Keason cannot seize it, and cannot fly after 
 that winged vision. Sometimes, perhaps, it flits past near 
 us ; hut before a man looks around, before he stretches out 
 a hand, he is too late. 
 
 STELLA. What torturing words, too late. 
 
 SCENE VIII. 
 The same, DOCTOR YOZVOVICH. 
 
 DOCTOR (comes in laughing). Ha ! ha ! do you know 
 what has happened ? 
 
 STELLA. Is it something amusing, doctor ? 
 
 DOCTOR. Something awful, tragic, terrible, but above 
 all ridiculous ! Milishevski wanted to challenge Yerzy. 
 
 STELLA. My God ! 
 
 DOCTOR. Laugh with me, Princess. If this were some- 
 thing dangerous, I should not have frightened you. 
 
 DRAGOMIR. How did it end ? 
 
 DOCTOR. Do you know that I went so far as to be 
 angry with Yerzy. Imagine that he took the matter 
 seriously. 
 
 DRAGOMIR. But I pray you, what had he to do ? 
 
 DOCTOR. But for a man like Yerzy, it would be a 
 shame to have a pistol duel with such a pitiful person ! 
 
 STELLA. The doctor is right. I cannot understand 
 Pan Yerzy. 
 
 DOCTOR. Let not our Princess be angry, I reconciled 
 them. But Yerzy did not penetrate the heart of the ques- 
 tion ; his native impulsiveness carried him away. Now, 
 however, he has halted, and when I explained the whole 
 affair to him, he agreed that it would have been at least 
 ridiculous. He has mucli judgment.
 
 224 ON A SINGLE CARD. 
 
 DKAGOMIR. What did Milishevski do ? 
 
 DOCTOR. I sent him to his mamma. He is a good 
 fellow also. 
 
 STELLA. But I shall open a storm on Pan Yerzy. 
 
 DRAGOMIR. Only be not too severe. 
 
 STELLA. You are laughing, gentlemen ; but to me it is. 
 painful that there was need to explain this to Pan Yerzy. 
 In truth he shall have a storm right away. [Goes out. 
 
 SCENE IX. 
 DRAGOMIR, DOCTOR YOZVOVICH. 
 
 DRAGOMIR. What an angel that Princess is ! 
 
 DOCTOR. True, there is not one taint in her crys- 
 talline nature. 
 
 DRAGOMIR. It must be so, since even you, doctor, a 
 sceptic, speak of her with such warmth. 
 
 DOCTOR. Six years have passed since I came here. 
 When I arrived the first time, she ran out to me in a short 
 dress, and with her hair in papers, such a little thing. 
 Since then she has grown up before me. Six years have 
 their rights ; it would have been difficult not to grow at- 
 tached to her. 
 
 DRAGOMIR. I believe that. (After a moment of 
 thought.) You people of work have wonderful hearts 
 though. 
 
 DOCTOR. Why ? 
 
 DRAGOMIR. I know what you might say of her social 
 position ; but that has no meaning, hearts are equal, 
 hence how has it happened that, being so near the Prin- 
 cess, you have been able to master yourself and not and 
 not 
 
 DOCTOR (interrupting him). What is that ? 
 
 DRAGOMIR. It is difficult for me to find the expression.
 
 ON A SINGLE CARD. 225 
 
 DOCTOR. I have found it. You ask me why I have 
 not fallen in love with her ? 
 
 DRAGOMIR. I hesitated before the over-bold question. 
 
 DOCTOR. In truth, if you are lacking in decision, I 
 will help you out and inquire : But you ? 
 
 DRAGOMIR. Doctor ! 
 
 DOCTOR. What lyric chord has groaned ? 
 
 DRAGOMIR. Let us finish this conversation. 
 
 DOCTOR. As may please you, though I can talk calmly 
 yet, and so to change the conversation I would ask you, 
 Will she be happy with Yerzy ? 
 
 DRAGOMIR. What a question ! Yerzy loves her beyond 
 everything. 
 
 DOCTOR. No doubt, but their natures are not in 
 accord. Her thoughts and feelings are as subtle as 
 spiderwebs, and Yerzy ? Have you seen how it pricked 
 her, that he accepted the challenge ? 
 
 DRAGOMIR. Why did you mention the affair to her ? 
 
 DOCTOR. I did wrong. But Yerzy 
 
 DRAGOMIR. How happy he will be with her ! 
 
 DOCTOR. Any man would be happy with her, and to 
 every man one might give the advice, find one like her. 
 Yes, Count, find one like her. [He goes out. 
 
 SCENE X. 
 
 COUNT DRAGOMIR, alone. 
 
 DRAGOMIR (to himself). Find one like her. But if she 
 is found too late. (He sits with his face covered with his 
 hand.} 
 
 SCENE XL 
 STELLA, DRAGOMIR. 
 
 STELLA (seeing DRAGOMIR, looks at him in silence for a 
 while). What is the matter, Count ? 
 
 15
 
 226 ON A SINGLE CARD. 
 
 DRAGOMIR. Are you here ? (A moment of silence.) 
 STELLA (confused). I am looking for papa I beg your 
 pardon, I must go. 
 
 DRAGOMIR. Go, Princess. 
 
 [STELLA goes, stops on the threshold for a moment, and 
 
 vanishes. 
 DRAGOMIR. I must leave here as soon as possible ! 
 
 SCENE XII. 
 DRAGOMIR, PRINCE, at the end, the DOCTOR. 
 
 PRINCE (rushing in panting*). Till this moment she 
 has tormented me. O Jesus, Mary ! And is that thou, 
 Dragomir ? 
 
 DRAGOMIR. I, Prince. 
 
 PRINCE. She tormented the life out of me ! 
 
 DRAGOMIR. Who ? 
 
 PRINCE. Countess Milishevski. My dear man, how is 
 he to be a deputy when he is a fool ? 
 
 DRAGOMIR. True, Prince. 
 
 PRINCE. And, seest thou ! after that, when the mother 
 made a proposal to me for Stella, I was just terrified. 
 Besides, she is betrothed, but they did not know it. 
 Jesus ! 
 
 DRAGOMIR. How did you get off ? 
 
 PRINCE. The doctor got me off. When he is absent the 
 Countess does not leave a dry thread on him ; but when 
 he is here, she is like a mouse in a corner. That 's a head, 
 that Yozvovich ! He has more sense than all of us. 
 
 DRAGOMIR. That is certain. 
 
 PRINCE. But thou hast sense also, Dragomir, hast 
 thou not? 
 
 DRAGOMIR. How contradict or agree in this case ? The 
 doctor has another kind of mind, Prince.
 
 ON A SINGLE CARD. 227 
 
 PRINCE. But that is it ! another kind. I cannot 
 endure him, I fear him, and I like him ; but I say to 
 thee that I could not live without him. Dost hear ? 
 
 DRAGOMIR. He is a shrewd and honest man. 
 
 PRINCE. Honest ? That is well ; but thou art better, for 
 thou art not a democrat. I love thee, Dragomir ! Stella, 
 I love him. But she is not here. 
 
 DRAGOMIR (kissing him on the shoulder). Thank you, 
 Prince. 
 
 PRINCE. As God lives, if I had another daughter, I 
 would give her to thee. 
 
 DRAGOMIR. Oh, do not say that, Prince. (Aside.} I must 
 be off! 
 
 PRINCE. Come for a cigar. We will call those people 
 and talk a little. Hei, Yozvovich ! Pretvits ! 
 
 DOCTOR (entering). What do you command, Prince ? 
 
 PRINCE. Come for a cigar, Kobespierre ! I thank thee, 
 my boy, for having freed me from that Countess. 
 
 DOCTOR. Go on, gentlemen, I will send for Pretvits, and 
 we will come right away. (He rings, a SERVANT appears ; 
 the PRINCE and DRAGOMIR go out.') Ask Pan Pretvits to 
 come! (The SERVANT goes.) (Alone.) An toni was right ! 
 I am helping the logic. But it is disagreeable for me to 
 undermine, I am accustomed to smash. 
 
 SCENE XIII. 
 YERZY, YOZVOVICH. 
 
 YERZY. I was looking for you. 
 
 DOCTOR. The Prince asks us to a cigar. 
 
 YERZY. Wait a little. In the name of God, tell me 
 what all this means ? Stella changes before one's eyes ; 
 there is something oppressive in the air. What does it 
 mean?
 
 228 ON A SINGLE CARD. 
 
 DOCTOR. Melancholy. Melancholy is in fashion. 
 
 YERZY. Thou art jesting with me ? 
 
 DOCTOR. I know nothing. 
 
 YERZY. Pardon me. Somehow the blood is rushing to 
 my head in a wonderful way ; some storm is above me. 
 I thought that thou wouldst find a calming word for 
 me ; I thought thee friendly to me. 
 
 DOCTOR. Dost doubt it ? 
 
 YERZY. Give me thy hand, and then some word of 
 explanation or advice. 
 
 DOCTOR. Advice ? Art thou ill, then ? 
 
 YERZY (with an effort'). Indeed, thou art playing with 
 me, as a cat with a mouse. 
 
 DOCTOR. I know nothing of forebodings. 
 
 YERZY. Didst thou tell me that she was not ill ? 
 
 DOCTOR. She is bored. 
 
 YERZY. Thou sayest that strangely, as though not 
 knowing what pain that word causes me. 
 
 DOCTOR. Distract her. 1 
 
 YERZY. How? How? 
 
 DOCTOR. Not as a wolf a lamb, but, for example, as 
 Count Dragomir does. 
 
 YERZY. Does she like his society ? 
 
 DOCTOR. And he hers. Such poetic souls come to 
 each other mutually. 
 
 YERZY. What dost thou mean by that ? 
 
 DOCTOR (sharply). And how dost thou take my words ? 
 
 YERZY (rising). Not another syllable, dost understand 
 me, I am not always able to forgive ! 
 
 DOCTOR (rises too, approaches YERZY, and looks him in 
 the eyes). I judge that it is thy wish to frighten me ? 
 Besides this, what dost thou wish ? 
 
 1 The Polish word means also to tear apart ; hence, the different use of 
 ft by the doctor in the second line following.
 
 ON A SINGLE CARD. 229 
 
 YERZY (after a moment of struggle with himself). Ask 
 what I have wished, for now I wish nothing. Thou 
 knowest her longer than I ; so I came to thee as to her 
 friend and mine. Thou hast answered with jests. In 
 thy eyes glitters hatred for me, though I have done thee 
 no harm, and I was the first man to greet thee as a 
 former comrade. Judge thyself ! I should have more 
 right to ask what thou wishest of me were it not for this 
 (with pride), that all is one to me. [Goes out. 
 
 DOCTOR. We shall see. 
 
 SCENE XIV. 
 DOCTOR YOZVOVICH, the SERVANT. 
 
 SERVANT. A special messenger from Pan Antoni has 
 brought a letter. 
 
 DOCTOR. Give it. (The SERVANT goes out. The DOCTOR, 
 looking at the door through which YERZY went out.) Oh ! 
 neither can I master my hatred any longer. I will crush 
 thee in the dust; now I will hesitate before nothing. 
 (Breaks the seal hastily.) A curse ! I must go there 
 to-day ! 
 
 SCENE XV. 
 DOCTOR YOZVOVICH, PANI CHESKI. 
 
 PANI CHESKI (coming in quickly). Doctor, I am looking 
 for you through the whole house. 
 
 DOCTOR. What has happened ? 
 
 PANI CHESKI. Stella is ill. I found her in her cham- 
 ber in tears. 
 
 DOCTOR (aside). Poor girl! (Aloud.) I hasten this 
 minute. \_They go. 
 
 END OF THIRD ACT.
 
 230 ON A SINGLE CARD. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 The same drawing-room. 
 SCENE I. 
 
 YOZVOVICH, DRAGOMIR. The DOCTOR, sitting at a small 
 table, is noting in a catalogue ; DRAGOMIK enters. 
 
 DRAGOMIR. I come to take farewell, doctor. 
 
 DOCTOR (rises suddenly}. Ah ! are you going away ? 
 
 DRAGOMIR. I am. 
 
 DOCTOR. A sudden decision. And for a long time ? 
 
 DRAGOMIR. I start this evening for Svetlenitse, to see 
 Yerzy, to-morrow I go abroad. 
 
 DOCTOR. One word more. Have you told any one of 
 this plan ? 
 
 DRAGOMIR. So far no one knows of it. My intention 
 became a decision only a couple of hours ago. 
 
 DOCTOR. Is it irrevocable ? 
 
 DRAGOMIR. Irrevocable. 
 
 DOCTOR. Then not even Yerzy knows of it yet ? 
 
 DRAGOMIR. Not even Yerzy. Why do you ask ? 
 
 DOCTOR (aside). It has come. There is need to act 
 quickly, else all will be lost. (Aloud.) Count, I cannot 
 speak in this moment at length with you, for Antoni is 
 coming with an affair on which my whole future depends. 
 But hear me, I implore you in the name of the peace and 
 health of the Princess not to mention to any one that you 
 are going away, neither to her, nor to Yerzy, nor to 
 the Prince. 
 
 DRAGOMIR. I do not understand you. 
 
 DOCTOR. You will understand me. At this moment I 
 cannot say more. I beg for a little time. Half an hour 
 hence, give me a moment's conversation, I pray. You will
 
 ON A SINGLE CARD. 231 
 
 understand me, I assure you. But here is Antoni You 
 see, Count, that at present I cannot 
 DRAGOMIR. Then till we meet again. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 ANTONI, DOCTOR YOZVOVICH. 
 
 ANTONI. To-morrow the result will be known. It is 
 a hot affair. Is the address ready ? 
 
 DOCTOR. Here it is. And how are things going ? 
 
 ANTONI. So far, everything goes well ; but I tell thee 
 that it is a hot affair. If thou hadst not come the last 
 time, thou wouldst have been lost; for Milishevski has 
 withdrawn, and now his partisans are on Husarski's 
 side. Thy speech in the city hall was brilliant. May a 
 thunderbolt split thee ! To-day we will give thee an ova- 
 tion. Even thy enemies do justice to thy programme. 
 Oh, at last we shall come to have a voice ! These three 
 days I sleep not, neither do I eat, I only work, and I 
 have time, for they have dismissed me from office. 
 
 DOCTOR. Have they driven thee out of office ? 
 
 ANTONI. For agitation, and for the affair with 
 Husarski. 
 
 DOCTOR. Hast found means against him ? 
 
 ANTONI. I have scratched off a little article. I will 
 give it to thee here it is. He has brought a suit 
 against me, and will win. They will put me in prison ; 
 but the action will end only after election, while the 
 article will hurt him before election. 
 
 DOCTOR. Well ! 
 
 ANTONI. But when I shall be sitting in prison, think 
 of my wife and children. I love my little boys im- 
 mensely. I have a few too many of them ; but nature is 
 a hard law.
 
 232 ON A SINGLE CARD. 
 
 DOCTOR. Be at rest. 
 
 ANTONI. Thou wouldst not believe, but I am almost 
 happy. At times it seems to me that our province is a 
 cabin with foul air, and that I open the window and let 
 in a fresh breeze. We will work, even if we have to wear 
 off our arms to the elbows. I believe in thee, for thou art 
 a monster made of iron. As God is true, thou hadst 
 taken possession of us before we saw it. 
 
 DOCTOR. I shall die, or gain two victories. 
 
 ANTONI. Two ? 
 
 DOCTOR. Yes, and the other even here to-day. 
 Events have anticipated me in some measure. Facts 
 turned against me. I had to frame my plan of action 
 quickly, a moment ago. 
 
 ANTONI. Ei ! if we can only win there. Knowest 
 thou, lord leader of our party, I would rather thou threw 
 the other victory to the deuce. 
 
 DOCTOR. In this thou art mistaken, Antoni. 
 
 ANTONI. Thou grievest; thou sufferest; thou hast 
 grown thin. Look in the mirror ! What a face ! 
 
 DOCTOR. That is no harm ; when I spring the mine 
 here I shall be calmer, and the mine is now ready. 
 
 ANTONI. But it will cost thee something. 
 
 DOCTOR. Still I shall not go back. 
 
 ANTONI. Deuce take it ! But do not blacken thy 
 hands too much with the powder. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 The same, STELLA. 
 
 STELLA (entering, sees ANTONI). Ah, I beg pardon I 
 DOCTOR. Pan Antoni Juk, my friend. (ANTONI lows.) 
 What do you command, Princess ? 
 
 STELLA. You prescribed the bed ; but it is so hard to
 
 ON A SINGLE CARD. 233 
 
 lie down. Pani Cheski went to the chapel, so I fled. Do 
 you permit ? 
 
 DOCTOR. What am I to do, Princess, though I might 
 have the wish to scold a disobedient child. Not long 
 since some one else interceded for you. 
 
 STELLA. Who was that ? 
 
 DOCTOR. Count Dragomir; and he begged so that I 
 promised to let you rise in an hour. He wishes to talk 
 with you to-day, I believe, even later, as he cannot 
 
 STELLA (aside). What does this mean ? 
 
 DOCTOR. About five, that is an hour from now, he will 
 be here. 
 
 STELLA. Very well. 
 
 DOCTOR. Now I beg that you will return to your own 
 room, for you are lightly dressed. [She goes out. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 DOCTOR YOZVOVICH, ANTONI. 
 
 ANTONI. Ah, that is the Princess then. I saw her for 
 the first time. 
 
 DOCTOR. Yes, that is she. 
 
 ANTONI. Very shapely. But somehow as if made of 
 mist. I prefer women like my wife. From the Princess 
 thou wilt not get sturdy democrats. 
 
 DOCTOR. Enough of this. 
 
 ANTONI. So I weigh anchor and sail. I will scatter 
 thy address to-day, and at the same time another stiff 
 article on Husarski. If they are to put me in prison, let 
 people know why. Be well ! 
 
 DOCTOR. And when thou shalt meet the servant, tell 
 him that I am waiting for Count Dragomir.
 
 234 ON A SINGLE CARD. 
 
 SCENE V. 
 DOCTOR YOZVOVICH, later, DRAGOMIR. 
 
 DOCTOR. Then let this golden-haired page go away, 
 but let him take farewell of her. That farewell will be a 
 red rag for the bull. (DRAGOMIR enters.) I am waiting 
 for you. Is Pretvits here ? 
 
 DRAGOMIR. He is with the Prince. 
 
 DOCTOR. Sit down, Count ; let us talk. 
 
 DRAGOMIR (unquietly). I listen. 
 
 DOCTOR. Do you love the Princess ? 
 
 DRAGOMIR. Pan Yozvovich ! 
 
 DOCTOR. On your honor, yes or no. 
 
 DRAGOMIR. God might have the right to ask me a 
 question which I dare not ask myself. 
 
 DOCTOR. And your conscience. 
 
 DRAGOMIR. And no one else. 
 
 DOCTOR. Then in another way ! And she loves you. 
 
 DRAGOMIR. Be silent ! great God ! 
 
 DOCTOR. Pride is broken ! You knew of this ? 
 
 DRAGOMIR. No, I did not wish to know. 
 
 DOCTOR. You know now. 
 
 DRAGOMIR. I am going away forever. 
 
 DOCTOR. Too late, Count! You have involved her 
 life, and now you are leaving her. 
 
 DRAGOMIR. But what am I to do ? In God's name ! 
 
 DOCTOR. Go away, but not for good, and not without 
 taking leave. 
 
 DRAGOMIR. Why add another drop to the overflowing 
 cup? 
 
 DOCTOR. A pretty phrase ! Do you not understand 
 what people will think of her here, if you go away sud-
 
 ON A SINGLE CARD. 235 
 
 denly, without farewell, without return. Besides, she is 
 ill, and may not survive your departure. 
 
 DRAGOMIR. I see no escape. 
 
 DOCTOR. There is only one. Find an occasion ; take 
 farewell of her calmly, and say that you will return. 
 Otherwise the blow may exceed her strength. You must 
 leave her hope. She ought not to suspect anything. 
 Afterward she may grow used to your absence, then 
 forget it. 
 
 DRAGOMIR. Better let her forget it. 
 
 DOCTOR. I shall use all my efforts to bring that 
 about. I shall be the first one to throw a handful of 
 dust on your memory. 
 
 DRAGOMIR. What am I to do, then ? 
 
 DOCTOR. Find a cause for taking farewell, mention 
 your return to all, and go away. Yerzy also is" not to 
 know of anything. 
 
 DRAGOMIR. When am I to take farewell of her ? 
 
 DOCTOR. In a little while. I have forewarned her. I 
 shall occupy Pretvits while you are with her. He will 
 come here soon. 
 
 DRAGOMIR. All is so arranging itself that I would 
 rather have a ball in my heart. 
 
 DOCTOR. No one is sure of his to-morrow. Go now. 
 
 [DRAGOMIR goes out. 
 
 SCENE VI. 
 DOCTOR YOZVOVICH, later, the SERVANT. 
 
 DOCTOR. How hot it is here, my head is splitting! 
 (Rings, SERVANT enters.) Ask Pan Pretvits here immedi- 
 ately. (SERVANT goes out.) My head is splitting, but 
 afterward there will be a long rest.
 
 236 ON A SINGLE CARD. 
 
 SCENE VIT. 
 DOCTOR YOZVOVICH, YERZY. 
 
 YERZY (entering). What didst them wish of me ? 
 
 DOCTOR. I wish to give thee some advice touching 
 the Princess's health. 
 
 YERZY. How is she now ? 
 
 DOCTOR. Better. I have permitted her to rise now, 
 for she and Dragomir begged me to do so. 
 
 YERZY. And Dragomir ? 
 
 DOCTOR. Yes. He wishes to talk with her. They are 
 to come in here a quarter of an hour from now. 
 
 YERZY. Doctor, rage and pain are suffocating me. 
 Dragomir avoids me. 
 
 DOCTOR. But still thou dost not suspect him. 
 
 YERZY. I swear that I have warded off suspicions as 
 a dying man keeps off crows ; that I have gnawed my 
 hands from pain and despair. I ward them off yet ; but I 
 cannot do so longer. I cannot. Reality strikes me on 
 the head with the back of a hatchet. He avoids me, he 
 By the mercy of God ! tell me that I am fool, that I 
 have lost my senses, for everything is breaking in me. 
 
 DOCTOR. Restrain thyself. Even if he has loved the 
 Princess, no man controls his own heart. 
 
 YERZY. Enough, enough ! Thou wert right in joining 
 his name the first time with hers. I rejected the thought 
 then, but it has lived here ! (Striking his breast.} The 
 grain is ripe now. Oh, what a terrible and ridiculous 
 role I have played, till reality convinced me 
 
 DOCTOR. But he saved thy life. 
 
 YERZY. To take it when it began to have value. It 
 is paid for already, paid for with torment, murdered 
 happiness, broken hope, faith in him destroyed, in my-
 
 ON A SINGLE CARD. 237 
 
 self, in her. And knowest thou how many days and 
 nights have passed ; how I repress in myself the shriek of 
 pure despair. 
 
 DOCTOR. Calm thyself. 
 
 YERZY. I loved that man. Tell me am I a maniac ? 
 But I will calm myself. Still how dreadful that it 
 should be just he. My reason is at an end, my powers 
 are at an end ; but misfortune continues. Think that it 
 should be just he. Forgive me all that I said before to 
 thee, and save me ; evil thoughts are coming to my 
 head. 
 
 DOCTOR. Calm thyself, thou art mistaken. 
 
 YERZY. Show me that I am mistaken, and I will 
 kneel before thee. 
 
 DOCTOR. Thou art mistaken. Dragoinir is going away. 
 
 YERZY. He is going away ! (A moment of silence.) 
 Then I can live still like every man, not in torture, and 
 have hope ? 
 
 DOCTOR (coldly and slowly}. He is not going away, it 
 is true, for good. He said that he would return soon. 
 
 YERZY. Again thou art fastening me to the cross. 
 
 DOCTOR. Collect presence of mind, and do not let 
 thyself be carried to madness. In every case thou wilt 
 gain time. If he has shaken thy place in the heart of 
 the Princess, thou canst win back what is lost. 
 
 YERZY. No ! It is all over ! I will go into the abyss. 
 
 DOCTOR. Everything may be settled by his departure. 
 
 YERZY (with an outburst). But thou hast said that 
 he will return. 
 
 DOCTOR (with power). Listen, I will agree that thou 
 hast paid Dragomir for thy life with suffering. Dragomir 
 has betrayed and broken friendship by taking her heart 
 from thee ; but I reject the thought that he is going away 
 to save his person from thy revenge.
 
 238 ON A SINGLE CAED. 
 
 YEKZY. But to give her time to break with me ! 
 That is it ! So I am cursed already to the hour of death ; 
 I will suspect him now of everything. He is fleeing 
 from me. 
 
 DOCTOR. Yerzy ! 
 
 YERZY. May God forgive me if something terrible 
 happens here to Dragomir. 
 
 DOCTOK. Poor Yerzy ! 
 
 YERZY. Enough, enough ! I will go to ask him when 
 he returns. He saved me one life and killed ten. 
 
 [Wishes to go out. 
 
 DOCTOR. Where art thou going? 
 
 YERZY. To ask him how long he will be gone. 
 
 DOCTOR. One moment. Of what dost thou wish to 
 ask, madman ? He may be innocent ; but pride will 
 close his lips and destroy both of you. Stay here, thou 
 wilt pass only over my corpse. I am not afraid of thee 
 dost understand ! In a moment they are to talk here. 
 If thou need proofs, thou shalt have them. From the 
 garden porch thou wilt not hear, but thou wilt see them ; 
 thou wilt convince thyself with thy own eyes, and 
 perhaps regret violent words. 
 
 YERZY (after a while). Agreed ! that is well. 
 God grant that there is no fault there! I thank thee, 
 but do not leave me now. 
 
 DOCTOR. One word more : Whatever happens, it would 
 be contemptible if thou shouldst endanger her life with 
 an outburst. 
 
 YERZY. Agreed, let us go. 
 
 DOCTOR. They will be here alone. 
 
 YERZY. I shall correct everything yet. Whither shall 
 we go ? 
 
 DOCTOR. To the garden porch. 
 
 YERZY. May God have mercy on me, and on them.
 
 ON A SINGLE CARD. 239 
 
 DOCTOR. You are feverish. You are trembling already 
 as in a fever. 
 
 YERZY. I will stuff my mouth with a handkerchief. 
 Then from the porch 
 
 DOCTOR. Yes, among the cypresses. 
 
 YERZY. I lack breath. Some one is coming. Let us 
 go out. 
 
 SCENE VIII. 
 DRAGOMIR, then, STELLA. 
 
 DRAGOMIR. The last evening, and the last time. (After 
 a while.} Let the will of God be done: let all suf- 
 fering fall on me. 
 
 STELLA (enters). The doctor told me that you wished 
 to see me. 
 
 DRAGOMIR. Yes, important reasons call me home for 
 a time. I have come to take farewell of you. 
 
 STELLA. To take farewell ? 
 
 DRAGOMIR. To-day I go to Svetlenitse, and to-morrow 
 farther. (A moment of silence) 
 
 STELLA. So, it is necessary. 
 
 DRAGOMIR. Life has passed like a dream here ; it is 
 time to wake up. 
 
 STELLA. But you say that we shall see each other 
 again ? 
 
 DRAGOMIR. If God permits. 
 
 STELLA. Then I give you my hand in parting, and 
 with it eternal friendship. Friendship, like an immortelle, 
 is a pale flower, but it never withers. May God conduct 
 and guard you. The heart of a sister will go with you 
 everywhere, I beg you to remember 
 
 DRAGOMIR. I take farewell of you. 
 
 STELLA. I take farewell of you as if forever. (She goes
 
 240 ON A SINGLE CARD. 
 
 away and then returns with tears in her voice.} Count, 
 why do you deceive me, you are going away forever. 
 
 DRAGOMIR. Have pity on me ! 
 
 STELLA. You are going away forever ? 
 
 DRAGOMIR. Yes, it is true. 
 
 STELLA. I divined that. But perhaps it is better for 
 us both. 
 
 DRAGOMIR. Oh, yes, there are things which cannot be 
 told, though the heart should be rent. A moment ago 
 you said that you would remember me ; recall that gift, 
 forget. 
 
 STELLA. I shall not be able. (She bursts into tears.') 
 
 DRAGOMIR. Then I love thee, angel, as if mad, and 
 that is why I flee from thee and from myself. (Represses 
 her to his breast.') 
 
 STELLA (wakening). God ! [She runs away. 
 
 SCENE IX. 
 
 DRAGOMIR, YOZVOVICH, YERZY. YERZY stops with 
 the DOCTOR near the door. 
 
 DRAGOMIR. Ah ! is that thou, Yerzy ? 
 
 YERZY. Do not approach me. I saw all ! Thou art 
 contemptible and a coward! 
 
 DRAGOMIR. Yerzy ! 
 
 YERZY. Broken friendship, trampled happiness, lost 
 faith in God and man, perfect contempt for thee and 
 myself, these I cast, in thy face, so as not to soil my 
 hands by slapping it. 
 
 -DRAGOMIR. Enough! 
 
 i YERZY. Do not approach me, or I shall lose presence 
 of mind and sprinkle these walls with thy brains. No \ 
 no ! I do not want that ; I have promised. I slap thee I 
 on the face, contemptible ! Dost hear ? \
 
 ON A SINGLE CARD. 241 
 
 DRAGOMIR (after a moments struggle with himself}. 
 Before God and men, I declare that blood will wash out 
 such words. 
 
 YERZY. Blood! (Pointing to the DOCTOR.) Here is the 
 witness of those words. 
 
 DOCTOR. I am at your service, gentlemen. 
 
 (Curtain falls.) 
 END OF FOURTH ACT. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 The same drawing-room. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 DOCTOR (enters reading a despatch). " The result as 
 far as known : Yozvovich, 613 votes ; Husarski, 604. Ten 
 o'clock : Yozvovich, 700 ; Husarski, 700. Eleven : Yozvo- 
 vich, 814 ; Husarski, 750. The battle an obstinate one. 
 Final result will be known about three o'clock." (He 
 looks at his watch.) 
 
 SCENE II. 
 YOZVOVICH, YERZY. 
 
 DOCTOR. Thou art here ! 
 
 YERZY. Thou withdrawest before the ghost ? 
 
 DOCTOR. But is it to-day ? 
 
 YERZY. I go straight from here to the place of meet- 
 ing. I have one hour yet. The duel will be in Dom- 
 brova on the land of the Milishevskis, so not far off. 
 
 DOCTOR. It is too near. 
 
 YERZY. Milishevski, as second, insisted. Besides, thou 
 art in the affair, so that the news should be known in 
 this house as late as possible. 
 
 1G
 
 242 ON A SINGLE CARD. 
 
 DOCTOE. But Doctor Krytski will be on the spot 
 according to agreement. 
 
 YERZY. Yes. 
 
 DOCTOR. Beg him once more to send me the news 
 immediately. I would go with you, but I must be here. 
 
 YERZY. Very properly. If I die 
 
 DOCTOR. Do not admit that in advance. 
 
 YERZY. There are people condemned by fate at birth, 
 for whom the only ransom is death. I am one of those. 
 I have thought over everything long and calmly. God 
 knows that I fear life more than death. There is no 
 escape for me ; even should I survive what will happen, 
 tell me, what awaits me if I kill a man whom she loves ? 
 I shall live without her and be cursed by her. Dost 
 know that when I think of my position, when I think 
 of what has happened, it seems to me that some demon 
 has come between us, and so involved all things, that 
 death alone can straighten them. 
 
 DOCTOR. A duel ends frequently in maiming. 
 
 YERZY. I gave the lie to Dragomir cruelly, and such 
 an insult is not washed out by a wound. Believe me that 
 one of us must die. But I have come to speak of some- 
 thing else. 
 
 DOCTOR. I hear thee. 
 
 YERZY. To tell the truth, since I know not whether 
 I shall be alive in an hour, I have come to look once 
 more on her, for I loved her above everything in the 
 world. I was perhaps too abrupt for her, too unhappy, 
 too dull, but I loved her. Then let God, who is look- 
 ing now into my heart, condemn me forever if I did not 
 desire her happiness. As thou seest me here this 
 moment, I am grieved most because of her, and I suffer 
 greatly when I think of her future. Listen ! whether I 
 perish or not, she is lost to me ; Dragomir will not marry
 
 ON A SINGLE CARD. 243 
 
 her, for he cannot marry a woman whose betrothed he has 
 killed. Of us three, thou alone wilt remain near her, 
 guard her, watch over her. She was the only treasure 
 which I had ; I give her into thy honest hands. 
 
 DOCTOR. I will carry out all thy wishes. 
 
 YERZY. And now, since I may die, I wish to die as a 
 
 Christian. If thou hast any feeling against me, if I have 
 
 been to blame regarding thee at any time, forgive me ! 
 
 \He presses the DOCTOR'S hand and goes out. 
 
 DOCTOR (alone). Yes ! Of us three, I alone remain 
 near her. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 ANTONI, YOZVOVICH. 
 
 ANTONI (rushing in quickly}. Man, you are mad! 
 Every moment there is precious, and thou art sitting 
 here. The cause is trembling ; new hand-bills are posted 
 up. Husarski's partisans are seizing people by their 
 coats. In God's name come with me! A drosky is 
 waiting below. Why art thou sitting here ? 
 
 DOCTOR. I must stay here. I will not go for any- 
 thing on earth ; I will not go, let happen what may. 
 
 ANTONI. But I swear, if I expected this ! Show thy- 
 self even for a moment, and thou wilt win surely ! Lungs 
 and voice are gone from me. Art thou mad? There 
 they are working for him, and shouting for him, and this 
 man is clinging to a petticoat, and sitting here. "We are 
 choosing a pretty deputy ! 
 
 DOCTOR. Antoni ! Even though the election were to 
 be lost, I would not move a step. I cannot, I will not go ! 
 
 ANTONI. Is this true ? 
 
 DOCTOR. It is ! 
 
 ANTONI. Well, do what may please thee. Well! I 
 wish (He walks through the room, after a while puts his
 
 244 ON A SINGLE CARD. 
 
 hands in his pockets, and stands before the DOCTOR.) Well, 
 what does this mean ? 
 
 DOCTOK. It means that I must be here. At this 
 moment Dragomir and Pretvits are face to face with 
 arms in their hands. If news should reach the Princess, 
 she might pay for it with her life. 
 
 ANTONI. Are they shooting ? 
 
 DOCTOR. For life and death. News will be here in a 
 moment telling which of the two is dead. 
 
 ANTONI. Yozvovich, who did this ? 
 
 DOCTOR. I! I crushed those who stood in my road, 
 and I shall crush them always. Thou seest me as I am. 
 
 ANTONI. Well, if that is so, neither am I in a hurry. 
 Dost thou know what I will say ? 
 
 DOCTOR. Withdraw for a while ; the Princess is coming. 
 (He opens the door of a, side chamber.*) Go in there. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 YOZVOVICH, STELLA. 
 
 STELLA. My doctor, what is happening in this house ? 
 
 DOCTOR. Of what do you ask, Princess ? 
 
 STELLA. Pan Yerzy came to me somehow excited ; he 
 took farewell of me, begged me to forgive him if he had 
 ever offended me 
 
 DOCTOR (aside'). Sentimental fool ! 
 
 STELLA. He told me that he might be forced to go 
 away for a number of days. I have the feeling that you 
 are hiding something from me. What does this mean, 
 doctor? Do not torture me longer. I am so weak 
 already that, in truth, it is proper to have a little pity 
 on me. 
 
 DOCTOR. Be not concerned. What could happen? 
 Pure imagination. The care of tender hearts surrounds
 
 ON A SINGLE CARD. 245 
 
 you. Whence could such a strange supposition come ? 
 Go now to your own room, and receive nobody. I will 
 come soon. 
 
 STELLA. Then there is really no trouble, doctor ? 
 
 DOCTOR. And what is this again ! I beg you to be- 
 lieve that I should be able to set aside everything which 
 might threaten your happiness. 
 
 STELLA (giving him her hand). Oh, Pan Stanislav, hap- 
 piness is too difficult a thing ; but let peace not desert us. 
 
 [She wishes to go out through the room where ANTON I is. 
 
 DOCTOR. This way, Princess. In that room a man is 
 waiting for me. I will come to you soon. Eeceive no 
 one, I beg you. Antoni! [PRINCESS goes out. 
 
 SCENE V. 
 ANTONI, DOCTOR YOZVOVICH, afterwards, SERVANT. 
 
 ANTONI. Poor, poor child ! 
 
 DOCTOR. For her sake I cannot go away. I must be 
 here and not let news of the misfortune reach her, that 
 might kill her. 
 
 ANTONI. How ? knowing this, thou art exposing her ? 
 Thou lovest her, and art sacrificing her to thyself ? 
 
 DOCTOR (feverishly). I love her and must have her, 
 even if this house were to fall on our heads. 
 
 ANTONI. Man, thou art speaking like one who has 
 lost his mind. 
 
 DOCTOR. Man, thou speakest like an incompetent, not 
 like a man. Thou hast a mouthful of phrases and strength, 
 but knowest not how to look facts in the eyes. Who 
 dares say to me, "Thou hast not the right to defend 
 thyself " ? 
 
 ANTONI. Farewell ! 
 
 DOCTOR. Where art thou going ?
 
 246 ON A SINGLE CARD. 
 
 ANTONI. I return to the city. 
 
 DOCTOR. Art thou with me, or against me ? I am an 
 honest man. 
 
 SEKVANT (enters). A messenger has brought a letter 
 from Milishevski. 
 
 DOCTOE. Give it here ! (SEKVANT goes out ; he breaks 
 the seal and reads.) " The duel has taken place. Pretvits 
 is no longer living." (After a while.) Ah ! 
 
 ANTONI. Before I go, I owe thee an answer, for thou 
 hast inquired what my going means. I have served thee 
 as faithfully as a dog, for I believed in thee. Thou hast 
 known how to use, and perhaps to abuse me. I knew 
 that I was a tool, but I care not for such things ; still 
 now r 
 
 DOCTOR. Now thou wilt leave the cause ? 
 
 ANTONI. Thou dost not know me. What should I do 
 in the world if I were to desert it ? And finally dost thou 
 think that thou alone art the cause ? I will not leave 
 the cause because I was deceived in thee. But for me, it 
 is a question of something else. I was so foolish as to 
 attach myself to thee, and now I am sorry; for as a 
 private man, I must tell thee, thou hast exceeded the 
 measure, thou hast used for evil the power which is in 
 thee. Oh, I know, I know, perhaps for me it would be 
 more profitable not to say this to thee. Perhaps to cling 
 to thee would be a future for a ragged man like me, who 
 has not very much at home to give wife and children 
 to eat. But I cannot, I cannot ! I am naked, and naked 
 I shall remain ; let me have at least a clear conscience. 
 This is what I will say : Thou wert as near to me as my 
 wife and children, nearer too ! From this day forward thou 
 art only a political figure ; but as to friendship, seek some 
 one else. Know that I am not particular ; a man rubs 
 against people, and rubs more than one thing into him-
 
 ON A SINGLE CARD. 247 
 
 self ; but thou hast exceeded the measure. Hang me, if 
 I do not prefer to love people rather than crush them. 
 Men say that honesty and politics are different. Here 
 and there it may be so. But with us those things must 
 be connected. Why should they not go together? I 
 shall not desert the cause ; but there is an end to the 
 friendship between me and thee, for the man who says 
 that he loves people, and lurks and strikes them on the 
 head by deceit, is a liar, dost understand ? 
 
 DOCTOR. I shall not attract thy friendship by supe- 
 rior force; but listen to me for the last time. If a period 
 of defeats begins for me, it will begin because men like 
 thee cease to understand me. Behold, this man who 
 has died went suddenly, blindly, and fatally against my 
 success, my right to happiness, my future, and took all 
 from me. He appeared with wealth, a name, relatives, 
 and all that invincible armor which fortune and birth 
 give. What had I against him ? With what could I do 
 battle ? What could I put against his power ? Nothing, 
 but that which is the armor of new men, that little 
 intelligence acquired by bloody toil and effort. He 
 declared a silent war against me. I defended myself. 
 With what? With the armor which nature gave me. 
 When thou tramplest a worm, do not take it ill that it 
 defends itself with a sting, for it has nothing else with 
 which to defend itself. When thou hast to remove a 
 stone lying in the way, remove it as may please thee. 
 That is a human right ! Yes, I put everything on a 
 single card, and I won ; but it was not I, it was reason 
 which overcame strength, the new time past ages. And 
 thou takest that ill of me ? What is thy wish ? I 
 am true to my principle ; but ye draw back, I do not. 
 That is one side, but what is the other ? That woman 
 was necessary to me, to my happiness ; I love her, for
 
 248 ON A SINGLE CARD. 
 
 rny plans, for her property, her relations. Give me such 
 weapons, and I will accomplish and carry out every- 
 thing ! Dost understand what a gigantic labor, what 
 great objects and plans are before me ? Ye wish that I 
 should break the wall of darkness, hesitation, sloth, that 
 I should breathe life into that which is withered ; I call 
 for means. Ye have none ! Hence I will get them or 
 perish. But what ? One little noble, one pallid knight, 
 one adventurer, whose only service is that he was born 
 with an escutcheon, stands in the way of these great 
 plans, of that bright future, not only for me, but for 
 society, and I have not the right to crush hirn. And ye 
 wish that I should fall at his great, mighty feet, that I 
 should sacrifice everything to him ? No, ye do not know 
 me ! Enough of sentiment. Strength is needed, and I 
 have it, and I will open a way for myself and others 
 even though I had to trample a hundred Pretvitses. 
 
 ANTONI. No, Yozvovich ! Thou hast always done 
 with me whatever pleased thee, but now thou wilt not 
 overcome me. While it was a question of convictions, I 
 was with thee ; but thou hast assaulted certain principles 
 which are greater than thou and I, and more enduring 
 and more unchangeable. Thou wilt not explain thy 
 position to me, and have a care for thyself. At any 
 slight cause, thou wilt fall with all thy energy. Princi- 
 ples change, my dear man, but simple honesty is always 
 the same. Do what may please thee, but guard thyself. 
 What the deuce ! the blood of men is avenged ; that is 
 also a right of nature. Thou hast asked if I desert 
 thee ? Perhaps thou wouldst like to be free to shoot 
 people from behind a fence, whenever that might suit 
 thee ! No, brother ! Henceforth begins between us a 
 close account, for we cannot trust thee. Thou wilt 
 be a deputy ; but if thou thinkest that we shall serve
 
 ON A SINGLE CARD. 249 
 
 thee, and thou not us, thou art mistaken. What hast 
 thou supposed, that the rounds of this ladder on which 
 thou art climbing is made up of rascals ? Halt there ! 
 We, who make thee a deputy, we, in whose honesty 
 thou dost not believe, perhaps, will watch now and 
 judge thee. If thou do mischief, we will grind thee to 
 dust. The cause is not for thee, but thou art for the 
 cause. We elected thee, now serve. 
 
 DOCTOR (violently). Andrei ! 
 
 ANTONI. Quietly ! In the evening thou wilt stand 
 before the electors in the city. Till we see each other, 
 Doctor Yozvovich [Goes out. 
 
 DOCTOR (alone). He is the first. 
 
 SCENE VI. 
 DOCTOR YOZVOVICH, YAN MILISHEVSKI. 
 
 YAN (appears in a half -open door). Pst! 
 
 DOCTOR. Who is there ? 
 
 YAN. I, Milishevski. Are you alone ? 
 
 DOCTOR. Come in ! Well, what is it ? 
 
 YAN. It is finished. Ah, doctor, he did not live five 
 minutes ! I commanded to take the body to Milishevo, to 
 the church. 
 
 DOCTOR. But your mother is not here ? 
 
 YAN. I sent her to the city. This is election day, and 
 mamma does not know that I have withdrawn ; so she 
 will wait for the evening papers, hoping that my name 
 will be among the elected. 
 
 DOCTOR. No one has seen him on the road ? 
 
 YAN. I am afraid that people will see blood. He 
 bled terribly on the road. 
 
 DOCTOR. Strange thing ! He was such a good shot. 
 
 YAN. He let himself be killed purposely. I was
 
 250 ON A SINGLE CARD. 
 
 there ; I saw perfectly that he did not put his finger on 
 the trigger. He did not wish to kill Dragomir. Six 
 steps, such a close mark ! Oh. it is ghastly to look at 
 the death of another man ! In truth, I would rather 
 have died myself. They fired at command : one ! two ! 
 three ! we heard a shot, but only one. We Hew forward. 
 Pretvits advanced two steps and knelt ; he wanted to 
 speak, but blood gushed out of his mouth ; then he took 
 his pistol and fired to one side. We were already stand- 
 ing around, and he said to Dragomir, " You have done 
 me a favor, I thank you. This life belonged to you, for 
 you saved it. Forgive me brother," said he ; " give me 
 your hand," and he began to die (YAN wipes his brow 
 with his handkerchief.} Dragomir threw himself on 
 Yerzy's breast. Oh, doctor, indeed it was terrible ! Poor 
 Princess Stella, what will become of her now ? 
 
 DOCTOR. For God's sake, silence, not a word before 
 her. She is sick. 
 
 YAN. I shall be silent. 
 
 DOCTOR. Master your emotion. 
 
 YAN. I cannot control my legs, for they are trembling 
 under me. 
 
 SCENE VII. 
 
 The same, the PRINCE, leaning on STELLA'S arm, 
 PANI CHESKI. 
 
 PRINCE. I thought that Pretvits was here with you. 
 Doctor, where is Pretvits ? 
 
 DOCTOR. I know not. 
 
 STELLA. Did he not tell you where he was going ? 
 
 DOCTOR. I know not. 
 
 PANI CHESKI (to YAN). What is the matter, Count, 
 you are so pale ?
 
 ON A SINGLE CARD. 251 
 
 YAN. Not at all, that is from fever. 
 PRINCE. Doctor, Pretvits told me 
 
 SCENE VIII. 
 The door opens suddenly; COUNTESS MILISHEVSKI rushes in. 
 
 COUNTESS. Jean ! where is my Jean ? O God, what 
 is happening ! What a ghastliness ! 
 
 DOCTOR (running up to her quickly}. Be silent, Countess. 
 
 STELLA. What has happened ? 
 
 COUNTESS. Then it was not thou who killed Pretvits ? 
 It was not thou who fought the duel ? 
 
 DOCTOR. Silence, Countess. 
 
 STELLA. Who is killed ? 
 
 COUNTESS. Then was it Dragomir? Stella dear, 
 Dragomir has killed Pretvits. 
 
 STELLA. Killed 1 O God ! God ! What has hap- 
 pened ? 
 
 DOCTOR. Princess, this is not true ! 
 
 STELLA. Killed ? (She staggers and falls.) 
 
 DOCTOR. She has fainted. Let us carry her to her 
 chamber. 
 
 PRINCE. My child ! 
 
 PANI CHESKI. Stella dear ! 
 
 [The PRINCE and DOCTOR carry STELLA out; the 
 COUNTESS and PANI CHESKI follow them. 
 
 YAN (alone}. Oh, this is ghastly ! I sent mother pur- 
 posely to the city ; who could have expected that she 
 would return ? (The COUNTESS appears in the door.) 
 Mamma, how is the Princess ? 
 
 COUNTESS. The doctor is examining her. She has 
 not regained consciousness. Jean, let us go from here. 
 
 YAN (in despair). I will not go from here. Why did 
 you come hack from the city ?
 
 252 ON A SINGLE CARD. 
 
 COUNTESS. For thee. This is election day, hast 
 forgotten ? 
 
 YAN. I have no wish to be a deputy ! Why did 
 mamma tell of Pretvits' death ? 
 
 SCENE IX. 
 The same, YOZVOVICH. 
 
 THE COUNTESS and YAN (together). What has hap- 
 pened there ? What ? 
 
 DOCTOR. There is nothing more to be done, all is 
 over! (They are ringing the chapel bell.) 
 
 YAN (in terror). What is this ? Ringing the chapel 
 bell! 
 (YozvoviCH comes to the front of the stage and sits down.) 
 
 SCENE X. 
 The same, PODCHASKI. 
 
 PODCHASKI (rushes in on a sudden). Victory along the 
 whole line ! The deputation is here 1 ( Voices behind the 
 stage. " Long life to him ! " " Long life to him ! ") He 
 has won ! Long life to him ! 
 
 DOCTOR. I have lost dreadfully. 
 
 END.
 
 YANKO THE MUSICIAN.
 
 YANKO THE MUSICIAN. 
 
 IT came into the world frail, weak. The gossips, who 
 had gathered around the plank bed of the sick 
 woman, shook their heads over mother and child. The 
 wife of Simon the blacksmith, who was the wisest among 
 them, began to console the sick woman. 
 
 " Let me," said she, " light a blessed candle above you. 
 Nothing will come of you, my gossip ; you must prepare 
 for the other world now, and send for the priest to 
 absolve you from your sins." 
 
 " Yes ! " said another, " but the boy must be christened 
 this minute : he cannot wait for the priest. It is well 
 even to stop him from becoming a vampire." 
 
 So saying, she lighted the blessed candle, and taking 
 the child sprinkled him with water till his eyes blinked ; 
 and then she said, 
 
 " I baptize thee in the name of the Father, Son, and 
 Holy Ghost. I give thee Yan as name ; and now, Chris- 
 tian soul, go to the place whence thou earnest. Amen 1 " 
 But the Christian soul had no wish whatever to go to 
 the place whence it came and leave its lean little body. 
 It began to kick with the legs of that body as far as it 
 was able, and to cry, though so weakly and pitifully that, 
 as the gossips said, " One would think 't is a kitten ; 't is 
 not a kitten, what is it ? " 
 
 They sent for the priest ; he came, he did his duty, he 
 
 went his way, the sick woman grew better. In a week 
 
 she went out to her work. The little boy barely " puled," 
 
 still, he puled on till in the fourth year the cuckoo
 
 256 YANKO THE MUSICIAN. 
 
 brought him sickness in spring; but, he recovered, and 
 with some kind of health reached the tenth year of his 
 life. 
 
 He was always lean and sunburnt, with bloated stomach 
 and sunken cheeks ; he had a forelock of hemp color 
 almost white and falling over clear, staring eyes, which 
 looked at the world as if gazing into some immense dis- 
 tance. In winter he used to sit behind the stove and cry 
 silently from cold, and from hunger too, at times when his 
 mother had nothing to put into the stove or the pot. Dur- 
 ing summer he went around in a shirt, with a strip of cloth 
 for a belt, and a straw hat, from beneath the torn brim 
 of which he looked with head peering upward like a bird. 
 His mother, a poor lodger, living from day to day, like a 
 sparrow under a stranger's roof, loved him perhaps in her 
 own way ; but she flogged him often enough and called 
 him " giddy-head " generally. In the eighth year of his life 
 he went to herd cattle, or, when there was nothing to eat 
 in the cottage, to the pine woods for mushrooms. It was 
 through the compassion of God that a wolf did not eat 
 him. 
 
 He was a very dull little fellow, and, like village chil- 
 dren, when spoken to put his finger in his mouth. People 
 did not even promise that he would grow up, and still less 
 that his mother could expect any good from him, for he 
 was a poor hand at work. It is unknown whence such 
 a creature could have come ; but he was eager for one 
 thing, music. He listened to it everywhere, and when 
 he had grown up a little he thought of nothing else. 
 He would go to the woods for the cattle, or with a two- 
 handled basket for berries, but would come home without 
 berries and say, stammering, 
 
 " Mamma, something was playing in the woods. Oi ! 
 oil"
 
 YANKO THE MUSICIAN. 257 
 
 And the mother would say, " I '11 play for thee, never 
 fear!" 
 
 And in fact she made music for him, sometimes with 
 the poker. The boy screamed and promised that he 
 would not do it again, and still he was thinking, " Some- 
 thing is playing out there in the woods." What was it, 
 did he know ? Pines, beeches, golden orioles, all were 
 playing, the whole forest was playing, and that was 
 the end of it ! 
 
 The echo, too ! In the field the artemisia played for 
 him ; in the garden near, the sparrows twittered till the 
 cherry-trees were trembling. In the evening he heard all 
 the voices that were in the village, and thought to him- 
 self that surely the whole village was playing. When 
 they sent him to work to spread manure, even then the 
 wind played on the fork-tines. 
 
 The overseer caught him once standing with dishevelled 
 forelock and listening to the wind on the wooden tines ; 
 he looked at the little fellow, unbuckled his own leather 
 belt, and gave him a good keepsake. But what use in 
 that ? People called the boy " Yanko the musician." In 
 the springtime he ran away from the house to make 
 whistles near the river. In the night, when the frogs 
 were croaking, the land-rail calling in the meadows, the 
 bittern screaming in the dew, the cocks crowing behind 
 the wicker fences, he could not sleep, he did nothing 
 but listen ; and God alone knows what he heard in that 
 playing. His mother could not take him to church, for 
 as soon as the organ began to roar or the choir sang in 
 sweet voices, the child's eyes were covered with mist, and 
 were as if not looking forth out of this world. 
 
 The village policeman who walked through the place at 
 night and counted stars in the sky to keep from sleeping, 
 or conversed in a low voice with the dogs, saw more than 
 
 17
 
 258 YANKO THE MUSICIAN. 
 
 once the white shirt of Yanko stealing along in the dark 
 toward the public house. But the boy was not going to 
 the public house, only to a spot near it. There he would 
 cower at the wall and listen. The people were dancing 
 the obertas ; at times some young fellow would cry, 
 " U-ha ! " The stamping of boots was heard ; then the 
 querying voices of girls, " What ? " The fiddles sang in 
 low tones, "We will eat, we will drink, we shall be 
 merry ; " and the bass viol accompanied in a deep voice, 
 with importance, " As God gave ! As God gave ! " The 
 windows were gleaming with life, and every beam in the 
 house seemed to tremble, singing and playing also ; but 
 Yanko was listening. 
 
 How much would he give to have such a fiddle playing 
 thinly, " We will eat, we will drink and be merry " ! 
 Such singing bits of wood ! But from what place could 
 he get them, where were they made ? If some one 
 would just let him hold such a thing in his hand even 
 once ! How could that be ? He was only free to listen, 
 and then to listen only till the voice of the watchman 
 was heard behind him in the darkness, 
 
 " Wilt thou go home, little devil ? " 
 
 Then he fled away home in his bare feet, but in the 
 darkness behind him ran the voice of the fiddle, "We 
 will eat, we will drink, we shall be merry," and the deep 
 voice of the bass, "As God gave ! As God gave ! As 
 God gave ! " 
 
 Whenever he could hear a fiddle at a harvest-home or 
 some wedding, it was a great holiday for him. After that 
 he went behind the stove and said nothing for whole 
 days, looking like a cat in the dark with gleaming eyes.y 
 Then he made himself a fiddle out of a shingle and some 
 horsehair, but it would not play beautifully like that one 
 in the public house, it sounded low, very low, just like
 
 YANKO THE MUSICIAN. 259 
 
 mice of some kind, or gnats. He played on it however 
 from morning till evening ; though for doing that he got 
 so many cuffs that at last he looked like a pinched, unripe 
 apple. But such was his nature. The poor child became 
 thinner and thinner, only he had always a big stomach ; 
 his forelock grew thicker and thicker, and his eyes opened 
 more and more widely, though filled oftener with tears ; 
 but his cheeks and his breast fell in more and more. 
 
 He was not like other children at all ; he was rather 
 like that shingle fiddle of his, which hardly made a 
 noise. Besides, he was suffering from hunger before 
 harvest, for he lived mainly on raw carrots, and the 
 wish to have a fiddle. But that wish did not turn out 
 well for Yanko. 
 
 At the mansion the lackey had a fiddle and he played 
 on it sometimes at twilight to please the waiting-maid. 
 Yanko crept up at times among the burdocks as far as the 
 open door of the pantry to gaze at the fiddle. It hung 
 on the wall opposite the door ; the boy would send his 
 whole soul out through his eyes to it, for it seemed to 
 him that that was some unattainable object, which he 
 was unworthy 'to touch, that that was some kind of 
 dearest love of his. Still he wanted it. He would like 
 to have it in his hand at least one time, to look at it 
 near by. The poor little fellow's heart quivered with 
 happiness at the thought. 
 
 A certain night there was no one in the pantry. Their 
 lordships had been in foreign countries for some time, 
 the house was empty, the lackey was at the other side 
 with the waiting-maid. Yanko, lurking in the burdocks, 
 had been looking for a long time through the broad door 
 at the object of all his desires. The moon in the sky was 
 full, and shone in with sloping rays through the pantry 
 window, which it reflected in the form of a great quad-
 
 260 YANKO THE MUSICIAN. 
 
 rangle on the opposite wall. The quadrangle approached 
 the fiddle gradually and at last illuminated every bit of 
 the instrument. At that time it seemed in the dark 
 depth as if a silver light shone from the fiddle, espe- 
 cially the plump bends in it were lighted so strongly 
 that Yanko could barely look at them. In that light 
 everything was perfectly visible, the sides with incis- 
 ions, the strings, and the bent handle. The pegs in it 
 gleamed like fireflies, and at its side hung the bow which 
 seemed a rod of silver. 
 
 Ah, all was beautiful and almost enchanted ; and Yanko 
 looked more and more greedily. He was crouched in the 
 burdocks, with his elbows pressed on his lean knees ; 
 with open eyes he looked and looked. Now terror held 
 him to the spot, now a certain unconquerable desire 
 pushed him forward. Was that some enchantment, or 
 w r hat ? But the fiddle in the bright light seemed some- 
 times to approach, as it were to float toward the boy. At 
 times it grew darker, to shine up again still more. En- 
 chantment, clearly enchantment ! Then the breeze blew ; 
 the trees rustled quietly, there was a noise in the bur- 
 docks, and Yanko heard, as it were, distinctly, 
 
 " Go, Yanko, there is no one in the pantry ; go, 
 Yanko ! " 
 
 The night was clear, bright. In the garden a nightin- 
 gale began to sing and whistled with a low voice, then 
 louder, " Go ! go in ! take it." An honest wood-owl 
 turned in flight around the child's head, and cried, 
 " Yanko, no ! no ! " The owl flew away, but the nightin- 
 gale and the burdocks muttered more distinctly, " There 
 is no one inside ! " The fiddle shone again. 
 
 The poor little bent figure pushed forward slowly and 
 carefully ; meanwhile the nightingale was whistling in a 
 a very low voice, " Go ! go in ! take it ! "
 
 YANKO THE MUSICIAN. 261 
 
 The white shirt appeared nearer and nearer to the 
 pantry. The dark burdocks covered it no longer. On 
 the threshold of the pantry was to be heard quick breath- 
 ing from the weak breast of the child. A moment more 
 the white shirt has vanished ; there is only one naked 
 foot outside the threshold. In vain, O wood-owl, dost 
 thou fly once again and cry, " No ! no ! " Yanko is in 
 the pantry. 
 
 The great frogs began to croak in the garden pond, as 
 if frightened, but afterward grew silent. The nightingale 
 ceased to sing, the burdocks to rustle. Meanwhile Yanko 
 crept along silently and carefully, but all at once fear 
 seized him. In the burdocks he felt at home, like a 
 wild beast in a thicket ; but now he was like a wild 
 beast in a trap. His movements became hurried, 
 his breath short and whistling ; at the same time, dark- 
 ness seized hold of him. A quiet summer lightning 
 flashed between east and west, and lighted up once 
 more the interior of the pantry, and Yanko on all fours 
 with his head turned upward. But the lightning was 
 quenched, a small cloud hid the moon, and nothing was 
 to be seen or heard. 
 
 After a while a sound came out from the darkness, 
 very low and complaining, as if some one had touched 
 strings unguardedly, and on a sudden some rough, drowsy 
 voice, coming out of the corner of the pantry, asked 
 angrily, - 
 
 " Who is there ? " 
 
 Yanko held his breath in his breast, but the rude voice 
 inquires again, 
 
 " Who is there ? " 
 
 A match became visible on the wall ; there was a light, 
 and then Oh, my God ! curses, blows, tho wailing of a 
 child, and crying " Oh, for God's sake ! " the barking of
 
 262 YANKO THE MUSICIAN. 
 
 dogs, moving of lights behind the window, a noise through 
 the whole building ! 
 
 The next day Yanko stood before the tribunal of the 
 village mayor. 
 
 Was he to be tried as a criminal ? Of course ! The 
 mayor and councilrnen looked at him as he stood before 
 them with his finger in his mouth, with staring and terri- 
 fied eyes, small, poor, starved, beaten, not knowing where 
 he was or what they wanted of him. How judge such 
 a poor little misery, who was ten years of age, and barely 
 able to stand on his legs ? Send him to prison, how 
 help it ? Still it was necessary to have some small 
 mercy on children. Let the policeman take him and 
 give him a flogging, so that he won't steal a second time, 
 and that's the whole business. 
 
 It was indeed ! 
 
 They called Stah, who was the village police. 
 
 " Take him and give him something for a keepsake." 
 
 Stah nodded his dull beastlike head, thrust Yanko 
 under his arm as he would a cat, and took him out to the 
 barn. The child, whether he failed to understand what 
 the question was, or whether he was frightened 't is 
 enough that he uttered not a syllable ; he merely stared 
 like a bird. Did he know what they were doing with him ? 
 Only when Stah took the handful to the stable, stretched 
 it on the ground, and raising the shirt from it struck a 
 full blow, only then did Yanko scream, " Mamma ! " and 
 as long as Stah flogged him he cried, " Mamma ! mamma ! " 
 but always lower and weaker, until after a certain blow 
 the child called mamma no longer. 
 
 The poor broken fiddle ! 
 
 Ai, stupid, angry Stah, who beats children that way ? 
 Besides, this one is small and weak, hardly living. 
 
 The mother carne, took the little boy, but she had to
 
 YANKO THE MUSICIAN. 263 
 
 carry him home. The next day Yanko did not rise from 
 the bed, and the third day, in the evening, he died quietly 
 on the plank cot under hemp matting. 
 
 The swallows were twittering in the cherry-tree which 
 grew at the cottage ; the rays of the sun entered in through 
 the window pane and colored with the brightness of gold 
 the dishevelled hair of the little boy and his face in 
 which not one drop of blood remained. That ray was as 
 it were a road upon which the soul of the boy was to 
 go away. It was well that it went by a broad shin- 
 ing road in the moment of death, for during life it went 
 on a thorny one, truly. Meanwhile the emaciated breast 
 moved with another breath, and the face of the child 
 was as if absorbed in listening to the sounds of the village 
 which came in through the open window. It was even- 
 ing, so the girls coming back from hay-making were 
 singing, " Oi, on the green field ! " and from the stream 
 came the playing of pipes. Yanko listened for the last 
 time to the sounds of the village. On the matting lay 
 the shingle fiddle at his side. 
 
 All at once the face of the dying boy lighted up, 
 and from his whitening lips came out the whisper 
 " Mamma ! " 
 
 " What, my son ? " answered the mother, whom tears 
 were choking. 
 
 " Mamma, will the Lord God give me a real fiddle in 
 heaven ? " 
 
 " He will, my son, He will give thee one," answered the 
 mother ; but she could speak no longer, for suddenly in 
 her hard breast burst the gathering sorrow, and groaning 
 only, " Jesus ! O Jesus ! " she fell with her face on a 
 box, and began to wail as if she had lost her reason, or as 
 a man wails who sees that he cannot wrest the beloved 
 one from death.
 
 264 YANKO THE MUSICIAN. 
 
 In fact, she did not wrest him ; for when she raised 
 herself again she looked at the child. The eyes of the 
 little musician were open, it is true, but fixed ; his face 
 was very dignified, gloomy, and rigid. The ray of the 
 sun had gone also. 
 
 Peace to thee, Yanko. 
 
 On the second day the master and mistress of the 
 mansion returned to their residence from Italy, with their 
 daughter and the cavalier who was paying court to her 
 The cavalier said, 
 
 " Quel beau pays que 1'Italie 1 " 
 
 " And what a people of artists ! On est heureux de 
 chercher la-bas des talents et de les prote'ger," added the 
 young lady. 
 
 The birches were murmuring above Yanko.
 
 BARTEK THE VICTOR.
 
 BARTER THE VICTOR 
 I. 
 
 MY hero was Bartek Slovik ; 1 but since he had the 
 habit of staring when any one spoke to him, his 
 neighbors called him Bartek the Starer. In truth he had 
 little in common with the nightingale ; on the contrary, 
 his mental qualities and his real Homeric simplicity 
 gained for him the nickname of Bartek the Stupid. The 
 last name was the most popular, and without doubt is 
 the only one that will pass into history, though Bartek 
 had a fourth, an official name. Since the Polish words 
 " chlovyek " 2 and " slovik " present no difference to the 
 German ear, and since the Germans love to translate, in 
 the name of civilization, barbarous Slav names into a 
 more cultured language, the following conversation took 
 place in its time while they were registering the army 
 list : 
 
 " What is thy name ? " asked the officer of Bartek. 
 
 " Slovik." 
 
 "Shloik? Ach, ja! Gut)" 
 
 And the officer wrote down, " Mensch " (man). 
 
 Bartek came from the village of Pognembin ; there are 
 
 1 Slovik means in Polish " nightingale." 
 
 3 Chlovyek (czlowiek) means "man." Owing to German in- 
 capacity to distinguish Slav sounds, the officer confounds the 
 word which means nightingale with that which means man, and 
 translates Slovik, nightingale, Batek's name, into Mensch, the 
 German word for man.
 
 268 BARTEK THE VICTOR. 
 
 very many villages of that name in the Principality of 
 Poznan, and in other lands of the former Commonwealth. 
 Besides his land, cottage, and two cows he had a pied 
 horse, and a wife Magda. Thanks to such a concurrence 
 of circumstances, he could live quietly and according to 
 the wisdom contained in the following lines : 
 
 " A horse a pied one, and a wife Magda, 
 What God is to give He will give anyway." 
 
 In fact, his life arranged itself completely as God gave, 
 and when God gave war Bartek was grieved not a little. 
 Notice came that he must join the regiment ; he had to 
 go from his cottage and land, and leave everything to the 
 care of the woman. The people in Pognembin were on 
 the whole poor enough. Bartek used to go to the mill to 
 work in winter, and in that way helped his housekeeping ; 
 but what now? Who knows when the war with the 
 French will be over ? When Magda read the ticket of 
 summons, she began to curse : " May they may they be 
 blinded ! Though thou art stupid, Bartek, I am sorry to 
 lose thee ; the French, too, will not let thee pass ; they 
 will cut thy head off, or something." 
 
 Bartek felt that his wife spoke truly. He feared the 
 French like fire, and besides he was sorry to go. What 
 had the French done to him ? Why go to that terrible, 
 strange land, where there was not one soul friendly 
 to him? In Pognembin life had seemed neither this 
 nor that, nothing in particular; but when they com- 
 manded him to go, he saw for the first time that, people 
 might say what they liked, but it was better in Pognem- 
 bin than anywhere else. There was no help though 
 such was his fate, he had to go. 
 
 Bartek embraced his wife, his ten-year old Franek; 
 then he spat, made the sign of the cross, went out of the
 
 BARTEK THE VICTOR. 269 
 
 cottage, and Magda after him. They did not part with an 
 overflow of feeling. She and the boy sobbed. Bartek 
 repeated, " Now be quiet, now," and they found themselves 
 on the road. There they saw that the same visitation 
 had met all Pognembin. The whole village had come 
 out ; the road was crowded with men summoned to the war. 
 They were going to the railroad station, and women, chil- 
 dren, old men, and dogs were accompanying them. The 
 hearts of the summoned men were heavy. Pipes were 
 hanging from the mouths of only a few of the younger 
 ones ; some were already drunk, to begin with ; some were 
 singing, with hoarse voices, 
 
 " Skrynetski's hands and gold rings 
 Will not wield a sabre at the war." 
 
 A few Germans, too, of the Pognembin colonists were 
 singing from fear " Die Wacht am Ehein." All that 
 crowd, motley and many-colored, with the glittering 
 bayonets of police in the midst of it, was pushing forward 
 along the fences with cries, uproar, and hustling. The 
 women were holding their " soldier-boys " by the neck, 
 and weeping; one old woman, showing a yellow tooth, 
 shook her fist at something in space ; another was 
 cursing, " May the Lord God pay you for our tears ! " 
 Cries were heard of " Franek ! Kasek ! Jozek ! farewell ! " 
 Dogs are barking. The bell on the church is ringing. 
 The parish priest is reading prayers for the dying, for 
 not all who are going to the station will return from 
 it. War takes them all, but war will not give them all 
 back. The ploughs are rusting in the furrows, for Pog- 
 nembin has declared war against France. Pognembin 
 cannot recognize the preponderance of Napoleon III., and 
 takes the cause of the Spanish succession to heart. The 
 sound of the bell conducts the crowd, which has come
 
 270 BARTER THE VICTOR 
 
 out already from between the fences. Figures pass; caps 
 and helmets fly from heads. A golden dust rises on the 
 road, for the day is dry and sunny. On both sides of 
 the way the ripening grain rustles with heavy head, and 
 bends beneath the light breeze, which blows mildly at 
 intervals. In the blue sky the larks are soaring and 
 singing as if they had gone mad. 
 
 The station ! The crowds are still greater. At the 
 station are men summoned from Upper Kryvda, Lower 
 Kryvda, from Vyvlashchyntse, from Nyedolya, from 
 Mizerov. Movement, noise, disorder ! The walls of the 
 station are covered with proclamations. War is present, 
 " in the name of God and the Fatherland." The Land- 
 wehr will go to protect their native homes, their wives, 
 their children, their cottages, and fields. The French, it 
 is clear, hold Pognembin in special hatred, as well as Upper 
 Kryvda, Lower Kryvda, Vyvlashchyntse, Nyedolya, and 
 Mizerov. It seems so at least to those who read the proc- 
 lamations. New crowds are coming to the front of the 
 station. In the hall the smoke of pipes fills the air and 
 hides the proclamations. In the uproar it is difficult for 
 people to understand one another; everything is moving, 
 shouting, screaming. On the platform are heard German 
 commands, the strong words of which have a peremptory, 
 brief, firm sound. 
 
 A bell is heard, a whistle ! from a distance comes the 
 violent breath of the engine, every moment nearer, 
 clearer. It seems the war itself is approaching in person. 
 
 A second bell. A quiver runs through every breast. 
 Some woman screams, " Yadom, Yadom ! " Evidently she 
 is calling her Adam. But other women catch up the 
 word, and cry, " Yadan, Yadan ! " (they are coming). Some 
 voice more shrill than others adds, " Frantsuzy yadan ! " 
 (the French are coming ! ) and in the twinkle of an eye a
 
 BARTER THE VICTOR. 271 
 
 panic seizes not only the women but the future heroes 
 of Sedan. The crowd is stirred up. Meanwhile the 
 train has stopped at the station. In all the windows 
 uniforms and caps with red bands are visible. The troops 
 are apparently as numerous as ants. In coal-cars sullen, 
 long-bodied cannon seem black ; on platforms a forest of 
 bayonets is bristling. Evidently command has been 
 given the soldiers to sing, for the whole train is just 
 quivering from their strong, manly voices. A certain 
 power and might issues from that train which is so long 
 that its end is out of sight. 
 
 On the platform they are beginning to marshal the re- 
 cruits ; whoever has the chance takes farewell once again. 
 Bartek, waving his paws like the wings of a wind-mill 
 thrusts out his eyes. 
 
 " Now, Magda, farewell ! " 
 
 " Oi, my poor fellow ! " 
 
 " Thou wilt see me no more ! " 
 
 " I shall see thee no more ! " 
 
 " There is no help of any kind ! " 
 
 " May the Mother of God guard and save thee ! " 
 
 " Farewell ! keep the cottage." 
 
 The woman caught him by the neck, with weeping. 
 
 " May God go with thee." 
 
 The last moment has come. For a while the whining 
 and weeping, and lamenting of women drown every- 
 thing. " Farewell ! Farewell ! " But now the soldiers 
 are separated from the crowd ; they are already a dark, 
 dense mass which forms into squares and rectangles, 
 and moves with the regularity and precision of a ma- 
 chine. The command comes, " Seats ! " The squares 
 and rectangles break in the centre, move toward the cars 
 in narrow lines, and vanish inside them. In the distance 
 the engine whistles, and puffs forth rolls of blue smoke.
 
 272 BARTEK THE VICTOR. 
 
 Now it pants like a dragon, and ejects streams of vapor. 
 The lamentation of women reaches the highest pitch. 
 Some cover their eyes with their aprons ; others stretch 
 their hands toward the cars. With sobbing voices they 
 repeat the names of their husbands and sons. 
 
 " Farewell, Bartek ! " cries Magda from below ; " and go 
 not where thou 'rt not sent. May the Mother of God 
 Farewell ! God help us ! " 
 
 " But take care of the cottage ! " calls Bartek. 
 
 The line quivers suddenly ; the cars strike one another, 
 and move. 
 
 " But remember that thou hast a wife and a child ! " 
 screams Magda, running after the train. " Farewell, in the 
 name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. Farewell ! " 
 
 The train moves with increasing rapidity, bearing waj- 
 riors from Pognembin, from both Kryvdas, from Nyedolya, 
 and Mizerov. 
 
 II. 
 
 ON one side, Magda is returning to Pognembin with a 
 crowd of women, and crying ; on the other, the train is 
 rushing forth into the blue distance, bristling with bayo- 
 nets, and on it is Bartek. The end of the blue distance 
 is not to be seen. Pognembin is barely visible. One 
 poplar-tree stands there looking gray, and the church- 
 tower shines in gold, for the sun is playing on it. Soon 
 the poplar has vanished, and the golden cross seems 
 a mere shining point. While that point was shining, 
 Bartek gazed at it; but when it also vanished, there 
 was no end to the man's sorrow. A great faintness 
 seized him, and he felt that he was lost. He began then 
 to look at the corporal, for besides God there was no one 
 else above him. What will happen now to him ? The
 
 BARTEK THE VICTOR. 273 
 
 corporal's head is there to answer that question. Bartek 
 himself knows nothing, understands nothing. The cor- 
 poral sits on a bench, holds his musket, and smokes a 
 pipe. The smoke, as if a cloud, shades every little while 
 his serious and anxious face. Not Bartek's eyes alone 
 are looking on that face ; all eyes are looking on it from 
 every corner of the car. In Pognembin or Kryvda every 
 Bartek or Voitek is his own master ; each must think of 
 himself for himself; but now the corporal is there for 
 that purpose. If he commands them to look toward the 
 right, they look toward the right ; if he commands them 
 to look toward the left, they look toward the left. Each 
 one asks him with a glance, " Well, what will happen to 
 us ? " and he himself knows as much as they, and would 
 be glad also if a superior were to give him command or 
 explanation in this regard. Besides, the men are afraid 
 to ask in words, for it is war time, with the complete 
 apparatus of courts-martial. What is permitted and 
 what not is unknown, at least to them; and they are 
 alarmed by the sound of expressions such as " Kriegs- 
 gericht " (court-martial), which they do not understand 
 well, but fear all the more. 
 
 At the same time they feel that this corporal is more 
 needful to them now than at the manoeuvres near Poz- 
 nan, for he is the only one who knows everything, he 
 thinks for them ; and without him not a stir. Mean- 
 while the musket has grown burdensome to the corporal, 
 for he throws it to Bartek to hold. Bartek seizes the gun 
 hurriedly, holds his breath, stares and looks at the corporal 
 as at a rainbow ; but he gains little comfort from that. 
 
 Oi ! there must be bad news, for the corporal looks as 
 if taken from a cross. At the stations there are songs 
 and shouting ; the corporal commands, hurries about, 
 scolds, so as to exhibit himself to his superiors ; but when 
 
 18
 
 274 BARTEK THE VICTOR. 
 
 the train moves, all are silent, and so is he. For him, 
 too, the world has two sides at present, one clear and 
 understandable, that is his cottage, his wife, and the 
 feather-bed ; the other, dark, perfectly dark, that is 
 France and the war. His ardor, like the ardor of the 
 whole army, would be glad to borrow its gait from the 
 crab. Their courage stirred the warriors of Pognembin 
 the more evidently that it was sitting not in them, but 
 on their shoulders. And since every soldier carried a 
 knapsack, a cloak, and other military baggage, they all 
 were uneasy. 
 
 Meanwhile the train roared, snorted, and flew into the 
 distance. At every station new cars and engines were 
 attached. At every station they saw only helmets, can- 
 non, horses, the bayonets of infantry, and the flags of 
 Ulans. A clear evening came down gradually. The sun 
 lost its rays in a purple twilight ; high in the heavens 
 droves of light small clouds were moving with edges 
 darkened by the sunset. The train ceased at last to take 
 people at the stations ; it only rattled, and flew farther 
 into that redness as into a sea of blood. From the open 
 car in which Bartek was sitting with the men of Pog- 
 nembin, they saw villages, settlements, and towns, the 
 towers on the churches, storks bent like hooks, stand- 
 ing on one leg at their nests, single cottages, cherry- 
 gardens, all gleamed in passing, and all were red. The 
 soldiers began to whisper to one another, the more boldly 
 that the corporal, having put his knapsack under his 
 head, had fallen asleep, with his porcelain pipe between 
 his teeth. Voitek Gvizdala, a man from Pognembin, sit- 
 ting next to Bartek, pushed him with his elbow, 
 
 " Bartek, but listen ! " 
 
 Bartek turned his face toward him, with anxious star- 
 ing eyes.
 
 BARTER THE VICTOR 275 
 
 " Why look like a calf going to the slaughter ? " whis- 
 pered Voitek ; " and thou, poor fellow, art going surely 
 to the slaughter." 
 
 " Oi, oi ! " groaned Bartek. 
 
 " Art afraid ? " asked Voitek. 
 
 " Why should n't I be afraid ? " 
 
 The twilight had become ruddier. Voitek stretched 
 his hand toward it, and whispered on, 
 
 " Seest thou that brightness ? Know'st, stupid fellow, 
 what that is ? That is blood. This is Poland, our coun- 
 try. Dost understand ? But there, far away where it 
 shines so, that is France." 
 
 " But shall we get there soon ? " 
 
 " Art in a hurry ? They say 't is terribly far away. 
 But never fear : the French will come to meet us." 
 
 Bartek began to work heavily with his Pognembin 
 head; after a while he asked, 
 
 " Voitek ! " 
 
 " What ? " 
 
 "Well, for example, what kind of people are the 
 French?" 
 
 Here Voitek's learning saw on a sudden in front of it 
 an abyss into which it might plunge head-foremost more 
 easily than fly back again. He knew that the French 
 are French. He had heard something about them 
 from older men, who said that they always conquered 
 everybody ; finally, he knew that they are some kind of 
 very foreign people ; but how was he to explain this to 
 Bartek so that he might know how foreign they are ? 
 First of all he repeated the question, 
 
 " What kind of people are they ? " 
 
 " That 's it." 
 
 Three nations were known to Voitek : in the middle 
 were the Poles ; on one side the " Moskale " (Muscovites) ;
 
 276 BARTEK THE VICTOR 
 
 on the other, the Germans, - but various kinds of Ger- 
 mans. Preferring to be clear rather than accurate, he 
 said, 
 
 " What kind of people are the French ? How can I 
 tell thee ? they are just such Germans, only worse." 
 
 And Bartek in answer to that : " Oh, the carrion ! " 
 
 Hitherto he had had only one feeling touching the 
 French, a feeling of indescribable fear ; now that Prus- 
 sian Landwehrmann began to feel toward them a rather 
 distinct patriotic dislike. Still he did not understand it 
 all clearly yet ; hence he inquired again, 
 
 " But will Germans fight against Germans ? " 
 
 Here Voitek, like a second Socrates, determined to 
 proceed by the method of comparison, and answered, 
 
 " But does not thy Lysek fight with my Burek ? " 
 
 Bartek opened his mouth, and looked awhile at his 
 master, 
 
 "Oh, that. is true." 
 
 "Besides, the Austrians are Germans," said Voitek; 
 " and have not our people fought with them ? Old 
 Sversch said that when he was at the war, Steinmetz 
 shouted to them, ' Forward, boys, against the Germans ! ' 
 But it won't be so easy with the French !" 
 
 " Oh, for God's sake ! " 
 
 "The French have never lost a war. The man that 
 they catch cannot get away, never fear. Every man of 
 them is equal to two or three on our side ; and they have 
 beards like Jews. Sometimes they are as black as the 
 Devil. At sight of such people commit thyself to God." 
 
 "Well, but why do we go against them?" asked 
 Bartek, in desperation. 
 
 That philosophic question was not so stupid as it 
 seemed to Voitek, who, under the evident influence of 
 official inspiration, hastened with an answer,
 
 BARTEK THE VICTOR. 277 
 
 " I should rather not go against them. But if we don't 
 go to them they '11 come here. There is no help for it. 
 Hast thou read what was printed ? They hate our men 
 terribly. People say that they are so hungry for the 
 land here because they want to smuggle vodka out of the 
 kingdom, and the Government will not let them ; and 
 that 's the cause of the war. Well, dost understand ? " 
 
 " Why should n't I understand ? " said Bartek, with 
 resignation. 
 
 Voitek continued, " And they are as greedy for women 
 as a dog for cheese." 
 
 " In that case they would n't let Magda pass ? " 
 
 " They would n't let even old women pass." 
 
 " Oh ! " cried Bartek, in such a tone as if he wished to 
 say, "If that is true I '11 fight ! " 
 
 And, in fact, it seemed to him that that was too much. 
 Let them smuggle vodka from the kingdom, if they like ; 
 but let them keep away from Magda. Now my Bartek 
 began to look on the whole war from the point of view 
 of his own interest, and to feel a certain consolation in 
 the thought that so many troops and cannon were moving 
 forward to defend Magda, who was threatened by the 
 seductions of the French. His fists were clinched invol- 
 untarily, and fear of the French was mingled in his mind 
 with hatred of them. He came to the conviction that 
 there was no escape ; it was necessary to go. 
 
 Meanwhile the brightness of the sky had vanished. It 
 was dark. The car, moving on rails of unequal elevation, 
 began to sway greatly, and, in keeping with its motion, 
 the helmets and bayonets nodded to the left and the 
 right. 
 
 One hour passed, and a second. From the engine 
 were showered millions of sparks, which crossed one 
 another in the darkness like long golden streaks and
 
 278 BARTER THE VICTOR. 
 
 small serpents. Bartek was unable to sleep for a long 
 time. As those sparks shot through the air, so did 
 thoughts in his mind touching the war, Magda, Pognem- 
 bin, the French, and the Germans. It seemed to him 
 that even had he wished he could not raise himself from 
 the bench on which he was sitting. He fell asleep ; but 
 with an unwholesome half-sleep. Immediately visions 
 flew to him ; first of all he saw his Lysek fighting his 
 neighbor's Burek, till the dogs' hearts were flying in 
 them. He grasps after his stick to stop them, but sees 
 all at once something else : at Magda's side a Frenchman 
 is sitting, black as the holy earth ; and the satisfied 
 Magda is laughing, and showing her teeth. Other French- 
 men are sneering at Bartek, and pointing at him. Of 
 course it is the engine puffing; but it seems to him 
 the Frenchmen are calling, " Magda ! Magda ! Magda ! " 
 Bartek screams, " Shut your snouts, you scoundrels ! let the 
 woman go ! " But they cry, " Magda ! Magda ! Magda ! " 
 Lysek and Burek are barking ; all Pognembin is shouting, 
 " Don't give up the woman ! " Is Bartek tied, or what ? 
 He struggles, pulls, his fetters break. Bartek seizes the 
 Frenchmen by the head, and all at once 
 
 All at once he is shaken by a violent pain as from a 
 heavy blow. Bartek wakes and springs to his feet. The 
 whole car is roused. All ask what has happened. But 
 poor Bartek has caught the corporal by the beard. 
 Now he is standing erect as a post, two fingers at his 
 temple, and the officer is waving his hand, and shouting 
 as if mad, 
 
 " Ach Sie ! Dumrnes Vieh aus der Polakei ! Hau' ich 
 den Luinmel in die Fresse, das ihm die Zahne sektionen- 
 weise aus dem Maule herausfliegen werden ! [Oh, stupid 
 beast from Poland ! I will whack the clown in the snout 
 so that the teeth will fly out of his mouth in sections !] "
 
 BARTEK THE VICTOR. 279 
 
 The corporal is hoarse from rage ; but Bartek stands 
 unmoved, with his fingers at his temple. The soldiers 
 are biting their lips so as not to laugh ; but they are 
 afraid, for out of the corporal's mouth are falling yet 
 the last arrows : " Ein polnischer Ochse ! Ochse aus 
 Podolien ! (Polish ox, ox from Podolia !) " 
 
 At last everything is quiet. Bartek sits down on 
 his old place again. He feels that his cheeks begin to 
 tingle somehow, and the engine as if in spite repeats 
 continually : 
 
 " Magda ! Magda ! Magda ! " 
 
 He felt also some kind of great sorrow. 
 
 III. 
 
 MORNING! A scattered pale light shines on faces 
 which are sleepy and weary from lack of rest. The 
 soldiers are sleeping on the bench, without order ; some 
 with their heads on their breasts, others with their heads 
 dropped back. The morning comes, and fills the whole 
 world with rosy light. It is fresh and wholesome. The 
 soldiers wake up. The bright morning brings out of 
 shadow and mist a certain country unknown to them. 
 Hei ! but where now is Pognembin, where Upper and 
 Lower Kryvda, where Mizerov ? Here it is strange, and 
 everything is different. The high land round about is 
 shaded with oaks ; in the valleys the houses are covered 
 with red roofs, with black milkwort on the walls, 
 houses beautiful as palaces, grown around with grape- 
 vines. Here and there are churches with pointed towers, 
 here and there mill chimneys with plumes of rosy smoke. 
 But somehow, it is crowded ; there is a lack of grain- 
 fields. The people are numerous as ants. Villages and
 
 280 BARTER THE VICTOR. 
 
 towns shoot by. The train, without stopping, passes 
 a number of smaller stations. Something must have 
 happened, for everywhere crowds are to be seen. The 
 sun comes up slowly from behind the hills ; therefore, 
 one and another Matsek begin their " Our Father " 
 aloud. Others follow their example. The first rays 
 put their glitter on the prayerful and serious faces of 
 the men. 
 
 Meanwhile the train stops at the main station. A 
 throng of people surrounds it at once. News from the 
 seat of war, a victory ! a victory ! The despatches had 
 come some hours before. All were expecting defeat, and 
 when news of success waked them, their joy knew no 
 bounds. People half dressed left their beds and hurried 
 to the station. From some roofs flags are waving already, 
 and in all hands are handkerchiefs. They bring beer to 
 the cars, tobacco, and cigars. Their enthusiasm is beyond 
 speech, faces are radiant. " Die Wacht am Rhein " is 
 roaring like a storm. Some are weeping, others fall 
 into one another's embraces. " Unser Fritz has crushed 
 them to pieces ! cannon and flags are captured ! " With 
 noble enthusiasm the crowd give the soldiers everything 
 they have. Joy enters the hearts of the soldiers, and 
 they begin to sing too. The cars are trembling from the 
 deep voices of the men, and the crowds listen with won- 
 der to the words of songs which they do not understand. 
 The Pognembin men are singing, " Bartosh ! Bartosh ! 
 O lose not thy hope." "Die Polen ! Die Polen!" repeat 
 the crowd by way of explanation, and gather around 
 the cars, wondering at the appearance of the soldiers, 
 and at the same time strengthening themselves by 
 relating anecdotes of the terrible bravery of those Polish 
 regiments. 
 
 Bartek has swollen cheeks, which with his yellow
 
 BARTER THE VICTOR. 281 
 
 mustaches, staring eyes, and enormous bony form make 
 him terrible. They look on him as a special beast. 
 What defenders the Germans have 1 He will fix the 
 French ! Bartek smiles with satisfaction, for he too is 
 glad that they have beaten the French, who at least will 
 not come to Pognembin to lead Magda astray ; they 
 won't take his land. He smiles then ; but since his face 
 pains him greatly, he twists it withal, and in truth he is 
 terrible. But he eats with the appetite of an Homeric 
 hero ; pea-sausage and goblets of beer vanish in his 
 mouth as in a cavern. They give him cigars, pfennigs ; 
 he takes everything. 
 
 " They are a good sort of people, these German fellows," 
 says he to Voitek ; but after a while he adds, " But seest 
 thou they have beaten the French ? " 
 
 The sceptical Voitek casts a shadow on his joy. Voitek 
 is a Cassandra-like prophet. 
 
 " The French always let themselves be beaten in the 
 beginning so as to lead men astray, but afterward when 
 they go at it the chips fly." 
 
 Voitek did not know that the greater part of Europe 
 shared his opinion ; and still less did he know that all 
 Europe was mistaken as well as he. 
 
 They went farther. Every house within eyesight was 
 covered with flags. At some stations they were detained 
 longer, for every place was filled with trains. Troops 
 were hastening from all parts of Germany to strengthen 
 their victorious brethren. The trains were adorned with 
 green crowns. The Ulans held on their lances bouquets 
 of flowers, given them on the road. Among the Ulans the 
 majority were Poles also. Cries were heard often from 
 the cars, 
 
 " How are ye, boys ? and whither is God leading 
 you?"
 
 282 BARTER THE VICTOR. 
 
 Sometimes from a train flying past on a neighboring 
 track came the well-known song : 
 
 " From the other side of Sandomir 
 The maiden calls her soldier 
 
 And then Bartek and his comrades catch up : 
 
 " Oh, soldier, come and love me. 
 I have not eaten yet May God reward thee f " 
 
 In the same degree in which all had left Pognembin 
 in sorrow were they now full of spirit and enthusiasm. 
 The first train with the first wounded coming from France 
 destroyed that good feeling, however. The train with 
 the wounded halts at Deutz, and halts long to let those 
 pass who are hastening to the field of combat. But before 
 all can pass the bridge at Cologne some hours are con- 
 sumed. Bartek rushes with others to look at the sick 
 and wounded. Some are lying in covered cars, others 
 for want of room in open ones, and the latter could be 
 seen easily. At the first glance the heroic courage of 
 Bartek flew out again to his shoulder. 
 
 " Come here, Voitek," cries he, with terror ; " but see 
 how many men these French have spoiled ! " And there 
 is something to look at ! pale suffering faces, some 
 black from powder or pain, bespattered with blood. In 
 answer to the general rejoicing these give only groans. 
 Some of them curse the war of French against Germans. 
 Parched and dry lips cry every moment for water ; eyes 
 gaze as in madness. Here and there among the wounded 
 is to be seen the stiffened face of one dying, sometimes 
 calm, with blue around the eyes, sometimes distorted 
 from convulsions, with wild stare and grinning teeth. 
 Bartek sees for the first time the bloody fruits of war. 
 A new chaos rises in his head ; he looks as if stunned, 
 and stands in the throng with mouth open ; they knock
 
 BARTER THE VICTOR. 283 
 
 against him on every side; a policeman pushes him with 
 the butt of his musket in the shoulder. He seeks Voitek 
 with his eyes, finds him, and says, 
 
 " Voitek, God save us ! oh ! " 
 
 " It will be that way with thee, too." 
 
 " Jesus Mary ! And so people kill each other like 
 that ! Why, when a man in a village strikes another the 
 police take him to the court and punish him." 
 
 " That may be ; but now the best man is he who kills 
 most people. Didst think, stupid fellow, that thou 
 wouldst fire off powder as at the manoeuvres or at a 
 mark, not at men ? " 
 
 Here, there was an evident difference between theory 
 and practice. Our Bartek was a soldier however. He 
 had been at manoeuvres and musters, had fired guns, and 
 knew that war was for men to kill one another ; but now 
 when he saw the blood of the wounded, the misery of 
 war, he felt so sick and faint that he could hardly stand 
 on his feet. He gained new respect for the French, which 
 decreased only when he crossed from Deutz to Cologne. 
 At the central station he saw prisoners for the first 
 time. They were surrounded by a multitude of soldiers, 
 and by people who looked at them with feelings of 
 importance, but still without hatred. Bartek pressed 
 through the crowd, pushing people aside with his elbow ; 
 he looked at the car and was astonished. 
 
 The crowd of French infantrymen in torn cloaks, small, 
 dirty, suffering, filled the car as closely as herrings fill a 
 cask. Many of them stretched out their hands for the 
 scant gifts which the crowd bestowed on them so far as 
 the guards did not prevent. Bartek, according to what 
 he had heard from Voitek, had an altogether different 
 picture in his mind of the French. Courage returned 
 from his shoulder to his breast again. He looked around 
 for Voitek. Voitek was at his side.
 
 284 BARTER THE VICTOR. 
 
 " What didst them tell me ? " asked Bartek. " They 
 are poor little fellows. If I should knock the head off 
 one of them the life would go out of three others." 
 
 " They must have wasted away somehow," said Voitek, 
 equally disenchanted. 
 
 " In what language are they chattering ? " 
 
 "Be sure 'tis not Polish." 
 
 Satisfied in this regard Bartek went farther along the 
 cars. 
 
 " Miserable fellows ! " said he, finishing his review of 
 soldiers of the line. 
 
 But in the next cars sat Zouaves. These gave Bartek 
 more to think of. Since they sat in covered cars it was 
 impossible to determine whether each was as big as two 
 or three common men ; but through the windows could 
 be seen the long beards and warlike, serious faces of old 
 soldiers with dark complexions, and eyes gleaming 
 terribly. Bartek's courage went again to his shoulder. 
 
 " Those are more dangerous," whispered he, as if fear- 
 ing that they might hear him. 
 
 " Thou hast not seen those yet who would not let 
 themselves be taken," said Voitek. 
 
 " God guard us ! " 
 
 "Thou wilt see them 1" 
 
 When they had looked at the Zouaves, they went far- 
 ther. At the next car Bartek sprang back as if burned. 
 
 " Oh, rescue ! Voitek, save me ! " 
 
 In the open window was visible the dark, almost black, 
 face of a Turko, with the whites of his eyes turned out. 
 He must have been wounded, for his face was distorted 
 from suffering. 
 
 " What is that ? " asked Voitek. 
 
 " That is the Evil One, not a soldier. God be merciful 
 to me a sinner ! "
 
 BARTER THE VICTOR. 285 
 
 " But look at him ; what teeth he has ! " 
 "Oh, devil take him ! I will not look at him." 
 Bartek was silent, but after a while he asked, 
 "Voitek!" 
 "What?" 
 
 " If such a one were christened, would n't it help ? " 
 " Pagans have no understanding of the holy faith." 
 The order was given to take seats. After a while the 
 train moved. When it grew dark, Bartek saw before him 
 continually the black face of the Turko and the terrible 
 whites of his eyes. From the feelings which at that 
 moment possessed this warrior of Pognembin, it was 
 not possible to prophesy much concerning his future 
 exploits. 
 
 IV. 
 
 AN intimate part in the general engagement at Grave- 
 lotte convinces Bartek at first of this only, that in a 
 battle there is something to stare at, but nothing to do. 
 To begin with, he and his regiment are commanded to 
 stand with grounded arms at the foot of a hill covered 
 with grape-vines. From a distance cannon are playing ; 
 near by cavalry regiments are flying past with a thunder 
 from which the ground trembles ; now pennons are glit- 
 tering, now the swords of cuirassiers. On the hill through 
 the blue sky grenades fly hissing in the form of white 
 cloudlets ; smoke fills the air, and hides the horizon. It 
 seems that the battle, like a storm, will go past. at the 
 sides ; but doubt does not last long. 
 
 After a time certain wonderful movements rise around 
 Bartek's regiment. Other regiments begin to take their 
 places near it ; and in the interval between them can- 
 non are swept in with all horse-speed, unlimbered in a 
 flash, and their jaws turned toward the hill-top. The
 
 286 BARTER THE VICTOR. 
 
 whole valley is filled with troops. Every place is thun- 
 dering with commands ; adjutants are flying. But our 
 men in the ranks are whispering one to another, " Oi, 
 we shall catch it, we shall ! " or they ask one another 
 with alarm, " Is it beginning ? " " Surely it is." Now 
 comes uncertainty, a riddle, maybe death. In the 
 smoke which covers the hill-top something is seething 
 and rattling terribly. Nearer and nearer are heard the 
 deep roar of cannon and the rattling of musketry. 
 From a distance comes, as it were, some undefined 
 crashing; those are the mitrailleuses. Suddenly, when 
 the newly-placed cannon roar, the earth and the air 
 tremble together. Before Bartek's regiment there is a 
 terrible hissing. They look : something is flying bright 
 as a rose, like a cloudlet, and in that cloudlet something 
 is hissing, laughing, gnashing its teeth, neighing, and 
 howling. The men cry, " Grenade ! grenade ! " Then 
 that bird of war, moving like a whirlwind, approaches, 
 falls, bursts ! A dreadful roar tears the ears, an out- 
 burst as if the world were falling, and a blow as if from 
 a wind-stroke. Disorder in the ranks standing near the 
 cannon, a cry, and a command, " Attention ! " Bartek 
 stands in the first rank, his gun at his shoulder, his head 
 erect, his beard motionless ; therefore his teeth are not 
 chattering. It is not permitted to tremble, it is not per- 
 mitted to fire. Stand ! Wait ! The second grenade 
 comes, the third, the fourth, the tenth ! The wind blows 
 the smoke away from the hill. The French have driven 
 from it the Prussian batteries, have placed there their 
 own, which are vomiting fire now into the valley. Every 
 moment long white darts of smoke are shooting out of 
 the vineyard. The infantry, under cover of the cannon, 
 are descending lower and lower, so as to open a musketry- 
 fire. Now they are perfectly visible ; for the wind has
 
 BARTEK THE VICTOR. 287 
 
 borne away the smoke. Has the vineyard bloomed with 
 poppies ? No, those are the red caps of infantry. At 
 once they disappear among the tall grape-vines ; they 
 are not to be seen, only here and there a tri-colored 
 flag appears. The musketry-fire begins, quick, feverish, 
 irregular ; it bursts forth suddenly every moment in new 
 places. Above that fire, howling continually, come the 
 grenades, crossing one another in the air. On the hill 
 shouts burst forth, which are answered in the valley by 
 German hurrahs. Cannon from the valley roar uninter- 
 ruptedly. The regiment stands there immovable. 
 
 The circle of fire begins, however, to enclose it from 
 the flanks. Bullets from afar buzz like horse-flies or 
 shoot past with a terrible whistle. Every moment there 
 are more of them, now they are whistling around the 
 heads, noses, eyes, shoulders of the men ; thousands of 
 them, millions of them are coming. It is a marvel that 
 a man is left standing. All at once behind Bartek some 
 one groans, "Jesus ! " then the command is heard, " Close !" 
 again a groan, " Jesus ! " after that " Close ! " At last 
 there is one unbroken groan ; the commands come more 
 quickly ; the ranks close ; the whistling is more frequent ; 
 then unceasing and awful. The slain are dragged out by 
 the feet. The judgment of God is there present. 
 
 " Art afraid ? " asks Voitek. 
 
 "Why shouldn't I be?" answers our hero, with chat- 
 tering teeth. 
 
 And both stand there, Bartek and Voitek, and it does 
 not even occur to them that it is possible to run. They 
 were ordered to stand ; and that is the end of it ! Bartek 
 did not tell the truth. He was not so much afraid as 
 thousands of others would have been in his place. Dis- 
 cipline lorded it over his imagination, and his imagination 
 did not paint to him the situation in its dreadful reality.
 
 288 BARTER THE VICTOR. 
 
 Still Bartek thought that they would kill him, and he 
 conveyed that thought to Voitek. 
 
 "There will be no hole in heaven if such a fool is 
 killed," answered Voitek, with vexation. 
 
 These words pacify Bartek considerably. It seems to 
 him that the main question for him is whether there 
 will be a hole in heaven. Pacified in this regard, he 
 stands patiently ; only feels terribly hot, and the sweat 
 streams over his face. Meanwhile the fire becomes so 
 murderous that the ranks are melting before their eyes. 
 There is no one to drag away the killed and the wounded ; 
 the groans of the dying are mingled with the whistling 
 of missiles and the roar of musketry. By the movement 
 of the tri-colored flag it is clear that the infantry con- 
 cealed in the vineyard are coming nearer and nearer. 
 The crowds of mitrailleuses are decimating the ranks, 
 which despair is now seizing. 
 
 But in the sounds of that despair is felt the muttering 
 of impatience and rage. If they are commanded to ad- 
 vance they will go like a storm. Only they cannot stand 
 in one place. Some soldier tears his cap from his head 
 on a sudden, hurls it with all force to the ground, and 
 says, 
 
 " One death to the goat ! " 
 
 Bartek found again a known consolation in these 
 words, so that he ceased almost to fear. For if death must 
 come once, it is no great question. That peasant philos- 
 ophy is better than any other, since it gives consolation. 
 Bartek knew before, of course, that death must come 
 once ; but it was pleasant for him to hear this, and to 
 have complete certainty, especially since the battle had 
 begun to turn into utter defeat. Think of it, that 
 regiment, without firing a shot, is already half annihi- 
 lated ! Crowds of soldiers from other scattered regiments
 
 BARTEK THE VICTOR. 289 
 
 are rushing past in disorder; but these men from Pog- 
 nembin, from Upper and Lower Kryvda and Mizerov, 
 held by the iron discipline of Prussia, are standing still. 
 But in their ranks a certain hesitation is felt. In a 
 moment the bonds of discipline will burst. The ground 
 under their feet is growing soft and slippery from blood, 
 the raw smell of which is mixed, with the smell of the 
 powder-smoke. In certain places the ranks cannot close, 
 for corpses block the way. At the feet of those men 
 who are still standing, the other half of the regiment is 
 lying in blood, in groans, in convulsions, dying or in the 
 grasp of death. Air fails the breath. A murmur is 
 rising in the ranks, 
 
 " They have brought us here to be slaughtered I " 
 
 " No one will go from this place." 
 
 " Still, Polnisches Vieh ! " sounds the voice of an officer. 
 
 " It is well for you behind my collar ! " 
 
 " Steht der Kerl da ! " 
 
 Suddenly some voice begins to speak, 
 
 " Under Thy protection 
 
 Bartek accompanies at once, " We take refuge, Holy 
 Mother of God ! " 
 
 And soon a chorus of Polish voices is calling out on 
 that field of destruction to the Patroness of Chenstohova, 
 " Eeject not our prayers ! " And from under their feet 
 groans accompany them, " O Mary, O Mary ! " And she 
 heard them evidently, for that moment an adjutant 
 rushes up on a foaming horse. " To the attack ! Hurrah ! 
 Forward ! " 
 
 The ridge of bayonets is lowered suddenly ; the rank 
 stretches in a long line, and rushes toward the hill, seek- 
 ing with the bayonet those enemies which it could not 
 find with the eye. But from the foot of the hill our men 
 are divided yet by two hundred yards, and this distance 
 
 19
 
 290 BARTEK THE VICTOR. 
 
 must be crossed under a murderous fire. Will they not 
 be slaughtered to the last man, or will they not run ? 
 They may be exterminated ; but they will not draw back, 
 for the Prussian commander knows what note to play for 
 the attack. Amid the bellowing of cannon, amid mus- 
 ketry-fire, smoke, confusion, and groans, louder than all 
 the trumpets and drums is rising to heaven the hymn at 
 which every drop of blood dances in their bosoms. 
 " Poland is not lost ! " Hurrah ! Not lost ! " While we 
 are living ! " answer the Matseks. Enthusiasm seizes 
 them ; a flame is beating in their faces. They go like a 
 storm over prostrate bodies of men and horses, over frag- 
 ments of cannon. They perish, but sweep forward with 
 shouting and singing. They have reached already the 
 edge of the vineyard. They vanish among the vines ; 
 but the hymn rises. At once their bayonets are gleaming. 
 On the hill the fire is seething still more terribly. In the 
 valley the trumpets are playing continually. The French 
 discharges become quicker and quicker, feverish, and on 
 a sudden are silent. 
 
 Down in the valley Steinmetz that old wolf of war 
 lights a porcelain pipe,andspeaksin tones of satisfaction, 
 
 " Only give them that music ! They have got there, 
 bold fellows ! " In fact, the next instant one of the tri- 
 colored standards waving proudly springs up, stoops, and 
 vanishes. 
 
 " They are not joking ! " said Steinmetz. 
 
 The trumpets play the same hymn again. Another 
 Poznan regiment rushes on to help the first. In the 
 thicket a battle with bayonets rages up. 
 
 Muse ! sing now, of my Bartek, that posterity may 
 know what he did ! In his heart fear, terror, impatience, 
 despair, were blended in the single feeling of rage ; and 
 when he heard that music, every nerve in him was as
 
 BARTER THE VICTOR. 291 
 
 rigid as steel wire. His hair was on end ; sparks flew 
 from Ms eyes. He forgot the world, forgot that death 
 must come once ; and seizing in his mighty paws the 
 musket, he ran on with the others. When he had run to 
 the hill, he fell to the ground at least ten times, bruised 
 his nose, covered himself with earth and with the blood 
 which was running from his nose, and hurried forward, 
 mad, panting, catching the air with open mouth. He 
 was staring his eyes out to see in the thicket at the 
 soonest some Frenchman ; and at last he saw three at 
 once at a standard. They were Turkos. But do you 
 think that Bartek drew back ? No ! he would have 
 taken Lucifer himself by the horns at that moment. He 
 rushed at the three men, and they with a howl rushed at 
 him ; two bayonets, like two stings, are already touching 
 his breast ; but my Bartek takes his musket like a club 
 by the small end, whirls it, strikes. A terrible cry an- 
 swers him, a groan, and two black bodies are quivering 
 on the ground. 
 
 That moment about ten comrades ran with assistance 
 to the third, who was holding a flag. Bartek sprang like 
 a fury on all at once. They fired ; there was a flash and 
 a report, and at the same time in the rolls of smoke 
 thundered the hoarse bellow of Bartek, 
 
 " Ye have missed ! " 
 
 And again the musket in his hand described a terrible 
 half-circle ; again groans answered his blows. The Turkos 
 drew back in terror at sight of this giant, wild with rage ; 
 and whether Bartek heard wrongly, or they cried out 
 something in Arabic, 't is enough that it seemed to him 
 distinctly that from their broad lips came the cry, 
 
 " Magda ! Magda ! " 
 
 " Ye want Magda ! " howled Bartek, and with one 
 spring he was in the midst of the enemy.
 
 292 BARTER THE VICTOR. 
 
 Happily a number of Matseks and Voiteks and other 
 Barteks hurried up in that moment to aid him. In the 
 midst of the thicket of vines a battle sprang up, hand to 
 hand, close, which was accompanied by the crash of mus- 
 kets, the whistling of nostrils, and the feverish puffing of 
 the combatants. Bartek raged like a storm. Scorched 
 with smoke, covered with blood, more like a beast than 
 a man, caring for nothing, he overturned enemies with 
 every blow, broke muskets, smashed heads. His hands 
 moved with the terrible swiftness of a machine scatter- 
 ing destruction. He rushed to the standard-bearer, seized 
 him with iron fingers by the throat. The eyes of the 
 standard-bearer were bursting from his head, his face was 
 blue, he coughed, and his hands dropped the staff. 
 
 " Hurrah 1 " cried Bartek ; and raising the flag, he 
 waved it in the air. 
 
 General Steinmetz saw from the valley that rising and 
 falling standard ; but he could see it only during one 
 twinkle of an eye, for in the next twinkle Bartek, with 
 that same standard, crushed in some head covered with a 
 cap in gold lace. 
 
 Meanwhile his comrades had rushed ahead ; Bartek 
 was left for one instant alone. He tore off the flag, hid 
 it in his bosom, and, seizing the staff with both hands, 
 hurried after his comrades. Crowds of Turkos, howling 
 with unhuman voices, rushed to the cannon standing on 
 the summit of the hill; after them rushed the Poles, 
 shouting, chasing, crushing them with gun-stocks, and 
 stabbing with bayonets. 
 
 The Zouaves, standing at the guns, greeted pursuers 
 and pursued with musketry-fire. 
 
 " Hurrah ! " cried Bartek. 
 
 The Poles rushed to the cannon. A new battle rose, 
 hand to hand. At this moment the second Pognem-
 
 BARTER THE VICTOR. 293 
 
 bin regiment came to support the first. The flag-staff 
 in Bartek's powerful paws was turned this time into a 
 kind of infernal flail. Every blow of it opened a free 
 road in the dense ranks of the Frenchmen. Fear began 
 to seize the Zouaves and the Turkos. In the place 
 where Bartek was fighting they fled. Bartek was the 
 first to sit on a cannon, as he would on his Pognembin 
 mare. 
 
 But before the soldiers had time to see him there he 
 was sitting on a second one, where he overturned the 
 flag -bearer with his flag. 
 
 " Hurrah, Bartek ! " repeated the soldiers. 
 
 The victory was complete. All the mitrailleuses were 
 captured. The fleeing infantry came upon a new Prus- 
 sian regiment on the other side of the hill, and laid down 
 their arms. 
 
 Bartek in the pursuit captured a third flag. It was 
 necessary to see him when, wearied, covered with sweat 
 and blood, puffing like a blacksmith's bellows, he came 
 down with the others from the hill, bearing on his 
 shoulders three flags. The Frenchmen ! hei ! what had 
 he done with them ? At his side walked the torn and 
 slashed Voitek. Bartek said to him : 
 
 " What didst thou say to me ? They are only worms, 
 there is no strength in their bones. They scratched me 
 and thee like cats, but that is all ; and when I struck a 
 man he went to the ground." 
 
 " Who knew that thou wert so venomous ? " answered 
 Voitek, who had seen Bartek's deeds, and began to look 
 at him now with different eyes altogether. 
 
 But who had not seen those deeds ? History, the 
 whole regiment, most of the officers, all looked now 
 with wonder on that gigantic fellow with his thin yellow 
 mustaches and staring eyes.
 
 294 BARTER THE VICTOR. 
 
 "Ach! Sie verfluchter Polake (eh! cursed Pole)!" 
 said the major himself, and took him by the ear. And 
 Bartek showed his back teeth with delight. When the 
 regiment stood in line again at the foot of the hill, the 
 major pointed him out to the colonel and the colonel to 
 Steinmetz himself. 
 
 Steinmetz looked at the flags and gave command to 
 take them ; then he began to look at Bartek. My Bartek 
 stretches out like a string again and presents arms ; but 
 the old general looks at him and shakes his head with 
 satisfaction. At last he begins to say something to the 
 colonel. The word Unter-ojficier (Under-officer) was 
 heard distinctly. 
 
 "Zu dumm, Excellenz (too stupid, your Excellency)," 
 answered the major. 
 
 " Let us try," said his Excellency, and turning his horse 
 approached Bartek. 
 
 Bartek himself knew not what was coming to him, 
 a thing unheard of in the Prussian army : a general 
 speaks to a soldier ! His Excellency does it the more 
 easily since he knows Polish. Besides, that soldier has 
 captured three flags and two cannon. 
 
 " From what place art thou ? " asked the general. 
 
 " From Pognembin," answered Bartek. 
 
 "Well. And thy name?" 
 
 "Bartek Slovik." 
 
 " Mensch (man)," explained the major, who stood be- 
 hind his Excellency. 
 
 " Mens ! " repeated Bartek. 
 
 "Knowst why thou art beating the French ?" 
 
 " I know, Tselentsiyo (Excellency)." 
 
 " Tell me." 
 
 Bartek began to stutter : " For for " 
 
 On a sudden the words of Voitek came by good luck
 
 BARTER THE VICTOR. 295 
 
 to his memory ; he blurted them out quickly so as not to 
 misplace them, 
 
 " Because they are Germans too, only worse, the 
 carrion ! " 
 
 The face of the old Excellency began to quiver as if he 
 were about to burst into laughter. After a moment how- 
 ever he turned to the major and said, 
 
 " You were right." 
 
 My Bartek, self-satisfied, stood straight as a string. 
 
 " Who won the battle to-day ? " asked the general 
 again. 
 
 " I, Tselentsiyo," answered Bartek, without hesitation. 
 
 The face of the general began to quiver again. 
 
 " True, true ; and here is thy reward." 
 
 The old warrior unfastened the iron cross from his own 
 breast, then bent and fastened it to Bartek. The good- 
 humor of the general in a perfectly natural way was 
 reflected on the faces of the colonel, the majors, the cap- 
 tains, and down to the corporals. When the general was 
 gone, the colonel on his part gave ten thalers to Bartek, 
 the major five, and so on. All repeat to him, laughing, 
 that he had won the battle. In consequence of this 
 Bartek was in the seventh heaven. 
 
 A wonderful thing, Voitek was the only man not very 
 much pleased with our hero ! 
 
 In the evening when they had taken their places at the 
 fire and the noble countenance of Bartek was stuffed with 
 pea-sausage as tightly as the sausage itself was stuffed 
 with peas, Voitek called out with a tone of resignation, 
 
 " Oh, thou, Bartek, art stupid, oh, stupid ! " 
 
 " But why ? " asked Bartek, through his sausage. 
 
 " Why, man, didst thou tell the general that the French 
 were Germans ? " 
 
 " But thou didst say so thyself."
 
 296 BARTER THE VICTOR. 
 
 " But thou shouldst know that the general and officers 
 are Germans themselves. 
 
 " But what of that ? " 
 
 Voitek began somehow to stutter something, "Though 
 they are Germans that is not to be said to them, for it is 
 awkward." 
 
 " But I said that about the French, not about them." 
 
 " Ei, even if thou didst, still 
 
 Voitek stopped suddenly. Clearly he wished himself 
 too to say something else, he wished to explain to 
 Bartek that in presence of the German it was not right 
 to speak ill of Germans ; but somehow his tongue became 
 twisted. 
 
 V. 
 
 SOMETIME after, the Eoyal Prussian mail brought to 
 Pognembin the following letter, 
 
 MOST BELOVED MAGDA, May Jesus Christ be praised 
 and His Holy Mother! What is to be heard at home ? It 
 is well for thee in the cottage under the feathers, and I 
 here fighting terribly. We were around the great fortress 
 of Metz, and I so pounded the French that all the cavalry 
 and infantry were astonished ; and the general himself 
 was astonished and said that I won the battle, and he gave 
 me a cross. Now the officers and under-officers respect me 
 greatly, and do not beat me on the snout much. After 
 that we marched on, and there was a second battle ; but I 
 have forgotten how the place is called ; and I fought also 
 and took a fourth flag, and I seized and took captive the 
 greatest colonel of cuirassiers. The under-officer advises 
 me to write a petition and ask to be left here when our 
 regiments are sent home. In war there is no place to sleep, 
 but all a man can hold to eat ; and there is wine in this
 
 BARTEK THE VICTOR. 297 
 
 country everywhere, for the people are rich. When we 
 burned a village we did n't spare the children or women, 
 and I did like the rest. A church was burned to the 
 ground, for the French are Catholics, and not a few people 
 were burned. We are going now against the Kaiser him- 
 self, and there will be an end of the war ; but do thou take 
 care of the cottage and Franek. If not, when I come home 
 I '11 so fix thee that thou wilt not know who I am. I 
 commit thee to God. 
 
 BARTEK SLOVIK. 
 
 Bartek had got a taste for war, evidently, and began 
 to look at it as his own special craft. He had gained 
 great confidence in himself, and went now to battle as 
 if to some work in Pognembin. After every engagement 
 medals and crosses flew to his breast ; and though he 
 was not made an under-officer, he was held by all to be 
 the first soldier in the regiment. He was always obedi- 
 ent as before, and possessed the blind bravery of a man 
 who cannot estimate danger. His valor did not come 
 now, as in the first moments, from rage. The source of 
 it now was military practice, and faith in himself. Be- 
 sides, his gigantic strength endured all hardships, march- 
 ing and watching. Men perished around him, he 
 alone endured without exhaustion ; only he grew fiercer, 
 and became more and more a stern Prussian man-at-arms. 
 He began not only to beat the French, but to hate them. 
 His other ideas also were changed. He became a soldier- 
 patriot, and gave blind worship to his leaders. In the 
 next letter he wrote to Magda, 
 
 " Voitek was torn into two pieces ; but such is war, thou 
 knowest. Besides, he was a fool, for he said that the 
 French were Germans, while they are French, and the 
 Germans are our people."
 
 298 BARTER THE VICTOR. 
 
 Magda in answer to both letters railed at him as 
 follows, 
 
 MOST BELOVED BARTER, We were married before the 
 holy altar ! May God punish thee ! Thou art a fool thyself, 
 Pagan, for in company with Chestnuts thou art murdering 
 a Catholic people. Thou dost not understand that the 
 Chestnuts are Lutherans, and thou, a Catholic, art helping 
 them. Thou wish'st war, lazy-bones, for thou canst do 
 nothing but fight and drink and kill people, and not ob- 
 serve fasts but burn churches. God knows that thou 'It 
 be burned in hell if thou boast of thy deeds, and hast pity 
 neither for old people nor children. Remember, sheep, 
 what is written for the Polish people in the holy faith 
 with golden letters from the beginning of the world to the 
 last day of judgment when the Highest God will have no 
 mercy for such fellows, and restrain thyself, Turk, lest 
 thou smash thy head. I send thee five thalers, though I 
 am here in misery and know not what to do, and the 
 household is falling away. I embrace thee, dearest Bartek. 
 
 MAGDA. 
 
 The teachings contained in this letter made small 
 impression on Bartek. " Women don't know service," 
 thought he to himself, " but are meddlesome." And he 
 fought on in old fashion. He distinguished himself in 
 almost every battle, so that finally eyes of higher rank 
 than those of Stein metz fell on him. At last, when 
 the Poznan regiments, wellnigh annihilated, were sent 
 to the interior of Germany, he at the advice of the 
 under-omcer sent in a petition and remained. In conse- 
 quence of this he was outside Paris. 
 
 His letters were full of contempt now for the French. 
 " In every battle they race away from a man like hares," 
 wrote he to Magda. And he wrote the truth ! But the 
 siege did not suit his taste greatly. He had to lie in
 
 BARTER THE VICTOR. x 299 
 
 the trenches whole days before Paris, and listen to the 
 thunder of artillery, often to make breastworks and be 
 drenched. Besides, he was sorry for his former regiment. 
 In the one to which he was transferred now as a volun- 
 teer he was surrounded for the greater part by Germans. 
 Of German he knew a little, for he had learned some 
 at the mill, but he knew it poorly. Now he began to 
 talk freely. Still they called him in the regiment, Ein 
 polnischer Ochs, and only his strong back and terrible 
 fists saved him from their biting jests. Still, after a 
 number of battles he acquired the respect of these new 
 comrades, and began to grow used to them slowly. At 
 last he was looked on as one of them, he had covered 
 the regiment with glory to such a degree. Bartek would 
 have held it an insult at all times to be called a German 
 (Niemets), but in distinction to the French he called him- 
 self "ein Deutscher." That seemed to him something 
 altogether different; and, besides, he did not wish to 
 appear worse than others. There was an event, however, 
 which would have given him much to think over, had 
 thinking been easier for his heroic mind. On a time 
 some men of his regiment were sent against Volunteer- 
 riflemen, Franc-tireurs. They made an ambush, and the 
 riflemen fell into it. But this time Bartek did not see 
 the red caps flying at the first shots, for the detachment 
 was composed of old soldiers, the remnant of some reg- 
 iments in a foreign legion. When surrounded, they 
 defended themselves desperately, and at last rushed for- 
 ward to open with the bayonet a way through the encir- 
 cling ring of Prussian soldiers. They fought with such 
 fury that some of them broke through. Above all, they 
 did not let themselves be taken alive, knowing the fate 
 which awaited volunteers after capture. Therefore the 
 company in which Bartek served took only two prisoners.
 
 300 BARTER THE VICTOR. 
 
 In the evening these two men were placed in a room in 
 the forester's house. They were to be shot on the follow- 
 ing morning. Bartek was stationed as guard over the 
 bound prisoners in a room which had a broken window. 
 
 One of the prisoners was a man not young, with iron- 
 gray hair and a face indifferent to everything. The 
 other seemed twenty and a few years ; his bright mus- 
 taches were barely visible ; he was more like a woman 
 in the face than a man. 
 
 " Yes, here is the end," said the young man, after a 
 while ; " a bullet in the forehead, and all is over." 
 
 Bartek quivered so that the musket rattled in his 
 hand. The young man spoke Polish. 
 
 " It is all one to me," said the other, with unwilling 
 voice, " as God lives, all one. I have struggled so 
 long that I have enough." 
 
 Bartek's heart beat under his uniform more quickly 
 every moment. 
 
 " Listen," continued the older ; " there is no help. If 
 thou art afraid, think of something else, or lie down to 
 sleep. Life is wretched! As God is dear to me, it is 
 all one." 
 
 "I am sorry for my mother," answered the younger 
 one, gloomily. 
 
 And wishing evidently to overcome his emotion or to 
 deceive himself, he began to whistle. Suddenly he 
 stopped, and cried out in deep despair, 
 
 " May the thunderbolt strike me ! I did not even take 
 farewell." 
 
 " Thou didst run away from home ? " 
 
 " I did. I thought : They will beat the Germans, it 
 will be better for the people of Poznan." 
 
 "And I thought so too; but now " 
 
 The old man waved his hand, and finished by saying
 
 BARTER THE VICTOR. 301 
 
 something in a low voice ; but the sound of the wind 
 drowned his words. The night was cold. Fine rain 
 swept forward in waves from time to time ; the neighbor- 
 ing forest was black as a mourning robe. In the room 
 the wind whistled in the corners, and howled in the 
 chimney like a dog. The lamp, placed high above the 
 window so the wind might not quench it, cast abundant 
 but flickering light on the room. Bartek, who stood 
 under the lamp by the window, was buried in darkness. 
 
 And perhaps it was better that the prisoners did not 
 see his face. Wonderful things were happening to the 
 man. At first astonishment took possession of him ; he 
 stared at the prisoners, and tried to understand what they 
 were saying. They had come to beat the Germans so 
 that it might go better with the Poznan people ; and he 
 had beaten the French so that it might go better with the 
 Poznan people ! And those two men will be shot in the 
 morning. What does this mean ? What is he, poor 
 fellow, to think of this ? And if he were to speak to 
 them, if he were to tell them that he is of their people, 
 that he is sorry for them ? Something seized him all at 
 once by the throat. And what will he tell them, that 
 he will save them ? Then he will be shot ! Hei to the 
 rescue ! What is happening to him ? Pity is so throt- 
 tling him that he cannot stand in one place. 
 
 A certain terrible sadness settles on him from afar, 
 from some place, from Pognembin. Pity, a strange guest 
 in a soldier's heart, is crying to him : " Bartek, rescue 
 thy own people ; these are thy own." And the heart is 
 tearing itself away to his cottage, to Magda, to Pognem- 
 bin, and tearing itself away in such wise as never before. 
 He has had enough of that France, of that war, and of 
 battles. Every moment he hears a voice more distinctly : 
 " Bartek, save thy own people ! '' May the earth swal-
 
 302 BARTER THE VICTOR. 
 
 low this war ! Through the broken window the forest is 
 black, and it roars like the pines in Pognembin ; and in 
 that roar something is crying again : " Bartek, save thy 
 own people ! " 
 
 What is he to do, flee with them to the forest, or what ? 
 All that Prussian discipline had ever been able to drive 
 into him trembled straightway at that thought. " In the 
 name of the Father and the Son," this was to defend 
 himself from temptation. He, a soldier, to desert ? Never ! 
 Meanwhile the forest roars ever louder, and the wind 
 whistles more and more mournfully. 
 The older prisoner speaks suddenly, 
 " But that wind is as if in autumn at home." 
 " Spare me ! " said the younger, in a broken voice. 
 But after a while he repeated a number of times, 
 " At home, at home, at home ! O God ! God ! " 
 A deep sigh was mingled with the whistling, and the 
 prisoners were lying in silence again. Fever began to 
 shake Bartek. 
 
 It is worst of all when a man cannot tell what is the 
 matter with him. Bartek had stolen nothing, and it 
 seemed to him as if he had stolen, and as if he feared 
 that they would seize him. Nothing was threatening 
 him, and still he was terribly afraid of something. See, 
 his legs are trembling under him ; his musket weighs 
 him down fearfully, and something is choking him, some- 
 thing which is like a great suppressed wailing. Is it for 
 Magda, or for Pognembin ? He is sorry for both prison- 
 ers, but so sorry for the younger one that he knows not 
 what to do. 
 
 At times it seems to Bartek that he is sleeping. 
 Meanwhile the uproar outside is increasing still further. 
 In the whistling of the wind wonderful cries and voices 
 are growing louder.
 
 BARTER THE VICTOR. 303 
 
 All at once every hair on Bartek's head stands under 
 his helmet. 
 
 See ! out there somewhere in the dark, dripping depths 
 of the forest it seems to him that some one is groaning 
 and repeating : " At home, at home, at home ! " 
 
 Bartek shudders, and strikes the butt of his musket on 
 the floor to wake himself. In fact, he returns to con- 
 sciousness. He looks around ; the prisoners are lying in 
 the corner, the lamp is glittering, the wind is howling, 
 everything is in order. 
 
 The light is falling now thickly on the face of the 
 younger prisoner. He has the face of a child or a maiden. 
 But his eyes are closed. There is straw under his head, 
 and he looks as if dead already. 
 
 Since Bartek is Bartek never has sadness so dived into 
 him. Something is squeezing him tightly by the throat, 
 a weeping is going out of his breast. Meanwhile the 
 older prisoner turns on his side with difficulty, and 
 says, 
 
 " Good-night, Vladek." 
 
 Silence follows. An hour passes. Something really 
 painful has happened to Bartek. The wind is playing 
 like the organs in Pognembin. The prisoners are lying 
 in quiet. Suddenly the younger raises himself with an 
 effort, and calls, 
 
 "Karol!" 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " Art sleeping ? " 
 
 "No." 
 
 " Listen. I 'm afraid ; say what may please thee, but 
 I will pray." 
 
 " Pray, then." 
 
 " Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy 
 name. Thy kingdom come "
 
 304 BARTER THE VICTOR. 
 
 Sobbing interrupted the voice of the young prisoner 
 suddenly ; still the broken voice was audible yet, 
 
 " Thy will be done " 
 
 " O Jesus ! " howled something in the breast of Bartek, 
 " Jesus ! " 
 
 No, he will endure no longer ! Another moment, and 
 he will cry, " I too am a Pole ! " Then, through the 
 window to the forest, let happen what may ! 
 
 Suddenly from the direction of the entrance are heard 
 measured steps. That is the patrol, and with him the 
 under-officer. They are changing guards. 
 
 On the morrow Bartek was drunk from the morning 
 hour; the following day also. 
 
 But on subsequent days new expeditions came, skir- 
 mishes, marches, and it is pleasant for me to relate that 
 our hero returned to his balance. After that night, how- 
 ever, there remained with him a little fondness for the 
 bottle, in which may be found always some savor and 
 ofttimes forgetfulness. For the rest he grew still more 
 unsparing in battle ; victory followed his footsteps. 
 
 VI. 
 
 AGAIN some months passed. The spring was well ad- 
 vanced. In Pognembin the cherry-trees had blossomed 
 in the garden, and were covered with leaves ; the fields 
 were green with a thick fleece. On a certain time Magda 
 was sitting outside the cottage and preparing for dinner 
 shrunken sprouted potatoes, fitter food for cattle than for 
 men. But they were before the new ones. Want had 
 begun to look in a little at Pognembin. This might be 
 known, too, from the face of Magda, which was darkened
 
 BARTER THE VICTOR. 305 
 
 and full of anxiety. Perhaps, also, to drive away this 
 anxiety the woman, closing her eyes, was singing in a 
 thin, strained voice, 
 
 " Oi, oi, my Yasenko is at the war ! oi ! he writes to me, 
 Oi ! I write to him, oi! for I am his wife." 
 
 The sparrows on the cherry-trees were twittering as if 
 they wished to drown her voice ; she while singing was 
 looking in thoughtfulness now on the dog sleeping in the 
 sun, now on the road around the cottage, now on the path 
 stretching from the road through the garden and the fields. 
 Perhaps Magda was looking on the path for the reason 
 that it reached across to the station ; and God granted 
 that she did not look that day in vain. In the distance 
 appeared a certain form, and the woman shaded her eyes 
 with her hand, but she could not distinguish, for the 
 rays dazzled her ; but Lysek the dog woke up, raised his 
 head, barked a little, began to smell, and to incline his 
 head to one side and then to the other. At the same 
 time the uncertain words of a song came to Magda's ears. 
 Lysek sprang away at once, and ran with all speed to 
 the man drawing near. Then Magda grew a little pale. 
 
 " Bartek, isn't it Bartek ?" 
 
 She stood up quickly, so that the dish with the pota- 
 toes rolled on the ground. Now there was no doubt. 
 Lysek sprang to the breast of the newly-arrived. The 
 woman rushed forward, crying with all her strength and 
 with joy, 
 
 " Bartek ! Bartek ! " 
 
 " Magda ! it is I ! " cried Bartek, putting his palm to 
 his lips and hurrying his steps. 
 
 He opened the gate, missed the bolt, staggered, almost 
 fell, and they dropped into each other's arms. 
 
 The woman began to talk quickly. 
 
 20
 
 306 BARTER THE VICTOR. 
 
 "But I thought thou wouldst never come back. I 
 thought to myself : ' They have killed him ! ' How art 
 thou ? Come into the cottage. Franek is at school. 
 The German beats the children. The boy is well, but he 
 has staring eyes like thee. Oh, it was time for thee to 
 come, for there is no help, misery, I say, misery. The 
 poor cottage is rotting down. How art thou ? Oh, Bartek, 
 Bartek ! That I should look on thee again ! What 
 trouble I had here with the hay ! The Cherrnenitskis 
 helped me, but, my God ! And art thou all well ? 
 But I am glad to see thee, glad ! God guarded thee. 
 Come in. Oh, for God's sake! is this Bartek, or not 
 Bartek ? But what is the matter with thee ? Help ! " 
 
 Magda now noticed for the first time a long scar 
 stretching over Bartek's face, across the left temple and 
 cheek to his beard. 
 
 " That's nothing. A cuirassier touched me there, but 
 I paid him. I have been in the hospital." 
 
 " O Jesus ! " 
 
 " Ei, nothing." 
 
 " Thou art as thin as death." 
 
 " Euhig (be quiet) ! " answered Bartek. 
 
 He was swarthy and wounded, a real victor. Withal 
 he was tottering on his feet. 
 
 " Art thou drunk ? " 
 
 "lam weak yet." 
 
 He was weak, it is true, but drunk also ; exhausted as 
 he was, one measure of vodka was enough. Bartek, how- 
 ever, had drunk at the station something like four. But 
 he had the spirit and bearing of a real victor. Such a 
 mien he had never had before. 
 
 " Ruhig ! " repeated he. " We have finished the krieg 
 (war). Now I am a lord, dost understand ? Seest this ? " 
 Here he pointed to the crosses and medals. " Knowst
 
 BARTEK THE VICTOR. 307 
 
 who I am ? He ? Links, rechts. Heu, S'troh ! Halt ! 
 (left, right, hay, straw ! ) " 
 
 He thundered out the last halt ! with such a piercing 
 voice that the woman sprang back a number of steps. 
 
 " Hast gone mad ? " 
 
 " How art thou, Magda ? When I say to thee, ' How 
 art thou ? ' that means ' How art thou ? ' And knowst 
 French, foolish woman ? musyu, musyu ! who musyu ? I 
 musyu ! knowst ?" 
 
 " Man, what is the matter with thee ? " 
 
 " What 's that to thee ? Was (what) ? Done diner 
 (donnez diner, give dinner). Dost understand ? " 
 
 On Magda's forehead a storm began to collect. 
 
 " In what language art thou bellowing ? What, knowst 
 thou not Polish ? Ha, thou chestnut, I was right to say ! 
 What have they made of thee ? " 
 
 " Give me something to eat ! " 
 
 " March into the cottage." 
 
 Every command made an impression on Bartek which 
 he could in no way resist. When he heard then " march " 
 he straightened himself, stretched his arms down along 
 his hips, and making a half turn marched in the indicated 
 direction. On the threshold he recovered, and began to 
 look at Magda with astonishment. 
 
 "Well, what 's the matter, Magda, what 's the matter ?" 
 
 " Forward, inarch ! " 
 
 He entered the cottage, but fell at the threshold. The 
 vodka began then indeed to go to his head ; he fell to 
 singing and looking around the cottage for Franek. He 
 even said," Morgen, Kerl!" though Franek was not there. 
 Then he laughed, made one long step and two very short 
 ones, shouted hurrah, and stretched his whole length on 
 the floor. 
 
 In the evening he woke up sober, refreshed, greeted
 
 308 BARTER THE VICTOR. 
 
 Franek, and taking some tens of pfennigs from Magda 
 he made a triumphant campaign to the dririking-shop. 
 The fame of his deeds had already preceded him in 
 Pognembin, where some soldiers of the other companies 
 of that same regiment, having returned earlier, told of his 
 prowess at Gravelotte and Sedan. At present, when the 
 news went out that the victor was in the shop, all his 
 old comrades hurried to see him. 
 
 Our Bartek sits there at the table. No one recognizes 
 him. He who had been so submissive in old times beats 
 the table with his fist now, swells up like a gobbler, and 
 gobbles like a gobbler. 
 
 " Do ye remember, boys, how I warmed up the French- 
 men, and what Steinmetz said ? " 
 " Why should n't we remember ? " 
 " People spoke in favor of the French, frightened us 
 with them ; but that is a weak people. Was (what) ! 
 They are salad. They ride like hares and run like hares, 
 and they don't drink beer, only wine." 
 " Is that true ? " 
 
 " When we burned a village they folded their hands 
 and cried out pitie,pitie ! which seems to mean that they 
 will give drink, but in that tongue it means to spare 
 them. But we paid no attention." 
 
 "Can any one understand what they chatter?" asked a 
 young fellow. 
 
 " Thou couldst not, for thou art stupid, but I can. 
 Done dipen (give bread), dost understand ? " 
 " What is that ? " 
 
 " But have ye seen Paris ? There were battles there 
 one after another ; but we won them all. They have no 
 good leaders. People say that too, and the officers are 
 fools, and the generals are fools." 
 
 Matsei Kerz, an old, wise peasant in Pognembin, began
 
 BARTEK THE VICTOR. 309 
 
 to shake his head. " Oi, the Germans have conquered 
 in a terrible war; they have conquered, and we have 
 helped them. But what will come of that to us God 
 alone knows." 
 
 Bartek stared at him. " What do you say ? " 
 
 "The Germans before this would pay no regard to us, 
 and now they have stuck up their noses as if even God 
 were not above them. And they will insult us more 
 than ever, for they are doing so already." 
 
 " That is not true ! " said Bartek. 
 
 In Pognembin, old Kerz had such weight that the 
 whole village thought according to his head, and it was 
 insolence to contradict him ; but Bartek was now a 
 victor, himself an authority. Still they looked on him 
 with, astonishment, and even with a certain indignation. 
 
 " What ! wilt thou dispute with Matsei ? What mean- 
 est thou ? " 
 
 " What is Matsei to me ! I have spoken with men 
 who are not the like of him. Do ye understand ? Have 
 I not spoken with Steinmetz ? Was ! But whatever 
 Matsei invents is bosh. Now it will be better for us." 
 
 Matsei looked awhile at the victor. 
 
 " Oi, but thou art stupid ! " said he. 
 
 Bartek struck the table with his fist till all the goblets 
 and mugs rattled, 
 
 "Still der Kerl da! Heu, Stroh! (shut up, fellow, 
 there ! hay, straw !) " 
 
 "Be quiet; don't make an uproar. Put the question, 
 thou fool, to some his grace, some lord, and thou wilt find 
 out." 
 
 " Was his grace at the war, or was his lordship there ? 
 But I was at the war. Don't believe him, boys ; now 
 they will begin to respect us. Who won the battle ? 
 We won it ; I won it. Now whatever I ask for they will
 
 310 BARTEK THE VICTOR. 
 
 give ; if I wanted to be an heir in France I should be 
 one. The Government knows well who beat the French 
 best ; but our regiments were the best ; thus it was 
 written in the orders. Now the Poles are on top, do ye 
 understand ? " 
 
 Kerz waved his hand, rose, and went out. Bartek 
 had won the victory on the field of politics also. The 
 young fellows who remained gazed at him now as at a 
 rainbow. 
 
 " But whatever I might ask for they would give. If it 
 had not been for me then ! Old Kerz is a fool, do ye 
 understand ? The Government commands to fight, then 
 fight ! Who will make light of me, a German ? But 
 what is this ? " 
 
 Here he pointed to his crosses and medals again. 
 
 " But for whom did I beat the French, not for the 
 Germans, was it ? I am now better than a German, for 
 no German has so many of these. Give us beer ! I 
 talked with Steinmetz, and I talked with Podbielski. 
 Give beer ! " 
 
 Gradually they prepared for a drinking bout. Bartek 
 
 began to sing, 
 
 " Drinks, drinks, drinks 1 
 While in my purse 
 A thaler clinks." 
 
 Suddenly he drew out of his pocket a handful of 
 pfennigs. 
 
 "Take these, I am a lord now, do ye not want 
 them ? Oh, not this kind of money did we get in France, 
 but it is gone. Little that we did n't burn up and kill. 
 God knows not some Frantsirerov (Franc-tireurs)." 
 
 The humor of 'men in drink changes very suddenly. 
 Unexpectedly Bartek gathered the money from the table 
 and began to cry piteously,
 
 BARTER THE VICTOR. 311 
 
 " God be merciful to my sinful soul ! " 
 
 Then he placed his elbows on the table, hid his face in 
 his paws, and was silent. 
 
 " What 's the matter with thee ? " asked some of the 
 tipsy ones. 
 
 " How am I to blame ? " muttered Bartek, gloomily. 
 " They came themselves. But I was sorry for them, be- 
 cause they were both of my people. God, be merciful ! 
 One of them was as ruddy as the dawn then, but next 
 morning he was pale as a kerchief, and while still alive 
 they were covered with earth. Vodka ! " 
 
 A moment of gloomy silence followed. The men 
 looked at one another in astonishment. 
 
 " What is he saying ? " asked some one. 
 
 " He is saying something to his conscience." 
 
 " War makes a man drink," muttered Bartek. 
 
 He drank vodka once, and a second time. He sat 
 awhile in silence, then spat ; and good humor returned 
 to him suddenly. 
 
 " But have ye talked with Steinmetz ? I have talked 
 with him. Hurrah ! Drink ! Who will pay ? I ! " 
 
 " Thou wilt pay, drunkard, thou ! " called the voice of 
 Magda ; " but I '11 pay thee, never fear." 
 
 Bartek looked at the newly-arrived woman with glassy 
 eyes. 
 
 " But hast thou talked with Steinmetz ? Who art 
 thou ? " 
 
 Magda instead of answering him turned to his sensi- 
 tive audience and fell to lamenting. 
 
 " Oh, people, people, ye see my shame and misfortune. 
 He came home. I was glad as if something good had 
 come ; but he came drunk, and forgot God, forgot Polish. 
 He lay down to sleep, grew sober ; and now he is drinking 
 again, and pays with my sweat. Where didst thou get
 
 312 BARTER THE VICTOR. 
 
 that money ; was that not my toil, my blood-sweat ? Oh, 
 people, people, he is no longer a Catholic, no longer a 
 man. He is a raging German, he chatters German, he lies 
 in wait to do evil ; he is a turn-coat, he is a 
 
 Here the woman was covered with tears ; then she 
 raised her voice an octave higher, 
 
 " He was stupid but good. Now what have they made 
 of him ? I waited for thee evenings, I waited for thee 
 mornings, and waited till thou didst come home. From 
 no place consolation, from no place mercy. God of 
 might ! God of patience ! Mayst thou turn German 
 altogether ! " 
 
 She finished the last words so sorrowfully that she 
 was almost whining. But Bartek in answer said, 
 
 " Be quiet, or I will rush at thee ! " 
 
 " Strike, cut off my head, cut it off right away, kill, 
 murder ! " called the woman, stubbornly, and stretching 
 out her neck, turned to the men, 
 
 " And you men look at him doing it." 
 
 But the men began to go out. Soon the shop was 
 empty ; only Bartek remained, and the woman with her 
 neck stretched out. 
 
 " Why stretch out thy neck like a goose ? Go to the 
 cottage," muttered Bartek. 
 
 " Cut it off ! " repeated Magda. 
 
 " But I will not cut it off," answered Bartek, and he 
 thrust his hands into his pockets. 
 
 Here the shopkeeper, wishing to put an end to the in- 
 cident, quenched the only candle. There was darkness 
 and silence. After a time in the darkness was heard the 
 whining voice of Magda, 
 
 " Cut off my head." 
 
 " I will not cut it off," answered the triumphant voice 
 of Bartek.
 
 BARTER THE VICTOR. 313 
 
 By the light of the moon two forms were visible going 
 from the shop toward the cottages ; one of them in ad- 
 vance, was lamenting audibly. That was Magda. After 
 her, with drooping head, went submissively enough the 
 victor of Gravelotte and Sedan. 
 
 VII. 
 
 BARTEK came home, but so weak that he could not 
 work for a number of days. That was a great misfortune 
 for the whole housekeeping, which had urgent need of a 
 man's hand. Magda did the best she could, worked 
 from morning till night. Her neighbors the Chemer- 
 nitskis helped her according to their power ; but all that 
 was not enough, and the place was inclining somewhat 
 toward ruin. She had gone in debt too to the colonist 
 Just, a German, who in his time had bought from the 
 lord some acres of poor land, and had now the best place 
 in the village, and ready money, which he lent at rather 
 high interest. He lent first of all to Pan Yarzynski, 
 whose name Yarzynski was gleaming in the " Golden 
 Book," but who on that account had to maintain the 
 splendor of his house in befitting style ; but Just lent 
 also to peasants. Magda owed him, for about half a 
 year, a few tens of thalers, some of which she expended 
 on the land, and some she sent to Bartek. That however 
 was nothing. God had given a good harvest, and from 
 the coming fruits the debt might be paid if there were 
 only hands to labor. Unfortunately Bartek could not 
 work. Magda was not greatly willing to believe this, 
 and went to the priest to take counsel as to how she 
 might rouse the man ; but he was really ailing. Breath 
 failed him when he labored a little, and his back ached.
 
 314 BARTEK THE VICTOR. 
 
 He sat whole days therefore before the cottage, and 
 smoked a porcelain pipe on which was a portrait of Bis- 
 marck, in a white uniform and a cuirassier's helmet. 
 Bartek looked on the world with the wearied sleepy eye 
 of a man out of whose bones toil has not gone yet. At 
 the same time he pondered a little over the war, a little 
 over victories, a little over Magda, a little over every- 
 thing, a little over nothing. 
 
 Once as he was sitting thus he heard from a distance 
 the crying of Franek. 
 
 Franek was coming from school, and bellowing to be 
 heard all over the place. Bartek took the pipe from his 
 mouth. 
 
 " Well, Franek, what is the matter ? " 
 
 " But what dost thou care ? " said Franek, sobbing. 
 
 "Why bellow?" 
 
 " Why should n't I bellow when I got a slap on the 
 face?" 
 
 " Who gave thee a slap on the face ? " 
 
 " Who, unless Pan Boege ! " 
 
 Pan Boege performed the duties of teacher in Pog- 
 nembin. 
 
 " And what right has he to beat thee on the face ? " 
 
 " He has, for he beat me." 
 
 Magda, who was digging in the garden, came in 
 through the fence, and with a spade in her hand came up 
 to the boy. 
 
 " What hast thou done ? " asked she. 
 
 " Nothing. But Boege called me a Polish pig, slapped 
 me on the face, and said that now as they had beaten the 
 French they would stamp on us, for they are stronger. 
 I did nothing to him, but he asked who was the greatest 
 person in the world, and I said ' The Holy Father.' Pan 
 Boege slapped me on the face. I began to cry, and he
 
 BARTER THE VICTOR. 315 
 
 called me a Polish pig, and said that now as they had 
 beaten the French " 
 
 Franek began to repeat what he had said before : " and 
 he said and I said." At last Magda covered his face with 
 her hand, and turning to Bartek, cried out, 
 
 "Dost hear, dost hear ? Go thou and beat the French 
 and then let the German beat thy child as he would the 
 dog there ! Go thou ! fight ! Let a Schwab beat thy 
 child ! Now thou hast a reward, thou lout." 
 
 Here Magda, moved by her own eloquence, began to cry 
 too, as well as Franek. Bartek stared, opened his mouth. 
 and was amazed so much that he could not speak, and 
 above all could not understand what had happened. 
 How is that ? But his victories ? He sat awhile longer 
 in silence. On a sudden something gleamed in his eyes, 
 blood rushed to his face. Amazement, as well as terror, 
 frequently passes into rage with simple people. Bartek 
 sprang up quickly, and rushed forth with set teeth. 
 
 " I '11 talk to him ! " and he went on. It was not far. 
 The school was right there beyond the church. Pan 
 Boege was standing at that moment before his own door, 
 surrounded by a crowd of pigs, among which he was throw- 
 ing bits of bread. He was a large man about fifty years 
 old, strong yet as an oak. He was not over thick ; but 
 he had a very full face, and in his face were great fish 
 eyes with an expression of boldness and energy. Bartek 
 came up very near him. 
 
 " Why dost thou, German, beat my child ? Was ! " 
 inquired he. 
 
 Pan Boege stepped back a few yards, measured him 
 with his eyes without a shadow of fear, and said phleg- 
 matically : " Be off ! " 
 
 " Why didst thou beat my child ? " repeated Bartek. 
 
 "I'll beat thee too, Polish trash ! Now we'll show
 
 316 BARTER THE VICTOR. 
 
 thee who is lord here. Go to the devil ! Go and com- 
 plain to the court ! Be off ! " 
 
 Bartek, seizing the teacher by the shoulders, began to 
 shake him powerfully, crying with hoarse voice, 
 
 " Knowest who I am ? Knowest who pounded the 
 French ? Knowest who talked with Steinmetz ? Why 
 beat my child, Schwab, lout ? " 
 
 The fish eyes of Pan Boege were coming out of his 
 head not less than Bartek' s ; but he was a strong man, 
 and determined to free himself from the aggressor with 
 one blow. 
 
 This blow was a powerful slap on the face of the victor 
 of Gravelotte and Sedan. Thereupon Bartek lost self- 
 control. Boege's head was shaken with two heavy 
 movements reminding one of the movement of a pen- 
 dulum, with this difference, that the shaking was 
 astonishingly quick. In Bartek the terrible crusher of 
 the Turkos and Zouaves was aroused anew. In vain did 
 the twelve-year old Oscar, son of Boege, a boy strong like 
 his father, hasten to help him. A struggle began, short 
 and terrible, in which the son fell to the ground and the 
 father felt himself raised in the air. Bartek, with arms 
 stretched aloft, bore him, whither he knew riot himself. 
 Unfortunately there stood near the house a barrel of 
 swill industriously poured in for the pigs by Pani Boege ; 
 and behold there was a plash in the barrel, and in a 
 moment were seen the legs of Boege sticking out of it 
 and kicking violently. Boege's wife rushed out of the 
 house, 
 
 "Help, rescue!" 
 
 The woman with presence of mind turned the barrel 
 over in a moment and spilled out her husband together 
 with the swill. The German colonists hastened from the 
 houses near by to help their neighbor.
 
 BARTER THE VICTOR. 317 
 
 A number of Germans hurled themselves on Bartek 
 and began to belabor him, some with clubs, others with 
 fists. A general chaos arose, in which it was difficult to 
 distinguish Bartek from his enemies. A number of 
 
 O 
 
 bodies were entangled in one mass moving convulsively. 
 But suddenly from out the mass of strugglers rushed forth 
 Bartek, wild, shooting off with all power toward the fence. 
 
 The Germans sprang after him ; but at the same mo- 
 ment a crash in the fence was heard, and that instant a 
 strong pole was brandished in the iron paws of Bartek. 
 He turned, foaming at the mouth, raging ; he raised his 
 hands with the club in the air; all fled. Bartek fol- 
 lowed them. Happily he overtook no man. Presently 
 he came to himself, and began to retreat toward his 
 cottage. Ah, had he the French before him history 
 would have immortalized that retreat ! 
 
 It was as follows : The attackers, to the number of 
 twelve men, rallied and pressed again on Bartek. He 
 retreated slowly, like a wild boar pressed by dogs. At 
 times he turned and halted ; then the pursuers restrained 
 themselves. The club had won their perfect respect. 
 
 But they threw stones. One of these stones wounded 
 Bartek in the forehead. Blood covered his eyes. He 
 felt that he was growing weak. He staggered once and 
 a second time, dropped the club, and fell. 
 
 " Hurrah ! " cried the colonists. 
 
 But before they came up Bartek had risen ; that re- 
 strained them. The wounded wolf might be dangerous 
 yet. Moreover the first cottages were not far, and from 
 a distance were to be seen a number of Polish peasants 
 running with all speed to the scene of combat. The 
 colonists withdrew to their houses. 
 
 " What has happened ? " asked those who ran up. 
 
 "Dressing the Germans," said Bartek, and he fainted.
 
 318 BARTER THE VICTOR. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 THE affair assumed threatening proportions. The Ger- 
 man papers contained rousing articles about the perse- 
 cutions which peaceable Germans were suffering from 
 the barbarous and ignorant mass excited by agitation 
 against the State and by religious fanaticism. Boege be- 
 came a hero. He, the teacher mild and gentle, spreading 
 enlightenment along the distant borders of the State ; 
 he, the true missionary of culture among barbarians, was 
 the first to fall a victim to their fury. It was fortunate 
 that behind him were a hundred millions of Germans 
 who will not permit, etc. 
 
 Bartek knew not what a storm was gathering above his 
 head ; but he was of good heart, he felt sure of winning 
 before the court. Boege had beaten his child and had 
 struck him first, and afterward so many had attacked him. 
 He had to defend himself of course. Besides, they opened 
 his head with a stone. Whose head ? The head of the 
 man distinguished in the orders of the day, of the man 
 who had " gained " the battle of Gravelotte, who had 
 talked with Steinmetz himself, and who had so many 
 crosses. He could not in truth understand how the Ger- 
 mans could know all this and still work such injustice 
 on him ; nor how Boege could promise the men o Pog- 
 nembin that the Germans would trample them now 
 because they, the men of Pognembin, had beaten the 
 French so valiantly whenever opportunity offered. But 
 as to himself he was certain that the court and the Gov- 
 ernment would take his part. They at least will know 
 who he is, what he has done in the war ; even if no one 
 else does, Steinmetz will take his part. Besides, Bartek
 
 BARTER THE VICTOR: 319 
 
 has grown poor through the war ; his cottage is mort- 
 gaged. They will not deny him justice. 
 
 Meanwhile the police come to Pognembin for Bartek. 
 They expected to find terrible resistance, for they came 
 with five loaded muskets. They were mistaken. Bartek 
 did not think of resistance. They ordered him to sit in 
 a wagon. He sat in it. Magda was in despair, only she 
 repeated persistently, 
 
 "Oh, there was need of thy fighting the French 
 so ! thou hast got it now, poor man, thou hast got 
 it!" 
 
 " Be quiet, foolish woman," said Bartek ; and he smiled 
 along the road gladly enough at passers-by. 
 
 " I will show them who did the injustice ! " cried he 
 from the wagon. 
 
 And with his crosses on his breast he went to the 
 court like a conqueror. In fact, the court showed itself 
 gracious toward him; extenuating circumstances were 
 found. Bartek was condemned to only three months' 
 imprisonment; besides this, he was condemned to pay 
 one Hundred and fifty marks as a recompense to the 
 family of Boege and to other corporeally injured col- 
 onists. 
 
 " The criminal however," said the " Posener Zeitung " 
 in the report of the case, " when the sentence was read to 
 him, did not exhibit the least repentance, but burst out 
 with such rude words, and began to reproach the State so 
 shamefully with his pretended services, that there is rea- 
 son to wonder why the attorney present did not begin a 
 new suit against him for his insults to the court and the 
 German race." 
 
 Meanwhile Bartek in prison meditated calmly over his 
 deeds of Gravelotte, Sedan, and Paris. We should be 
 unjust, however, were we to say that Boege's act called
 
 320 BARTEK THE VICTOR. 
 
 forth no public comment. It did, it did. On a certain 
 rainy morning some Polish member in the German Par- 
 liament showed very eloquently how the treatment of 
 Poles in Poznan had changed ; and that for the bravery 
 of the Poznan regiments, and the losses incurred by them 
 during the war, it would be proper to think more of the 
 rights of people in the province of Poznan ; finally, how 
 Pan Boege of Pognembin had abused his position of 
 teacher by beating Polish children, calling them Polish 
 swine, and promising that after such a war an intru- 
 sive element would trample under foot the original 
 inhabitants. 
 
 While the member was speaking, the rain was falling ; 
 and since on such a day drowsiness seizes men, the Con- 
 servatives were yawning ; the Centre for the Kultur 
 Kampf had not begun yet was yawning. 
 
 At last, in answer to the Polish complaint, the House 
 returned to the order of the day. 
 
 Meanwhile Bartek was sitting in prison, or rather lying 
 in the prison hospital, for from the blow of the stone the 
 wound he had received in the war opened. When he 
 had not the fever, he was thinking like that turkey gob- 
 bler which died from thought. Bartek did not die how- 
 ever; still he thought out nothing. But sometimes in 
 moments which science calls lucid intervals, it came to 
 his head that perhaps he had pounded the French with- 
 out need. 
 
 On Magda came grievous times. The fine had to be 
 paid ; there was no place in which to get the money. 
 The priest of Pognembin wanted to help her ; but it 
 turned out that in his treasury there were not forty 
 whole marks. The parish of Pognembin was a poor one ; 
 besides, the old man never knew how his money was ex- 
 pended. Pan Yarzynski was not at home ; people said that
 
 BARTER THE VICTOR. 321 
 
 he had gone to court some wealthy young lady in the 
 Kingdom. Magda knew not what to do. An extension 
 of the term was not to be thought of. What then ? To 
 sell the horse or a cow ? and it was just before harvest, 
 the most difficult period. Grain-cutting was at hand. 
 The woman needed money, and had spent all her store of 
 it. She wrung her hands in despair ; she sent a number 
 of petitions to the court, asking for extension, recounting 
 Bartek's services. She did not get even an answer. The 
 term was approaching, and with it an execution. She 
 prayed and prayed, thinking bitterly of times before the 
 war when they were rich, and when Bartek was earning 
 money in winter at the mill. She went to her friends to 
 borrow money ; but they had none. The war had paid 
 all with marks of distinction. To Just she did not dare 
 to go, for she was already in debt to him, and had not 
 paid even the interest. But Just himself came to her 
 unexpectedly. 
 
 On a certain afternoon she was sitting on the threshold 
 of her cottage doing nothing, for the strength had gone 
 out of her from despair. She was looking out at the 
 golden flies chasing through the air, and she thought 
 how happy are those insects, playing for themselves, and 
 not crying. At times she sighed heavily, or from her 
 pale lips came the quiet exclamation, " O God ! God ! " 
 All at once before the gate appeared the hanging nose of 
 Just, under which was a hanging pipe. Just called 
 out, 
 
 " Morgen ! " 
 
 " How is your health, Pan Just ? " 
 
 " But my money ? " 
 
 " Oh, my dear, golden Pan Just, be patient ! What 
 shall I, poor woman, do ? They have taken my man ; 
 I must pay the fine for him. I don't know what to do.
 
 322 BARTER THE VICTOR. 
 
 Better die than suffer from day to day as I suffer. Wait 
 a little, my golden Pan Just." 
 
 She burst into tears, and, bending down, kissed submis- 
 sively the thick red hand of Pan Just. 
 
 " Pan Yarzynski will come ; I will get money from him, 
 and pay you." 
 
 " But how will you pay the fine ? " 
 
 " How do I know unless I sell a cow ? " 
 
 " Well, I will lend you more money." 
 
 " May the Lord God reward you, my golden Pan. 
 Although a Lutheran, you are a good man ; I say indeed 
 that if other Germans were like you, a man might bless 
 them." 
 
 " But I will not give it without interest." 
 
 " I know, I know." 
 
 " Then you write me one note for all you owe." 
 
 " I will, golden Pan ; God reward you even for that ! " 
 
 " I will be in town, and we will draw up the paper." 
 
 He went to town, and had the paper drawn up ; but 
 Magda went first to take counsel with the priest. But 
 what counsel was there to be taken ? The priest said 
 that the term was too short, that the interest was too 
 high, and grieved greatly that Pan Yarzynski was not at 
 home ; for if he had been at home, he might help. But 
 Magda could not wait till the court sold her effects, and 
 was forced to accept Just's conditions. 
 
 She went in debt three hundred marks ; that is, twice 
 the amount of the " fine," for she needed some money in 
 the house to carry on affairs. Bartek, who had to confirm 
 the act with his own signature, to give it validity, signed 
 it. Magda for that purpose went to him in prison. 
 The victor was greatly weighed down, crushed, and sick. 
 He wrote another complaint, and set forth his wrongs ; 
 but his complaint was not received. The articles in the
 
 BARTER THE VICTOR. 323 
 
 " Posener Zeitung " had roused opinions in Government 
 circles with too great unfriendliness toward him. Were 
 the authorities to refuse protection to that peaceable 
 German population, " which in the last war had given 
 so many proofs of its love for the country and for en- 
 lightenment " ? Justly, therefore, was Bartek's complaint 
 rejected. But be not surprised if that crushed him 
 completely. 
 
 "We shall be lost altogether," said he, to his wife. 
 
 "Altogether," repeated she. 
 
 Bartek began to think over something powerfully. 
 
 " I am terribly wronged," said he. 
 
 " Boege is tormenting the boy," said Magda. " I went 
 to entreat him ; he abused me more. ' Oi ! ' said he, ' the 
 Germans are on top now in Poznan. They are afraid of 
 nobody now.'" 
 
 " It is sure that they are stronger," said Bartek, 
 gloomily. 
 
 " I 'm a simple woman ; but I say this, that God is 
 stronger." 
 
 " In Him is our refuge," added Bartek. 
 
 Both were silent awhile ; then they asked again, 
 
 " Well, and what of Just ? " 
 
 " May the highest God give us harvest ! perhaps we 
 may pay him some way. Perhaps, too, Pan Yarzynski 
 will help us, though he himself is in debt to the Ger- 
 mans. Even before the war it was said that he must sell 
 Pognembin. Perhaps he will marry a rich woman." 
 
 " But will he come soon ? " 
 
 " Who knows ? They say at the mansion that he '11 
 come soon with his wife. The Germans will crowd him 
 when he comes. Those Germans are crawling in every- 
 where like worms. Wherever thy eyes look, wherever 
 thou canst turn, in the village or the town, Germans !
 
 324 BARTER THE VICTOR. 
 
 It must be in punishment for our sins. And rescue from 
 no side ! " 
 
 " Maybe thou canst do something ; thou art a wise 
 woman." 
 
 " What can I do, what ? Did I borrow money from 
 Just of my own will? In good right, the cottage in 
 which we are, and the land too, is his now. Just is a 
 better German than others ; but he has his own good in 
 mind, and not ours. He will not spare us, as he has not 
 spared others. Am I such a fool as not to know why he 
 offers me money ? But what is to be done ! what is to 
 be done ! " said Magda, wringing her hands ; " tell, tell, if 
 thou art wise. Thou wert able to beat the French ; but 
 what wilt thou do when there is no roof above thy head, 
 nor a spoonful of food for thy mouth ? " 
 
 The victor of Gravelotte seized his head, 
 
 " O Jesus ! Jesus ! " 
 
 Magda had a good heart ; Bartek's pain moved her ; 
 she said at once, 
 
 " Be quiet, poor fellow, be quiet ; do not seize thy 
 head, for it is not healed yet. If God gives a harvest ! 
 The rye is so beautiful that one would like to kiss the 
 land ; and the wheat is beautiful. The land is not a Ger- 
 man, it will not wrong thee. Even though without 
 thy war the field was worked stupidly, still there is such 
 a growth that " 
 
 Honest Magda laughed through her tears, 
 
 " The land is not a German," repeated she again. 
 
 " Magda," said Bartek, looking at her with his staring 
 eyes, " Magda ! " 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " But thou art as " 
 
 Bartek felt for her great thankfulness ; but he knew 
 not how to express it.
 
 BARTER THE VICTOR. 325 
 
 IX. 
 
 MAGDA was, indeed, worth as much as ten women worse 
 than herself. She held her Bartek rather strictly ; but 
 she was really attached to him. In moments of excite- 
 ment, as, for instance, that time in the shop, she told him 
 to his eyes that he was a fool ; but in general she wished 
 people to think otherwise. " My Bartek seems dull, but 
 he is cunning," said she, frequently. Meanwhile Bartek 
 was as cunning as his own horse ; and without Magda 
 he would not have been able to get on either in house- 
 keeping or aught else. Now everything was on her hon- 
 est head ; and she began to hurry about, to run, to entreat, 
 so that she found rescue at last. A week after her first 
 visit to the prison hospital, she rushed in again to Bartek, 
 panting, happy, radiant. 
 
 " How art thou, Bartek, thou Chestnut ? " cried she 
 with joy. " Pan Yarzynski has come, k newest thou ? 
 He got married in the Kingdom ; the young lady is a 
 berry. And he got all kinds of riches with her." 
 
 " Well, but what of that ? " inquired Bartek. 
 
 " Be quiet, stupid fellow ! " answered Magda. " I went 
 to bow down to the Pani ; I look she comes out to me 
 like some queen, so young, as beautiful as the dawn." 
 
 Magda raised her apron, and began to wipe her face. 
 After a while she spoke again, with a broken voice, 
 
 " She wore a robe blue as a star-thistle. I fell at 
 her feet, and she gave me her hand ; I kissed it ; and her 
 hands are sweet and small as the hands of a child. She 
 is like a saint in a picture ; and she is good, and under- 
 stands the sufferings of people. I entreated her to save 
 us, may God reward her ! And she said, ' What is in 
 my power I will do.' And she has a dear voice ; so
 
 326 BARTER THE VICTOR. 
 
 that when she speaks a sweetness takes hold of thee. 
 When I told how unhappy people were in Pognembiu, 
 she said, ' Ai, not only in Pognembin ! ' and when I 
 broke out crying, she cried as well, till her husband 
 came in, and saw that she was crying. Then he took 
 her, and kissed her on the mouth and on the eyes. 
 Lords are not like peasants ! Then she said to him, 
 ' Do what thou canst for this woman ! ' And he an- 
 swered, ' Everything in the world according to thy wish.' 
 May the Mother of God bless her, the golden berry ! 
 bless her with children, with health ! ' Ye are greatly 
 to blame,' said Pan Yarzynski, ' for putting yourselves 
 into German hands ; but,' said he, ' I will save you, and 
 give you the money for Just.' " 
 Bartek began to scratch his neck. 
 " But the Germans had him in hand, too." 
 " What of that ? But the lady is rich. Now they can 
 buy out all the Germans in Pognembin, so he can talk 
 that way. ' The election is coming,' said he ; ' let the 
 people be careful not to vote for Germans. I will give 
 the money for Just, and tame Boege.' And the lady put 
 her arms around his neck, and he inquired about thee, 
 and said : ' If he is weak I will ask the doctor to write a 
 certificate that he cannot sit out his term at present. 
 If they do not free him entirely, let him stay out his 
 term in winter ; but now he is needed for the harvest.' 
 Dost hear ? Yesterday, Pan Yarzynski was in the town, 
 and to-day the doctor will come to Pognembin on a visit, 
 for he was asked. He is not a German, and he will write 
 a certificate. In the winter thou 'It be in prison like a 
 king in his castle ; it will be warm for thee there, and 
 they '11 give thee food free of cost ; and now thou 'It go 
 home to work, and we '11 pay Just, and maybe Pan 
 Yarzynski will not want any interest. And if we do
 
 BARTER THE VICTOR. 327 
 
 not pay all in the autumn I '11 speak to the lady. May 
 the Mother of God reward her ! Dost hear ? " 
 
 " She is a good lady ; there is nothing to be said 
 against that," said Bartek, quickly. 
 
 "Thou wilt fall at her feet, thou 'It fall; if not I'll 
 twist thy yellow head off. If God gives a good harvest 
 Dost see where rescue came from ? From the Germans ? 
 Did they give thee even one copper for thy stupid work, 
 did they ? They gave thee a blow on the head, that 's 
 all. Thou 'It fall at the lady's feet, I tell thee." 
 
 " Why not fall?" answered Bartek, resolutely. 
 
 Fate seemed to smile again on the victor. A few days 
 later it was announced to him that for reasons of health 
 he was liberated till winter. But the Landrath com- 
 manded Bartek to appear before him. Bartek came with 
 his soul on his shoulder. That man who with bayonet 
 in hand took standards and cannon, began to fear every 
 uniform more than death, began to bear in his heart 
 a certain dull, unconscious feeling that they were perse- 
 cuting him, that they could do what they liked with 
 him, that there was above him a certain enormous power, 
 hostile and malevolent, which would grind him if he op- 
 posed it. He stood then before the Landrath, as once he 
 had stood before Steinmetz, erect, with his stomach drawn 
 in, his breast pushed forward, without breath in his bosom. 
 There were a number of officers there also ; war and mili- 
 tary discipline stood as if living before Bartek. The officers 
 looked at him through their gold- rimmed glasses with the 
 pride and contempt which should be shown a common 
 soldier and a Polish peasant by Prussian officers. Bartek 
 held his breath, and the Landrath spoke in a commanding 
 tone. He did not request, he did not persuade ; he com- 
 manded, he threatened. The member had died in Berlin, 
 a new election was ordered.
 
 328 BARTER THE VICTOR. 
 
 " Du polnisches Vieh (Thou Polish beast) ! just try- 
 to vote for Pan Yarzynski, try ! " 
 
 The brows of the officers were contracted at that 
 moment in terrible lion wrinkles. One, biting a cigar, 
 repeated after the Landrath, " try," and the breath died 
 in Bartek the victor. When he heard the desired " Go 
 out ! " he made a half turn to the left, went out, and 
 drew breath. 
 
 The command was issued to him to vote for Pan Schul- 
 berg from Upper Kryvda. He did not think over the 
 command ; but he breathed, he went to Pognembin, for 
 he could be home for the harvest. Pan Yarzynski had 
 promised to pay Just. Bartek went outside the town. 
 He was surrounded by fields of ripening grain. One head 
 heavy with the wind strikes another head and rustles 
 with a sound dear to the ear of the peasant. Bartek was 
 weak yet, but the sun warmed him. " Hei, how beautiful 
 it is in the world ! " thought the broken soldier. And 
 it is not far now to Pognembin. 
 
 X. 
 
 THE election ! the election ! Pani Marya Yarxynsld has 
 her head full of it ; she thinks not, she speaks not, she 
 dreams not of anything else. 
 
 " The lady benefactress is a great politician," says a 
 neighboring noble, kissing like a dragon her small hands ; 
 and the " great politician " blushes like a cherry, and 
 answers with a pretty smile, 
 
 " We agitate as far as we are able." 
 
 " Pan Yozef will be elected," said the noble, convinc- 
 ingly, and the " great politician " answers, 
 
 " I should like it greatly, though the question is not 
 merely of Yozio, but [here the " great politician " was
 
 BARTER THE VICTOR. 329 
 
 cooking again the unpolitical lobster] of the common 
 cause." 
 
 " A real Bismarck, as I love God ! " cries* the noble, 
 and again he kisses the small hand. Again the two take 
 counsel about the agitation. The noble takes on himself 
 Lower Kryvda and Mizerov (Upper Kryvda is lost, for 
 its owner is Pan Schulberg) and Pani Marya is to occupy 
 herself beyond all with Pognembin. Her head was on 
 fire because she was playing such a role. Indeed, she lost 
 no time. Every day she was to be seen on the high road 
 among the cottages, her skirt raised with one hand, her 
 little parasol in the other, and from under the skirt 
 peeped forth her dainty feet, trotting around eagerly for 
 great political objects. She enters the cottages of labor- 
 ing people, says on the way, " God give assistance ! " She 
 visits the sick, occupies herself with the people, helps 
 where she can ; she would have done that without politics, 
 for she has a good heart ; but all the more for politics. 
 What would she not do for politics ? But she does not 
 dare to confess to her husband that she has an irresistible 
 desire to go to the village court ; she even put together 
 in her head a speech proper to be made there. What a 
 speech ! what a speech ! In truth she would not really 
 speak it ; but if she should speak it, then ? When the 
 news came to Pognembin that the authorities had dissolved 
 the village court, the " great politician " burst out from 
 anger in her room, tore her handkerchief, and had red 
 eyes all day. In vain did her husband entreat her not to 
 demean herself to that degree. Next morning the agita- 
 tion was carried on in Pognembin with still greater in- 
 tensity. Pani Marya did not retreat before anything. 
 In one day she was at a number of cottages, and jeered at 
 the Germans so loudly that her husband had to restrain 
 her. But there is no danger; the people receive her
 
 330 BARTEK THE VICTOR. 
 
 with joy, kiss her hands, and smile at her, for she is so 
 shapely, so rosy, that when she enters a house it grows 
 bright. In "turn she came to Bartek's cottage. Lysek the 
 dog would not let her in, but Magda in her anger gave 
 him a blow of a club on the head. 
 
 " Oh, serene lady, my golden lady, my beauty, my 
 berry ! " cried Magda, nestling up to her hands. 
 
 Bartek, in obedience to command, throws himself at 
 her feet ; little Franek first of all kisses her hand, then 
 puts his finger in his mouth, and buries himself wholly 
 in wonderment. 
 
 " I hope," said the young lady, after the greetings were 
 over, "I hope, my Bartek, that you will vote for my 
 husband, not for Pan Schulberg." 
 
 " Oh, my dawn ! " cried Magda, " who would vote for 
 Schulberg ? May the paralysis strike him ! [Here she 
 kissed the lady's hand.] Let not the serene lady be 
 angry ; but when a German is mentioned, it is hard to 
 hold the tongue/' 
 
 " My husband has told me that he will pay Just." 
 
 " May God bless him ! " Here Magda turned to Bartek. 
 "Why stand like a post ? He, my lady, is terribly silent." 
 
 " You will vote for my husband," asked the lady, " will 
 you not ? You are Poles, we are Poles ; we will hold 
 together." 
 
 " I would twist his head off if he did n't vote," said 
 Magda. " Why stand like a post ? He is terribly silent. 
 Stir up!" 
 
 Bartek kisses the hand of the lady again ; but is silent 
 all the time and gloomy as night. He is thinking of the 
 Landrath. 
 
 The day of the election is coming, has come. Pan 
 Yarzynski is certain of victory. The nobles have returned
 
 BARTEK THE VICTOR. 331 
 
 from the town ; they have already voted, and will wait 
 now in Pognembin for the news which the priest is to 
 bring. There will be a dinner after that ; in the evening 
 the Yarzynskis will go to Poznan, and then to Berlin. 
 Some villages in the electoral district had voted the day 
 before ; the result will be known to-day. The company, 
 however, is in good spirits. The youthful lady is a little 
 disquieted, but full of hope and smiles. She is such a 
 welcoming lady that all say, " Pan Yarzynski has found 
 a real treasure in the Kingdom." That " treasure " can- 
 not indeed sit quietly in one place just now, but is 
 running from guest to guest, and commands each a hun- 
 dred times to give the assurance that " Yozio will be 
 elected." She is not really ambitious, and not from 
 vanity does she wish to become the wife of a member ; 
 but she has imagined in her young head that she and 
 her husband have a real mission to perform. Her heart 
 therefore is beating as quickly as at the moment of her 
 marriage, and joy lights up her pretty face. Making her 
 way deftly through the guests, she approaches her husband, 
 draws him by the sleeve, and whispers into his ear like a 
 child who is nicknaming some one, "Pan Posel [Lord 
 Deputy]." He smiles, and both are happy beyond 
 expression. Both have a great desire to kiss each other, 
 but that is not proper before guests. All are looking 
 every moment through the window, for the cause is really 
 important. The member who had died recently was a 
 Pole, and this was the first time that the Germans had 
 brought out a candidate in the district. Clearly a victori- 
 ous war had given them boldness ; but for that reason 
 it was important to the company assembled in the 
 mansion of Pognembin that their candidate be chosen. 
 There was no lack either before the dinner, of patriotic 
 utterances, which moved especially the youthful lady, so
 
 332 BARTER THE VICTOR. 
 
 unaccustomed to them. At moments she had attacks of 
 fear : But if some fraud should be committed in counting 
 the votes ? But Germans are not alone in the committee. 
 The older inhabitants explained then to the lady how 
 the counting of votes is carried on. She had heard it 
 about a hundred times, but wishes to hear it again, for 
 the question is : Are the people of that place to have 
 a defender in Parliament or an enemy ? That will be 
 decided soon indeed, for on the road a cloud of dust rises 
 suddenly. " The priest is coming, the priest is coming ! " 
 repeat those present. The lady grows pale. On all faces 
 excitement is evident. They are certain of victory ; but 
 still the last moment increases the beating of hearts. 
 But that is not the priest ; it is the land-steward returning 
 on horseback from the town. Maybe he knows some- 
 thing ? He ties the horse to the ring and hurries to the 
 house. The guests, with the lady in front of them, rush 
 out to the porch. 
 
 "Have you news? Is our host elected? What? 
 Come here ! You know surely ? Is the result an- 
 nounced ? " 
 
 Questions cross each other and fall like rockets. The 
 man throws his cap in the air. 
 
 " Our lord is elected." 
 
 The lady drops suddenly on the bench and presses her 
 swelling bosom with her hand. 
 
 " Vivat ! vivat ! " cried the neighbors. " Vivat ! " 
 
 The servants rush out of the kitchen : "Vivat! The 
 Germans are beaten ! Long life to the new member and 
 the lady!" 
 
 " But the priest ? " inquires some one. 
 
 "He will be here soon," said the land-steward; "they 
 are still counting the last names." 
 
 " Bring in the dinner ! " cries the new member.
 
 BARTER THE VICTOR. 333 
 
 " Vivat ! " repeat others. 
 
 All return from the porch to the hall. Congratula- 
 tions to the lord and the lady are now flowing more 
 calmly ; but the lady herself is not able to restrain her 
 joy, and without thinking of spectators throws her arms 
 around her husband's neck. But they do not take that 
 ill of her ; nay, emotion seizes all. 
 
 " We shall live yet," says a neighbor from Mizerov. 
 
 That moment a rattling is heard at the porch ; the 
 priest enters the hall, and with him old Kyerz from 
 Pognembin. 
 
 " We greet, we greet ! " cry the guests. " Well, what 
 was the majority ? " 
 
 The priest, silent for an instant, casts as it were in the 
 face of the general rejoicing harshly and briefly two 
 words, 
 
 "Schulberg elected!" 
 
 A moment of astonishment, a hail-storm of questions 
 hurried and disturbed, to which the priest answers 
 again, 
 
 "Schulberg elected!" 
 
 "How? What has happened? In what way? The 
 land-steward said he was not. What has happened ? " 
 
 At that moment Pan Yarzynski conducted out of the 
 hall poor Pani Marya, who was gnawing her handker- 
 chief to avoid bursting into tears or fainting. 
 
 " O misfortune ! misfortune ! " repeat the guests, seiz- 
 ing themselves by their heads. 
 
 At that moment from the direction of the village 
 comes the sound of distant voices as if joyous shouts. 
 That is the Germans of Pognembin going around joyfully 
 with their victory. 
 
 The Yarzynskis return to the hall. It was to be heard 
 how at the door the young man said to the lady, " II faut
 
 334 BARTER THE VICTOR. 
 
 faire bonne mine (We must put a good face on it)." In 
 fact the lady was weeping no longer ; she had dry eyes, 
 and was greatly flushed. 
 
 "Tell us now how it happened," said the host, calmly. 
 
 " How could it be otherwise, serene lord," said old 
 Kerz, " when the peasants here in Pognembin voted for 
 Schulberg?" 
 
 " Who, these here ? But how was that ? " 
 
 " They did. I myself saw, and all saw, Bartek Slovik 
 vote for Schulberg." 
 
 " Bartek Slovik ? " said the lady. 
 
 " Of course. Now the others are railing at him, the 
 man is rolling on the ground ; he is weeping, his wife is 
 abusing him. But I myself saw him vote." 
 
 " Such a man should be driven from the village," said 
 a neighbor from Mizerov. 
 
 " Well, serene lord," said Kerz, " others too who were 
 at the war voted that way as well as he. They say that 
 they were commanded." 
 
 " Abuse, pure abuse ! the election is not valid. Con- 
 straint, fraud ! " cried various voices. 
 
 Not joyful was the dinner of that day in the Pognem- 
 bin mansion. In the evening the Yarzynkis went away, 
 but not to Berlin, only to Dresden. 
 
 Miserable, cursed, despised, and hated, Bartek sat in 
 his cottage, a stranger even to his own wife, for the whole 
 day she had not spoken a word to him. 
 
 God gave a bountiful harvest, and in the autumn Pan 
 Just, who had now taken possession of Bartek's place, 
 was glad that he had done a business that was not at 
 all bad. 
 
 On a certain day three people were going from Pog- 
 nembin to the town, a man, a woman, and a boy. The
 
 BARTER THE VICTOR 335 
 
 man, greatly bent, was more like some old grandfather 
 than a healthy person. They were going to the town, for 
 in Pognembin they could not find work. The rain was 
 falling ; the woman was sobbing terribly in grief for the 
 lost cottage and the village, the man was silent. The 
 whole road was empty, neither a wagon nor a man, 
 only the cross stretched over the wayside, its arms wet 
 from rain. The rain fell more and more densely, and it 
 was growing dark in the world. 
 
 Bartek, Magda, and Franek were on their way to the 
 town ; the victor of Gravelotte and Sedan had to serve 
 out his time in prison for the Boege affair. 
 
 The Yarzynskis were living in Dresden.
 
 ACKOSS THE PLAINS. 
 
 22
 
 ACROSS THE PLAINS. 
 
 DURING my stay in California I went with my 
 worthy and gallant friend, Captain R, to visit 
 Y., a compatriot of ours who was living in the secluded 
 mountains of Santa Lucia. Not finding him at home, 
 we passed five days in a lonely ravine, in company with 
 an old Indian servant, who during his master's absence 
 took care of the Angora goats and the bees. 
 
 Conforming to the ways of the country, I spent the 
 hot summer days mainly in sleep, but when night came 
 I sat down near a fire of dry " chamisal," and listened to 
 stories from the captain, concerning his wonderful advent- 
 ures, and events which could happen only in the wilds 
 of America. 
 
 Those hours passed for me very bewitchingly. The 
 nights were real Ca'lifornian : calm, warm, starry ; the 
 fire burned cheerily, and in its gleam I saw the gigantic, 
 but shapely and noble form of the old pioneer warrior. 
 Raising his eyes to the stars, he sought to recall past 
 events, cherished names, and dear faces, the very remem- 
 brance of which brought a mild sadness to his features. 
 Of these narratives I give one just as I heard it, thinking 
 that the reader will listen to it with as much interest as 
 I did. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 I CAME to America in September, 1849, said the captain, 
 and found myself in New Orleans, which was half French 
 at that time. From New Orleans I went up the Missis-
 
 340 ACROSS THE PLAINS. 
 
 sippi to a great sugar plantation, where I found work 
 and good wages. But since I was young in those days, 
 and full of enterprise, sitting in one spot and writing 
 annoyed me ; so I left that place soon and began life 
 in the forest. My comrades and I passed some time 
 among the lakes of Louisiana, amidst crocodiles, snakes, 
 and mosquitoes. We supported ourselves with hunting 
 and fishing, and from time to time floated down many 
 logs to New Orleans, where purchasers paid for them not 
 badly in money. 
 
 Our expeditions reached distant places. We went as far 
 as " Bloody Arkansas," which, sparsely inhabited even at 
 this day, was well-nigh a pure wilderness at that time. 
 Such a life, full of labors and dangers, bloody encounters 
 with pirates on the Mississippi, and with Indians, who 
 were numerous then in Louisiana, Arkansas, and Tennes- 
 see, increased my health and strength, which by nature 
 were uncommon, and gave me also such knowledge of 
 the plains, that I could read in that great book not 
 worse than any red warrior. 
 
 After the discovery of gold in California, large parties 
 of emigrants left Boston, New York, Philadelphia, and 
 other eastern cities almost daily, and one of these, thanks 
 to my reputation, chose me leader, or as we say here, 
 captain. 
 
 I accepted the office willingly, since wonders were told 
 of California in those days, and I had cherished thoughts 
 of going to the Far West, though without concealing 
 from myself the perils of the journey. 
 
 At present the distance between New York and San 
 Francisco is passed by rail in a week, and the real desert 
 begins only west of Omaha ; in those days it was some- 
 thing quite different. Cities and towns, which between 
 New York and Chicago are as numerous as poppy-seeds
 
 ACROSS THE PLAINS. 341 
 
 now, did not exist then ; and Chicago itself, which later 
 on grew up like a mushroom after rain, was merely a 
 poor obscure fishing-village not found on maps. It was 
 necessary to travel with wagons, men, and mules through 
 a country quite wild, and inhabited by terrible tribes of 
 Indians : Crows, Blackfeet, Pawnees, Sioux, and Aricka- 
 rees, which it was well-nigh impossible to avoid in large 
 numbers, since those tribes, movable as sand, had no 
 fixed dwellings, but, being hunters, circled over great 
 spaces of prairie, while following buffaloes and antelopes. 
 
 Not few were the toils, then, that threatened us ; but 
 he who goes to the Far West must be ready to suffer 
 hardship, and expose his life frequently. I feared most 
 of all the responsibility which I had accepted. This 
 matter had been settled, however, and there was nothing 
 to do but make preparations for the journey. These lasted 
 more than two months, since we had to bring wagons, 
 even from Pittsburgh, to buy mules, horses, arms, and 
 collect large supplies of provisions. Toward the end of 
 winter, however, all things were ready. 
 
 I wished to start in such season as to pass the great 
 prairies lying between the Mississippi and the Rocky 
 Mountains in spring, for I knew that in summer because 
 of heat in those open places, multitudes of men died of 
 various diseases. I decided for this reason to lead the 
 train, not over the southern route by St. Louis, but 
 through Iowa, Nebraska, and Northern Colorado. That 
 road was more dangerous with reference to Indians, but 
 beyond doubt it was healthier. The plan roused op- 
 position at first among people of the train. I declared 
 that if they would not obey they might choose another 
 captain. They yielded after a brief consultation, and we 
 moved at the first breath of spring. 
 
 Days now set in which for me were toilsome enough,
 
 342 ACROSS THE PLAINS. 
 
 especially till such time as men had grown accustomed 
 to me and the conditions of the journey. It is true that 
 my person roused confidence, for my daring trips to 
 Arkansas had won a certain fame among the restless 
 population of the border, and the name of " Big Ealph," 
 by which I was known on the prairies, had struck the 
 ears of most of my people more than once. In general, 
 however, the captain, or leader, was, from the nature of 
 things, in a very critical position frequently with regard 
 to emigrants. It was my duty to choose the camping- 
 ground every evening, watch over the advance in the 
 daytime, have an eye on the whole caravan, which ex- 
 tended at times a mile over the prairie, appoint sentries 
 at the halting-places, and give men permission to rest in 
 the wagons when their turn came. 
 
 Americans have in them, it is true, the spirit of organ- 
 ization developed to a high degree ; but in toils on a jour- 
 ney men's energies weaken, and unwillingness seizes the 
 most enduring. At such times no one wishes to recon- 
 noitre all day on horseback and stand sentry at night, 
 but each would like to evade the turn which is com- 
 ing to him, and lie entire days in a wagon. Besides, 
 in intercourse with Americans, a captain must know how 
 to reconcile discipline with a certain social familiarity, 
 a thing far from easy. In time of march, and in the 
 hours of night-watching, I was perfect master of the will 
 of each of my companions; but during rest in the day 
 at farms and settlements, to which we came at first on 
 the road, my role of commander ended. Each man was 
 then his own master, and more than once I was forced 
 to overcome the opposition of insolent adventurers ; but 
 when in presence of numerous spectators it turned out 
 a number of times that my Mazovian fist was the 
 stronger, my significance rose, and later on I never
 
 ACROSS THE PLAINS. 343 
 
 had personal encounters. Besides, I knew American 
 character thoroughly. I knew how to help myself, and, 
 in addition to all. my endurance and willingness were 
 increased by a certain pair of blue eyes, which looked 
 out at me with special interest from beneath the can- 
 vas roof of a wagon. Those eyes looked from under a 
 forehead shaded by rich golden hair, and they belonged 
 to a maiden named Lillian Morris. She was delicate, 
 slender, with finely cut features, and a face thoughtful, 
 though almost childlike. That seriousness in such a 
 young girl struck me at once when beginning the jour- 
 ney, but duties connected with the office of captain soon 
 turned elsewhere my mind and attention. 
 
 During the first weeks I exchanged with Miss Morris 
 barely a couple of words beyond the usual daily "good 
 morning." Taking compassion, however, on her loneliness 
 and youth, she had no relatives in that caravan, 
 I showed the poor girl some trifling services. I had 
 not the least need of guarding her with my author- 
 ity of leader nor with my fist from the forwardness of 
 young men in the train, for among Americans even the 
 youngest woman is sure, if not of the over-prompt polite- 
 ness for which the French are distinguished, at least of 
 perfect security. In view, however, of Lillian's delicate 
 health, I put her in the most commodious wagon, in 
 charge of a driver of great experience, named Smith. 
 I spread for her a couch on which she could sleep with 
 comfort ; finally, I lent her a warm buffalo-skin, of which 
 I had a number in reserve. Though these services were 
 not important, Lillian seemed to feel a lively gratitude, 
 and omitted no opportunity to show it. She was evi- 
 dently very mild and retiring. Two women, Aunt 
 Grosvenor and Aunt Atkins, soon loved her beyond ex- 
 pression for her sweetness of character. " Little Bird,"
 
 344 ACROSS THE PLAINS. 
 
 a title which they gave her, became the name by which 
 she was known in the caravan. Still, there was not 
 the slightest approach between Little Bird and me, till I 
 noticed that the blue and almost angelic eyes of that 
 maiden were turned toward me, with a certain special 
 sympathy and determined interest. 
 
 That might have been interpreted in this way : Among 
 all the people of the train I alone had some social refine- 
 ment ; Lillian, in whom also a careful training was evi- 
 dent, saw in me, therefore, a man nearer to her than the 
 rest of the company. But I understood the affair some- 
 what differently. The interest which she showed pleased 
 my vanity; my vanity made me pay her more attention, 
 and look oftener into her eyes. It was not long till I 
 was striving in vain to discover why, up to that time, 
 I had paid so little attention to a person so exquisite, 
 a person who might inspire tender feelings in any man 
 who had a heart. 
 
 Thenceforth I was fond of coursing around her wagon 
 on my horse. During the heat of the day, which in 
 spite of the early spring annoyed us greatly at noon, the 
 mules dragged forward lazily, and the caravan stretched 
 along the prairie, so that a man standing at the first 
 wagon could barely see the last one. Often did I fly at 
 such times from end to end, wearying my horse without 
 need, just to see that bright head in passing, and those 
 eyes, which hardly ever left my mind. At first my imag- 
 ination was more taken than my heart ; I received pleas- 
 ant solace from the thought that among those strange 
 people I was not entirely a stranger, since a sympa- 
 thetic little soul was occupied with me somewhat. Per- 
 haps this came not from vanity, but from the yearning 
 which a man feels on earth to discover his own self in 
 a heart near to him, to fix his affections and thoughts
 
 ACROSS THE PLAINS. 345 
 
 on one living beloved existence, instead of wasting them 
 on such indefinite, general objects as plains and forests, 
 and losing himself in remotenesses and infinities. 
 
 I felt less lonely then, and the whole journey took on 
 attractions unknown to me hitherto. Formerly, when 
 the caravan stretched out on the prairie, as I have 
 described, so that the last wagons vanished from the eye, 
 I saw in that only a lack of attention, and disorder, from 
 which I grew very angry. Now, when I halted on some 
 eminence, the sight of those wagons, white and striped, 
 shone on by the sun and plunging in the sea of grass, 
 like ships on the ocean, the sight of men, on horseback 
 and armed, scattered in picturesque disorder at the sides 
 of the wagons, filled my soul with delight and with hap- 
 piness. And I know not whence such comparisons came 
 to me, but that seemed some kind of Old Testament pro- 
 cession, which I, like a patriarch, was leading to the 
 Promised Land. The bells on the harness of the mules 
 and the drawling, " Get up ! " of the drivers accompanied 
 like music thoughts which came from my heart and my 
 nature. 
 
 But I did not pass from that dialogue of eyes with 
 Lillian to another, for the presence of the women travel- 
 ling with her prevented me. Still, from the time when 
 I saw that there was something between us for which 
 I could not find a name yet, though I felt that the 
 something was there, a certain strange timidity seized 
 me. I redoubled, however, my care for the women, and 
 frequently I looked into the wagon, inquiring about the 
 health of Aunt Atkins and Aunt Grosvenor, so as to 
 justify in that way and equalize the attentions with 
 which I surrounded Lillian ; but she understood my 
 methods perfectly, and this understanding became as it 
 were our own secret, concealed from the rest of the people.
 
 346 ACROSS THE PLAINS. 
 
 Soon, glances and a passing exchange of words and 
 tender endeavors were not enough for me. That young 
 maiden with bright hair and sweet look drew me to her 
 with an irresistible power. I began to think of her 
 whole days ; and at night, when wearied from visiting 
 the sentries, and hoarse from crying " All is well ! " I 
 came at last to the wagon, and wrapping, myself in a 
 buffalo-skin, closed my eyes to rest, it seemed to me that 
 the gnats and mosquitoes buzzing around were singing 
 unceasingly in my ears, " Lillian ! Lillian ! Lillian ! " Her 
 form stood before me in my dreams ; at waking, my first 
 thought flew to her like a swallow ; and still, wonderful 
 thing ! I had not noticed that the dear attraction which 
 everything assumed for me, that painting in the soul of 
 objects in golden colors, and those thoughts sailing after 
 her wagon, were not a friendship nor an inclination for 
 an orphan, but a mightier feeling by far, a feeling from 
 which no man on earth can defend himself when the 
 turn has come to him. 
 
 It may be that I should have noticed this sooner, had 
 it not been that the sweetness of Lillian's nature won 
 every one to her; I thought, therefore, that I was no 
 more under the charm of that maiden than were others. 
 All loved her as their own child, and I had proof of 
 this before my eyes daily. Her companions were simple 
 women, sufficiently inclined to wordy quarrels, and still, 
 more than once had I seen Aunt Atkins, the greatest 
 Herod on earth, combing Lillian's hair in the morning, 
 kissing her with the affection of a mother ; sometimes I 
 saw Aunt Grosvenor warming in her own palms the 
 maiden's hands, which had chilled in the night. The 
 men surrounded her likewise with care and attentions. 
 There was a certain Henry Simpson in the train, a young 
 adventurer from Kansas, a fearless hunter and an honest
 
 ACROSS THE PLAINS. 347 
 
 fellow at heart, but so self-sufficient, so insolent and 
 rough, that during the first month I had to beat the man 
 twice, to convince him that there was some one in the 
 train who had a stronger hand than his, and who was of 
 superior significance. You should have seen that same 
 Henry Simpson speaking to Lillian. He who would not 
 have thought anything of the President of the United 
 States himself, lost in her presence all his confidence and 
 boldness, and repeated every moment, " I beg your par- 
 don, Miss Morris ! " He had quite the bearing of a chained 
 mastiff, but clearly the mastiff was ready to obey every 
 motion of that small, half-childlike hand. At the halting- 
 places he tried always to be with Lillian, so as to ren- 
 der her various little services. He lighted the fire, and 
 selected for her a place free from smoke, covering it first 
 with moss and then with his own horse-blankets; he 
 chose for her the best pieces of game, doing all this 
 with a certain timid attention which I had not thought 
 to find in him, and which roused in me, nevertheless, a 
 kind of ill-will very similar to jealousy. 
 
 But I could only be angry, nothing more. Henry, if 
 the turn to stand guard did not come to him, might do 
 what he liked with his time, hence he could be near 
 Lillian, while my turn of service never ended. On the 
 road the wagons dragged forward one after another, often 
 very far apart; but when we entered an open country 
 for the midday rest I placed the wagons, according to 
 prairie custom, in a line side by side, so that a man could 
 hardly push between them. It is difficult to understand 
 how much trouble and toil I had before such an easily 
 defended line was formed. Mules are by nature wild and 
 untractable ; either they balked, or they would not go out 
 of the beaten track, biting each other meanwhile, neighing 
 and kicking ; wagons, twisted by sudden movement, were
 
 348 ACROSS THE PLAINS. 
 
 turned over frequently, and the raising up of such real 
 houses of wood and canvas took no little time ; the bray- 
 ing of mules, the cursing of drivers, the tinkling of bells, 
 the barking of dogs which followed us, caused a hellish 
 uproar. When I had brought all into order in some 
 fashion, I had to oversee the unharnessing of the animals 
 and urge on the men whose work it was to drive them 
 to pasture and then to water. Meanwhile men who 
 during the advance had gone out on the prairie to hunt, 
 were returning from all sides with game ; the fires were 
 occupied by people, and I found barely time to eat and 
 draw breath. 
 
 I had almost double labor when we started after each 
 rest, for attaching the mules involved more noise and 
 uproar than letting them out. Besides, the drivers tried 
 always to get ahead of one another, so as to spare them- 
 selves trouble in turning out of line in bad places. From 
 this came quarrels and disputes, together with curses and 
 unpleasant delays on the road. I had to watch over all 
 this, and in time of marching ride in advance, immedi- 
 ately after the guides, to examine the neighborhood and 
 select in season defensible places, abounding in water, 
 and, in general, commodious for night camps. Fre- 
 quently I cursed my duties as captain, though on the 
 other hand the thought filled me with pride, that in all 
 that boundless desert I was the first before the desert 
 itself, before people, before Lillian, and that the fate of 
 all those beings, wandering behind the wagons over that 
 prairie, was placed in my hands.
 
 ACROSS THE PLAINS. 349 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 ON a certain time, after we had passed the Mississippi, 
 we halted for the night at Cedar River, the banks 
 of which, grown over with cottonwood, gave us assur- 
 ance of fuel for the night. While returning from the 
 men on duty, who had gone into the thicket with axes, 
 I saw, from a distance, that our people, taking advan- 
 tage of the beautiful weather and the calm, fair day, 
 had wandered out on the prairie in every direction. It 
 was very early; we halted for the night usually about 
 five in the afternoon, so as to move in the morning at 
 daybreak. Soon I met Miss Morris. I dismounted imme- 
 diately, and, leading my horse by the bridle, approached 
 the young lady, happy that I could be alone with her 
 even for a while. I inquired then why she, though alone 
 and so young, had undertaken a journey which might 
 wear out the strongest man. 
 
 "Never should I have consented to receive you into 
 our caravan," said I, " had I not thought during the first 
 few days of our journey that you were the daughter of 
 Aunt Atkins ; now it is too late to turn back. But, my 
 dear child, will you be strong enough ? You must be 
 ready to find the journey hereafter less easy than hitherto." 
 
 " I know all this," answered she, without raising her 
 pensive blue eyes, " but I must go on, and I am happy 
 indeed that I cannot go back. My father is in California, 
 and from the letter which he sent me by way of Cape 
 Horn, I learn that for some months he has been ill of a 
 fever in Sacramento. Poor father ! he was accustomed 
 to comfort and my care, and it was only through love 
 of me that he went to California. I do not know whether
 
 350 ACROSS THE PLAINS. 
 
 I shall find him alive ; but I feel that in going to him, I 
 am only fulfilling a duty that is dear to me." 
 
 There was no answer to such words ; moreover, all 
 that I might object to this undertaking would be too 
 late. I inquired then of Lillian for nearer details touch- 
 ing her father. These she gave with great pleasure, and 
 I learned that in Boston Mr. Morris had been judge of 
 the Supreme Court, or highest tribunal of the State ; that 
 he had lost his property, and had gone to the newly dis- 
 covered mines of California in the hope of acquiring a 
 new fortune, and bringing back to his daughter, whom 
 he loved more than life, her former social position. 
 Meanwhile, he caught a fever in the unwholesome Sacra- 
 mento valley, and thinking that death was near, he sent 
 Lillian his last blessing. She sold all the property that 
 he had left with her, and resolved to hasten to him. At 
 first she intended to go by sea ; but an acquaintance with 
 Aunt Atkins made by chance two days before the caravan 
 started, changed her mind. Aunt Atkins, who was from 
 Tennessee, having had her ears filled with tales which 
 friends of mine from the banks of the Mississippi had 
 told her and others of my daring expeditions to the famed 
 Arkansas, of my experience in journeys over the prairies, 
 and the care which I gave to the weak (this I consider as 
 a simple duty), described me in such colors before Lillian 
 that the girl, without hesitating longer, joined the caravan 
 going under my leadership. To 'those exaggerated narra- 
 tives of Aunt Atkins, who did not delay to add that I 
 was of noble birth, it is necessary to ascribe the fact that 
 Miss Morris was occupied with my person. 
 
 " You may be sure," said I, when she had finished her 
 story, "that no one will do you wrong here, and that 
 care will not fail you ; as to your father, California is the 
 healthiest country on earth, and no one dies there of
 
 ACROSS THE PLAINS. 351 
 
 fever. In every case, while I live, you will not be left 
 alone ; meanwhile may God bless your sweet face ! " 
 
 " Thank you, captain," answered she, with emotion, and 
 we went on ; but my heart beat with more violence. 
 Gradually our conversation became livelier, and no one 
 could foresee that that calmness above us would grow 
 cloudy. 
 
 " But all here are kind to you, Miss Morris, are they 
 not ? " asked I again, not supposing that just that ques- 
 tion would be the cause of misunderstanding. 
 
 " Oh, yes, all," said she, " Aunt Atkins and Aunt Gros- 
 venor, and Henry Simpson too is very good." 
 
 This mention of Simpson pained me suddenly, like the 
 bite of a snake. 
 
 " Henry is a mule-driver," answered I curtly, " and has 
 to care for the wagons." 
 
 But Lillian, occupied with the course of her own 
 thoughts, had not noticed the change in my voice, and 
 spoke on as if to herself, 
 
 " He has an honest heart, and I shall be grateful to 
 him all my life." 
 
 " Miss Morris," interrupted I, cut to the quick, " you 
 may even give him your hand. I wonder, however, that 
 you choose me as a confidant of your feelings." 
 
 When I said that she looked at me with astonishment 
 but made no reply, and we went on together in disagree- 
 able silence. I knew not what to say, though my heart 
 was full of bitterness and anger toward her and myself. 
 I felt simply conquered by jealousy of Simpson, but still 
 I could not fight against it. The position seemed to me 
 so unendurable that I said all at once briefly and dryly : 
 
 "Good night, Miss Morris !" 
 
 " Good night," answered she calmly, turning her head 
 to hide two tears that were flowing down her cheeks.
 
 352 ACROSS THE PLAINS. 
 
 I mounted my horse and rode away again toward the 
 point whence the sound of axes came, and where, among 
 others, Henry Simpson was cutting a cottonwood. After 
 a while I was seized by a certain measureless regret, for it 
 seemed to me that those two tears were falling on my 
 heart. I turned my horse, and next minute I was near 
 Lillian a second time. 
 
 " Why are you crying, Miss Morris ? " asked I. 
 
 " Oh, sir," said she, " I know that you are of a noble 
 family, Aunt Atkins told me that, and you have been so 
 kind to me." 
 
 She did everything not to cry ; but she could not re- 
 strain herself, and could not finish her answer, for tears 
 choked her voice. The poor thing ! she had been touched 
 to the bottom of her pensive soul by my answer regarding 
 Simpson, for there was evident in it a certain aristocratic 
 contempt ; but I was not even dreaming of aristocracy, 
 I was simply jealous ; and now, seeing her so unhappy, I 
 wanted to seize my own collar and throttle myself. 
 Grasping her hand, I said with animation, 
 
 " Lillian, Lillian, you did not understand me. I take 
 God to witness that no pride was speaking through me. 
 Look at me : I have nothing in the world but these two 
 hands, what is my descent to me ? Something else 
 pained me, and I wanted to go away; but I could not 
 support your tears. And I swear to you also, that what 
 I have said to you pains me more than it does you. You 
 are not an object of indifference to me, Lillian. Oh, not 
 at all ! for if you were, what you think of Henry would 
 not concern me. He is an honest fellow, but that does 
 not touch the question. You see how much your tears 
 cost me ; then forgive me as sincerely as I entreat your 
 forgiveness." 
 
 Speaking in this way I raised her hand and pressed it
 
 ACROSS THE PLAINS. 353 
 
 to my lips ; that high proof of respect, and the truthful- 
 ness which sounded in my request, quieted the maiden 
 somewhat. She did not cease at once to weep, but her 
 tears were of another kind, for a smile was visible 
 through them, as a sun-ray through mist. Something 
 too was sticking in my throat, and I could not stifle my 
 emotion. A tender feeling had mastered my heart. We 
 walked on in silence, and round about us the world was 
 pleasant and sweet. 
 
 The day was inclining toward evening ; the weather 
 was beautiful, and in the air, already dusky, there was 
 so much light that the whole prairie, the distant groups 
 of cottonwood-trees, the wagons in our train, and the 
 flocks of wild geese flying northward through the sky, 
 seemed golden and rosy. Not the least wind moved the 
 grass ; from a distance came to us the sound of rapids, 
 which the Cedar Eiver formed in that place, and the 
 neighing of horses from the direction of the camp. That 
 evening with such charms, that virgin land, and the 
 presence of Lillian, brought me to such a state of mind 
 that my soul was almost ready to fly out of me to the 
 sky. I thought myself a shaken bell, as it were. At 
 moments I wanted to take Lillian's hand again, raise it to 
 my lips, and not put it down for a long time ; but I 
 feared lest this might offend her. Meanwhile she walked 
 on near me, calm, mild, and thoughtful. Her tears had 
 dried already ; at moments she raised her bright eyes to 
 me ; then we began to speak again, and so reached the 
 camp. 
 
 That day, in which I had experienced so many emotions, 
 was to end joyfully, for the people, pleased with the beau- 
 tiful weather, had resolved to have a " picnic," or open air 
 festival. After a supper more abundant than usual, one 
 great fire was kindled, before which there was to be danc- 
 
 23
 
 I 
 354 ACROSS THE PLAINS. 
 
 ing. Henry Simpson had cleared away the grass pur- 
 posely from a space of many square yards, and sprinkled it 
 with sand brought from Cedar River. When the spectators 
 had assembled on the place thus prepared, Simpson began 
 to dance a jig, with the accompaniment of negro flutes, to 
 the admiration of all. With hands hanging at his sides he 
 kept his whole body motionless ; but his feet were work- 
 ing so nimbly, striking the ground in turn with heel and 
 toe, that the eye could hardly follow their movements. 
 
 The flutes played madly ; a second dancer came out, a 
 third, then a fourth, and the fun was universal. The 
 audience joined the negroes who were playing on the 
 flutes, and thrummed on tin pans, intended for washing 
 the gold-bearing earth, or kept time with pieces of ox-ribs 
 held between the fingers of each hand, which gave out a 
 sound like the clatter of castanets. 
 
 Suddenly the cry of " minstrels ! minstrels ! " was heard 
 through the whole camp. The audience formed a circle 
 around the dancing-place ; into this stepped our negroes, 
 Jim and Crow. Jim held a little drum covered with 
 snake-skin, Crow the pieces of ox-rib mentioned already. 
 For a time they stared at each other, rolling the whites 
 of their eyes ; then they began to sing a negro song, in- 
 terrupted by stamping and violent springs of the body ; 
 at times the song was sad, at times wild. The prolonged 
 " Dinah ! ah ! ah ! " with which each verse ended, changed 
 at length into a shout, and almost into a howling like that 
 of beasts. As the dancers warmed up and grew excited, 
 their movements became wilder, and at last they fell to 
 butting each other with blows from which European skulls 
 would have cracked like nutshells. Those black figures, 
 shone upon by the bright gleam of the fire and springing 
 in wild leaps, presented a spectacle truly fantastic. With 
 their shouts and the sounds of the drum, pipes, and tin
 
 ACROSS THE PLAINS. 355 
 
 pans, and the click of the bones, were mingled shouts of 
 the spectators, " Hurrah for Jim ! Hurrah for Crow ! " 
 and then shots from revolvers. 
 
 When at last the black men were wearied and had 
 fallen on the ground, they began to labor with their 
 breasts and to pant. I commanded to give each a drink 
 of brandy ; this put them on their feet again. But at 
 that moment the people began to call for a " speech." In 
 an instant the uproar and music ceased. I had to drop 
 Lillian's arm, climb to the seat of a wagon, and turn to 
 those present. When I looked from my height on those 
 forms illuminated by the fires, forms large, broad- 
 shouldered, bearded, with knives at their girdles, and 
 hats with torn crowns, it seemed to me that I was in 
 some theatre, or had become a chieftain of robbers. They 
 were honest, brave hearts, however, though the rough life 
 of more than one of these men was stormy perhaps and 
 half wild ; but here we formed, as it were, a little world 
 torn away from the rest of society and confined to our- 
 selves, destined to a common fate and threatened by com- 
 mon dangers. Here shoulder had to touch shoulder ; 
 each felt that he was brother to the next man ; the road- 
 less places and boundless deserts with which we were 
 surrounded commanded those hardy miners to love one 
 another. The sight of Lillian, the poor defenceless maiden, 
 fearless among them and safe as if under her father's roof, 
 brought those thoughts to my 'head ; hence I told every- 
 thing, just as I felt it, and as befitted a soldier leader who 
 was at the same time a brother of wanderers. Every 
 little while they interrupted me with cries, " Hurrah for 
 the Pole ! Hurrah for the captain ! Hurrah for Big 
 Ralph ! " and with clapping of hands ; but what made me 
 happiest of all was to see between the network of those 
 sunburnt strong hands one pair of small palms, rosy with
 
 356 ACROSS THE PLAINS. 
 
 the gleain of the fire and flying like a pair of white 
 doves. I felt then at once, What care I for the desert, 
 the wild beasts, the Indians and the " outlaws " ? and cried 
 with mighty ardor, " I will conquer anything, I will kill 
 anything that comes in my way, and lead the train even 
 to the end of the earth, and may God forget my right 
 hand, if this is not true ! " A still louder " Hurrah ! " 
 answered these words, and all began to sing with great 
 enthusiasm the emigrants' song, " I crossed the Missis- 
 sippi, I will cross the Missouri." Then Smith, the oldest 
 among the emigrants, a miner from near Pittsburgh in 
 Pennsylvania, spoke in answer. He thanked me in the 
 name of the whole company, and lauded my skill in lead- 
 ing the caravan. After Smith, from nearly every wagon a 
 man spoke. Some made very amusing remarks, for in- 
 tance Henry Simpson, who cried out every little while, 
 " Gentlemen ! I '11 be hanged if I don't tell the truth ! " 
 When the speakers had grown hoarse at last, the flutes 
 sounded, the bones rattled, and the men began to dance 
 a jig again. 
 
 Night had fallen completely ; the moon came out in 
 the sky and shone so brightly that the flame of the fires 
 almost paled before its gleams ; the people and the wagons 
 were illuminated doubly by a red and a white light. That 
 was a beautiful night. The uproar of our camp offered a 
 strange but pleasing contrast to the calmness and deep 
 slumber of the prairie. 
 
 Taking Lillian's arm, I went with her around the whole 
 camp ; our gaze passed from the fires to the distance, and 
 was lost in the waves of the tall and dark grasses of the 
 prairie, silvery from the rays of the moon and as myste- 
 rious as spirits. We strolled alone in that way. Mean- 
 while, at one of the fires, two Scottish Highlanders began 
 to play on pipes their plaintive air of " Bonnie Dundee."
 
 ACROSS THE PLAINS. 357 
 
 We both stopped at a distance and listened for some time 
 in silence ; all at once I looked at Lillian, she dropped 
 her eyes, and without knowing myself why I did so, 
 I pressed to my heart long and powerfully that hand 
 which she had rested on my arm. In Lillian too the poor 
 heart began to beat with such force that I felt it as clearly 
 as if on my palm ; we trembled, for we saw that some- 
 thing was rising between us, that that something was 
 conquering, and that we would not be to each other as 
 we had been hitherto. As to rne I was swimming already 
 whithersoever that current was bearing me. I forgot 
 that the night was bright, that the fires were not distant, 
 and that there were people around them ; and I wanted 
 to fall at her feet immediately, or at least to look into 
 her eyes. But she, though leaning on my arm, turned her 
 head, as if glad to hide her face in the shade. I wished to 
 speak but I could not ; for it seemed to me that I should 
 call out with some voice not my own, or if I should say 
 the words " I love " to Lillian I should drop to the earth. 
 I was not bold, being young then, and was led not by my 
 thoughts simply, but by my soul too ; and I felt this also 
 clearly, that if I should say " I love," a curtain would fall 
 on my past; one door would close and another would 
 open, through which I should pass into a certain new 
 region. Hence, though I saw happiness beyond that 
 threshold I halted, for this very reason it may be, that 
 the brightness beating from out that place dazzled me. 
 Besides, when loving comes not from the lips, but the 
 heart, there is perhaps nothing so difficult to speak about. 
 
 I had dared to press Lillian's hand to my breast ; we 
 were silent, for I had not the boldness to mention love, 
 and I had no wish to speak of aught else, I could not 
 at such a time. 
 
 It ended with this, that we both raised our heads and
 
 358 ACROSS THE PLAINS. 
 
 looked at the stars, like people who are praying. Then 
 some one at the great fire called me ; we returned ; the 
 festival had closed, but to end it worthily and well, the 
 emigrants had determined to sing a psalm before going to 
 rest. The men had uncovered their heads, and though 
 among them were persons of various faiths, all knelt on 
 the grass of the prairie and sang " Wandering in the 
 Wilderness." The sight was impressive. At moments of 
 rest the silence became so perfect that the crackling of 
 sparks in the fire could be heard, and from the river the 
 sound of the waterfalls came to us. 
 
 Kneeling near Lillian, I looked once or twice at her 
 face ; her eyes were uplifted and wonderfully shining, her 
 hair was a little disarranged ; and, singing with devotion, 
 she was so like an angel, that it seemed almost possible 
 to pray to her. 
 
 After the singing, the people went to their wagons. T, 
 according to custom, repaired to the sentries, and then to 
 my rest, like the others. But this time when the mos- 
 quitoes began to sing in my ears, as they did every even- 
 ing, " Lillian ! Lillian ! Lillian ! " I knew that in that 
 wagon beyond there was sleeping the sight of my eye and 
 the soul of my soul, and that in all the world there was 
 nothing dearer to me than that maiden. 
 
 CHAPTEK III. 
 
 AT dawn the following day we passed Cedar River suc- 
 cessfully and came out on a level, broad prairie, stretch- 
 ing between that river and the Winnebago, which curved 
 imperceptibly to the south, toward the belt of forests 
 lying along the lower boundary of Iowa. From the 
 morning Lillian had not dared to look in my eyes. I saw
 
 ACROSS THE PLAINS. 359 
 
 that she was thoughtful ; it seemed as though she were 
 ashamed of something, or troubled for some cause; but 
 still what sin had we committed the evening before ? 
 She scarcely left the wagon. Aunt Atkins and Aunt 
 Grosvenor, thinking that she was ill, surrounded her with 
 care and tenderness. I alone knew what that meant, 
 I knew that it was neither pangs of conscience, nor weak- 
 ness ; it was the struggle of an innocent being with the 
 feeling that a power new and unknown is bearing it on, 
 like a leaf, to some place far away. It was a clear insight 
 that there was no help, and that sooner or later she 
 would have to weaken and yield to the will of that power, 
 forget everything, and only love. 
 
 A pure soul draws back and is afraid on the threshold 
 of love, but feeling that it will cross, it weakens. Lillian 
 therefore was as if wearied by a dream; but when I 
 understood all that, the breath in my breast was nearly 
 stopped from joy. I know not whether it was an honor- 
 able feeling, but when in the morning I flew past her 
 wagon and saw her, broken like a flower, I felt something 
 akin to what a bird of prey feels, when it knows that the 
 dove will not escape. And still I would not do an injus- 
 tice to that dove for any treasure on earth, for with love 
 I had in my heart at the same time an immense com- 
 passion. A wonderful thing however: notwithstanding 
 my feeling for Lillian, the whole day passed for us as if 
 in mutual offence, or at least in perplexity. I was rack- 
 ing my head to discover how I could be alone with her 
 even for a moment, but could not discover. Fortunately 
 Aunt Atkins came to my aid ; she declared that the little 
 one needed more exercise, that confinement in that close 
 wagon was injuring her health. I fell upon the thought 
 that she ought to ride on horseback, and ordered Simpson 
 to saddle a horse for her ; and though there were no side-
 
 360 ACROSS THE PLAINS. 
 
 saddles in the train, one of those Mexican saddles with a 
 high pommel which women use everywhere on frontier 
 prairies, could serve her very well. I forbade Lillian 
 to loiter behind far enough to drop out of view. To be 
 lost in the open prairie was somewhat difficult, because 
 people, whom I sent out for game, circled about a con- 
 siderable distance in every direction. There was no dan- 
 ger from Indians, for that part of the prairie, as far as 
 the Winnebago, was visited by Pawnees only during 
 the great hunts, which had not begun yet. But the 
 southern forest-tract abounded in wild beasts, not all of 
 which were grass eating ; wariness, therefore, was far 
 from superfluous. 
 
 To tell the truth I thought that Lillian would keep 
 near me for safety ; this would permit us to be alone 
 rather frequently. Usually I pushed forward some dis- 
 tance in time of march, having before me only the two 
 half-breed scouts, and behind the whole caravan. So it 
 happened in fact, and I was both truly and inexpressi- 
 bly happy the first day, when I saw my sweet Amazon 
 coming on at a light gallop from the direction of the 
 train. The movement of the horse unwound her tresses 
 somewhat, and care for her skirt, which was the least 
 trifle short for the saddle, had painted her face with a 
 charming anxiety. When she had ridden up she was like 
 a rose ; for she knew that she was going into a trap laid 
 by me so that we might be alone with each other, and 
 knowing this she came, though blushing, and as if un- 
 willing, feigning that she knew nothing. My heart beat 
 as if I had been a young student ; and, when our horses 
 were abreast, I was angry with myself because I knew 
 not what to say. At the same time such sweet and pow- 
 erful desires began to pass between us that I, urged by 
 some unseen power, bent toward Lillian as if to straighten
 
 ACROSS THE PLAINS. 361 
 
 something in the mane of her horse, and meanwhile I 
 pressed my lips to her hand, which was resting on the 
 pommel of the saddle. A certain unknown and un- 
 speakable happiness, greater and keener than any de- 
 light that I had known in my life till that moment, 
 passed through my bones. I pressed that little hand to 
 my heart, and told Lillian, that if God had bestowed 
 all the kingdoms of the earth on me, and all the treas- 
 ures in existence, I would not -give for anything one 
 tress of her hair, for she had taken me soul and body 
 forever. 
 
 " Lillian, Lillian," said I further, " I will never leave 
 you. I will follow you through mountains and deserts ; 
 I will kiss your feet and I will pray to you ; only love 
 me a little, only tell me that in your heart I mean 
 something." 
 
 Thus speaking, I thought that my bosom would burst, 
 when she said with the greatest confusion, 
 
 " Ealph ! you know well ! you know everything ! " 
 
 I did not know just this, whether to laugh or to cry, 
 whether to run away or remain; and, as I hope for 
 salvation to-day, I felt saved, for nothing in the world 
 then was lacking to me. 
 
 Thenceforth, so far as my occupations permitted, we 
 were always together. And those occupations decreased 
 every day till we reached the Missouri. Perhaps no 
 caravan had more success than ours during the first 
 month of the journey. Men and animals were growing 
 accustomed to order and skilled in travelling; hence I 
 had less need to look after them, while the confidence 
 which the people gave me upheld perfect order in the 
 caravan. Besides, abundance of provisions and the fine 
 spring weather roused joyfulness and increased good 
 health. I convinced myself daily, that my bold plan of
 
 362 ACROSS THE PLAINS. 
 
 passing, not by the usual route through St. Louis and 
 Kansas, but through Iowa and Nebraska, was best. There, 
 heat almost unendurable tortured people, and in the un- 
 healthy region between the Mississippi and Missouri, 
 fevers and other diseases thinned the ranks of emigrants ; 
 here, because of a cooler climate, cases of weakness were 
 fewer, and our labor was less. 
 
 It is true that the road by St. Louis was in the earlier 
 part of it freer from Indians ; but my train, composed of 
 two or three hundred men well furnished with weapons 
 and ready for fighting, had no cause to fear roving tribes, 
 especially those inhabiting Iowa, who through meeting 
 white men more frequently, and having greater experience 
 of what white hands could do, had not the courage to 
 rush at large parties. It was only needful to guard 
 against stampedes, or night attacks on mules and horses, 
 the loss of draught-animals puts a caravan on the 
 prairies in a terrible position. But against that we put 
 diligence and the experience of sentries who, for the 
 greater part, were as well acquainted with the stratagems 
 of Indians as I was. 
 
 When once I had introduced travelling discipline and 
 made men accustomed to it, I had incomparably less to 
 do during daylight, and could give more time to the 
 feelings which had seized on my heart. In the evening 
 I went to sleep with the thought, " To-morrow I shall see 
 Lillian ; " in the morning I said to myself, " To-day I 
 shall see Lillian ; " and every day I was happier, and 
 every day more in love. In the caravan people began by 
 degrees to notice this ; but no one took it ill of me, for 
 Lillian and I possessed the good-will of those people. 
 Once old Smith said in passing, " God bless you, captain, 
 and you, Lillian." That connecting of our names made 
 us happy all day. Aunt Grosvenor and Aunt Atkins
 
 ACROSS THE PLAINS. 363 
 
 whispered something frequently in Lillian's ear, which 
 made her blush like the dawn, but she would never tell 
 me what it was. Henry Simpson looked on us rather 
 gloomily, perhaps he was forging some plan in his 
 soul, but I paid no heed to him. 
 
 Every morning at four I was at the head of the cara- 
 van ; before me the scouts, some fifteen hundred yards 
 distant, sang songs, taught them by their Indian mothers ; 
 behind me at the same distance moved the caravan, like 
 a white ribbon on the prairie, and what a wonderful 
 moment, when, about two hours later, I hear on a sudden 
 behind me the tramp of a horse. I look, and behold 
 the sight of my soul, my beloved is approaching. The 
 morning breeze bears behind her her hair, which either 
 had been loosened from the movement, or badly fastened 
 on purpose, for the little rogue knew that she looked 
 better that way, that I liked her that way, and that 
 when the wind threw the tress on me I pressed it to my 
 lips. I feign not to notice her tricks, and in this agree- 
 able meeting the morning begins for us. I had taught 
 her the Polish phrase, " Dzien dobry " (good morning). 
 When I hear her pronouncing those words, she seems 
 still dearer ; the memory of my country, of my family, of 
 years gone by, of that which had been, of that which had 
 passed, flies before my vision on that prairie like mews of 
 the ocean. More than once I would have broken out in 
 weeping, but from shame I restrained with my eyelids the 
 tears that were ready to flow. She, seeing that the heart 
 was melting in me, would repeat like a trained starling, 
 " Dzien dobry ! dzien dobry ! dzien dobry ! " and how was 
 I not to love my starling beyond everything ? I taught 
 her then other phrases ; and when her lips struggled with 
 our difficult sounds, and I laughed at a faulty pronun- 
 ciation, she pouted like a little child, feigning resentment
 
 364 ACROSS THE PLAINS. 
 
 and anger. But we had no quarrels, and once only a 
 cloud flew between us. One morning I pretended to 
 tighten a strap on her stirrup, but in truth the leopard 
 Ulan was roused in me, and I began to kiss her foot, or 
 rather the poor shoe worn out in the wilderness. Then 
 she drew her foot close to the horse, and repeating, " No, 
 Ralph ! no ! no ! " sprang to one side ; and though I im- 
 plored and strove to pacify her she would not come near 
 me. She did not return to the caravan, however, fearing 
 to pain me too much. I feigned a sorrow a hundred 
 times greater than I felt in reality, and sinking into 
 silence, rode on as if all things had ended on earth for me. 
 I knew that compassion would stir in her, as indeed it 
 did ; for soon, alarmed at my silence, she began to ride up 
 at one side and look at my eyes, like a child which wants 
 to know if its mother is angry yet, and I, wishing to 
 preserve a gloomy visage, had to turn aside to avoid 
 laughing aloud. 
 
 But this was only one time. Usually we were as glad- 
 some as prairie squirrels, and sometimes, God forgive me, 
 I, the leader of that caravan, became a child with her. 
 More than once when we were riding side by side I would 
 turn on a sudden, saying to her that I had something 
 important and new to tell, and when she held her inquisi- 
 tive ear I whispered into it, "I love." Then she also 
 whispered into my ear in answer, with a smile and 
 blush, " I also ! " And thus we confided our secrets to 
 each other on the prairie, where the wind alone could 
 overhear us. 
 
 In this manner day shot after day so quickly, that, as 
 I thought, the morning seemed to touch the evening like 
 links in a chain. At times some event of the journey 
 would vary such pleasant monotony. A certain Sunday 
 the half-breed Wichita lassoed an antelope of a large
 
 ACROSS THE PLAINS. 365 
 
 kind, and with her a fawn which I gave to Lillian, who 
 made for it a collar on which was put a bell, taken from 
 a mule. This fawn we called Katty In a week it was 
 tame, and 'ate from our hands. During the march I 
 would ride on one side of Lillian, and Katty would run 
 on the other, raising its great black eyes and begging 
 with a bleat for caresses. 
 
 Beyond the Winnebago we came out on a plain as level 
 as a table, broad, rich, primeval. The scouts vanished 
 from our eyes in the grass at times ; our horses waded, as 
 if in a river. I showed Lillian that world altogether new 
 to her, and when she was delighted with its beauties, I 
 felt proud that that kingdom of mine was so pleasing to 
 her. It was spring, April was barely reaching its end, 
 the time of richest growth for grasses of all sorts. What 
 was to bloom on the plains was blooming already. 
 
 In the evening such intoxicating odors came from the 
 prairie, as from a thousand censers ; in the day, when the 
 wind blew and shook the flowery expanses, the eye was 
 just pained with the glitter of red, blue, yellow, and colors 
 of all kinds. From the dense bed shot up the slender 
 stalks of yellow flowers, like our mullein ; around these 
 wound the silver threads of a plant called " tears," whose 
 clusters, composed of transparent little balls, are really 
 like tears. My eyes, used to reading in the prairie, dis- 
 covered repeatedly plants that I knew : now it was the 
 large-leaved kalumna, which cures wounds ; now the 
 plant called " white and red stockings," which closes its 
 cups at the approach of man or beast ; finally, " Indian 
 hatchets," the odor of which brings sleep and almost 
 takes away consciousness. I taught Lillian at that time 
 to read in this Divine book, saying, 
 
 " You will live in forests and on plains ; it is well then 
 to know them in season."
 
 366 ACROSS THE PLAINS. 
 
 In places on the level prairie rose, as if they were oases, 
 groups of cottonwood or alder, so wreathed with wild 
 grapes and lianas that they could not be recognized under 
 the tendrils and leaves. On the lianas in turn climbed 
 ivy and the prickly, thorny " wachtia," resembling wild 
 roses. Flowers were just dropping at all points ; -inside, 
 underneath that screen and beyond that wall, was a 
 certain mysterious gloom ; at the tree trunks were sleep- 
 ing great pools of water of the spring-time, which the sun 
 was unable to drink up; from the tree-tops and among 
 the brocade of flowers came wonderful voices and the 
 calling of birds. When for the first time I showed such 
 trees to Lillian and such hanging cascades of flowers, she 
 stood as if fixed to the earth, repeating with clasped 
 hands, 
 
 " Oh, Kalph ! is that real ? " 
 
 She said that she was a little afraid to enter such a 
 depth ; but one afternoon, when the heat was great, and 
 over the prairie was flying, as it were, the hot breath of 
 the Texan wind, we rode in, and Katty came after us. 
 
 We stopped at a little pool, which reflected our two 
 horses and our two forms ; we remained in silence for a 
 time. It was cool there, obscure, solemn as in a Gothic 
 cathedral, and somewhat awe-inspiring. The light of day 
 came in bedimmed, greenish from the leaves. Some bird, 
 hidden under the cupola of lianas, cried, "No ! no! no !" 
 as if warning us not to go farther; Katty began to 
 tremble and nestle up to the horses ; Lillian and I looked 
 at each other suddenly, and for the first time our lips 
 met, and having met could not separate. She drank my 
 soul, I drank her soul. Breath began to fail each of us, 
 still lips were on lips. At last her eyes were covered 
 with mist, and the hands which she had placed on my 
 shoulders were trembling as in a fever : she was seized
 
 ACROSS THE PLAINS. 367 
 
 with a kind of oblivion of her own existence, so that she 
 grew faint and placed her head on my bosom. We were 
 drunk with each other, with bliss, and with ecstasy. I 
 dared not move; but because I had a soul overfilled, 
 because I loved a hundred times more than may be 
 thought or expressed, I raised my eyes to discover if 
 through the thick leaves I could see the sky. 
 
 Eecovering our senses, we came out at last from 
 beneath the green density to the open prairie, where we 
 were surrounded by the bright sunshine and warm 
 breeze ; before us was spread the broad and gladsome 
 landscape. Prairie chickens were fluttering in the grass, 
 and on slight elevations, which were perforated like a 
 sieve by prairie dogs, stood, as it were, an army of those 
 little creatures, which vanished under the earth at our 
 coming ; directly in front was the caravan, and horsemen 
 careering around it. 
 
 It seemed to me that we had come out of a dark 
 chamber to the white world, and the same thought must 
 have come to Lillian. The brightness of the day rejoiced 
 me ; but that excess of golden light and the memory of 
 rapturous kisses, traces of which were still evident on 
 her face, penetrated Lillian as it were with alarm and 
 with sadness. 
 
 " Ralph, will you not take that ill of me ? " asked she, 
 on a sudden. 
 
 " What comes to your head, O my own ! God forget 
 me if in my heart there is any feeling but respect and 
 the highest love for you." 
 
 " I did that because I love greatly," said she ; and 
 therewith her lips began to quiver and she wept in 
 silence, and though I was working the soul out of my- 
 self she remained sad all that day.
 
 368 ACROSS THE PLAINS. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 AT last we came to the Missouri. Indians chose 
 generally the time of crossing that river to fall upon 
 caravans ; defence is most difficult when some wagons 
 are on one bank, and some in the river; when the 
 draught-beasts are stubborn and balky, and disorder 
 rises among people. Indeed, I noticed, before our 
 arrival at the river, that Indian spies had for two days 
 been following us ; hence I took every precaution, and 
 led the train in complete military order. I did not permit 
 wagons to loiter on the prairie, as in the eastern districts 
 of Iowa ; the men had to stay together and be in perfect 
 readiness for battle. 
 
 When we had come to the bank and found a ford, I 
 ordered two divisions, of sixty men each, to intrench 
 themselves on both banks, so as to secure the passage 
 under cover of small forts and the muzzles of rifles. The 
 remaining one hundred and twenty had to take the train 
 over. I did not send in more than a few wagons at once, 
 so as to avoid confusion. With such an arrangement 
 everything took place in the greatest order, and attack 
 became impossible, for the attackers would have had to 
 carry one or the other intrenchment before they could fall 
 upon those who were crossing the river. 
 
 How far these precautions were from being superfluous 
 the future made evident, for two years later four hundred 
 Germans were slaughtered by the Kiowas, at the place 
 where Omaha stands at this moment. I had this ad- 
 vantage besides : my men, who previously had heard 
 more than once narratives, which went to the East, of the 
 terrible danger of crossing the yellow waters of the Mis-
 
 ACROSS THE PLAINS. 369 
 
 souri, seeing the firmness and ease with which I solved the 
 problem, gained blind confidence, and looked on me as 
 some ruling spirit of the plains. 
 
 Daily did those praises and that enthusiasm reach 
 Lillian, in whose loving eyes I grew to be a legendary 
 hero. Aunt Atkins said to her, " While your Pole is 
 with you, you may sleep out in the rain, for he won't let 
 the drops fall on you." And the heart rose in my maiden 
 from those praises. During the whole time of crossing I 
 could give her hardly a moment, and could only say 
 hurriedly with my eyes what my lips could not utter. 
 All day I was on horseback, now on one bank, now on the 
 other, now in the water. I was in a hurry to advance as 
 soon as possible from those thick yellow waters, which 
 were bearing down with them rotten trees, bunches of 
 leaves, grass, and malodorous rnud from Dakota, infectious 
 with fever. 
 
 Besides this, the people were wearied immensely, from 
 continual watching ; the horses grew sick from unwhole- 
 some water, which we could not use until we had kept it 
 in charcoal a number of hours. 
 
 At last, after eight days' time, we found ourselves on 
 the right bank of the river without having broken a 
 wagon, and with the loss of only seven head of mules 
 and horses. That day, however, the first arrows fell, for 
 my men killed, and afterward, according to the repulsive 
 habit of the plains, scalped three Indians, who had been 
 trying to push in among the mules. In consequence of 
 this deed an embassy of six leading warriors of the Bloody 
 Tracks, belonging to the Pawnees, visited us on the fol- 
 lowing day. They sat down at our fire with tremendous 
 importance, demanding horses and mules in return for 
 the dead men, declaring that, in case of refusal, five hun- 
 dred men would attack us immediately. I made no great
 
 370 ACROSS THE PLAINS. 
 
 account of those five hundred warriors, since I had the 
 train in order and defended with intrenchrnents. I saw 
 well that that embassy had been sent merely because those 
 wild people had caught at the first opportunity to extort 
 something without an attack, in the success of which 
 they had lost faith. I should have driven them away in 
 one moment, had I not wished to exhibit them to Lillian. 
 In fact, while they were sitting at the council-fire motion- 
 less, with eyes fixed on the flame, she, concealed in the 
 wagon, was looking with alarm and curiosity at their dress 
 trimmed at the seams with human hair, their tomahawks 
 adorned with feathers on the handles, and at their faces 
 painted black and red, which meant war. In spite of 
 these preparations, however, I refused their demand 
 sharply, and, passing from a defensive to an offensive role, 
 declared that if even one mule disappeared from the train, 
 I would go to their tribe myself and scatter the bones of 
 their five hundred warriors over the prairie. 
 
 They went away, hardly repressing their rage, but 
 when going they brandished their tomahawks over their 
 heads in sign of war. However, my words sank in 
 their memory ; for at the time of their departure two 
 hundred of my men, prepared purposely, rose up with 
 threatening aspect, rattling their weapons, and gave forth 
 a shout of battle. That readiness made a deep impression 
 on the wild warriors. 
 
 Some hours later Henry Simpson, who at his own 
 instance had gone out to observe the embassy, returned, 
 all panting, with news that a considerable division of 
 Indians was approaching us. 
 
 I, knowing Indian ways perfectly, knew that those were 
 mere threats, for the Indians, armed with bows made of 
 hickory, were not in numbers sufficient to meet long 
 range Kentucky rifles. I said that to Lillian, wishing to
 
 ACROSS THE PLAINS. 371 
 
 quiet her, for she was trembling like a leaf ; but all the 
 others were sure that a battle was coming ; the younger 
 ones, whose warlike spirit was roused, wished for it eagerly. 
 
 In fact, we heard the howling of the red-skins soon 
 after ; still, they kept at the distance of some gun-shots, 
 as if seeking a favorable moment. 
 
 In our camp immense fires, replenished with cotton- 
 wood and willows, were burning all night ; the men stood 
 guard around the wagons ; the women were singing 
 psalms from fear ; the mules, not driven out to the usual 
 night pasture, but confined behind the wagons, were 
 braying and biting one another ; the dogs, feeling the 
 nearness of Indians, were howling, in a word, it was 
 noisy and threatening throughout the camp. In brief 
 moments of silence we heard the mournful and ominous 
 howling of Indian outposts, calling with the voices of 
 coyotes. 
 
 About midnight the Indians tried to set fire to the 
 prairie, but the damp grass of spring would not burn, 
 though for some days not a raindrop had fallen on that 
 region. 
 
 When riding around the camp-ground before daybreak 
 I had a chance of seeing Lillian for a moment. I found 
 her sleeping from weariness, with her head resting on the 
 knees of Aunt Atkins, who, armed with a bowie-knife, 
 had sworn to destroy the whole tribe, if one of them 
 dared to come near her darling. As to me, I looked on 
 that fair sleeping face with the love not only of a man, 
 but almost of a mother, and I felt equally with Aunt 
 Atkins that I would tear into pieces any one who would 
 threaten my beloved. In her was my joy, in her my 
 delight ; beyond her I had nothing but endless wandering, 
 tramping, and mishaps. Before my eyes I had the best 
 proof of this : in the distance were the prairie, the rattle
 
 372 ACROSS THE PLAINS. 
 
 of weapons, the night on horseback, the struggle with 
 predatory redskin murderers ; nearer, right there before 
 my face, was the quiet sleep of that dear one, so full of 
 faith and trust in me, that my word alone had convinced 
 her that there could be no attack, and she had fallen 
 asleep as full of confidence as if under her father's roof. 
 
 When I looked at those two pictures, I felt for the first 
 time how that adventurous life without a morrow had 
 wearied me, and I saw at once that I should find rest 
 and satisfaction with her alone. " If only to California ! " 
 thought I, " if only to California ! But the toils of the 
 journey merely one-half of which, and that half the 
 easier, is over are evident already on that pallid face ; 
 but a beautiful rich country is waiting for us there, with 
 its warm sky and eternal spring." Thus meditating, I 
 covered the feet of the sleeper with my buffalo-robe, so 
 that the night cold might not harm her, and returned to 
 the end of the camp. 
 
 It was time, for a thick mist had begun to rise from 
 the river; the Indians might really take advantage of it 
 and try their fortune. The fires were dimmed more and 
 more, and grew pale. An hour later one man could not 
 see another even ten paces distant. I gave command then 
 to cry on the square every minute, and soon nothing was 
 heard in that camp but the prolonged " All 's well ! " 
 which passed from mouth to mouth like the words of a 
 litany. 
 
 But the Indian camp had grown perfectly still, as if 
 held by dumb occupants. This alarmed me. At the 
 first dawn an immense weariness mastered us ; God knows 
 how many nights the majority of the men had passed 
 without sleep, besides, the fog, wonderfully penetrating, 
 sent a chill and a shiver through all of us. 
 
 Would it not be better, thought I, instead of standing
 
 ACROSS THE PLAINS. 373 
 
 on one place and waiting for what may please the Indians, 
 to attack and scatter them to the four winds ? This was 
 not simply the whim of an Ulan, but an absolute need ; 
 for a daring and lucky attack might gain us great glory, 
 which, spreading among the wild tribes, would give us 
 safety for a long stretch of road. 
 
 Leaving behind me one hundred and thirty men, under 
 the lead of the old prairie wolf, Smith, I commanded a 
 hundred others to mount, and we moved forward some- 
 what cautiously, but gladly, for the cold had become 
 more annoying, and in this way we could at least warm 
 ourselves. At twice the distance of a gun-shot we raced 
 forward at a gallop with shouting, and in the midst of a 
 musket-fire rushed, like a storm, on the savages. A ball, 
 sent from our side by some awkward marksman, whistled 
 right at my ear, but only tore my cap. 
 
 Meanwhile, we were on the necks of the Indians, who 
 expected anything rather than an attack, for this beyond 
 doubt was the first time that emigrants had charged the 
 besiegers. Great alarm so blinded them, therefore, that 
 they fled in every direction, howling from fright like wild 
 beasts, and perishing without resistance. A smaller divi- 
 sion of these people, pushed to the river and, deprived of 
 retreat, defended themselves so sternly and stubbornly 
 that they chose to rush into the water rather than beg for 
 life. 
 
 Their spears pointed with sharpened deer-horns and 
 tomahawks made of hard flint were not very dangerous, 
 but they used them with wonderful skill. We burst 
 through these, however, in the twinkle of an eye. I 
 took one prisoner, a sturdy rascal, whose hatchet and arm 
 I broke in the moment of fighting with hatchets. 
 
 We seized a few tens of horses, but so wild and vicious 
 that there was no use in them. We made a few prisoners,
 
 374 ACROSS THE PLAINS. 
 
 all wounded. I gave command to care for these most 
 attentively, and set them free afterward at Lillian's 
 request, having given them blankets, arms, and horses, 
 necessary for men badly wounded. These poor fellows, 
 believing that we would tie them to stakes for torture, 
 had begun to chant their monotonous death-songs, and 
 were simply terrified at first by what had happened. 
 They thought that we would liberate only to hunt them 
 in Indian fashion ; but seeing that no danger threatened, 
 they went away, exalting our bravery and the goodness 
 of " Pale Flower," which name they had given Lillian. 
 
 That day ended, however, with a sad event, which cast 
 a shade on our delight at such a considerable victory* 
 and its foreseen results. Among my men there were 
 none killed ; a number, nevertheless, had received wounds 
 more or less serious ; the most grievously wounded was 
 Henry Simpson, whose eagerness had borne him away dur- 
 ing battle. In the evening his condition grew so much 
 worse, that he was dying ; he wished, poor fellow, to 
 make a confession to me, but could not speak, for his 
 jaw had been broken by a tomahawk. He merely mut- 
 tered, " Pardon, my captain ! " Convulsions seized him 
 immediately. I divined what he wanted, remembering the 
 bullet which had whistled at my ear in the morning, and 
 I forgave him, as becomes a Christian. I knew that he 
 carried with him to the grave a deep, though unacknow- 
 ledged feeling for Lillian, and supposed that he might 
 have sought death. 
 
 He died about midnight; we buried him under an 
 immense cottonwood, on the bark of which I carved out 
 a cross with my knife.
 
 ACROSS THE PLAINS. 375 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 ON the following day we moved on. Before us was a 
 prairie still more extensive, more level, wilder, a region 
 which the foot of a white man had hardly touched at 
 that period, in a word, we were in Nebraska. 
 
 During the first days we moved quickly enough over 
 treeless expanses, but not without difficulty, for there 
 was an utter lack of wood for fuel. The banks of the 
 Platte Eiver, which cuts the whole length of those 
 measureless plains, were, it is true, covered with a dense 
 growth of osier and willow ; but that river had over- 
 flowed its shallow bed, as is usual in spring, and we had 
 to keep far away from it. Meanwhile we passed the 
 nights at smouldering fires of buffalo dung, which, not 
 dried yet sufficiently by the sun, rather smouldered with 
 a blue flame than burnt. We hurried on then with every 
 effort toward Big Blue River, where we could find abun- 
 dance of fuel. 
 
 The country around us bore every mark of a primitive 
 region. Time after time, before the train, which extended 
 now in a very loose line, rushed herds of antelopes with 
 ruddy hair and with white under the belly ; at times there 
 appeared in the waves of grass the immense shaggy heads 
 of buffaloes, with bloodshot eyes and steaming nostrils ; 
 then again these beasts were seen in crowds, like black, 
 moving patches on the distant prairie. 
 
 In places we passed near whole towns formed of 
 mounds raised by prairie dogs. The Indians did not 
 show themselves at first, and only a number of days 
 later did we see three wild horsemen, ornamented with 
 feathers ; but they vanished before our eyes in an instant,
 
 376 ACROSS THE PLAINS. 
 
 like phantoms. I convinced myself afterward that the 
 bloody lesson which I had given them on the Missouri, 
 made the name of " Big Ara " (for thus they had modified 
 Big Ralph) terrible among the many tribes of prairie 
 robbers ; the kindness shown the prisoners had captivated 
 those people, wild and revengeful, though not devoid of 
 knightly feeling. 
 
 When we had come to Big Blue River, I resolved to 
 halt ten days at its woody banks. The second half of 
 the road, which lay before us, was more difficult than the 
 first, for beyond the prairie were the Rocky Mountains, 
 and farther on the " Bad Lands " of Utah and Nevada. 
 Meanwhile, our mules and horses, in spite of abundant 
 pasture, had become lean and road-weary ; hence it was 
 needful to recruit their strength with a considerable rest. 
 For this purpose we halted in the triangle formed by the 
 Big Blue River and Beaver Creek. 
 
 It was a strong position, which, secured on two sides by 
 the rivers and on the third by the wagons, had become 
 almost impregnable, especially since wood and water were 
 found on the spot. Of camp labor there was scarcely 
 any, excessive watching was not needed, and the emi- 
 grants could use their leisure with perfect freedom. The 
 days, too, were the most beautiful of our journey. The 
 weather continued to be marvellous, and the nights grew 
 so warm that one might sleep in the open air. 
 
 The people went out in the morning to hunt, and returned 
 at midday, weighed down with antelopes and prairie birds, 
 which lived in millions in the country about ; the rest of 
 the day they spent eating, sleeping, singing, or shooting 
 for amusement at wild geese, which flew above our camp 
 in whole flocks. 
 
 In my life there has never been anything better or 
 happier than those ten days between the rivers. From
 
 ACROSS THE PLAINS. 377 
 
 morning till evening I did not part from Lillian, and that 
 beginning not of passing visits, but, as it were, of life, 
 convinced me more and more that I had loved once 
 and forever her, the mild and gentle. I became ac- 
 quainted with Lillian in those days more nearly and more 
 deeply. At night, instead of sleeping, I thought fre- 
 quently of what she was, and that she had become to rne 
 as dear and as needful in life as the air is for breathing. 
 God sees that I loved greatly her beautiful face, her 
 long tresses, and her eyes, as blue as that sky bending 
 over Nebraska, and her form, lithe and slender, which 
 seemed to say, "Support and defend me forever ; without 
 thee I cannot help myself in the world ! " God sees 
 that I loved everything that was in her, every poor 
 bit of clothing of hers, and she attracted me with such 
 force that I could not resist ; but there was another 
 charm in her for me, and that was her sweetness and 
 sensitiveness. 
 
 Many women have I met in my life, but never have 
 I met and never shall I meet another such, and I feel 
 endless grief when I think of her. The soul in Lillian 
 Morris was as sensitive as that flower whose leaves nestle 
 in when you draw near it. Sensitive to every word of 
 mine, she comprehended everything and reflected every 
 thought, just as deep, transparent water reflects all that 
 passes by the brink of it. At the same time that pure 
 heart yielded itself to feeling with such timidity that I 
 felt how great her love must be when she weakened and 
 gave herself in sacrifice. And then everything honorable 
 in my soul was changed into one feeling of gratitude to 
 her. She was simply my one, my dearest in the world ; 
 so modest, that I had to persuade her that to love is not 
 a sin, and I was breaking my head continually over this : 
 how can I persuade her ? In such emotions time passed
 
 378 ACROSS THE PLAINS. 
 
 for us at the meeting of the rivers, till at last my supreme 
 happiness was accomplished. 
 
 One morning at daybreak we started to walk up 
 Beaver Creek ; I wanted to show her the beavers ; a whole 
 kingdom of them was flourishing not farther than half a 
 mile from our wagons. Walking along the bank care- 
 fully, near the bushes, we came soon to our object. There 
 was a little bay as it were, or a lakelet, formed by the 
 creek, at the brink of which stood two great hickory- 
 trees ; at the very bank grew weeping-willows, half their 
 branches in the water. The beaver-dam, a little higher 
 up in the creek, stopped its flow, and kept the water ever 
 at one height in the lakelet, above whose clear surface 
 rose the round cupola-shaped houses of these very clever 
 animals. 
 
 Probably the foot of man had never stood before in 
 that retreat, hidden by trees on all sides. Pushing apart 
 the slender limbs of the willows cautiously, we looked at 
 the water, which was as smooth as a mirror, and blue. 
 The beavers were not at their work yet ; the little water- 
 town slumbered in visible quiet ; and such silence reigned 
 on the lake that I heard Lillian's breath when she thrust 
 her golden head through the opening in the branches 
 with mine, and our temples touched. I caught her waist 
 with my arm to hold her on the slope of the bank and 
 we waited patiently, delighted with what our eyes were 
 taking in at that moment. 
 
 Accustomed to life in.wild places, I loved Nature as 
 my own mother, though simply ; but I felt that some- 
 thing like God's delight in Creation was present. 
 
 It was early morning ; the light had barely come, and 
 was reddening among the branches of the hickories ; the 
 dew was dropping from the leaves of the willows, and 
 the world was growing brighter each instant. Later on.
 
 ACROSS THE PLAINS. 379 
 
 there came to the other shore prairie chickens, gray, 
 with black throats, pretty crests on their heads, and they 
 drank water, raising their bills as they swallowed. 
 
 " Ah, Ealph ! how good it is here," whispered Lillian. 
 
 There was nothing in my head then but a cottage in 
 some lonely canyon, she with me, and such a rosary of 
 peaceful days, flowing calmly into eternity and endless 
 rest. It seemed to us that we had brought to that wed- 
 ding of Nature our own wedding, to that calm our calm, 
 and to that bright light the bright light of happiness 
 within us. 
 
 Now the smooth surface described itself in a circle, and 
 from the water came up slowly the bearded face of a 
 beaver, wet and rosy from the gleam of the morning; then 
 a second, arid the two little beasts swam toward the lake, 
 pushing apart with their noses blue lines, puffing and 
 muttering. They climbed the dam, and, sitting on their 
 haunches, began to call ; at that signal heads, larger and 
 smaller, rose up as if by enchantment; a plashing was 
 heard in the lake. The herd appeared at first to be play- 
 ing, simply diving and screaming from delight in its 
 own fashion ; but the first pair, looking from the dam, 
 gave a sudden, prolonged whistle from their nostrils, 
 and in a twinkle half of the beavers were on the 
 dam, and the other half had swum to the banks and 
 vanished under the willows, where the water began to 
 boil, and a sound as it were of sawing indicated that 
 the little beasts were working there, cutting bark and 
 branches. 
 
 Lillian and I looked long, very long, at these acts, and 
 at those pleasures of animal life until we disturbed it. 
 Wishing to change her position, she moved a branch 
 accidentally, and in the twinkle of an eye every beaver 
 had vanished ; only the disturbed water indicated that
 
 380 ACROSS THE PLAINS. 
 
 something was beneath ; but after a while the water 
 became smooth, and silence surrounded us again, inter- 
 rupted only by the woodpeckers striking the firm bark 
 of the hickories. 
 
 The sun had risen above the trees and began to heat 
 powerfully. Since Lillian did not feel tired yet, we 
 resolved to go around the little lake. On the way we 
 came to a small stream which intersected the wood 
 and fell into the lake from the opposite side. Lillian 
 could not cross it, so I had to carry her ; and despite her 
 resistance, I took her like a child in my arms and walked 
 into the water. But that stream was a stream of temp- 
 tations. Fear lest I should fall made her seize my neck 
 with both arms, hold to me with all her strength, and 
 hide her shamed face behind my shoulder ; but I began 
 straightway to press my lips to her temple, whispering, 
 " Lillian ! my Lillian ! " And in that way I carried 
 her over the water. 
 
 When I reached the other bank I wished to carry 
 her farther, but she tore herself from me almost rudely. 
 A certain disquiet seized both of us ; she began to look 
 around as if in fear, and now pallor and now ruddi- 
 ness struck her face. We went on. I took her hand 
 and pressed it to my heart. At moments fear of myself 
 seized me. The day became sultry ; heat flowed down 
 from the sky to the earth ; the wind was not blowing, 
 the leaves on the hickories hung motionless ; the only 
 sound was from woodpeckers striking the bark as before ; 
 all seemed to be growing languid from heat and falling 
 asleep. I thought that some enchantment was in the 
 air, in that forest, and then I thought only that Lillian 
 was with me and that we were alone. 
 
 Meanwhile weariness began to come on. Lillian ; her 
 breathing grew shorter and more audible, and on her
 
 ACROSS THE PLAINS. 381 
 
 face, usually pale, fiery blushes beat forth. I asked if 
 she was not tired, and if she would not rest. 
 
 " Oh, no, no ! " answered she quickly, as if defending 
 herself from even the thought ; but after a few tens of 
 steps she tottered suddenly and whispered, 
 
 " I cannot, indeed, I cannot go farther." 
 
 Then I took her again in my arms and carried that 
 dear burden to the edge of the shore, where willows, 
 hanging to the ground, formed a shady corridor. In 
 this green alcove I placed her on the moss. I knelt 
 down ; and when I looked at her the heart in me was 
 straitened. Her face was as pale as linen, and her star- 
 ing eyes looked with fear at me. 
 
 " Lillian, what is the matter ? " cried I. " I am with 
 you." I bent to her feet then and covered them with 
 kisses. " Lillian ! " continued I, " my only, my chosen, 
 my wife ! " 
 
 When I said these last words a shiver passed through 
 her from head to foot ; and suddenly she threw her 
 arms around my neck with a certain unusual power, as 
 in a fever, repeating, " My dear ! my dear ! my hus- 
 band ! " Everything vanished from my eyes then, and 
 it seemed to me that the whole globe of the earth was 
 flying away with us. 
 
 I know not to this day how it could be that when I 
 recovered from that intoxication and came to my senses 
 twilight was shining again among the dark branches of 
 the hickories, but it was the twilight of evening. The 
 woodpeckers had ceased to strike the trees ; one twilight 
 on the bottom of the lake was smiling at that other 
 which was in the sky ; the inhabitants of the water had 
 gone to sleep ; the evening was beautiful, calm, filled 
 with a red light ; it was time to return to the camp. 
 
 When we had come out from beneath the weeping-
 
 382 ACROSS THE PLAINS. 
 
 willows, I looked at Lillian ; there was not on her face 
 either sadness or disquiet ; in her upturned eyes was the 
 light of calm resignation and, as it were, a bright aure- 
 ole of sacrifice and dignity encircled her blessed head. 
 When I gave her my hand, she inclined her face quietly 
 to my shoulder, and, without turning her eyes from the 
 heavens, she said to me, 
 
 " Ealph, repeat to me that I am your wife, and repeat 
 it often." 
 
 Since there was neither in the deserts, nor in the place 
 to which we were going, any marriage save that of 
 hearts, I knelt down, and when she had knelt at my 
 side, I said, " Before God, earth, and heaven, I declare 
 to thee, Lillian Morris, that I take thee as wife. Amen." 
 
 To this she answered, " Now I am thine forever and 
 till death, thy wife, Kalph ! " 
 
 From that moment we were married ; she was not my 
 sweetheart, she was my lawful wife. That thought was 
 pleasant to both of us, and pleasant to me, for in my 
 heart there rose a new feeling of a certain sacred respect 
 for Lillian, and for myself, a certain honorableness and 
 great dignity through which love became ennobled and 
 blessed. Hand in hand, with heads erect and confident 
 look, we returned to the camp, where the people were 
 greatly alarmed about us. A number of tens of men 
 had gone out in every direction to search for us ; and with 
 astonishment I learned afterward that some had passed 
 around the lake, but could not discover us ; we on our 
 part had not heard their shouts. 
 
 I summoned the people, and when they had assembled 
 in a circle, I took Lillian by the hand, went into the 
 centre of the circle, and said, 
 
 " Gentlemen, be witnesses, that in your presence I call 
 this woman, who stands with me, my wife ; and bear
 
 ACROSS THE PLAINS. 383 
 
 witness of this before justice, before law, and before 
 every one whosoever may ask you, either in the East or 
 the West." 
 
 " We will ! and hurrah for you both ! " answered the 
 miners. 
 
 Old Smith asked Lillian then, according to custom, if 
 she agreed to take me as husband, and when she said 
 " Yes," we were legally married before the people. 
 
 In the distant prairies of the West, and on all the 
 frontiers where there are no towns, magistrates, or 
 churches, marriages are not performed otherwise ; and 
 to this hour, if a man calls a woman with whom he 
 lives under the same roof his wife, this declaration 
 takes the place of all legal documents. No one of my 
 men therefore wondered, or looked at my marriage other- 
 wise than with the respect shown to custom ; on the con- 
 trary, all were rejoiced, for, though I had held them 
 more sternly than other leaders, they knew that I did so 
 honestly, and with each day they showed me more good- 
 will, and my wife was always the eye in the head of the 
 caravan. Hence there began a holiday and amusements. 
 The fires were stirred up; the Scots took from their 
 wagons the pipes, whose music we both liked, since it 
 was for us a pleasant reminiscence ; the Americans took 
 out their favorite ox-bones, and amid songs, shouts, and 
 shooting, the wedding evening passed for us. 
 
 Aunt Atkins embraced Lillian every little while, now 
 laughing, now weeping, now lighting her pipe, which 
 went out the next moment. But I was touched most by 
 the following ceremony which is a custom in that mov- 
 able portion of the American population which spends 
 the greater part of its life in wagons. When the moon 
 went down the men fastened on the ramrods of their 
 guns branches of lighted osier, and a whole procession,
 
 384 ACROSS THE PLAINS. 
 
 under the lead of old Smith, conducted us from wagon to 
 wagon, asking Lillian at each of them, " Is this your 
 home ? " My beautiful love answered, " No ! " and we 
 went on. At Aunt Atkins' wagon a real tenderness took 
 possession of us all, for in that one Lillian had ridden 
 hitherto. When she said there also in a low voice, " No," 
 Aunt Atkins bellowed like a buffalo, and seizing Lillian 
 in her embrace, began to repeat, " My little one ! my 
 sweet ! " sobbing meanwhile, and carried away with 
 weeping. Lillian sobbed too; and then all those hard- 
 ened hearts grew tender for an instant, and there was no 
 eye to which tears did not come. 
 
 When we approached it, I barely recognized my wagon ; 
 it was decked with branches and flowers. Here the men 
 raised the burning torches aloft, and Smith inquired in a 
 louder and more solemn voice, 
 
 " Is this your home ? " 
 
 " It is, it is ! " answered Lillian. 
 
 Then all uncovered their heads, and there was such 
 silence that I heard the hissing of the fire and the sound 
 of the burnt twigs falling on the ground ; the old white- 
 haired miner, stretching out his sinewy hands over us, 
 said, 
 
 " May God bless you both, and your house, Amen ! " 
 
 A triple hurrah answered that blessing. All separated 
 then, leaving me and my loved one alone. 
 
 When the last man had gone, she rested her head on 
 my breast, whispering, " Forever !' forever !" and at that 
 moment the stars in our souls outnumbered the stars of 
 the sky.
 
 ACROSS THE PLAINS. '385 
 
 CHAPTEK VI. 
 
 NEXT morning early I left my wife sleeping and went 
 to find flowers for her. While looking for them, I 
 said to myself every moment, " You are married!" and 
 the thought filled me with such delight, that I raised 
 my eyes to the Lord of Hosts, thanking Him for having 
 permitted me to live to the time in which a man becomes 
 himself genuinely and rounds out his life with the life 
 of another loved beyond everything. I had something 
 now of my own in the world, and though that canvas- 
 covered wagon was my only house and hearth, I felt 
 richer at once, and looked at my previous wandering lot 
 with pity, and with wonder that I could have lived in 
 that manner hitherto. Formerly it had not even come to 
 my head what happiness there is in that word " wife," 
 happiness which called to my heart's blood with that 
 name, and to the best part of my own soul. For a long 
 time I had so loved Lillian that I saw the whole world 
 through her alone, connected everything with her, and 
 understood everything only as it related to her. And 
 now when I said " wife," that meant, mine, mine forever ; 
 and I thought that I should go wild with delight, for it 
 could not find place in my head, that I, a poor man, 
 should possess such a treasure. What then was lacking 
 to me ? Nothing. Had those prairies been warmer, had 
 there been safety there for her, had it not been for the 
 obligation to lead people to the place to which I had 
 promised to lead them, I was ready not to go to Cali- 
 fornia, but to settle even in Nebraska, if with Lillian. I 
 had been going to California to dig gold, but now I was 
 ready to laugh at the idea. " What other riches can I 
 
 25
 
 386, ACROSS THE PLAINS. 
 
 find there, when I have her ? " I asked myself. " What 
 do we care for gold ? See, I will choose some canyon, 
 where there is spring all the year ; I will cut down trees 
 for a house, and live with her, and a plough and a gun 
 will give us life. We shall not die of hunger These 
 were my thoughts while gathering flowers, and when I 
 had enough of them I returned to the camp. On the 
 road I met Aunt Atkins. 
 
 " Is the little one sleeping ? " asked she, taking the 
 inseparable pipe from her mouth for a moment. 
 
 "She is sleeping," answered I. 
 
 To this Aunt Atkins, blinking with one eye, added, 
 
 " Ah, you rascal ! " 
 
 Meanwhile the " little one " was not sleeping, for we 
 both saw her coming down from the wagon, and shield- 
 ing her eyes with her hand against the sunlight, she 
 began to look on every side. Seeing me, she ran up all 
 rosy and fresh, as the morning. When I opened my 
 arms, she fell into them panting, and putting up her 
 mouth, began to repeat, 
 
 " Dzien dobry ! dzien dobry ! dzien dobry ! " 
 
 Then she stood on her toes, and looking into my eyes, 
 asked with a roguish smile, "Am I your wife ?" 
 
 What was there to answer, except to kiss without end 
 and fondle ? And thus passed the whole time at that 
 meeting of rivers, for old Smith had taken on himself all 
 my duties till the resumption of our journey. 
 
 We visited our beavers once more, and the stream, 
 through which I carried her now without resistance. 
 Once we went up Blue Eiver in a little redwood canoe. 
 At a bend of the stream I showed Lillian buffaloes near 
 by, driving their horns into the bank, from which their 
 whole heads were covered as if with armor of dried clay. 
 But two days before starting, these expeditions ceased,
 
 ACROSS THE PLAINS. 387 
 
 for first the Indians had appeared in the neighborhood, 
 and second my dear lady had begun to be weak somewhat. 
 She grew pale and lost strength, and when I inquired what 
 the trouble was, she answered only with a smile and the 
 assurance that it was nothing. I watched over her sleep, 
 I nursed her as well as I was able, almost preventing the 
 breezes from blowing on her, and grew thin from anxiety. 
 Aunt Atkins blinked mysteriously with her left eye when 
 talking of Lillian's illness, and sent forth such dense rolls 
 of smoke that she grew invisible behind them. I was 
 disturbed all the more, because sad thoughts came to 
 Lillian at times. She had beaten it into her head that 
 maybe it was not permitted to love so intensely as we 
 were loving, and once, putting her finger on the Bible, 
 which we read every day, she said sadly, 
 
 " Eead, Ealph." 
 
 I looked, and a certain wonderful feeling seized my 
 heart too, when I read, " Who changed the truth of God 
 into a lie, and worshipped and served the creature more 
 than the Creator, who is blessed forever." She said when 
 I had finished reading, " But if God is angry at this, I 
 know that with His goodness He will punish only me." 
 
 I pacified her by saying that love was simply an angel, 
 who flies from the souls of two people to God and takes 
 Him praise from the earth. After that there was no 
 talk between us touching such things, since preparations 
 for the journey had begun. The fitting up of wagons 
 and beasts, and a thousand occupations, stole my time 
 from me. When at last the hour came for departure we 
 took tearful farewell of that river fork, which had wit- 
 nessed so much of our happiness; but when I saw the 
 train stretching out again on the prairie, the wagons one 
 after another and lines of mules before the wagons, I felt 
 a certain consolation at the thought that the end of the
 
 388 ACROSS THE PLAINS. 
 
 journey would be nearer each day, that a few months 
 more and we should see California, toward which we 
 were striving with such toil. 
 
 But the first days of the journey did not pass over- 
 successfully. Beyond the Missouri, as far as the foot of 
 the Eocky Mountains, the prairie rises continually over 
 enormous expanses ; therefore the beasts were easily 
 wearied, and were often tired out. Besides, we could not 
 approach the Platte Eiver, for, though the flood had 
 decreased, it was the time of the great spring hunts, and 
 a multitude of Indians circled around the river, looking 
 for herds of buffaloes then moving northward. Night 
 service became difficult and wearying; no night passed 
 without alarms. 
 
 On the fourth day after we had moved from the river 
 fork, I broke up a considerable party of Indian plunderers 
 at the moment when they were trying to stampede our 
 mules. But worst of all were the nights without fire. 
 We were unable to approach the Platte Eiver, and fre- 
 quently had nothing to burn, and toward morning driz- 
 zling rain fell ; buffalo dung, which in case of need took 
 the place of wood, got wet, and would not burn. 
 
 The buffaloes filled me with alarm also. Sometimes 
 we saw berds of some thousands on the horizon, rushing 
 forward like a storm, crushing everything before them. 
 Were such a herd to strike the train, we should perish 
 every one without rescue. To complete the evil, the 
 prairie was swarming at that time with beasts of prey of 
 all species; after the buffaloes and Indians, came terrible 
 gray bears, cougars, big wolves from Kansas and the 
 Indian Territory. At the small streams, where we 
 stopped for the night sometimes, we saw at sunset whole 
 menageries coming to drink after the heat of the day. 
 Once a bear rushed at Wichita, our half-breed ; and if I
 
 ACROSS THE PLAINS. 389 
 
 had not run up, with Smith and the other scout, Tom, to 
 help him, he would have been torn to pieces. I opened 
 the head of the monster with an axe, which I brought 
 down with such force that the handle of tough hickory 
 was broken ; still, the beast rushed at me once more, and 
 fell only when Smith and Tom shot him in the ear from 
 rifles. Those savage brutes were so bold that at night 
 they came up to the very train; and in the course of a week 
 we killed two not more than a hundred yards from the 
 wagons. In consequence of this, the dogs raised such an 
 uproar from twilight till dawn that to close an eye was 
 impossible. 
 
 Once I loved such a life ; and when, a year before, I 
 was in Arkansas, during the greatest heat, it was for me 
 as in paradise. But now, when I remembered that in 
 the wagon my beloved wife, instead of sleeping, was 
 trembling about me, and ruining her health with anxiety, 
 I wished all the Indians and bears and cougars in the 
 lowest pit, and desired from my soul to secure as soon 
 as possible the peace of that being so fragile, so delicate, 
 and so worshipped, that I wished to bear her forever in 
 my arms. 
 
 A great weight fell from my heart when, after three 
 weeks of such crossings, I saw at last the waters of a 
 river white as if traced out with chalk ; this stream is 
 called now Republican River, but at that time it had no 
 name in English. Broad belts of dark willows, stretch- 
 ing like, a mourning trail along the white waters, could 
 afford us fuel in plenty ; and though that kind of willow 
 crackles in the fire, and shoots sparks with great noise, 
 still it burns better than wet buffalo dung. . I appointed 
 at this place another rest of two days, because the rocks, 
 scattered here and there by the banks of the river, indi- 
 cated the proximity of a hilly country, difficult to cross,
 
 390 ACROSS THE PLAINS. 
 
 lying on both sides of tlie back of 'the Eocky Mountains. 
 We were already on a considerable elevation above the 
 sea, as could be known by the cold nights. 
 
 That inequality between day and night temperature 
 troubled us greatly. Some people, among others old 
 Smith, fell ill of fever, and had to go to their wagons. 
 The seeds of the disease had clung to them, probably, at 
 the unwholesome banks of the Missouri, and hardship 
 caused the outbreak. The nearness of the mountains, 
 however, gave hope of a speedy recovery ; meanwhile, 
 my wife nursed them with a devotion innate to gentle 
 hearts only. 
 
 But she grew thin herself. More than once, when I 
 woke in the morning, my first look fell on her beautiful 
 fabe, and my heart beat uneasily at its pallor and the 
 blue half-circles under her eyes. It would happen that 
 while I was looking at her in that way she would wake, 
 smile at me, and fall asleep again. Then I felt that I 
 would have given half my health of oak if we were in 
 California ; but California was still far, far away. 
 
 After two days we started again, and coming to the 
 Republican River at noon, were soon moving along the 
 fork of the White Man toward the southern fork of 
 the Platte, lying for the most part in Colorado. The 
 country became more mountainous at every step, and we 
 were really in the canyon along the banks of which rose 
 up in the distance higher and higher granite cliffs, now 
 standing alone, now stretching out continuously like 
 walls, now closing more narrowly, now opening out on 
 both sides. Wood was not lacking, for all the cracks 
 and crannies of the cliffs were covered with dwarf pine 
 and dwarf oak as well. Here and there springs were 
 heard ; along the rocky walls scampered wolverines. 
 The air was cool, pure, wholesome. After a week the
 
 ACROSS THE PLAINS. 391 
 
 fever ceased. But the mules and horses, forced to eat 
 food in which heather predominated, instead of the juicy 
 grass of Nebraska, grew thinner and thinner, and groaned 
 more loudly as they pulled our well filled and weighty 
 wagons up the mountains. 
 
 At last on a certain afternoon we saw before us beacons, 
 as it were, or crested clouds half melting in the distance, 
 hazy, blue, azure, with white and gold on their crests, 
 and immense in size, extending from the earth to the 
 sky. 
 
 At this sight a shout rose in the whole caravan ; 
 men climbed to the tops of the wagons to see better, 
 from every side thundered shouts, " Kocky Mountains ! 
 Kocky Mountains ! " Caps were waving in the air, and 
 on all faces enthusiasm was evident. 
 
 Thus the Americans greeted their Eocky Mountains ; 
 but I went to my wagon, and, pressing my wife to my 
 breast, vowed faith to her once more in spirit before 
 those heaven-touching altars, which expressed such sol- 
 emn mysteriousness, majesty, unapproachableness, and 
 immensity. The sun was just setting, and soon twilight 
 covered the whole country; but those giants in the 
 last rays seemed like measureless masses of burning 
 coal and lava. Later on, that fiery redness passed 
 into violet, ever darker, and at last all disappeared, 
 and was merged into one darkness, through which gazed 
 at us from above the stars, the twinkling eyes of the 
 night. 
 
 But we were at least a hundred and fifty miles yet 
 from the main chain ; in fact, the mountains disappeared 
 from our eyes next day, intercepted by cliffs ; again they 
 appeared and again they vanished, as our road went by 
 turns. 
 
 We advanced slowly, for new obstacles stood in our
 
 392 ACROSS THE PLAINS. 
 
 way ; and though we kept as much as possible to the 
 bed of the river, frequently, where the banks were too 
 steep, we had to go around and seek a passage by neigh- 
 boring valleys. The ground in these valleys was covered 
 with gray heather and wild peas, not good for mules even, 
 and forming no little hindrance to the journey, for the 
 long and powerful stems, twisting around the wagon 
 wheels, made the turning of them difficult. 
 
 Sometimes we came upon openings and cracks in the 
 earth, impassable and hundreds of yards long ; these we 
 had to go around also. Time after time the scouts, 
 Wichita and Tom, returned with accounts of new ob- 
 stacles. The land was bristling with rocks, or it broke 
 away suddenly. 
 
 On a certain day it seemed to us that we were going 
 through a valley, when all at once the valley was miss- 
 ing ; in place of it was a precipice so deep that the gaze 
 went down with terror along a perpendicular wall, and 
 the head became dizzy. Giant oaks, growing at the 
 bottom of the abyss, seemed little black clumps, and the 
 buffaloes pasturing among them like beetles. We entered 
 more and more into the region of precipices, of stones, 
 fragments, debris, and rocks thrown one on the other 
 with a kind of wild disorder. The echo sent back twice 
 and thrice from granite arches the curses of drivers and 
 squealing of mules. On the prairie our wagons, rising 
 high above the surface of the country, seemed lordly 
 and immense ; here before those perpendicular cliffs, the 
 wagons became wonderfully small to the eye, and van- 
 ished in those gorges as if devoured by gigantic jaws. 
 Little waterfalls, or as they are called by the Indians, 
 " laughing waters," stopped the road to us every few hun- 
 dred yards ; toil exhausted our strength and that of the 
 animals. Meanwhile, when at times the real chain of
 
 ACROSS THE PLAINS. 393 
 
 mountains appeared on the horizon, it seemed as far 
 away and hazy as ever. Happily curiosity overcame in 
 us even weariness, and the continual change of views 
 kept it in practice. None of my people, not excepting 
 those born in the Alleghauies, had ever seen such wild 
 regions ; I myself gazed with wonder on those canyons, 
 along the edges of which the unbridled fancy of Nature 
 had reared as it were castles, fortresses, and stone cities. 
 From time to time we met Indians, but these were 
 different from those on the prairies, very straggling and 
 very much wilder. 
 
 The sight of white men roused in them fear mingled 
 with a thirst for blood. They seemed still more cruel 
 than their brethren in Nebraska ; their stature was 
 loftier, their complexion much darker, their wide nostrils 
 and quick glances gave them the expression of wild 
 beasts caught in a trap. Their movements, too, had 
 almost the quickness and timidity of beasts. While 
 speaking, they put their thumbs to their cheeks, which 
 were painted in white and blue stripes. Their weapons 
 were tomahawks and bows, the latter made of a certain 
 kind of firm mountain hawthorn, so rigid that my men 
 could not bend them. These savages, who in considerable 
 numbers might have been very dangerous, were distin- 
 guished by invincible thievishness ; happily they were 
 few, the largest party that we met not exceeding fifteen. 
 They called themselves Tabeguachis, Winemucas, and 
 Yampas. Our scout, Wichita, though expert in Indian 
 dialects, could not understand their language ; hence we 
 could not make out in any way why all of them, pointing 
 to the Rocky Mountains and then to us, closed and 
 opened their palms, as if indicating some number. 
 
 The road became so difficult, that with the greatest 
 exertion, we made barely fifteen miles a day. At the
 
 394 ACROSS THE PLAINS. 
 
 same time our horses began to die, being less enduring 
 than mules and more choice of food ; men failed in 
 strength too, for during whole days they had to draw 
 wagons with the mules, or to hold them in dangerous 
 places. By degrees unwillingness seized the weakest; 
 some got the rheumatism, and one, through whose mouth 
 blood came because of exertion, died in three days, cursing 
 the hour in which it came to his head to leave New York. 
 We were then in the worst part of the road, near the 
 little river called by the Indians Kiowa. There were no 
 cliffs there as high as on the Eastern boundary of 
 Colorado ; but the whole country, as far as the eye could 
 reach, was bristling with fragments thrown in disorder 
 one upon another. These fragments, some standing up- 
 right, others overturned, presented the appearance of 
 ruined graveyards with fallen headstones. Those were 
 really the " Bad Lands " of Colorado, answering to those 
 which extended northward over Nebraska. With the 
 greatest effort we escaped from them in the course of a 
 week. 
 
 CHAPTEE VII. 
 
 AT last we found ourselves at the foot of the Rocky 
 Mountains. 
 
 Fear seized me when I looked from a proximate point 
 at that world of granite mountains, whose sides were 
 wrapped in mist, and whose summits were lost some- 
 where in eternal snow and clouds. Their size and silent 
 majesty pressed me to the earth ; hence I bent before the 
 Lord, imploring Him to permit me to lead, past those 
 measureless walls, my wagons, my people, and my wife. 
 After such a prayer I entered the stone gorges and cor-
 
 ACROSS THE PLAINS. 395 
 
 ridors with more confidence. When they closed behind 
 us we were cut off from the rest of the world. Above 
 was the sky ; in it a few eagles were screaming, around 
 us was granite and then granite without end, a genuine 
 labyrinth of passages, vaults, ravines, openings, precipices, 
 towers, silent edifices, and as it were chambers, gigantic 
 and dreamy. There is such a solemnity there, and the 
 soul is under such pressure, that a man knows not him- 
 self why he whispers instead of speaking aloud. It 
 seems to him that the road is closing before him con- 
 tinually, that some voice is saying to him, " Go no 
 farther, for there is no passage ! " It seems to him that 
 he is attacking some secret on which God Himself has 
 set a seal. At night, when those upright legions were 
 standing as black as mourning, and the moon cast about 
 their summits a silvery mantle of sadness, when certain 
 wonderful shadows rose around the " laughing waters," 
 a quiver passed through the most hardened adventurers. 
 We spent whole hours by the fires, looking with a 
 certain superstitious awe at the dark depths of the 
 ravines, lighted by ruddy gleams ; we seemed to think 
 that something terrible might show itself any moment. 
 
 Once we found under a hollow in the cliff the skeleton 
 of a man ; and though from the remnant of the hair which 
 had dried to the skull, we saw that he was an Indian, 
 still an ominous feeling pressed our hearts, for that 
 skeleton with grinning teeth seemed to forewarn us that 
 whoso wandered in there would never come out again. 
 
 That same day the half-breed, Tom, was killed sud- 
 denly, having fallen with his horse from the edge of a 
 precipice. A gloomy sadness seized the whole caravan ; 
 formerly we had advanced noisily and joyfully, now the 
 drivers ceased to swear, and the caravan pushed forward 
 in a silence broken only by the squeaking of wheels.
 
 396 ACROSS THE PLAINS. 
 
 The mules grew ill-tempered more frequently, and when 
 one pair stood as still as if lashed to the earth, all 
 the wagons behind had to halt. I was most tortured 
 by this, that in those moments which were so diffi- 
 cult and oppressive, and in which my wife needed my 
 presence more than at other times, I could not be neai 
 her ; for I had to double and treble myself almost, so as 
 to give an example, uphold courage and confidence. The 
 men, it is true, bore toil with the endurance innate with 
 Americans, though they were simply using the last of 
 their strength. But my health was proof against every 
 hardship. There were nights in which I did not have 
 two hours of sleep ; I dragged the wagons with others, 
 I posted the sentries, I went around the square, in a 
 word, I performed service twice more burdensome than 
 any one of the company ; but it is evident that happiness 
 gave me strength. For when, wearied and beaten down, 
 I came to my wagon, I found there everything that I held 
 dearest : a faithful heart and a beloved hand, that wiped 
 my wearied forehead. Lillian, though suffering a little, 
 never went to sleep wittingly before niy arrival ; and 
 when I reproached her she closed my mouth with a kiss 
 and a prayer not to be angry. When I told her to sleep 
 she did so, while holding my hand. Frequently in the 
 night, when she woke, she covered me with beaver skins, 
 so that I might rest better. Always mild, sweet, loving, 
 she cared for me and brought me to worship her simply. 
 I kissed the hem of her garment, as if it had been a thing 
 the most sacred, and that wagon of ours became for 
 me almost a church. That little one in presence of those 
 heaven-touching walls of granite, upon which she cast 
 her upraised eyes, covered them for me in such a way, 
 that in presence of her they vanished from before me, 
 and amid all those immensities I saw only her. What
 
 ACROSS THE PLAINS. 397 
 
 is there wonderful, if when strength failed others, T had 
 strength still, and felt that so long as it was a question 
 of her I should never fail ? 
 
 After three weeks' journey we came at last to a more 
 spacious canyon formed by White River. At the entrance 
 to it the Winta Indians prepared an ambush which 
 annoyed us somewhat ; but when their reddish arrows 
 began to reach the roof of my wife's wagon, I struck on 
 them with my men so violently that they scattered at 
 once. We killed three or four of them. The only prisoner 
 whom we took, a youth of sixteen, when he had recovered 
 a little from terror, pointed in turn at us and to the 
 West, repeating gestures similar to those made by the 
 Yampa. It seemed to us that he wanted to say that there 
 were white men near by, but it was difficult to give credit 
 to that supposition. In time it turned out correct, and 
 it is easy to imagine the astonishment and delight of 
 my men on the following day, when, descending from an 
 elevated plateau, we saw on a broad valley which lay at 
 our feet, not only wagons, but houses built of freshly- 
 cut logs. These houses formed a circle, in the centre of 
 which rose a large shed without windows ; through the 
 middle of the plain a stream flowed ; near it were herds 
 of mules, guarded by men on horseback. 
 
 The presence of men of my own race in that valley 
 rilled me with astonishment, which soon passed into fear, 
 when I remembered that they might be " criminal out- 
 laws" hiding in the desert from death. I knew from 
 experience that such outcasts push frequently to very 
 remote and entirely desert regions, where they form 
 detachments, on a complete military footing. Some- 
 times they are founders of new societies as it were, 
 which at first live by plundering people moving to more 
 inhabited places ; but later, by a continual increase of
 
 398 ACROSS THE PLAINS. 
 
 population, they change by degrees into ordered soci- 
 eties. I met more than once with " outlaws " on the 
 upper course of the Mississippi, when, as a squatter, I 
 floated down logs to New Orleans ; more than once I 
 had bloody adventures with them, hence their cruelty 
 and bravery were equally well known to me. 
 
 I should not have feared them had not Lillian been 
 with us ; but at thought of the danger in which she 
 would be if we were defeated and I fell, the hair rose 
 on my head, and for the first time in life I was as 
 full of fear as the greatest coward. But I was con- 
 vinced that if those men were outlaws, we could not 
 avoid battle in any way, and that the conflict would be 
 more difficult with them than with Indians. 
 
 I warned my men at once of the probable danger, and 
 arranged them in order of battle. I was ready either to 
 perish myself, or destroy that nest of wasps, and resolved 
 to strike the first blow. 
 
 Meanwhile they saw us from the valley, and two 
 horsemen started toward us as fast as their horses 
 could gallop. I drew breath at that sight, for "out- 
 laws " would not send messengers to meet us. Tn fact, 
 it turned out that they were riflemen of the American 
 Fur Company, who had their "summer camp" in that 
 valley. Instead of a battle, therefore, a most hospitable 
 reception was waiting for us, and every assistance from 
 those rough but honest riflemen of the desert. Indeed, 
 they received us with open arms, and we thanked God 
 for having looked on our misery and prepared so agree- 
 able a resting-place. 
 
 A month and a half had passed since our departure 
 from Big Blue Eiver. Our strength was exhausted, our 
 mules were half alive merely ; but here we might rest a 
 whole week in perfect safety, with abundance of food
 
 ACROSS THE PLAINS. 399 
 
 for ourselves, and grass for our animals. For us that 
 was simply salvation. 
 
 Mr. Thorston, the chief of the camp, was an educated 
 man and enlightened. Knowing that I was not a com- 
 mon rough fellow of the prairies, he became friendly at 
 once, and gave his own cottage to me and Lillian, whose 
 health had suffered greatly. 
 
 I kept her two days in bed. She was so wearied 
 that she barely opened her eyes for the first twenty- 
 four hours ; during that time I took care that noth- 
 ing disturbed her. I sat at her bedside and watched 
 hour after hour. In two days she was strengthened 
 enough to go out; but I did not let her touch any 
 labor. My men, too, slept for the first few days like 
 stones, wherever each one dropped down. Only after 
 they had slept did we repair our wagons and clothing 
 and wash our linen. The honest riflemen helped us 
 in everything earnestly. They were Canadians, for the 
 greater part, who had hired with the company. They 
 spent the winter in trapping beavers, killing skunks 
 and minks ; in summer they betook themselves to so- 
 called "summer camps," in which there were tempo- 
 rary storehouses of furs. The skins, dressed there in 
 some fashion, were convoyed to the East. The service of 
 those people, who hired for a number of years, was ardu- 
 ous beyond calculation ; they had to go to very remote 
 and wild places, where all kinds of animals existed in 
 plenty, and where they themselves lived in continual 
 danger and in endless warfare with redskins. It is true 
 that they received high wages ; most of them did not 
 serve for mere money, but from love of life in the wil- 
 derness, and adventures, of which there was no lack 
 at any time. Men, too, of great strength and health 
 had been chosen, men capable of enduring all hard-
 
 400 ACROSS THE PLAINS. 
 
 ships. Their great stature, fur caps, and long rifles 
 reminded Lillian of Cooper's novels; hence she looked 
 with curiosity on the whole camp and on all the ar- 
 rangements. Their discipline was as absolute as that 
 of a knightly order. Thorston, the chief agent of the 
 company, and at the same time their employer, main- 
 tained complete military authority. Withal they were 
 very honest people, hence time passed for us among 
 them with perfect comfort ; our camp, too, pleased them 
 greatly, and they said that they had never met such a 
 disciplined and well-ordered caravan. Thorston, in pres- 
 ence of all, praised my plan of taking the northern route 
 instead of that by St. Louis and Kansas. He told us 
 that on that trail a caravan of three hundred people, 
 under a certain Marchwood, after numerous sufferings 
 caused by heat and locusts, had lost all their draught- 
 beasts, and were cut to pieces at last by the Arapahoe 
 Indians. The Canadian riflemen had learned this from 
 the Arapahoes themselves, whom they had beaten in a 
 great battle, and from whom they had captured more 
 than a hundred scalps, among others that of March- 
 wood himself. 
 
 This information had great influence on my people, 
 so that old Smith, a veteran pathfinder, who from the 
 beginning was opposed to the route through Nebraska, 
 declared in presence of all that I was smarter than he, 
 and that it was his part to learn of me. During our 
 stay in the hospitable summer camp we regained our 
 strength thoroughly. Besides Thorston, with whom I 
 formed a lasting friendship, I made the acquaintance 
 of Mick, famous throughout all the States. This man 
 was not of the camp, but had wandered through the 
 deserts with two other famous explorers, Lincoln and 
 Kit Carson. Those three remarkable men carried on
 
 ACROSS THE PLAINS. 401 
 
 real wars with whole tribes of Indians ; their skill and 
 superhuman courage always secured them the victory. 
 The name of Mick, of whom more than one book is 
 written, was so terrible to the Indians, that with them 
 his word had more weight than a United States treaty. 
 The Government had often employed him as an inter- 
 mediary, and finally appointed him Governor of Oregon. 
 When I made his acquaintance he was nearly fifty 
 years old ; but his hair was as black as the feather 
 of a raven, and in his glance was mingled kindness 
 of heart with strength and irrestrainable daring. He 
 passed also for the strongest man in America, and when 
 we wrestled I was the first, to the great astonishment 
 of all, whom he failed to throw. This man with a 
 great heart loved Lillian immensely, and blessed her, 
 as often as he visited us. In parting he gave her a 
 pair of beautiful little moccasins made by himself from 
 the skin of a doe. That present was very timely, for 
 my poor wife had not a pair of sound shoes. 
 
 At last we resumed our journey, with good omens, 
 furnished with minute directions what canyons to take 
 on the way, and with supplies of salt game. That was 
 not all. The kind Thorston had taken the worst of our 
 mules and in place of them given us his own, which 
 were strong and well rested. Mick, who had been in 
 California, told real wonders not only of its wealth, but 
 of its mild climate, its beautiful oak forests, and moun- 
 tain canyons, unequalled in the United States. A great 
 consolation entered our hearts, for we did not know of 
 the trials which awaited us before entering that land 
 of promise. 
 
 In driving away, we waved our caps long in farewell 
 to the honest Canadians. As to me, that day of part- 
 ing is graven in my heart for the ages, since in the 
 
 26
 
 402 ACROSS THE PLAINS. 
 
 forenoon that beloved star of my life, putting both 
 arms around my neck, began, all red with embarras- 
 ment and emotion, to whisper something in my ear. 
 When I heard it I bent to her feet, and, weeping with 
 great excitement, kissed her knees. 
 
 CHAPTEE VIII. 
 
 Two weeks after leaving the summer camp, we came 
 out on the boundary of Utah, and our journey, as be- 
 fore, though not without labors, advanced more briskly 
 than at the beginning. We had yet to pass the western 
 part of the Rocky Mountains, forming a whole network 
 of branches called the Wasatch Range. Two considerable 
 streams, Green and Grand Rivers, whose union forms the 
 immense Colorado, and numerous tributaries of those two 
 rivers, cut the mountains in every direction, opening in 
 them passages which are easy enough. By these passages 
 we reached after a certain time Utah Lake, where the salt 
 lands begin. A wonderful country surrounded us, monot- 
 onous, gloomy ; great level valleys encircled by cliffs with 
 blunt outlines, these, always alike, succeed one another, 
 with oppressive monotony. There is in those deserts and 
 cliffs a certain sternness, nakedness, and torpor, so that at 
 
 sight of them the Biblical deserts recur to one's mind. The 
 
 
 lakes here are brackish, their shores fruitless and barren. 
 There are no trees ; the ground over an enormous expanse 
 exudes salt and potash, or is covered by a gray vegetation 
 with large felt-like leaves, which, when broken, give forth 
 a salt, clammy sap. That journey is wearisome and 
 oppressive, for whole weeks pass, and the desert stretches 
 on without end, and opens into plains of eternal same- 
 ness, though they are rocky. Our strength began to give
 
 ACROSS THE PLAINS. 403 
 
 way again. On the prairies we were surrounded by the 
 monotony of life, here by the monotony of death. 
 
 A certain oppression and indifference to everything 
 took gradual possession of the people. We passed Utah, 
 
 always the same lifeless lands ! We entered Nevada, 
 
 no change ! The sun burnt so fiercely that our heads 
 were bursting from pain ; the light, reflecting from a sur- 
 face covered with salt, dazzled the eye; in the air was 
 floating a kind of dust, coming it was unknown whence, 
 which inflamed our eyelids. The draught-beasts, time 
 after time, seized the earth with their teeth, and dropped 
 from sunstroke, as if felled by lightning. The majority 
 of the people kept themselves up only with the thought 
 that in a week or two weeks the Sierra Nevada would 
 appear on the horizon, and behind that the desired 
 California. 
 
 Meanwhile, days passed and weeks in ever-increasing 
 labors. In the course of a certain week we were forced 
 to leave three wagons behind, for there were no animals 
 to draw them. 
 
 Oh, that was a land of misfortune and misery ! In 
 Nevada the desert became deeper, and our condition still 
 worse, for disease fell upon us. 
 
 One morning people came to inform me that Smith 
 was sick. I went to see what his trouble was, and saw 
 with amazement that typhus had overthrown the old 
 miner. So many climates are not changed with impunity ; 
 severe labor, in spite of short rests, makes itself felt, and 
 the germs of disease are developed from hardship and 
 toil. Lillian, whom Smith loved as if she had been his 
 own daughter, and whom he blessed on the day of our 
 marriage, insisted on nursing him. I, weak man, trembled 
 iii my whole soul for her, but I could not forbid her to be 
 a Christian. She sat over the sick man whole days and
 
 404 ACROSS THE PLAINS. 
 
 nights, together with Aunt Atkins and Aunt Grosvenor, 
 who followed her example, On the second day, however, 
 the old man lost consciousness, and on the eighth- he died 
 in Lillian's arms. I buried him, shedding ardent tears 
 over the remains of him who had been not only my 
 assistant and right hand in everything, but a real father 
 to me and to Lillian. We hoped that after such a sac- 
 rifice God would take pity on us ; but that was merely 
 the beginning of our trials, for that very day another 
 miner fell ill, and almost every day after that some 
 one lay down in a wagon, and left it only when borne 
 to a grave. 
 
 And thus we dragged along over the desert, and after 
 us followed the pestilence, grasping new victims continu- 
 ally. In her turn Aunt Atkins fell ill, but, thanks to 
 Lillian's efforts, her sickness was conquered. The soul 
 was dying in me every instant, and more than once, when 
 Lillian was with the sick, and I somewhere on guard in 
 front of the camp, alone in the darkness, I pressed my 
 temples with my hands and knelt down in prayer to God. 
 Obedient as a dog, I was whining for mercy on her with- 
 out daring to say, " Let Thy will and not mine be done." 
 Sometimes in the night, when we were alone, I woke sud- 
 denly, for it seemed to me that the pestilence was pushing 
 the canvas of my wagon aside and staring in, looking for 
 Lillian. All the intervals when I was not with her, and 
 they formed most of the time, were for me changed into 
 one torture, under which I bent as a tree bends before a 
 whirlwind. Lillian, however, had been equal to all toils 
 and efforts so far. Though the strongest men fell, I saw 
 her emaciated it is true, pale, and with marks of mater- 
 nity increasingly definite on her forehead, but in health, 
 and going from wagon to wagon. I dared not even ask 
 if she were well ; I only took her by the shoulders and
 
 ACROSS THE PLAINS. 405 
 
 pressed her long and long to my breast, and even had I 
 wished to speak, something so oppressed me, that I could 
 not have uttered a word. 
 
 Gradually, however, hope began to enter me, and in my 
 head were sounding no longer those terrible words of the 
 Bible, " Who worshipped and served the creature more 
 than the Creator." 
 
 We were nearing the western part of Nevada, where, 
 beyond the belt of dead lakes, the salt lands and desert 
 rocks find an end, and a belt of prairie begins, more 
 level, greener, and very fertile. During two days' jour- 
 ney no one fell ill ; I thought that our misery was over. 
 And it was high time ! 
 
 Nine men had died, six were ailing yet; under the 
 fear of infection discipline had begun to relax ; nearly all 
 the horses were dead, and the mules seemed rather skele- 
 tons than beasts. Of the fifty wagons with which we 
 had moved out of the summer camp, only thirty-two 
 were dragging now over the desert. Besides, since no 
 one wished to go hunting lest he might fall somewhere 
 away from the caravan and be left without aid, our 
 supplies, not being replenished, were coming to an end. 
 Wishing to spare them, we had lived for a week past on 
 black ground squirrels ; but their malodorous meat had 
 so disgusted us that we put it to our mouths with loath- 
 ing, and even that wretched food was not found in 
 sufficiency. Beyond the lakes, however, game became 
 more frequent, and grass was abundant. Again we met 
 Indians, who, in opposition to their custom, attacked us 
 in daylight and on the open plain ; having firearms, they 
 killed four of our people. In the conflict I received such 
 a severe wound in the head from a hatchet that in the 
 evening of that day I lost consciousness from loss of 
 blood ; but I was happy since Lillian was nursing me,
 
 406 ACROSS THE PLAINS. 
 
 and not patients from whom she might catch the typhus. 
 Three days I lay in the wagon, pleasant days, since I 
 was with her continually. I could kiss her hands when 
 she was changing the bandages, and look at her. On 
 the third day I was able to sit on horseback ; but the 
 soul was weak in me, and I feigned sickness before my- 
 self so as to be with her longer. 
 
 Only then did I discover how tired I had been, and 
 what weariness had gone out of my bones while I was 
 lying prostrate. Before my illness I had suffered not a 
 little concerning my wife. I had grown as thin as a skele- 
 ton, and as formerly I had been looking with fear and 
 alarm at her, so now she was looking with the same feel- 
 ings at me. But when my head had ceased to fall from 
 shoulder to shoulder there was no help for it ; I had to 
 mount the last living horse and lead the caravan forward, 
 especially as certain alarming signs were surrounding us 
 on all sides. There was a heat well-nigh preternatural, 
 and in the air a dull haze as if of smoke from a distant 
 burning; the horizon became dull and dark. It was 
 impossible to see the sky, and the rays of the sun came 
 to the earth red and sickly ; the draught-beasts showed a 
 wonderful disquiet, and, breathing hoarsely, bared their 
 teeth. As to us, we inhaled fire with our breasts. The 
 heat was caused, as I thought, by one of those stifling 
 winds from the Gila desert, of which men had told me in 
 the East ; but there was stillness round about, and not a 
 grass blade was stirring on the plain. In the evening 
 the sun went down as red as blood, and stifling nights 
 followed. The sick groaned for water ; the dogs howled. 
 Whole nights I wandered around a number of miles from 
 the camp to make sure that the plains were not burning ; 
 but there was no fire in sight anywhere. I calmed my- 
 self finally with the thought that the smoke must be
 
 ACROSS THE PLAINS. 407 
 
 from a fire that had gone out already. In the daytime I 
 noticed that hares, antelopes, buffaloes, even squirrels, 
 were hastening eastward, as if fleeing from that California 
 to which we were going with such effort. But since the 
 air had become a little purer and the heat somewhat less, 
 I settled finally in the thought that there had been a fire 
 which had ceased, that the animals were merely looking 
 for food in some new place. It was only needful for us 
 to push up as soon as possible to the burnt strip, and 
 learn whether the belt of fire could be crossed or whether 
 we should have to go around it. According to my calcu- 
 lation it could not be more than three hundred miles to 
 the -Sierra Nevada, or about twenty days' journey. I 
 resolved, therefore, to reach it, even with our last effort. 
 
 We travelled at night now, for midday heat weakened 
 the animals greatly, and among the wagons there was 
 always some shade in which they could rest. 
 
 One night, being unable to remain on horseback be- 
 cause of weariness and my wound, I sat in the wagon 
 with Lillian. I heard all at once a sudden wheezing and 
 biting of the wheels striking on ground which was pecu- 
 liar ; at the same time shouts of " Stop ! stop ! " were heard 
 along the whole length of the train. I sprang from the 
 wagon at once. By the light of the moon I saw the 
 drivers bent to the earth and looking at it ca.refully. At 
 the same moment a voice called, 
 
 " Ho, captain, we are travelling on coals." 
 
 I bent down, felt the earth, we were travelling on a 
 burnt prairie. I stopped the caravan at once, and we 
 remained the rest of the night on that spot. With the 
 first light of morning a wonderful sight struck our eyes : 
 As far as we could see, there lay a plain black as coal, 
 not only were all the bushes and the grass burnt, but the 
 earth was so glossy that the feet of our mules and the
 
 408 ACROSS THE PLAINS. 
 
 wheels of the wagons were reflected in it as they might 
 have been in a mirror. We could not see clearly the 
 width of the fire, for the horizon was still hazy from 
 smoke ; but I gave command without hesitation to turn 
 to the south, so as to reach the edge of that tract instead 
 of venturing on the burnt country. I knew from experi- 
 ence what it is to travel on burnt prairie land where 
 there is not a blade of grass for draught-beasts. Since 
 evidently the fire had moved northward with the wind, I 
 hoped by going toward the south to reach the beginning 
 of it. 
 
 The people obeyed my order, it is true, but rather 
 unwillingly, for it involved God knows how long a delay 
 in the journey. During our halt at noon the smoke 
 became thinner; but if it did, the heat grew so terrible 
 that the air quivered from its fervency, and all at once 
 something took place which might seem a miracle. 
 
 On a sudden the haze and smoke parted, as if at a 
 signal, and before our eyes rose the Sierra Nevada, green, 
 smiling, wonderful, covered with gleaming snow on the 
 summits, and so near that with the naked eye we could 
 see the dents in the mountains, the green lakes, and the 
 forests. It seemed to us that a fresh breeze filled with 
 odors from the pitchy fir was coming above the burnt 
 fields to us, and that in a few hours we should reach the 
 flowery foothills. At this sight the people, worn out 
 with the terrible desert and with labors, went almost 
 out of their minds with delight ; some fell on the ground 
 sobbing, others stretched forth their hands toward heaven 
 or burst into laughter, others grew pale without power 
 to speak. Lillian and I wept from delight too, which in 
 me was mingled with astonishment, for I had thought 
 that a hundred and fifty miles at least separated us yet 
 from California; but there were the mountains smiling
 
 ACROSS THE PLAINS. 409 
 
 at us across the burnt plain, and they seemed to approach 
 as if by inagic, and bend toward us and invite us and 
 lure us on. 
 
 The hours fixed for rest had not passed yet, but the 
 people would not hear of a longer halt. Even the sick 
 stretched out their yellow hands from beneath the can- 
 vas roofs and begged us to harness the mules and drive 
 on. Briskly and willingly we moved forward, and to the 
 biting of the wheels on the charred earth were joined 
 the cracking of whips, shouts, and songs ; of driving 
 around the burnt tract there was not a word now. Why 
 go around when a few tens of miles farther on was Cali- 
 fornia and its marvellous snowy mountains ? We went 
 straight across toward them. 
 
 The smoke covered the bright view from us again with 
 a wonderful suddenness. Hours passed; the horizon 
 came nearer. At last the sun went down ; night came. 
 The stars twinkled dimly on the sky, but we went 
 forward without rest ; still the mountains were evidently 
 farther than they had seemed. About midnight the mules 
 began to squeal and balk ; an hour later the caravan 
 stopped, for the greater number of the beasts had lain 
 down. The men tried to raise them, but there was no 
 possibility of doing so. Not an eye closed all night. 
 At the first rays of light our glances flew eagerly 
 into the distance and found nothing. A dark mourn- 
 ing desert extended at far as the eye could see, mono- 
 tonous, dull, defining itself with a sharp line at the 
 horizon ; of yesterday's mountains there was not a 
 trace. 
 
 The people were amazed. To me the ominous word 
 " mirage " explained everything, but also it went with a 
 quiver to the marrow of my bones. What was to be 
 done, go on ? But if that burnt plain extended for
 
 410 ACROSS THE PLAINS. 
 
 hundreds of miles ? Return, and then seek some miles 
 distant the end of the burnt tract ? but had the mules 
 strength to return over the same road ? I hardly dared 
 to look to the bottom of that abyss, on the brink of 
 which we were all standing. I wished, however, to 
 know what course to take. I mounted my horse, moved 
 forward, and from a neighboring elevation took in with 
 my eye a wider horizon through the aid of a field-glass. 
 I saw in the distance a green strip. When I reached it, 
 however, after an hour's journey, the place turned out to 
 be merely a lake, along the bank of which the fire had 
 not destroyed vegetation completely. The burnt plain ex- 
 tended farther than I could see through the glass. There 
 was no help ; it was necessary to turn back the caravan 
 and go around the fire. For that purpose I turned my 
 horse. I expected to find the wagons where I had left 
 them, for I had given command to wait for me there. 
 Meanwhile, disobeying my command, they had raised the 
 mules, and the caravan was advancing. To my questions 
 they answered moodily, "There are the mountains, we 
 will go to them." 
 
 I did not try even to struggle, for I saw that there was 
 no human power present to stop those men. Perhaps I 
 should have gone back alone with Lillian, but my wagon 
 was not there, and Lillian had gone on with Aunt 
 Atkins. 
 
 We advanced. Night came again, and with it a forced 
 halt. Out of the burnt plain rose a great lurid moon 
 and lighted the distance, which was equally black. In 
 the morning only half of the wagons could be moved, 
 for the mules of the others had died. The heat of that 
 day was dreadful. The sun's rays, absorbed by the 
 charred land, filled the air with fire. On the road one of 
 the sick men expired in dreadful convulsions, and no one
 
 ACROSS THE PLAINS. 411 
 
 undertook his burial ; we laid him down on the plain and 
 went farther. 
 
 The water in the lake at which I had been the day 
 before refreshed men and animals for a time, but could 
 not restore their strength. The mules had not nipped a 
 grass blade for thirty-six hours, and had lived only on 
 straw which we took out of the wagons ; but even that 
 failed them now. We marked the road as we went with 
 their bodies, and on the third day there was left one only, 
 which I took by force for Lillian. The wagons and the 
 tools in them, which were to give us bread in California, 
 remained in that desert, be it cursed for all ages ! 
 
 Every one now except Lillian went on foot. Soon a 
 new enemy looked us in the eyes, hunger. A part of 
 our provisions had been left in the wagons ; that which 
 each one could carry was eaten. There was not a living 
 thing in the country around us. I alone in the whole 
 caravan had biscuits yet and a piece of salt meat; but 
 I hid them for Lillian, and I was ready to rend any 
 man to pieces who would mention that food. I ate 
 nothing myself, and that terrible plain stretched on 
 without end. 
 
 As if to add to our torments the mirage appeared in 
 the midday hours on the plain again, showing us moun- 
 tains and forests with lakes ; but the nights were more 
 terrible than ever. All the rays which that charred land 
 stole from the sun in the daytime came out at night, 
 scorching our feet and parching our throats. On such a 
 night one man lost his mind, and sitting on the ground 
 burst into spasmodical laughter, and that dreadful laugh- 
 ter followed us long in the darkness. The mule on 
 which Lillian was riding fell ; the famishing people tore 
 it to bits in a twinkle ; but what food was that for two 
 hundred !
 
 412 ACROSS THE PLAINS. 
 
 The fourth day passed aiid the fifth. From hunger, 
 the faces of the people became like those of birds of some 
 kind, and they began to look with hate at one another. 
 They knew that I had provisions; but they knew, too, 
 that to ask one crumb of me was death, hence the in- 
 stinct of life overcame in them hunger. I gave food to 
 Lillian only at night, so as not to enrage them with the 
 sight of it. She implored me by all that was holy to take 
 my share, but I threatened to put a bullet in my brain if 
 she even mentioned it. She was able, however, to steal 
 from my watchfulness crumbs which she gave to Aunt 
 Atkins and Aunt Grosvenor. At that time hunger was 
 tearing my entrails with iron hand, and my head was 
 burning from the wound. 
 
 For five days there had been nothing in my mouth but 
 water from that lake. The thought that I was carrying 
 bread and meat, that I had them with me, that I could 
 eat, became a torture ; I was afraid besides, that being 
 wounded, I might go mad and seize the food. 
 
 " Lord ! " cried I in spirit, " suffer me not to be- 
 come so far brutalized as to touch that which is to keep 
 her in life!" But there was no mercy above me. 
 On the morning of the sixth day I saw on Lillian's 
 face fiery spots ; her hands were inflamed, she panted 
 loudly. All at once she looked at me wanderingly, and 
 said in haste, hurrying lest she might lose presence of 
 mind, 
 
 " Ralph, leave me here ; save yourself, there is no hope 
 for me." 
 
 I gritted my teeth, for I wanted to howl and blas- 
 pheme ; but saying nothing I took her by the hands. 
 Fiery zigzags began to leap before my eyes in the air, 
 and to form the words, " Who worshipped and served 
 the creature more than the Creator ? " I had broken like
 
 ACROSS THE PLAINS. 413 
 
 a bow too much bent; so, staring at the merciless 
 heavens, I exclaimed with my whole soul in rebellion : 
 
 "I!" 
 
 Meanwhile I was bearing to the mount of execution 
 my dearest burden, this my only one, my saint, my be- 
 loved martyr. 
 
 I know not where I found strength ; I was insensible 
 to hunger, to heat, to suffering. I saw nothing before 
 me, neither people nor the burning plain ; I saw nothing 
 but Lillian. That night she grew worse. She lost 
 consciousness ; at times she groaned in a low voice, 
 
 " Kalph, water ! " And oh, torments ! I had only salt 
 meat and dry biscuits. In supreme despair I cut my arm 
 with a knife to moisten her lips with my blood ; she 
 grew conscious, cried out, and fell into a protracted faint, 
 from which I thought she would not recover. When she 
 came to herself she wished to say something, but the 
 fever had blunted her mind, and she only murmured, 
 
 "Kalph, be not angry ! I am your wife." 
 
 I carried her farther in silence. I had grown stupid 
 from pain. 
 
 The seventh day came. The Sierra Nevada appeared 
 at last on the horizon, and as the sun was going down the 
 life of my life began to quench also. When she was 
 dying I placed her on the burnt ground and knelt beside 
 her. Her widely opened eyes were gleaming and fixed 
 on me ; thought appeared in them for a moment, and she 
 whispered, 
 
 " My dear, my husband ! " Then a quiver ran through 
 her, fear was on her face, and she died. 
 
 I tore the bandages from my head, and lost conscious- 
 ness. I have no memory of what happened after that. 
 As in a kind of dream I remember people who surrounded 
 me and took my weapons ; then they dug a grave, as it
 
 414 ACROSS THE PLAINS. 
 
 were ; and, still later, darkness and raving seized me, and 
 in them the fiery words, "Who worshipped and served 
 the creature more than the Creator ! " 
 
 I woke a month later in California at the house of 
 Moshynski, a settler. When I had come to health some- 
 what I set out for Nevada ; the prairie had grown over 
 with grass, and was abundantly green, so that I could 
 not find even her grave, and to this day I know not 
 where her sacred remains are. What have I done, 
 God, that Thou didst turn Thy face from me and forget 
 me in the desert ? I know not. Were it permitted me 
 to weep even one hour at her grave, life would be easier. 
 Every year I go to Nevada, and every year I seek in 
 vain. Since those dreadful hours long years have passed. 
 My wretched lips have uttered more than once, Let Thy 
 will be done ! But without her it is hard for me in the 
 world. A man lives and walks among people, and laughs 
 even at times ; but the lonely old heart weeps and loves, 
 and yearns and remembers. 
 
 I am old, and it is not long till I shall make another 
 journey, the journey to eternity ; and for one thing alone 
 I ask God, that on those celestial plains I may find my 
 heavenly one, and not part from her ever again.
 
 FROM THE DIARY OF A TUTOR 
 IN POZNAIST.
 
 FROM THE DIARY OF A TUTOR 
 IN POZNAN. 
 
 THE lamp, though shaded, roused me, and more than 
 once I saw Mihas still working at two or three 
 o'clock in the morning. His small, fragile figure, dressed 
 only in sleeping clothes, was bent over a book ; and in 
 the stillness of the night his drowsy and wearied voice 
 repeated Latin and Greek conjugations mechanically, and 
 in that humdrum voice with which people at church 
 respond to a litany. When I called him to go to bed the 
 boy would answer : " I don't know my lessons yet, Pan 
 Vavrykevich." I worked out his lessons however from 
 four till eight, and then from nine till twelve o'clock, and 
 did not go to bed myself till I was convinced that he had 
 learned everything ; but in truth all this was too much 
 for the boy. When he had finished the last lesson 
 he had forgotten the first; the conjugations of Greek, 
 Latin, German, and the names of various districts brought 
 his poor head into such confusion that he could not sleep. 
 He crept out from under the quilt then, lighted his lamp, 
 and sat down at the table. When I reproved him, he 
 begged me to let him stay, and he shed tears. I grew so 
 accustomed to those night sittings, to the light of the 
 lamp and to the mumbling of conjugations, that when 
 they were absent I myself could not sleep. Perhaps it 
 was not right for me to permit the child to torture him- 
 self beyond his strength ; but what was I to do ? He 
 
 27
 
 418 FROM THE DIARY OF A TUTOR IN POZNAN. 
 
 had to learn his lessons daily even in some fashion, or he 
 would be expelled from school; and God alone knows 
 what a blow that would have been for Pani Marya, who, 
 left with two orphans after the death of her husband, 
 placed all her hopes on Mihas. The position was well- 
 nigh without escape, for I saw that excessive mental 
 effort was undermining the health of the boy, and might 
 endanger his life. It was needful at the least to strengthen 
 him physically, train him in gymnastics, make him walk 
 a good deal, or ride on horseback ; but there was no time 
 for this. The child had so much to do, so much to learn 
 by rote, so much to write every day, that on my con- 
 science I say that there was no time. Every moment 
 required for the recreation, health, and life of the boy 
 was taken by Latin, Greek, and German. 
 
 In the morning, when I put his books into the satchel 
 and saw his lean shoulders bending under the weight of 
 those great volumes, my heart simply ached. At times 
 I asked kindness and forbearance for him ; but the Ger- 
 man professors merely answered that I was spoiling and 
 petting the child, that evidently Mihas was not working 
 enough, and that he would cry for any cause. I am 
 weak-breasted myself, solitary, and sensitive ; hence these 
 reproaches poisoned more than one moment for me. I 
 knew best whether Mihas was working enough. He was 
 a child of medium gifts, but so persevering, and, with all 
 his mildness, gifted with such strength of character as I 
 have never chanced to meet in another boy. Poor Mihas 
 was attached to his mother passionately, blindly ; and 
 since people told him that she was very unhappy, and 
 sickly, that, if in addition to other things, he would learn 
 badly it might kill her, the boy trembled at the thought 
 of this, and sat whole nights over his books, only to escape 
 mortifying his mother. He burst into tears when he re-
 
 FROM THE DIARY OF A TUTOR IN POZNAN. 419 
 
 ceived a bad mark ; but it did not come to the head of any 
 one to inquire why he cried, or to what terrible responsi- 
 bility he felt himself bound at such moments. Indeed, 
 what did any one care ? I was not spoiling him, nor pet- 
 ting him ; only I knew him better than others. That I tried 
 to comfort instead of scolding him for failures was my 
 affair. I have toiled myself in life no little ; I have suffered 
 hunger and sorrow enough ; I have not been happy ; I 
 shall not be happy, and devils take it ! I do not even 
 grit my teeth when I think of this. I do not believe 
 that life is worth living ; but perhaps for that very reason 
 I have true sympathy for every misfortune. 
 
 At Mihas's age, when I ran after pigeons on the streets, 
 or played wagtails under the town-hall, I had my hours 
 of health and joyousness at least. A cough did not tor- 
 ment me. When some one flogged me I cried during 
 the flogging ; but I was as free as a bird and cared for 
 nothing. Mihas had not even that. If life had put him 
 on the anvil and beaten him with its hammer, he would 
 have gained this much, that as a boy he would have 
 laughed heartily at that which amuses children ; he 
 would have played tricks, and tired himself in the open 
 air, in the sunlight. But I had not before me such a 
 union of labor with childishness. On the contrary, I saw 
 a little boy going to school and coming home, gloomy, 
 bent, straining under the weight of books, with wrinkles 
 in the corners of his eyes, ever holding back, as it were, 
 an outburst of weeping; therefore, I sympathized with 
 him, and wished to be a refuge for him. 
 
 I am a tutor, though a private one, and I know not 
 what I should do in the world were I to lose faith in the 
 value of knowledge and the benefit which flows from it. 
 But I think that study should not be the tragedy of our 
 early years ; that Latin cannot take the place of air and
 
 420 FROM THE DIARY OF A TUTOR IN POZNAN. 
 
 health ; and that a good or bad accent should not decide 
 the fate and life of children. 
 
 I think, too, that the task of instruction is better 
 accomplished when a boy feels a hand leading him kindly, 
 and not a foot, pressing his breast and trampling every- 
 thing which they teach him at home to love and revere. 
 I am .such an obscurant that I shall be sure not to change 
 my opinion in this respect, for I become confirmed in it 
 more and more when I remember my Mihas, whom I loved 
 so sincerely. I taught him six years, first as a gover- 
 nor, and, when he entered the second class, as a tutor. 
 I had time therefore to grow attached to him. Besides, 
 why should I hide from myself that he was dear to me 
 because he was the son of a being dear to me above all 
 others. She has never known this, and never will. I 
 remember that I am well, Pan Vavrykevich, a private 
 tutor, and a sickly man in addition ; she the daughter of 
 a rich, noble house, a lady to whom I dared not raise my 
 eyes. But since a lone heart, dashed about by life as a 
 mussel is dashed by the waves, must attach itself at last 
 to something, my heart grew to her. How can I help it ? 
 And besides, how does that harm her ? I do not deprive 
 her of light, any more than I do the sun which warms 
 my weak breast. 
 
 I was six years in her house ; I was present at the 
 death of her husband; I saw that she was unhappy, 
 alone, but always as kind as an angel ; loving her chil- 
 dren, well-nigh a saint in her widowhood ; hence I was 
 forced to this feeling. But it is not love on my part, 
 it is rather religion. 
 
 Mihas reminded me greatly of his mother. More than 
 once when he raised his eyes to me I imagined that I was 
 looking at her. The same delicate features were present, 
 the very same forehead with a shadow of rich hair falling
 
 FROM THE DIARY OF A TUTOR IN POZNAN. 421 
 
 over it, the soft outline of brow, and above all a voice 
 almost identical. In the disposition of the mother and 
 child there was a likeness too, appearing in a certain ten- 
 dency to exaltation of feelings and views. They belonged 
 both of them to that species of nervous impressionable 
 people, noble and loving, who are capable of the greatest 
 sacrifices, but who in life and in contact with its reality 
 find little happiness, giving, to begin with, more than they 
 can receive in return. That kind of people perish, and I 
 think now that some naturalist might declare them fore- 
 doomed to extinction, for they come into the world with a 
 defect of heart, they love too much. 
 
 Mihas's family was very wealthy at one time, but they 
 loved too much ; therefore various storms shattered their 
 fortune, and what remained was not indeed want, it was 
 not even poverty ; still in comparison with former days 
 it was moderate. Mihas was the last of the family, there- 
 fore Pani Marya loved him not only as her own child, but 
 also as her whole hope for the future. Unfortunately, 
 with the usual blindness of mothers, she saw in him un- 
 common faculties. The boy was not dull indeed; but 
 he belonged to that class of children whose powers, me- 
 dium at first, develop only later, together with physical 
 strength and with health. In other conditions he might 
 have finished his course in the school and the University, 
 and become a useful worker in any career. In existing 
 conditions he simply tortured himself, and knowing his 
 mother's high opinion of his powers, he strained them 
 in vain. 
 
 My eyes have seen much in this world, and I have de- 
 termined to wonder at nothing; but I confess that it was 
 hard for me to believe that there could be a chaos, in 
 which a boy's perseverance, strength of character, and in- 
 dustry would be against him. There is something un-
 
 422 FROM THE DIARY OF A TUTOR IN POZNAN. 
 
 healthy in this ; and if words could repay me for sorrow 
 and bitterness, I should say with Hamlet, that there are 
 things in the world which have not been dreamed of by 
 philosophers. 
 
 I worked with Mihas as if my own future depended 
 on the marks which he got for his lessons, since my dear 
 pupil and I had one object : not to afflict her, to show 
 good rank, to call out a smile of happiness on her lips. 
 When he succeeded in receiving good marks, the boy came 
 from school radiant and happy. It seemed to me that 
 in such cases he had grown on a sudden, had become 
 erect ; his eyes, usually cloudy, laughed now with the 
 unaffected joy of childhood, and gleamed like two coals. 
 He threw from his narrow shoulders his satchel laden 
 with books, and blinking at me said while yet on the 
 threshold, 
 
 " Pan Vavrykevich, mamma will be satisfied ! I got 
 to-day in geography guess how many ? " 
 
 And when I pretended that I could not guess, he ran to 
 me with a proud mien, and throwing his arms around my 
 neck, said as if in a whisper, but very loud, 
 
 " Five ! truly five ! " 
 
 Those were happy moments for us. In the evenings 
 of such days Mihas fell to dreaming, and imagined to 
 himself what would come to pass were he to receive ex- 
 cellent marks all the time, and said half to me, half to 
 himself, 
 
 " On Christmas we will go to Zalesin ; the snow will 
 fall, as it does always in winter ; we '11 go in a sleigh. We '11 
 arrive at night, but oh ! mamma will be waiting for me ; 
 she '11 hug me and kiss me, then ask about my marks. 
 I '11 put on a sad face purposely ; then mamma will read 
 religion excellent, German excellent, Latin excellent, 
 most excellent ! Oh, Pan Vavrykevich ! "
 
 FROM THE DIARY OF A TUTOR IN POZNAN. 423 
 
 The poor little boy ! tears were in his eyes ; and I, in- 
 stead of restraining him, hurried after .him with unwearied 
 imagination, and recalled to myself the house in Zalesin, 
 its dignity, its calm, that lofty, noble being who was mis- 
 tress there, and the happiness which the return of the 
 boy with his excellent rank would bring to her. 
 
 I took advantage of such moments, and gave Mihas 
 advice, explaining to him that mamma cared greatly for 
 his studies, but cared also for his health ; hence he must 
 not cry when I took him to walk, he must sleep as much 
 as I prescribed, and not persist in sitting up at night. 
 The boy, affected by this, embraced me and said, 
 
 " I will obey, my golden Pan. I shall be so well that 
 it will be a wonder to look at me, and I '11 be so fat that 
 neither mamma nor little Lola will know me." 
 
 I too received letters frequently from Pani Marya, 
 recommending me to watch over the health of the child ; 
 but I convinced myself daily with despair that that was 
 well-nigh impossible. If the subjects taught were too 
 difficult I could have mended the matter by removing 
 Mihas from the second to the first class ; but those sub- 
 jects, though dry, he understood perfectly. It was not a 
 question of learning, but of time and of that unfortunate 
 German language, which the child could not speak 
 satisfactorily. In this I was powerless, and calculated 
 only that when the holidays came, rest would fill out 
 those breaches in the boy's health made by excessive 
 labor. 
 
 If Mihas had been a child of less feeling I should have 
 been less anxious about him ; but he felt every failure 
 almost more keenly than he did success. The moments 
 of joy and those fives which I have mentioned were rare, 
 unfortunately. 
 
 I had so learned to read his face that the moment he
 
 424 FROM THE DIARY OF A TUTOR IN POZNAN. 
 
 came, I knew at the first glance of the eye that he had 
 not succeeded. " Did you get a bad mark ? " I asked. 
 
 " I did." 
 
 " You did n't know the lesson ? " 
 
 Sometimes he answered, " I did n't know ; " but oftener, 
 " I knew, but I was n't able to tell it." 
 
 In fact little Ovitski, the first in the second class, whom 
 I purposely brought in that Mihas might learn with him, 
 said that Mihas received bad marks chiefly because he 
 could not "tongue out." 
 
 As the child felt more and more wearied mentally and 
 physically, such failures came oftener. I noticed that 
 after having cried all he wanted he sat down to his lesson 
 quietly and as though he were calm ; but in that re- 
 doubled energy with which he turned to his tasks there 
 was something both desperate and feverish. Sometimes 
 he went into a corner, pressed his head with both hands, 
 and was silent; the imaginative boy fancied that he was 
 digging a grave under the feet of his darling mother, 
 knew not how to escape this, and felt himself in a vicious 
 circle from which there was no escape. 
 
 His night work became more frequent. Fearing that 
 when I woke I would order him to bed, he rose in the 
 dark, silently carried the lamp to the antechamber, lighted 
 it there, and sat down to work. Before I caught him he 
 had passed a number of nights in this way between un- 
 heated walls. I had no other resource than to rise, call 
 him to the chamber, and go over all the lessons once 
 more with him, to convince him that he knew them and 
 that he exposed himself to cold without reason. But at 
 last he did n't know himself what he did know. The 
 child lost strength, grew thin, pale, and became more and 
 more despondent. Something happened after a time to 
 convince me that not work alone was exhausting him.
 
 FROM THE DIARY OF A TUTOR IN POZNAN. 425 
 
 Once, while I. was explaining to him the history that 
 ." An Uncle told his Nephews," l which at the request of 
 Pani Marya I did daily, Mihas sprang up with flashing 
 eyes. I was frightened almost when I saw the inquiring 
 and stern look on his face as he cried, 
 
 " Pan ! is that really not a fable ? For " 
 
 " Why did you ask, Mihas ? " inquired I, with astonish- 
 ment. 
 
 Instead of an answer he gritted his teeth, and burst 
 out at last into such passionate weeping that for a long 
 time I was unable to quiet him. 
 
 I inquired of Ovitski touching the cause of this out- 
 burst. He either knew not, or would not tell ; but I dis- 
 covered myself. There was no doubt that in the German 
 school the Polish child had to hear many things that 
 wounded his feelings. Such teachings slipped over other 
 boys, leaving no trace except ill-will against the teachers 
 and their whole race ; Mihas, a boy of such uprightness, 
 felt these teachings acutely, but dared not contradict 
 them. Two powers, two voices, obedience to which is the 
 duty of a child, but which for that very reason should be 
 in harmony, were tearing Mihas in two opposite direc- 
 tions. What one power called white, worthy, beloved, 
 the other called a stain vile and ridiculous ; what one 
 called virtue the other called vice. Therefore in that 
 separation the boy followed the power to which his heart 
 was attracted, but he had to pretend that he obeyed and 
 took to heart words of the opposite meaning. He had to 
 pretend from morning till night, and to live in that tor- 
 turing constraint days, weeks, months. What a position 
 for a child ! 
 
 Mihas's fate was remarkable. Dramas of life begin later 
 usually, when the first leaves are falling from the tree of 
 1 One of Lelewell's histories of Poland.
 
 426 FROM THE DIARY OF A TUTOR IN POZNAN. 
 
 youth ; for him everything which creates unhappiness 
 such as moral constraint, concealed regret, trouble of 
 mind, vain efforts, struggling with difficulties, gradual loss 
 of hope began in the eleventh year of his life. Neither 
 his slight form nor his weak forces could carry those 
 burdens. Days, weeks passed ; the poor boy redoubled his 
 efforts, and the result was always less, always more 
 lamentable. The letters of Pani Marya, though sweet, 
 added weight to the burden. " God has gifted you, Mihas, 
 with uncommon capacities," wrote she ; " and I trust that 
 you will not disappoint the hopes that I place in you, 
 that you will be a pleasure to me and the country." 
 
 When the boy received such a letter the first time he 
 seized my hand spasmodically, and borne away by weep- 
 ing began to repeat, 
 
 " What shall I do, Pan Vavrykevich, what can I do ? " 
 
 In truth what could he do? How could he help it 
 that he had n't come into the world with an inborn 
 power over languages, and that he could not pronounce 
 German ? 
 
 Before the recess at All Saints, the quarterly return 
 was not very favorable ; in three of the most important 
 subjects he had low marks. At his most urgent prayers 
 and entreaties I did not send it to Pani Marya. 
 
 "Dear Pan," cried he, putting his hands together, 
 " mamma does n't know that they give rank at All Saints, 
 and before Christmas the Lord God may take pity on 
 me." 
 
 The poor child deluded himself with the hope that he 
 would raise his low rank; and to tell the truth, I de- 
 ceived myself also. I thought that he would grow 
 accustomed to school routine, that he would grow accus- 
 tomed to everything, be trained in German, and acquire 
 the accent ; above all, that he would need less and less
 
 FROM THE DIARY OF A TUTOR IN POZNAN. 427 
 
 time for his lessons. Had it not been for this I should 
 have written long before to Pani Marya and laid before 
 her the condition of affairs. In fact hopes did not seem 
 vain. Just after All Saints Mihas received three perfect 
 marks, one of which was in Latin. Of all the pupils in 
 the class he alone knew that the perfect of gaudeo is 
 gavisus sum, and he knew it because he had received 
 before that two perfect marks and had inquired of me 
 what "I rejoice" is in Latin. I thought that the boy 
 would go wild from delight. He wrote a letter to his 
 mother beginning with these words : " Does my beloved 
 mamma know what the perfect of gaudeo is ? Surely 
 neither mamma nor little Lola knows, for in the whole 
 class I was the only one who knew." 
 
 Mihas simply adored his mother. From that time he 
 was inquiring of me continually about various perfects 
 and participles. High marks had become the object of 
 his life. But the gleam of fortune was brief. Soon his 
 fatal Polish accent ruined all that effort had built up, and 
 the excessive number of subjects did not permit the child 
 to give each as much time as his strained memory needed. 
 A circumstance caused also an increase of his failures. 
 Mihas and Ovitski forgot to inform me of a certain task 
 in writing, and omitted it. That passed for Ovitski, since 
 he stood first the professors did not even ask him about 
 it; but Mihas received a public admonition in school, 
 with a threat of expulsion. 
 
 They seemed to think that he had concealed the task 
 from me intentionally, so as not to perform it, and the boy, 
 who was incapable of the least falsehood, had no means 
 of proving his innocence. He might, it is true, say in 
 self-defence that Ovitski had forgotten as well as he ; but 
 school honor would not permit such a statement. The 
 Germans answered my assurances with the remark that
 
 428 FROM THE DIARY OF A TUTOR IN POZNAN. 
 
 I encouraged the youngster to laziness. That was no 
 slight offence to me ; but the appearance of Mihas in- 
 creased my anxiety. In the evening of that day I saw 
 that he pressed his head with both hands, and whispered, 
 thinking that I did not hear him, " It pains, it pains, it 
 pains ! " The letter from his mother, which came next 
 day, and in which Pani Marya overwhelmed him with 
 tenderness for those good marks, was a fresh blow for 
 him. 
 
 "Oh, I am preparing nice consolation for mamma!" 
 cried he, covering his face with his hands. 
 
 Next day, when I put the satchel of books on his 
 shoulders, he tottered and came near falling. I wished to 
 keep him from school, but he said that nothing was the 
 matter ; he merely asked me to go with him, for he feared 
 dizziness. He came back in the evening with a new mid- 
 dling mark. He received it for a lesson which he knew 
 perfectly, but according to Ovitski he grew frightened 
 and could n't say a word. The opinion was confirmed 
 decidedly, "that he was a boy filled with retrograde 
 principles and instincts, that he was lazy and dull." 
 
 The last two reproaches came to his knowledge, and 
 he struggled with them desperately but vainly as a 
 drowning man struggles with a wave. 
 
 At last he lost all faith in himself, all confidence in 
 his own powers ; he came to the conviction that efforts 
 and labor were useless, that he could n't help learning 
 badly ; and at the same time he imagined what his 
 mother would say, what pain it would be for her, and 
 how it might undermine her weak health. 
 
 The priest in Zalesin who wrote to him sometimes 
 was very friendly, but incautious. Every letter of his 
 finished with these words : " Let Mihas remember then 
 that not only the joy but the health of his mother
 
 FROM THE DIARY OF A TUTOR IN POZNAN. 429 
 
 depends on his progress in learning and in morality." 
 He remembered too much, for even in sleep he repeated 
 with sad voice : " Mamma, mamma ! " as if begging her 
 forgiveness. 
 
 But when awake, he received lower and lower marks. 
 Christmas was coming quickly, and as to rank it was 
 impossible to be deceived. I wrote to Pani Mary a, wish- 
 ing to forewarn her, told her plainly and positively that 
 the child was weak and overburdened ; that in spite of 
 the greatest effort lie could not do his work ; and that 
 probably it would be necessary to take him from school 
 after the holidays, to keep him in the country, and, 
 above all, to strengthen his health. Though I felt in 
 her answer that her motherly affection was wounded 
 somewhat, still she wrote like a sensible woman and a 
 loving mother. I did not mention this letter to Mihas, 
 nor the design of taking him from school, for I feared the 
 effect on him of every powerful excitement; I mentioned 
 only that, whatever might happen, his mother knew that 
 he was working, and she would be able to understand his 
 failure. That gave him evident comfort, for he wept long 
 and heartily, which had not happened to him for some 
 time. While weeping, he repeated : " How much pain I 
 cause mamma ! " Still at the thought that soon he 
 would return to the country, would see his mother and 
 little Lola and Father Mashynski, he laughed through 
 his tears. I too was in a hurry to go to Zalesin, for I 
 could hardly bear to look at the condition of the child. 
 There the heart of a mother was waiting for him, and the 
 good will of people, with calm and peace ; there know- 
 ledge had for him a native air, well wishing, not strange 
 and repellent ; there the whole atmosphere was familiar 
 and pure, the boy's breast might breathe it. 
 
 I was looking to the holidays, therefore, as to salvation
 
 430 FROM THE DIARY OF A TUTOR IN POZNAN. 
 
 for the boy ; and I counted on my fingers the hours which 
 separated us from them, but which brought more and 
 more new vexation to Mihas. It seemed as though 
 everything had conspired against him. Mihas had re- 
 ceived again a public admonition for demoralizing others. 
 That was just before the holidays ; therefore it had the 
 more significance. How the ambitious and impression- 
 able boy felt the blow, I will not undertake to describe ; 
 what chaos must have risen in his mind ! Everything 
 was eager in that childish breast, and before his eyes he 
 saw darkness instead of light. He bent then as an ear 
 of grain before the blast. Finally, the face of that boy 
 of eleven took on an expression simply tragic ; he looked 
 as if weeping were stopping his throat continually, as if 
 he restrained sobbing by effort ; at times his eyes looked 
 like the eyes of a suffering bird; then a wonderful 
 thoughtfulness and drowsiness took possession of him ; 
 his motions became as it were unconscious, and his voice 
 mechanically obedient. 
 
 When I told him that it was time to walk, he did not 
 resist as formerly, but took his cap and followed me in 
 silence. I should have been content had that been in- 
 difference ; but I saw that under the appearance of it was 
 hidden an exalted and suffering resignation. He sat at 
 his lessons, performed his tasks as before, but rather 
 from habit. It was evident that, while repeating the 
 conjugations mechanically, he was thinking of something 
 else, or rather he was not thinking of anything. Once, 
 when I asked whether he had finished everything, he 
 answered in a slow voice, and as if sleepily : " I think, 
 Pan Vavrykevich, that this is no use." I feared even to 
 mention his mother before him, so as not to fill to over- 
 flowing that cup of bitterness from which his childish lips 
 were drinking-
 
 FROM THE DIARY OF A TUTOR IN POZNAN. 431 
 
 I was more and more alarmed about his health, for he 
 grew thinner and thinner, and at last became almost 
 transparent. The network of delicate veins, which ap- 
 peared on his temples before when he was greatly excited, 
 had now become permanent. He had grown so beautiful 
 that he was almost like an image. It was painful to 
 look at that childish head, half angelic, which produced 
 the impression of a withering flower. Apparently it was 
 as if nothing was the matter; but he sank, and lost 
 power. He was able no longer to carry all his books in 
 the satchel ; hence I gave only some to him, and carried 
 the others, for now I accompanied Mihas to and from 
 school. 
 
 At last the holidays were at hand. The horses from 
 Zalesin were waiting two days for us, and Pani Marya's 
 letter, which came with them, stated that all were expect- 
 ing us there with impatience. " I have heard," concluded 
 Pani Marya, " that it goes hard with you, Mihas ; I do 
 not look for high marks ; I wish only that the teachers 
 should think with me that you have done what you 
 could, and that with good conduct you have tried to 
 atone for deficient progress." 
 
 But the teachers thought differently in every respect ; 
 therefore, his rank deceived even that expectation. The 
 last public admonition touched the boy's conduct directly, 
 that conduct concerning which Pani Marya had such 
 a high opinion. In the judgment of the German profes- 
 sors only that boy conducted himself well who repaid 
 with laughter their jests at the " backwardness of the 
 Poles," at their language and traditions. As a result of 
 these ethical ideas Mihas, as not giving hopes of hearing 
 their explanations in future with profit, and as occupying 
 the place of another for nothing, was expelled from the 
 school.
 
 432 FROM THE DIARY OF A TUTOR IN POZNAN. 
 
 He brought the sentence in the evening. It had grown 
 dark in the house, for very heavy snow was falling out- 
 side ; hence I could not see the child's face. I saw only 
 that he went to the window, stood in it, and looked 
 without thought, in silence, on the snownakes whirling 
 in the wind. I did not envy the poor little fellow the 
 thoughts which must have been whirling in his head like 
 the snownakes outside ; but I preferred not to speak to 
 him touching his rank and the sentence. In that way a 
 quarter of an hour passed in bitter silence ; but mean- 
 while it grew dark almost completely. I betook myself 
 to packing the trunk ; but seeing that Mihas was stand- 
 ing yet at the window, I said at last, 
 
 " What are you doing there, Mihas ? " 
 
 " Is it true," answered he, in a voice which quivered 
 and hesitated at every syllable, " that mamma is sitting 
 now with Lola in the green room before the fire, and 
 thinking of me ? " 
 
 " Perhaps she is. Why does your voice tremble so, 
 are you sick ? " 
 
 " Nothing is the matter with me, Pan Vavrykevich ; 
 only I am very cold." 
 
 I undressed him, and put him straightway to bed; 
 while undressing him, I looked with compassion on his 
 emaciated knees, and his arms as thin as reed-stalks. I 
 ordered him to drink tea, and covered him with what 
 was possible. 
 
 " Are you warmer now ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes ! but my head aches a little." 
 
 Poor head ! It had reason to ache. The suffering child 
 fell asleep soon, and breathed laboriously in his sleep 
 with his narrow breast. 'I finished packing his and my 
 own things ; then, since I did not feel well, I lay down 
 at once. I blew out the light, and fell asleep almost that 
 moment.
 
 FROM THE DIARY OF A TUTOR IN POZNAN. 433 
 
 About three o'clock in the morning the lamp and the 
 monotonous well-known muttering waked me. I opened 
 my eyes, and my heart beat unquietly. On the table 
 was the lighted lamp, and at the table sat Mihas over a 
 book. He was in his shirt only ; his cheeks were burn- 
 ing, his eyes partly closed as if for better exertion of his 
 memory; his head was thrown back a little, and his 
 sleepy voice repeated, 
 
 " Subjunctive : Amem, ames, amet, amemus, ametis " 
 
 " Mihas ! " 
 
 " Subjunctive : Amem, ames 
 
 I shook him by the shoulder. 
 
 He woke up, and began to blink from astonishment, 
 looking at me as if he did not know me. 
 
 " What are you doing ? What is the matter, child ? " 
 
 " Pan Vavrykevich," said he, smiling, " I am repeating 
 everything from the beginning ; I must get a perfect 
 mark to-morrow." 
 
 I took him in my arms, and carried him to bed ; his 
 body burned me like fire. Happily the doctor lived in 
 the same house ; I brought him at once. He had no 
 need to think long. He held the boy's pulse a moment, 
 then put his hand on his forehead. Mihas had inflam- 
 mation of the brain. 
 
 Ah, there were many things evidently which could not 
 find place in his head ! 
 
 His sickness acquired alarming proportions immedi- 
 ately. I sent a despatch to Pani Marya, and on the next 
 day a violent pull at the bell in the antechamber an- 
 nounced her arrival. In fact, when I opened the door, I 
 saw through the black veil her face, pale as linen. Her 
 fingers rested on my shoulder with uncommon force, and 
 her whole soul rushed out through her eyes, which were 
 fixed on me, when she asked briefly, 
 
 28
 
 434 FROM THE DIARY OF A TUTOR IN POZNAN. 
 
 " Is he alive ? " 
 
 " He is. The doctor says that he is better." 
 
 She threw aside the veil, on which hoar frost had set- 
 tled from her breath, and hurried to the boy's chamber. 
 I had lied. Mihas was alive, it is true ; but he was not 
 better. He did not even know his mother when she sat 
 near him, and took his hand. Only when I had placed 
 fresh ice on his head did he begin to blink, and look with 
 effort at the face bent above him. His mind made an 
 evident effort, struggling with fever and delirium ; his 
 lips quivered, he smiled once and a second time, and 
 whispered at la-st, 
 
 " Mamma ! " 
 
 She seized both his hands, and sat in that way at his 
 side a number of hours, not casting aside even her trav- 
 elling costume. Only when I turned her attention to 
 this, did she say, 
 
 " True. I forgot to remove my hat." 
 
 When she took it off, my heart was oppressed with a 
 wonderful feeling : among the blond hair adorning that 
 young and beautiful head, silver threads were gleaming 
 thickly. Three days ago, perhaps, there were none there. 
 
 She changed compresses for the boy herself, and gave 
 him the medicine. Mihas followed her with his eyes 
 wherever she moved, but again he did not recognize her. 
 In the evening the fever increased ; he declaimed in his 
 raving the ballad about " Jolkevski from Nyemtsevich ; " 
 at times he spoke in the language of teaching ; again 
 he conjugated various Latin verbs. I left the room re- 
 peatedly, for I could not listen to this. While in good 
 health, he had been learning in secret to serve at Mass, 
 wishing to give his mother a surprise when he came 
 home ; and now a shiver passed through me when in the 
 stillness of the evening I heard that boy of eleven years
 
 FROM THE DIARY OF A TUTOR IN POZNAN. 435 
 
 repeating before his death with a monotonous and expir- 
 ing voice : " Deus meus, quare me repulisti, et quare 
 tristis incedo dum affligit me inimicus [My God, why hast 
 Thou rejected me, and why am I walking in grief while 
 my enemy afflicts me] ? " 
 
 I cannot tell what a tragic impression these words 
 produced. It was Christmas eve. From the street came 
 the hum of people and the tinkling of sleigh-bells. The 
 town had taken on a holiday and joyful exterior. When 
 it had grown dark completely, through the windows on 
 the other side of the street was to be seen an evergreen- 
 tree gleaming with lights, and hung with glittering gold 
 and silver nuts, and around it the heads of children 
 bright and dark, with locks flowing in the air, jumping 
 as if on springs. The windows were gleaming, and the 
 whole interior resounded with cries of delight and won- 
 der. Among the voices coming from the street there 
 were none except joyous ones, gladness had become uni- 
 versal ; our boy alone repeated, as if with great sorrow : 
 " Deus meus, Deus meus, quare me repulisti ? " At the 
 gate, boys halted with a little booth, and soon the song 
 reached us : " He is lying in the manger, who will run 
 to greet the little stranger?" Christmas night was 
 approaching, and we trembled lest it should be a night 
 of death. 
 
 After awhile it seemed to us, however, that the boy 
 had become conscious, for he began to call Lola and his 
 mother; but that was of short duration. His quick 
 breathing stopped at times altogether. There was no 
 cause for self-deception ; that little soul was already only 
 half with us. His mind had flown away, and now he 
 was going himself into some dark distance and endless- 
 ness ; already he saw no one, and felt nothing, not 
 even the head of his mother, which was lying as if dead
 
 436 FROM THE DIARY OF A TUTOR IN POZNAN. 
 
 at his feet. He had grown indifferent, and looked no 
 longer at us. Every breath of his bosom removed him, 
 and as it were pushed him out into the darkness. 
 Disease was quenching spark after spark of his life. The 
 hands of the child lying on the coverlet were outlined on 
 it with heavy helplessness, the mark of death ; his nose 
 became sharp, and his face took on a certain cold serious- 
 ness. His breath became quicker, and at last was like 
 the ticking of a watch. A moment more, another sigh, 
 and the last grain of sand was to fall from the hourglass ; 
 the end was inevitable. 
 
 About midnight it seemed to us decisively that he was 
 dying, for he began to rattle and groan like a man into 
 whose mouth water is flowing, and then he was silent 
 suddenly. But the glass which the doctor placed at his 
 lips was covered yet with the mist of respiration. An 
 hour later the fever decreased all at once ; we thought 
 that he was saved. The doctor himself had some hope. 
 Poor Pani Marya grew faint. 
 
 In the course of two hours he was better and better. 
 Toward morning, since that was the fourth night which 
 I had spent near the boy without sleeping, and since a 
 cough was stifling me with growing violence, I went to 
 the anteroom, lay on a straw bed, and fell asleep. The 
 voice of Pani Marya roused me. I thought that she was 
 calling me, but in the stillness of night I heard clearly, 
 " Mihas ! Mihas ! " The hair stood on my head, for I 
 understood the terrible accent with which she cried to the 
 child ; before I sprang up, however, she ran in herself, 
 holding the light in her hand, and whispered with quiver- 
 ing lips, 
 
 " Mihas is dead ! " 
 
 I ran in a breath to the boy's bed. So it was. The 
 head fallen back on the pillow, the mouth open, the eyes
 
 FROM THE DIARY OF A TUTOR IN POZNAN. 437 
 
 fixed without motion on one point, and the rigidity of 
 every feature, left not the least doubt : Mihas was dead. 
 
 I covered him with the quilt, which his mother, in 
 springing away from the bed, had pulled from his 
 emaciated body. I closed his eyes, and then I had to 
 rub Pani Marya a long time. 
 
 The first day of the Christmas season passed in prepa- 
 rations for the funeral, preparations which for me were 
 terrible, since Pani Marya would not leave the corpse, and 
 fainted continually. She fainted when men came to take 
 the dimensions of the coffin, again when they began to pre- 
 pare the body, finally when the catafalque was put up. Her 
 despair was in continual clash with the indifference of the 
 undertaker's assistants, accustomed as they were to similar 
 sights, and passed almost into raving. She herself put 
 shavings in the coffin under the satin, repeating, as if in a 
 fever, that the child's head would be too low. And Mihas 
 was lying meanwhile on his bed, in his new uniform and 
 white gloves, rigid, indifferent, and ' calm. We placed the 
 body at last in the coffin, put that on the catafalque, and set 
 two rows of candles around it. The room in which the 
 poor child had conjugated so many Latin verbs and 
 worked out so many lessons had changed as it were into 
 a chapel, for the closed windows did not admit sunshine, 
 and the yellow, flickering light of the candles gave the 
 walls a certain church-like and solemn appearance. 
 Never since Mihas had received his last high mark had I 
 seen his face so full of contentment. His delicate profile 
 turned to the ceiling was smiling, as if in that eternal 
 reaction of death the boy had pleased himself and felt 
 happy. The flickering of the candles gave to his face and 
 to that smile an appearance of life and sleep. 
 
 By degrees those of his schoolmates who had not 
 gone home for the holidays began to assemble. The
 
 438 FROM THE DIARY OF A TUTOR IN POZNAN. 
 
 eyes of the children grew wide with wonder at sight of 
 the candles, the catafalque, and the coffin. Perhaps the 
 dignity and importance of their comrade astonished the 
 little scholars. Not long since he was among them, 
 bending like them under the weight of a satchel overladen 
 with German books ; he received bad marks, was scolded 
 and admonished publicly ; each might pull his hair or his 
 ears. But now he lay there above them, dignified, calm, 
 surrounded with light ; all approached him with respect 
 and a certain awe, and even Ovitski, though the first 
 scholar, did not mean much before him. The boys, 
 pushing each other with their elbows, whispered that now 
 he cared for nothing ; that even if the " Herr Inspector " 
 had come, he would nqt spring up nor be frightened, but 
 would continue to smile quietly as before. " He can do 
 just as he likes," said they ; " he can shout as he likes, 
 and talk to little angels with wings on their shoulders." 
 
 Thus they approached the rows of candles, and asked 
 eternal rest for Mihas. 
 
 The next day the coffin was covered with the lid, 
 fastened with nails, and taken to the cemetery, where 
 lumps of sand mixed with snow soon concealed it from 
 my eyes forever. To-day, as I write, almost a year has 
 passed from that time ; but I remember thee, and I 
 mourn for thee, my little Mihas, my flower withered un- 
 timely. I know not where thou art, or if thou dost 
 hear me ; I know only that thy old teacher's cough is 
 increasing, that the world seems more oppressive to him, 
 that he is more lonely, and may go soon to the place 
 whither thou hast gone.
 
 THE LIGHT-HOUSE KEEPER 
 OF ASPINWALL.
 
 THE LIGHT-HOUSE KEEPER 
 OF ASPINWALL. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 ON a time it happened that the light-house keeper in 
 Aspinwall, not far from Panama, disappeared with- 
 out a trace. Since he disappeared during a storm, it was 
 supposed that the ill-fated man went to the very edge of 
 the small, rocky island on which the light-house is situ- 
 ated, and was swept out by a wave. This supposition 
 seemed the more likely as his boat was not found in its 
 rocky niche the next day. The position of light-house 
 keeper had become vacant. It was necessary to fill this 
 position at the earliest, since the light-house had no small 
 significance for the local movement as well as for vessels 
 going from New York to Panama. Mosquito Bay 
 abounds in banks and sandbars. Among these naviga- 
 tion even in the daytime is difficult ; but at night, espe- 
 cially with the fogs which are so frequent on those 
 waters warmed by the sun of the tropics, it is almost 
 impossible. The only guide at that time for the numer- 
 ous vessels is the light-house. 
 
 The task of finding a new keeper fell to the United 
 States consul in Panama, and this task was no small 
 one: first, because it was absolutely necessary to find 
 the man within twelve hours ; second, the man must 
 be unusually conscientious, it was not possible, of
 
 442 LIGHT-HOUSE KEEPER OF ASPINWALL. 
 
 course, to take the first comer at random ; finally, there 
 was an utter lack of candidates. Life on a -tower is 
 uncommonly difficult, and by no means enticing to people 
 of the South, who love idleness and the freedom of a 
 vagrant life. That light-house keeper is almost a pris- 
 oner. He cannot leave his rocky island except on Sun- 
 days. A boat from Aspinwall brings him provisions and 
 water once a day, and returns immediately ; on the whole 
 island, one acre in area, there is no inhabitant. The 
 keeper lives in the light-house ; he keeps it in order. 
 During the day he gives signals by displaying flags of 
 various colors to indicate changes of the barometer ; in 
 the evening he lights the lantern. This would be no 
 great labor were it not that to reach the lantern at the 
 top of the tower he must pass over more than four 
 hundred steep and very high steps ; sometimes he must 
 make this journey repeatedly during the day. In general 
 it is the life of a monk, and indeed more than that, the 
 life of a hermit. It was not wonderful, therefore, that 
 Mr. Isaac Falconbridge was in no small anxiety as to 
 where he should find a permanent successor to the recent 
 keeper ; and it is easy to understand his joy when a suc- 
 cessor announced himself most unexpectedly on that very 
 day. He was a man already old, seventy years or more, 
 but fresh, erect, with the movements and bearing of a 
 soldier. His hair was perfectly white, his face as dark 
 as that of a Creole ; but judging from his blue eyes, he 
 did not belong to a Southern people. His face was 
 somewhat downcast and sad, but honest. At the first 
 glance he pleased Falconbridge. It remained only to 
 examine him. Therefore the following conversation 
 began, 
 
 " Where are you from ? " 
 
 ' I am a Pole."
 
 LIGHT-HOUSE KEEPER OF ASPINWALL. 443 
 
 " Where have you worked up to this time ? " 
 
 " In one place and another." 
 
 " A light-house keeper should like to stay in one place." 
 
 ' I need rest." 
 
 " Have you served ? Have you testimonials of honor- 
 able government service ? " 
 
 The old man drew from his bosom a piece of faded 
 silk resembling a strip of an old flag, unwound it, and 
 said, 
 
 " Here are the testimonials. I received this cross in 
 1830. This second one is Spanish, from the CarlistWar; 
 the third is the French legion ; the fourth I received in 
 Hungary. Afterward I fought in the States against the 
 South ; there they do not give crosses." 
 
 Falconbridge took the paper and began to read. 
 
 " H'm ! Skavinski ? Is that your name ? H'm ! Two 
 flags captured in a bayonet attack. You were a gallant 
 soldier." 
 
 " I am able to be a conscientious light-house keeper." 
 
 " It is necessary to ascend the tower a number of times 
 daily. Have you sound legs ? " 
 
 " I crossed the plains on foot." (The immense prairies 
 between the East and California are called " the plains.") 
 
 " Do you know sea service ? " 
 
 " I served three years on a whaler." 
 
 " You have tried various occupations." 
 
 " The only one I have not known is quiet." 
 
 " Why is that ? " 
 
 The old man shrugged his shoulders. " Such is my 
 fate." 
 
 " Still you seem to me too old for a light-house keeper." 
 
 " Sir," exclaimed the candidate suddenly, in a voice of 
 emotion, " I am greatly wearied, knocked about. I have 
 passed through much, as you see. This place is one
 
 444 LIGHT-HOUSE KEEPER OF ASPINWALL. 
 
 of those which I have wished for most ardently. I am 
 old, I need rest. I need to say to myself, ' Here you will 
 remain ; this is your port.' Ah, sir, this depends now on 
 you alone. Another time perhaps such a place will not 
 offer itself. What luck that I was in Panama ! I en- 
 treat you as God is dear to me, I am like a ship which 
 if it misses the harbor will be lost. If you wish to make 
 an old man happy I swear to you that I am honest, 
 but I have enough of this wandering." 
 
 The blue eyes of the old man expressed such earnest 
 entreaty that Falconbridge, who had a good, simple heart, 
 was touched. 
 
 " Well," said he, " I take you. You are light-house 
 keeper." 
 
 The old man's face gleamed with inexpressible joy. 
 
 " I thank you." 
 
 " Can you go to the tower to-day ? " 
 
 " I can." 
 
 " Then good-by. Another word, for any failure in ser- 
 vice you will be dismissed." 
 
 "All right." 
 
 That same evening, when the sun had descended on 
 the other side of the isthmus, and a day of sunshine was 
 followed by a night without twilight, the new keeper was 
 in his place evidently, for the light-house was casting its 
 bright rays on the water as usual. The night was per- 
 fectly calm, silent, genuinely tropical, filled with a trans- 
 parent haze, forming around the moon a great colored 
 rainbow with soft, unbroken edges ; the sea was moving 
 only because the tide raised it. Skavinski on the balcony 
 seemed from below like a small black point. He tried to 
 collect his thoughts, and take in his new position ; but 
 his mind was too much under pressure to move with reg- 
 ularity. He felt somewhat as a hunted beast feels when
 
 LIGHT-HOUSE KEEPER OF ASPINWALL. 445 
 
 at last it has found refuge from pursuit on some inac- 
 cessible rock or in a cave. An hour of quiet had come to 
 him finally ; the feeling of safety filled his soul with a 
 certain unspeakable bliss. Now on that rock he can 
 simply laugh at his previous wanderings, his misfortunes 
 and failures. He was in truth like a ship whose masts, 
 ropes, and sails had been broken and rent by a tempest, 
 and cast from the clouds to the bottom of the sea, a 
 ship on which the tempest had hurled waves and spat 
 foam, but which had still wound its way to the harbor. 
 The pictures of that storm passed through his mind 
 quickly as he compared it with the calm future now 
 beginning. A part of his wonderful adventures he had 
 related to Falconbriclge ; he had not mentioned, however, 
 thousands of other incidents. It had been his misfortune 
 that as often as he pitched his tent and fixed his fire- 
 place to settle down permanently, some wind tore out his 
 tent-stakes, whirled away the fire, and bore him on toward 
 destruction. Looking now from the balcony of the tower 
 at the illuminated waves, he remembered everything 
 through which he had passed. He had campaigned in 
 the four parts of the world, and in wandering had tried 
 almost every occupation. Labor-loving and honest, he 
 had earned money more than once, but had always lost 
 it in spite of every prevision and the utmost caution. He 
 had been a gold-miner in Australia, a diamond-digger in 
 Africa, a rifleman in public service in the East Indies. He 
 had established a ranch in California, the drought ruined 
 him ; he had tried trading with wild tribes in the interior 
 of Brazil, his raft was wrecked on the Amazon ; he him- 
 self alone, weaponless, and nearly naked, wandered in the 
 forest for many weeks, living on wild fruits, exposed every 
 moment to death from the jaws of wild beasts. He estab- 
 lished a forge in Helena, Arkansas, and that was burned
 
 446 LIGHT-HOUSE KEEPER OF ASPINWALL. 
 
 in a great fire which consumed the whole town. Next 
 he fell into the hands of Indians in the Eocky Moun- 
 tains, and only through a miracle was he saved by Cana- 
 dian trappers. Then he served as a sailor on a vessel 
 running between Bahia and Bordeaux, and as harpooner 
 on a whaling-ship ; both vessels were wrecked. He had 
 a cigar factory in Havana, and was robbed by his partner 
 while he himself was lying sick with the vomito. At 
 last he came to Aspinwall, and there was to be the end of 
 his failures, for what could reach him now on that rocky 
 island ? Neither water nor fire nor men. But from men 
 Skavinski had not suffered much ; he had met good men 
 oftener than bad ones. 
 
 But it seemed to him that all the four elements were 
 persecuting him. Those who knew him said that he had no 
 luck, and with that they explained everything. He him- 
 self became somewhat of a monomaniac. He believed 
 that some mighty and vengeful hand was pursuing him 
 everywhere, on all lands and waters. He did not like, 
 however, to speak of this ; only at times, when some one 
 asked him whose hand that could be, he pointed mysteri- 
 ously to the Polar Star, and said, " It comes from that 
 place." In reality his failures were so continuous that 
 they were wonderful, and might easily drive a nail into 
 the head, especially of the man who had experienced 
 them. But Skavinski had the patience of an Indian, and 
 that great calm power of resistance which comes from 
 truth of heart. He had received once in Hungary a 
 number of bayonet thrusts because he would not grasp at 
 a stirrup which was shown as means of salvation to him, 
 and implore quarter. In like manner he did not bend 
 to misfortune. He crept up against the mountain as in- 
 dustriously as an ant. Pushed down a hundred times, he 
 began his journey calmly for the hundred and first time.
 
 LIGHT-HOUSE KEEPER OF ASPINWALL. 447 
 
 He was in his way a most peculiar original. This old 
 soldier, tempered God knows in how many fires, hardened 
 in suffering, hammered and forged, had the heart of a 
 child. In time of the epidemic in Cuba, the vomito 
 attacked him because he had given to the sick all his 
 quinine, of which he had a considerable supply, and left 
 not a grain to himself. 
 
 There had been in him also this wonderful quality, 
 that after so many disappointments he was ever full of 
 confidence, and did not lose hope that all would be well 
 yet. In winter he grew lively, and foretold great events. 
 He waited for these events with impatience, and lived 
 through whole summers with the thought of them. But 
 the winters passed one after another, and Skavinski lived 
 only to this, that they whitened his head. At last he 
 grew old, began to lose energy ; his endurance was becom- 
 ing more and more like resignation, his former calmness 
 was fending toward supersensitiveness, and that tempered 
 soldier was degenerating into a man ready to shed tears 
 for any cause. Besides this, from time to time he was 
 weighed down by a terrible homesickness which was 
 roused by any circumstance, the sight of swallows, gray 
 birds like sparrows, snow on the mountains, or melancholy 
 music like that heard on a time. Finally, there was one idea 
 which mastered him, the idea of rest. It mastered the 
 old man thoroughly, and swallowed all other hopes and 
 desires. This ceaseless wanderer could not imagine any- 
 thing more to be longed for, anything more precious, than 
 a quiet corner in which to rest, and wait for the end in 
 silence. Perhaps specially because some whim of fate 
 had so hurried him over all seas and lands that he could 
 hardly catch breath, did he imagine that the highest 
 human happiness was simply not to wander. It is true 
 that such modest happiness was due to him ; but he was
 
 448 LIGHT-HOUSE KEEPER OF ASPINWALL. 
 
 so accustomed to disappointments that he thought of rest 
 as people in general think of a thing which surpasses 
 attainment. He dared not hope for it. Meanwhile, un- 
 expectedly in the course of twelve hours he had gained a 
 position which was as if chosen for him out of all in the 
 world. We are not to wonder, then, that when he lighted 
 his lantern in the evening he was as if dazed, that 
 he asked himself if that was reality, and dared not 
 answer that it was. But at the same time reality con- 
 vinced him with incontrovertible proofs; hence hours 
 one after another passed while he was on the balcony. 
 He gazed, and convinced himself. It might seem that he 
 was looking at the sea for the first time in his life. The 
 lens of the lantern cast into the darkness an enormous 
 triangle of light, beyond which the eye of the old man 
 was lost in the black distance completely, in a distance 
 mysterious and awful. But that distance seemed to run 
 toward the light. The long waves following one another 
 rolled out of the darkness, and went bellowing toward 
 the base of the island ; and then their foaming backs 
 were visible, shining rose-colored in the light of the lan- 
 tern. The incoming tide swelled more and more, and 
 covered the sandy bars. The mysterious speech of the 
 ocean came with a fulness more powerful and louder, at 
 one time like the thunder of cannon, at another like the 
 roar of great forests, at another like the distant dull 
 sound of the voices of people. At moments it was quiet; 
 then to the ears of the old man came some great sigh, 
 then a kind of sobbing, and again threatening outbursts. 
 At last the wind bore away the haze, but brought black, 
 broken clouds, which hid the moon. From the west it 
 began to blow more and more ; the waves sprang with 
 rage against the rock of the light-house, licking with foam 
 the foundation walls. In the distance a storm was be-
 
 LIGHT-HOUSE KEEPER OF ASPINWALL. 449 
 
 ginning to bellow. On the dark, disturbed expanse certain 
 green lanterns gleamed from the masts of ships. These 
 green points rose high and then sank ; now they swayed 
 to the right, and now to the left. Skavinski descended 
 to his room. The storm began to howl. Outside people 
 on those ships were struggling with night, with darkness, 
 with waves ; but inside the tower it was still and calm. 
 Even the sounds of the storm hardly came through the 
 thick walls, and only the measured tick-tack of the clock 
 lulled the wearied old man to his slumber. 
 
 II. 
 
 HOURS, days, and weeks passed. Sailors assert that 
 at times when the sea is greatly roused, something from 
 out the midst of night and darkness calls them by name. 
 If the infinity of the sea may call out thus, perhaps 
 when a man is growing old, calls come to him, too, from 
 another infinity still darker and more deeply mysterious ; 
 and the more he is wearied by life the dearer become 
 those calls to him. But to hear them quiet is needed. 
 Besides, old age loves to seclude itself as if with a fore- 
 knowledge of the grave. The light-house had become for 
 Skavinski such a half grave. Nothing is more monoto- 
 nous than life on a beacon-tower. If young people consent 
 to take up this service they leave it soon after. Light- 
 house keepers are generally men not young, gloomy, and 
 confined to themselves. If by chance one of them leaves 
 his light-house and goes among men, he walks in the 
 midst of them like a person roused from deep slumber. 
 On the tower there is a lack of minute impressions which 
 in ordinary life teach men to adapt themselves to every- 
 thing. All that a light-house keeper comes in contact 
 
 29
 
 450 LIGHT-HOUSE KEEPER OF ASPINWALL. 
 
 with is gigantic, and devoid of forms sharply outlined. 
 The sky is one whole, the water another ; and between 
 those two infinities the soul of man is in loneliness. That 
 is a life in which thought is continual meditation, and 
 out of that meditation nothing rouses the keeper, not even 
 his work. Day is like day as two beads in a rosary, un- 
 less changes of weather form the only variety. But 
 Skavinski felt more happiness than ever in life before. 
 He rose with the dawn, took his breakfast, polished the 
 lens, and then sitting on the balcony gazed into the dis- 
 tance of the water ; and his eyes were never sated with 
 the pictures which he saw before him. On the enormous 
 turquoise ground of the ocean were to be seen generally 
 flocks of swollen sails gleaming in the rays of the sun 
 with such brightness that the eyes blinked before the ex- 
 cess of light. Sometimes ships, favored by the so-called 
 trade winds, went in an extended line one after another, 
 like a chain of sea-mews or albatrosses. The red casks in- 
 dicating the channel swayed on the light wave with gentle 
 movement. Among the sails appeared every afternoon 
 gigantic grayish feather-like plumes of smoke. That was 
 a steamer from New York which brought passengers 
 and goods to Aspinwall, drawing behind it a frothy path 
 of foam. On the other side of the balcony Skavinski saw 
 as if on his palm Aspinwall and its busy harbor, and in 
 it a forest of masts, boats, and craft ; a little farther white 
 houses and the steeples of the town. From the height of 
 his tower the small houses were like the nests of sea- 
 mews, the boats were like beetles, and the people moved 
 around like small points on the white stone boulevard. 
 From early morning a light eastern breeze brought a con- 
 fused hum of human life, above which predominated the 
 whistle of steamers. In the afternoon six o'clock came ; 
 the movement in the harbor began to cease ; the mews
 
 LIGHT-HOUSE KEEPER OF ASPINWALL. 451 
 
 hid themselves in the rents of the cliffs ; the waves grew 
 feeble and became in some sort lazy ; and then on the 
 land, on the sea, and on the tower came a time of still- 
 ness unbroken by anything. The yellow sands from 
 which the waves had fallen back glittered like golden 
 spots on the expanse of waters ; the body of the tower 
 was outlined definitely in blue. Floods of sunbeams were 
 poured from the sky on the water and the sands and the 
 cliff. At that time a certain lassitude full of sweetness 
 seized the old man. He felt that the rest which he was 
 enjoying was excellent; and when he thought that it 
 would be continuous nothing was lacking him. 
 
 Skavinski was intoxicated with his own happiness ; 
 and since a man adapts himself easily to improved con- 
 ditions, he gained faith and confidence gradually ; for he 
 thought that if men built houses for invalids, why should 
 not God gather up at last his own invalids ? Time 
 passed, and confirmed him in this conviction. The old 
 man grew accustomed to his tower, to the lantern, to the 
 rock, to the sandbars, to solitude. He grew accustomed 
 also to the sea-mews which hatched in the crevices of the 
 rock and in the evening held meetings on the roof of the 
 light-house. Skavinski threw to them generally the rem- 
 nants of his food ; and soon they grew tame, and after- 
 ward when he fed them a real storm of white wings 
 encircled him, and the old man went among the birds 
 like a shepherd among sheep. When the tide ebbed he 
 went to the low sand-banks, on which he collected savory 
 periwinkles and beautiful pearl shells of the nautilus, 
 which receding waves had left on the sand. In the night 
 by the moonlight and the tower he went to catch fish, 
 which frequented the windings of the cliff in myriads. 
 At last he was in love with his rocks and his treeless 
 little island, grown over only with small thick plants exud-
 
 452 LIGHT-HOUSE KEEPER OF ASPINWALL. 
 
 ing sticky resin. The distant views repaid him for the 
 poverty of the island, however. During afternoon hours, 
 when the air became very clear he could see the whole 
 isthmus covered with the richest vegetation. It seemed 
 to Skavinski at such times that he saw one gigantic gar- 
 den, bunches of cocoa, and enormous musa, combined 
 as it were in luxurious tufted bouquets, right there behind 
 the houses of Aspinwall. Farther on, between Aspinwall 
 and Panama, was a great forest over which every morn- 
 ing and evening hung a reddish haze of exhalations, a 
 real tropical forest with its feet in stagnant water, inter- 
 laced with lianas and filled with the sound of one sea of 
 gigantic orchids, palms, milk-trees, iron-trees, gum-trees. 
 
 Through his field-glass the old man could see not only 
 trees and the broad leaves of bananas, but even legions 
 of monkeys and great marabous and flocks of parrots, 
 rising at times like a rainbow cloud over the forest. 
 Skavinski knew such forests well, for after being wrecked 
 on the Amazon he had wandered whole weeks among 
 similar arches and thickets. He had seen how many 
 dangers and deaths lie concealed under those marvellous 
 and smiling exteriors. During the nights which he had 
 spent in them he heard close at hand the sepulchral 
 voices of howling monkeys and the roaring of the jaguars ; 
 he saw gigantic serpents coiled like lianas on trees ; he 
 knew those slumbering forest lakes full of torpedo-fish 
 and swarming with crocodiles ; he knew under what a 
 yoke man lives in those unexplored wildernesses in which 
 are single leaves tenfold greater in size than a man, 
 wildernesses swarming with blood-drinking mosquitoes, 
 tree-leeches, and immense poisonous spiders. He had ex- 
 perienced that forest life himself, had witnessed it, had 
 passed through it ; therefore it gave him the greater 
 enjoyment to look from his height and gaze on those
 
 LIGHT-HOUSE KEEPER OF ASPINWALL. 453 
 
 matos, admire their beauty, and be guarded from their 
 treachery. His tower preserved him from every evil. 
 He left it only for a few hours on Sunday. He put 
 on then his blue keeper's coat with silver buttons, and 
 hung his crosses on his breast. His milk-white head 
 was raised with a certain pride when he heard at the 
 door, while entering the church, the Creoles say among 
 themselves, " We have an honorable light-house keeper 
 and not a heretic, though he is a Yankee." But he re- 
 turned straightway after Mass to his island, and returned 
 happy, for still he distrusted the mainland. On Sunday 
 also he read the Spanish newspaper which he bought 
 in the town, or the " New York Herald," which he 
 borrowed from Falconbridge ; and he sought in it Euro- 
 pean news eagerly. The poor old heart on that light- 
 house tower and in another hemisphere was beating yet 
 for its birthplace. At times too, when the boat brought 
 his daily supplies and water to the island, he went down 
 from the tower to talk with Johnson, the guard. But 
 after a while he seemed to grow shy. He ceased to go to 
 the town to read the papers and to go down to talk 
 politics with Johnson. Whole weeks passed in this way, 
 so that no one saw him and he saw no one. The only 
 signs that the old man was living were the disappearance 
 of the provisions left on shore, and the light of the lan- 
 tern kindled every evening with the same regularity with 
 which the sun rose in the morning from the waters of 
 those regions. Evidently the old man had become in- 
 different to the world. Homesickness was not the cause, 
 but just this, that even homesickness had passed into 
 resignation. The whole world began now and ended for 
 Skavinski on his island. He had grown accustomed to 
 the thought that he would not leave the tower till death, 
 and he simply forgot that there was anything else in the
 
 454 LIGHT-HOUSE KEEPER OF ASPINWALL. 
 
 world aside from it. Moreover, he had become a mystic; 
 his mild blue eyes began to stare like the eyes of a child, 
 and were as if fixed on something at a distance. In 
 presence of a surrounding uncommonly simple and great, 
 the old man was losing the feeling of personality ; he was 
 ceasing to exist as an individual, was becoming merged 
 more and more into that which inclosed him. He did 
 not understand anything beyond his environment; he 
 felt only unconsciously. At last it seems to him that 
 the heavens, the water, his rock, the tower, the golden 
 sand-banks, and the swollen sails, the sea-mews, the ebb 
 and flow of the tide, all form one mighty unity, one 
 enormous mysterious soul ; that he is sinking in that 
 mystery, and feels that soul which lives and lulls itself. 
 He sinks and is rocked, forgets himself; and in that 
 narrowing of his own individual existence, in that half- 
 waking, half-sleeping, he has discovered a rest so great 
 that it almost resembles half-death. 
 
 III. 
 
 BUT the awakening came. 
 
 On a certain day, when the boat brought water and a 
 supply of provisions, Skavinski came down an hour later 
 from the tower, and saw that besides the usual cargo 
 there was an additional package. On the outside of this 
 package were postage stamps of the United States, and 
 the address, " Skavinski, Esq.," written on coarse canvas. 
 
 The old man with aroused curiosity cut the canvas, and 
 saw books ; he took one in his hand, looked at it, and put 
 it back ; thereupon his hands began to tremble greatly. 
 He covered his eyes as if he did not believe them; it 
 seemed to him as if he were dreaming. The book was
 
 LIGHT-HOUSE KEEPER OF ASPINWALL. 455 
 
 Polish, what did that mean ? Who could have sent 
 the book ? Clearly, he did not remember at the first 
 moment that in the beginning of his light-house career he 
 had read in the " Herald," borrowed from the consul, of 
 the formation of a Polish society in New York, and had 
 sent at once to that society half his month's salary, for 
 which he had, moreover, no use on the tower. The 
 society had sent him the books with thanks. The books 
 came in the natural way; but at the first moment the 
 old man could not seize those thoughts. Polish books in 
 Aspinwall, on his tower, amid his solitude, that was 
 for him something uncommon, a certain breath from past 
 times, a species of miracle. Now it seemed to him, as to 
 those sailors in the night, that something was calling him 
 by name with a voice greatly beloved and nearly for- 
 gotten. He sat for a while with closed eyes, and was 
 almost certain that, when he opened them, the dream 
 would be gone. 
 
 The package, cut open, lay before him, shone upon 
 clearly by the afternoon sun, and on it was an open book. 
 When the old man stretched his hand toward it again, he 
 heard in the stillness the beating of his own heart. He 
 looked ; it was poetry. On the outside stood printed in 
 great letters the title, underneath the name of the 
 author. The name was not strange to Skavinski ; he saw 
 that it belonged to the famous poet, 1 whose productions 
 he had read in 1830 in Paris. Afterward when cam- 
 paigning in Algiers and Spain, he had heard from his 
 countrymen of the growing fame of the great seer ; but he 
 was so accustomed to the musket at that time that he 
 took no book in hand. In 1849 he went to America, and 
 in the adventurous life which he led, he hardly ever met 
 a Pole, and never a Polish book. With the greater 
 
 1 Mickiewicz (pronounced Mitskevich), the greatest poet of Poland.
 
 456 LIGHT-HOUSE KEEPER OF ASPINWALL. 
 
 eagerness, therefore, and with a livelier beating of the 
 heart, did he turn to the title-page. It seemed to him 
 then that on his lonely rock some solemnity was about to 
 take place. Indeed, it was a moment of great calm anc. 
 silence. The clocks of Aspinwall were striking five iv 
 the afternoon. Not a cloud darkened the clear sky ; only 
 a few sea-mews were sailing through the air. The ocean 
 was as if cradled to sleep. The waves on the shore 
 stammered quietly, spreading softly on the sand. In the 
 distance the white houses of Aspinwall, and the wonder- 
 ful groups of palm, were smiling. In truth, there was 
 something there solemn, calm, and full of dignity. Sud- 
 denly in the midst of that calm of Nature was heard the 
 trembling voice of the old man, who read aloud as if to 
 understand himself better, 
 
 " Thou art like health, O Litva, my birth-land ! l 
 
 How much we should prize thee he only can know who has lost 
 
 thee. 
 
 Thy beauty in perfect adornment this day 
 I see and describe, because I yearn for thee." 
 
 His voice failed Skavinski. The letters began to dance 
 before his eyes ; something broke in his breast, and went 
 like a wave from his heart higher and higher, choking 
 his voice and pressing his throat. A moment more he 
 controlled himself, and read further, 
 
 " O Holy Lady, who guardest bright Chenstohova, 
 Who shinest in Ostrobrama and preservest 
 The castle town Novgrodek with its trusty people, 
 As Thou didst give me back to health in childhood, 
 When by my weeping mother placed beneath Thy care 
 I raised my lifeless eyelids upward, 
 And straightway walked unto Thy holy threshold, 
 To thank God for the life restored me, 
 So by a wonder now restore us to the bosom of our birthplace." 
 1 Lithuania.
 
 LIGHT-HOUSE KEEPER OF ASPINWALL. 457 
 
 The swollen wave broke through the restraint of his 
 will. The old man sobbed, and threw himself on the 
 ground ; his milk-white hair was mingled with the sand 
 of the sea. Forty years had passed since he had seen his 
 country, and God knows how many since he heard his 
 native speech ; and now that speech had come to him 
 itself, it had sailed to him over the ocean, and found 
 him in solitude on another hemisphere, it so loved, so 
 dear, so beautiful ! In the sobbing which shook him 
 there was no pain, only a suddenly aroused immense 
 love, in the presence of which other things are as no'th- 
 ing. With that great weeping he had simply implored 
 forgiveness of the beloved one, set aside because he had 
 grown so old, had become so accustomed to his solitary 
 rock, and had so forgotten it that in him even longing 
 had begun to disappear. But now it returned as if by a 
 miracle ; therefore the heart leaped in him. 
 
 Moments vanished one after another ; he lay there 
 continually. The mews flew over the light-house, crying 
 as if alarmed for their old friend. The hour in which he 
 fed them with the remnants of his food had come ; there- 
 fore, some of them flew down from the light-house to 
 him ; then more and more came, and began to pick and 
 to shake their wings over his head. The sound of the 
 wings roused him. He had wept his fill, and had now a 
 certain calm and brightness ; but his eyes were as if 
 inspired. He gave unwittingly all his provisions to the 
 birds, which rushed at him with an uproar, and he him- 
 self took the book again. The sun had gone already be- 
 hind the gardens and the forest of Panama, and was 
 going slowly beyond the isthmus to the other ocean ; but 
 the Atlantic was full of light yet ; in the open air there 
 was still perfect vision ; therefore, he read further : 
 
 "Now bear my longing soul to those forest slopes, to those green 
 meadows."
 
 458 LIGHT-HOUSE KEEPER OF ASPINWALL. 
 
 At last the dusk obliterates the letters on the white 
 paper, the dusk short as a twinkle. The old man rested 
 his head 011 the rock, and closed his eyes. Then " She 
 who defends bright Chenstohova" took his soul, and 
 transported it to " those fields colored by various grain." 
 On the sky were burning yet those long stripes, red and 
 golden, and on those brightnesses he was flying to be- 
 loved regions. The pine-woods were sounding in his 
 ears ; the streams of his native place were murmuring. 
 He saw everything as it was; everything asked him, 
 " Dost remember ? " He remembers ! he sees broad 
 fields, between the fields, woods .and villages. It is 
 night now. At this hour his lantern usually illuminates 
 the darkness of the sea ; but now he is in his native 
 village. His old head has dropped on his breast, and he 
 is dreaming. Pictures are passing before his eyes quickly, 
 and a little disorderly. He does not see the house in 
 which he was born, for war had destroyed it ; he does 
 not see his father and mother, for they died when he 
 was a child ; but still the village is as if he had left it 
 yesterday, the line of cottages with lights in the win- 
 dows, the mound, the mill, the two ponds opposite each 
 other, and thundering the whole night with a chorus of 
 frogs. Once he had been on guard in that village all night ; 
 now that past stood before him at once in a series of views. 
 He is an Ulan again, and he stands there on guard ; at a 
 distance is the public house; he looks with swimming 
 eyes. There is thundering and singing and shouting 
 amid the silence of the night with voices of fiddles and 
 bass-viols "U-ha! U-ha!" Then the Ulans knock out 
 fire with their horseshoes, and it is wearisome for him 
 there on his horse. The hours drag on slowly ; at last 
 the lights are quenched ; now as far as the eye reaches 
 there is mist, and mist impenetrable ; now the fog rises,
 
 LIGHT-HOUSE KEEPER OF ASPINWALL. 459 
 
 evidently from the fields, and embraces the whole world 
 with a whitish cloud. You would say, a perfect ocean. 
 But that is fields ; soon the land-rail will be heard in 
 the darkness, and bitterns will call from the reeds. The 
 night is calm and cool, a true Polish night. In the dis- 
 tance the pine wood is sounding without wind, like the 
 roll of the sea. Soon dawn will whiten the East. In 
 fact, the cocks are beginning to crow behind the hedges. 
 One answers another from cottage to cottage ; the storks 
 are screaming somewhere on high. The Ulan feels well 
 and bright. Some one had spoken of a battle to-morrow. 
 Hei 1 that will go on, like all others, with shouting, with 
 fluttering of pennons. The young blood is playing like a 
 trumpet, though the night cools it. But day is dawning. 
 Already night is growing pale ; out of the shadows come 
 forests, the thicket, a row of cottages, the mill, the pop- 
 lars. The well is squeaking like a metal banner on a 
 tower. What a beloved land, beautiful in the rosy 
 gleams of the morning ! Oh, the one land, the one 
 land! 
 
 Quiet! the watchful picket hears that some one is 
 approaching. Of course, they are coming to relieve the 
 guard. 
 
 Suddenly some voice is heard above Skavinski, 
 
 " Here, old man I Get up ! What 's the matter ? " 
 
 The old man opens his eyes, and looks with wonder at 
 the person standing before him. The remnants of the 
 dream-visions struggle in his head with reality. At last 
 the visions pale and vanish. Before him stands Johnson, 
 the harbor guard. 
 
 " What 's this ? " asked Johnson ; " are you sick ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " You did n't light the lantern. You must leave your 
 place. A vessel from St. Geroino was wrecked on the
 
 460 LIGHT-HOUSE KEEPER OF ASPINWALL. 
 
 bar. It is lucky that no one was drowned, or you would 
 go to trial. Get into the boat with me ; you '11 hear the 
 rest at the Consulate." 
 
 The old man grew pale ; in fact he had not lighted the 
 lantern that night. 
 
 A few days later Skavinski was seen on the deck of a 
 steamer, which was going from Aspinwall to New York. 
 The poor man had lost his place. There opened before 
 him new roads of wandering ; the wind had torn that leaf 
 away again to whirl it over lands and seas, to sport with 
 it till satisfied. The old man had failed greatly during 
 those few days, and his body was bent, but his eyes were 
 gleaming. On his new road of life he held at his breast 
 a book, which from time to time he pressed with his 
 hand as if fearing that that too might go from him.
 
 YAMYOL. 
 
 A VILLAGE SKETCH.
 
 YAMYOL. 1 
 A VILLAGE SKETCH. 
 
 IN the little town of Lupiskory, after the funeral of 
 widow Kaliksta, there were vespers, and after ves- 
 pers old women, between ten and twenty in number, 
 remained in the church to finish the hymn* It was 
 four o'clock in the afternoon ; but, since twilight comes 
 in winter about that hour, it was dark in the church. 
 The great altar, especially, was sunk in deep shade. 
 Only two candles were burning at the ciborium; their 
 flickering flames barely lighted a little the gilding of the 
 doors, and the feet of Christ, hanging on a cross higher 
 up. Those feet were pierced with an enormous nail, 
 and the head of that nail seemed a great point gleaming 
 on the altar. 
 
 From other candles, just quenched, streaks of smoke 
 were waving, filling the places behind the stalls with a 
 purely church odor of wax. 
 
 An old man and a small boy were busied before the 
 steps of the altar. One was sweeping; the other was 
 stretching the carpet on the steps. At moments, when 
 the women ceased their singing, either the angry whisper 
 of the old man was heard scolding the boy, or the ham- 
 mering on the snow-covered windows of sparrows that 
 were cold and hungry outside. 
 
 1 The Polish word for angel is aniol, distorted by the old woman 
 into jamiol, which is pronounced yamyoL
 
 464 YAMYOL. 
 
 The women were sitting on benches nearer the door. 
 It would have been still darker had it not been for a few 
 tallow candles, by the light of which those who had 
 prayer-books were reading. One of those candles lighted 
 well enough a banner fastened to the seat just beyond ; 
 the banner represented sinners surrounded by devils and 
 flames. It was impossible to see what was painted on 
 the other banners. 
 
 The women were not singing ; they were, rather, mut- 
 tering with sleepy and tired voices a hymn in which 
 these words were repeated continually, 
 
 " And when the hour of death comes, 
 Gain for us, gain from Thy Son." 
 
 That church buried in shadow, the banners standing at 
 the seats, the old women with their yellow faces, the 
 lights flickering as if oppressed by the gloom, all that 
 was dismal beyond expression; nay, it was simply ter- 
 rible. The mournful words of the song about death 
 found there a fitting background. 
 
 After a time the singing stopped. One of the women 
 stood up at the seat, and began to say, with a trembling 
 voice, " Hail, Mary, full of grace ! " And others re- 
 sponded, " The Lord is with Thee," etc. ; but since it was 
 the day of Kaliksta's funeral, each "Hail, Mary," con- 
 cluded with the words, " Lord, grant her eternal rest, and 
 may endless light shine on her ! " 
 
 Marysia, the dead woman's daughter, was sitting on 
 a bench at the side of one of the old women. Just then 
 the snow, soft and noiseless, was falling on the fresh 
 grave of her mother; but the little girl was not ten 
 years old yet, and seemed not to understand either her 
 loss, or the pity which it might rouse in another. Her 
 face, with large blue eyes, had in it the calmness of
 
 YAMYOL. 405 
 
 childhood, and even a certain careless repose. A little 
 curiosity was evident, nothing beyond that. Opening 
 her mouth, she looked with great attention at the ban- 
 ner on which was painted hell with sinners ; then she 
 looked into the depth of the church, and afterward on 
 the window at which the sparrows were hammering. 
 
 Her eyes remained without thought. Meanwhile, the 
 women began to mutter, sleepily, for the tenth time, 
 
 " And when the hour of death comes." 
 
 The little girl twisted the tresses of her light-colored 
 hair, woven into two tiny braids not thicker than mice 
 tails. She seemed tired ; but now the old man occupied 
 her attention. He went' to the middle of the church, and 
 began to pull a knotty rope hanging from the ceiling. 
 He was ringing for the soul of Kaliksta, but he did this 
 in a purely mechanical manner; he was thinking of 
 something else, evidently. 
 
 That ringing was also a sign that vespers were ended. 
 The women, after repeating for the last time the prayer 
 for a happy death, went out on the square. One of them 
 led Marysia by the hand. 
 
 " But, Kulik," asked another, " what will you do with 
 the girl ? " 
 
 " What will I do ? She will go to Leschyntsi. Voytek 
 Margula will take her. But why do you ask me ? " 
 
 " What will she do in Leschyntsi ? " 
 
 "My dears, the same as here. Let her go to where 
 she came from. Even at the mansion they will take in 
 the orphan, and let her sleep in the kitchen." 
 
 Thus conversing, they passed through the square to 
 the inn. Darkness was increasing every moment. It 
 was wintry, calm ; the sky was covered with clouds, the 
 air filled with moisture and wet snow. Water was 
 
 30
 
 466 YAMYOL. 
 
 dropping from the roofs ; on the square lay slush formed 
 of snow and straw. The village, with wretched and 
 tattered houses, looked as gloomy as the church. A few 
 windows were gleaming with light ; movement had ceased, 
 but in the inn an organ was playing. 
 
 It was playing to entice, for there was no one inside. 
 The women entered, drank vodka ; Kulik gave Marysia 
 half a glass, saying, 
 
 " Drink 1 Thou art an orphan ; thou wilt not meet 
 kindness." 
 
 The word " orphan " brought the death of Kaliksta to 
 the minds of the women. One of them said, 
 
 " To you, Kulik, drink ! Oh, my dears, how that 
 paralus [paralysis] took her so that she could n't stir ! 
 She was cold before the priest came to hear her con- 
 fession." 
 
 " I told her long ago," said Kulik, " that she was spin- 
 ning fine [near her end]. Last week she came to me. 
 ' Ah, better give Marysia to the mansion ! ' said I. But 
 she said, ' I have one little daughter, and I '11 not give her 
 to any one ' But she grew sorry, and began to sob, and 
 then she went to the mayor to put her papers in order. 
 She paid four zloty and six groshes. ' But I do not 
 begrudge it for my child,' said she. My dears, but her 
 eyes were staring, and after death they were staring still 
 more. People wanted to close them, but could not. 
 They say that after death, even, she was looking at her 
 child." " 
 
 " Let us drink half a quarter over this sorrow ! " 
 
 The organ was playing continually. The women began 
 to be somewhat tender. Kulik repeated, with a voice of 
 compassion, " Poor little thing ! poor little thing ! " and 
 the second old woman called to mind the death of her 
 late husband.
 
 YAMYOL. 467 
 
 " Wlien he was dying," said she, " he sighed so, oh, he 
 sighed so, he sighed so ! " and drawling still more, her 
 voice passed into a chant, from a chant into the tone of 
 the organ, till at last she bent to one side, and in follow- 
 ing the organ began to sing, 
 
 " He sighed, he sighed, he sighed, 
 On that day he sighed." 
 
 All at once she fell to shedding hot tears, gave the 
 organist six groshes, and drank some more vodka. Kulik, 
 too, was excited by tenderness, but she turned it on 
 Marysia, 
 
 " Remember, little orphan," said she, " what the priest 
 said when they were covering thy mother with snow, 
 that there is a yamyol above thee " Here she stopped, 
 looked around as if astonished, and then added, with 
 unusual energy, " When I say that there is a yamyol, 
 there is a yamyol ! " 
 
 No one contradicted her. Marysia, blinking with her 
 poor, simple eyes, looked attentively at the woman. 
 Kulik spoke on, 
 
 " Thou art a little orphan, that is bad for thee ! Over 
 orphans there is a yamyol. He is good. Here are ten 
 groshes for thee. Even if thou wert to start on foot to 
 Leschyntsi, thou couldst go there, for he would guide 
 thee." 
 
 The second old woman began to sing, 
 
 "In the shade of his wings he will keep thee eternally, 
 Under his pinions thou wilt lie without danger." 
 
 " Be quiet ! " said Kulik. And then she turned again 
 to the child, 
 
 " Knowest thou, stupid, who is above thee ? " 
 
 " A yamyol," said, with a thin voice, the little girl.
 
 468 YAMYOL. 
 
 " Oh, thou little orphan, thou precious berry, thou 
 little worm of the Lord ! A yamyol with wings," said 
 she, with perfect tenderness, and seizing the child she 
 pressed her to her honest, though tipsy, bosorn. 
 
 Marysia burst into weeping at once. Perhaps in her 
 dark little head and in her heart, which knew not yet how 
 to distinguish, there was roused some' sort of perception 
 at that moment. 
 
 The innkeeper was sleeping most soundly behind the 
 counter ; on the candle-wicks mushrooms had grown ; 
 the man at the organ ceased to play, for what he saw 
 amused him. 
 
 Then there was silence, which was broken by the 
 sudden plashing of horses' feet before the door, and a 
 voice calling to the horses, 
 
 " Prrr ! " 
 
 Voytek Margula walked into the inn with a lighted 
 lantern in his hand. He put down the lantern, began to 
 slap his arms to warm them, and at last said to the inn- 
 keeper, 
 
 " Give half a quarter." 
 
 " Margula, thou chestnut," cried Kulik, " thou wilt take 
 the little girl to Leschyntsi." 
 
 " I '11 take her, for they told me to take her," replied 
 Margula. 
 
 Then looking closely to the two women he added, 
 
 " But ye are as drunk as 
 
 " May the plague choke thee," retorted Kulik. " When 
 I tell thee to be careful with the child, be careful. She 
 is an orphan. Knowest thou, fool, who is above her ?" 
 
 Voytek did not see fit to answer that question, but 
 determined evidently to raise another subject, and 
 began, 
 
 " To all of you "
 
 YAMYOL. 469 
 
 But he did n't finish, for he drank the vodka, made a 
 wry face, and putting down the glass with dissatisfaction, 
 said, 
 
 " That 's pure water. Give me a second from another 
 bottle." 
 
 The innkeeper poured from another. Margula twisted 
 his face still more, 
 
 " Ai ! have n't you arrack ? " 
 
 Evidently the same danger threatened Margula that 
 threatened the women ; but at that very time, in the 
 mansion at Lupiskory, the landowner was preparing for 
 one of the journals a long and exhaustive article, " On the 
 right of landowners to sell liquor, this right being con- 
 sidered as the basis of society." But Voytek co-operated 
 only involuntarily to strengthen the basis of society, and 
 that all the more because the sale here, though in a 
 village, was really by the landowner. 
 
 When he had co-operated five times in succession he 
 forgot, it is true, his lantern, in which the light had gone 
 out, but he took the half-sleeping little girl by the hand, 
 and said, 
 
 " But come on, thou nightmare ! " 
 
 The women had fallen asleep in a corner, no one bade 
 farewell to Marysia. The whole story was this : Her 
 mother was in the graveyard and she was going to 
 Leschyntsi. 
 
 Voytek and the girl went out, sat in the sleigh. 
 Voytek cried to the horses, and they moved on. At first 
 the sleigh dragged heavily enough through the slush of 
 the town, but they came out very soon to fields which 
 were broad and white. Movement was easy then ; the 
 snow barely made a noise under the sleigh-runners. The 
 horses snorted at times, at times came the barking of 
 dogs from a distance.
 
 470 YAMYOL. 
 
 They went on and on. Voytek urged the horses, and 
 sang through his nose, " Dog ear, remember thy promise." 
 But soon he grew silent, and began to " carry Jews " 
 (nod). He nodded to the right, to the left. He dreamt 
 that they were pounding him on the shoulders in 
 Leschyntsi, because he had lost a basket of letters ; so, 
 from time to time, he was half awake, and repeated : 
 " To all ! " Marysia did not sleep, for she was cold. She 
 looked with widely opened eyes on the white fields, 
 hidden from moment to moment by the dark shoulders of 
 Margula. She thought also that her " mother was 
 dead ; " and thinking thus, she pictured to herself per- 
 fectly the pale and thin face of that mother with its star- 
 ing eyes, and she felt half consciously that that face 
 was greatly beloved, that it was no longer in the world, and 
 that never again would it be in Leschyntsi. She had seen 
 with her own eyes how they covered it up in Lupiskory. 
 Eemembering this, she would have cried from grief; but 
 as her knees and feet were chilled, she began to cry from 
 cold. 
 
 There was no frost, it is true, but the air was penetrat- 
 ing, as is usual during thaws. As to Voytek he had, at 
 least in his stomach, a good supply of heat taken from 
 the inn. The landowner at Lupiskory remarked justly : 
 " That vodka warms in winter, and since it is the only 
 consolation of our peasants, to deprive landowners of the 
 sole power of consoling peasants is to deprive them of 
 influence over the populace." Voytek was so consoled at 
 that moment that nothing could trouble him. 
 
 Even this did not trouble him, that the horses when 
 they came to the forest slackened their pace altogether, 
 though the road there was better, and then walking to 
 one side, the beasts turned over the sleigh into a ditch. 
 He woke, it is true, but did not understand well what had 
 happened.
 
 YAMYOL. 471 
 
 Marysia began to push him. 
 
 " Voy tek ! " 
 
 " Why art thou croaking ? " 
 
 " The sleigh is turned over." 
 
 "A glass?" asked Voy tek, and went to sleep for 
 good. 
 
 The little girl sat by the sleigh, crouching down as best 
 she could, and remained there. But her face was soon 
 chilled, so she began to push the sleeping man again. 
 
 " Voytek ! " 
 
 He gave no answer. 
 
 " Voytek, I want to go to the house." 
 
 And after a while again : " Voytek, I '11 walk there." 
 
 At last she started. It seemed to her that Leschyntsi 
 was very near. She knew the road, too, for she had 
 walked to church over it every Sunday with her mother. 
 But now she had to go alone. In spite of the thaw the 
 snow in the forest was deep, but the night was very clear. 
 To the gleam from the snow was added light from the 
 clouds, so that the road could be seen as in the daytime. 
 Marysia, turning her eyes to the dark forest, could see 
 tree-trunks very far away outlined distinctly, black, 
 motionless, on the white ground ; and she saw clearly 
 also snow-drifts blown to the whole height of them. In 
 the forest there was a certain immense calm, which gave 
 solace to the child. On the branches was thick, frozen 
 snow, and from it drops of water were trickling, striking 
 with faint sound against the branches and twigs. But 
 that was the only noise. All else around was still, white, 
 silent, dumb. 
 
 The wind was not blowing. The snowy branches were 
 not stirring with the slightest movement. Everything 
 was sleeping in the trance of winter. It might seem that 
 the snowy covering on the earth, and the whole silent
 
 472 YAMYOL. 
 
 and shrouded forest, with the pale clouds in the heavens, 
 were all a kind of white, lifeless unity. So it is in time 
 of thaw. Marysia was the only living thing, moving like 
 a little black speck amid these silent greatnesses. Kind, 
 honest forest ! Those drops, which the thawing ice let 
 down, were tears, perhaps, over the orphan. The trees 
 are so large, but also so compassionate, above the little 
 creature. See, she is alone, so weak and poor, in the 
 snow, in the night, in the forest, wading along trustfully, 
 as if there is no danger. 
 
 The clear night seems to care for her. When some- 
 thing so weak and helpless yields itself, trusts so per- 
 fectly in enormous power, there is a certain sweetness in 
 the act. In that way all may be left to the will of God. 
 The girl walked rather long, and was wearied at last. 
 The heavy boots, which were too large, hindered her ; her 
 small feet were going up and down in them continually. 
 It was hard to drag such big boots out of the snow. 
 Besides, she could not move her hands freely, for in one 
 of them, closed rigidly, she held with all her strength 
 those ten groshes which Kulik had given her. She 
 feared to drop them in the snow. She began at times to 
 cry aloud, and then she stopped suddenly, as if wishing 
 to know if some one had heard her. Yes, the forest had 
 heard her ! The thawing ice sounded monotonously and 
 somewhat sadly. Besides, maybe some one else had 
 heard her. The child went more and more slowly. 
 Could she go astray ? How ? The road, like a white, 
 broad, winding ribbon, stretched into the distance, lay 
 well marked between two walls of dark trees. An 
 unconquerable drowsiness seized the little girl. 
 
 She stepped aside and sat down under a tree. The 
 lids dropped over her eyes. After a time, she thought 
 that her mother was coming to her along the white road
 
 YAMYOL. 473 
 
 from the graveyard. No one was coming. Still, the 
 child felt certain that some one must come. Who ? A 
 yarnyol. Had n't old Kulik told her that a yamyol was 
 above her ? Marysia knew what a yamyol is. In her 
 mother's cottage there was one painted with a shield in 
 his hand and with wings. He would come, surely. 
 Somehow the ice began to sound more loudly. Maybe 
 that is the noise of his wings, scattering drops more 
 abundantly. Stop! Some one is coming really; the 
 snow, though soft, sounds clearly ; steps are coming, and 
 coming quietly but quickly. The child raises her sleepy 
 eyelids with confidence. 
 
 " What is that ? " 
 
 Looking at the little girl intently is a gray three- 
 cornered face with ears, standing upright, ugly, 
 terrible !
 
 THE BULL-FIGHT. 
 A REMINISCENCE OF SPAIN.
 
 THE BULL-FIGHT. 
 
 A KEMINISCENCE OF SPAIN. 
 
 [T is Sunday ! Great posters, affixed for a number of 
 days to the corners of Puerta del Sol, Calle Alcala, 
 and all streets on which there was considerable move- 
 ment, announce to the city that to-day, " Si el tiempo lo 
 permite " (if the weather permits), will take place bull- 
 fight XVI., in which Cara-Ancha Lagartrjo and the re- 
 nowned Frascuello are to appear as " espadas " (swords). 
 
 Well, the weather permits. There was rain in the 
 morning; but about ten o'clock the wind broke the 
 clouds, gathered them into heaps, and drove them away 
 off somewhere in the direction of the Escurial. Now the 
 wind itself has ceased ; the sky as far as the eye can 
 reach is blue, and over the Puerta del Sol a bright sun is 
 shining, such a Madrid sun, which not only warms, 
 riot only burns, but almost bites. 
 
 Movement in the city is increasing, and on people's 
 faces satisfaction is evident. 
 
 Two o'clock. 
 
 The square of the Puerta del Sol is emptying gradually, 
 but crowds of people are advancing through the Calle 
 Alcala toward the Prado. In the middle is flowing a 
 river of carriages and vehicles. All that line of equi- 
 pages is moving very slowly, for on the sidewalks there 
 is not room enough for pedestrians, many of whom are 
 walking along the sides of the streets and close to the
 
 478 THE BULL-FIGHT. 
 
 carriages. The police, on white horses and in showy 
 uniforms and three-cornered hats, preserve order. 
 
 It is Sunday, that is evident, and an afternoon hour ; 
 the toilets are carefully made, the attire is holiday. It 
 is evident also that the crowds are going to some curious 
 spectacle. Unfortunately the throng is not at all many- 
 colored ; no national costumes are visible, neither the 
 short coats, yellow kerchiefs d la contrabandista, with 
 one end dropping down to the shoulder, nor the round 
 Biscay hats, nor girdles, nor the Catalan knives behind 
 the girdles. 
 
 Those things may be seen yet in the neighborhood of 
 Granada, Seville, and Cordova ; but in Madrid, especially 
 on holidays, the cosmopolitan frock is predominant. Only 
 at times do you see a black mantilla pinned to a high 
 comb, and under the mantilla eyes blacker still. 
 
 In general faces are dark, glances quick, speech loud. 
 Gesticulation is not so passionate as in Italy, where when 
 a man laughs he squirms like a snake, and when he is 
 angry he gnaws off the top of his hat ; still, it is ener- 
 getic and lively. Faces have well-defined features and a 
 resolute look. It is easy to understand that even in 
 amusement these people retain their special and definite 
 character, 
 
 However, they are a people who on week-days are full 
 of sedateness, bordering on sloth, sparing of words, and 
 collected. Sunday enlivens them, as does also the hope 
 of seeing a bloody spectacle. 
 
 Let us cut across the Prado and enter an alley leading 
 to the circus. 
 
 The crowd is becoming still denser. Here and there 
 shouts are rising, the people applauding single members 
 of the company, who are going each by himself to the 
 circus.
 
 THE BULL-FIGHT. 479 
 
 Here is an omnibus filled with " capeadors," that is, 
 partakers in the fight, whose whole defence is red capes 
 with which they mislead and irritate the bull. Through 
 the windows are visible black heads with pigtails, and 
 wearing three-cornered hats. The coats of various colors 
 worn by the capeadors are embroidered with gold and 
 silver tinsel. These capeadors ride in an omnibus, for the 
 modest pay which they get for their perilous service does 
 not permit a more showy conveyance. 
 
 Somewhat farther, three mounted " picadors " push 
 their way through the people. The sun plays on their 
 broad-brimmed white hats. They are athletic in build, 
 but bony and lean. Their shaven faces have a stern, and, 
 as it were, concentrated look. They are sitting on very 
 high wooden saddles, hence they are perfectly visible 
 over the crowd. Each of them holds in his hand a lance, 
 with a wooden ball at the end of it, from which is pro- 
 jecting an iron point not above half an inch long. The 
 picador cannot kill a bull with a weapon like that, he 
 can only pierce him or stop him for a moment ; but in 
 the last case he must have in his arm the strength of a 
 giant. 
 
 Looking at these men, I remember involuntarily Dora's 
 illustrations to "Don Quixote." In fact, each of these 
 horsemen might serve as a model for the knight " of the 
 rueful visage." That lean silhouette, outlined firmly on 
 the sky, high above the heads of the multitude, the lance 
 standing upright, and that bare-boned horse under the 
 rider, those purely Gothic outlines of living things, all 
 answer perfectly to the conception which we form of the 
 knight of La Mancha, when we read the immortal work 
 of Cervantes. 
 
 But, the picadors pass us, and urging apart the crowd 
 slowly, push forward considerably. Now only three
 
 480 THE BULL-FIGHT. 
 
 lances are visible, three hats, and three coats embroi- 
 dered on the shoulders. New men ride up, as incalcula- 
 bly similar to the first as if some mill were making 
 picadors for all Spain on one pattern. There is a differ- 
 ence only in the color of the horses, which, however, are 
 equally lean. 
 
 Our eyes turn now to the long row of carriages. Some 
 are drawn by mules, but mules so large, sleek, and beau- 
 tiful that, in spite of the long ears of the animals, the 
 turn-out does not seem ridiculous. Here and there may 
 be seen also Andalusian horses with powerful backs, 
 arched necks, and curved faces. Such may be seen in the 
 pictures of battle-painters of the seventeenth century. 
 
 In the carriages are sitting the flower of Madrid society. 
 The dresses are black, there is very black lace on the 
 parasols, on the fans, and on the heads of ladies ; black 
 hair trimmed in forelocks, from under which are glancing 
 eyes, as it were, of the lava of Vesuvius. Mourning 
 colors, importance, and powder are the main traits of that 
 society. 
 
 The faces of old and of young ladies too are covered 
 with powder, all of them are equally frigid and pale. A 
 great pity ! Were it not for such a vile custom, their 
 complexion would have that magnificent warm tone 
 given by southern blood and a southern sun, and which 
 may be admired in faces painted by Fortuni. 
 
 In the front seats of the carriages are men dressed with 
 an elegance somewhat exaggerated ; they have a con- 
 strained and too holiday air, in other words, they can- 
 not wear fine garments with that free inattention which 
 characterizes the higher society of France. 
 
 But the walls of the circus are outlined before us with 
 growing distinctness. There is nothing especial in the 
 building : an enormous pile reared expressly to give seats
 
 THE BULL-FIGHT. 481 
 
 to some tens of thousands of people, that is the whole 
 plan of it. 
 
 Most curious is the movement near the walls. Eound 
 about, it is black from carriages, equipages, and heads of 
 people. Towering above this dark mass, here and there, 
 is a horseman, a policeman, or a picador in colors as 
 brilliant as a poppy full blown. 
 
 The throng sways, opens, closes, raises its voice ; coach- 
 men shout ; still louder shout boys selling handbills. 
 These boys squeeze themselves in at all points among 
 footmen and horsemen ; they are on the steps of carriages 
 and between the wheels ; some climb up on the buttresses 
 of the circus ; some are on the stone columns which mark 
 the way for the carriages. Their curly hair, their gleam- 
 ing eyes, their expressive features, dark faces, and torn 
 shirts open in the bosom, remind me of our gypsies, and 
 of boys in Murillo's pictures. Besides programmes some 
 of them sell whistles. Farther on, among the crowds, are 
 fruit-venders ; water-sellers with bronze kegs on their 
 shoulders ; in one place are flower dealers ; in another is 
 heard the sound of a guitar played by an old blind woman 
 led by a little girl. 
 
 Movement, uproar, laughter ; fans are fluttering every- 
 where as if they were wings of thousands of birds ; the 
 sun pours down white light in torrents from a spotless 
 sky of dense blue. 
 
 Suddenly and from all sides are heard cries of " mira, 
 mira ! " (look, look !) After a while these cries are turned 
 into a roar of applause, which like real thunder flies from 
 one extreme to another ; now it is quiet, now it rises arid 
 extends around the whole circus. 
 
 What has happened ? Surely the queen is approach- 
 ing, and with her the court ? 
 
 No ! near by is heard " eviva Frascuello ! " That is the 
 
 31
 
 482 THE BULL-FIGHT. 
 
 most famous espada, who is coming for laurels and 
 applause. 
 
 All eyes turn to him, and the whole throng of women 
 push toward his carriage. The air is gleaming with 
 flowers thrown by their hands to the feet of that favorite, 
 that hero of every dream and imagining, that " pearl of 
 Spain." They greet him the more warmly because he has 
 just returned from a trip to Barcelona, where during the 
 exhibition he astonished all barbarous Europe with 
 thrusts of his sword ; now he appears again in his beloved 
 Madrid, more glorious, greater, a genuine new Cid el 
 Campeador. 
 
 Let us push through the crowd to look at the hero. 
 First, what a carriage, what horses ! More beautiful 
 there are not in the whole of Castile. On white satin 
 cushions sits, or reclines, we should say, a man whose age 
 it is difficult to determine, for his face is shaven most 
 carefully. He is dressed in a coat of pale lily-colored 
 satin, and knee-breeches of similar material trimmed with 
 lace. His coat and the side seams of his breeches are 
 glittering and sparkling from splendid embroidery, from 
 spangles of gold and silver shining like diamonds in 
 the sun. The most delicate laces adorn his breast. His 
 legs, clothed in rose-colored silk stockings, he holds 
 crossed carelessly on the front seat, the very first 
 athlete in the hippodrome at Paris might envy him those 
 calves. 
 
 Madrid is vain of those calves, and in truth she has 
 reason. 
 
 The great man leans with one hand on the red hilt of 
 his Catalan blade ; with the other he greets his admirers 
 of both sexes kindly. His black hair, combed to his poll, 
 is tied behind in a small roll, from beneath which creeps 
 forth a short tress. That style of hair-dressing and the
 
 THE BULL-FIGHT. 483 
 
 shaven face make him somewhat like a woman, and he 
 reminds one besides of some actor from one of the pro- 
 vinces ; taken generally, his face is not distinguished by 
 intelligence, a quality which in his career would not be a 
 hindrance, though not needed in any way. 
 
 The crowds enter the circus, and we enter with them. 
 
 Now we are in the interior. It differs from other 
 interiors of circuses only in size and in this, that the 
 seats are of stone. Highest in the circle are the boxes ; 
 of these one in gold fringe and in velvet is the royal box. 
 If no one from the court is present at the spectacle this 
 box is occupied by the prefect of the city. Around are 
 seated the aristocracy and high officials ; opposite the 
 royal box, on the other side of the circus, is the orchestra. 
 Half-way up in the circus is a row of arm-chairs ; stone 
 steps form the rest of the seats. Below, around the 
 arena, stretches a wooden paling the height of a man's 
 shoulder. Between this paling and the first row of seats, 
 which is raised considerably higher for the safety of the 
 spectators, is a narrow corridor, in which the combatants 
 take refuge, in case the bull threatens them too greatly. 
 
 One-half of the circus is buried in shadow, the other 
 is deluged with sunlight. On every ticket, near the 
 number of the seat, is printed " sombra " (shadow) or 
 " sol " (sun). Evidently the tickets " sombra " cost con- 
 siderably more. It is difficult to imagine how those 
 who have " sol " tickets can endure to sit in such an 
 atmosphere a number of hours and on those heated stone 
 steps, with such a sun above their heads. 
 
 The places are all filled, however. Clearly the love of 
 a bloody spectacle surpasses the fear of being roasted 
 alive. 
 
 In northern countries the contrast between light and 
 shadow is not so great as in Spain ; in the north we find
 
 484 THE BULL-FIGHT. 
 
 always a kind of half shade, half light, certain transition 
 tones ; here the boundary is cut off in black with a firm 
 line without any transitions. In the illuminated half 
 the sand seems to burn ; people's faces and dresses are 
 blazing ; eyes are blinking under the excess of glare ; 
 it is simply an abyss of light, full of heat, in which 
 everything is sparkling and gleaming excessively, every 
 color is intensified tenfold. On the other hand, the 
 shaded half seems cut off by some transparent curtain, 
 woven from the darkness of night. Every man who 
 passes from the light to the shade, makes on us the 
 impression of a candle put out on a sudden. 
 
 At the moment when we enter, the arena is crowded 
 with people. Before the spectacle the inhabitants of 
 Madrid, male and female, must tread that sand on which 
 the bloody drama is soon to be enacted. It seems to them 
 that thus they take direct part, as it were, in the struggle. 
 Numerous groups of men are standing, lighting their 
 cigarettes and discoursing vivaciously concerning the 
 merits of bulls from this herd or that one. Small boys 
 tease and pursue one another. I see how one puts under 
 the eyes of another a bit of red cloth, treating him just 
 as a " capeador " treats a bull. The boy endures this a 
 while patiently ; at last he rolls his eyes fiercely and 
 runs at his opponent. The opponent deceives him 
 adroitly with motions of a cape, exactly again as the 
 capeador does the bull. The little fellows find their 
 spectators, who urge them on with applause. 
 
 Along the paling pass venders of oranges proclaiming 
 the merits of their merchandise. This traffic is carried 
 on through the air. The vender throws, at request, with 
 unerring dexterity, an orange, even to the highest row ; 
 in the same way he receives a copper piece, which he 
 catches with one hand before it touches the earth.
 
 THE BULL-FIGHT. 485 
 
 Loud dialogues, laughter, calls, noise, rustling of fans, 
 the movement of spectators as they arrive, all taken 
 together form a picture with a fulness of life of which 
 no other spectacle can give an idea. 
 
 All at once from the orchestra come sounds of trumpets 
 and drums. At that signal the people on the arena fly 
 to their places with as much haste as if their lives were 
 in danger. There is a crush. But after a while all are 
 seated. Around, it is just black : people are shoulder to 
 shoulder, head to head. In the centre remains the arena 
 empty, deluged with sunlight. 
 
 Opposite the royal box a gate in the paling is thrown 
 open, and in ride two " alguazils." Their horses white, 
 with manes and tails plaited, are as splendid as if taken 
 from pictures. The riders themselves, wearing black 
 velvet caps with white feathers, and doublets of similar 
 material, with lace collars, bring to mind the incompara- 
 ble canvases of Velasquez, which may be admired in the 
 Museo del Prado. It seems to us that we are transferred 
 to the times of knighthood long past. Both horsemen 
 are handsome, both of showy form. They ride stirrup 
 to stirrup, ride slowly around the whole arena to con- 
 vince themselves that no incautious spectator has re- 
 mained on it. At last they halt before the royal box, 
 and with a movement full of grace uncover their heads 
 with respect. 
 
 Whoso is in a circus for the first time will be filled 
 with admiration at the stately, almost middle-age, cere- 
 monial, by the apparel and dignity of the horsemen. The 
 alguazils seem like two noble heralds, giving homage to a 
 monarch before the beginning of a tournament. It is, in 
 fact, a prayer for permission to open the spectacle, and 
 at the same time a request for the key of the stables in 
 which the bulls are confined. After a while the key is
 
 486 THE BULL-FIGHT. 
 
 let down from the box on a gold string ; the alguazils 
 incline once again and ride away. Evidently this is a 
 mere ceremonial, for the spectacle was authorized pre- 
 viously, and the bulls are confined by simple iron bolts. 
 But the ceremony is beautiful, and they never omit it. 
 
 In a few minutes after the alguazils have vanished, the 
 widest gate is thrown open, and a whole company enters. 
 At the head of it ride the same two alguazils whom we 
 saw before the royal box ; after them advance a rank of 
 capeadors ; after the capeadors come " banderilleros," and 
 the procession is concluded by picadors. This entire 
 party is shining with all the colors of the rainbow, 
 gleaming from tinsel, gold, silver, and satins of various 
 colors. They come out from the dark side to the sun- 
 lighted arena, dive into the glittering light, and bloom 
 like flowers. The eye cannot delight itself sufficiently 
 with the many colors of those spots on the golden sand. 
 
 Having reached the centre, they scatter on a sudden, 
 like a flock of butterflies. The picadors dispose them- 
 selves around at the paling, and each one, drawing his 
 lance from its rest, grasps it firmly in his right hand ; 
 the men on foot form picturesque groups ; they stand in 
 postures full of indifference, waiting for the bull. 
 
 This is perhaps the most beautiful moment of the spec- 
 tacle, full of originality, so thoroughly Spanish that regret 
 at not being a painter comes on a man in spite of himself. 
 How much color, what sunlight might be transferred 
 from the palette to the canvas ! 
 
 Soon blood will be flowing on that sand. In the circus 
 it is as still as in time of sowing poppy seed, it is barely 
 possible to hear the sound of fans, which move only in as 
 much as the hands holding them quiver from impatience. 
 All eyes are turned to the door through which the bull 
 will rush forth. Time now is counted by seconds.
 
 THE BULL-FIGHT. 487 
 
 Suddenly the shrill, and at the same time the mourn- 
 ful, sound of a trumpet is heard in the orchestra; the 
 door of the stable opens with a crash, and the bull bursts 
 into the arena, like a thunderbolt. 
 
 That is a lordly beast, with a powerful and splendid 
 neck, a head comparatively short, horns enormous and 
 turned forward. Our heavy breeder gives a poor idea of 
 him ; for though the Spanish bull is not the equal of ours 
 in bulk of body, he surpasses him in strength, and, above 
 all, in activity. At the first cast of the eye you recognize 
 a beast reared wild in the midst of great spaces ; con- 
 sequently with all his strength he can move almost as 
 swiftly as a deer. It is just this which makes him dan- 
 gerous in an unheard-of degree. His forelegs are a 
 little higher than his hind ones ; this is usual with cattle 
 of mountain origin. In fact, the bulls of the circus 
 are recruited especially from the herds in the Sierra 
 Morena. Their color is for the greater part black, rarely 
 reddish or pied. The hair is short, and glossy as satin > 
 only the neck is covered somewhat with longer and curly 
 hair. 
 
 After he has burst into the arena, the bull slackens his 
 pace toward the centre, looks with bloodshot eyes to the 
 right, to the left, but this lasts barely two seconds; he 
 sees a group of capeadors ; he lowers his head to the 
 ground, and hurls himself on them at random. 
 
 The capeadors scatter, like a flock of sparrows at which 
 some man has fired small-shot. Holding behind them 
 red capes, they circle now in the arena, with a swiftness 
 that makes the head dizzy ; they are everywhere ; they 
 glitter to the right, to the left; they are in the middle of 
 the arena, at the paling, before the eyes of the bull, in 
 front, behind. The red capes flutter in the air, like 
 banners torn by the wind.
 
 488 THE BULL-FIGHT. 
 
 The bull scatters the capeadors in every direction ; with 
 lightning-like movements he chases one, another thrusts 
 a red cape under his very eyes ; the bull leaves the first 
 victim to run after a second, but before he can turn, some 
 third man steps up. The bull rushes at that one ! Dis- 
 tance between them decreases, the horns of the bull 
 seem to touch the shoulder of the capeador ; another 
 twinkle of an eye and he will be nailed to the paling, 
 but meanwhile the man touches the top of the paling 
 with his hand, and vanishes as if he had dropped through 
 the earth. 
 
 What has happened ? The capeador has sprung into 
 the passage extending between the paling and the first 
 row of seats. 
 
 The bull chooses another man ; but before he has 
 moved from his tracks the first capeador thrusts out his 
 head from behind the paling, like a red Indian stealing to 
 the farm of a settler, and springs to the arena again. The 
 bull pursues more and more stubbornly those unattain- 
 able enemies, who vanish before his very horns ; at last 
 he knows where they are hidden. He collects all his 
 strength, anger gives him speed, and he springs like a 
 hunting-horse over the paling, certain that he will crush 
 his foes this time like worms. 
 
 But at that very moment they hurl themselves back 
 to the arena with the agility of chimpanzees, and the 
 bull runs along the empty passage, seeing no one before 
 him. 
 
 The entire first row of spectators incline through the 
 barrier, then strike from above at the bull with canes, 
 fans, and parasols. The public are growing excited. A 
 bull that springs over the paling recommends himself 
 favorably. When people in the first row applaud him 
 with all their might, those in the upper rows clap their
 
 THE BULL-FIGHT. 489 
 
 hands, crying, " Bravo el toro ! muy bien ! Bravo el 
 toro !" (Bravo the bull ! Very well, bravo the bull ! ) 
 
 Meanwhile he conies to an open door and runs out 
 again to the arena. On the opposite side of it two capea- 
 dors are sitting on a step extending around the foot of the 
 paling, and are conversing without the slightest anxiety- 
 The bull rushes on them at once ; he is in the middle of 
 the arena, and they sit on without stopping their talk ; 
 he is ten steps away, they continue sitting as if they had 
 not seen him ; he is five steps away, they are still talk- 
 ing. Cries of alarm are heard here and there in the circus ; 
 before his very horns the two daring fellows spring, one 
 to the right, the other to the left. The bull's horns strike 
 the paling with a heavy blow. A storm of hand-clapping 
 breaks out in the circus, and at that very moment these 
 and other capeadors surround the bull again and provoke 
 him with red capes. 
 
 His madness passes now into fury : he hurls himself 
 forward, rushes, turns on his tracks ; every moment his 
 horns give a thrust, every moment it seems that no 
 human power can wrest this or that man from death. 
 Still the horns cut nothing but air, and the red capes are 
 glittering on all sides ; at times one of them falls to the 
 ground, and that second the bull in his rage drives 
 almost all of it into the sand. But that is not enough for 
 him, he must search out some victim, and reach him at 
 all costs. 
 
 Hence, with a deep bellow and with bloodshot eyes he 
 starts to run forward at random, but halts on a sudden ; 
 a new sight strikes his eye, that is, a picador on horse- 
 back. 
 
 The picadors had stood hitherto on their lean horses, 
 like statues, their lances pointing upward. The bull, 
 occupied solely with the hated capes, had not seen them, 
 or if he had seen them he passed them.
 
 490 THE BULL-FIGHT. 
 
 Almost never does it happen that the bull begins a 
 fight with horsemen. The capes absorb his attention 
 and rouse all his rage. It may be, moreover, that the 
 picadors are like his half-wild herdsmen in the Sierra 
 Morena, whom he saw at times from a distance, and be- 
 fore whom he was accustomed to flee with the whole 
 herd. 
 
 But now he has had capes enough; his fury seeks 
 eagerly some body to pierce and on which to sate his 
 vengeance. 
 
 For spectators not accustomed to this kind of play, a 
 terrible moment is coming. Every one understands that 
 blood must be shed soon. 
 
 The bull lowers his head and withdraws a number of 
 paces, as if to gather impetus ; the picador turns the 
 horse a little, with his right side to the attacker, so the 
 horse, having his right eye bound with a cloth, shall not 
 push back at the moment of attack. The lance with a 
 short point is lowered in the direction of the bull ; he 
 withdraws still more. It seems to you that he will 
 retreat altogether, and your oppressed bosom begins to 
 breathe with more ease. 
 
 Suddenly the bull rushes forward like a rock rolling 
 down from a mountain. In the twinkle of an eye you 
 see the lance bent like a bow ; the sharp end of it is 
 stuck in the shoulder of the bull, and then is enacted 
 a thing simply dreadful : the powerful head and neck of 
 the furious beast is lost under the belly of the horse, his 
 horns sink their whole length in the horse's intestines ; 
 sometimes the bull lifts horse and rider, sometimes you 
 see only the up-raised hind part of the horse, struggling 
 convulsively in the air. The rider falls to the ground, 
 the horse tumbles upon him, and you hear the creak- 
 ing of the saddle ; horse, rider, and saddle form one
 
 THE BULL-FIGHT. 491 
 
 shapeless mass, which the raging bull tramples and bores 
 with his horns. 
 
 Faces unaccustomed to the spectacle grow pale. In 
 Barcelona and Madrid I have seen Englishwomen whose 
 faces had become as pale as linen. Every one in the cir- 
 cus for the first time has the impression of a catastrophe. 
 When the rider is seen rolled into a lump, pressed down 
 by the weight of the saddle and the horse, and the raging 
 beast is thrusting his horns with fury into that mass of 
 flesh, it seems that for the man there is no salvation, and 
 that the attendants will raise a mere bloody corpse from 
 the sand. 
 
 But that is illusion. All that is done is in the pro- 
 gramme of the spectacle. 
 
 Under the white leather and tinsel the rider has armor 
 which saves him from being crushed, he fell purposely 
 under the horse, so that the beast should protect him with 
 his body from the horns. In fact the bull, seeing before 
 him the fleshy mass of the horse's belly, expends on it 
 mainly his rage. Let me add that the duration of the 
 catastrophe is counted by seconds. The capeadors have 
 attacked the bull from every side, and he, wishing to free 
 himself from them, must leave his victims. He does 
 leave them, he chases again after the capeadors ; his 
 steaming horns, stained with blood, seem again to be just 
 touching the capeadors' shoulders. They, in escaping, 
 lead him to the opposite side of the arena ; other men 
 meanwhile draw from beneath the horse the picador, who 
 is barely able to move under the weight of his armor, and 
 throw him over the paling. 
 
 The horse too tries to raise himself; frequently he 
 rises for a moment, but then a ghastly sight strikes the 
 eye. From his torn belly hangs a whole bundle of in- 
 testines with a rosy spleen, bluish liver, and greenish
 
 492 THE BULL-FIGHT. 
 
 stomach. The hapless beast tries to walk a few steps ; 
 but his trembling feet tread on his own entrails, he falls, 
 digs the ground with his hoofs, shudders. Meanwhile 
 the attendants run up, remove the saddle and bridle, and 
 finish the torments of the horse with one stab of a 
 stiletto, at the point where head and neck come 
 together. 
 
 On the arena remains the motionless body, which, lying 
 now on its side, seems wonderfully flat. The intestines 
 are carried out quickly in a basket which is somewhat 
 like a wash-tub, and the public clap their hands with 
 excitement. Enthusiasm begins to seize' them : " Bravo 
 el toro ! Bravo picador ! " Eyes are flashing, on faces a 
 flush comes, a number of hats fly to the arena in honor 
 of the picador. Meanwhile " el toro," having drawn blood 
 once, kills a number of other horses. If his horns are 
 buried not in the belly but under the shoulder of the 
 horse, a stream of dark blood bursts onto the arena in an 
 uncommon quantity ; the horse rears and falls backward 
 with his rider. A twofold danger threatens the man : 
 the horns of the bull or, in spite of his armor, the break- 
 ing of his neck. But, as we have said, the body of the 
 horse becomes a protection to the rider ; hence, every 
 picador tries to receive battle at the edge of the arena, so 
 as to be, as it were, covered between the body of the 
 horse and the paling. When the bull withdraws, the 
 picador advances, but only a few steps, so that the battle 
 never takes place in the centre. 
 
 All these precautions would not avail much, and the 
 bull would pierce the horsemen at last, were it not for 
 the capeadors. They press on the bull, draw away his 
 attention, rush with unheard-of boldness against his rage, 
 saving each moment the life of some participant in the 
 struggle. Once I saw an espada, retreating before the rag-
 
 THE BULL-FIGHT. 493 
 
 ing beast, stumble against the head of a dead horse and fall 
 on his back ; death inevitable was hanging above .him, the 
 horns of the bull were just ready to pass through his 
 breast, when suddenly between that breast and the horns 
 the red capes were moving, and the bull flew after the 
 capes. It may be said that were it not for that flock of 
 chimpanzees waving red capes, the work of the picadors 
 would be impossible, and at every representation as many 
 of them as of horses would perish. 
 
 It rarely happens that a picador can stop a bull at the 
 point of a lance. This takes place only when the bull 
 advances feebly, or the picador is gifted with gigantic 
 strength of arms, surpassing the measure of men. I saw 
 two such examples in Madrid, after which came a hurri- 
 cane of applause for the picador. 
 
 But usually the bull kills horses like flies ; and he is 
 terrible when, covered with sweat, glittering in the sun, 
 with a neck bleeding from lances and his horns painted 
 red, he runs around the arena, as if in the drunkenness of 
 victory. A deep bellow comes from his mighty lungs ; at 
 one moment he scatters capeadors, at another he halts 
 suddenly over the body of a horse, now motionless, and 
 avenges himself on it terribly, he raises it on his horns, 
 carries it around the arena, scattering drops of stiff blood 
 on spectators in the first row ; then he casts it again on 
 the stained sand and pierces it a second time. It seems 
 to him, evidently, that the spectacle is over, and that it 
 has ended in his triumph. 
 
 But the spectacle has barely passed through one-half of 
 its course. Those picadors whose horses have survived 
 the defeat, ride out, it is true, from the arena ; but in 
 place of them run in with jumps, and amid shouts, nim- 
 ble banderilleros. Every one of them in his upraised 
 hands has two arrows, each an ell long, ornamented, in
 
 494 THE BULL-FIGHT. 
 
 accordance with the coat of the man, with a blue, a 
 green, or a red ribbon, and ending with a barbed point, 
 which once it is under the skin will not come out of it. 
 These men begin to circle about the bull, shaking the 
 arrows, stretching toward him the points, threatening 
 and springing up toward him. The bull rolls his blood- 
 shot eyes, turns his head to the right, to the left, looking 
 to see what new kind of enemies these are. " Ah," says 
 he, evidently, to himself, " you have n't had blood enough, 
 you want more you shall have it ! " and selecting the 
 man, he rushes at him. 
 
 But what happens ? The first banderillero, instead of 
 fleeing, runs toward the bull, runs past his head, as if he 
 wished to avoid him ; but in that same second something 
 seems hanging in the air like a rainbow : the man is run- 
 ning away empty-handed with all the strength of his legs, 
 toward the paling, and in the neck of the bull are two 
 colored arrows. 
 
 After a moment another pair are sticking in him, and 
 then a third pair, six altogether, with three colors. 
 The neck of the beast seems now as if ornamented with a 
 bunch of flowers, but those flowers have the most terrible 
 thorns of any on earth. At every movement of the bull, 
 at every turn of his head, the arrows stir, shake, fly 
 from one side of his neck to the other, and with that 
 every point is boring into the wound. From pain the 
 animal is evidently falling into the madness of rage ; but 
 the more he rushes the greater his pain. Hitherto the 
 bull was the wrong-doer, now they wrong him, wrong him 
 terribly. He would like to get rid of those torturing ar- 
 rows; but there is no help for him. He is growing mad 
 from mere torment, and is harassed to the utmost. Foam 
 covers his nostrils, his tongue is protruding ; he bel- 
 lows no longer, but in the short intervals between the
 
 THE BULL-FIGHT. 495 
 
 wild shouts, the clapping, and the uproar of the specta- 
 tors, you may hear his groans, which have an accent 
 almost human. The capeadors harassed him, every 
 picador wounded him, now the arrows are working into 
 his wounds ; thirst and heat complete his torments. 
 
 It is his luck that he did not get another kind of " ban- 
 derille." If which happens rarely, however, the bull 
 refuses to attack the horses and has killed none, the 
 enraged public rise, and in the circus something in the 
 nature of a revolution sets in. Men with their canes and 
 women with their parasols and fans turn to the royal 
 box; wild, hoarse voices of cruel cavaliers, and the shrill 
 ones of senoritas, shout only one word : " Fuego ! fuego ! 
 fuego ! " (Fire, fire, fire ! ) 
 
 The representatives of the government withhold their 
 consent for a long time. Hence " Fuego ! " is heard ever 
 more threateningly, and drowns all other voices ; the 
 threat rises to such an intensity as to make us think that 
 the public may pass at any instant from words to a mad 
 deed of some kind. Half an hour passes : " Fuego ! 
 fuego ! " There is no help for it. The signal is given, 
 and the unfortunate bull gets a banderille which when 
 thrust into his neck blazes up that same instant. 
 
 The points wound in their own way, and in their own 
 way rolls of smoke surround the head of the beast, the 
 rattle of fireworks stuns him ; great sparks fall into his 
 wounds, small congreve rockets burst under his skin ; the 
 smell of burnt flesh and singed hair fill the arena. In 
 truth, cruelty can go no further; but the delight of the 
 public rises now to its zenith. The eyes of women are 
 covered with mist from excitement, every breast is heav- 
 ing with pleasure, their heads fall backward, and between 
 their open moist lips are gleaming white teeth. You 
 would say that the torment of the beast is reflected in
 
 496 THE BULL-FIGHT. 
 
 the nerves of those women with an answering degree of 
 delight. Only in Spain can such things be seen. There 
 is in that frenzy something hysterical, something which 
 recalls certain Phoenician mysteries, performed on the 
 altar of Melitta. 
 
 The daring and skill of the banderilleros surpass every 
 measure. I saw one of them who had taken his place in 
 the middle of the arena in an arm-chair ; he had stretched 
 his legs carelessly before him, they were in rose- 
 colored stockings, he crossed them, and holding above 
 his head a banderille, was waiting for the bull. The bull 
 rushed at him straightway ; the next instant, I saw only 
 that the banderille was fastened in the neck, and the bull 
 was smashing the chair with mad blows of his head. In 
 what way the man had escaped between the chair and the 
 horns, I know not, that is the secret of his skill. An- 
 other banderillero, at the same representation, seizing the 
 lance of a picador at the moment of attack, supported 
 himself with it, and sprang over the back and whole 
 length of the bull. The beast was dumfounded, could 
 not understand where his victim had vanished. 
 
 A multitude of such wonders of daring and dexterity 
 are seen at each representation. 
 
 One bull never gets more than three pairs of bander- 
 illes. When the deed is accomplished, a single trumpet 
 is heard in the orchestra with a prolonged and sad note, 
 and the moment the most exciting and tragic in the 
 spectacle approaches. All that was done hitherto was 
 only preparation for this. Now a fourth act of the 
 drama is played. 
 
 On the arena comes out the " matador " himself, 
 that is, the espada. He is dressed like the other partici- 
 pants in the play, only more elaborately and richly. His 
 coat is all gold and tinsel : costly laces adorn his breast.
 
 THE BULL-FIGHT. 497 
 
 He may be distinguished by this too, that he comes 
 out bareheaded always. His black hair, combed back 
 carefully, ends on his shoulders in a small tail. In his 
 left hand he holds a red cloth flag, in his right a long 
 Toledo sword. The capeadors surround him as soldiers 
 their chief, ready at all times to save him in a moment of 
 danger, and he approaches the bull, collected, cool, but 
 terrible and triumphant. 
 
 In all the spectators the hearts are throbbing violently, 
 and a moment of silence sets in. 
 
 In Barcelona and Madrid I saw the four most eminent 
 espadas in Spain, and in truth I admit, that besides their 
 cool blood, dexterity, and training, they have a certain 
 hypnotic power, which acts on the animal and fills him 
 with mysterious fear. The bull simply bears himself 
 differently before the espada from what he did before the 
 previous participants in the play. It is not that he with- 
 draws before him ; on the contrary, he attacks him with 
 greater insistence perhaps. But in former attacks, in 
 addition to rage, there was evident a certain desire. He 
 hunted, he scattered, he killed ; he was as if convinced 
 that the whole spectacle was for him, and that the ques- 
 tion was only in this, that he should kill. Now, at sight 
 of that cold, awful man with a sword in his hand, he con- 
 vinces himself that death is there before him, that he 
 must perish, that on that bloody sand the ghastly deed 
 will be accomplished in some moments. 
 
 This mental state of the beast is so evident that every 
 man can divine it. Perhaps even this, by its tragic 
 nature, becomes the charm of the spectacle. That mighty 
 organism, simply seething with a superabundance of vital- 
 ity, of desire, of strength, is unwilling to die, will not 
 consent to die for anything in the world ! and death, un- 
 avoidable, irresistible, is approaching ; hence unspeakable 
 
 32
 
 498 THE BULL-FIGHT. 
 
 sorrow, unspeakable despair, throbs through every move- 
 ment of the bull. He hardly notices the capeadors, 
 whom before he pursued with such venom ; he attacks 
 the espada himself, but he attacks with despair com- 
 pletely evident. 
 
 The espada does not kill him at once, for that is not 
 permitted by the rules of the play. He deceives the bull 
 with movements of the flag, himself he pushes from the 
 horns by turns slight and insignificant ; he waits for the 
 moment, withdraws, advances. Evidently he wishes to 
 sate the public ; now, this very instant, he '11 strike, now 
 he lowers his sword again. 
 
 The struggle extends over the whole arena ; it glitters 
 in the sun, is dark in the shade. In the circus applause 
 is heard, now general, now single from the breast of some 
 senorita who is unable to restrain her enthusiasm. At 
 one moment bravos are thundering ; at another, if the 
 espada has retreated awkwardly or given a false blow, 
 hissing rends the ear. The bull has now given some tens 
 of blows with his horns, always to the flag ; the public 
 are satisfied ; here arid there voices are crying : " Mata el 
 toro ! mate el toro ! " (Kill the bull ! kill the bull ! ) 
 
 And now a flash comes so suddenly that the eye can- 
 not follow it ; then the group of fighters scatter, and in 
 the neck of the bull, above the colored banderilles, is 
 seen the red hilt of the sword. The blade has gone 
 through the neck, and, buried two thirds of its length, 
 is planted in the lungs of the beast. 
 
 The espada is defenceless ; the bull attacks yet, but he 
 misleads him in the old fashion with the flag, he saves 
 himself from the blows with half turns. 
 
 Meanwhile it seems that people have gone wild in the 
 circus. No longer shouts, but one bellow and howl are 
 heard, around, from above to below. All are springing
 
 THE BULL-FIGHT. 499 
 
 from their seats. To the arena are flying bouquets, 
 cigar-cases, hats, fans. The fight is approaching its end. 
 
 A film is coming over the eyes of the bull ; from his 
 mouth are hanging stalactites of bloody saliva ; his 
 groan becomes hoarse. Night is embracing his head. 
 The glitter and heat of the sun concern him no longer. 
 He attacks yet, but as it were in a dream. It is darker 
 and darker before him. At last he collects the remnant 
 of his consciousness, backs to the paling, totters for a 
 moment, kneels on his fore feet, drops on his hind ones, 
 and begins to die. 
 
 The espada looks at him no longer ; he has his eyes 
 turned to the spectators, from whom hats and cigar-cases 
 are flying, thick as hail ; he bows ; capeadors throw back 
 to the spectators their hats. 
 
 A mysterious man dressed in black now climbs over 
 the paling in silence and puts a stiletto in the bull, where 
 the neck-bone meets the skull; with a light movement 
 he sinks it to the hilt and turns it. 
 
 That is the blow of mercy, after which the head of the 
 bull drops on its side. 
 
 All the participants pass out. For a moment the 
 arena is empty ; on it are visible only the body of the 
 bull and the eviscerated carcasses of four or five horses, 
 now cold. 
 
 But after a while rush in with great speed men with 
 mules, splendidly harnessed in yellow and red ; the men 
 attach these mules to the bodies and draw them around 
 so that the public may enjoy the sight once again, then 
 with speed equally great they go out through the doors 
 of the arena. 
 
 But do not imagine that the spectacle is ended with 
 one bull. After the first comes a second, after the 
 second a third, and so on. In Madrid six bulls perish
 
 500 THE BULL-FIGHT. 
 
 at a representation. In Barcelona, at the time of the 
 fair, eight were killed. 
 
 Do not think either that the public are wearied by 
 the monotony of the fight. To begin with, the fight 
 itself is varied with personal episodes caused by tempera- 
 ment, the greater or less rage of the bull, the greater or 
 less skill of the men in their work ; secondly, that public 
 is never annoyed at the sight of blood and death. 
 
 The " toreadores " (though in Spain no participant in 
 the fight is called a toreador), thanks to their dexterity, 
 rarely perish ; but if that happens, the spectacle is con- 
 sidered as the more splendid, and the bull receives as 
 much applause as the^espada. Since, however, accidents 
 happen to people sometimes, at every representation, 
 besides the doctor, there is present a priest with the 
 sacrament. That spiritual person is not among the audi- 
 ence, of course ; but he waits in a special room, to which 
 the wounded are borne in case of an accident. 
 
 Whether in time, under the influence of civilization, 
 bull-fights will be abandoned in Spain, it is difficult to 
 say. The love of those fights is very deep in the nature 
 of the Spanish people. The higher and intelligent ranks 
 of society take part in them gladly. The defenders of 
 these spectacles say that in substance they are nothing 
 more than hazardous hunting, which answers to the 
 knightly character of the nation. But hunting is an 
 amusement, not a career ; in hunting there is no audi- 
 ence, only actors ; there are no throngs of women, 
 half fainting from delight at the spectacle of torment 
 and death ; finally, in hunting no one exposes his life 
 for hire. 
 
 Were I asked if the spectacle is beautiful, I should say 
 yes ; beautiful especially in its surroundings, that sun, 
 those shades, those thousands of fans at sight of which
 
 THE BULL-FIGHT. 501 
 
 it seems as though a swarm of butterflies had settled on 
 the seats of the circus, those eyes, those red moist lips. 
 Beautiful is that incalculable quantity of warm and 
 strong tones, that mass of colors, gold, tinsel, that in- 
 flamed sand, from which heat is exhaling, finally those 
 proofs of bold daring, and that terror hanging over the 
 play. All that is more beautiful by far than the streams 
 of blood and the torn bellies of the horses. 
 
 He, however, who knows these spectacles only from 
 description, and sees them afterwards with his own eyes, 
 cannot but think : what a wonderful people for whom 
 the highest amusement and delight is the sight of a 
 thing so awful, so absolute and inevitable as death. 
 Whence comes that love ? Is it simply a remnant of 
 Middle-age cruelty ; or is it that impulse which is roused 
 in many persons, for instance at sight of a precipice, to 
 go as near as possible to the brink, to touch that curtain, 
 behind which begin the mystery and the pit ? that is 
 a wonderful passion, which in certain souls becomes 
 irresistible. 
 
 Of the Spaniards it may be said, that in the whole 
 course of their history they have shown a tendency to 
 extremes. Few people have been so merciless in war- 
 fare ; none have turned a religion of love into such a 
 gloomy and bloody worship; finally, no other nation 
 amuses itself by playing with death.
 
 SACHEM.
 
 SACHEM. 
 
 IN the town of Antelope, situated on a river of the same 
 name in the State of Texas, every living person was 
 hurrying to the circus. The inhabitants were interested 
 all the more since from the foundation of the town that 
 was the first time that a circus had come to it with danc- 
 ing women, minstrels, and rope-walkers. The town was 
 new. Fifteen years before not only was there not one 
 house there, but in all the region round about there 
 were no white people. Moreover, on the forks of the 
 river, on the very spot on which Antelope was situated, 
 stood an Indian village called Chiavatta. That had been 
 the capital of the Black Snakes, who in their time were 
 such an eyesore to the neighboring settlements of Berlin, 
 Grundenau, and Harmonia, that these settlements could 
 endure them no longer. True, the Indians were only 
 defending their "land," which the State government of 
 Texas had guaranteed to them forever by the most 
 solemn treaties; but what was that to the colonists of 
 Berlin, Grundenau, and Harmonia ? It is true that they 
 took from the Black Snakes earth, air, and water, but 
 they brought civilization in return ; the redskins on 
 their part showed gratitude in their own way, that is, 
 by taking scalps from the heads of the Germans. Such 
 a state of things could not be suffered. Therefore, the 
 settlers from Berlin, Grundenau, and Harmonia assembled 
 on a certain moonlight night to the number of four
 
 506 SACHEM. 
 
 hundred, and, calling to their aid Mexicans from La Ora, 
 fell upon sleeping Chiavatta. 
 
 The triumph of the good cause was perfect. Chiavatta 
 was burned to ashes, and the inhabitants, without regard 
 to sex or age, were cut to pieces. Only small parties of 
 warriors escaped who at that time were absent on a hunt. 
 In the town itself not one soul was left alive mainly 
 because the place lay in the forks of a river, which, hav- 
 ing overflowed, as is usual in spring-time, surrounded the 
 settlement with an impassable gulf of waters. But the 
 same forked position which ruined the Indians, seemed 
 good to the Germans. From the forks it was difficult to 
 escape, but the place was defensible. Thanks to this 
 thought, emigration set in at once from Berlin, Griin- 
 denau, and Harmonia to the forks, in which in the 
 twinkle of an eye, on the site of the wild Chiavatta, rose 
 the civilized town of Antelope. In five years it num- 
 bered two thousand inhabitants. 
 
 In the sixth year they discovered on the opposite 
 bank of the forks a quicksilver mine ; the working of this 
 doubled the number of inhabitants. In the seventh 
 year, by virtue of Lynch law, they hanged on the square 
 of the town the last twelve warriors of the Black Snakes, 
 who were caught in the neighboring "Forest of the 
 Dead," and henceforth nothing remained to hinder the 
 development of Antelope. Two "Tagblatter" (daily 
 papers) were published in the town, and one " Mon tags- 
 revue " (Monday Keview). A line of railroad united 
 the place with Bio del Norte and San Antonio ; on 
 Opuncia Gasse (Opuncia Street) stood three schools, 
 one of which was a high school. On the square where 
 they had hanged the last Black Snakes, the citizens 
 had erected a philanthropic institution. Every Sunday 
 the pastors taught in the churches love of one's neigh-
 
 SACHEM. 507 
 
 bor, respect for the property of others, and similar 
 virtues essential to a civilized society ; a certain 
 travelling lecturer read a dissertation " On the rights of 
 nations." 
 
 The richest inhabitants had begun to talk of founding 
 a university, to which the government of the State was 
 to contribute. The citizens were prosperous. The trade 
 in quicksilver, oranges, barley, and wine brought them 
 famous profits. They were upright, thrifty, industrious, 
 systematic, fat. Whoever might visit in later years 
 Antelope with a population nearing twenty thousand 
 would not recognize in the rich merchants of the place 
 those pitiless warriors who fifteen years before had 
 burned Chiavatta. The days passed for them in their 
 stores, workshops, and offices ; the evenings they spent 
 in the beer-saloon " Golden Sun " on Rattlesnake Street. 
 Listening to those sounds somewhat slow and guttural of 
 " Mahlzeit, Mahlzeit ! " (meal-time, meal-time), to those 
 phlegmatic " Nun ja wissen Sie, Herr Miiller, ist das aber 
 mb'glich ? " (Well, now, Herr Miiller, but is that pos- 
 sible ?), that clatter of goblets, that sound of beer dropping 
 on the floor, that plash of overflowing foam ; seeing that 
 calm, that slowness, those Philistine faces covered with 
 fat, those fishy eyes, a man might suppose himself in 
 a beer-garden in Berlin or Munich, and not on the 
 ruins of Chiavatta. But in the town everything was 
 " ganz gemiithlich " (altogether cosey), and no one had a 
 thought of the ruins. That evening the whole popula- 
 tion was hastening to the circus, first, because after hard 
 labor recreation is as praiseworthy as it is agreeable; 
 second, because the inhabitants were proud of its arrival. 
 It is well-known that circuses do not come to every little 
 place ; hence the arrival of the Hon. M. Dean's troupe 
 had confirmed the greatness and magnificence of Ante-
 
 508 SACHEM. 
 
 lope. There was, however, a third and perhaps the 
 greatest cause of the general curiosity. 
 
 No. Two of the programme read as follows, 
 
 "A walk on a wire extended fifteen feet above the 
 ground will be made to the accompaniment of music by the 
 renowned gymnast Black Vulture, sachem of the Black 
 Snakes, the last descendant of their chiefs, the last man of 
 the tribe. 1. The walk ; 2. Springs of the Antelope ; 
 3. The death-dance and death-song." 
 
 If that " sachem " could rouse the highest interest in any 
 place, it was surely in Antelope. Hon. M. Dean told at 
 the " Golden Sun " how fifteen years before, on a journey 
 to Santa F6*, he had found, on the Pianos de Tornado, an 
 old dying Indian with a boy ten years of age. The old 
 man died from wounds and exhaustion ; but before death 
 he declared that the boy was the son of the slain sachem 
 of the Black Snakes, and the heir to that office. 
 
 The troupe sheltered the orphan, who in time became 
 the first acrobat in it. It was only at the " Golden Sun," 
 however, that Hon. M. Dean learned first that Antelope 
 was the former Chiavatta, and that the famous rope-walker 
 would exhibit himself on the grave of his fathers. This 
 information brought the director into perfect humor; he 
 might reckon now surely on a great attraction, if only he 
 knew how to bring out the effect skilfully. Of course 
 the Philistines of Antelope hurried to the circus to show 
 their wives and children, imported from Germany, the 
 last of the Black Snakes, those wives and children who 
 in their lives had never seen Indians, and to say: " See, 
 we cut to pieces men just like that fellow, fifteen years 
 ago!" " Ach, Herr Je !" It was pleasant to hear such 
 an exclamation of wonder from the mouth of Amalchen, 
 or little Fritz. Throughout the town, therefore, all were 
 repeating unceasingly, " Sachem ! Sachem ! "
 
 SACHEM. 509 
 
 From early morning the children were looking through 
 cracks in the boards with curious and astonished faces ; 
 the older boys, more excited by the warrior spirit, marched 
 home from school in terrible array, without knowing 
 themselves why they did so. 
 
 It is eight o'clock in the evening, a wonderful 
 night, clear, starry. A breeze from the suburbs brings 
 the odor of orange groves, which in the town is mingled 
 with the odor of malt. In the circus there is a blaze of 
 light. Immense pine-torches fixed before the principal 
 gate are burning and smoking. The breeze waves the 
 plumes of smoke and the bright flame which illuminates 
 the dark outlines of the building. It is a freshly erected 
 wooden pile, circular, with a pointed roof, and the starry 
 flag of America on the summit of it. Before the gate 
 are crowds who could not get tickets or had not the 
 wherewithal to buy them ; they look at the wagons of the 
 troupe, and principally at the canvas curtain of the great 
 Eastern door, on which is depicted a battle of the whites 
 with the redskins. At moments when the curtain is 
 drawn aside the bright refreshment-bar within is visible, 
 with its hundreds of glasses on the table. Now they 
 draw aside the curtain for good, and the throng enters. 
 The empty passages between the seats begin to resound 
 with the steps of people, and soon the dark moving mass 
 fills all the place from the highest point to the floor. It 
 is clear as day in the circus, for though they had not been 
 able to bring in gas pipes, a gigantic chandelier formed of 
 fifty kerosene lamps takes its place. In those gleams are 
 visible the heads of the beer drinkers, fleshy, thrown back 
 to give room to their chins, the youthful faces of women, 
 and the pretty, wondering visages of children, whose eyes 
 are almost coming out of their heads from curiosity. But 
 all the spectators have the curious, self-satisfied look that
 
 510 SACHEM. 
 
 is usual in an audience at a circus. Amid the hum of 
 conversation interrupted by cries of " Frisch wasser! frisch 
 wasser ! " (fresh water), all await the beginning with 
 impatience. 
 
 At last a bell sounds, six grooms appear in shining 
 boots, and stand in two ranks at the passage from the 
 stables to the arena. Between those ranks a furious 
 horse rushes forth, without bridle or saddle ; and on him, 
 as it were a bundle of muslin ribbons and tulle, is the 
 dancer Lina. They begin mano3uvring to the sound of 
 music. Lina is so pretty that young Matilda, daughter of 
 the brewer on Opuncia Gasse, alarmed at sight of her 
 beauty, inclines to the ear of Floss, a young grocer from 
 the same street, and asks in a whisper if he loves her yet. 
 Meanwhile the horse gallops, and puffs like an engine ; 
 the clowns, a number of whom run after the dancer, crack 
 whips, shout, and strike one another on the faces. The 
 dancer vanishes like lightning ; there is a storm of ap- 
 plause. What a splendid representation ! But No. One 
 passes quickly. No. Two is approaching. The word 
 " Sachem ! sachem ! " flies from mouth to mouth among 
 the spectators. No one gives a thought now to the 
 clowns, who cease not to strike one another. In the 
 midst of the apish movements of the clowns, the grooms 
 bring lofty wooden trestles several yards in height, and 
 put them on both sides of the arena. The band stops 
 playing Yankee Doodle, and gives the gloomy aria of the 
 Commandore in Don Juan. They extend the wire from one 
 trestle to the other. All at once a shower of red Bengal 
 light falls at the passage, and covers the whole arena with 
 a bloody glare. In that glare appears the terrible sachem, 
 the last of the Black Snakes. But what is that ? The 
 sachem is not there, but the manager of the troop him- 
 self, Hon. M. Dean. He bows to the public and raises his
 
 SACHEM. 511 
 
 voice. He has the honor to beg " the kind and respected 
 gentlemen, as well as the beautiful and no less respected 
 ladies, to be unusually calm, give no applause, and remain 
 perfectly still, for the chief is excited and wilder than 
 usual." These words produce no little impression, and a 
 wonderful thing ! those very citizens of Antelope who 
 fifteen years before had destroyed Chiavatta, feel now some 
 sort of very unpleasant sensation. _ A moment before, 
 when the beautiful Lina was performing her springs on 
 horseback, they were glad to be sitting so near, right there 
 close to the parapet, whence they could see everything so 
 well ; and now they look with a certain longing for the 
 upper seats of the circus, and in spite of all laws of 
 physics, find that the lower they are the more stifling 
 it is. 
 
 But could that sachem remember? He was reared 
 from years of childhood in the troupe of Hon. M. Dean, 
 composed mainly of Germans. Had he not forgotten 
 everything ? This seemed probable. His environment 
 and fifteen years of a circus career, the exhibition of his 
 art, the winning of applause, must have exerted their 
 influence. 
 
 Chiavatta, Chiavatta ! But they are Germans, they 
 are on their own soil, and think no more of the father- 
 land than business permits. Above all, man must eat 
 and drink. This truth every Philistine must keep in 
 mind, as well as the last of the Black Snakes. 
 
 These meditations are interrupted suddenly by a cer- 
 tain wild whistle in the stables, and on the arena appears 
 the sachem expected so anxiously. A brief murmur of 
 the crowd is heard : " That is he, that is he ! " 
 and then silence. But there is hissing from Bengal 
 lights, which burn continually at the passage. All eyes 
 are turned toward the chief, who in the circus will ap-
 
 512 SACHEM. 
 
 pear on the graves of his fathers. The Indian deserves 
 really that men should look at him. He seems as 
 haughty as a king. A mantle of white ermine the 
 mark of his chieftainship covers his figure, which is 
 lofty, and so wild that it brings to mind a badly tamed 
 jaguar. He has a face as it were forged out of bronze, 
 like the head of an eagle, and in his face there is a cold 
 gleam; his eyes are -genuinely Indian, calm, indifferent, 
 and ominous. He glances around on the assembly, as 
 if wishing to choose a victim. Moreover, he is armed 
 from head to foot. On his head plumes are waving, 
 at his girdle he has an axe and a knife for scalping; 
 but in his hand, instead of a bow, he holds a long 
 staff to preserve his balance when walking on the wire. 
 Standing in the middle of the arena he gives forth on 
 a sudden a war cry. Herr G-ott ! That is the cry of 
 the Black Snakes. Those who massacred Chiavatta re- 
 member clearly that terrible howl, and what is most 
 wonderful, those who fifteen years before had no fear 
 of one thousand such warriors are sweating now before 
 one. But behold ! the director approaches the chief and 
 says something to him, as if to pacify and calm him. 
 The wild beast feels the bit ; the words have their in- 
 fluence, for after a time the sachem is swaying on the 
 wire. With eyes fixed on the kerosene chandelier he 
 advances. The wire bends much ; at moments it is not 
 visible, and then the Indian seems suspended in space. 
 He is walking as it were upward ; he advances, retreats, 
 and again he advances, maintaining his balance. His 
 extended arms covered with the mantle seem like great 
 wings. He totters! he is falling! No. A short in- 
 terrupted bravo begins like a storm and stops. The face 
 of the chief becomes more and more threatening. In his 
 gaze fixed on the kerosene lamps is gleaming some ter-
 
 SACHEM. 513 
 
 rible light. There is alarm in the circus, but no one 
 breaks the silence. Meanwhile the sachem approaches 
 the end of the wire, stops ; all at once a war-song bursts 
 forth from his lips. 
 
 A strange thing ! . The chief sings in German. But 
 that is easy to understand. Surely he has forgotten the 
 tongue of the Black Snakes. Moreover, no one notices 
 that. All listen to the song, which rises and grows in 
 volume. It is a half chant, a kind of half call, im- 
 measurably plaintive, wild, and hoarse, full of sounds of 
 attack. 
 
 The following words were heard : " After the great yearly 
 rains, five hundred warriors used to go from Chiavatta 
 on the war-path or to spring hunts ; when they came 
 back from war they brought scalps, when they came back 
 from a hunt they brought the flesh and the skins of 
 buffaloes ; their wives met them with gladness, and they 
 danced in .honor of the Great Spirit. 
 
 " Chiavatta was happy. The women worked in the 
 wigwams, the children grew up to be beautiful maidens, 
 to be brave, fearless warriors. The warriors died on the 
 field of glory, and went to the silver mountains to hunt 
 with the ghosts of their fathers. Their axes were never 
 dipped in the blood of women and children, for the 
 warriors of Chiavatta were high-minded. Chiavatta was 
 powerful ; but pale-faces came from beyond distant 
 waters and set fire to Chiavatta. The white warriors 
 did not destroy the Black Snakes in battle, but they 
 stole in as do jackals at night, they buried their knives 
 in the bosoms of sleeping men, women, and children. 
 
 " Now there is no Chiavatta. In place of it the white 
 men have raised their stone wigwams. The murdered 
 nation and ruined Chiavatta cry out for vengeance." 
 
 The voice of the chief became hoarse. Standing on 
 
 33
 
 514 SACHEM. 
 
 the wire, he seemed a red archangel of vengeance float- 
 ing above the heads of that throng of people. Evidently 
 the director himself was afraid. A silence as of death 
 settled down in the circus. The chief howled on, 
 
 " Of the whole nation there remained only one little 
 child. He was weak and small, but he swore to the 
 spirit of the earth that he would have vengeance, that 
 he would see the corpses of white men, women, and 
 children, that he would see fire and blood." 
 
 The last words were changed into a bellow of fury. 
 In the circus murmurs were heard like the sudden puffs 
 of a whirlwind. Thousands of questions without answer 
 came to men's minds. What will he do, that mad tiger ? 
 What is he announcing ? How will he accomplish his 
 vengeance, he alone ? Will he stay here or flee ? 
 Will he defend himself, and how ? " Was ist das, was 
 1st das ? " is heard in the terrified accents of women. 
 
 All at once an unearthly howl was rent from the 
 breast of the chief. The wire swayed violently, he 
 sprang to the wooden trestle, standing at the chandelier, 
 and raised his staff. A terrible thought flew like a flash 
 through all heads. He will hurl around the lamps and 
 fill the circus with torrents of flaming kerosene From 
 the breasts of the spectators one shout was just rising; 
 but what do they see ? From the arena the cry comes, 
 " Stop ! stop ! " The chief is gone ! Has he jumped 
 down ? He has gone through the entrance without 
 firing the circus ! Where is he ? See, he is coming, 
 coming a second time, panting, tired, terrible. In his 
 hand is a pewter plate, and extending it to the specta- 
 tors, he calls in a voice of entreaty : " Was gefallig fur 
 den letzten der Schwarzen Schlangen ? " (What are you 
 pleased to give to the last of the Black Snakes ?) 
 
 A stone falls from the breasts of the spectators. You
 
 SACHEM. 515 
 
 see that was all in the programme, it was a trick of the 
 director for effect. The dollars and half dollars came 
 down in a shower. How could they say "No" to the 
 last of the Black Snakes, in Antelope reared on the ruins 
 of Chiavatta ? People have hearts. 
 
 After the exhibition, the sachem drank beer and ate 
 dumplings at the " Golden Sun." His environment had 
 exerted its influence, evidently. He found great popular- 
 ity in Antelope, especially with women, there was even 
 scandal about him.
 
 A COMEDY OF ERRORS.
 
 A COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 FIVE or six years since it happened that oil springs 
 were discovered in a certain place in Mariposa 
 County, California. The enormous profits which such 
 springs yield in Nevada and other States, induced a 
 number of men to form a company for the purpose of 
 working the newly-discovered springs. They brought in 
 various machines, pumps, engines, ladders, barrels, kegs, 
 drills, and kettles; they built houses for laborers, and 
 called the place Struck Oil. After a certain time a desert 
 and uninhabited neighborhood, which a year before was 
 inhabited only by coyotes, became a settlement composed 
 of a number of tens of houses occupied by several hundred 
 laborers. 
 
 Two years later, Struck Oil was called Struck Oil City. 
 In fact it was a " city " in the full meaning of that term. I 
 beg the reader to note that there were living in the city a 
 shoemaker, a tailor, a carpenter, a blacksmith, a butcher, 
 and a doctor, a Frenchman, who in his time had shaved 
 beards in France, but for the rest a " learned man," 
 and harmless, which in an American doctor means a great 
 deal. 
 
 The doctor, as happens very often in small American 
 towns, kept also a drug store and a poet-office ; therefore he 
 had a. triple practice. He was as harmless an apothecary 
 as he was a doctor, for it was possible to buy only two 
 kinds of medicine in his drug store, sugar sirup and
 
 520 A COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 leroa. 1 This quiet and mild old man said usually to his 
 patients, 
 
 " You need not fear my prescriptions, for when I give 
 medicine to a patient I always take the same dose 
 myself; I understand that if it will not hurt me while 
 in health it will not harm a sick man. Is n't that 
 true ? " 
 
 " True," answered the, reassured citizen, to whom some- 
 how it did not occur that it was not only the duty of a 
 doctor to avoid injuring a sick man, but to help him. 
 
 Monsieur Dasonville, such was the doctor's name, 
 believed especially in the miraculous effects of leroa. 
 More than once at meetings he removed the hat from his 
 head, and turning to the public said, 
 
 " Ladies and gentlemen, convince yourselves concerning 
 leroa. I am eighty-four years of age and use leroa every 
 day. Look at me, I have not one gray hair on my 
 head." 
 
 The ladies and gentlemen might discover that the 
 doctor had not one gray hair ; but then he had no hair 
 at all, for his head was as bald as a lamp globe. But 
 since discoveries of that kind contributed in no way to 
 the growth of Struck Oil City, no one made them. 
 
 Meanwhile Struck Oil City grew and grew. At the 
 expiration of two years a branch railroad was built to it. 
 The city had its elective officers also. The doctor, whom 
 everybody loved, was chosen judge, as a representative of 
 the intelligence ; the shoemaker, a Polish Jew, Mr. Davis 
 (David was his real name) was chosen sheriff, that is, 
 chief of the police, which was composed of the sheriff and 
 no one else ; they built a schoolhouse, for the manage- 
 ment of which a " schoolma'am " was imported on pur- 
 pose, a maiden born before man reckoned time, and who 
 1 Leroa is, no doubt, the French Le roi, the King.
 
 A COMEDY OF ERRORS. 521 
 
 had an eternal toothache ; finally, the first hotel rose, and 
 was named United States Hotel. 
 
 "Business" was lively beyond measure. The export 
 of oil brought good profit. It was noticed that Mr. Davis 
 had put out before his shop a glass showcase, like those 
 which adorn the shoeshops in San Francisco. At the 
 following meeting the inhabitants thanked Mr. Davis 
 publicly for this " new ornament to the city." Mr. Davis 
 answered with the modesty of a great citizen, " Thank 
 you ! thank you ! " 
 
 Where there is a judge and a sheriff there are lawsuits. 
 These require writing and paper. Therefore, on the cor- 
 ner of First and Coyote streets there arose a " stationery," 
 that is a paper shop, in which were sold also political 
 daily papers and caricatures, one of which represented 
 President Grant in the form of a man milking a cow, 
 which in her turn represented the United States. The 
 duties of the sheriff did not enjoin on him at all to forbid 
 the sale of such pictures, for that does not pertain to the 
 police. 
 
 But this was not the end yet. An American city can- 
 not exist without a newspaper. At the end of the second 
 year, therefore, a paper appeared called the " Saturday 
 Weekly Review," which had as many subscribers as there 
 were inhabitants in Struck Oil City. The editor of that 
 paper was its publisher, printer, business manager, and 
 carrier. The last duty came to him the more easily, since 
 in addition to his business he kept cows, and had to 
 deliver milk every morning at the houses of citizens. 
 But this did not prevent him in any way from beginning 
 his leading political articles with the words : " If our 
 miserable President of the United States had followed the 
 advice which we gave him in the last number," etc. 
 
 As we see, nothing was wanting in blessed Struck Oil
 
 522 A COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 City. Besides, since men who work at getting oil are not 
 distinguished either by the violence or rude manners 
 which mark gold-diggers, it was peaceful in the city. 
 No man had a fight with another ; there was not a word 
 spoken of " lynching ; " life flowed on calmly. One day 
 was as much like another as one drop of water is like 
 another. In the morning every man occupied himself 
 with " business ; " in the evening the inhabitants burned 
 sweepings on the street ; and, if there was no meeting, 
 they went to bed, knowing that on the following evening 
 they would burn sweepings again. 
 
 But the sheriff was annoyed by one thing, he could 
 not break the citizens from firing at wild^ geese which 
 flew over the place in the evening. The laws of the city 
 prohibited shooting on the streets. " If this were some 
 mangy little village," said the sheriff, " I would n't say 
 anything ; but in such a great city to have pif ! paf ! pif ! 
 paf ! is very unbecoming." 
 
 The citizens listened, nodded, and answered, " Oh, yes ; " 
 but in the evening when on the blushing sky the white 
 and gray lines appeared, stretching from the mountains 
 to the ocean, every man forgot his promise, seized his 
 carabine, and shooting began in good earnest. 
 
 Mr. Davis might, it is true, have summoned each tres- 
 passer before the judge, and the judge could punish him 
 with a fine ; but it must not be forgotten that the offenders 
 were in case of sickness patients of the doctor, and in 
 case of broken shoes customers of the sheriff; since then 
 hand washes hand, hand did not offend hand. Hence, it 
 was as peaceful in Struck Oil City as in heaven ; still, 
 those halcyon days had a sudden end. 
 
 A man who kept a grocery was inflamed with mortal 
 hatred toward a woman who kept a grocery, and the 
 woman with hatred toward him.
 
 A COMEDY OF ERRORS. 523 
 
 Here it may be needful to explain what that is which 
 in America is called " a grocery." A grocery is a place 
 in which they sell goods of all kinds. In a grocery you 
 can find flour, caps, cigars, brooms, buttons, rice, sardines, 
 stockings, ham, garden seeds, coats, pantaloons, lamp 
 chimneys, axes, crackers, crockery, paper-collars, dried 
 fish ; in a word, everything which a man can use. 
 
 At first there was only one grocery in Struck Oil City. 
 It was kept by a German named Hans Kasche. He was 
 a phlegmatic German from Prussia, thirty-five years of 
 age, and had staring eyes ; he was not fat, but portly ; he 
 went about always in his shirt-sleeves, and never let the 
 pipe out of his mouth. He knew as much English as 
 was needed in business ; beyond that not a toothful. 
 But he managed his business well, so that in a year peo- 
 ple said in Struck Oil City that he was worth several 
 thousand dollars. 
 
 On a sudden, however, a second grocery was opened. 
 
 And marvellous thing ! a German man kept the first 
 grocery, a German woman established the second. 
 Kunegunde und Eduard, Eduard und Kunegunde ! 
 Straightway a war was begun between the two sides ; it 
 began from this, that Miss Neumann, or, as she called 
 herself, " Miss Newman," gave at her opening " lunch " 
 pancakes baked from flour mixed with soda and alum. 
 She would have injured herself in the highest degree by 
 this in the opinion of the citizens, were it not that she 
 stated, and then proved by witnesses, that, as her flour 
 had not been opened, she had bought this from Hans 
 Kasche. It came out then that Hans Kasche was an 
 envious man and a villain, who wished from the very 
 first to ruin his rival in public estimation. Of course, 
 it was to be foreseen that the two groceries would be 
 rivals ; but no one could foresee that the rivalry would
 
 524 A COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 pass into such terrible personal hatred. Soon that hatred 
 increased to such a degree that Hans burned sweepings 
 only when the wind blew the sinoke from his shop to 
 that of his rival ; and the rival had no other name for 
 Hans than "Dutchman," which he considered as the 
 greatest insult. 
 
 At the beginning, the citizens laughed at both, all the 
 more since neither of them knew English ; gradually, 
 however, through daily relations with the groceries, two 
 parties were formed in the city, the Hansites and the 
 Newmanites, who began to look at each other askance, 
 which might have injured the happiness and peace of 
 Struck Oil City, and brought dreadful complications for 
 the future. Mr. Davis, the profound politician, was 
 anxious to cure the evil at its source ; hence he strove to 
 reconcile the German woman with the German man. 
 More than once he stood in the middle of the street, and 
 said to them in their native tongue, 
 
 " Well, why do you fight ? Is it because you do not 
 patronize the same shoemaker ? I have such shoes now 
 that in all San Francisco there are no better." 
 
 " It is useless to recommend shoes to him who will be 
 barefoot before long," replied Miss Newman, sourly. 
 
 " I do not win credit with my feet," answered Hans, 
 phlegmatically. 
 
 And it is necessary to know that Miss Newman, though 
 a German, had really pretty feet ; therefore such a taunt 
 filled her heart with mortal anger. 
 
 In the city the two parties began to raise the question 
 of Hans and Miss Newman ; but since no man in America 
 can obtain justice against a woman, the majority inclined 
 to the side of Miss Newman. 
 
 Soon Hans saw that his grocery was barely paying 
 expenses.
 
 A COMEDY OF ERRORS. 525 
 
 But Miss Newman too did not win such brilliant 
 victories, for soon all the married women in the city took 
 the side of Hans, for they noticed that their husbands 
 made purchases too often from the fair German, and sat 
 too long at each purchase. 
 
 When no one was in either shop, Hans and Miss 
 Newman stood in their doors, one opposite the other, 
 casting mutual glances filled with venom. Miss Newman 
 sang at such times to herself to the air of " Mein lieber 
 Augustin," 
 
 " Dutchman, Dutchman, Du-u-u-u-tchman, Du-u-u-u-tchman ! " 
 
 Hans looked at her feet, at her figure, at her face with 
 an expression such as he would have had in looking at a 
 coyote killed outside the city; then, bursting into 
 demonic laughter, he exclaimed, 
 
 " Mein Gott ! " 
 
 Hatred in that phlegmatic man rose to such a pitch 
 that when he appeared at the door in the morning, and 
 Miss Newman was not there, he was as fidgety as if 
 he missed something. 
 
 There would have been active collisions between them 
 long before, were it not that Hans was sure of defeat in 
 every official decision, and that all the more since Miss 
 Newman had on her side the editor of the " Saturday 
 Weekly Review." Hans convinced himself of this when 
 he spread the report that Miss Newman wore a false 
 bust. That was even likely, for in America it is a com- 
 mon custom. But on the following week there appeared 
 in the " Saturday Weekly Review " a thundering article, 
 in which the editor, speaking generally of the slanders of 
 " Dutchmen," ended with the solemn assurance " of one 
 well informed " that the bust of a certain slandered lady 
 is genuine.
 
 526 A COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 From that day forward Hans drank black coffee every 
 morning instead of white, for he would take milk no 
 longer from that editor ; but to make up for the loss, 
 Miss Newman took milk for two. Moreover, she ordered 
 at the dressmaker's a robe, which, by the cut of its 
 bosom, proved convincingly to all that Hans was a 
 slanderer. 
 
 Hans felt defenceless before woman's cunning ; mean- 
 while his opponent, standing before her shop every morn- 
 ing, sang louder and louder, 
 
 " Dutchman, Dutchman, Du-u-u-u-tchman, Du-u-u-u-tchman ! " 
 
 " What arn I to do ? " thought Hans. " I have wheat 
 poisoned for rats ; let me poison her hens with it ? No, 
 the justice would sentence me to pay for them. But I 
 know what to do." 
 
 And in the evening Miss Newman, to her great aston- 
 ishment, saw Hans carrying bunches of wild sunflowers, 
 and laying them out as if in a row under the barred 
 window of his cellar. " I am curious to know what 
 is coming," thought she to herself, " surely something 
 against me." Meanwhile night came. Hans had put the 
 sunflowers in two rows, so that only between them was 
 there an open path to the window of the cellar ; then he 
 brought some object covered with cloth, and turned his 
 back to Miss Newman. He took the cloth from the 
 mysterious object, covered it with sunflower leaves, then 
 approached the wall, and began to make certain letters on 
 it. 
 
 Miss Newman was dying with curiosity. " Of course he 
 is writing something about me," thought she ; " but only 
 let all go to sleep, 1 11 walk over there and see, even if it 
 kills me." 
 
 When Hans had finished his work, he went upstairs,
 
 A COMEDY OF ERRORS. 527 
 
 and soon after put his light out. Then Miss Newman 
 threw on her wrapper quickly, put slippers on her bare 
 feet, and went across the street. When she came to the 
 sunflowers, she went straight to the window, wishing to 
 read the writing on the wall. Suddenly the eyes went 
 up into her head ; she threw back the upper half of her 
 body, and from her mouth came with pain, " Ei ! ei ! " 
 then the despairing cry, " Help ! help ! " 
 
 The window above was raised. " Was ist das ? " was 
 heard in the quiet voice of Hans. " Was ist das ? " 
 
 "Cursed Dutchman," screamed the lady, "you have 
 murdered me, destroyed me ! You '11 hang to-morrow. 
 Help! help!" 
 
 " I '11 come down right away," said Hans. 
 
 In fact he appeared after a while with a light in his 
 hand. He looked at Miss Newman, who was as if 
 spiked to the earth ; then he caught his sides, and began 
 to laugh. 
 
 " What is this ? Miss Newman ? Ha ! ha ! ha ! Good 
 evening, Miss Newman ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! I put out a 
 skunk-trap, and caught Miss Newman. Why did you 
 come to look at my cellar ? I wrote a notice on the wall 
 to keep away. Scream now ; let people crowd up here ; 
 let all see that you come at night to look into the 
 Dutchman's cellar. mein Gott ! Cry away ; but stay 
 there till morning. Good-by, Miss Newman, good-by ! " 
 
 The position of Miss Newman was dreadful. If she 
 screamed, people would collect, she would be compro- 
 mised ; if she did n't cry, she 'd stay all night caught in 
 a trap, and next day make a show of herself. And there 
 her foot was paining her more and more. Her head 
 whirled, around ; the stars were confused with one 
 another, and the moon with the ominous face of Hans 
 Kasche. She fainted.
 
 528 A COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 " fferr Je! " cried Hans to himself, " if she dies, they 
 will lynch me in the morning without trial;" and the 
 hair rose on his head from terror. 
 
 There was no help for it. Hans looked for his key as 
 quickly as possible to open the trap ; but it was n't easy 
 to open it, for Miss Newman's wrapper was in the way. 
 He had to put it aside somewhat ; and, in spite of all his 
 hatred and fear, Hans couldn't help casting an eye at the 
 feet beautiful as if of marble, those feet of his enemy 
 lighted by the red gleam of the moon. 
 
 A man might say that in his hatred then there was 
 compassion. He opened the trap quickly ; and, since 
 Miss Newman made no movement, he took her in his 
 arms, and carried her to her dwelling. On the way he 
 felt compassion again. Then he went home, and could n't 
 close an eye all that night. 
 
 Next morning Miss Newman did not appear before her 
 grocery to sing, 
 
 " Dutchman, Dutchman. Du-u-u-u-tchman, Du-u-u-u-tchman I " 
 
 Maybe that she was ashamed, and maybe that in silence 
 she was forging revenge. 
 
 It turned out that she was forging revenge. On the 
 evening of that same day the editor of the " Saturday 
 Weekly Eeview " challenged Hans to fight with fists, and 
 at the very beginning of the battle he gave him a black 
 eye. But Hans, brought to despair, gave so many ter- 
 rible blows to the editor that, after a short and vain 
 opposition, the editor fell his whole length, crying, 
 " Enough ! Enough ! " 
 
 It is unknown by what means, for it was n't through 
 Hans, the whole city heard about the night adventure 
 of Miss Newman. After the fight with the editor, com-
 
 A COMEDY OF ERRORS. 529 
 
 passion for his enemy vanished again from Hans's heart, 
 and there remained only hatred. 
 
 Hans Kasche had a foreboding that some unexpected 
 blow would strike him from the hated hand. In fact he 
 'did not have to wait long. Grocery-keepers paste up on 
 their shops advertisements of various articles entitled 
 usually " Notice." Besides, it is necessary to know that 
 usually they sell ice to saloon-keepers, without ice no 
 American drinks either whiskey or beer. All at once 
 Hans noticed that people stopped taking ice of him. The 
 immense blocks, which he had brought b} r railroad and 
 put in the cellar, thawed ; there was a loss of several 
 dollars. Why was that ? How was it ? Hans saw that 
 even his partisans bought ice every day from Miss New- 
 man ; he did n't know what this meant, especially since 
 he had not quarrelled with a single saloon-keeper. He 
 determined to clear up the matter. 
 
 " Why don't you take ice of me ? " asked he, in broken 
 English, of a saloon-keeper, Peters, who was just passing 
 his grocery. 
 
 " Because you don't keep any." 
 
 " Why don't I keep any ? " 
 
 " How do I know ? " 
 
 " Aber I keep it." 
 
 " But what is that ? " asked the saloon-keeper, pointing 
 to the notice stuck up on the grocery. 
 
 Hans looked, and grew green from rage ; from his 
 " Notice " some one has scratched out the letter t from 
 the middle of the word, in consequence of which " Notice " 
 became " No ice." 
 
 " Donnerwetter ! " screamed Hans, and all blue and trem- 
 bling, he rushed to Miss Newman's grocery. 
 
 " That 's scoundrelism ! " cried he, foaming at the mouth. 
 " Why did you scratch out a letter in the middle from me ? " 
 
 34
 
 530 A COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 " What did I scratch out from you in the middle ? " 
 asked Miss Newman, with a look of innocence. 
 
 " The letter t, I say. You scratched out t from me ! 
 Aber Gottam ! this cannot last longer. You must pay 
 me for that ice, Miss Newman ! Gottam ! Gottam ! " 
 
 And losing his ordinary cool blood, he began to roar 
 like a madman, whereupon Miss Newman fell to scream- 
 ing ; people flew together in a crowd. 
 
 " Help ! " cried Miss Newman. " The Dutchman is 
 raving ! He says that I scratched something out of his 
 middle, and I haven't scratched anything from him. 
 What was I to scratch ? I have n't scratched anything. 
 In God's name ! I 'd scratch his eyes out if I could, but 
 nothing else. I am a poor lone woman ! he '11 kill me, 
 he '11 murder me ! " 
 
 Screaming in this way, she covered herself with hot 
 tears. The Americans did n't know, in fact, what the 
 question was ; but Americans will not endure woman's 
 tears ; therefore they took the German by the neck, and 
 through the door with him. He wanted to resist ; little 
 use in that ! he flew as out of a sling, flew through the 
 street, flew through his own door, and dropped at full 
 length. 
 
 A week later there hung an immense painted sign on 
 his shop. The sign represented an ape in a striped dress, 
 with a white apron and shoulder straps, in one word, 
 exactly like Miss Newman. Underneath stood an inscrip-. 
 tion in great golden letters, 
 
 "GROCERY UNDER THE APE." 
 
 The people collected to look at it. Their laughter 
 brought Miss Newman to the door. She came out, looked, 
 grew pale, but without losing presence of mind called out 
 at once,
 
 A COMEDY OF ERRORS. 531 
 
 " Grocery under the ape ? No wonder, for Hans Kasche 
 lives over the grocery. Ha ! " 
 
 The blow however pierced her to the heart. In the 
 afternoon she heard how crowds of children passing the 
 grocery on their way from school, and stopping before 
 the sign, cried, 
 
 " Oh, that 's Miss Newman ! Good evening, Miss 
 Newman ! " 
 
 This was too much. In the evening when the editor 
 came to her, she said to him, 
 
 " That ape means me, I know that ; but I will not give 
 up my own. He must take down that ape and lick it off 
 before me with his own tongue." 
 
 " What do you wish to do, Miss Newman ? " 
 
 " I '11 go this minute to the judge." 
 
 " How this minute ? " 
 
 " To-morrow." 
 
 In the morning she went out, and walking up to Hans, 
 said, 
 
 " Listen to me, Mr. Dutchman, I know that that ape 
 means me. Come with me to the judge. We '11 see what 
 he '11 say to this." 
 
 " He will say that I am free to paint on my shop what 
 I like." 
 
 " We '11 see about that very soon." Miss Newman was 
 hardly able to breathe. 
 
 " But how do you know that that ape means you ? " 
 
 " Conscience tells me. Come, come to the judge ; if not, 
 the sheriff will take you in chains." 
 
 " Very well, I '11 go," said Hans, certain of victory. 
 
 They shut up their groceries and went, meditating for 
 themselves along the road. Only wnen they were at 
 Judge Dasonville's door did they remember that neither 
 of them knew English enough to explain the affair.
 
 532 A COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 What were they to do ? The sheriff, being a Polish Jew, 
 knew German and English. They went to the sheriff; 
 but the sheriff was just getting into his wagon to drive 
 off. 
 
 " Go to the devil ! " said he, in a hurry. " The whole 
 city is disturbed by you ! You wear the same shoes 
 whole years ! I am going for lumber. Good-by ! " And 
 he drove away. 
 
 Hans put his hands on his hips. " You must wait till 
 to-morrow," said he, phlegmatically. 
 
 " I wait ? I 'd die first, unless you take down the 
 ape." 
 
 " I won't take it down." 
 
 " You '11 hang, Dutchman. We '11 do without the 
 sheriff. The judge knows already what the matter is." 
 
 " We '11 go without the sheriff," said the German. 
 
 Miss Newman was mistaken, however. The judge was 
 the only man in the whole city who did n't know one 
 word of their quarrels. The old man was busy in pre- 
 paring his leroa, and thought he was saving the world. 
 He received them as he received every one usually, with 
 kindness and politely. 
 
 " Show your tongues, my children ! " said he ; "I will 
 prescribe for you this minute." 
 
 Both waved their hands in sign that they did n't want 
 medicine. Miss Newman repeated, "Not that, not 
 that ! " 
 
 " What then ? " 
 
 They interrupted each other. When Hans said a word 
 the lady said ten. At last she fell upon the idea of 
 pointing to her heart as a sign that Hans had offended 
 her mortally. 
 
 " I understand ! I understand now ! " cried the 
 doctor.
 
 A COMEDY OF ERRORS. 533 
 
 Then he opened his book and began to write. He 
 asked Hans how old he was, thirty-six. He asked the 
 lady; she didn't remember exactly, something about 
 twenty-five. All right ! What were their names ? 
 Hans, Lora. All right ! What was their occupation ? 
 They kept grocery. All right! Then other questions. 
 Neither of them understood, but they answered yes. 
 The doctor nodded. All was over. 
 
 He stopped writing, rose on a sudden, to the great 
 astonishment of Lora put his arm around her waist and 
 kissed her. She took this as a good omen, and went 
 home full of rosy hopes. 
 
 On the road she said to Hans, " I '11 show you ! " 
 
 " You '11 show some one else," said the German, calmly. 
 
 Next morning the sheriff passed in front of the 
 groceries. The German man and woman were before 
 their own doors. Hans was smoking his pipe, and Miss 
 Newman was singing, 
 
 " Dutchman, Dutchman, Du-u-u-u-tchman, Du-u-u-u-tchman ! " 
 
 " Do you want to go to the justice ? " asked the sheriff. 
 
 " We have been there." 
 
 Well, and what ? " 
 
 " My dear sheriff ! My dear Mr. Davis ! " cried Miss 
 Newman, "go and find out. I just need some shoes ; and 
 speak a word for me to the justice. You see I am a poor, 
 lone woman." 
 
 The sheriff went, and came back in a quarter of an 
 hour. But it is unknown why he was surrounded by a 
 crowd of people. 
 
 " Well, what ? how was it ? " both began to inquire. 
 
 "All is right," said the sheriff. 
 
 "Well, what did the justice do?" 
 
 " Well, what harm had he to do ? He married you."
 
 534 A COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 " Married ! " 
 
 " Well, don't people marry ? " 
 
 If a thunderbolt had burst on a sudden, Hans and 
 Miss Newman would n't have been astonished to that 
 degree. Hans stared, opened his mouth, hung out his 
 tongue, and looked like a fool at Miss Newman ; Miss 
 Newman stared, opened her mouth, hung out her tongue, 
 and looked like a fool at Hans. They were petrified. 
 Then both screamed, 
 
 "Am I to be his wife?" 
 
 " Am I to be her husband ? " 
 
 " Murder ! murder ! Never ! A divorce right away ! 
 I won't have a marriage ! " 
 
 "No, it 's I that won't have it ! " 
 
 " I '11 die first ! murder ! A divorce, a divorce ! " 
 
 "My dears," said the sheriff, quietly, "what good will 
 screaming do you ? The judge marries, but the judge 
 cannot divorce. What 's the use in screaming ? Are 
 you millionnaires from San Francisco, to get a divorce ; 
 or don't you know what that costs ? Ai ! What 's the 
 use in screaming ? I have nice children's shoes for sale 
 cheap. Good-by 1 " 
 
 When he had said that he went away. The people 
 too went away laughing; the newly married remained 
 alone. 
 
 " That Frenchman," cried the married lady, " did this 
 purposely, because we are Germans." 
 
 " Rich tig [correct] ," answered Hans. 
 
 " But we '11 go for a divorce." 
 
 " I first ! You took me that t from the middle." 
 
 " No ! I '11 go first ! You caught me in the trap." 
 
 " I don't want you." 
 
 " I can't bear you." 
 
 They separated and closed their shops. She sat at
 
 A COMEDY OF ERRORS. 535 
 
 home thinking all day ; he sat at home. Night came. 
 Night brought no rest ; neither could think of sleep. 
 They lay down, but their eyes would not close. He 
 thought, " My wife is sleeping over there ; " she, " My 
 husband is sleeping over there." And some strange feel- 
 ing rose in their hearts. It was hatred, anger, together 
 with a feeling of loneliness. Besides, Hans began to think 
 of the ape on his grocery. How keep it there when it 
 was now a caricature of his wife ? It seemed to him that 
 he had played a very ugly trick when he gave an order 
 to paint the ape. But again that Miss Newman ! But 
 he hates her ; through her his ice thawed ; he caught her 
 during moonlight in a trap. Here again those outlines 
 came to his mind, which he saw in the moonlight. " But, 
 really, she is a brave girl," thought he. " But she can't 
 stand me and I can't stand her. That 's a position ! 
 Ach ! Jfferr Oott ! I am married. To whom ? To Miss 
 Newman ! And here a divorce costs so much that the 
 whole grocery would n't pay for it." 
 
 " I am the wife of that Dutchman," said Miss Newman 
 to herself. " I 'm no longer a maiden, that is, I mean 
 to say single, but married ! To whom ? To Kasche, 
 who caught me in a trap. It is true that he took me up 
 and brought me home. And how strong he is ! Just 
 took me up. What 's that ? Is there some noise 
 here?" 
 
 There was no noise whatever; but Miss Newman 
 began to be afraid, though up to that time she had never 
 been afraid. 
 
 " But if he should dare now O God " Then she 
 added, with a voice in which was heard a certain strange 
 note of disappointment, " But he won't dare. He " 
 
 With all that her fear increased. "That's always 
 the way with a lone woman," thought she. "If there
 
 536 A COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 was a man in the house it would be safer. I Ve heard 
 of murders in the neighborhood [Miss Newman had 
 not heard of murders]. I swear that if they kill me 
 here Ah, that Kasche ! that Kasche ! has stopped 
 my road. But it 's necessary to take measures for a 
 divorce." 
 
 Thinking thus she turned sleeplessly on her wide 
 American bed, and really felt very lonely. She sprang 
 up again suddenly. This time her fear had a real foun- 
 dation. In the silence of night was heard distinctly the 
 pounding of a hammer. 
 
 " Heaven ! " cried Miss Newman, " they are breaking 
 into my grocery ! " 
 
 She sprang out of bed and ran to the window ; but 
 when she looked out she was at rest in a moment. By 
 the light of the moon a ladder was visible, and on it the 
 portly white figure of Hans drawing with a hammer the 
 nails fastening the sign of the ape. 
 
 Miss Newman opened the window quietly. 
 
 " He is taking down the ape, that is honorable on 
 his part," thought she. And she felt all at once as if 
 something were melting around her heart. 
 
 Hans drew out the nails one after another. The plate 
 fell to the ground with a rattle ; then he came down, 
 took off the frame, folded up the plate in his strong hands, 
 and began to remove the ladder. 
 
 Miss Newman followed him with her eyes. The night 
 was quiet and warm. 
 
 " Herr Hans," called she, in a low voice. 
 
 " You are not sleeping ? " answered Hans, in an equally 
 low tone. 
 
 "No; good evening, Herr." 
 
 " G-ood evening." 
 
 " What are you doing ? ''
 
 A COMEDY OF ERRORS. 537 
 
 " Taking down the ape." 
 
 " Thank you, Herr Hans." 
 
 A moment of silence. 
 
 " Herr Hans," said the maiden again. 
 
 " What is it, Fraulein Lora ? " 
 
 " We must arrange for the divorce." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " To-morrow ? " 
 
 " To-morrow." 
 
 A moment of silence ; the moon was laughing, the dogs 
 not barking. 
 
 " Herr Hans ! " 
 
 " What, Fraulein Lora ? " 
 
 " I should like to have that divorce right away." Her 
 voice had a melancholy tone. 
 
 " I too, Fraulein Lora." His voice was sad. 
 
 " So there should be no delay, you see." 
 
 "Better not delay." 
 
 " The sooner we talk the question over the better.'* 
 
 " The better, Fra'ulein Lora." 
 
 " Then we may talk it over right away." 
 
 " If you permit." 
 
 " Then come over here." 
 
 " Only let me dress." 
 
 " No need of ceremony." 
 
 The door below opened. Herr Hans vanished in the 
 darkness, and after a while found himself in the young 
 woman's chamber, which was quiet, warm, tidy. She 
 wore a white dressing-gown, and was enchanting. 
 
 " I am listening to you," said Hans, with a broken, soft 
 voice. 
 
 "But, you see, I should like very much to get a 
 divorce, but I am afraid somebody on the street will 
 see us."
 
 538 A COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 " But it is dark in the window," said Hans. 
 u Ah, that is true ! " answered she. 
 Thereupon began a conversation concerning divorce 
 which does not belong to this narrative. 
 Peace returned to Struck Oil City.
 
 A JOURNEY TO ATHENS.
 
 A JOURNEY TO ATHENS. 
 
 IN leaving Stambul for Athens on the French steamer 
 Donnai, I had before me the most beautiful view 
 which it is possible to have in the world. The sky, 
 rainy for a number of weeks, had at last become per- 
 fectly clear, and was reddened with a splendid evening. 
 The neighboring Asiatic shore was flooded with light ; 
 the Bosphorus and Golden Horn looked like gigantic 
 ribbons of fire ; Pera, Galata, Stambul, with their towers 
 and domes, and minarets of mosques, were sunk in purple 
 and gold. 
 
 The Donnai turned her prow toward the Sea of Mar- 
 mora and began to stir the water lightly, pushing with 
 care through the crowd of steamers, sailing vessels, small 
 boats, and kayuks. Constantinople is one of the best 
 anchoring places in Europe, and at the foot of this city, 
 which from its steep slopes rules over two seas, there is 
 another crowded city of ships. As over the first one 
 tower minarets, over the second tower masts, on these 
 masts is a rainbow of flags, and this lower city is not less 
 noisy than the other. Here, as well as there, is a mix- 
 ture of tongues, races, complexions, garments. One sees 
 here all types of men who inhabit the adjoining three 
 parts of the earth, beginning with Englishmen, and end- 
 ing with those half-savage dwellers of Asia Minor, who 
 have come to the capital to earn a morsel of bread, as 
 " kayukjis." 
 
 We passed the point on which stands the old Serai.
 
 542 A JOURNEY TO ATHENS. 
 
 Pera, Galata, and Stambul began to merge into one ter- 
 raced city, the borders of which the eye could not reach. 
 Neither Naples nor any other place on earth can com- 
 pare with that magnificent panorama. All descriptions, 
 from those of Lamartine to those of De Amicis, are 
 simply pale reflections of reality, for the words of men 
 are but sound, hence unable to present to us either colors 
 or those forms, now slender and aerial, now immense and 
 tremendous. At times it seemed that a whole city of 
 enchanted palaces was hanging in the air ; then again I 
 was under the impression of such majesty, greatness, and 
 might, as if from that city terror were still going forth 
 over Europe, and as if in the tower of the Seraskierat 
 to-day, just as in past times, the fates of the world were 
 in balance. 
 
 From the Sea of Marmora the naked eye could dis- 
 tinguish only the larger buildings, that is, the old Serai, a 
 part of the walls of the Seven-towered Castle, Saint 
 Sophia, Suleimanie, and the tower of the Seraskierat. 
 The foundations of the city seemed to sink slowly ; 
 first the encircling walls hid themselves, then the lower 
 rows of houses, then the higher, then the mosques 
 and their domes. The city seemed to be drowning. It 
 was growing dark in the sky, but on the arrow-like 
 minarets the last ruddy and golden gleams were still fall- 
 ing. One might have said that they were a thousand 
 gigantic torches burning above a city now invisible. 
 
 That is the hour in which the muezzins go out on the 
 balconies of minarets and call the faithful to prayer, 
 announcing to the four corners of the world that God is 
 great and that God's night is coming down to us. 
 
 In fact night was coming, not only God's night, but a 
 serene and a starry one. Night is a time for meditation ; 
 and because the fates of future peace or war are weighed
 
 A JOURNEY TO ATHENS. 543 
 
 really in the neighborhood of these straits, it is difficult 
 to keep from political soothsaying. Still I will not 
 occupy myself with it. 
 
 Let the daily papers do that work. Should future 
 events give the lie to them, they will not be disgusted, I 
 think, with their specialty. To me, as a novelist, comes 
 a thought more literary in character, which, moreover, I 
 throw out in parenthesis. 
 
 Well, it occurs to me that those gleams of the evening, 
 those flaming waters, those palaces and minarets bathed 
 in gold and purple, are something as real and actual as the 
 dead dogs lying by tens on the streets of Stambul. But 
 there are novelists of a certain school, especially those 
 forming the gray end of it, who prefer the description of 
 dead dogs, to the no less real sunsets, blue expanses of the 
 sea, and other wonderful aspects of nature. Why is this ? 
 Of course there are various causes, but among them 
 doubtless is this one, that to depict the beautiful in all its 
 splendor a man needs more power and more colors on 
 his palette than to depict the disgusting, and that in 
 general it is easier to make a man's mouth water than to 
 move his soul. 
 
 But I have no thought of raising a polemic, hence I 
 touch these thing only in passing ; now I shall follow the 
 course of the steamer. 
 
 Mail steamers leaving Stambul in the evening are in 
 the Dardanelles at dawn, with daylight they enter the 
 Archipelago. We are in the Dardanelles then. Our 
 steamer pushes forward between two shores lying close 
 to each other; on those shores fortresses are visible and 
 the black jaws of cannon which look forth from both 
 sides at the straits. After a while we stop, for the 
 steamer before issuing from that gorge must show papers 
 and clear itself : whence has it come and whither is it
 
 544 A JOURNEY TO ATHENS. 
 
 sailing ? The shores appear barren, covered with cliffs 
 which crumble, are ground fine and piled into stone 
 drifts. The whole landscape is melancholy and sterile, 
 though the sun is just rising and sculptures every out- 
 line beautifully. The straits themselves are narrower 
 than the Bosphorus, or even the Vistula. On the right 
 side the houses of Gallipoli stand out in whiteness ; their 
 squalor and misery is evident even from afar. And 
 again the question occurs to one, which in the East 
 occurs almost everywhere, in Eustchuk, in Varna, in 
 Burgas, in Stambul itself : Are these the countries for 
 which human blood has been spilt in quantity sufficient 
 to fill the whole straits ? Is it for these half-ruined cities, 
 inhabited by semi-pauperous people, for those barren 
 plains and sterile cliffs, that millions are expended and 
 immense armies supported ; that the lives of generations 
 of people pass in uncertainty of the day and hour ? In 
 the Dardanelles more than in any place must a man 
 give himself this question. There are regions whose 
 main expression is wildness or melancholy ; but I have 
 never seen a landscape which said so clearly : I am age 
 and exhaustion ; I am abandonment and 'misery ! And 
 still in those straits lies the heart of the whole question. 
 It is not so much a question of the Bosphorus, or of 
 Tsargrad 1 itself, as it is of the Dardanelles. That narrow 
 shaft of water, that rocky corridor, is the one window and 
 also the door leading from regions behind to the world. 
 
 " Have you read of those cords," said to me a fellow- 
 traveller, an Englishman, " which the Sultans used to 
 send on a time to Grand Viziers, or unsuccessful com- 
 manders ? These straits are such cords ; it is possible to 
 choke the Black Sea with them, and even Constantinople 
 itself." 
 
 1 Constantinople, the Tsar's city.
 
 A JOURNEY TO ATHENS. 545 
 
 Meanwhile we sailed out into the Archipelago, to that 
 famous sea which the ancient Greeks called a picture of 
 the heavens, for it is dotted with islands as the heavens 
 are dotted with stars. It is for this reason likely that 
 they named it Arch-sea. Soon we saw the cliffs of Lemnos 
 in front of us, the first island that is seen after issuing 
 from the Dardanelles. Nothing in the north is delineated 
 with definiteness equal to that of pearly Imbros ; on the 
 other side, nearer the Asiatic shore, stands Tenedos, on 
 which the standard of the Prophet still waves, but above 
 the whole Archipelago floats the soul of ancient Greece, 
 with its songs and traditions. Under the influence of 
 such memories, perhaps, these shores seem somehow dif- 
 ferent from all others which we see before coming here, 
 and they answer to the outlines in which imagination 
 paints the Grecian shores. Everything visible is naked, 
 barren, just as it is near the Dardanelles, neither tree 
 nor human habitation ; the region is gray olive in color, 
 as if sunburnt and faded, but extended in long and bold 
 direct lines like the prototypes of Doric architecture. 
 One hill rears itself above another ; here and there the 
 peak of some height peers up, hardly visible in the blue 
 curtain of distance ; farther on, the background is en- 
 tirely concealed. Above all is a simple and dignified 
 melancholy. Once, according to tradition, the hammers 
 of Hephaistos pounded in the volcano of Lemnos. Per- 
 haps it was here that he forged the famous shield of 
 Achilles ? To-day the crater of Mosychlos is silent, for 
 the volcano is extinct ; tradition has outlived the volcano 
 and even the god. 
 
 On the right and the left appear islands continually; 
 with the enumeration of these I shall not trouble the 
 memory or attention of any man. The eye sees farther 
 on the Archipelago than on other European waters. 
 
 35
 
 546 A JOURNEY TO ATHENS. 
 
 Even the remotest islands are seen so clearly and defi- 
 nitely that one may distinguish almost every fissure in 
 the rocks, and plants covering the brinks of precipices. 
 So much light is poured down to the earth from the 
 heavens here, that Italy itself can give no idea of it. 
 The sea and the sky are not merely blue, they are lumi- 
 nous. In other lands, the sun seems to scorch and 
 to shine ; here, it penetrates the whole landscape, soaks in, 
 permeates, coalesces with it, excluding absolutely every 
 shadow. Therefore, nothing is defined here so sharply as 
 on the shores of the Mediterranean for example. Every 
 outline on which the eye rests is immensely expressive, 
 and still mild, for it is embraced by a single tone which 
 is very clear and also tender. 
 
 The Arch-sea is not always calm. Those same whirl- 
 winds which bore the ship of Odysseus to the Cyclops 
 rush on at times among the islands in the guise of wild 
 horses ; the waves thunder and hurl snow-white foam to 
 the summits of cliffs on the shore. But at the moment 
 of which I am speaking, the blue expanse was as smooth 
 as a mirror, and only after the ship came a broad foam- 
 ing pathway. There was not the least breeze during 
 daylight. The steamer advanced as if on a lake, so the 
 deck was swarming with passengers. There was no lack 
 even of elegant toilets, for the women of Athens like, more 
 than other daughters of Eve, to wear their best on every 
 occasion. 
 
 That assembly on deck lasted till late in the evening. 
 The Greeks form acquaintance easily, to gratify their love 
 of talk, perhaps. Their politeness is even too effusive for 
 sincerity. In general, they boast immeasurably, not only 
 of their ancient but their present civilization. From 
 moment to moment they enumerate to strangers Greek 
 celebrities of the day, scientific and artistic, known loudly
 
 A JOURNEY TO ATHENS. 547 
 
 as it were in all Europe ; and they are astonished if any 
 one has not heard of them. This or that painter with his 
 latest picture has destroyed Ge'rome utterly ; this or that 
 scientist inoculated for hydrophobia years earlier than 
 Pasteur, which, speaking in parenthesis, is the more won- 
 derful as there is no hydrophobia in southern countries. 
 One might think, while hearing them, that as God once 
 acted solely through the Franks, so now He makes use of 
 the Greeks with far greater effectiveness. If anything of 
 prime importance happens in the world, search carefully, 
 and thou wilt find a Greek there. 
 
 Night in the Archipelago is as beautiful as the day. 
 Such nights Homer called >c ambrosial." The bases of 
 the islands are wrapped in mist the most delicate ; the 
 moon whitens the summits of the mountains ; but not 
 the least cloud is visible on the sky, and the whole sea is 
 covered with silvery trails, the widest made by the 
 moon, others by stars. That phenomenon is unknown in 
 the North ; but more than once in Southern seas I have 
 seen those silver trails, or rather stripes, playing from the 
 stars on the water. 
 
 We are sailing amid such silence that every turn of the 
 screw is heard. On the horizon we see a number of ships, 
 or rather their lanterns, which seem from afar like many 
 colored swaying points suspended in the atmosphere. 
 
 These ships for the greater part are making, as we are, 
 for the Piraeus, where they will be at daylight. At the 
 first dawn in fact the screw ceases to roar and that sudden 
 silence rouses all passengers. We dress ; we hurry to the 
 deck, the Piraeus, Attica. 
 
 I suppose that the most callous of visitors must stand 
 on this soil with a certain emotion, face to face with 
 Athens. Envoys once carried to the Pope the great 
 banner of all Islam taken at Vienna, and asked relics in
 
 548 A JOURNEY TO ATHENS. 
 
 return for it. " You have no need to seek relics," replied 
 the Pope ; " take a handful of your own earth, it is soaked 
 in the blood of martyrs." So we may say in like manner 
 of the soil of Attica : every handful of it is penetrated 
 with Grecian thought and Grecian art. You will recall, 
 surely, " the mothers " in the second part of Faust, those 
 prototypes and first patterns of everything existing beyond 
 the world and space, so majestic in their indefinite loneli- 
 ness that they are terrible. Attica, while neither in- 
 definite nor terrible, is the intellectual mother of all who 
 are civilized. Without her, it is unknown where we might 
 be at present, or what we might have become. Attica is 
 the sun of the ancient world ; and after its historical 
 setting there remained so mighty an effulgence behind, 
 that from it came the Eenaissance or rebirth after the 
 darkness of the Middle Ages. I say, Attica, and not 
 Greece, for Attica was to Hellas what Hellas was to the 
 world. In one word, when we enter that land we are at 
 the source. Other civilizations on the neighboring shores 
 of Africa and Asia, among other races of people, were 
 developed into monsters ; Grecian civilization alone re- 
 mained human. Others were lost in phantasms ; it 
 was unique in this that it took the existent world as 
 the basis for art and science, and was able from ele- 
 ments purely actual to develop the loftiest harmony ; a 
 harmony truly divine. Greece had the mind to be god- 
 like without ceasing to be human, and this explains her 
 significance. 
 
 At the moment when we touched Grecian soil " rosy 
 fingered Aurora " was entering the sky. From the 
 Piraeus to Athens one may go by rail, but it is incom- 
 parably better to take a carriage and see accurately 
 everything which may be seen in half an hour on the 
 way. The road from the Piraeus is occupied on both
 
 A JOURNEY TO ATHENS. 549 
 
 sides by sycamores; it passes through the so-called plain 
 of Attica, which the Cephissus waters, or, rather, might 
 water. Every name here rouses an echo in the memory and 
 an historical reminiscence. Were it not for this, the Cephis- 
 sus would rouse no very great regard ; for as there are 
 bridges in Poland which do not exist, so the Cephissus is a 
 non-existent river ; this means that in the parched and 
 burnt bed of it not one drop of water is flowing. The plain 
 is narrow. On the left hand, in the direction of the Bay of 
 Eleusis, we see the mountains of Daphne and the Poikilon ; 
 on the right is honey-bearing Hymettus, and Pentelicus, 
 which to-day, as in old times, furnishes Athenians with 
 marble. The country seems sun-parched, empty, sterile. 
 The fields, mountains, and cliffs have an ashen hue, im- 
 measurably delicate, with a tinge somewhat bluish. This 
 is a color into which all others merge in Greece; and it 
 predominates everywhere, on the islands as well as the 
 mainland. 
 
 Half-way on the road, the olive grove also seems covered 
 with light ashes. Above everything is a cloudless, azure 
 sky, not so deep a blue as in Italy, but, as I have stated, 
 more radiant a hundred times. The earth is as if rent. 
 The rocks crumble, turn to dust, and are scattered. This 
 gives the whole region an aspect of ruin and desertion. 
 But this aspect becomes it. Silence, decrepitude, sleepy 
 olive-trees, and barren cliffs befit its complexion. 
 
 The main road passes the railway station which stands 
 at the end of Hermes Street ; but near the city our 
 carriage turns to the right, and we enter the boulevard, 
 which is lined on both sides with pepper-trees. Then on 
 a steep cliff we see a row of columns of pale-gold color 
 joined by battered architraves. All this is ruddy from 
 the morning light, and is outlined against the sky with 
 indescribable sweetness and purity, not too large in its
 
 550 A JOURNEY TO ATHENS. 
 
 proportions, great beyond every estimate in its repose, in 
 its harmony, simply godlike. 
 
 The dragoman, sitting with the driver, turns and 
 says, 
 
 " The Acropolis." 
 
 Nearer the cliff, on the Ceramicus, is the temple of 
 Theseus, relatively the best preserved monument of 
 antiquity. Afterward, at every step, there are fragments : 
 Pelasgic walls, the rock of the Pnyx, the prison of 
 Socrates, and other grottos, looking out from amid their 
 rocks through dark openings into daylight. At the foot 
 of the cliff itself, the edge of the precipice hides the lines 
 of the Parthenon ; but one sees the whole disorder of the 
 ruins of the Odeon of Herod, and the theatre of Bacchus. 
 The eye runs from one fragment to another ; the imagina- 
 tion labors, striving to reconstruct vanished life ; the 
 mind cannot embrace everything, and a man limits him- 
 self involuntarily to the simple acceptance of impressions. 
 But you feel that it was worth while to come here, that this 
 is not a hurried look at ruins, " Baedecker " in hand, and 
 the desire in your soul of getting back to the hotel at 
 the earliest. But the carriage passes those half divine 
 rocks too quickly, and soon we are in the new city, 
 modern Athens. 
 
 Let us speak of it before we go back to the Acropolis. 
 
 I had come prepared for Eastern filth, the filth of 
 Stambul, which conquers the nerves of an average person. 
 I was most agreeably disappointed. First, it is not true 
 that in Athens one sees only as much green as there is 
 salad served at dinner. It may be that just because 
 there is little of it in the country, the city has made 
 an effort to shade streets and squares with trees. I 
 entered the city near the Acropolis and the temple of 
 Olympian Zeus, by the Panhellenic Boulevard, which is
 
 A JOURNEY TO ATHENS. 551 
 
 one strip of verdure. The pepper-trees, with bright-green, 
 delicate leaves, call to mind weeping willows, and give this 
 street the look of spring-time, of May. Everywhere one 
 sees pleasure-grounds, in them palm-trees, black oaks, 
 cactuses, and aloes. It is true that all these are covered 
 with a gray dust coming from rocks and ruins, as if those 
 dead remnants wished to say to every living being : " Dust 
 thou art, and unto dust thou shalt return ;" but, at present, 
 shade and coolness may be found everywhere in Athens. 
 The chief streets of the city are broad ; the houses are 
 large, of dazzling whiteness, the richer ones faced with 
 marble obtained from the naked flanks of Pentelicus. 
 Those buildings are not devoid of charm and elegance. 
 The king's palace forms the exception. Its walls are of 
 Pentelicus marble also, but the style heavy, like that of 
 barracks, renders this residence not only no ornament to 
 the grand square of the Constitution, but a deformity. 
 As a recompense, behind the palace, and at one side of it, 
 are the really splendid gardens of the king ; but in front 
 of the palace lies a genuine, gray, burning desert which 
 extends to the chief public gardens of the city. So that 
 nothing might spoil the impression of a desert, there are 
 a few large palms in it, lofty, and delineated firmly in the 
 middle of the barrenness. Add an Arab with a camel, and 
 you might think yourself in Egypt. For the rest, the city 
 is bright, clean, out and out European, but built (this 
 we can understand easily) under the influence and on the 
 model of the ancient architecture of Greece, which gives 
 it a splendid aspect. Everywhere one sees Doric, Ionic, 
 and Corinthian columns, friezes which man began to 
 carve and which the sun has finished. The University, 
 and especially the Academy of Fine Arts, has the splendid 
 and harmonious forms of a Greek temple. 
 
 At the side of the portico stand two mighty columns
 
 552 A JOURNEY TO ATHENS. 
 
 of the marble of Pentelicus with gilded abaci. On one of 
 them stands the gigantic Pallas Athene, with a helmet on 
 her head and a spear in her hand ; on the other, an 
 immense Apollo with a phurminx. In the night, by 
 moonlight, these marbles seem bright green, and so charm- 
 ingly light that they appear not to weigh on the earth. 
 Perhaps a specialist in architecture might object this and 
 that to those buildings ; but in every case, they are a 
 decoration to the city, and one of the most beautiful 
 which it has happened me to see. 
 
 The richest part of Athens is nearest the square of the 
 Constitution and the palace of the king, then the Pan- 
 hellenic Boulevard, the University Boulevard, Stadin 
 Street, and many others adjoining, up to the Square of 
 Concord. These streets were laid out by rich Greeks, 
 living some in the Phanar of Stambul, some in Odessa, 
 Marseilles, and other seaport cities. 
 
 These people, with the inborn Greek genius for traffic, 
 accumulated millions ; but, we should do them justice in 
 this, they have not bartered away the Greek spirit. A 
 money-changer of Marseilles or Odessa who might claim 
 descent from Miltiades, appeal to Marathon, Leonidas, 
 Thermopylae, Themistocles, Salamis, Phidias, or Apelles, 
 and turn to the ruins of the Acropolis, had that which 
 no money in the world could purchase. And be- 
 cause of that claim, because of the glorious past, millions 
 from all lands flowed into Attica ; amid its wild defiles 
 appeared macadamized roads and railways ; in cities 
 inhabited by half-savage palicars, schools were founded ; 
 and on the ruins of ancient Athens rose the Athens of 
 our day. 
 
 Merchants and traders at present are established mainly 
 on Hermes Street. Hermes, as we know, was the patron 
 of merchants when Zeus was in power. In general, the
 
 A JOURNEY TO ATHENS. 553 
 
 whole lower part of the city, toward Gara and the Cera- 
 micus, was under his patronage. Here is situated the 
 bazaar, which calls to mind other Eastern bazaars ; here a 
 vivacious population swarm in great numbers, gesticulat- 
 ing and talking as loudly as if they intended to stun 
 passers-by. Life and trade are on the street here, as 
 everywhere in Southern cities ; in the evening, when the 
 heat of the day has passed, movement is greatest. The 
 shops are open till late. Flaming jets of gas illuminate 
 exhibitions of goods, splendid fruits, and flowers. 
 
 From four in the afternoon, not only Hermes Street 
 and the business part of the city is swarming with people, 
 but they fill also the wealthy divisions. Stadin Street, on 
 which I lodged, is a fashionable promenade, in the fore- 
 noon it was difficult to pass on the sidewalks, and in the 
 middle of the street carriages followed each other closely. 
 There were fewer women present than men, especially 
 among pedestrians. Perhaps this is a remnant of Oriental 
 influence, or perhaps the custom of hiding women at 
 home began and was fixed during Turkish rule, since it 
 was not over safe for young women to show themselves 
 before beys and bimbashis. There are few beautiful faces 
 among the women. The type is less Greek than Arme- 
 nian. The days of Phryne and Lais are far distant, and 
 no Areopagus now would declare a Greek woman inno- 
 cent because of her beauty. I have read that the inhabi- 
 tants of Megara and ancient Laconia, as well as some of 
 the islands, have preserved the ancient type still ; but in 
 Megara I have not found it, and I have not been on the 
 banks of the Eurotas, or on the islands. 
 
 Among men there are many at once beautiful and wild 
 looking. It is certain that the bright-haired Achilles 
 must have looked otherwise ; but Canaris might have 
 resembled these. Many, too, wear yet the Albanian cos-
 
 554 A JOURNEY TO ATHENS. 
 
 tume, composed of pustanelli, that is, a white skirt reach- 
 ing almost to the knees, a fez, and a jacket embroi- 
 dered with silk or gold. The loins are encircled by a belt, 
 behind which was thrust formerly a whole arsenal of 
 pistols and daggers, where to-day they carry handker- 
 chiefs. In spite of the handkerchief, which, in com- 
 parison with past times, is undeniably a progress, they 
 are inveterate conservatives and hostile to "Western 
 influence. 
 
 But one meets men in ancient costume, mainly among 
 the aged. Still, whole divisions of the army are uni- 
 formed after the fashion of the palicars, and this gives 
 Athens an appearance different from other cities. 
 
 Eural Greeks, despite robber instincts, which, as it 
 seems, have not died out yet in all places, are perhaps 
 honest, industrious, and faithful to their duties ; yet city 
 dwellers have the world over a fixed reputation which is 
 far from favorable. As I passed not quite a month in 
 the midst of them, I cannot judge from my own observa- 
 tion. But even in that brief stay one might observe that 
 in no other city do merchants, hotel-keepers, guides, livery- 
 men, and money-changers speak so much of their own 
 honesty as in Athens. This seems a trifle suspicious. 
 
 More recent travellers, who have either spent a longer 
 time in Greece, or who after a short stay have had the 
 boldness to give a decisive opinion, make unfavorable 
 mention of Greeks in general. 
 
 Edmond About, who died recently, wrote a book 
 which is shallow, but curious, and full of witty remarks 
 touching Greece. But the malicious "grandson of Vol- 
 taire," as he has been nicknamed, despite this, that he 
 strives to be impartial, judges the descendants of the 
 ancient Demos of Athens too sneeringly. According to 
 him, the Greeks of to-day, in capacity for lying, might put
 
 A JOURNEY TO ATHENS. 555 
 
 their ancestor Ulysses to shame, as well as Pallas Athene, 
 his patroness, and also the ancient Cretans, who, accord- 
 ing to Epimenides, surpassed all men in this art. Besides, 
 they are greedy beyond every expression ; people of other 
 nationalities they endure in so far as they can plunder 
 them. As to bravery, Canaris, according to About, was 
 exceptional, hence they made such an outcry concerning 
 him ; but the Greeks if considered in general are cowardly. 
 About goes so far even as to state that they have been 
 so at all times, even during the siege of Troy ; that they 
 lack knightly feeling, the appreciation of a good cause, and 
 of justice; that they show a blind respect for power of all 
 kinds, and a corresponding contempt for weakness, mis- 
 fortune, and poverty. 
 
 Among thousands of anecdotes About cites one which 
 I may be permitted to repeat, as it concerns us Poles 
 more nearly. 
 
 After the storms in 1848, which shook the dynasty of the 
 Hapsburgs, a handful of Poles settled in Athens. Some 
 died of hunger and fever, for the climate of Athens, if 
 they stay in it long, is injurious to foreigners. But even 
 the slight means afforded the Poles was as salt in the 
 eyes of the Greeks. At every step they insulted those 
 refugees. They challenged them to duels ; but the Poles 
 acted prudently, and did not accept. Once a fire broke 
 out in Athens, and threatened the whole city. The 
 Greeks hurried together from all sides to look at the 
 burning, gesticulate, and shout. The Poles (I beg to 
 remember that I am quoting About) rushed into the 
 flames and extinguished them with great peril to them- 
 selves. And now let any one guess what reward they 
 received. 
 
 Well, command was given them to leave Greece ! 
 
 The Greeks acted thus because after this deed the
 
 556 A JOURNEY TO ATHENS. 
 
 Poles were celebrated at the expense of the Greeks, and 
 because news of their exploit, hence of their presence in 
 Athens, passed around Europe, and might attract later 
 attention, and perhaps, too, a diplomatic note from the 
 government of Austria, at that time exceedingly unfavor- 
 able to the refugees. 
 
 And that reason sufficed. 
 
 If About's account be a true one, and he was not our 
 friend to such a degree as to invent tales to glorify us, 
 it must be confessed that the descendants of the father 
 of logic have not ceased, it is true, to be as logical as the 
 Stagirite himself; but the traditions of Aristides have 
 perished forever among them. 
 
 Still in that which is stated by the above-mentioned 
 author, and by others more recent, concerning the Greeks, 
 there must be undoubtedly many exaggerations, and per- 
 haps misunderstandings in still greater number. Above 
 all, such travellers bring with them a ready-made ethical 
 standard which is very broad, being the result of West- 
 ern civilization and its elaborate moral culture. With 
 this scale, they measure a society which only in recent 
 times freed itself from a bondage which was really debas- 
 ing and shameful, and witli a standard the more absolute 
 because it is applied to foreigners, not to themselves. 
 These men forget also this, that as, for instance, the 
 conception of honor and knightliness was foreign to 
 Antiquity, a whole sphere of moral conceptions may 
 exist which is foreign to Orientals ; those people, espe- 
 cially conquered ones, as were the Greeks, had, to speak 
 strictly, no conception for a long time, and had to govern 
 themselves solely by the animal instinct of self-preserva- 
 tion. That instinct was for them tone-giving, and de- 
 cided equally questions of ethics and logic. 
 
 Savage people are the same everywhere. Once when
 
 A JOURNEY TO ATHENS. 557 
 
 a missionary asked a negro converted by him to give a 
 case of what to his thinking evil was, the savage medi- 
 tated a while, and answered, 
 
 " Evil is if some one steals my wife." 
 
 " Exactly ! " said the delighted missionary. " And now 
 give me a case of good." 
 
 The savage did not hesitate a moment, 
 
 " Good is if I steal somebody else's wife." 
 
 Here is the logic of people who are savage, who have 
 fallen into savagery, or who are becoming savage. It is 
 also universal enough in the Orient. 
 
 But let us give peace to the Greeks. I have quoted 
 Peschl's old anecdote because there is a logic contained 
 in it, which we hear more and more, both in private and 
 public. It thunders increasingly everywhere ; it appears 
 in the columns of daily papers ; it swells like a wave ; 
 it drowns every day the difference between good and evil, 
 between justice and injustice ; it paralyses the capacity 
 of taking moral bearings in the mazes of public life, 
 it destroys and brings to utter ruin the moral sense of 
 public opinion, which at last knows not, and cares not to 
 know, whom it should favor and whom it should exe- 
 crate. The present world is not savage, but perhaps in 
 a sense it is growing so. 
 
 About wrote his book thirty years ago. Greeks of the 
 present generation would not act as did his contempora- 
 ries. They would not, because they are growing civilized 
 in a good sense, for they are regenerated ; youthful, 
 enthusiastic, they work, they develop and perfect grad- 
 ually all their spiritual capacities, hence among others 
 the moral sense. Equilibrium among them is not de- 
 stroyed yet. To be precise, they are ceasing to be savage, 
 instead of becoming so ; hence, they have shame in their 
 eyes.
 
 558 A JOURNEY TO ATHENS. 
 
 Besides they have patriotism, one great quality which 
 none will deny them. 
 
 This patriotism rests on love for ancient Hellas, as well 
 as for Hellas of our day. 
 
 Though the thread of tradition was woven somewhat 
 artificially ; though scholars declare that the Greeks of 
 to-day have in their veins hardly a small drop of the 
 blood of the ancient Hellenes, and are pre-eminently a 
 mixture of former slaves of various origins, Albanians 
 and Slavs, they, as heirs of the land, wish to be, and 
 are, inheritors also of its traditions. For this reason, 
 their patriotism is not like a plant which grasps only 
 the surface, and which the first wind may tear out; 
 but it has grown into the earth, and possesses im- 
 movable power. It possesses that power for this spe- 
 cial cause, that it is historical, and wishes to go into the 
 future with progress, but it knows that the ever-pulsating 
 source and the reason of its existence is on the Acropo- 
 lis. So we, too, will go to the Acropolis, for the source 
 there is of this sort, that each of us can draw artistic 
 impressions at least from it. 
 
 The whole plain of Attica is so small, and all things 
 are so near one another, that travellers on steamers which 
 stop at the Piraeus only six hours have time to visit 
 Athens, examine the sacred cliff, the Olympian, the 
 temple of Theseus, the ruins surrounded by the new city, 
 the ancient cemetery of the Hagia Trias, the museum, 
 and return in time for sailing. All the more had I time 
 therefore and opportunity not for scientific research, but 
 for a minute examination, since I stayed about three weeks 
 in Athens itself. But certainly it is easier to go from the 
 square of the Constitution to the Acropolis, than to de- 
 scribe the Acropolis. Besides my labor moves by another 
 road ; I am not a Hellenist, so I prefer to give merely an
 
 A JOURNEY TO ATHENS. 559 
 
 account of impressions, and not describe minutely remains 
 concerning which whole volumes have been written, 
 the fruit of difficult labor continued through long years. 
 
 We go up by a serpentine path overgrown by agaves 
 and cactuses. Before and above us, we see merely a 
 gigantic, gray, crumbling wall, which is only in part an 
 Hellenic inheritance, some of it was reared by the Latins, 
 and some by the Turks even. From behind this wall 
 looks forth the three-cornered summits and the out-jut- 
 ting architraves of the temples. It is empty when I go 
 in, not a living soul present, for it is an afternoon hour, 
 and the air burning, though in the first days of November. 
 At a side gate an old veteran is slumbering ; we pass him, 
 go by a house where piles of marble fragments are heaped 
 up. The road winds once more ; we enter by steps 
 ascending the hill, and are in the Propylsea, through 
 which we embrace with the eye all the platform on the 
 summit. The first impression is ruin ! ruin ! silence, 
 death ! Some external Doric and internal Ionic columns 
 of the Propylsea are pushed apart, and are held in place 
 only by the weight of rocks ; the walls are split, dented, 
 show the light through them, are broken round about ; 
 nowhere behind that glorious gate is there an ell of un- 
 occupied earth. Scattered over the whole space on the 
 flat summit, and piled on it, are the bases of columns, the 
 remnants of architraves and friezes, the fragments of 
 metopes, capitals, and facing stones. All this, except a 
 few temples, thrown one on the other, hanging, bent, 
 falling, piled up, lying in a wild disorder of which even 
 the Koman Forum can give no idea. It occurs to the 
 traveller that here must have happened some terrible 
 battle of giants, or gigantic powers, from which the moun- 
 tain split, the walls burst, and finally every tiling fell, and 
 there remained only destruction.
 
 560 A JOURNEY TO ATHENS. 
 
 So the first impression that we obtain on passing the 
 Propylsea is the impression of a catastrophe. 
 
 The advance is silent ; for everything around us is so 
 perfectly dead that our own animation, our own move- 
 ment, seems to us strange and inappropriate in those 
 places. 
 
 Were we to meet an acquaintance, we should prefer 
 not to speak to him, but merely to look him in the eyes 
 inquiringly, pass on, sit down in the shade somewhere, 
 and see how the sun bathes the ruins in light. 
 
 For, as I have said, light in this country does not fall, but 
 at this hour, especially, it pours in a torrent. And it might 
 seem that these burning, living springs of light weaken the 
 impression of ruin, of destruction and deathly silence. But 
 no ! Hum and destruction find only greater expression by 
 means of them, expression almost absolute. 
 
 So we sit and look at that stone mountain, on the 
 bright marbles of the Parthenon and the Erechtheum, 
 bathed in sunlight, until finally something rises out of 
 the ruins and enters us. We begin to be in harmony 
 with that world, and later to fraternize with it. Then we 
 feel well ; for an immense repose enters us, a repose great 
 as stones and ruins can possibly have. 
 
 This repose and the repose of the traveller become, one. 
 I suppose that the more pained a man's soul is, the better 
 he feels in those ruins. He would like to rest his head 
 against the pilaster of a column, close and open his eyes 
 in succession, and nestle there. One feels more and more 
 at home ; the wanderer looks with more and more friendli- 
 ness on those extended lines of the Parthenon, on the white 
 Erechtheum, and on the Propyhea lying lower. But one 
 must see them to understand how those buildings, pale 
 golden in color from age, are outlined in the sun and 
 the blue ; one must see them to understand the repose of
 
 A JOURNEY TO ATHENS. 561 
 
 those architraves, of those rows of columns and facades ! 
 Simplicity, repose, dignity, and true divine order, there 
 they are. It is difficult to see this immediately ; the 
 charm acts by degrees ; but all the more mightily does it 
 penetrate, and at last it intoxicates. And thou, wan- 
 derer, wilt recognize that these masterpieces have given 
 thee not only repose, but they have ravished thee with 
 their beauty, and with that which goes with it, their 
 sweetness. 
 
 These are the successive impressions through which a 
 man passes on the Acropolis. When one is on the spot, 
 these impressions are so powerful that it would come to 
 no man's head to open a printed guide and look in it for 
 details. Once at home, you will read that the temple Nike* 
 Apteros (Wingless Victory) was not long since raised up 
 from its own ruins ; that Lord Elgin took to the British 
 Museum one of the marvellous caryatids supporting the 
 right portico of the Erechtheum ; and that thither also 
 wandered the metopes of the Parthenon ; that an explo- 
 sion of Turkish powder caused the ruin of all the central 
 part of that temple ; that copies of the metopes may be 
 seen in the museum on this cliff; and that pashas had 
 their harems in the Erechtheum. 
 
 At the first moment it is all one to you that the Par- 
 thenon is built in a style purely Doric ; that the Erech- 
 theum and Niks' Apteros are Ionic ; and that in the Propy- 
 l?ea are columns of both styles. You knew that before 
 you came to Athens. Here the universal spirit, or rather 
 the genius of ancient Hellas, breathes on you first of all, 
 and that breath you have no wish to ward off or analyze. 
 
 And soon the imagination begins to work, then it rep- 
 resents to itself that Acropolis in the days of Pericles, 
 when everything stood in its own place, when there 
 were temples of which there are no traces at present, and
 
 562 A JOURNEY TO ATHENS. 
 
 when among them there was a forest of statues ; when 
 the Parthenon was not stripped of its ornaments ; when 
 from below it was possible to see on its front the birth of 
 Athene, and on the other facade her dispute with Posei- 
 don, and the spear of Athene Promachos was visible 
 from the sea. Let us imagine to ourselves especially a 
 Panathenic procession, priests, archons, warriors, musi- 
 cians, people, bulls with gilded horns led to the altars of 
 the opisthodomos, garlands of flowers, and that classical 
 drapery with statuesque folds. But I almost prefer to 
 represent to myself in thought the night of that time, and 
 the pale greenish light of the moon on the marbles, till 
 it is difficult to believe that a people could create such a 
 mountain of masterpieces ; and still we may explain it. 
 Grecian mythology was a worship of the powers of nature, 
 or elemental Pantheism. But in the soul of the Greek, 
 the artist preponderated always above the philosopher ; so 
 poets first of all arrayed phenomena in human bodies and 
 feelings, later came plastic art, and thus rose those mar- 
 vellous stone fables. 
 
 Athene knew how to choose a place for her capital; 
 what a background was that for those temples and 
 statues ! On one side the sea, which in that transparent 
 atmosphere seemed right before you ; on the other, all 
 Attica, like something on the palm of the hand, the hill 
 of Hymettus, farther the Pentelicus ; on the north, Parnas- 
 sus ; and southward, toward the straits of Salamis, Daphne. 
 Overhead a sky ever serene, and eagles whose calls break 
 to this day the silence on the Acropolis. 
 
 Our impressions at sight of other ruins are merely a 
 fainter reflex of thoughts and feelings born in the soul at 
 sight of those remnants on the Acropolis. The works of 
 Mnesicles, Ictinus and Callicrates were not equalled by 
 any one either before Pericles or after him. They created
 
 A JOURNEY TO ATHENS. 563 
 
 not only the Parthenon, the Erechtheum, and the Propy- 
 laea, but they established the architectural dogma which 
 thenceforth was to be accepted by all architects of antiq- 
 uity. The Eomans will permit themselves to add their 
 own arch ; they will rear Colosseums, Baths, Circuses, 
 and circular temples like the Pantheon of Agrippa, but 
 that is all. In other respects they will follow in the 
 footsteps of those immortal predecessors and not fall 
 away from the dogma. They can only exaggerate the 
 masterpieces of the Acropolis through size, and they do 
 that even in Athens itself. 
 
 Below the Acropolis, east of the cliff, the Eomans 
 erected near the river Ilissus a temple to Olympian Zeus, 
 completed only during the time of the Emperor Hadrian. 
 To-day, of the hundred and twenty columns which com- 
 posed it, there remain only sixteen, thirteen at one end, 
 and three at the other. These columns, purely Corin- 
 thian, are six feet in diameter and sixty feet high. That 
 was the largest temple on the plain watered by the 
 Cephissus and the Ilissus. Titus Livius, mentioning it, 
 declares that in dimensions it was the only temple worthy 
 of the majesty of the god to whom it was dedicated : 
 Unum in terris inchoatum pro magnitudine dei. And 
 perhaps Zeus, as the father of Athene and the mightiest 
 of the gods, deserved the largest temple ; but Athene, the 
 patroness of Athens, was also the goddess of wisdom, so 
 Zeus could only have, in gigantic form, the reflection from 
 prototypes and originals born directly of thoughts inspired 
 by the " owl-eyed " divinity. 
 
 It does not follow in the least from this that I consider 
 the creators of the temples of the Acropolis as the in- 
 ventors of the Grecian orders of architecture. I say only, 
 that they settled the rules ; for they knew how to give its 
 final and loftiest expression to Grecian architecture, as
 
 564 A JOURNEY TO ATHENS. 
 
 Phidias ill his time gave the highest expression to its 
 sculpture. But the temple of Theseus, resembling the 
 Parthenon on a smaller scale, was built before the 
 Parthenon, as were surely many others of which only 
 single columns remain here and there to us. That temple 
 of Theseus is the best preserved remnant of the past. 
 There was a fortress on the Acropolis, so the edifices 
 which stood there were exposed to every blow of war, 
 and in modern times to bombardment. The temple of 
 Theseus was in the middle of the city. It was exposed 
 mainly to internal changes, for from being a pagan temple . 
 it was modified into a Christian church. The internal 
 columns of the pronaos were thrown down, and in place 
 of them was erected a half-circular niche, in which an 
 altar was placed ; a large gate was opened in the wall, 
 separating the cella from the opisthodomos, and evi- 
 dently all the statues were thrown out of the interior of 
 the temple, where to-day are seen only four naked walls. 
 Light reaches with difficulty the interior, which is turned 
 into a kind of museum ; for there are set up in it either 
 plaster of Paris copies or fragments of sculpture which 
 adorned the temple in old times. As I have said, it 
 recalls the Parthenon, but since it stands on level ground 
 it does not produce that imposing impression, especially 
 since its dimensions are much smaller. The Parthenon 
 had seventeen columns at its sides ; the temple of Theseus 
 only thirteen, and they were much smaller. The Par- 
 thenon had eight columns at its ends ; the temple of 
 Theseus six. Finally, it was much less ornamented ; for 
 Phidias filled both facades of the temple on the Acropolis 
 with statues, and all the metopes with sculptures in 
 relief. The temple of Theseus had only frieze on the 
 external wall of the cella, and metopes only on the 
 eastern facade, covered with sculpture in relief, represent-
 
 A JOURNEY TO ATHENS. 565 
 
 ing the exploits of Theseus accomplished through the aid 
 of Heracles. The eastern facade had also sculpture, of 
 which nothing is left. 
 
 But these are details which would have value only if 
 I were to add to them at least drawings of these edifices. 
 The temple of Theseus is interesting for this, that it is 
 well preserved and gives us the most accurate idea of 
 Doric architecture, which is at once so dignified and so 
 full of repose. It stands on a broad square on which 
 there is neither a tree nor a grass-blade ; hence its 
 columns, pale gold color from age, stand with a certain 
 melancholy charm on that gray background. 
 
 From this square the rocks of the Pnyx are visible. 
 The Pnyx was a meeting place once for multitudes. 
 Stone steps hewn out in the rocks indicate the way 
 where men passed to the upper terrace, from which 
 Athens was seen below the spectator's feet. On the 
 right hand was the Museum, directly in front the 
 Acropolis. There are no buildings whatever at the 
 Pnyx now, there are only traces of a gigantic tribune, 
 called in antiquity the Bema, where people sat during 
 deliberations. The rocks are stripped entirely of vegeta- 
 tion ; they stand there eternally naked ; I met no living 
 soul on them. The noise of the city does not reach 
 that far ; the scream of eagles alone breaks the silence. A 
 verse of Slovatski now occurred to me. 
 
 " Here on the stones the breeze struggles 
 With the work of Arachne and rends her web. 
 Here is the odor of sad slopes, of parched mountains. 
 Here the wind, when it has run around the gray pile of ruins, 
 Blows over it the down of flowers, 
 That down, advancing, flies among the tombs like spirits." 
 
 Not so silent, but equally desolate, is the Areopagus, 
 situated near the cliff of the Acropolis. Besides the
 
 566 A JOURNEY TO ATHENS. 
 
 locality which tradition makes sacred, and the deep 
 fissures in the rocks which are filled with refuse, there is 
 nothing to be seen there. 
 
 In the city itself, and in its environs, are some remains 
 which deserve attention, such as the Stoa of Hadrian, the 
 Stoa of Attains, the Tower of Winds, the little chapel of 
 Lysicrates, the arch of Hadrian, and the monument of 
 Philopappos ; finally, the cemetery of the Hagia Trias, 
 opened not long since, in which may be seen a number of 
 beautiful, even very beautiful, monuments. But I shall 
 not try to describe ruins. I have given an account merely 
 of impressions which I received mainly on the Acropolis, 
 which appeals most forcibly to the soul, for it contains 
 all that Hellenic civilization has given of the most 
 beautiful in plastic art, and she gave this with the whole 
 power of Grecian genius. Surely Thucydides had the 
 Acropolis in mind when he said that had Athens suc- 
 cumbed to a catastrophe, mankind would think from the 
 ruins left behind by her that she was a city twofold more 
 powerful than she was in reality. But Athens was four 
 times more powerful than Thucydides imagined. Now 
 the ancient city has succumbed to disaster, and is lying 
 in ruins ; but the genius of Athens created too much to 
 let humanity forget what it owes to her. The debt was 
 forgotten too long ; but duties like that bind the memory 
 as well as the conscience. Thanks to these feelings, this 
 glorious land was snatched from the Turk. , Not political 
 interest alone commanded the resurrection of Greece ; 
 that was a debt which Europe had to pay, it was a 
 question of shame simply. There are questions which 
 the most dissolute conscience is unable to tolerate ; and 
 because of that a moment came when cannon roared at 
 Navarino. But we may be sure that had it not been for 
 the immense balance with which civilization had credited
 
 A JOURNEY TO ATHENS. 567 
 
 Greece, had it not been for her glory and her deeds, had 
 it not been for the poetry of Homer, for the memories of 
 Marathon and Salamis, for those remains of the Acropolis 
 masterpieces, pashas might have their harems yet in 
 the Erechtheum, and the banner of the Prophet might 
 be waving to-day from the summit of the Acropolis. 
 So if we say that modern Greece was raised up by Homer, 
 Miltiades, Leonidas, Themistocles, Phidias, Pericles, and 
 other heroes or geniuses of similar stature, it will not be 
 a figure of rhetoric, but a truth in history. While toil- 
 ing for the glory of their people, they toiled, without 
 knowing it, for their resurrection ; and those immortal 
 agents have made Greece a living fact at this moment.
 
 ZOLA. 
 
 ("DOCTOR PASCAL.")
 
 ZOLA. 
 
 ("DOCTOR PASCAL.") 
 
 YOU wish me to declare what I think of Zola's " Doc- 
 tor Pascal," and iii general of the whole " Kougon- 
 Macquart " cycle. Perhaps because I come of a society in 
 which so much power is wasted, every planned and com- 
 pleted work fills me with real respect, and has for me 
 also some wonderful and exceptional charm. Whenever 
 I write " The End " at the close of any work of mine, I 
 feel something like a sensation of delight, not only because 
 the labor is done, not only because of the possible success 
 of the book, but also because of the sensation which comes 
 of finished work. Every book is a deed, good or evil, but 
 a deed that is done. A whole series of books, especially 
 when written in the name of one leading idea, is a life 
 task accomplished ; it is a harvest-home festival at which 
 the leader of the workmen has earned the right to a gar- 
 land and the song, " I bring fruit, I bring fruit ! " 
 
 But evidently the character of the service depends on 
 the fruit. The career of a writer has difficulties of which 
 readers do not even dream. The land-tiller who draws 
 grain sheaves to his barn has this perfect certainty, that 
 he is bringing in wheat, barley, buckwheat, or rye which 
 will go to support people's health. An author, writing 
 even in the very best faith, may have moments of doubt : 
 Has he been giving poison instead of bread ? Is not his 
 work one great mistake, one great fault ? Has it done 
 good? Would it not have been better for men and for
 
 572 ZOLA. 
 
 him if he had done nothing, if he had written nothing, if 
 he had remained idle ? 
 
 Doubts are the enemy of human peace, but they are 
 also a filter which lets no foul sediment pass. It is bad 
 to have too many doubts, bad to have too few ; in the first 
 case, power of action is lost ; in the second, conscience. 
 Hence the need of an external regulator, a need as old 
 as humanity. 
 
 But French writers have ever distinguished themselves 
 by a boldness incomparably greater than that of other 
 authors ; hence that regulator which in some countries 
 has been religion has ceased long since to exist for 
 them. Exceptions have appeared, it is true. Balzac 
 asserted that his task was to serve religion and the mon- 
 archy. But even the works of those who proclaimed such 
 principles were not always in accord with the principles. 
 It might have been said that it suited authors to under- 
 stand their activity in that way ; but the reading public 
 could understand it, and often did understand it, to be a 
 negation of social, religious, and ethical principles. In 
 the most recent epoch, however, such misunderstandings 
 have become impossible, for authors began to appear 
 openly, either in the name of their own personal con- 
 victions, which reckoned with nothing and were directly 
 opposed to the bases and bonds of society, or with objec- 
 tive analysis, which in the examination of life notes good 
 and evil as phenomena equally inevitable and equally 
 justifiable. France, and through France the rest of Eu- 
 rope, was flooded with a deluge of books written so 
 frivolously, freely, and offensively, books with no trace 
 in them of a feeling of responsibility to mankind, that 
 even those who took them up, also without scruple, were 
 soon astounded. It seemed that every author had set out 
 with the intent to go even farther than had been expected
 
 ZOLA. 573 
 
 of him. In this way men acquired the reputation of 
 daring thinkers and original artists. Boldness in the 
 choice of subjects, and in the method of treating them, 
 seemed the most precious quality of a writer. To this 
 was added bad faith, or an unconscious deception of 
 self and others Analysis ! They analyzed in the name of 
 truth, which, as it were, must and ought to be declared, 
 everything, but especially evil, dirt, human corruption, 
 and foulness. They did not notice that this false an- 
 alysis ceased to be an objective examination, and became 
 a morbid fondness for decay, flowing from two causes : 
 first, corruption of taste ; second, from the greater ease of 
 producing striking effects. They took advantage of this 
 physiological peculiarity of the senses through which re-, 
 pulsive impressions seem more vigorous and real than 
 agreeable ones, and they abused this peculiarity beyond 
 measure. They created a certain kind of commercial 
 travelling in the interests of rottenness, with a prompt 
 use of subjects ; it was a question to find something new, 
 something which might draw yet. Truth itself, in whose 
 name this was done, retired before these efforts. Take 
 Zola's " La Terre." This novel was to contain the picture 
 of a French village. Call to mind any village of France, 
 or another country. What is it as a whole ? A collection 
 of cottages, trees, ploughed fields, stretches of grain, wild 
 flowers, people, cattle, sunlight, blue skies, songs, petty 
 village interests, and work. In all this doubtless manure 
 plays no small part, but there is something beyond and 
 aside from it. Meanwhile Zola's village looks as if com- 
 posed only of ordure and crime. And this picture is false, 
 it is truth perverted, for in nature the real relation of 
 things is different. If any man were to give himself the 
 trouble of making a list of the women in a French novel, 
 he would be convinced that at least ninety-five per cent
 
 574 ZOLA. 
 
 of them had fallen. Meanwhile in society it is not so, 
 and cannot be so. Likely there has never been such a 
 proportion even in countries where, on a time, Astarte 
 was worshipped. And still authors wish to persuade us 
 that they give a true picture of society, and that their 
 analysis of morals is taken from life. Lying, exaggeration, 
 admiration of rottenness, that is an accurate picture of 
 the literary harvest in most recent times. I know not 
 what literature has gained from it ; but I do know that 
 the devil has lost nothing, for along that way a whole 
 river of poison and mud has flowed, and the moral sense 
 has become so blunted that at last it endures with ease 
 books which a few tens of years ago would have brought 
 an author to court. It is incredible at present that 
 " Madame Bovary " once exposed the author to two law- 
 suits. If it had been written twenty-five years later, it 
 would have been considered too modest. 
 
 But the human mind, which never sleeps, and the 
 organism which strives to live, cannot endure excess of 
 poison. At last the moment comes to cough out disgust. 
 Voices are rising at present which call for mental bread 
 of another sort ; an instinctive feeling is abroad that it is 
 impossible to go farther in this way, that men must rise 
 up, shake themselves free of mud, purify themselves, and 
 change. People are crying for fresh air. In general, they 
 cannot tell what they want ; but they know what they 
 do not want ; they know that they have been breathing 
 miasmas, and have a feeling of suffocation. Alarm pos- 
 sesses minds. In that very France, men are seeking for 
 something, and calling for something. A sort of dull pro- 
 test is rising against the prevailing order of things. Many 
 writers feel this disquiet. Moments of doubt are coming 
 on them, such as those which we have mentioned, and 
 besides fear and bitterness, strengthened by uncertainty
 
 ZOLA. 575 
 
 as to new roads. Look at the last books of Bourget, 
 Kode, Barres, Desjardins, at the poetry of Rimbaud, Ver- 
 laine, Heredes, Mallarme, and even Maeterlinck and his 
 school. What do they contain ? A search for new sub- 
 stance and new forms ; a feverish search for an issue of 
 some sort ; an uncertainty whither to turn and where to 
 look for salvation, whether in mysticism, or in faith, or in 
 the duties behind faith, or in patriotism, or in humanity ? 
 But, first of all, an immense disquiet is evident in them. 
 They find no issue, since to do that there is need of two 
 things : a great idea, and great talent, and they have 
 neither the idea nor the talent. Hence disquiet increases, 
 and these very same persons who step forth against the 
 rude pessimism of the naturalistic school fall into pessim- 
 ism themselves, and thus is weakened the main signif- 
 icance and meaning which reform might have. For 
 what remains to them ? Grotesqueness of form. And 
 into this grotesqueness, whether it be called symbolism 
 or impressionism, they wade deeper and deeper ; they are 
 more and more perplexed, and lose artistic balance, sound 
 sense, repose of soul. Frequently they fall into the former 
 rottenness with respect to substance, and are almost always 
 in discord with themselves, for they have both the proper 
 and fundamental feeling that they must give the world 
 something new, but know not what it is. 
 
 Such is the present moment ! 
 
 Any purloiner of public or private funds, any murderer, 
 may appeal to a neurotic grandmother ; but courts put 
 such people behind prison bars in spite of the " Rougon- 
 Macquart" cycle of volumes. The evil lies not in par- 
 ticular circumstances ; but in this, that an unparalleled 
 pessimism and depression is flowing into men's souls 
 from such literature, that life's charm, hope, energy, 
 the desire to live, and therefore the desire of all efforts
 
 576 ZOLA. 
 
 in the direction of good, disappears in them. What is 
 the use? This is the question which thrusts itself 
 forward. But a book is one agent in the education of 
 the human soul. If at least the reader could find in Zola's 
 books the good and bad sides of life in balancing relation, 
 or at the worst in such relation as they are found in 
 reality ! Vain hope. One must reach high to get colors 
 from the aurora or the rainbow ; but every man has spit- 
 tle in his mouth, and it is easier to paint with it. This 
 painter from nature prefers cheap effects ; he prefers foul 
 odors to perfumes, rottenness to living blood, decayed 
 wood to healthy sap, manure to flowers, la Mte humaine 
 to I'dme humaine. 
 
 If we could bring in some inhabitant of Mars or Venus, 
 and command him to make a conclusion from Zola's novels 
 touching life upon earth, he would answer undoubtedly : 
 " Life is a little clean sometimes as le r$ve, but in gen- 
 eral it is something with a very bad odor ; often it is 
 slippery, oftenest of all it is terrible." And even if those 
 theories on which Zola builds were recognized truths, as 
 they are not, what a lack of mercy to represent life as he 
 does to people who in every case must live ! Did he do 
 this to cast them down, disgust them, befoul them, poison 
 every activity, paralyze every energy, and take away the 
 desire for all thought ? In view of this, his talent is evil 
 indeed. Better for him, better for France, that he had it 
 not. And at moments one is astonished that fear does 
 not seize him, when even those are alarmed who had 
 nothing to do with the analysis, he the only man with 
 a calm forehead finishes his " Rougon-Macquart " as if 
 he were strengthening instead of breaking the vital force 
 of the French. Why does it not occur to him, that peo- 
 ple, nourished on that foul bread and polluted water, will 
 not only fail to resist the storm, but will not even have
 
 ZOLA. 577 
 
 the wish to resist it ? Musset, in his time, wrote the 
 famous verse, " We have had your German Rhine." Zola 
 so instructs his society that if all which he inculcates 
 were really accepted a second verse of Musset's might 
 sound as follows, " But to-day we give you even the 
 Seine." But it is not so bad as that yet. 
 
 " La Debacle," in spite of its blunders, is a famous 
 book ; but the soldiers who read it are inferior to those 
 who at night sing, " Christ has arisen ! " 
 
 If I were a Frenchman, I should consider Zola's talent 
 a national misfortune, and rejoice that his epoch is passing, 
 that even his most intimate disciples are abandoning their 
 master, that he~ is left more and more to himself. 
 
 Will he remain in the memory of men, in literature ; 
 will his fame survive ? It is difficult to foresee ; it is per- 
 mitted to doubt. In the cycle " Rougon-Macquart " are 
 volumes really powerful, such as " Germinal " or " La 
 Debacle." But in general all that Zola's native talent 
 has done to make him immortal has been ruined by his 
 admiration for foul realism, and by his tongue, which is 
 simply vile. Literature must not employ expressions 
 which even boors are ashamed4,o_use_jimong themselves. 
 Realistic truth, in so far as concerns criminals, the fallen, or 
 wretches, is reached by another method, through truthful 
 rendering of their conditions of mind, through acts, finally 
 by the course of their speech, but not through a literal quo- 
 tation of their _curses and most repulsive phrases. So in 
 the choice of images, as in the choice of words, there is a 
 certain measure which is dictated by judgment and good 
 taste. Zola has passed this measure to such a degree (in 
 " La Terre ") as no man had dared up to that time. Mon- 
 strosities are condemned to death, because they are mon- 
 strous. A book which rouses disgust must be cast aside. 
 That lies also in the nature of things. Among produc- 
 
 37
 
 578 ZOLA. 
 
 tions of universal literature, rude things intended to rouse 
 laughter have survived (Aristophanes and Rabelais), or 
 wanton things written exquisitely (Boccaccio); but not one 
 production has survived which was intended to rouse dis- 
 gust. Zola, for the noise made by his books, for the scandal 
 which every single volume called forth, killed his future. 
 Therefore this wonderful thing happened, that he, a man 
 writing on a settled plan, writing with deliberation, cool, 
 and commanding his subject as few command, has pro- 
 duced the best things only when he had the least chance 
 of carrying out his plans, doctrines, and methods ; in a 
 word, when he commanded his subject least, and when 
 the subject commanded him most. 
 
 So it happened in " Germinal " and " La Debacle." The 
 immensity of socialism, and the immensity of the war, 
 simply crushed Zola, with his entire mental apparatus. 
 His doctrines were belittled before such proportions, and 
 could hardly be heard in the roar of the deluge which 
 filled up the mine, and in the thunder of the Prussian 
 cannons. His talent alone remained. So in these two 
 novels there are genuine pictures worthy of Dante. With 
 " Doctor Pascal," the contrary happened. As the last vol- 
 ume of the cycle, it had to be the concluding induction 
 from the whole work, a synthesis of his doctrine, the 
 tower finishing the structure. For this reason there is 
 more mention made in it of doctrine than in any preceding 
 volu me ; but since the doctrine is bad, pitiful, false, and 
 empty, "Doctor Pascal" is the poorest and dreariest volume 
 of the whole cycle. A series of empty, barren pictures, in 
 which dreariness goes hand in hand with lack of moral 
 sense, pallor of images with falseness, that is Doctor 
 Pascal. Zola wants to present him as a decent man. He 
 is a degeneration of the Rougon-Macquarts. In heredity 
 such happy degenerations are met, the Doctor knows
 
 ZOLA. 579 
 
 this ; he looks on himself as a blessed degeneration, and 
 this is for him a source of unceasing, heartfelt delight. 
 Meanwhile he loves people, serves them, and injects into 
 them a liquid discovered by himself, which is a cure for 
 all ailments. He is a mild sage who investigates life, 
 hence collects " human documents," fits together with 
 toil a genealogical tree of the family Rougon-Macquart, 
 of which he is a descendant; and, in virtue of his observa- 
 tions, he reaches the same conclusions as Zola. What are 
 they ? It is difficult to answer ; they are, more or less, the 
 following : Whoever is not well is generally ill ; heredity 
 exists, but mothers or fathers coining from other families 
 bring in new elements to the blood of children, so that 
 heredity may be modified to such a degree that, taking 
 matters strictly, there is no heredity. 
 
 Doctor Pascal is, moreover, a positivist. He does not 
 wish to prejudge, but he asserts that the present condition 
 of science will not let him make inferences which trans- 
 cend known facts ; therefore he must adhere to known 
 facts and neglect others. In this regard his judgments 
 tell us nothing newer than the articles of the newspapers 
 written by young positivists. For people who are rush- 
 ing forward because of spiritual needs which are as in- 
 sistent as hunger and thirst, needs in virtue of which a 
 man is conscious of such conceptions as God, faith, im- 
 mortality, the Doctor has merely a smile of commisera- 
 tion. And one might wonder at him somewhat. He would 
 be understood better if he did not recognize the possibility 
 of solving various abstract questions; but he asserts that 
 the necessity of solving them does not exist, by which 
 he sins against evidence ; for such a necessity exists, not 
 farther away than under his own roof, in the person 
 of his niece. That young lady, reared in his principles, 
 loses the ground from under her feet all at once. More
 
 580 ZOLA. 
 
 problems are born in her soul than the Doctor can answer. 
 And from that moment the drama begins for them both. 
 
 " I cannot stop here," cries the niece, " I am suffocating ; 
 I must know something, be certain of something ; and if 
 thy science cannot pacify my pressing need, I will go 
 to persons who will not only pacify it and explain every- 
 thing, but make me happy, I will go to the church!" 
 
 And she goes. The roads of the master and pupil di- 
 verge more. The pupil reaches the conviction that that 
 science which is only a halter around the neck of people 
 is simply an evil, and that it would be a service before 
 God to burn those old papers on which the Doctor is 
 writing his observations. And the drama intensifies ; 
 for, in spite of the sixty years of the Doctor and the 
 twenty years and something of Clotilda, these two people 
 now love each other, not merely as relatives, but as a 
 man and woman love. That love adds bitterness to the 
 battle, and hastens the catastrophe. 
 
 Amid those who grope in the dark, wandering and 
 disquieted, one above all remains calm, sure of himself 
 and his doctrine, unmoved and almost serene in his 
 pessimism, Emile Zola. A great talent, a power slow 
 but immense and patient, an amazing power of observ- 
 ing feelings, for it almost equals indifference, a gift of 
 seeing the collective soul of people and things, a power 
 so exceptional that it brings this naturalistic writer near 
 the mystics, and makes him an uncommon and very 
 original figure. 
 
 The physical face of a man does not always reflect his 
 spiritual personality. In Zola this connection appears 
 very emphatically. A square face, a forehead low and 
 covered with wrinkles, large features, high shoulders, and 
 a short neck give his figure something rude. From his 
 face, and the wrinkles around his eyes, you would divine
 
 ZOLA. 581 
 
 that he is a man who can endure much, that he can bear 
 much, stubborn and enduring to fanaticism, not only 
 in his plans and their realization, but, which is the main 
 thing, in thought. There is no quickness in him. It is 
 evident at the first glance that he is a doctrinaire shut 
 up in himself, who, as a doctrinaire, does not take in broad 
 horizons, sees everything at a certain angle and nar- 
 rowly, but definitely. His mind, like a dark lantern, 
 casts a narrow light in one direction only, and goes in 
 that direction with unswerving certainty. And this ex- 
 plains at once the history of that whole series of books 
 bearing the general title, " Les Rougon-Macquart." Zola 
 resolved to write the history of a given family during the 
 Empire, on the basis of conditions which the Empire cre- 
 ated, and to illustrate the law of heredity. It was even 
 a greater question than to illustrate, for heredity was to 
 become the physiological basis of the work. 
 
 There is a certain contradiction in the plan. The 
 Rougon-Macquarts, taking them historically, were to be 
 a picture of French society during recent times, and the 
 normal phenomena of its life ; so they should themselves 
 be a family more or less normal. But in such case, 
 what would become of heredity ? It is certain that nor- 
 mal families are such also by virtue of heredity. But 
 to show it in those conditions is impossible ; so it must 
 be done in deviations from the regular type. The 
 Rougons are in fact a sickly family. They are children 
 of neurosis. The ancestress of the family fell into it, and 
 thenceforth her descendants were born with her brand on 
 the forehead. Such is the wish of the author, and we 
 must accept. But how the history of a family exception- 
 ally affected with mental aberrations could be at the same 
 time a picture of French society, the author does not ex- 
 plain to us. If he answered that during the Empire all
 
 582 ZOLA. 
 
 society was sick, that would be a subterfuge. Society 
 may go by a ruinous road, politically or socially, as Polish 
 society did in the eighteenth century, and be sick as a 
 whole, but be made up of individuals and families who 
 are healthy. These are two different things. One of two 
 issues, then : either the Rougons are sick, and the cycle 
 of novels concerning them is a psychological study, not a 
 picture of France during the Empire ; or, the whole psy- 
 chological basis, all that heredity on which the cycle is 
 built, in a word, Zola's entire doctrine, is nonsense. 
 I do not know whether any one has ever turned Zola's 
 attention to this, aut aut (either or). It is certain that 
 he himself has never turned his attention to it. Prob- 
 ably that would have had no influence on him, just as the 
 critics of his theory of heredity had not. Both literary 
 men and physiologists have appeared against him re- 
 peatedly with a whole supply of irresistible proofs. Noth- 
 ing helped in any way. They contended in vain that in 
 exact science the theory of heredity had not been inves- 
 tigated or studied to the end, and, what, was most impor- 
 tant, it was impossible thus far to grasp it and to prove 
 it through facts ; in vain did they show that physiology 
 could not be fantastic, that its proofs could not be sub- 
 jected to the arbitrary ideas of an author. Zola listened, 
 wrote on, and in the final volume of his work added the 
 genealogical tree of the family of Rougon-Macquart with 
 as much calmness as if no one had ever brought his theory 
 into doubt. 
 
 That tree has one good side. It is so pretentious that 
 it is brought to ridicule, and deprives the theory of the 
 remnant of dignity which it might have had for minds 
 less independent. We learn from the tree that a stock 
 springs from a great-grandmother who is nervously ill, 
 also of light conduct. But the man who should think
 
 ZOLA. 588 
 
 that her neurosis would appear in her descendants, just as 
 might happen in the physical sphere, in a certain unmixed 
 manner, in some special inclination to something, or in 
 some passion, would be mistaken. On the contrary, the 
 wonderful tree produces the most varied fruit : red ap- 
 ples, peaches, plums, dates, and whatever any one wants. 
 And all this because of the great-grandmother's neurosis ! 
 Does this happen in nature ? We do not know. Zola 
 himself has no data for it except pretended cuttings from 
 newspapers describing various crimes, which he preserves 
 carefully as " human documents," which he manipulates 
 according to his own fancy. And he is free to do this ; 
 only, let him not sell us these fancies as the eternal and 
 unchangeable laws of nature. The grandmother had 
 neurosis; her nearest friends had the habit of seeking, 
 not in an apothecary shop, medicine for affliction ; hence 
 the descendants, male and female, are that which they 
 had to be, namely, criminals, scoundrels, streetwalkers, 
 decent people, saints, statesmen, good-for-nothings, pro- 
 curesses, bankers, agriculturists, murderers, priests, sol- 
 diers, ministers : in a word, everything which in the 
 spheres of thought, soundness, property, position, and 
 career both men and women can be and are, the whole 
 world over. And we are amazed in spite of us. Well, 
 what is the position then ? All happens because the 
 great-grandmother was neurotic ? Yes ! answers the 
 author. But if Adelaide Fouque* had not been neurotic, 
 her descendants would have had to be good or bad, 
 and be occupied with that with which men or women 
 are occupied in the world usually ? Of course ! answers 
 Zola, but Adelaide Fouque' had the neurosis. And fur- 
 ther discussion becomes simply impossible ; for we have 
 to do with a man who takes his own arbitrary fancy for 
 a law of nature, and whose mind does not answer to the
 
 584 ZOLA. 
 
 ordinary key furnished by logic. Well, he built a gene- 
 alogical tree ; the tree might have been different, but if 
 it had been, he would have contended that it could only 
 be as it is, and it would be easier to kill than convince 
 him that his theory was valueless. 
 
 For that matter, the theory is of this sort, that there 
 is really nothing to dispute about. People have said 
 long ago that Zola had one good thing, his talent ; and 
 one bad thing, his doctrine. If, as a result of neurosis 
 inherited from one and the same ancestor, one might be 
 as well a thief as an honest man, Nana as well as a sister 
 of charity, a brute as well as a sage, a laborer as well as 
 Achilles, then there is a bridge which does not exist, and 
 there is a heredity which is not. A man may be what he 
 wishes himself. The field for free-will and responsibility 
 is completely open, and all those moral bases on which 
 the life of man rests come uninjured from the fire. One 
 might say to the author, That is too " much ado about 
 nothing," finish with him as with a doctrinaire, and count 
 with him only as with a talent. But he wants something 
 else. Though his doctrine has no connection, and is simply 
 nothing, he draws other conclusions from it. His whole 
 cycle of books say expressly, and without double meaning : 
 " Whatever thou art, saint or criminal, thou art through 
 heredity : thou art that which thou must be, and in no 
 case is it thy fault or merit." Ah, this is the question 
 of responsibility ! This is neither the time nor the 
 place to touch it. Philosophy has not found a proof 
 that man exists, unless the Cartesian " cogito ergo sum " is 
 proof sufficient. The question is still open. The same 
 thing with responsibility. Whole ages of philosophy 
 may assert what they like, man has the internal con- 
 viction that he exists, and the no less mighty convic- 
 tion that he is responsible ; and his whole life, without
 
 ZOLA. 585 
 
 reference to theory, is founded on such a conviction. 
 Moreover, exact science has not decided the question of 
 will and responsibility. Against considerations may be 
 cited considerations ; against opinions, opinions ; against 
 inferences, inferences. But for Zola the question is de- 
 cided. There is no responsibility ; there is only some 
 grandmother Adelaide, or some grandfather Jacques, from 
 whom all come. And here, to my thinking, begins the 
 ruinous influence of this writer; for he not only pre- 
 jnHap.s iin/lp.Qirlftd questions, but he popularizes his preju- 
 dices, ingrafts and facilitates dissolution. 
 
 A certain night the Doctor caught his niece in crime. 
 She had made her way to his bureau, had drawn out his 
 papers, and was preparing to burn them. He and she fell 
 to fighting. A pretty picture ! He in his linen, she in 
 t her nightdress ; they wrestle, they pull, they scratch. He 
 is stronger, and she, though he bruised her and drew 
 blood, experienced a certain agreeableness in feeling on 
 her own maiden skin the strength of a man. And in this 
 is all Zola, But let us listen, for the decisive moment 
 is approaching. The Doctor himself, after he has panted 
 somewhat, talks to her solemnly. The reader is impa- 
 tient. Is the Doctor, by the power of his genius, to 
 rend the night sky and show her a wilderness beyond 
 the stars, or, by the might of eloquence, to hurl into the 
 dust her church, her beliefs, her impulses, her hopes ? 
 At once this verse occurs to one, 
 
 " Darkness on all sides, silence on all sides, 
 What will come now, what will come now ? " 
 
 In the silence was heard the low voice of the Doctor : 
 
 " I did not wish to show thee this, but it is not possible 
 to live thus any longer ; the hour has come. Give me the 
 genealogical tree of the family Kougon-Macquart."
 
 586 ZOLA. 
 
 " What is that ? What is that ? " 
 
 " Yes ! The genealogical tree of the family Rougon- 
 Macquart ! The reading begin's in silence : There was 
 one Adelaide Fouque' who had as husband Eougon and a 
 friend Macquart. From Rougon was born Eugene Rou- 
 gon, also Pascal Rougon, also Aristides, also Sidonia, also 
 Martha. From Aristides was born Maxim, also Clotilda, 
 also Victor. From Maxim was born Charles, and that is 
 the end ; but Sidonia had a daughter Angela, and Martha, 
 who married Mouret, who came from the Macquarts, she 
 had three children, etc." 
 
 The night Basses without incident, but the reading con- 
 tinues. After the Rougons come the Macquarts; later, the 
 descendants of both families united. Name follows name, 
 surname surname. They appear evil, they appear good, 
 they appear indifferent ; all positions appear, ministers, 
 bankers, great merchants, simple soldiers, or scoundrels 
 without occupation ; finally the Doctor stops reading, and, 
 looking with the eyes of a sage on his niece, asks, 
 
 Well, and what now ? 
 
 But the beautiful Clotilda throws herself into his 
 embraces. 
 
 " Thou hast conquered ! Thou hast conquered I " 
 
 And her God, her faith, her church, her impulses toward 
 ideals, her needs of soul scatter into dust. 
 
 Why ? In virtue of what inferences ? For what good 
 reason ? In that tree what could convince her or exercise 
 any kind of influence save tedium ? But why did not 
 this question come from her lips which occurs to the 
 reader invincibly, " But what of that ? " It is unknown. 
 I have never noted that any author obtained such great 
 and immediate results from such an empty and remote 
 cause. This is something as astonishing as if Zola had 
 commanded the faith and the principles of Clotilda to
 
 ZOLA. 587 
 
 all into dust because the Doctor had read to her an 
 almanac, a railroad guide, a bill of fare, or a catalogue 
 of any museum. The arbitrariness passes all bounds, and 
 is simply beyond understanding. The reader inquires if 
 the author is deceiving himself, or casting dust in the eyes 
 of the public. And this culminating point of the novel is 
 its fall, and the fall of the whole doctrine. Clotilda ought 
 to have answered as follows, 
 
 " Thy theory does not stand in any relation to my faith 
 in God and the church. Thy theory is so disconnected 
 that by virtue of it one may be everything, and the 
 theory itself becomes nothing ; therefore all thy further 
 inferences from it rest also on nothing. According to thee 
 Nana is a streetwalker, and Angela a saint ; Father Mou- 
 ret an ascetic ; Jacque Lotier a murderer, and all be- 
 cause of grandmother Adelaide ? But I will tell thee with 
 a greater likelihood that the good are good because they 
 have my faith, because they believe in responsibility and 
 the immortality of the soul, and the sinners ^are sinners 
 because they believe in nothing. How wilt thou prove to 
 me that the reason of good and evil is Adelaide Fouqud ? 
 Wilt thou assure me with thy word simply, or repeat that 
 it is so because it is so ; but I can say to thee that faith 
 and a feeling of responsibility have for ages been a barrier 
 against evil, and if as a positivist thou wish to reckon 
 even a little with reality, thou wilt not be able to contra- 
 dict. In one word, I have objective proof, while thou 
 hast only thy personal ' it seems to me ; ' that being the 
 case, leave me my faith, and throw thy fantastic tree into 
 the fire." 
 
 But Clotilda answers nothing of the kind. On the 
 contrary, she eats immediately an apple from that vain 
 tree, and goes over soul and body to the camp of the Doc- 
 tor, and she acts thus only and exclusively because it
 
 588 ZOLA. 
 
 pleases Zola. There is no other reason, and there can- 
 not be. 
 
 If she had gone over out of love for the Doctor, if this 
 reason, which in a woman can play such a great role, had 
 really played it, I should have understood the matter. 
 But no ! For in such case what would have happened 
 with Zola's whole doctrine ? For it is the doctrine alone 
 which influences Clotilda ; it is her reasoning side which 
 the Doctor wants to have so irresistible. And he does 
 what he wants, but simply at the cost of logic and sound 
 sense. From that moment, everything is possible ; it is 
 possible to persuade the reader that a man who is not 
 loved makes a woman love him through showing her a 
 price list of butter or of stearine candles. To such a 
 plight is real and great talent brought by doctrinairism. 
 
 It leads also to a complete destruction of moral sense. 
 That heredity is a wall through which as many windows 
 may be pierced as one likes. The Doctor is such a win- 
 dow. He considers himself a degeneration from the family 
 neurosis ; that is, he considers himself a normal man, so 
 he would like somehow to show his health to posterity. 
 Clotilda is also of the opinion that it would not be out of 
 the way, and, because love unites them, therefore they 
 take each other. They take each other evidently as peo- 
 ple took each other in the time of the cave-dwellers. Zola 
 considers that perfectly natural, Doctor Pascal also, and, 
 because Clotilda has gone over completely to his camp, 
 neither does she protest. This seems a little more won- 
 derful. Clotilda was religious so recently ! Youth and 
 inexperience do not explain it either. 
 
 Even girls at the age of eight have some instinctive 
 feeling of modesty. A young lady of twenty years and 
 something knows always what she is doing, and can- 
 not become a victim ; if she is at variance with the
 
 ZOLA. 589 
 
 feeling of modesty, it is either through temperament or 
 through love, which ennobles the transport, for it makes 
 it an act of attachment and a duty, but also love it- 
 self wishes to be duty legalized. Though a woman 
 be without religion, and renounce the consecration of 
 love by religion, she may still wish her feeling to be 
 legalized before people. The priest or the mayor. Clotilda, 
 who loves Doctor Pascal, desires nothing. Marriage 
 by a mayor seems of secondary value to her. And 
 again, it is simply impossible to understand her, for 
 genuine love should strive to strengthen the bond and 
 make it permanent. Otherwise that happens which hap- 
 pened in this novel, that the first separation was the end 
 of the connection. Had they been married even before 
 a mayor, they would have remained man and wife, 
 in separation they would not have ceased to belong 
 to each other ; since they had not been married, he was 
 from the moment of her departure the unmarried Doctor 
 Pascal, as before, she the seduced Clotilda. Even 
 during the time of their common life a thousand bitter- 
 nesses rose from this, and moments really harrowing for 
 both. A certain time Clotilda rushes in in tears, and 
 flaming, and when the terrified Doctor asks what the 
 matter is, she answers, 
 
 " Oh, those women ! While walking in the shade I closed 
 my parasol and had the misfortune to hit some little child. 
 Then all fell on me, and began to scream out such things ! 
 Oh, such things ! That I never shall have children ; that 
 it is not for such a dishcloth as I am to have them and 
 other words, which I cannot repeat, and will not, which I 
 did not even understand." 
 
 Her breast rose in sobbing ; he grew pale, and, seizing 
 her in his arms, covered her face with kisses j then he 
 said,
 
 590 ZOLA. 
 
 "This is my fault ; thou art suffering through me ! Lis- 
 uen, let us go to some place far off, where nobody will 
 know thee, where every one will greet thee, and where 
 thou wilt be happy." 
 
 But one thing does not come to the head of either : to 
 marry. When Pascal's mother speaks to them of it, they 
 have stone ears. Womanly modesty does not commend 
 this method to Clotilda ; care for her, and a desire to 
 shield her from disrespect, does not commend it to him. 
 Why ? For a reason unjustified by anything. For the 
 reason that it so pleases Zola. 
 
 But perhaps his object is to show what tragic results 
 come of illegal connections ? Not in the least. He is 
 entirely on the side of the Doctor and Clotilda. If the 
 mayor should marry them, there would be no drama, and 
 the author wants one. That is the reason. 
 
 Later comes the Doctor's bankruptcy. They have to 
 separate. This separation becomes the misfortune of 
 their lives ; the Doctor must die of the blow. Both feel 
 that that must be the end ; both do not wish it ; still they 
 do not imagine any method which would fix forever their 
 mutual relations and change the separation only into a 
 journey, not into a final parting : still they do not marry. 
 
 They were people without religion, so they did not want 
 a priest ; that we can understand. But why did they not 
 want a mayor ? This question is left without an answer. 
 
 Here, besides the want of moral feeling, is the lack of 
 common sense. The book is not only immoral ; it is a 
 wretched hut built of planks which do not hold together, 
 not suffering the least touch of logic and sound judgment. 
 In this quagmire of nonsense even talent is submerged. 
 
 One thing remains : poison flows as formerly into the 
 souls of readers, minds become accustomed to evil and 
 cease to be indignant at it. The poison soaks in, destroys
 
 ZOLA. 591 
 
 simplicity of soul, moral sensitiveness, and that delicacy 
 of conscience which distinguishes good from evil. 
 
 The Doctor, in grief for Clotilda, gets the sclerosis and 
 dies. She returns under the former roof and occupies 
 herself with the rearing of the child. ' Nothing of what 
 the Doctor had ingrafted into her soul went to nothing or 
 withered. On the contrary, it grew stronger. He loved 
 life ; she also loves it now. She accepts it completely ; 
 not through resignation, but because she knows it ; and 
 the more she ponders over it, fondling the nameless child 
 on her knee, the more she knows it. With this ends the 
 cycle " Eougon-Macquart." 
 
 But this end is a new surprise. Now nineteen volumes 
 lie before us, and in them, as Zola himself says : Tant de 
 boue, tant de larmes. C'etait h se demander si d'un coup 
 de foudre, il riaurait pas mieux valu. lalayer cette four- 
 milibre gatee et miserable. It is true ! The man who 
 reads these volumes can arrive at no other conclusion 
 than that life is a desperate and blind mechanical process 
 in which one must share, to the greater misfortune of peo- 
 ple, since it is impossible to do otherwise. In it mud 
 predominates over green turf, rottenness over freshness ; 
 the odor of corpses over the perfume of flowers ; sickness, 
 madness, and crime over health and virtue. This Gehenna 
 is not merely terrible, it is disgusting. The hair rises on 
 the head, and at the same time saliva comes to the lips 
 (to spit at it), and in fact the question springs up whether 
 it would not be better if a lightning flash should sweep 
 away cette fourmiliere yatee et miserable ? 
 
 Another conclusion there cannot be ; another would be 
 a mad mental deviation, a simple breaking of the laws of 
 reason and logic. And now do you know how this cycle 
 of novels ends really ? With a hymn in praise of life.
 
 592 ZOLA. 
 
 Here one's hands simply drop. It is useless labor to 
 show again that the author arrives at something which 
 is directly opposed to that which should flow from his 
 work. We wish him no evil ! But let him not be 
 astonished if even his disciples desert him. People must 
 think according to the laws of logic. And because they 
 must also live, they want some consolation on the road 
 of life. Masters, after the manner of Zola, give them only 
 dissolution, chaos, a disgust for life, and despair. The 
 rationalism of these masters can show the world nothing 
 else ; and these things it has always shown so eagerly that 
 it has exceeded the measure. To-day those who are stifled 
 with bad air need fresh air ; the doubting need hope ; 
 those who are torn with unrest need a little repose, 
 therefore they act properly when they turn thither 
 whence hope and repose come, thither where they are 
 blessed with the cross, and where it is said to them, as 
 it was to the palsied : Tolle grabatum tuum et ambula ! 
 (Take up thy bed and walk !) 
 
 And thus is explained the newest evolution, the waves 
 of which are beginning to pass through the world in 
 every direction. 
 
 To my thinking, poetry and novels must also pass 
 through this evolution ; nay more, they must strengthen 
 and freshen it. To go on as hitherto is simply impossible ! 
 On an exhausted field only weeds grow. The novel 
 should strengthen life, not undermine it; ennoble, not 
 defile it ; bring good " tidings," not evil. I care not 
 whether the word that I say pleases or not, since I 
 believe that I reflect the great and urgent need of the 
 soul of humanity, which is crying for a change.
 
 By the Author of "QUO VAD1S" 
 
 THE NOVELS OF HENRYR SIENKIEWICZ 
 
 AUTHORIZED AND UNABRIDGED TRANS- 
 LATIONS FROM THE ORIGINAL POLISH 
 
 By JEREMIAH CURTIN 
 
 Commended in the highest terms by Critics and Writers 
 
 " Quo Vadis," 1 vol. . . .$2.00 
 With Fire and Sword, 1 vol. 2.00 
 
 The Deluge, 2 vols 3.00 
 
 Pan Michael, 1 vol 2.00 
 
 Children of the Soil, 1 vol. . 2.00 
 
 Hania, 1 vol $2.00 
 
 Sielanka, a Forest Picture, 
 
 and Other Stories, 1 vol. . 2.00 
 Without Dogma (Translated 
 
 by IZA YOUNG), 1 vol. . . . 1.50 
 
 Library Edition, 9 vols., crown 8vo, cloth, in box, $16.50. 
 Half calf, extra, gilt top, or half morocco, extra, gilt top, $32.25. 
 
 In consequence of the publication of unauthorized translations of some 
 of the above, we deem it desirable to notify the public that we are, by 
 special arrangement with Sienkiewicz, the authorized publishers of all his 
 writings. Any other publication is made directly against his wishes, as 
 expressed in the letters which follow. 
 
 No publishing house except our own is authorized to issue a single book 
 by Sienkiewicz; and any announcements not made by us concerning his 
 books should be received with distrust, especially statements concerning 
 new stories by him, all of his latest works being already issued by us in 
 authorized and unabridged translations by Mr. Curtin. 
 
 LETTERS FROM THE AUTHOR OF "QUO VADIS." 
 
 MESSRS. LITTLE, BROWN, & Co. : 
 
 GENTLEMEN, Having concluded with you an agreement concerning my novels, trans- 
 lated by Mr. Jeremiah Curtin and published by your house, / have the honor to declare that 
 the publication of these novels by other publishers would be done against my will an</ 
 interest. As far as I know, I -cannot put a legal stop to their publication by others, but I 
 think that public opinion in your country might in this case take the place of law, since the 
 feeling of commercial honor is so highly developed in the United States. 
 
 Yours truly, 
 
 HKNRYK SIENKIEWICZ. 
 MESSRS. LITTLE, BROWN, & Co.: 
 
 GENTLEMEN, According to your request I enclose the latest photograph of me, made 
 in Nice. Concerning my novels, / again declare that every edition, as tvell that of " Quo 
 Vadis" 1 as the previous works, published by other firms is an abuse, contrary to my oirn 
 will, as to my profit, and / appeal once more to the honest public opinion. The royalty due 
 to me, which you mention in your last letter, forward, please, to Warsaw. 
 
 Yours truly, 
 
 HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ.
 
 Vadis' 
 
 Of intense interest to the whole Christian civilization. Chicago Tribune. 
 
 m 
 
 "Quo VADIS." A Narrative of the Time of Nero. By HENRYK 
 SIENKIEWICZ. Translated from the Polish by JEREMIAH CURTIN. 
 Library Edition. Crown 8vo. Cloth, $2.00. 
 
 The picture of the giant Ursus struggling with the wild animal is one that will always 
 hold place with such literary triumphs as that of the chariot race in " Ben Hur." Boston 
 Courier, 
 
 Mr. Curtin's English is so limpid and fluent that one finds it difficult to realize that ht 
 is reading a translation. Philadelphia Church Standard. 
 
 " Quo VADIS." ILLUSTRATED HOLIDAY EDITION. With maps and plans 
 of Ancient Rome, and twenty-seven photogravure plates from 
 pictures by Howard Pyle, Edmund H. Garrett, E. Van Muyden, 
 and other artists. 2 vols. 8vo. Cloth, extra, gilt top, in box, $6.00. 
 Half crushed Levant morocco, extra, gilt top, $12.00. 
 
 Hania 
 
 There is no mistaking the massive art and the wild, fierce strength of the hand that 
 wrote "Quo Vadis" and " With Fire and Sword." There is a Titanic ruggedness both 
 in the characters and the incidents that is at once barbaric and fascinating. Chicago 
 Tribune. 
 
 HANIA. By HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ. Translated from the Polish by 
 JEREMIAH CURTIN. With photogravure frontispiece of the author 
 and his daughter. Crown 8vo. Cloth, $2.00. 
 
 In addition to " Hania," a romance of strength and tenderness, and powerful 
 characterization, the new volume includes one of the author's latest stories, M On 
 the Bright Shore," a romance of Monte Carlo; a philosophical religious story of 
 the crucifixion, entitled " Let us Follow Him," which suggested to Sienkiewicz the 
 ; dea of writing " Quo Vadis ; " a sketch entitled " Tartar Captivity," the germ of 
 " With Fire and Sword ; " a humorous novelette, entitled " That Third Woman," etc. 
 
 With Fire and Sword 
 
 The only modern romance with -which it can be compared for fire, sprightliness, rapidity 
 of action, swift changes, and absorbing interest is " The Three Musketeers" of Dumas. 
 New York Tribune. 
 
 WITH FIRE AND SWORD. An Historical Novel of Poland and Russia. 
 By HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ. Translated from the Polish by JEREMIAH 
 CURTIN. With portrait of the author, plates, and a map. Crown 
 8vo. Cloth, $2.00. 
 
 " With Fire and Sword " is the first of a trilogy of historical romances of 
 Poland, Russia, and Sweden. Their publication has been received throughout the 
 United States by readers and critics as an event in literature. Action in the field 
 has never before been described in any language so briefly, so vividly, and with 
 such a marvellous expression of energy.
 
 The Deluge 
 
 It even surpasses in interest and power tlie same author's romance " With Fire and 
 Sword." . . . The -whole story swarms with brilliant pictures of war, and with personal 
 episodes of battle and adventure. New York Tribune. 
 
 THE DELUGE. An Historical Novel of Poland, Sweden, and Russia. 
 By HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ. Translated from the Polish by JEREMIAH 
 CURTIN. A sequel to " With Fire and Sword." With map. 2 vols. 
 Crown 8vo. Cloth, $3.00. 
 
 Marvellous in its grand descriptions. Chicago Inter-Ocean. 
 
 One of the direct anointed line of the kings of story-telling. Literary World. 
 
 Pan Michael 
 
 No word less than " Excelsior " will justly describe the achievement of the trilogy of 
 novels of which " Pan Michael " is the last, Baltimore American. 
 
 PAN MICHAEL. An Historical Novel of Poland, Russia, and the 
 Ukraine. By HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ. Translated from the Polish 
 by JEREMIAH CURTIN. A sequel to " With Fire and Sword " and 
 "The Deluge." Crown 8vo. Cloth, $2.00. 
 
 This work completes the great Polish trilogy. The period of the story is 
 1668-1674, and the principal historical event is the Turkish invasion of 1672. Pan 
 Michael, a favorite character in the preceding stories, and the incomparable Zag- 
 loba figure throughout the novel. The most important historical character intro- 
 duced is Sobieski, who was elected king in 1674. 
 
 There is no falling off in interest in this third and last book of the series ; again Sien- 
 kiewicz looms as one of the great novel writers of the world. The Nation. 
 
 From the artistic standpoint, to have created the character of Zagloba was a feat com- 
 parable with Shakespeare's creation of Falstaff and Goethe's creation of Mephistopheles. 
 The Dial. 
 
 Children of the Soil 
 
 A great novel, such as enriches the reader' 1 s experience and extends his mental hori~ 
 tons. One can compare it only with the great fictions of our great day, and in that com-- 
 parisonfind it inferior to very few of the greatest . W. D. HOWELLS, in " Harper's Weekly." 
 
 CHILDREN OF THE SOIL. By HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ. Translated from 
 the Polish by JEREMIAH CURTIN. Crown 8vo. Cloth, $2.00. 
 
 A novel of contemporary life in Poland, and a work of profound interest, 
 written with that vividness and truthful precision which have made the author 
 famous. 
 
 Without Dogma 
 
 Intellectually the novel is a masterpiece. Christian Union. 
 
 WITHOUT DOGMA. A Novel of Modern Poland. By HENRYK SIENKIE- 
 cz. Translated from the Polish by IZA YOUNG. Crown 8vo. 
 Cloth, $1.50. 
 
 A psychological novel of modern thought and of great power; its utter con- 
 trast to the historical romances strikingly exhibiting the remarkable variety of his 
 genius. 
 
 A triumph of psychology. Chicago Times.
 
 Sielatika, a Forest Picture, and Other Stones 
 
 His energy and imagination are gigantesquc. Chicago Evening Post. 
 
 SIELANKA, A FOREST PICTURE, AND OTHER STORIES. By HENRYK 
 SIENKIEWICZ. Translated from the Polish by JEREMIAH CURTIN. 
 Crown 8vo. Cloth, $2.00. 
 
 This new volume by the most popular writer of the time includes the shorter 
 stories which have not before been published in the uniform Library Edition, ren- 
 dering it the only complete edition of his works in English. It comprises six hun- 
 dred pages, and contains the following stories, dramas, etc. : Sielanka, a Forest 
 Picture; For Bread; Orso ; Whose Fault, a Dramatic Picture in One Act; On a 
 Single Card, a Play in Five Acts; The Decision of Zeus; Yanko the Musician; 
 Bartek the Victor ; Across the Plains ; The Diary of a Tutor in Poznan ; The 
 Lighthouse Keeper of Aspinwall ; Yamyol (Angel); The. Bull Fight; A Comedy 
 of Errors ; A Journey to Athens ; Zola 
 
 Shorter Stories, ^Published Separately, 
 
 YANKO THE MUSICIAN, AND OTHER STORIES. By HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ. 
 Translated from the Polish by JEREMIAH CURTIN. Illustrated by 
 EDMUND H. GARRETT. i6mo. Cloth, gilt, $1.25. 
 
 The simple story of the lighthouse man is a masterpiece. New York Times. 
 The tale of Yanko has wonderful pathos. Chicago Herald. 
 
 LILLIAN MORRIS, AND OTHER STORIES. By HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ. Trans- 
 lated from the Polish by JEREMIAH CURTIN. Illustrated by EDMUND 
 H. GARRETT. i6mo. Cloth, gilt, $1.25. 
 
 The tales and sketches in " Lillian Morris, and Other Stories," and " Yanko 
 the Musician," have been collected with others in the new volume entitled " Sie- 
 lanka, a Forest Picture, and Other Stories." 
 
 ON THE BRIGHT SHORE. By HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ. Translated from 
 the Polish by JEREMIAH CURTIN. i6mo. Cloth, 50 cents. 
 
 LET Us FOLLOW HIM. By HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ. Translated from 
 the Polish by JEREMIAH CURTIN. With photogravure frontispiece 
 by EDMUND H. GARRETT. i6mo. Cloth, gilt, 50 cents. 
 
 The period of this remarkable story is that of the crucifixion, and it gave to 
 the author the idea of writing " Quo Vadis." 
 
 "Let Us Follow Him" and "On the 1'right Shore " are also published with 
 other stories in the volume entitled " Hania." 
 
 LITTLE, BROWN, & COMPANY, Publishers 
 
 254 Washington Street, Boston
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY, LOS ANGELES 
 
 COLLEGE LIBRARY 
 
 This book is due on the last date stamped below. 
 
 Book Slip-25m-7,'61(C1437s4)4280
 
 1898 
 
 A 001 133546 o