The Project Gutenberg eBook of Short stories from the Balkans
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Title: Short stories from the Balkans
Translator: Edna Worthley Underwood
Release date: May 21, 2024 [eBook #73663]
Language: English
Original publication: Boston: Marshall Jones Company, 1919
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SHORT STORIES FROM THE BALKANS ***
SHORT STORIES FROM
THE BALKANS
SHORT STORIES FROM
THE BALKANS
_TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH_
BY
EDNA WORTHLEY UNDERWOOD
[Illustration: colophon]
BOSTON
_Marshall Jones Company_
MDCCCCXIX
COPYRIGHT·1919
BY MARSHALL JONES COMPANY
THE·PLIMPTON·PRESS
NORWOOD·MASS·U.S.A.
DEDICATED TO MY FATHER
ALBERT WORTHLEY
CONTENTS
PAGE
BROTHER CŒLESTIN 3
_From the Czech of_ YAROSLAV VRCHLICKÝ
FUROR ILLYRICUS 37
_A Story of the Montenegran Boundary by_ A. VON VESTENDORF
EASTER CANDLES 49
_From the Rumanian of_ J. L. CARAGIALE
THE JOURNEY 75
_From the Czech of_ SAVATOPLUK ČECH
ALL SOULS DAY 119
_From the Czech of_ JAN NERUDA
FOOLISH JONA 136
_From the Czech of_ JAN NERUDA
THE ROBBERS 145
_From the Serbian of_ LAZAR K. LAZAREVIC
NAJA 165
_From the Croatian of_ XAVER ŠANDOR-GJALSKI
JAGICA 179
_From the Croatian of_ XAVER ŠANDOR-GJALSKI
A POGROM IN POLAND 195
_A Story of the Late War by_ JOACHIM FRIEDENTHAL
A TRIP TO THE OTHER WORLD 209
_From the Hungarian of_ KOLOMAN MIKSZÁTH
FIDDLERS THREE 217
_From the Hungarian of_ KOLOMAN MIKSZÁTH
THE SWINE HERD 233
_A Tale of the Balkan Mountains by_ WALTHER NETTO
YAROSLAV VRCHLICKÝ
_VRCHLICKÝ_
YAROSLAV VRCHLICKÝ--_whose real name is Emil Frida--is perhaps the most
important personality in modern Bohemian literature. He was born in Laun
in 1853, and was carefully educated in several different preparatory
schools before going to the University of Prague where it was his
intention to study theology. He changed his mind however and gave his
time to philosophy, languages and literature. In this same university
later, he held for many years the professorship of modern literature._
_As a writer his productivity has been almost unparalleled, and it has
expressed itself for the most part in the domain of poetry. Some thirty
volumes of lyric verse have been published by him, and a number of
volumes of poetic plays. It is as lyric poet that he ranks highest,
being gifted with imagination and a sensitive ear._
_In his position as professor of literature, he wished to introduce to
his countrymen, and make easily accessible, in cheap editions, as many
foreign writers as possible. He not only urged others to help do this,
but he set an example himself. The leading poets of Germany, France,
Italy and Spain, in their entirety, Yaroslav Vrchlický gave to his
nation, in wonderfully fluent and sympathetic renderings. His
translations are among the great monuments of modern scholarship._
_His work in prose is less considerable, both as original writer and
translator. His best prose works are “Bits of Colored Glass” and “Ironic
and Sentimental Tales.”_
_The story, “Brother Cœlestin,” which we give, is from one of these
collections and it is his most celebrated story._
_It would be difficult to underestimate the influence of Vrchlický upon
the youth of Bohemia who have for so many years come under his inspired
tutelage. Yaroslav Vrchlický died in 1912._
_None of the prose stories of Vrchlický have been published in English
except one,[1] and of his verse we have seen but one small fragment, the
exact name of which we do not remember, but it was written to the
beautiful hands of a woman._
SHORT STORIES FROM THE BALKANS
BROTHER CŒLESTIN
High in the Apennines it stood--a gloomy cloister. It towered blackly on
the edge of a steep, forbidding, treeless abyss, and the sun beat
pitilessly upon its bare, gray walls. There was something strange about
this Cloister; here God and Satan dwelled side by side. God hid Himself
behind the great altar in the church; Satan dwelled in the cell of the
Prior, above his desk, and in fact right behind a picture. God knows to
what school that picture belongs! It represented the Temptation of Saint
Anthony. This had been a favorite subject for representation with a
school of painters. Teniers and Tassaert had represented the subject
with humor, Bosch with great imagination; it had been given by Callot
to the modern world through the pen of Hoffman, that unjustly forgotten
poet, and dreamer of golden vessels and magic draughts.
On one of these pictures, among the many shapeless and nameless monsters
that surrounded the poor and holy hermit, moving in a hideously merry
dance, there was in one corner of the canvas a great green frog with a
bird-shaped beak, and a hugely swollen white goiter. Behind this frog
dwelled Satan, and unobserved, through the eyes of the frog he
watched--not holy Saint Anthony kneeling in prayer, but the living body
of the Prior and his priestly comrades.
I am obliged to confess that for sometime Satan had been terribly bored
in his quiet corner. The Prior was a pious man, and the monks hymned
sleepily their breviaries. To tease them by means of sensual dreams was
something altogether too commonplace, indeed Satan himself would be
ashamed to do it, and at the same time he wished to amuse himself.
Sometimes he closed the prayer book of the Prior ten times right before
his nose, but with stoic calm, the Prior would open the book for the
eleventh time and find the place of Scripture he was reading, and put in
a book mark. On this book mark two flaming hearts were embroidered, and
a cross sewn out of pearls; it was evidently a keepsake “from the
world.” Satan tried to convince himself that it was childish to close
the book the eleventh time. But the facts of the case are that he was
ashamed to confess that he was not sufficiently emancipated mentally to
be free of fear of the cross. He would not have confessed it himself,
but I am confessing it for him strictly “_sub rosa_.”
In this Cloister a young monk lived. Shelley, that poetic interpreter of
the human heart, would have named him Alastor, but here they called him
Brother Cœlestin. His was a gentle, inspired dreamer’s soul, certainly
worthy of a better fate than to wither away between gray, desolate
walls. He was not especially beloved in the Cloister, and yet he was so
quiet, so devoted. He did not coquette for a flattering look from the
Prior, and when he met the brothers in the long, gloomy halls, he called
out his “_Memento_” to them humbly--in the spirit of the Scriptures, not
in the spirit of hypocrisy, which was something he knew nothing about.
Why Cœlestin entered the Cloister it would not be easy to say. Perhaps
it was something that had to be. There are men in whose lives the
fatalism of the past asserts its rights, that fatalism which the
middle-age tried vainly to displace by means of faith in Providence, and
which the modern world tried to make blind by the light of science, and
succeeded only in dimming. It was easy to see that Cœlestin was not
contented in the Cloister. What was to him the wonderful, magic beauty
of nature, if he could look upon it only through the narrow window of
his cell, which was covered with iron bars! The rest of the monks were
old, too. They were unfriendly and cross. Perhaps the dreams with which
they had stepped over the Cloister threshold had proved false as his
own.
The cell of Brother Cœlestin was small; it looked bare and needy. It had
one advantage, however; it was in an old tower, the remnant of an older
fortification. This tower, with its one little iron-barred window, was
the nest of all his dreams. A few boards made his bed; a Bible and
breviary his library. The room to him seemed strange and bare. But the
view out upon the mountain summits worked magic upon him, breathed into
his soul such warmth and sweetness, as had done long ago the face of his
mother.
For long, long hours Brother Cœlestin stood by the window, with greatest
pleasure at the hour when the splendor of the sunset was poured over the
mountains, when their harsh, dark outlines glowed in violet radiance,
and the mist of evening floating down the terraced declivities,
shimmered sweetly like a gentle rain of pale, blush-roses.
At night, too, for long, long hours Brother Cœlestin stood by the window
when over the glooming, black heads of the mountains shot a yellow glow
resembling the Aurora Borealis of the North. Then the distant stars
trembled like little white flowers. What peace, what quiet, what perfume
floated upon the night! Over there, in that corner between the
mountains--thus thought Brother Cœlestin--there where the clouds and the
mists, and the stars, and the birds are born, there sits an unknown
divinity and dreams some mighty dream men call nature, world, human
life.
By day, under the direct light of the sun, Cœlestin did not look across
to the mountains; they were sad then, they seemed less lofty, humble,
and oppressed.
I must remind the reader who has accompanied me through this dream of
Brother Cœlestin that Satan was becoming fearfully bored in the cell of
the Prior.
Likewise, I must communicate to him the fact that the Cloister was very
poor. The monks depended wholly upon the benevolence of the country
people who lived in this locality. That, however, was sufficient for
their needs. Then times were different than they are now, the priest,
and especially the monk, was as sacred to men as the friendly brown
swallows that yearly nested under the eaves.
From time to time the Prior sent one of the monks into the mountains. He
gave him two companions: Brother Andrew, who knew the mountain pathways
as well as a bandit, and an old gray ass, which--laden with numberless
empty baskets--brought back provisions. It was the duty of Brother
Andrew to lead the ass. Perhaps that is the reason that the monks called
the gray companion Andrew. And when they said: “Andrew is coming back
from the mountains,” no one knew whether they meant the monk or the ass,
or both. Brother Andrew was an old, crabbed, grumbling fellow who was
never pleased with anything. When he was walking along the road he
complained because the sun was hot. If the sun dipped down behind the
mountains and set, he complained of the rough, pebbly road. When he was
in the peasant homes he complained about the Cloister, and when he was
in the Cloister he complained about the peasants. The shrewd Prior, who
did not wish to displease the people because of this disagreeable
disposition, always sent another Brother to accompany him. And because
he wished to earn the gratitude of the Order, this one usually carried
pictures, rosaries, and crosses for a gift to the peasant children,
which he was careful, however, to distribute among the elders, _ad
captandam benevolentiam_ of the fathers and mothers.
So Brother Andrew returned to the Cloister with the baskets filled with
butter, smoked meat, and various articles of food. And on the evening of
his return the psalms of the choir resounded with a more solemn dignity,
and the candles burned later in the great, barren, marble floored room
which was the refectory.
Once Brother Andrew was standing with the empty baskets in front of the
door waiting for a companion.
Andrew, the monk, had gone to the Prior, for his latest directions.
Brother Cœlestin was gazing sadly away toward the mountains. His heart
was filled with an indescribable longing. Then he looked up and saw the
basket-laden ass. A wild desire mastered him to learn to know the
intricacies of the mountains, to breathe deeply the fresh, free air, to
rejoice with the soaring lark, and to look again upon the faces of
living men,--not these dried mummies who were perishing in asceticism.
He did not pause to consider. He went directly to the Prior, entered
without being announced and without greeting.
“Father--I have a request. It is the first since I have been here. Hear
me--in God’s name!”
The Prior looked surprised, but he replied gently, although there was
reproach in his tone.
“You sin, my son, against the rules of the Order. You can have no
requests. To express a request is to express a wish, and suppression of
the individual will is the first step toward priestly perfection.”
Cœlestin was silenced. He blushed and tears came to his eyes.
The Prior spoke on. “I have sympathy for your youth. Tell me what you
wish. Perhaps I will grant it, but in the future spare me a repetition
and do not leave your cell until He summons you Whose unworthy servants
we are.”
Hesitating, Cœlestin stated his wish. He asked to accompany Andrew into
the mountains.
The Prior considered, then he said earnestly:
“Very good! Not because you asked me, but because it is really your turn
to go. Go--and God be with you.”
Cœlestin kneeled at the Prior’s feet, and wet his hand with tears as he
kissed it. The Prior could not understand the tears. The procession
started.
* * * * *
Never before had Brother Andrew been so cross and disagreeable. He
thought he had cause enough. He had a presentiment that their journey
would be fruitless, and he was planning how to throw the blame upon
Cœlestin. Cœlestin, for the first time in his life, was supremely happy.
Anyone who has recovered from a serious illness, or a criminal who,
after long years, has left his prison, can sympathize with the feelings
of Cœlestin. It seemed to him that the world had just been created for
him; everywhere he beheld his own soul; in the blossoms of the cyclamen,
in the fearless wings of the eagle, which, high above, vanished in blue
depths of air. If his training and his black gown had not hindered him,
he would have followed the wild goats up the steep declivities where
they leaped to nibble the berry bushes. His eyes sparkled. His hands
trembled. Brother Andrew, I mean the monk, had predicted well. Just as
if fate had closed the doors and the hands of the peasants and Brother
Andrew--I mean now the ass--fell upon his back the results of the day.
The old monk was right. Cœlestin had not taken along any pictures or
rosaries, and he did not know how to praise the hens and the cattle of
the peasant women nor to amuse their children. His heart was full to
overflowing with his vision of the beautiful world, and his eyes spoke
eloquently, but this speech the world does not understand. In short they
were obliged to return with empty baskets. In one peasant house, all had
gone to the village except the children, and these peered greedily
through the papered windows, at the ill-assorted pair and refused them
curtly. Poor Cœlestin! It was all his fault. Brother Andrew was in his
worst temper. His gray namesake was secretly happy, however, because he
did not have anything to carry. They moved slowly along the stony,
treeless way. Andrew growled and grumbled, Cœlestin sought vainly in his
mind for a safe explanation.
Just at this moment the swollen frog with the canary bird’s beak upon
the painted canvas in the Prior’s cell, began to wiggle its white head,
just as live frogs do, on the edge of ponds, when the warm spring rain
falls. The Prior, however, observed nothing of this because he was so
deeply absorbed in his breviary.
Our pilgrims reached at length the summit of the mountains. There stray
trees grew, and berry bushes. They thought they would rest here a
little, the ascent and the heat had tired them. But what thing did they
see! There in shadow of a tree, with face pressed to earth, lay a man
whose clothes were ragged. He was sleeping or dead. By his side lay a
flute.
Brother Andrew began to grumble about vagabonds and thieves and wished
to go on, but kind Cœlestin insisted that it was their duty to aid him.
A quarrel arose out of which Andrew--the gray one--had the advantage. He
lay down to rest in the coolness and began to eat grass and leaves.
Brother Andrew resisted resolutely. One must be cautious, because how
could they tell whom they were helping. To his great surprise Cœlestin
resisted just as resolutely that the poor man must be lifted upon the
ass and taken to the Cloister. It was evident that he was struggling
between life and death. Cœlestin bent down and observed the face--an
ordinary face without expression! “A musician! An idle, good-for-nothing
wanderer in the mountains!” grumbled Andrew.
In the midst of continued resistance on one side, and a generous giving
of biblical examples of brotherly love on the other side, they lifted
the stranger to the back of the ass, and started for the Cloister, which
peered forth from the mountain peak opposite, just as if it were eager
to see what rich treasures of food Cœlestin was bringing back.
“A fine gift--this--we have,” declared Brother Andrew. Cœlestin picked
up the flute. He had never seen such a thing before; he laughed because
the slender black pipe pleased him. He hid it in his breast but Brother
Andrew leaped upon him like a wild animal, and declared it must be given
either to the Prior or the Cloister, as recompense for nursing--or
perhaps the burial of the stranger. In order to end the quarrel Cœlestin
gave the flute to the sick man, who opened his eyes from time to time
and groaned.
On the terrace of the Cloister the monks had assembled, with the Prior
in front, to await impatiently the return of the two Andrews. Food was
low and more than usual now they felt need of sitting together in the
lighted refectory, in front of well filled glasses and plates. But what
a disappointment! Through the gate came Andrew number one, grumbling,
and Andrew number two bore upon his back a drunken blackleg--was the
universal opinion--while last came Cœlestin, his head bowed and hands
folded, shyly, like a criminal who comes before his judge.
Astonishment, anger, complaints! No food. No smoked meat which Brother
Cleofas enjoyed so, no artichokes, for which Brother Zeno was
enthusiastic, and not a single melon of which Brother Sulpicius was so
greedy. Instead of the promised meal, a beggar, an outcast in ragged
clothes. O Cœlestin what have you done!
With a commanding look the Prior controlled the anger of the brothers,
and with a still more commanding look he spoke to Brother Cœlestin.
“Whom do you bring here, my son?”
“Jesus, the Christ!” he replied, and raised his blue eyes to the Prior.
Laughter resounded on all sides.
“He has lost his mind! He is laughing at us!”
Thus ran the opinions.
“Blaspheme not, my son,” answered the irritated Prior.
“I do not blaspheme, father, and I repeat: I bring Jesus the Christ. Did
he not say himself: ‘What ye do to the least among men, that ye do unto
me’? Consider, father! The poor fellow lay on the highway, suffering
pain, in the sun. Did not God himself send us in his pity to lessen his
suffering? It was for that reason that all the doors were shut against
us, that we might succor this dying one and bring him here. If our
baskets had been full of food, we could not have helped him, so
everything was arranged wisely by Providence.”
A murmur circled the row of standing monks. The Prior was all but
convinced. After a little meditation he said: “According to the commands
of brotherly love you have done well, but likewise the Scriptures say:
‘Be cunning as the serpent.’ Is it not possible that this fellow is
merely making believe? Who knows but he is an adventurer, who seeks our
Cloister out in order later to fall upon it with his companions and
plunder it!
“But it is done now and argument is useless. Let your punishment
be--since you did this without consulting me--to take care of the sick
man yourself. Come, Brothers, it is time for evening prayer!”
It was a sad and sorry-faced festival today! In the mind of Brother
Zeno, who was singing, there were visions of artichokes cooked in
fragrant oil; Brother Sulpicius was afraid to lift his eyes to the
altar, lest he should behold fabulous, golden melons floating there; and
good Cleofas thought that the incense was the smell of smoked meat. How
sad was that evening meal. Nothing but dry bread, raw turnips, and
cheese so old it was green. And Cœlestin was to be blamed.
Scarcely was the sad meal ended when a Brother announced the death of
the stranger. Fresh trouble, and another round of reproaches for
Cœlestin. Even the Prior could not hold in any longer, and began to
scold: “Expense! Useless expense!”
Brother Cœlestin remained with the dying man to the last breath. As soon
as he closed his eyes, a strange feeling came over him; he felt as if he
were going to commit theft. With trembling hand he felt the body of the
dead man, and at last he found what he sought--the old flute. As if it
had been a costly treasure he hid it in his breast. The entire day he
walked about like one in a dream. The monks meanwhile buried the
stranger by the Cloister wall. But instead of prayers they only flung a
few remarks at him, along with some handfuls of dirt.
It was a fragrant evening of summer. Cœlestin stood by the window of his
narrow cell and gazed across at the mountains. His soul was slowly
bursting into bloom like a gigantic flower.
He had never seen a flute before. He drew it forth eagerly and looked at
it just as a child looks at a new toy, and then tried awkwardly to put
it to his lips and place his fingers upon the openings and move them up
and down. He made the attempt of blowing his breath into it. A pure,
sweet tone bubbled up from the flute and floated forth upon the air of
evening. It was as if a swan upon a lake was singing its death song.
Cœlestin was astonished and repeated the attempt, and this time longer
and with more courage. If the first note was like a quiet lament, the
next note was a reproach, and did not perish suddenly, but ended with a
sharp call.
In his inexperience Cœlestin thought it could not be otherwise, and that
it all consisted in just blowing breath into the flute, and the flute
itself would do the rest, and so he blew valiantly.
It was a strange melody!
All the poetry of the pleasant evening of summer mirrored itself in the
waves of this mystic music. It was as if the crimson evening spread
itself around the tones! And these tones which melted into a tender
elegy, trembled like the wild, clinging vines, which pushed up between
the hops, along the cloister wall, and lifted their large, variegated
blossoms through iron window bars, and nodded into gloomy cells.
It was as if upon the edge of each huge flowercup an ethereal being
sat, and this being was whiter than ivory, and more translucent than
mist. And each tiny ethereal being kept time with its golden head, and
bowed and nodded to the other flowers. And then they began to dance, as
if a thousand bright butterflies were being cradled in the blossoms.
Heaven bent nearer, the mountains grew loftier and lordlier. The river,
which twisted between walls of rock, murmured as if in a dream, and the
forbidding cliffs which watched it mirrored themselves in the golden
sand and leaned nearer. The juniper bushes gleamed with a magical,
emerald green. And each note--it was as if it found a brother! One found
it in the tender tint of evening clouds, another in the silvered glory
of the waves, and still another in the violet shadows of distant
mountains. Every tone repeated itself in an echo which floated down
through the crevasses of the old Cloister wall, wandering along the
stained glass windows of the chapel, dancing over the graves of the
monks who now slept in peace. And still Cœlestin played.
It seemed as if, by means of the music, all things that oppressed him
fell away. His mood was the same as that morning when for the first time
he went into the mountains; but he felt freer, like the eagle he had
envied that day, happier than the blossoms of the cyclamen in whose
slender cups he had found his soul. He played on and looked out upon the
mountains behind which the sun was sinking amid enchanting colors. The
landscape in front of him melted into broad strips of shimmering,
floating colors, the little river arose from its rocky cavern, and threw
into his window a rain of gems--onyx, pearls, and rubies. The evening
red became a sea, the flowering vines of the Cloister wall grew in jars
of crystal. Naked odalisques and sylphs arose from them and leaned
toward him with beckoning mien. Everywhere resounded melodious, bizarre,
grieving, passionate, imploring tones like the falling pearls of May
rain upon the thick, blooming forest where the jasmine clings.
And Cœlestin played on and on; a flood of fancies broke over his head,
like the flood of ocean over one who is drowning. There was something
penetratingly sweet for him in this whirlpool of tone, like the clash of
cymbals, like the pealing of bells. Gradually it grew stiller and
stiller, only into his window peered the dew-wet magic night, with its
sweet, star eyes.
Upon the threshold stood, as if turned to stone, Brother Cleofas. The
flute fell from the hands of Cœlestin. Brother Cleofas announced the
command of the Prior. Cœlestin must come at once to the refectory and
bring the flute.
A formal meeting was in progress. Cœlestin, absorbed by his music, had
forgotten the hour of evening prayer, and what was worse, he had
disturbed the prayers of the others. The monks, who were already angry
with Cœlestin, awaited joyously the punishment of the Prior. At first
the Prior believed that Cœlestin knew how to play. But he insisted that
he had never seen a flute before and thought all there was to it was
just to blow in it. A storm of laughter was the answer to this. Some
believed him a deceiver, others saw his innocence. The Prior meditated.
The honest countenance of Cœlestin disarmed him. The Prior decided that
the flute was the property of the convent, told Brother Cleofas to take
and guard it.
Cœlestin spent a sleepless night. Continually he heard that enchanting
music. The next day was dim and fog-filled. Cœlestin felt like a person
after a nightly orgy. He felt as if there were a frightful emptiness in
his soul, he walked about his cell and the church like a stranger. He
suffered from a longing he could not express, he feared even to try to
express it, and at the same time, he knew that it was because he was
grieving over the lost flute.
Again evening came, and this time more gloomy and fog-hung than the day.
The mountains looked like sorrowing widows hidden in their veils. With
arms crossed upon his breast Cœlestin paced his cell. There was but one
thought in his brain and that tortured him. The flute!
Someone knocked softly at the door. He opened it, and in the dim passage
he saw a Brother. It was too dark to distinguish face or feature, but it
seemed to resemble Brother Cleofas.
“Has the Prior sent for me again?” stammered the surprised Cœlestin.
In reply the dark figure touched a warning finger to its lips--and then
held out the flute. Who else could it be but Brother Cleofas, the one
who dreamed of the sweetness of smoked meat?
“Cleofas, Brother!” exclaimed Cœlestin, with delight. “Then there is one
who has sympathy for me, who has not forgotten me, who braves the anger
of the Prior for my sake! I thank you, Brother--and I always thought
you were my enemy. Pardon me, Brother! Pardon me! My flute, my flute!”
The monk signalled him to be quiet. Before Cœlestin thanked him he had
disappeared. In his excitement, good Cœlestin had quite forgotten that
now all the Brothers were assembled in the church. He believed firmly
that that silent monk must have been Cleofas. He went to the window and
played.
The melody was sad and elegiac, as if it tried to harmonize with the
mood of the evening. Suppressed sighs, restrained tears, were interwoven
in the melody; a thousand nightingales sobbed their sorrow in the song.
Then, upon the instant, it changed--it was a wild dance of a carnival,
an unrestrained orgy, wherein from time to time shook the laughter of
madness. I do not know how long Cœlestin played, but this time it was
really Cleofas, who, raging like a tiger, came with a message from the
Prior. Cœlestin declared that Brother Cleofas came to his cell and gave
him the flute. The Prior knew that Brother Cleofas had been in the
church with him. Cœlestin stuck to his statement and could not be shaken
from it. It looked bad for Cœlestin. Everyone had seen Cleofas at
vesper service; no one had seen Cœlestin.
The Prior put his hand to his brow as if in search for a reasonable
decision. The Prior took the flute and carried it into his own room.
Cœlestin was led to the Cloister prison, where he was to remain and eat
only bread and water until he confessed to the truth. Night came on.
Cœlestin did not know it. The little prison chamber under the roof was
always dark. The one little barred window was right under the drain
spout of the roof. The door opened. Brother Cleofas came in. Grumbling
he placed a piece of bread by Cœlestin’s cot; and fastened a diminutive
earthen lamp to the unpainted wall and left. Cœlestin tried to talk with
him, but he shut the door in silence and turned the key.
He threw himself upon the miserable cot and tried to sleep. Feverish
fancies crossed his brain, his forehead was hot, his eyes were heavy,
but he could not sleep. Slowly the hours passed.
“What a wretched existence!” thought Cœlestin, “It would be better to
die.” He began to meditate about death. It seemed to him something
desirable. The flickering flame of the lamp sent smoke and shadows
across the barred window space, and stretched into thicker blackness in
the corners. Right by the door Cœlestin watched the shadow grow thicker.
Was it an illusion? He rubbed his eyes in order to see better. The
shadows thickened into a form, and the form drew near to him. It was
hidden in a brown robe of peculiar shape. The long, thin, yellow face
resembled old parchment in the Cloister library. It came nearer and
nearer and its steps were noiseless. Cœlestin looked straight at this
phantom being; he did not feel the slightest fear. Now it stood beside
him and looked down upon him with green, sparkling eyes.
“You are Satan!” declared Cœlestin calmly, without turning his eyes
away.
“You may not be mistaken,” replied the stranger hoarsely.
There was silence a while.
“What a miserable thing is life!” sighed Cœlestin.
“Miserable?” laughed the strange guest. “That is because you do not know
it, my boy! The old complaint of children and good-for-nothings. Life
is an idea, a conception of the brain. It is your own fault if you do
not enjoy it.”
“What? I do not know anything about life?” questioned Cœlestin, hastily.
“Then what does my renunciation mean, my struggles, my dreams--”
“Renunciation, struggles, dreams, are not life!” said Satan, scornfully.
“You have a presentiment of what it is--you child with the longing of a
giant and the grief of an old man in your heart.”
“And why do I not know life?” questioned the monk, timidly.
“Because you do not know woman!” replied Satan, laughing.
“Woman?” repeated Cœlestin. “Did I not have a mother?”
“Do not speak of a mother!” interrupted Satan. “Mother is
soul--God--_but not woman_. Woman is flesh--body--and that you do not
know. You are very innocent, dear child.” A note of sympathy trembled
upon the last words of Satan.
“But how could a woman help to make me happy? I would be happy if I
could travel over the beautiful world, climb the mountains nimbly as the
goats, fly across the blue with the eagle, or dwell in the blossom-cup
of a flower--”
“And remain a fool, just as you are!” interrupted Satan. “No! You do not
know what a woman is! Your unripe dreams are hung upon the stars, the
eagle’s wings, but not where they belong. You do not know that your soul
is a woman, that nature is a woman--death--eternity--You have renounced
woman and that is the reason that you are a child, with the longing of a
giant in your heart, and the grief of an old man. I pity you!”
Fear stood in the young priest’s eyes.
“Then teach me to know woman, and in return take my life, my soul!”
Satan laughed and came nearer.
“What is the use of this feeble light?”
With these words he extinguished it; stepped to the window and stretched
his hand out into the night. Like white silk threads something gleamed
outside, changed into a beam of light, and in a thrice floated between
the bars a white star, which illumined the room. A sulphur glow filled
the room, which gradually changed into different colors. Satan felt
within his breast, drew out three round, black pieces of wood which he
fitted together.
“_My flute!_” exclaimed Cœlestin, jumping up from the cot.
“Yes--_your soul_!” mimicked Satan, “Remain lying where you are.”
Cœlestin obeyed, and drew the covers up. Satan put the flute to his
lips. Hardly was the first note sounded than a change took place in him.
He was sitting upon his bed like a naked colossus, from whose gigantic
shoulders two bat’s wings depended, like black banners. He played and
kept time with his black head. The notes were bizarre, false, unlovely.
Melody was lacking, and it seemed to Cœlestin that a rain of fire fell
upon his temples. The notes grew sharp; they pierced like needles.
Cœlestin was frightened, he drew the covers over his head. Something
like a streak of mist floated over him and settled down with a certain
restraint upon him. Picture-visions, strange and mighty, passed before
him. He saw cities, uniquely towered, and houses, thick forests, and
sandy wastes; ancient gardens, filled with sculptured stone. Evening
came, and morning, and night again. Then he found himself in a wild
garden where grew black cypress trees. Far in the rear were towers of a
building of the middle-age. Yellow sand was spread upon the broad
walks, and the flowers, whose cups were shaped like stars, spread abroad
a perfume that was benumbing. In front of one of the fountains, under a
cypress tree, stood a woman, a splendid commanding figure. She wore
black velvet, and the neck was left open in front. He stretched his arms
out toward her, but she melted into mist and disappeared. Again mist
spread about him, it increased, and then melted into swifter and swifter
whirling circles. Down into this sped the beam of light that had floated
between the window bars, and at once threw out long jasmine-blue and
emerald rays, and these rays turned, twisted, and then transformed
themselves into the body of a woman, around whom white mist floated like
silken muslins. That was she--the dream of his sleeping soul, the one
whom he saw under the cypress tree. Very plainly he saw her, he felt her
breath, but Satan he did not see at all, who kept marking the time with
madder measure. While he looked at her, tears flowed over his face, his
head was dizzy as if with intoxication. He spread his arms out toward
her, but she hurried away to the window, and, dancing upon the
moonlight, she beckoned him to follow. He got up from his cot like one
drunk, the iron window bars fell clattering in the dust. He must get
away, away--Upon the black chimney, blowing the flute, he saw Satan, and
before him floated the resplendent summer night world of his dream--and
that enticing woman. He must follow her. It was a strange road, over the
roof tops. Satan was ahead, blowing the flute, then she, veiled in rosy
mist, from which fell continually like rain, roses, ivy, blue bells,
rhododendron, and these flowers were twined about her hair, and her
snow-white limbs. Behind her came Cœlestin, with wildly outstretched
arms. In front of all of them danced the moon, and threw its light in
little fine threads over their feet. The stars cradled themselves in a
phosphorescent splendor, and the top of the old Cloister swayed under
their feet like the back of some fabulous, pre-historic monster. Where
the roof made a turn, a great, black cat jumped out, with two red rubies
for eyes, and long fur, from which fell sparks. The Cloister remained
behind; they hurried away upon the moon-beam, and left it. Trees stood
along the road like giant, veiled spectres. From their tops sometimes
ravens rose. Beneath, blue flames trembled, over which seductive
will-o’-the-wisps floated. By the shore sat huge frogs, whose
emerald-green bodies showed yellow spots. The air became heavy. Mist
veiled the moon; and now they floated away over the crest of the
mountains and the flute song was heard no more. They stood upon the edge
of an abyss, into this measureless depth the woman leaped, riding upon
pallid moonlight--and disappeared. Upon the edge of the cliff above sat
Satan; he put the flute aside and laughed loudly and scornfully.
Cœlestin opened his eyes. Darkness surrounded him.
“Give me the flute!” he thundered to Satan. “Give me the flute and I
will play that beautiful woman up out of the abyss!”
Shrill laughter was the answer.
“Give me the flute--and take my soul!”
Again the laughter echoed. In wild anger Cœlestin fell upon Satan and
tried to take the flute away, but Satan embraced him, and spread his
black wings over him. Together they sank slowly to the earth. Cœlestin
did not wake again.
In the morning the monks found the window broken, but of Cœlestin they
found no trace. The Prior could not find the flute which the day before
he had placed under the picture of Saint Anthony. While he was searching
for the flute, he observed the picture critically, and for the first
time he saw in the eyes of the green frog the red scorn of laughter, and
he saw the white goiter swell. That day he removed the picture from his
cell. For a time the monks talked of the affair, and then they forgot
it, as everything else is forgotten. Again Brother Andrew and his gray
companion went out into the mountains for food. They were received in
the most friendly manner by the good mountain people, and Brother Andrew
drank more wine than was good for him. How could he help it when the
heat was so great! It was late when, heavily laden, he started home,
where the monks awaited him impatiently. But this time both Bacchus and
Morpheus took good Andrew in charge. The ass lost the way, and in the
darkness let himself be led by his namesake.
But the next morning! The sharp air awoke him and dispelled the
intoxication. Rubbing his eyes, he looked about. Eternal God, with whom
had he slept! Near him lay a man, his face buried in the earth, and
wearing the rotting habit of his Order. It was really now only the
skeleton of a man, it had been so long the prey of wind and rain. At a
little distance lay a flute! Andrew shrieked with terror. He began
hastily to beat his companion, and drive him up the steep mountain-side.
Not once did he dare look back, and he made constantly the sign of the
cross.
He told the Prior that he had stayed all night at a peasant’s house.
Whether he ever told what really happened that night I do not know.
A VON VESTENDORF
FUROR ILLYRICUS
A STORY OF THE MONTENEGRIN BOUNDARY
When he finished I reached him my hand, wished him joy, and promised
that I would come to the wedding, and the rest of the army men, too, who
were off duty.
It was in truth a good marriage for both. He was young and honest, even
if he was a trifle hot-headed. She, the elder of two very pretty
sisters, had been somewhat nervous during the period of betrothal in the
house of her father, rich Perovic of Salona, so great was the change
from the quiet convent in Triest where she had been educated.
I, myself, had played the part of wooer for my sergeant with the old
man, after it had been found out that the tears of the women and the
honest words of the young sergeant himself were helpless. What they
could not effect, the gold braid and medals of the commanding officer
effected easily. And so he gave in, and since the beginning had
succeeded so well,--the dowry was arranged and the wedding day set in
the midst of many cups of coffee and little glasses of _céta_ and
cigarettes.
One thing only stood in the way: the old man as a Montenegrin took the
part of the Serbs, while Fabriccio was to all appearances useless as a
soldier. In his heart he was on the side of the earlier lords of the
land, from whom he had descended.
Then the wedding day drew near. The intervening time had not passed
wholly free from disagreements--but at length it passed. The old man in
fact seemed to take a liking to his future son-in-law, in somewhat the
same manner in which he had been fond of his own son, who, against his
will, had married a poor Italian girl. He disinherited the son. The
pleading and tears of the women, the intercession of the priest, and the
Archimandrite of S. Saba--could not move him. He would not permit the
name of his son to be mentioned in the house because he was master
there.
In the place of this disobedient fool, he was determined to turn over
the wharf and the rope making plant to Fabriccio, until his term of
army service had expired. He was a very different man from that poor,
miserable musician, Pero.
* * * * *
The wedding day had come.
Through the multitude of carriages of an unbelievable range of styles,
we made our way along the sand of the highway, then through tremulous
chestnuts to the cathedral. There in the dusky, gold-shimmering interior
the ceremony was performed according to the rites of the Eastern church.
Upon huge silver platters of an antique and barbarous make, bread was
offered by young priests, who wore long hair. Noiselessly these two
young priests walked in and out of the doors of the painted wall which
hides the altar from the curious. Sometimes they carried heavy altar
books and sometimes silver vessels.
Lower sinks the white-veiled head of the bride, who, with the handsome,
earnest soldier, was kneeling by the front bench. Louder rose the
shattering thunder of the chorus, with its strange rhythm, its
monotonous repetitions in a long forgotten language. Like trumpets that
mysterious singing rings out, then there comes the deep bell tone, and
from the door to the right--seen through a cloud of incense--approaches
the Archimandrite in an ornate robe of gold, with cap and staff,
accompanied by priests, accompanied by little boys who are swinging
censers.
My little companion who beside me to the right is standing behind the
bridegroom, signals to me and lifts the little crown and holds it out
over the head of the one kneeling in front. I follow her example and do
the same for the bride. Then came the questions and answers. The
white-bearded bishop embraces the young man and kisses him first on the
right and then upon the left shoulder; he embraces the bride, who kisses
his sleeve.
Then comes my turn and that of my little companion, whose shy glances
tell me to do what the others have done. For a brief time I hear about
me only the rustling of stiff garments, the soft scuffling of feet, as
one face after the other bends to touch my shoulder and that of the
maiden--old women, young women, men, boys, people whom I never saw and
shall never see again.
And then came the procession back, a long string of carriages moving
through a heat that resembled hades, moving slowly through the dust,
between beechen hedges and tall cypress trees. The little one beside me
spread out her white veil as well as she could to shield me from the
sun, and her little crown of flowers, pale roses and myrtles,--is
resting against my shoulder, and the dust circling round us shuts us in
like a wall.
Cannons roar. We are in front of the villa of Perovic. It is really only
a massive, four cornered tower dating from imperial days with frequent
additions, which had been added to it in the course of centuries, having
been built out of the heaps of surrounding ruins. It consisted of huge,
unadorned, white-washed rooms, and provided most sparingly with
furniture. Only in the great entrance way--the _tinello_--was there
furniture.
Some art loving ancestor had adorned the walls with pictures. In the
midst of bright red fields a little nymph--a little picture of a nymph
making music, painted just as craftsmen painted on the walls of Pompeii,
and framed in the most baroque old Italian manner. There are decorations
above the doors, here and there a frieze--wreaths of flowers, fruit. In
a huge room opening out of this the table is set, about it are coarse
chairs with straw-woven seats, which before had been placed around the
walls of the _tinello_. Beside the huge old candelabra, there are large
fine mirrors, in heavily ornate frames, and some old ship’s chests,
otherwise the room is empty.
A heavy odor of food pervades the house. Upon the damask cloths which
cover the table and fall to the floor on all sides is placed--upon
common little plates--the _hors d’œuvre_, which consists of black and
green olives, sardines in oil, slices--paper thin--of splendid _salami_
from Verona and Mailand, celebrated ham from Punta Rosa, dried figs and
diminutive glasses of old _Treberschnaps_, which is not inferior to the
finest Cognac.
In front of each guest a plate, and at first of fine porcelain of all
brands, and then afterwards English stoneware; with them knives, forks,
and spoons of finest silver, and later knives and forks with wooden
handles and made of pewter, which had been borrowed from a road-house
near by.
In front of the bridal couple are two vases of fragrant flowers.
A nephew of the head of the house acts as master of ceremony and points
the guests their places. At the right of the bride the bishop, next the
bride’s mother. On the left of my sergeant, I, beside me Gianettina, my
charming little companion for the day. Opposite the bride sits the
father, by him his friends and companions. They are insolent,
much-bedecorated old men, with long, hanging beards; knives and silver
pistols are stuck into their girdles. They wear little black caps on
their heads, and they sit and stare greedily down at the little plates.
They are put out and constrained by the presence of the women, and
perhaps likewise by me. They speak Serbian and my little neighbor
blushes when she translates their speeches for me softly. She knows I
know no Serbian, and she never forgets to add to the answer in Italian,
that she hopes the _gospodin_ will learn Serbian. She tells me the names
of the men, who are for the most part relatives of her father. When she
comes to a young man in a white coat, who has hard, crabbed features,
her face grows sad: “Once he asked to marry my sister, and she refused
him. Papa, however, liked him! Ah!--what blows fell on Nine then;--but
she didn’t give in.” Would he like to marry you now I suggest? “No, no.
She wouldn’t have him either. Besides she was altogether too young,” she
hastened to explain.
The banquet begins.
Two serving maids and the nephew of the head of the house enter with
huge, four cornered bottles; one little drink and a dried fig open the
meal. That is the custom evidently to banish the taste of cigarettes
which are always in evidence. Then wine is poured into glasses--the
heavy, thick, ink-black wine of Lissa--and each one selects his favorite
morsel from the plates. Before the sugared eggs are passed around the
wine takes effect--only a few clean out their plates with rye bread--and
next comes the _minestra_, then baked macaroni with _hashée_ made from
the entrails of young lambs; fowl roasted in sugar, small _barboni_
baked in oil, baked ink-fish with citron, pullets cooked with fresh
vegetables and beef and served upon huge platters. First one and then
another of the guests hands over to the attendants first the silver
pistols and then the knives; then they unfasten the heavy leathern
girdles and loosen their neckbands. Louder and more boisterous rises the
laughter, redder the faces, even the face of my little companion grows
rosy when I insist that she translate for me some of the witticisms.
Now, _fritolli_ are brought in, round sweet cakes fried in oil,
turkeys, from which each one cuts a slice, or rather tears it off, as it
happens. Fresh wine is continually brought, while the master of the
house announces the year and place of vintage; wines from the islands,
from Greece. Occasionally a guest rises and drinks the health of the
bride’s father, the bridegroom or some guest. Outside in the court-yard
are heard the noisy voices of workmen and servants who are eating at a
long table. The Perovic family have never been niggards.
The heat is insufferable despite open doors and windows; and I long for
the fresh air and coffee. How long can this debauchery continue? At
length the champagne comes and after that the special dish of honor.
Upon a long wooden tray, borne by two servants, a roast lamb is brought,
and placed upon a serving table which is shoved up to the lower end of
the large table. With a lordly gesture the master of ceremonies steps
forward, takes up a large knife, ground thin as a hair. The master of
the house speaks a few words. Then all the young people sitting round
the table bow their heads quickly and cover their eyes with the edge of
the table cloth. All laugh and talk and holler. My little companion
whispers to me to do just what the others do. I see the master of
ceremonies lift a huge knife, and then with one blow which makes the
glasses dance, sever the entire roasted lamb. One more blow and the
“_jaraz_” lies cut in four parts.
The guests drop the edge of the table cloth, wipe their eyes and
hair--the ones who did not skilfully hide and shelter themselves with
the cloth. The master of the house congratulates the master of
ceremonies upon his skill and dexterity.
This officially ends the meal. To be sure cakes and fruit are brought
in, but only the ladies taste of them. The men continue to drink. The
Archimandrite rises, thanks the master of the house for the banquet. The
kissing of shoulders begins again, and I attempt to take advantage of
the opportunity by making my own adieux, when the hands of my little
companion grab me by the arm and she whispers: “Please don’t go now. I’m
afraid! I’m afraid!” I see that she is watching anxiously a little group
at one end of the table.
Beside the master of the house stands that young gloomy looking man--the
wooer whom Nine had rejected. He is smiling scornfully and whispering
in the ear of the old man. The old man laughs in an ugly manner,
swallows glass after glass of wine. Then he pounds on the table and
roars: “_Who mentions his name, he is dead!_” The others nod approval,
slap him on the back, and touch drinking glasses with him. In the
meantime the gloomy looking man goes up to talk with the bride and
groom. His face is sad and tragic. He is telling them something that
affects them deeply. The young bride nods approval, my sergeant pulls
down his coat, straightens up and clears his throat, and walks up to the
old man.
I saw Fabriccio standing beside the old man. I saw him place his hand
upon the old man’s shoulder, and then I heard his words as if echoing
through a strange silence:
“Father--on this happy day, let us not forget poor Nicolo, who with wife
and child and poverty--”
There was no way to help now. With distended eyes, white with rage, the
old man jumped up. I saw Fabriccio stagger back, then start to run after
the old man through the open door. There was noise and confusion on the
stairs--then I saw the little bride throw herself upon the dead body of
Fabriccio.
Three days later they found the old man in hiding in a house of
ill-fame. Poor little Nine!
L. G. CARAGIALE
EASTER CANDLES
Leiba Zibal, proprietor of the little rest-house by Podeni, is sitting
thoughtfully under the projecting roof in front of the wine shop waiting
for the stage which is already overdue an hour.
The life story of Zibal is long and it is not particularly merry. But
now, in his present condition when he is suffering so from fever, it is
a genuine amusement for him to parade before his mind its various
incidents.
Huckster, petty merchant, general go-between--sometimes even more
humble--dealer in rags and old clothes, once tailor and cleaner in a
sad, dirty little street in Jassy. He had had to try his hand at all
these things in the interval after losing his place as waiter in a large
wine house. Under his supervision two porters had carried a cask of wine
into the cellar. In the division of the labor they fell out. One seized
a stick of wood and dealt his partner a blow on the head so severe that
he dropped unconscious and blood spattered the walk.
Zibal shrieked with horror at the sight, but the porter was hastening to
get away, and lifting a threatening hand to Zibal, who fainted from
terror. As a result he was ill for several months, and when he came back
he found his old place had been filled.
Then began a fight for existence, which was made harder by his marriage
to Sura. But patience and endurance can overcome the most treacherous
fortune.
Sura’s brother--proprietor of the rest-house by Podeni--died, and the
little business was inherited by Zibal who carried it on on his own
account. Here he had lived for five years. He had managed to scrape
together a small competence in raw and well aged wine, which at any time
has an equivalent in gold. Zibal had freed himself from poverty, but now
they are all ill, he and his wife and the child--ill with the marsh
fever.
The people in Podeni are bad tempered and quarrelsome. Harsh words,
scorn, curses, constant complaints that they are being poisoned with
vitriol. But worst of all are the threats. A threat for a sensitive,
nervous nature, is worse than a blow. And now what makes Leiba Zibal
suffer more than the fever, is a threat.
“Ah!--dog of a Christian!” he thinks sadly. The one he refers to is
friend George. He wonders where he is hiding--this man with whom he had
had an unpleasant experience.
It was on a morning in fall. George stumbled into the rest-house weary,
saying he was just out of the hospital and must have work. Zibal hired
him. But George proved to be coarse and rough and bad tempered. He
cursed and grumbled. He was a lazy and unwilling servant, and he stole.
One day he threatened Zibal’s wife, who was soon to be confined, that he
would give her a blow in the abdomen, and another time he set the dogs
upon the baby. Leiba paid him and dismissed him. But George said at
first that he would not go away, that he had been hired for a year. The
proprietor retorted that he would go to the authorities and complain of
him, and ask for the law to free him from him.
Then George grabbed for something hidden within his clothes and
shrieked:--“Judas!” He started toward Leiba as if he were going to fall
upon him.
Fortunately, just at this moment, guests came to the hostelry, because
the stage had just driven up. George began to grin. “What? You weren’t
afraid, were you, Mr. Leiba? See--I’m going!”
Then he bent over the table toward Leiba making him shrink back as far
as possible, and whispered: “_You just wait till Easter night!_ We’ll
pick red eggs together! Then you’ll find I’ve reckoned up your account!”
The guests entered the rest-house.
“Goodbye till Easter, Mr. Leiba!” added George as he went out the door.
Leiba went to the authorities, put the case before them and asked for
protection. The sub-prefect--a merry young fellow--was the first one to
learn the modest request preferred by Leiba, and he began at once to
laugh and to make fun of the trembling Jew. Leiba tried to make him
comprehend the danger of the situation. He explained that the rest-house
was in a lonely place, far from a village--yes, even off the highway.
But the sub-prefect merely told him in a jocular manner to brace up and
try to be sensible. Moreover he didn’t wish to talk about such things
in a village where the people were so quarrelsome and poor, because it
might put notions of insubordination into their heads.
Some days later George was sought by mounted police at command of the
sub-prefect. A crime had been committed and suspicion pointed to him.
“How much better it would have been,” Leiba thought, “if he had put up
with him until the people came! Because now no one knew where he was.”
Although this had happened a long time ago, it all lived again tonight
in his memory, accelerated with fever and suffering. He saw him grab at
his clothes as if for a concealed weapon, he heard again the threat, and
he suffered again just as he did then at the import of the words. Why
did the memory happen to come back so vividly just now, he kept asking
himself.
It was the night before Easter.
In the little village, some two kilometers away upon the hills, between
the big ponds--he could hear the church bells ringing. And they sound so
strangely when they echo through a brain made sensitive with fever.
Sometimes the bells are very loud and sometimes they scarcely whisper.
Easter eve was at hand. This was the time set by George for fulfillment
of his threat.
“Now, of course, he is safely in prison somewhere,” said Leiba,
reassuringly.
However, it may be, Zibal will have to remain in Podeni until the next
quarter is over. Then with his money he will move to Jassy and open a
nice little business, on the Market square--then Leiba will have good
health again and not shake with fever. He will be right beside police
headquarters. He will give tips liberally to all the policemen--to the
inspector of police--Who pays well, is safe.
On a great market square like the one in Jassy, night is noisy, and just
as light as day. No darkness there--no silence either. Never such deep
silence as in this lonely valley of Podeni, between the black hills and
the great speechless water. In Jassy there is a rest-house--right in an
angular building on the corner--which is the finest place in the world
for a rest-house. There, all night long girls dance and sing in a _Café
chantant_. What noise they make! What merry life! There any hour of the
day or night you can look out your windows and see the gentlemen who
enforce the law amusing themselves with other gentlemen of the law--in
coquetting with the girls.
Why should he make himself miserable by staying here any longer, when
the business grows worse daily, especially now since the railroad was
built, which has to make a detour of miles because of the swamps?
“Leiba,” calls Sura. “The stage is coming. I can hear the bells.”
The valley of Podeni is just like the bottom of a kettle--all surrounded
by hills. Down in the southern part, the springs that come from the
mountains, spread out into lakes, where grouped water grasses grow like
bushes. Between the swamps and the high hills in the middle of the
valley stands Leiba’s lonely rest-house as brave as a fortification.
Despite the wet land the walls are dry as powder.
At sound of Sura’s voice he gets up painfully and stretches his legs
cramped with fever. He looks long toward the East. There is no sign of
the stage.
“It isn’t coming. You just thought so,” he replied to the woman and sank
down again.
Exhausted, he crosses his arms upon the table, and his head drops down
upon them. Relaxation steals over his weary nerves, and his mind wanders
in the strange visions of illness.
George--Easter eve--criminals--Jassy--a little safe rest-house in the
Market square--a thriving business--health. He falls asleep.
Sura and the child are no longer in the house. Leiba walks to the door
of his hotel and surveys the street along which they must come. Life is
busy in that great street, along which the carriage wheels spin,
accompanied by the rhythmic tread of horses’ feet upon shining asphalt.
Suddenly the traffic is held up and from Copou--a suburb of Jassy--a
crowd of foot people approach, all gesticulating and hollering. They
seem to accompany some one: soldiers, watchmen, spectators. In all the
windows and doors are crowds of greedy observers.
“Ah, ha,” thinks Leiba. “Now they have caught a robber!”
The crowd comes nearer. Sura slips out of the crowd and comes up to
where Leiba is standing on the rest-house steps.
“What’s up, Sura?”
“A madman from Golia[2]--_escaped_.”
“Let’s close up so he can’t attack us.”
“Oh, they’ve bound him. But before they did it, he beat the soldiers.
The bad tempered Christians shoved a Jew out of the crowd, and the
madman bit him on the cheek.”
From the front steps Leiba has a fine vantage point from which to see.
On the step below Sura stands holding the baby.
There he goes--the madman whom two soldiers are trying to hold. His arms
are bound by strong ropes. The man has the body of a giant. His head is
just like a bull’s; black, thick-curled. Hair covers his face--dark, in
disorder. What a mass of hair covers his head! He is bare-footed; he
keeps spitting blood and the hair he bit from the cheek of the Jew. Now
the crowd pauses. What is the trouble?
The soldiers free the madman. The people step aside and make an open
space about him. The madman pauses and sweeps the circle with his eyes,
which at length pause by Zibal’s door. He gnashes his teeth, then darts
for the steps. In the space of a second he seizes the head of the baby
with his right hand and the head of Sura with his left, dashes them
together and they split open like egg shells.
When the two heads smash together there is a noise like the thunder.
With agony of soul, like a man plunged from a high cliff, Leiba calls:
“A world stands by and looks on calmly while we are made the sacrifice
of a madman!”
But somehow he cannot say the words; they stick to his lips.
“_Up_--Jew!” a voice calls, and a great whip strikes upon the table.
“That’s a stupid joke!” remarks Sura from the door-step of the
rest-house. “The idea of startling a man out of sleep like that:
miserable peasant-dog!”
Leiba jumped up.
“You’re afraid, are you, Jew?” a scornful jester asks.
“Sleeping in broad daylight?--Get up--guests are coming. The stage is
here.”
And after the old custom--which sets the Jews in agony--he put his arms
around him and began to tickle him.
“Let me alone,” he cried, trying to wiggle away. “Don’t you see I’m
sick? Let me alone!”
At length the stage comes, after almost three hours delay. There are two
travelers who sit down together at one table. From the conversation of
the travelers he learns the following facts. At the last post station,
there was a murder committed the night before in a rest-house run by a
Jew. The post horses were always changed here. But the robbers stole the
horses and escaped to another village, and until other horses could be
procured, the travelers were forced to observe the scene of the crime.
If the house had not been robbed one would have thought it an act of
revenge or religious fanaticism. In stories told about certain religious
sects, there were just such crimes. Even in the fever that was consuming
him, Leiba began to shiver.
Then followed something that evidently filled the conductor of the stage
with deep respect.
The passengers were two students--one of philosophy and one of medicine.
Between the students now arose a debate. Atavism--alcoholism and its
pathological results. Theories of heredity--mistakes of training and
education--neurosis! All the discoveries of modern science. But
first--reversion to type--Darwin--Haeckel--Lombroso--Between Darwin and
Lombroso the enthusiastic guests had found time to sip a little of
Schopenhauer, too,--“_toward Heaven and toward the light_!”
Zibal was a long way from comprehending these enlightened theories.
Perhaps for the first time exalted words like these vibrated upon the
feverish swamp-air of Podeni.
But one thing Leiba had understood better than all the rest, and that
was “reversion to type”--that was an exact description of George. This
picture, which he had only visioned dimly, now blazed out in his mind
with the vividness of reality. He saw it in its most unessential
details.
The stage was far away now. Leiba watched it out of sight until it
turned around a corner of the mountains. The sun had just dipped behind
one of the black peaks and evening began to veil with its shadows the
lonely valley of Podeni. Restless and unhappy he drops down upon the
chair again and turns over in his mind all that he has heard.
In the lonely night, in the darkness, a man, two women and two children
were snatched from sleep and murdered. The shrieks of the children which
brutal blows silence, when they slit their bellies open--and then the
last one to die, who had to sit in a corner and watch all that
happened--_until his own turn came_. It was worse than an execution, and
there is no hope for a Jew when he falls into the hands of the
Christians.
The feverish lips of Leiba follow all these thoughts mechanically.
Shivers run down his back; with trembling step he walks along the
passageway in the rest-house.
“Without doubt,” thinks Sura--“Leiba is bad. He’s ill. He has _queer_
thoughts in his head.”
How else could she explain the peculiarities of the past few days?
He closed the rest-house and lighted the candles just as Shabbes was
drawing to a close. Three times guests knocked on the doors and friendly
voices asked admittance. At every knock he jumped up and kept his wife
from opening the door, while he whispered, his eyes rolling with terror:
“Don’t move--I won’t let a Christian in tonight.”
Then he went into the passageway and began to sharpen the ax on the
threshold. He trembled so he could with difficulty keep to his feet. He
answered his wife harshly and at length sent her to bed, with command to
put out the light. At first she refused but he repeated the command so
strangely that she did not dare disobey, but she made up her mind that
later she would find out the cause.
Sura had put out the lamp and now she was sleeping beside Strul.
Sura was right; Leiba is seriously ill.
It is night now--black night. Leiba sits beside the step that leads to
the passageway and listens--What is he listening to?
Far, far in the distance there is an indistinguishable sound like
horses’ feet--a dull mysterious murmur as of conversation. When night
makes the eye useless then the ear takes upon itself increased
distinguishing power.
There’s no mistake about it now. Upon the road that leads from the
highway here is heard the beat of horses’ hoofs. Zibal gets up and
tiptoes to the great door of the passageway. It is well protected by a
bar shoved into the masonry on both sides. At the first step sand
creaks under his shoes. He takes off his shoes and walks in his
stockings. He reaches the door just at the moment the horsemen go by.
They are talking. He catches the following words:
“He got up early.”
“But what if he had gone away?”
“Then his turn will come another time. I could have wished--”
He hears no more. The men are too far away now. Of whom were they
talking? Who had gone to bed or ridden away? Whose turn will come
another time? Who was it who wished it had been different? And what were
they after on this lonely side-road, which was used only by people who
come to the rest-house?
An oppressive weight burdened his head.
Could it be George?
Leiba felt his strength giving way and dropped down on the threshold. In
the confusion of his head he could not hit upon a clear thought. Without
knowing what he did he turned back and lighted a little lamp.
It was only a ghost of light, the wick was so nearly burned. It gave off
very dim, vertical rays that were scarcely visible. But it was
sufficient for him to observe the well known corners and see what was
there. Ah! there was much less difference between the sun and this
pitiful little lamp, than between this and pitch darkness.
The clock ticked loudly. The sound hurt Zibal. He seized the pendulum
and stopped it.
His mouth was dry. He suffered from thirst. He washed a glass in the
wooden trough by the serving counter and tried to pour out some brandy.
But the bottle clinked against the glass. These sounds hurt his head so
he had to give it up.
He let the glass sink softly in the trough of water and tried to drink
from the bottle. Then he put the bottle in its place with a noise that
jarred him. He became breathless with terror. He picked up the lamp and
placed it upon the projection of a window edge in the passageway; upon
the door, the ceiling, and the opposite wall, it threw feeble, vertical
lines scarcely bright enough to be seen.
Again Zibal sat down upon the threshold and listened.
Easter bells were pealing from the church upon the heights. It was the
signal of the resurrection of the Christ. Midnight then was long past.
Day was not so far away. Oh, if the remainder of this night of horror
would only slip away.
A crunching of sand under feet! He is in his stockings and has not
moved. The sound is repeated,--again--again. Someone is outside--_near_.
He stands up, grabs his chest convulsively. He tries to swallow the
bunch in his throat. Men are outside.--_George!_
Yes, it is he. The bells have rung out the hour of the resurrection!
They are talking softly--the men.
“_But I tell you that he is asleep!_ I saw him put the light out!”
“All the better--we’ll clean the place out then.”
“I can open the door. I know just how it works. We’ll break one of the
little windows in. The bolt is near it--”
Then one heard fingers groping in the darkness--and making measurements.
An auger is thrust into the dry oak of the old door and begins to turn.
Zibal has to lean against the wall for support; with the left hand he
supports himself upon the door, while the right covers his eyes.
Then because of the peculiar working of the brain the ear of Zibal heard
distinctly these words: “Leiba, the stage is coming!”
It was Sura’s voice. A beam of hope touched him--a moment of happiness.
Leiba draws his left hand back. The point of the auger has come through,
it has pierced his hand.
Could he save himself--? Ridiculous thought! In his burning brain that
whirling auger he was watching took on startling dimensions. It whirled
around and around, and the opening was growing larger and larger. What
passed through that brain then transcends the power of human expression.
Life had leaped to heights of exaltation from whose vantage point of
vision, chaotic complications were displayed.
Outside the work went on methodically. Leiba had watched the auger
penetrate in four different places.
“Now hand me the saw,” commanded George.
A slender saw was slipped through the opening and began swiftly to unite
the four symmetrical holes made by the auger. Now their plan was clear.
Four holes; four corners--to be united by four lines. When this was
done the square of wood would fall out, and an opening be made. Through
this opening a hand would enter, reach for the bolt and unbar the
door--_and the Christians would enter Leiba’s house_.
Then Zibal and all his family would be martyrs. Two of the vagabonds
would hold upon the floor their bodies, while George would put his foot
upon their bellies, and then turn that auger around and around in their
breasts.
The sweat of death bathed the body of Zibal; his limbs gave way and he
drops upon the floor.
With wide foolish eyes he stares at that timid light by the window. Then
he laughed and said with a look that resembled that of a beast: “Soon
the saw will hit the other hole!”
Then something astonishing happened. A change took place. The shaking of
his body stopped. The weakness vanished. Something that resembled
merriment slipped across his face.
He got up with the swiftness and security of health. He moved like a man
going toward an assured act.
The line between the two highest points of the auger holes was all but
sawn. Leiba approached cautiously. Now his laughter was undissembled. He
nodded his head.
“I have time!”
The saw snapped off the last wood of the upper line. Now it began its
work on the next line.
“There are still three,” thought Leiba, and groped his way carefully to
the tavern room. He groped in a drawer, found what he wanted, and hiding
it with care, tiptoed back to watch the boring auger. But the work
outside had ceased.
“What is the cause? Have they gone?” the questions flashed like
lightning through his brain.
“_Ha--ha--ha!_” What a mistake! The work begins anew and he watches it
now with pleasure and interest. He was filled with impatience. He wished
them to finish it as speedily as possible.
“Quicker!” prayed Leiba. “Quicker!”
Again the Easter bells rang out, high above, in that church on the hill.
“Quicker,” ordered a voice outside. “Day will overtake us.”
At last!
The borer carefully removed the square piece of wood. A huge, sinewy
hand is thrust through. Before the hand can shove the bolt, a noose of
rope encircles the wrist, is drawn tight, and then fastened to a block
of wood near the door.
In a trice the operation was over. Two shrieks accompany it, one of pain
and one of triumph. The hand was just as if it had been cut off.
Steps hastily running away are heard. The accomplices of George were
deserting him.
The Jew went again to the tavern room, took up the lamp, cut off the
burned wick, turned it up high and refreshed it. Now it gave forth light
merrily and victoriously, and all objects in the room could be seen
plainly.
Zibal bore the lamp to the passageway. The vagabond was suffering. It
was evident that he had given up resistance. The hand was swelling and
the fingers were cramped. The Jew came nearer with the lamp. Fear
assailed him; the fever came back. Trembling he brought the lamp so near
the hand that he burned it, the fingers shook, there was a howl of
pain--
At sight of the swollen hand, Zibal jumped; a wild, eccentric light
shone from his eyes. He began to laugh aloud, so that the hollow
passageway resounded.
Day was coming.
Sura awoke. She had dreamed she heard a cry. Leiba was not in the room.
The events of the day before passed through her mind. Something had
happened. She jumped up and made a light. Leiba’s bed had not been slept
on. He had not even lain down.
Where was he? She looked though the window. Far away upon the hills, she
saw the bright twinkling of little lights moving on and on. Here they
disappeared; then they came back again. People were coming from the
celebration of the resurrection of Christ. Sura opened the window a
little; she heard a sound of groaning. Frightened, she slipped softly
down the little stairs. There was light everywhere. When she reached the
threshold the sight amazed her.
Upon a high stool, his elbows upon his knees, his chin in his hands, sat
Zibal. The eyes of Zibal were riveted upon a black and shapeless object,
beneath which a light burned brightly.
Without a quiver of an eyelid, he watched the destruction of the
hand--the hand which would not have spared him.
He did not even hear the howls of the sufferer outside. What he looked
at was so horrible he could hear nothing. He had watched with unblinking
eyes, every quiver, every cramped contraction until the power of motion
within it had ceased.
It was over now.
Sura shrieked.
“Leiba!”
Zibal made a sign that she was not to disturb him.
The smell of burning flesh was spreading through the corridor.
“_Leiba!_--what is it?”
Day had come. Sura shoved the bolt. The door freed from its holding,
slid against the body of George, who hung there with one arm. Village
people, with burning Easter candles in their hands rushed in.
“What is it? What is it?”
Then they understood what had happened.
Zibal, who had not moved before, got down from his high stool heavily.
He shoved the people aside and walked toward the door.
“What’s up, Jew?” some one questioned.
“Leiba Zibal” declared the innkeeper solemnly, and with a lofty gesture,
“_Leiba Zibal_ is going to Jassy to tell the Rabbi that he is no longer
a Jew--_Leiba Zibal_ is a Christian--because, in honor of the Christ,
Leiba Zibal burned candles--_at the Easter_!” And he walked away
meditatively toward the hills--toward the East. He walked slowly like an
experienced wanderer who knows that one must not begin a long journey
with hasty steps.
SVATOPLUK ČECH
SVATOPLUK ČECH _(1846-) is the successor in both prose and verse of
Neruda and like him he is greater as a poet than as a prose writer, and
like him, too, he has tried his hand at every variety and style of
writing._
_Among his books of verse are--“The Smith of Lešetin,” “In Shadow of the
Linden”; many delightful ballades--such as “The Lark”--have been written
by him._
_We include perhaps his best short story--“The Journey.” None of the
verse of Čech has appeared in English. Of his prose we know of only one
other translated story._[3]
THE JOURNEY
Proud Odessa disappeared in the distance. It was the first time that my
eyes had beheld only sky and water. The circle of the sea rolled in
splendor on all sides, and nothing disturbed the first overpowering
impression. Peculiar emotions arose within me, as I gave myself over to
this spectacle. The dimensions of the sea exalted my spirit, and at the
same time oppressed it. At sight of the measureless horizon my chest
expanded in blessed sensations of freedom.
Today the usually treacherous Black Sea was gentle. The waves rolled
themselves calmly and regularly to their mountainous curves, and then
spread out in white, gleaming foam. Sometimes the color was green,
sometimes blue, but in the distance it was always black. Sometimes great
white sea mews settled down upon the curving waves, moving their wings
as if in rhythm with the water. Sometimes arrow swift a dolphin leaped
over the surface.
A long time I stood motionless there, absorbed in the strangeness of
this unknown picture. Then I looked up to the complex rigging above me;
at length my eyes took in the space between, where the third class
passengers were gathered in gay disorder. This quarter on ships that ply
the shore of the Black Sea, is a veritable ethnographical display. On
two sides of this covered lower deck there extended--just as in the
people’s room in a mill--high benches, upon which reclined a strange
assortment of men and women of different races and religions. Upon a
faded rug here sits, with his legs crossed, a grave mussulman; his face
expresses peace and happiness. He has procured space enough in which to
enjoy himself, to place his _nargileh_ and his yellow slippers with the
curving toes. Some tall fellows whose faces do not arouse confidence,
lie restlessly beside him. Upon their black, unkempt hair one sees the
red fez. They wore brown jackets edged with black braid; brown, galloon
trousers, wide at the hips and tapering narrower. At the waist they are
held by a sash. From the sash shine the long handles of pistols. They
are Greeks. There, gleam the kindly eyes of an honest Russian peasant;
he has blond hair and a blond beard, in caftan and flat cap; beside him,
in picturesque pose leans an old time _commis--voyageur_, a dandy from
Odessa, who expresses his superiority to his neighbors by whistling an
aria from an opera. Over there is a rich Walachian family who are
emigrating to the Caucasus. They are sunburned, dirty and disheveled,
and yet they form an interesting group. The Walachian mother has all the
dignity of the mother of the Gracchi. There is a tall Persian, with long
smooth face and tall black cap; a crafty Armenian, a priest from Georgia
in a long robe. This gayly assorted crowd sit side by side, chew garlic,
count the beads of giant rosaries, talk and quarrel in various
languages, and spread about an odor that rises to the upper deck.
They fitted well--these people--within the frame of this Eastern Sea,
which was now lighted by the fiery rays of the sun. I enjoyed less the
travelers upon the upper deck; here yawned the stupidity and stiffness
of European society. A distinguished Englishman of the usual type, a
French Governess, some Russian officers, a few emancipated Russian
women, smoking their inevitable cigarettes. A stuck-up Greek who had
tasted the civilization of the west, who was reading the Odyssey with a
new Greek accent, and a German professor who was promenading for his
health. The outward appearance of this professor was diametrically
opposed to the visions of the fabulous old world of the East, which the
turbans in Odessa call up.
How out of place against the background of this measureless sea was this
thin, dried-up figure, in the long, carefully buttoned coat, a green
umbrella under one arm, huge gold spectacles on the nose, and a spy
glass in a worn case, hanging from one shoulder. The first time my eyes
rested on this figure I wished the Black Sea would rise and swallow him
and his pedantry. But now when the brilliantly colored pictures of the
Orient had somewhat faded from my memory, I must confess that in those
days I cherished a sort of hatred for all of that Western Europe from
which the German professor came.
My German professor was, to the honor of truth be it said, a man in the
best years of life. He was shapely. He had thick blond hair and a blond
beard and noble features. His exterior gave at once the impression of
acuteness and depth, but these qualities unfortunately were united with
a prosaic pedantry which at that time particularly displeased my
Oriental mood. I was convinced that he was looking upon the Black Sea
for the first time, perhaps this was his first experience in traveling
upon any sea. He was probably looking upon the interesting group upon
the lower deck for the first time, and yet he was promenading without
any admiration or interest. His dull eyes rested upon the toes of his
shoes, as if all his intellectual activity were focused upon counting
the number of steps in today’s promenade. At length he paused and
directed his walk toward my inconsequential self. He took a seat beside
me, set his spectacles straight and--_was silent_. I made use of this
opportunity to prove that I was correct in regard to his profession and
nationality.
“It seems that we are going to have smooth weather today,” I ventured in
the German language. Without the quiver of an eyelash, he replied in the
same language:
“Don’t rejoice too soon. The Pontus Euxinus has a very unstable
disposition. When there is no wind sometimes it rages, from the very
depths, seamen say.”
The first half of my supposition was correct, and evidently a part of
the second. This “Pontus Euxinus” smelled strongly of the Professor’s
chair. The dry, sharp tone in which he spoke of the Black Sea irritated
me. In an official voice he said to me:
“May I ask your name?”
I gave it.
“Thanks; where do you come from?”
“Bohemia, Prague.”
“And where are you going?”
“To Novorossysk.”
“What for?”
“On business.”
“My name is Heinrich Walter. I am a professor in Munich. With my wife
and nephew I am on my way to the Crimea for _practical study_.”
He said these words in a tone just touched with irony. I meditated for a
moment as just how best to classify the dry example of professorship.
“For geological study?”
“No--_Callobiotic_.”
I looked at him amazed. My glance met his. It rested calmly upon my
face.
“The sound of this word means nothing to you, am I not correct? It is a
new science. It has not yet been properly introduced. I hope to perform
a service to humanity by introducing it to you.”
“Probably I have at least heard of it,” I replied, likewise ironically.
“All that has been done up to now in this science does not deserve a
name. I hope I shall be successful in laying properly the foundation,
upon which, in time, a proud and noble science will be erected.”
He paused a moment, then continued with fervor.
“It is not only a science, but an art--yes, the most exalted of all
arts. It is not a question merely of projecting certain basic formulas,
in accordance with which men--within defined limits--may enjoy the
highest physical and intellectual rewards. It aims at something higher,
namely, that human life instead of being a group of accidental and
disconnected incidents, shall develop into a veritable work of art,
inspired by one dominating idea. Life will become, my good sir, not a
drama, but an epic! You will understand that the developing of such a
science is no child’s undertaking. Just as a bee gathers honey from
various flowers, so must I gather knowledge from all other sciences,
press out their honey for the sweetening and ennobling of the life of
man. I must distribute light and shade with skill, in order to create a
beautiful and harmonious ideal of human existence.”
I confined myself merely to a shrug of the shoulders in reply to this
daring thinking. Walter paid no attention to it and went on:
“As a usual thing man is unhappy because he is dissatisfied with his lot
in life. Imagination pictures happiness always as something in the
distance, but which does not exist in the present. If he ever succeeds
in reaching this dreamed of realization, he finds that it is not what he
thought it was. As a result, he becomes bitter and disillusioned, and
then, in revenge, he begins to run after some fresh phantom of
happiness--some gayer butterfly of joy--which in turn likewise becomes
colorless and dull under the touch of his fingers.
“My object in life, my ambition, is to make dream and reality one. I
have inherited a great fortune, and although wealth is not to be
despised, I live without show or luxury, just as I did when I was poor.
With perfect calmness I could read--in Sevastopol--a telegram announcing
the loss of my fortune.” I permitted myself to doubt--in silence--the
truth of this last report.
“I have just married a young and lovely girl,” the professor went on. “I
love her and she loves me. I am happy and I hope always to remain so.
After due consideration I concluded that it is better for earthly
happiness not to follow the advice of St. Paul, and that is the reason I
married. I did not look for an ideal; I looked for a good, educated
girl, such as are common enough, and then I proposed to her without any
somnambulistic fantasies. My honeymoon was not a sense destroying orgy,
after which comes disillusion. I sought in marriage instead a calm and
even happiness. I am educating my wife to this. Her imagination and
modern methods of education had troubled her outlook in this respect.
All sorts of romantic folly floated in her head. Now I intend to cure
her of this romanticism.”
I imagined right then a tiny rose satin slipper, and under it the neck
of the professor in a none too dignified position. He went on:
“I want her to travel, to see people and the world, and to learn to form
judgments according to my instructions. But--there she comes now!”
Not only I, but the rest of the passengers upon the upper deck--looked
with pleasure at the extremely pretty young woman who was approaching.
With envy in my voice I whispered to Walter:
“You are living neither a play nor an epic, but instead a love song.”
She was following her steamer rug which hung from the arm of a tall,
handsome youth. In the youth there was that commingling of timidity and
boldness which distinguishes the students of German universities. His
face was smooth and fair as a girl’s, and it showed an effort toward
appearance of energy by a black court plaster upon the forehead, and the
first shadow of down upon the upper lip. He was a youth who would be
dangerous to women of a certain age.
Walter introduced me to his wife. A brief conversation convinced me that
she was not one of those adorable statues into which nature has
forgotten to breathe intelligence. I must confess that she was the most
seductive proof possible of the value of his new science.
On a point of the monstrous circle, whose line the green sea marked
sharply from the azure of the sky, a white sail appeared. It is not
necessary to travel long upon the sea to comprehend the lively
impression which the appearance of a distant sail causes. What wonder
that our travelers assembled upon the upper deck, when the white dot
blew up over the horizon!
Frau Walter let herself be swept along with the rest. Her husband
hurried after her taking the spyglass out of its worn covering. As if
with intention the nephew loitered behind. From an empty place near the
pilot house, his blond curly head resting upon one hand, he observed the
gay confusion of the lower deck. Soon I found that his persistent,
dreamy gaze was riveted upon a young Jewess from the Crimea, whose
slender, graceful body was draped in a black dress, and formed a
pleasant contrast to the bright-hued crowd. We have many beautiful
Jewesses with us, but beside those of the Orient our fairest Esthers are
only field daisies. This particular Jewess was not pronounced in type;
indeed, one could not at a glance be quite sure of her race. I would
have taken her at first for a Greek. The pure pallor of her face, the
black, finely arched brows, and the large dreamy eyes, from which the
poetry of the Orient looked out, made her especially attractive.
Involuntarily I compared the two, the blond youth by the pilot house and
the beautiful Jewess. Both were in the first bloom of youth, and yet
they were so different. They exchanged glances which expressed eagerness
and longing. I recalled Heine’s words of the pine in the North dreaming
of a palm in the South. After watching them a while I sat down beside
William and remarked.
“Just look at that handsome Jewess down there!” He looked at me shyly
and blushed. Then as if conscious of his importance as a student, he
moved his head carelessly and said in an unfriendly manner:
“Black, but beautiful! For such a Rachel I would not mind herding
sheep.”
“But you wouldn’t take Leah along in the bargain, would you?”
“Why not?”
“I suppose you are a student of that new science of your uncle’s, are
you not?”
“He has been boring you with that has he?” was the quick reply, his
features suddenly becoming animated.
“Isn’t that the biggest piece of nonsense? I am genuinely sorry I was
forced to travel with him. That constant school-mastering of his makes
life gall and wormwood. If I am enjoying the wine in a hotel, he lifts
his fingers and measures every drink. If I look at a girl he spoils my
pleasure by a preachment on the subject of sexual impulses. His plan of
travel disgusts me because he has thought it all out to the smallest
detail. All the pleasure of traveling he estimates by that new science
of his, and I rage in my heart. By heaven!--if it were not--” Here he
paused and looked down. I tried to guess what that unfinished sentence
might be. Evidently something chained the hot-headed youth to the uncle
which he would not confide to any human ear. After a moment I said,
looking him directly in the eye:
“And how does Frau Walter get on with her husband’s hobbies?”
He looked at me shyly and blushed. I did not look away.
“With patience,” he replied slowly. “Of course, like all women, she
tries to get her own way, and sometimes she succeeds. But of course
anyone can see that to a sympathetic person like her, that cold,
pedantic treatment is not particularly pleasant.”
“Frau Walter is a woman to be worshiped,” I answered. I said the last
words with emphasis. The young man did not answer; he seemed as if
buried in thought and his silence continued.
The supper bell rang. The sound of this bell, to which Byron devotes a
verse in his “Don Juan,” impresses one, whether it be heard in the
peopled palace of a king, in a silent cloister, or here upon a ship in
the crystal realm of Neptune.
I went down to the little second class salon, while my new acquaintances
ate in the first class salon. At the well set table I drank good Crimean
wine, and listened to the Russian conversation of the other occupants of
the table, who talked of shipwreck and adventures by sea, and tarried at
table until evening. When again I came upon deck, the sky was grey, rain
drizzled down and cooled deck and rigging of our _Juno_, which were
scorched with heat.
Upon deck the professor was walking with an umbrella.
“I have been pondering over our previous conversation, Herr Professor.
We did not end it. I wish to ask you if you would put up as calmly with
the loss of your wife, as you declare you would with loss of your
fortune?”
“Loss of my wife? I should yield to the law of life, and with all my
strength rely upon the healing power of nature, with hope that at length
the painful wound would be healed.”
“But what if her love for you should die? Of course you do not need ever
to fear such a thing, but, for sake of argument--suppose she should be
unfaithful?”
He looked at me sharply. I thought his brow clouded slightly.
In the meantime it had grown dark. We were walking in centre of the
deck, around a little four-cornered light-tower whose glass walls let
light into the salon of the first class. Now it was brightly lighted,
and there I saw a scene which suddenly stopped my steps.
Frau Walter and the nephew were sitting facing each other upon an
upholstered fauteuil, and amusing themselves by playing ball with a
large yellow orange. The pretty woman threw it in dangerous proximity to
the young man’s nose and face. She was delighted with this childish
play. Her eyes were bright, her cheeks glowed, and teasing laughter
played about her lips.
I looked so persistently at this picture that at length Walter’s eyes
were drawn that way. When at length we took up our promenade, I
observed: “You are certainly giving your nephew an excellent vacation.”
“I do not enjoy the companionship of the little wind-bag, but my wife
insisted upon taking him along.” The last words he said as if to
himself, and slowly.
Now we stood on the lookout bridge. The scene had changed. The fauteuils
were side by side, and their two heads were bent so close together over
the table, that the blond curls and brown curls touched. In front of
them upon the table lay an illustrated weekly journal. They were looking
at some pictures which showed the rendezvous of a pretty Signora and a
slender youthful page, in an old forgotten park.
The professor murmured good night and left me. I, too, sought my cabin,
which they tried to make comfortable with a hard mattress and a pillow,
and soon the sea cradled me to sleep.
When I came upon the upper deck in the morning, I saw a narrow strip of
land, upon it some little white houses, a richly decorated mosque, two
slender minarets, a Russian Church, and a number of wind-mills. Our
steamer was anchoring at Eupatoria. Upon the emerald green water about
us numberless little boats of different shapes and sizes, filled with
gayly dressed Greeks and Tartars, were offering their services. But our
ears and purses remained closed to their enticements; the time of our
stay at Zozlov, which has been officially changed to classic Eupatoria,
was limited. We had to content ourselves with a glance at the white
city, and the multitude of craft anchored in front, whose tall swaying
masts and many-hued sails presented an interesting picture.
From Eupatoria we sailed on past low bare shore land. In the distance
towered mighty Tschaterdagh (Tent Mountain), whose outlines really
suggested a giant tent.
I walked about the deck for some time without catching glimpse of my
interesting friends. At length the nephew appeared, took me confidingly
by the arm, and drew me toward an empty seat by the pilot house!
“Imagine,” he began merrily, “the old man pulled us out at _day break_.
I suppose you think he wanted us to observe a sunrise at sea. He wanted
to tell us the story of the Crimean War before we reached Sevastopol.
For this purpose he unpacked a lot of books and photographs, a map
adorned with bright flags, and I think, also, a globe. He arranged this
collection upon the table, placed one of us on his right, the other on
his left, and began his lecture. He recited in order the Crimean Khans,
reached the Russian occupation, and was just ready for the Crimean war.
Just at the moment when the hero Kozarsky succeeded with unparalleled
skill in freeing his ship _Mercury_ from the enemy ships of three
nations, I managed to slip away. I pity my poor aunt, who by this time,
probably, is right in front of the harbor of Sevastopol, and exposed to
the guns of the English, French, and Turkish fleets.”
The poor youth could not rejoice in his freedom long. Hardly had he
ended his confidence when he saw the green umbrella coming up the
stairs, and looking out from under it, two sharp eyes.
“Now it’s all over with me,” whispered the nephew. “But I will not
surrender without resistance.”
He got up and slipped away toward the stairs which led to the
ethnographical display on the lower deck. My eyes rested upon the place
where he had disappeared. There upon the deck I saw a folded paper. I
picked it up. Upon it was writing in German without address or
subscription. The writing was as follows:
“I do not live, I dream. Always I see you before me; your sweet dark
eyes look at me reproachfully. You are so near me--so near! I breathe
the fragrance of the fresh flowers in your hair. My arm can reach
you--and yet what an abyss separates us!”
Upon the same paper, written in a woman’s hand were the words: “Vain
longing!” Just at this moment some one touched my arm. I looked up and
saw Walter. The grieved, angry expression upon his usually placid face
surprised me. He was pale; his forehead was scowling.
“I see you have had the same experience that I have had. I have found a
lost love letter too,” he said in a voice very different from the
jesting manner he tried to assume. “Look here--yesterday evening I found
two. Let us compare the writing.”
He drew from his pocket book two little notes, which were just like the
one I held in my hand. With a peculiar smile he handed them to me. At a
glance I saw that the writing was the same. Upon these likewise a
woman’s hand had written. Upon one--
“_Old friends_,” and upon the other “_not enough_.”
“Give me your letter,” demanded Walter after hesitating; “I will make a
collection of them. Perhaps before I reach the end of the trip I shall
have a novel.”
The bitter tone of voice provided explanation. I did not wish such a
gloomy suspicion to grow in his heart, so I said:
“There’s nothing of importance in them.”
“No. It has not reached the climax. We’ll wait for the chapters to
follow. Thank you.”
He took my note and put it carefully away with the others, nodded his
head and walked away. I remained, meditating, where he left me, until I
was disturbed by voice of the nephew.
“My uncle wasn’t looking for me, was he?”
“He did not mention your name.”
“Out of gratitude I’ll go back and expose myself to the cross fire of
the allied fleets in front of Sevastopol. Anyway, this being bossed
about by my uncle is not going to last much longer. Then--_you’ll see_!”
With these words he glanced up at me with a merry laugh.
I, on the contrary, had lost all inclination to merriment. Deeply
meditative I watched the fine, vigorous young fellow walk away.
When I considered, in cold blood, what I had seen in this short time,
the individual peculiarity of each member of the Walter family, their
relations to each other, the senseless lack of tact of the husband, the
youth and beauty of the wife, the handsome nephew, the scene of the day
before in the salon, the mysterious letters, and the last words of the
youth, I could not put aside the fear that all was not as it should be.
Then excitement upon the upper deck drew my attention. The travelers
were leaning excitedly over the railing; joy and interest were upon
their faces. From mouth to mouth flew the word: “_Sevastopol!
Sevastopol!_”
We were just entering the great Gulf of Sevastopol, which, with one or
two other indentations, is cut out of the solid rock.
The hills on all sides, and the space of level land, gleamed brightly
now under the mid-day sun, showed the ruins of those fortifications that
had once been so formidable. Walls, redoubts, towers, houses. Across the
Gulf the remains of the gigantic dock stared back at us from long rows
of empty windows. Right beside upon a declivity, beside the ruins of
numberless houses, stood the Russian Church, rejoicing in its imposing
outlook. In the upper part of the harbor a magnificent stone archway
attracted our attention, the remains evidently of some prince’s harbor.
On the other side the steep, hanging Garden of Kozarsky charmed the
eye.
We sailed close to shore and landed. The landing place was a merry
sight. There were crowds of people; important and unimportant figures in
trim uniforms, long caftans, richly colored skirts with turbans, a
woolly cap, a fez, a low hat, wide or tight trousers, in high black
boots, or low, yellow slippers. From moment to moment this
kaleidoscopic, bright-hued scene changed. Some heads carried baskets or
boards upon which pastry was displayed for sale. Oranges, melons, fish
of all colors, resembling the rainbow, enticed to eat. Some merchants
sat behind a little improvised counter where they sold pickles, garlic,
cabbage; others offered rose-sherbet in cheap glasses. This picture was
enriched when the passengers upon the lower deck of our steamer went
ashore. We, the passengers of the first and second class, waited for the
confusion to subside, before going ashore to make use of the three hours
given us to see the ruins of Sevastopol. The passengers hired the light,
comfortable vehicle of the Russian _isvochtschik_, and the little bells
of the curved _duga_ chimed merrily as we drove away.
The Walter family and I determined to walk to the Boulevard Kozarsky.
After we had passed the memorial of this hero of the sea, we remained
standing by a little Kiosk. Our eyes traveled delightedly over the
picturesque landscape outspread beneath us. Calmly the marvelous Gulf
shone at our feet, a glittering blue sapphire set in sun-burnished
shores.
After we had looked long enough we went down into the city. The
Professor worked himself up into such furors of Ciceronian eloquence,
that his brow cleared and he became happy. The nephew appeared nervous
and impatient. He looked about shyly, and from time to time his eyes
rested upon the form of Frau Walter, who was fluttering along beside her
husband, in unalloyed delight.
In front of a ruin, whose half-fallen wall the enthusiastic professor
began to climb, the nephew suddenly felt in his breast pocket, and after
he had pulled his hand out empty, he went up to his aunt and began to
whisper to her. She took from her dress a pretty little notebook, tore a
leaf out and handed it to him, along with a handsome pencil.
The youth sat down hurriedly near the ruins and wrote a few lines. When
the zealous and inspired uncle fell down exactly at his nephew’s feet,
the latter had already written the note, and returned the pencil to its
owner.
We went on. Presently the pretty woman became faint, said that she had a
headache, and felt so ill that she must return to the steamer. The
professor was so absorbed in his study of the ruins that he let her go
away unobserved.
After a while he asked me where she had gone, but he paid no attention
to my answer. He signalled an _isvochtschik_ and invited me to drive
with him. We visited the Malakaf-Kurhan, the graveyards, and heaven
knows what else we should have seen, had I not called his attention to
the fact that it was high time for us to return to the steamer. And it
was in fact high time. When our _troika_ reached the harbor, the sailors
were loosening the ropes that made it fast. We jumped out and hastened
toward the ship. Just then, from among the gaping crowd a figure stepped
forth and handed Walter a folded letter. He opened and read it. His face
turned white; his hands trembled. When he turned the paper over and read
the words on the other side, it fluttered from his hands. He stood there
as if he had been struck by lightning, his eyes wide, his face white.
Then he groaned and covered his face with his hands. A Greek standing
near picked the paper up and handed it to him. Walter dropped his hands
from his face and looked at me despairingly.
“Read that! _Deceived! Deserted!_”
I took the paper. It was the one Frau Walter had torn from her notebook
and read:
DEAR UNCLE:
_While you are reading these lines I shall be far away, beyond
Sevastopol. I’ve got to confess that that manuscript of yours about
the new science--from which you read to us morning and evening, all
your learned articles, have given your wife and me many an unhappy
hour. So then, farewell! Our ways part. I have taken nothing with
me that was yours--that is, only one thing. Probably that is your
greatest treasure. But it had to be. Otherwise you would have
tormented your poor wife to death. I, therefore, take this pearl
with me; it rests upon my heart. The bells of the troika sound
merrily in our ears. You will never be able to catch us._
WILLIAM.
On the back of this piece of paper a woman’s hand had written the words:
“Pardon, Heinrich.” I recognized the handwriting of both. It was that of
the piece of paper I had found upon the deck.
Sympathetically I looked at the poor husband. Then the crew of the
_Juno_ called to us to hasten. They pointed to the gangplank which they
were ready to lift. At this moment Walter called: “Hurry, Sir!”
“And you--?”
“I am going after the fugitives.”
“But how can you know in which direction they have gone?”
“Don’t worry--I’ll find them.”
“And your luggage?”
“What do I care about that! Throw it into the sea--”
In despair he beat his breast, from which I saw a revolver gleam. One
sailor seized me by the arm, another pointed toward the gangplank. I do
not remember how I came upon deck. I recall hearing the voice of Walter
saying: “Tell the captain that we are going by land to Ialta. And, if
you will be so kind, then, send my luggage to the Hôtel Crimée.”
While the steamer was pushing off I saw Walter standing in the midst of
a group of people and gesticulating wildly in effort to make some
Tartars understand. This was no easy thing. At length, however, they
seemed to understand, anyway they began to fight among themselves, and
point in various directions. After the quarreling was over Walter and
one of the Tartars disappeared in a cloud of dust. I could see no more.
For just then we steamed out of the Gulf. When Sevastopol had long
disappeared from view, I recalled Walter’s parting words. I went to the
Captain’s cabin. To my great astonishment just then Frau Walter came up
the stairs. My astonishment was so great that I all but shrieked, and
called to her as soon as she reached the top step.
“You here--Madam?”
She looked quickly around the deck, and then at me. Her face was paler
than usual, and her eyes dim. As if she had read what had occurred in my
agitated face, she looked again quickly at the group of passengers on
deck, and then asked anxiously:
“Where is Walter? Have you seen my husband?”
“Permit me, dear Madam, before I reply, to inquire of you if the young
nephew is in the cabin?”
“William? No. He came to the steamer with me and then hastened to the
city with the remark that he was going to do the rest of the sightseeing
alone. From that moment I have not seen him. Ill with a headache, I lay
down upon the sofa in my cabin, and suddenly I fell asleep and slept
until now.”
I stood in front of her confused and ashamed. I felt that her dark eyes
hung upon my words. Should I tell her all? Should I tell her the foul
suspicion with which her name had been darkened. And yet--the clearness
of William’s letter, and the words she had written on the other side.
What a tangle! I longed for enlightenment.
“Well--dear Madam, I suppose I must tell you all. Yet do not be
needlessly upset, no great misfortune has befallen. Let us step aside, a
little where we shall not be exposed to the curiosity of the other
travelers.”
“Deserted!”--she groaned. “Deserted!”
I must confess that at just this moment I felt no particular sympathy
for the young woman. In fact I contemplated with a certain satisfaction
her bowed head with its graceful curls.
In addition, the situation had changed since the moment when I saw
Walter with the revolver buttoned within his coat; it had lost its
tragic character. In fact it opened up for me a very amusing prospect.
While the husband was wandering about God knows where among the
mountains of the Crimea, his lovely wife was sitting beside me. And
except me, she had not a soul to whom she could turn for help or
address. I was the Knight, the protector, of the deserted lady.
Frau Walter dropped her hands from her tear filled eyes to her lap and
spoke to me with lips that trembled. “God knows if we shall ever meet
again!”
“Do not worry needlessly, dear Madam. This little piece of land which is
Crimea is not so large. Somewhere in Bakschi Serai, Simferopol, Alupka
or Kaffa, your husband will find the culprit. Everything will be cleared
up. They will at once start for Ialta convinced that you will have gone
to a hotel there to await their arrival.”
“Oh! Now I know that he never loved me. If he had, he could never have
thought such a thing.”
“Justice demands that I defend your husband. The complication was so
arranged that there was nothing else to think. If the contents of
William’s letter had left a doubt, your writing upon the back of that
letter, would have removed it.”
“Oh, those fateful words!” she exclaimed taking out the tasteful little
note-book. “This little book was my only friend. To its pages I confided
my love for Heinrich. William asked me in Sevastopol for a piece of
paper. I tore a leaf out for him, without observing what was written
upon it.”
“Pardon me, dear Madam. Walter found three love letters in the cabin.”
For the friendly reader let it here be remarked that I blushed slightly.
“They were love letters written by William, and upon them were words in
your writing. One would suppose that these were intended for you.”
“What a chain of misunderstandings! These letters were not for me but
for my younger sister, with whom William is head over heels in love. He
chose me to confide in, because my husband had punished him several
times for this. Everywhere, where he could get hold of a piece of paper
he wrote his effusions. I scolded him, too, for doing this, but I see
now that Heinrich must have looked upon it with suspicion.”
Now I was disarmed. I determined to remain in Ialta and help Frau Walter
find her husband. She accepted my offer with gratitude, and her lovely
eyes began to look happier.
One could not, indeed, with gloomy looks contemplate the scenery that
confronted us now, the wildly cleft, towering Crimean coast. There were
fantastically formed cliffs, making romantic groups, lifting their
heads far up into the undefiled blue. Sometimes they looked as if they
had been frozen together at time of some violent and ancient war. In
their multiform grouping lay a peculiar charm, and the vividness of the
impression was heightened by their varied colors. Here a rock jutted out
as if preparing for a leap into the sea, then a lonely group of giant
stone made a background that united splendor and terror as it leaped
toward the sky. Here again smooth walls of rock fell straight down into
the sea, or a saw tooth formation cut deep into the land.
Steaming on we passed the mountain which is connected with the Greek
myth about Iphigenia. Next we saw the cloister of the holy George,
perched like a nest on the edge of a rocky wall, and the noble tower
which is a part of the cloister, and which looks far over the sea and
friendly Balaklava.
We were now approaching the fabulously lovely southern shore. Even now
we could glimpse its fresh green land, from which the flat roofs of
Tartar villages were visible, the white columns, and proud façades of
princely castles; country homes, of the most charming artistry and
grace, greet us across the water. Every style of architecture is
represented; English, Swiss, Gothic, Byzantine, Moorish, Arabic, Tartar.
Above appears beautiful Alupta and now--now--
The dining room bell rings and--despite the verses of Byron about it--I
hear nothing, I see nothing, not even the lovely woman who is standing
beside me, I am staring with astonished eyes at the scene before me.
Like the beautiful princess in the fairy tale the coast of Ialta--fair
as Paradise, richly green as the emerald--breathes upon me its
intoxication. I stand motionless on deck, the warm, inspiring wind of
the South blowing about me; my eyes discover fresh loveliness from
moment to moment, and I cannot look enough upon that enticing landscape.
Suddenly my eyes grow dim and fill with tears; it is not easy to explain
this. It was as if never before had nature presented herself to me in
all her loveliness, as if my Northern nature must melt and dissolve in
this glow and warmth of the South.
When the _Juno_ anchored at Ialta I drew a deep breath, as if suddenly I
had awakened from a dream. Now I looked about for my protégée. She stood
by my side, absorbed like myself in the beauty of the scene. The weight
of my duty as protector came to my mind.
With help of a steward I carried all the bundles and packages to the
deck, defended myself against the offers of assistance of some
picturesquely dressed Greek rascals, and at length gathered all the
belongings in a little boat, such as come out in numbers to the
steamers. More than sufficient reward for my trouble was the little
white finger of Frau Walter which rested upon my arm while I assisted
her into the boat. In a little while we were under the hospitable roof
of the Hôtel Crimée. We rented two rooms whose outer doors had a balcony
in common from which there was a view of Ialta and the Sea. Soon I felt
that the balcony confined me. I went out into the radiant summer world,
first to the landing place, from where a long avenue of cypress trees
stretched toward the country.
Next I walked along the broad, white streets toward the country estates.
I breathed in with delight the pleasant air, which was spread abroad
from thousands of flowers; my eyes rested upon fig trees, blooming
magnolias, plane trees, olives, vines, richly gilded garden gates,
behind which young, pretty Russian women were amusing themselves and
playing at ball with oranges. Even upon old grey bearded Tartars who sat
upon their sorry nags with a certain elegance, I looked with pleasure,
and upon the nets which the fishers were hauling in, and the baskets
filled to the rim with little fish.
In the meantime night had come, a night of beauty. The sky was strewn
thickly with stars, perfume of flowers floated up to the balcony, and
there I stood alone leaning upon the railing. Until late in the night I
stood there. I do not know whether I expected that my charming neighbor
would leave her sultry room and come out on the balcony, in order to
enjoy the splendor of the night, but I do know that until dawn I could
not sleep.
The next day while we were drinking our tea, I unfolded to Frau Walter
my plan for finding her wandering husband. And this plan I proceeded to
put into execution.
Slowly I rode in the direction of Alupka and one hundred times I paused,
sometimes before a neat villa whose windows were all but covered with
flowers, sometimes by an abyss in whose yawning depth a foaming river
ran. Then again I turned toward the sapphire Gulf, over whose surface
sea mews were spreading their white wings.
At Alupka I turned about and came back to Ialta. Then accompanied by a
Tartar I rode to Bakschi Serai, stood long by the fountain Marie
Potocki, and spent the night in what was once the palace of a Crimean
Khan. From this journey likewise I returned without information. In
Gurzuf and Kaffa I found no trace of Walter. I must say that I did not
exhaust a great deal of effort in looking for him; he will come back to
Ialta without doubt.
From these expeditions I returned to the Hôtel Crimée where I sat and
talked with Frau Walter in the gardens. I consoled her for the failure
of my efforts, and made her hope results would soon be better. She
relied upon me with childish faith. How I enjoyed looking into her
shining eyes, how attentively I followed the slightest gesture of her
little hands! Each night I tarried later on the balcony, but my charming
neighbor did not once come out.
One afternoon--the first week of our stay in Ialta was nearing an
end--we were standing on the balcony looking out across the white
street. Suddenly Frau Walter seized my arm and screamed: “Heinrich!
Heinrich!” I, alone, should not have known him.
Covered with dirt, in ragged clothes, he was riding wildly along the
street on a Tartar horse. A bright colored cloth was tied about his
head, and the ends were fluttering in the wind. His hair hung in
disorder about his dirty, sunburned face, and his beard was ragged. I
limited my emotions to a smile, and said to the jubilant lady:
“Come in, please. I will inform him at once that you are here. I wish to
dissipate once and for all your suspicions about his affection.”
She agreed and returned to her room. I went to meet Walter.
“You here!” He called in surprise.
“I changed my plans. Well, did you find the fugitives?”
“Upstairs I’ll tell you all about it,” he replied in a sad voice with a
shake of his head.
I led him through my room to the balcony. As we stood there he covered
his face with his hands, sighed deeply and exclaimed:
“All lost! Why chase a woman whose heart is gone? I went in the wrong
direction. In Sevastopol I learned that a man and a beautiful woman,
who left our ship, had hired a carriage and driven to Simferopol. I rode
like lightning after them. That was a devil of an unlucky ride! I
followed them like a hunter. Late in the evening I saw them get out of
the wagon in front of a little house in the outskirts of Simferopol.
Like a madman I ran up and knocked upon the door. A Jew opened it. I
seized my revolver and tried to force an entrance. The Jew
shrieked:--‘Help! Help!’ A young Jewess screamed and they ran upon me
from all sides. I saved myself but my clothes were torn, my hat was gone
and my face was bleeding. The next day I found out that I had followed a
harmless Jew and his sister.
“I remember having seen them upon our ship.
“Then I hurried to Bakschi Serai, Karasn-Bazar, Kaffa, and God only
knows where else, and all in vain!”
“Then you know all the Crimea and need not travel here again.”
“Do not jest. I cannot stand it. Now I know for the first time how much
I loved her. Without her the world is a desert. I would give my wealth,
the light of my eyes, half my life, if I could find that what I have
been through these few days was only a dream.”
The door opened and Frau Walter rushed into the arms of her husband. In
a short time all was explained.
We sat together out of doors in the terraced garden, which was framed on
all sides by emerald green vines through which the blossom cups of the
night-shade shone. On the centre of a table was a giant bouquet composed
of the loveliest flowers of the South. Everywhere floated fragrance. The
professor, whose face now shone with the self satisfaction of the
West-European, and his pretty wife, acted the lovers on a honeymoon.
“It is all clear to me now,” he declared, “all but that crazy letter of
William’s. God alone knows what that means.”
Hardly had he finished speaking, when without from the courtyard we
heard a well known voice. I parted the vine leaves and looked out. In
the court I saw William stepping out of a Russian _telega_. And what an
appearance he presented! His handsome velvet coat was in rags and
tatters. He was covered with dust and mud. The coquettish court plaster
upon his brow had vanished. In its place there was a scar. When he saw
me he walked slowly toward the pavilion.
At command of the professor we sat in silence and regarded him, after
the manner of stern senators of Rome. William was abashed and confused,
threw a ragged cap upon the table, and, with a sigh, sank down upon a
chair, and stretched his legs out. Then he took an estimating side
glance at us. Our silence evidently disturbed him. He pulled the chair
nearer to the table, sighed, blushed and crossed and recrossed his legs.
At length the uncle regarded him sternly and said:
“It seems you are capable of traveling about in the world alone--” The
nephew observed that beneath the sternness there was a twinkle of humor.
“Oh yes--very capable. I have had a dozen first class adventures. But
one thing I forgot all about--and that was money. As I sit here you
could not find a single coin upon me. That is the reason, dear Uncle,
that I have returned to the yoke of your tyranny, in case you are
disposed to fill my pockets again.”
“Very good,” replied the uncle, laughing. “But tell--were you a fool
when you wrote this letter?”
“I--_a fool_?”
“Who is the person you took away from me--whom you pressed to your
heart?”
“Couldn’t you guess? Why your pearl of pearls with which you bored your
wife and me to death--nothing else.”
Hereupon he drew from his breast pocket the worn manuscript of the new
science. There was a burst of laughter and the professor made a grab for
the manuscript.
“Well--I seem to be the fool myself.”
He took the manuscript and flung it far out of the pavilion.
“I will not attempt again to analyze the beauties of life.”
Four glasses, foaming with the fine wine of Crimea, rang merrily
together.
The next evening I was again on ship deck. From the friendly green
garden, and the flower-covered villas, the light gradually faded, and
day grew dim upon the fantastic mountains of stone that rose behind
charming Ialta. At last land disappeared, too, and night came down.
Farewell, beautiful Ialta!
JAN NERUDA
JAN NERUDA _(1839-1891) is one of the foremost figures of Bohemian
literature. He has tried his skill at every sort of writing, but it is
as poet that he is greatest, although it is not easy to pass stable
judgment upon such a many-sided, changing accomplishment._
_He belongs to a certain period of Bohemian renaissance which is
sometimes spoken of as the movement of the sixties, a movement fruitful
and far reaching. He may be said to have introduced into his tongue the
feuilleton, the arabesque and the short story of form and finish._
_In verse the work which he initiated so brilliantly has been carried on
by Yaroslav Vrchlický and Svatopluk Čech, who are both world poets not
much below the level of Pushkin and Mickiewicz._
_Among the most famous of his verse productions are “Cosmic Songs,”
“Ballades and Romances,” “Simple Motives.” In addition he has published
“Flowers From a Graveyard,” “Parisian Pictures,” “Brief and Briefer
Studies,” “Francesca of Rimini” (a play), and two comedies. We include
two of his short stories of contemporary life._
ALL SOULS’ DAY
I do not know how often on All Souls’ Day she had been to the graveyard
of Koscher, but to-day she is hurrying there again, and her feet do not
bear her as nimbly as of yore. Everything else, however, was just as it
used to be years ago. At eleven o’clock her heavy body got out of the
_droshky_, then came the coachman carrying grave-wreaths, wrapped in a
piece of white cloth, and last a five year old child, warmly dressed.
This little girl had been five years old for fifteen years. Every year
Miss Mary borrows her in the neighborhood.
“There, my dear! Now look--look at the crowd of people. It’s a good
sized crowd, isn’t it? And the candles, and the little lamps, and the
flowers! Go on, my child--go on! Don’t be afraid. Go right ahead
wherever you wish. I am coming right behind you.”
The child walks timidly along. Miss Mary follows, encourages it, but
she does not point out the direction which they are to take. It trots
along and turns this way and that until at last Miss Mary says: “Wait,
dear!” She takes the child by the hand and guides it between two graves.
She takes down from an iron cross, the wreath, bleached by wind and
weather, and hangs up the fresh one--made of black and white--in its
place. Then she places her hand upon the cross and begins to pray. It
would be too hard for her to kneel down. At first her eyes rest upon the
withered grass and the grey earth, then she lifts her head. Her wide,
pleasant face and blue eyes are looking into space. Her eyes become sad,
her lips tremble, and tears course down over her face. The little girl
is abashed, but her companion hears and sees nothing. Then she draws a
long sigh as if she had just gained possession of herself again, smiles
through her tears at the child, and speaks in a voice that frames the
words a little harshly:
“Go now where you wish! I’m coming right after you.”
Then she began again the strange promenade, and the little girl,
trembling and uncertain, decides the direction. Again Miss Mary says:
“Stop!” and she goes up to another grave. There she does what she did
before, and tarries perhaps a minute longer. Here she places the second
withered wreath in the white cloth beside the first one, and then takes
her little companion by the hand.
“You are cold, isn’t that so? Well, come on--we must not delay then.
We’ll get into the _droshky_ and drive home. You like to drive, don’t
you?”
After some effort they reached the _droshky_, the little child and the
wreaths ahead and Miss Mary follows not without difficulty. The wheels
creak, two blows fall upon the horse and they set out.
Thus it goes, year out and year in. Miss Mary, secretive and
unapproachable, had attached herself to no one throughout her life. From
childhood she had had but one friend, Miss Louise, who now was the faded
widow of the superintendent of finance, Nocar. Today she will visit Mrs.
Nocar a while. Only seldom does she visit her friend, because she goes
out little, and only leaves her dwelling on Sunday morning, when she
goes to mass in Nicholas church. As fat as she is she cannot join
walking parties. Therefore, she is spared by her friend Mrs. Nocar, who
usually calls upon her daily. As result of sincere friendship extending
over a period of years, they are one heart now, one thought.
Today especially if Miss Mary were at home alone she would be
melancholy. The house would be emptier than usual. For Mrs. Nocar, too,
it is a holy day. Never on any other day is she so especially careful at
the coffee roasting, so particular that the cakes be light and well
baked. Today her conversation is always carried on in a sort of subdued
voice. They do not say very much, but what they do say, sounds
monotonous. From time to time a tear shines upon the cheek and the
number of their friendly embraces is increased. They sit long upon the
sofa side by side, until they reach the yearly point of their
conversation.
“The dear God,” begins Mrs. Nocar, “has treated us both alike. I had a
good brave husband and two years ago he was taken away from me
forever--and he did not even leave me a little baby to take care of.
Since then I am all alone. I don’t know which is worse--to have and lose
or not to have.”
“You know, do you not,” replied Miss Mary, solemnly, “that I have always
complied with the will of God? I knew my life long ago. I was to have
only a dream. I dreamed--when I was only twenty years old--that I was at
a ball--you know, of course, that I never went to a ball in all my life.
We were promenading in the splendidly lighted salon, while the music
played. But the dance-salon was just like a great empty attic! Suddenly
I saw couples, one after the other, walk down the great stair-case; I
was the last to come--with my dancing partner. I can’t recall just now
how his face looked. There were only a few of us left up above there,
when I turn my head and see Death drawing near to us. He wore a green
velvet mantle, a white feather in his hat, and he carried a sword. Then
I looked upon the stairs where the others were--and they were all gone;
even my dancing partner had vanished. Then Death took my hand and led me
away. For a long time after that I was in a palace and Death was
there--my husband. He treated me real well and he seemed to like me, but
I could not get used to him. We lived in the most astonishing splendor.
There was crystal and gold and velvet. But I did not care anything
about it. I wanted to go back to the world, and my page--he was another
Death--kept telling me all the time what happened there. My grief at
length affected my husband and I saw it. Then I knew that I should never
marry and that Death would be my bridegroom. Now, Louise, don’t you see
that dreams come from God? Has not a two-fold death separated my life
from other people?”
And Mrs. Nocar wept and wept, although she was not listening to the
dream for the first time, and she poured refreshing balm upon the grief
filled heart of her friend.
The fact that Miss Mary never married is interesting. She was left an
orphan early, and in possession of a comfortable two-storied house. She
was not an ill-favored girl. Any one could see that today. She was
tall--as only few women are--her blue eyes were good to look at, and her
face, although a trifle too broad, was pleasant and the features were
regular. It was perhaps, because as a child she had been too fat, and
they gave her the nickname of “fat Mary.” Because of fat she was a
little indolent and did not take active part in the play of the other
children. When she became a young lady she did not go to parties often
and limited her exercise to a daily walk. The people then all
corresponded to marked types, and Miss Mary was the type of an old maid.
If any of her acquaintances put to her the question, she invariably
replied: “Can one not serve God, married or single?” And when anyone
asked Mrs. Nocar, she shrugged her shoulders and replied: “Why she did
not wish to! She could have married many times--and men of
consequence--I know of two myself--good people. She did not wish to!”
I, however, know that the two men were vagabonds and not worth
considering. They were the merchant, Cibulka, and the engraver, Rechner,
and whenever anyone spoke of them they said--“_The vagabonds!_” They
were good for nothing in every way, no mind, no character. Rechner never
worked before Wednesday, and Saturday afternoon again, he did not work.
“He might have scraped together a little competence because of his
dexterity,” said a friend of my mother, Mr. Hermann--but he didn’t like
to work. And the merchant Cibulka would rather be in a wine shop than in
his own place of business. He did not get out of bed until broad
daylight, and then when he went behind the counter he was sleepy and
cross. He learned French, I believe, but business was something he did
not care to learn, and his clerk ran the shop.
They were always together, these two, and if a spark of nobility flamed
up in the soul of one of them, the other was sure to be on hand to
extinguish it. But you could not find two more jovial companions--in the
beer-hall or the wine shop. Over the narrow, smooth-shaven, pointed face
of Rechner, there was always a smile twinkling, like sunshine over
fields. His lofty brow, from which long chestnut brown hair was brushed
back, did not show a furrow, and about the thin, pale lips played scorn
and irony. His thin, dried up body, usually clothed in the yellow-brown
that suited him so well, was extraordinarily active and expressive.
Cibulka, his friend, wore black and gave himself the airs of a
distinguished gentleman. Like Rechner, he was thin, but he was larger.
His small head had a low forehead. It sheltered sparkling eyes under
thick, dark brows. The black hair was combed forward toward the face. A
long, soft black beard shaded his well formed mouth and under his beard
one could see snow-white teeth. His face expressed good humor, lack of
control, and emotion. Usually he restrained his laughter as long as he
could, and then it burst forth. Then again his face assumed its usual
mask. They understood each other. A little twinkle in the eye, and each
knew everything the other thought. But they did not have many friends,
their jokes were too rough for their honest neighbors. They had the
reputation of dissipated men who squandered life. Cibulka and Rechner
did not care what the others thought of them. They reveled and played
pranks throughout the entire city. They even went as far as distant
Frantischek[4] when, late at night, laughter echoed through the streets,
it was Cibulka and Rechner coming home.
They were the same age as Miss Mary. They had attended with her the
Nicholas Parochial School, but since then they had _never troubled
themselves about her_. They met occasionally upon the street and an
indifferent nod was the greeting. Then suddenly, Miss Mary received a
letter written in a fine, almost microscopic hand. When she had finished
the reading, her hands sank upon her lap, and the letter fluttered to
the floor.
HIGHLY ESTEEMED MISS:
_You will be surprised that I dare to address you, I and no other.
I was never bold enough to approach you--but--not to indulge in
circumlocutions--I love you! I have loved you for a long time. I
have taken council with myself and come to the conclusion that I
can find happiness only by your side._
_Miss Mary! Perhaps you will be astonished and reject me. Perhaps
false reports have blackened my reputation with you, and you will
scornfully shrug your shoulders. I must beg you not to hasten to
say the decisive word. I make bold to say that in me you will find
a husband who will try to make you happy. Only one thing I beg.
Consider the offer. Four weeks from to-day I await the
decision--not earlier, not later._
_With most passionate devotion_,
WILLIAM CIBULKA.
Miss Mary felt as if she had an attack of vertigo. She was in the
thirties, and this was her first love letter. She had never thought of
love, and no one had ever paid her any attention. Lightning darted
through her head, blood pounded in her temples, and she breathed with
effort. She was not in condition to formulate any sort of thought. Only
in midst of the flashing, red lightning, she saw the gloomy-looking
Cibulka.
She picked up the letter from the floor and read it a second time. How
beautifully it was written, how tender! She could not bring herself to
conceal the letter from her friend. Without being able to utter a word
she handed it to her.
“See, see”--observed at last Mrs. Nocar. Her face expressed confusion
and surprise. “And what are you going to do?”
“I don’t know, Louisa.”
“You have time enough to think. Of course it is possible--but, you know
how men are--_But_--And yet why should he not be in love with you? I’ll
make some inquiries about him.”
Miss Mary was silent.
“Listen! Cibulka is a fine looking fellow! His eyes are like coals, his
beard, too, and his teeth--I say his teeth are like pure sugar. He is
really very good looking.”
Mrs. Nocar bent over and embraced her speechless friend. Miss Mary was
the color of purple. Just one week later on returning from church, Miss
Mary found another letter. She read it with increasing astonishment.
ESTEEMED MISS:
_Do not be angry that I make bold to write to you. The reason of it
is that I wish to marry, I am in need of a housekeeper and I have
no acquaintances. My business does not permit me to devote my time
to pleasure. As I look about, it always seems to me that you are a
dear, good young lady. Since I am a good man, it_ _would not be a
bad match for you to marry me. I have a business, and I can work,
and, with God’s help, we shall not want for anything. I am thirty
one years old. You know me and I know you. I know that you have
property, but that will not do any harm. I must state emphatically
that my home cannot get on any longer without a mistress, and that
I cannot wait, therefore I beg you to give me an answer within
fourteen days at the latest, because in case you refuse me, I must
look elsewhere. I am no dreamer, I cannot string together fine
words, but I am capable of devotion, and until the time expires, I
am_
_Your devoted_
JOHN RECHNER, _Engraver_.
“He writes just like any every day man,” observed Mrs. Nocar in the
afternoon. “Look here, Mitzi, now you have a choice between the two.
What are you going to do?”
“What am I going to do?” echoed Miss Mary like one in a dream.
“Do you like one better than the other? Now be honest--Does one please
you? And which one?”
“William,” breathed Miss Mary, blushing.
Cibulka had become William. Rechner was lost. It was decided that Mrs.
Nocar, as the more experienced of the two, should write the letter to
Rechner, and then Miss Mary was to copy it.
But scarcely had a week passed when Miss Mary came to her friend again
with another letter. Her face beamed with satisfaction. The letter
read:
ESTEEMED MISS:
_There is nothing that is wrong, everything has its place. If I had
known earlier that my dear friend, Cibulka, had asked for your
hand, I should not have made a like venture. But he said nothing to
me, and, therefore, I knew nothing. I have already told him
everything, and I retire because he is so fond of you. I beg you
not to laugh at me. That would not be kind; in addition I can look
for happiness elsewhere. It is too bad, but that doesn’t make any
difference._
_Please forget that I am your devoted_
JOHN RECHNER, _Engraver_.
“Now you are out of the puddle,” affirmed Mrs. Nocar. “God be praised!”
Miss Mary was alone, but today solitude was so sweet. Her thoughts flew
to the future, and they were so alluring, that she went over them again
and again. Gradually her thoughts achieved a certain plasticity; they
wove themselves into unity, and they represented a beautiful life.
The next day Mrs. Nocar found her friend ill. She lay upon the sofa, her
face was white, her eyes were blurred and red. The friend was so
startled she was hardly in condition to inquire the cause. Tears filled
Miss Mary’s eyes, then she pointed to the table. Upon the table lay
another letter. Mrs. Nocar had foreboding of something amiss. The letter
was indeed serious enough.
ESTEEMED MISS:
_I, too, am not permitted to be happy. The dream is over, I press
my hand to my brow, my head is dizzy with pain._
_But--no--I cannot take the road which has been paved by the hopes
of my one, my only friend! Poor friend--as poor as I!_
_To be sure you have not yet decided, but what decision would be
possible now? I could not live in happiness, while I knew that my
dear John was in despair. Even if you should now lift to my mouth
the cup of joy--I should not dare to take it!_
_I am determined. I renounce everything. I beg only for one thing:
do not think of me with scorn._
_Your devoted_
WILLIAM CIBULKA.
“That’s pure Idiocy,” declared Mrs. Nocar, breaking into uncontrollable
laughter. Anxiously she looked across at Miss Mary.
“Well--truly!” repeated Mrs. Nocar, and sank back in her chair in
meditation.
“Good people--both--anyone can see that. But you don’t know men,
Mitzerl! Such nobility does not last; pretty soon men throw everything
to the wind and think only of themselves. Let it all rest, Mary. They’ll
talk it over together. Rechner is practical, but Cibulka--Cibulka is
madly in love with you. Cibulka will surely come!”
Mary’s eyes took on a dreamy expression. She believed her friend, and
her friend believed her own words. They were both so honest, so free
from suspicion; so unworldly. They would have been deeply shocked, if
they had known it was all a well planned joke.
“Let it alone--he will come. They’ll talk it over together!” assured
Mrs. Nocar when she went away.
Miss Mary waited and her thoughts wove themselves again into the former
visions of happiness.
Miss Mary waited, and month after month passed by. Sometimes when she
took her daily walk she met the two friends. Since they were both quite
indifferent to her, they paid no attention to the meeting. Now it seemed
to her these meetings were too frequent.
“They’ll come around--you’ll soon see,” reassured Mrs. Nocar.
At first Miss Mary thought it proper to lower her eyes, but after a time
she gained courage and looked at them. They described a wide circle
about her, each one bowed most politely and then looked down. Did they
ever observe and understand the wave of questioning in Miss Mary’s eyes?
But I do know that she never once noticed how the two rascals bit their
lips and attempted to keep from smiling.
Thus a year passed. In the meantime Mrs. Nocar heard all sorts of
stories of ill-repute about them. And carefully she told some of them to
her friend. They were degenerate men of bad reputation. Everyone said
they would come to a bad end.
Miss Mary was deeply grieved at these communications. Was she guilty of
any wrong doing herself? Her friend did not know just what to do.
A second long year and they buried Rechner. He died of consumption. Miss
Mary was prostrated. The practical Rechner, as Mrs. Nocar always spoke
of him--and love, had it killed him?
Mrs. Nocar then remarked with a sigh: “Now you have decided! Now Cibulka
will not delay. Now he will come.”
She kissed Mitzerl, who was white and trembling, upon the forehead.
Cibulka did not delay. Four months later he was carried to the graveyard
of Koscher. Inflammation of the lungs caused his death.
It is now more than sixteen years since they have both slept there in
peace.
On All Souls’ Day, for no amount of money in the world, would Miss Mary
decide whose grave she should decorate first. An innocent, five year old
child must make the decision, and wherever the child leads, there the
first wreath is placed.
Beside the graves of Cibulka and Rechner, Miss Mary bought place for a
third grave. People say she has a mania for buying the graves of people
of whom she never heard. Mrs. Magdalene Topper lies in one of these
graves. God rest her soul! She was a good woman. The grave of Mrs.
Topper lies right between the graves of Cibulka and Rechner. I should
insult the intelligence of the reader if I should tell him, why I think
Miss Mary bought the grave.
FOOLISH JONA
Foolish Jona was as if made for the amusement of unrestrained youth. He
was about eighteen years old but he looked like a thirteen year old
child. When he came back from the huckster or the merchant where his
mother was in the habit of sending him on errands, the boys ran after
him and teased him:
“Jona! Foolish Jona!” they called. He kept on his way slowly, just as if
he saw and heard nothing putting forth all his strength to control
himself, and breathing heavily. Sometimes he was so frightened that he
trembled, and his thin legs were scarcely able to uphold his weak body.
When they barred his way and began to threaten him, he turned upon them
his expressionless, white, moon-face, that looked as if it were embossed
in wax, and a timid questioning peered out of his eyes. For a moment he
stood dumb and motionless, as if death were stretching hands toward
him, and then sought to escape one way or another.
“Jona! Jon-a-a!” they called after him in the street boy jargon, as soon
as they saw him begin to tremble. He never tried to defend himself. As
soon as he reached home he gave over his purchases and then sat down in
a corner by the oven.
“Come here, dear little brother! Take your stool and sit by me,” coaxed
his sister, who was only a year older. She was a pretty, slender, yellow
haired girl, and she put her sewing aside at once.
He dragged the stool slowly along to her feet. She took the poor
confused head to her breast. He sobbed as if his heart would break. She
petted and caressed him, restraining her own tears with difficulty.
“I’m not foolish, am I?” he at length managed to say. His weak voice
trembled.
“Of course you are not! You have sense, little brother. Let them talk!”
“And you like me, don’t you--and I am not foolish!”
And over the face of the idiot there spread something that resembled a
smile.
“Now get your violin--and play something!”
“I don’t want to hear any more of that noise of his now! He can play at
night all he wants to--up on the roof,” grumbled his mother. Jona sat
where he was and kept looking up at his sister. He watched her slightest
movement.
The mother and the brothers did not love him. He had only his sister,
and to her he clung with all the emotion of his weak mind. But in the
neighborhood it was said that he was inspired by the Holy Ghost. No one
taught him to play upon the violin. And no one could imitate him. He had
never had a teacher and he played only his own pieces. And they were
strange and sad and foolish, like himself.
Jona lived in the same house where I lived as a child. He knew me.
Whenever he met me he nodded his head and smiled. I can truthfully say,
that although I was a child myself, too, I never injured or annoyed him.
There was some thing about his wax-like face that was sacred for me. My
childish imagination saw in it a resemblance to the dead, waxen faces
which I had seen under glass behind the altars in the churches.
It was Saturday evening. The late summer twilight veiled everything in a
mystical veil. The sky was blue and at the same time dark, and here and
there trembled silver stars like the thoughts of the saints, and between
swam the great, yellow moon in all its splendor, throwing light upon
lowly huts, and proud, towering churches.
The unusual activity which is common in homes on Saturday night, had
gradually become quiet. The women, who had been so busy earlier and had
been talking loudly on the wooden balconies, the stairs, and in the
court yard, had gone to bed. Only on one balcony of the third story, a
girl and a young man were engaged in conversation. They were betrothed,
and the next day they were to be married. Pretty Mitzerl, Jona’s sister,
was to be the bride, and a diligent young workman in the factory, the
groom. He had just been offered a more lucrative position in the country
and because of this, the wedding was to be hastened.
They had sat here some time. While people were still up and about,
indoors, they talked in whispers, as if they feared the outside world.
But now that there was silence everywhere, their conversation could be
heard, as if they wished the calm and splendid night to bear witness to
their happiness, their pledge, their plans.
There was one person in their neighborhood who was speaking his feelings
just as plainly as they, but it did not disturb them. But the emotions
which he expressed were not so happy, so confident, and care free.
Foolish Jona was playing his strange, fantastic music on the roof.
People said that this speech of music could not have come from his own
head, which was confused and dim. When his white fingers swept the
vibrating strings, now loudly, now softly, when his bow described mighty
and majestic tones, the listening people said that it was the Holy Ghost
that spoke.
The conversation of the lovers accompanied without any interruption the
sad violin song upon the roof. They were too much interested in each
other, and too much accustomed to his music, to pay attention to it.
Jona himself did not see them because he was playing upon the roof above
their heads.
The house in which we were living was old fashioned. It had a saddle
roof which, toward the street and court, had two projections. In fine
weather Jona took his violin and hid himself in the depression between
the roofs. He was sitting concealed there when the young man came to see
his sister, and he was playing madly as if he would never weary. In fact
his improvisations were nothing short of works of art.
Tonight suddenly he stopped in the midst of an unfinished passage, just
as if the strings had refused to obey him. The hand that held the violin
dropped limply down, but his haggard face, which was turned toward the
moon, was as if hardened to stone. After a little time, he got up
slowly. Carefully he placed the violin and the bow upon the roof, and
then walked softly as if he were afraid of hearing the sound of his own
feet. He walked to the edge of the roof. Here he leaned against a spout
and looked down upon the pair of lovers. A cloud drifted across the
moon. They were talking about him now in lowered voices.
“I think your brother is unusually sad to-day! Is he going down hill, do
you think?” inquired the young man.
Jona nodded his head.
“He is always sad--poor fellow--and especially so the past few days,”
replied Mitzerl. “He keeps asking me if I am really going away from
him. You’ll let me take him with me, won’t you?”
“Not at first. Later, perhaps you can have him.” Mitzerl embraced him.
Jona drew slowly back from the edge of the roof and walked carefully
away to his place. Here he sat down again, rested his head on his hand
and looked up at the moon. Over his cheeks rolled tears but no sound of
sobbing was heard. His lips opened slowly and he said in despair: “_I
knew it! She doesn’t love me so well as she does him!_”
He sat there a long time, and tears rolled over his face. As if grief
were choking him, he took the neck cloth from his neck, and with it
dried his eyes. At length he got up quickly and disappeared. The violin
and bow he left upon the roof.
* * * * *
Jona had spent many nights upon the roof, so they did not look for him
until the next day when Mitzerl was putting on her wedding dress. Then
they found him. He had hanged himself with his neck cloth. It was some
months later when Mitzerl celebrated her wedding.
LAZAR K. LAZAREVIĆ
LAZAR K. LAZAREVIĆ _(1851-1891) like the Russian Checkov, was both man
of science and artist. He devoted his youthful years and his life to the
practice and study of medicine, having been appointed in 1885 as
physician to the King of Serbia. During the war between Turkey and
Serbia (1876-78) he served as surgeon, and after that he headed the
staff of a hospital in Belgrade._
_As a writer he has reproduced humble life oftenest, and he has left
some imperishable portraits of old Serbian characters which can no
longer be found to-day. He has that peculiar mental equipment, which is
found almost exclusively among the Balkan people, the union of sentiment
and ironic humor. He is considered a masterly writer of the short story
of peasant life as it is understood in Slav countries._
THE ROBBERS
I was riding with a soldier. It was one of those summer days when one
would fight his best friend who had said that the hottest summer is
preferable to the coldest winter. The sun poured down heat in a way to
burst one’s brain.
Across the fields of ripening wheat heat vibrated and trembled, and rose
in waves toward the sun. The trees with their dry and withered leaves
looked like sick people who were longing for a drink of water. The
cattle in the fields were suffering and seeking the shade of the old
apple trees. Not a bird moved; exhaustion lay upon nature, which seemed
herself to have lost consciousness.
In the brain there was a hideous emptiness--a Sahara! One felt heavy and
weary. It was not easy to breathe. I began to fear that I should never
reach the little village alive.
But when at length I did get there I was like a gourmand who salts and
peppers his soup before he tastes of it; so I wished a place of rest and
comfort before eating. I was also concerned not to neglect my business,
and I made haste to attend to my duties, and while I was thus engaged I
was enjoying in prospect the rest that would be mine in the evening, and
sleep.
Who has not ridden a day in the heat without water, and then rested at
night in a pleasant place, does not know what enjoyment is. I could not,
of course, foresee that that night I was not to close an eye. But that
is the way it happened.
The inn was a poor, tumble down, dirty place in which the “room for
gentlemen” was painted in such a manner that it looked like a coffin.
All the rooms smelled of stale fish and poor brandy. So you can
understand the pleasure with which I accepted the invitation of Ugricic
to stay all night with him. That very day his brother’s son--who had
finished his time of service in the army--returned. It was a large
peasant house. The owner was well to do; the family was merry and good
natured and they treated me royally. Most of all I enjoyed the good
appearance of Ugricic’s brother’s daughter. A fresh colored, handsome
peasant, vibrating with life and strength. She walked gracefully and
firmly, and she was shapely.
We ate supper out of doors under the nut tree. She waited on us
throughout the evening without speaking a word. She ushered me into the
house, in the middle of which was the living room, in which there was a
large fire place. Opening out of this room were two bed rooms. The one
to the right was given to me. It was furnished with a wooden bed strewn
with fresh hay, on top of which a sheet was spread and a pillow placed.
Beside the bed was a small table, and under the window a bench. On the
wall hung a Turkish scimiter suspended by a strap that was torn and old.
Beside the scimiter were two flint-stone pistols. This completed the
furnishing.
I cannot accustom myself to the unlovely Serbian custom of having a
young girl pull off one’s dirty boots. I did not permit her to do it and
called the soldier.
She looked down at my boots and then she looked at me. Should I ask her
to take a seat? She had not done so. What should I say to her? I made an
attempt at conversation.
“Have you eaten your supper, Stana?”
“Not yet.”
“Why not?”
“Well--!”
“Do you always eat so late?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because of the work.”
“You have to wait on the older people first while they eat?”
“Yes.”
“And then comes your turn?”
“Yes!”
“Did you know that in the city the women-servants and men-servants eat
together?”
She covered her mouth with her hand, and one half her nose, turned her
head to one side, smiled shamefacedly and shrugged her shoulders.
“Isn’t it better that way?”
She still held one hand to her face, and again lifted her shoulders.
“I advise you to marry a boy from the city.”
She dropped her hand, seized one side of her skirt and shook it to and
fro. Then she turned her face completely away and spoke as if she were
addressing the wall.
“Do you want to wash your feet?”
“No, I do not. Go now and eat your supper. You have worked enough for
one day.”
“Then God be with you,” going out without looking in my direction. I
told the soldier to go to bed. I proceeded to hang my revolver upon the
bed-post. Then I undressed, opened the window, and lighted a cigarette.
At last I blew out the candle and stretched myself, wearily, upon the
bed. Ah--what happiness was this!
Through the window the warm wind of summer refreshed me, and the
new-mown hay I lay upon was sweet to smell. A cricket chirruped--for the
rest there was silence. But I could not sleep.
Thoughts persecuted me, they were not exactly unpleasant thoughts, and I
gave myself up to them, although the night was growing late.
It pleased me, too, to call up the picture of Stana. To be sure there
was nothing romantic about her, but I was delighted with her vitality
and her blooming youth.
Gradually pictures and thoughts grew dim. I saw Trifors, the coachman,
riding upon a pump handle, and then he spread a cow’s skin out. Behind
a door something rattled. I turn my head to see Stana carrying a cluster
of ripe wheat heads. Just at this moment a wagon shaft hits me and
pierces my body. I jump, strike my head against the bed-post, and sleep
is all over for me.
I do not wish to light the candle, but it must be near midnight. Then
the outer door opened softly, and I heard an indistinct noise. Through
the crack of my door I can see the fire still burning in the kitchen
hearth. By degrees the noise grows loud. The first words I heard were:
“_He--in there_, sleeps.”
That was a man’s voice. A woman replied:
“Of course!”
As God is good to me that is Stana.
I consider a moment whether to get up and join them. My hand was even
reaching toward the door latch, when it occurred to me that I would
probably be in the way.
Should I look and find out who it was? I peered through the crack in the
door. She was evidently sitting there with her brother.
“Now you see, sister, I have served in the army and been about in the
world. Now I’m through with it--it is behind me. Now I have something
different to see to--if God is good, I will marry you off and then take
a wife for myself--I--”
She was silent.
“Do you know something? Look here--I know all about it. I wish you had
told me yourself instead of making me hear it from other people. And
then--besides--you know I hate him.”
She was still silent.
“I--I want you to know--I know him well. He better get it out of his
head. I will not let you marry any one poorer than I am. I’ll find a
fellow for you myself--and a fine one!”
She got up, went to the wood basket, took a piece and threw it upon the
fire. He, likewise, turned his back to me. He spoke slowly then as if he
were weighing each word: “I’m next to him--that fellow--that Trino. He
needn’t run about my house--and my sister--I won’t put up with any
tricks from him.”
Then he went on, his voice rising higher in anger: “Who is he and what
is he? _A German!_ That’s what he is, sister. He came from Germany. I--I
know all about it. When he first came he had some papers--dirty and
worn--about as large as your hand. He took them to Jews in the village
and they gave him money for them. Now he hasn’t even any more of them.
He is as poor and as bare as a stone. Just has that little farm. Who
knows where he found money to pay for it? Yes, yes! And what kind of
papers are they? I know that--too! Once he had a piece of writing from
the German Emperor--to our head officer. It said to seize Trino. But
no!--he sold some more papers--and got some money and he gave the money
to the officer, who said to him: ‘Go home. Behave yourself well. You are
a Serbian, and a Hungarian is no better than a Turk. He does not believe
in God or the Mother of God.’ Now--how’s that! And how does it happen
that the officer says to him--whenever he is in the village, he slaps
him on the back and calls: ‘How are you, my hero?’ There’s a brave one
for you! He bullies all the small fellows. But he don’t dare touch a
good strong one! That’s a fact! Once--before I was a soldier--I got
drunk and cursed his German mother. He didn’t say a word. _Not one word!
Only_--‘Why do you do that?’
“I reply:
“‘Oh--just because!’
“Then he--‘Let up! Let up!’
“I replied: ‘You just come over here if you dare!’ and to that he
answered:
“‘I don’t want to, Zivko--don’t want to.’
“And I--‘You don’t dare to, you big blunderer--’ When Radojka Milicie
called him a German, he wanted to beat her, and then he began to cry,
when the teacher began to explain that he wasn’t a German but a good
Serbian. He cursed the village people when they called him a German. And
how he looks. Don’t know how to cross his trouser straps like us--goes
around like a cripple. And his mother _is_ a German, even if she wears a
done-up braid. That don’t prove anything. And I know, too, that Germans
worship holy St. Martin! He does. Don’t that prove it? More than that he
cuts grain _with a scythe_! That’s the truth. And I know all about the
way you flirted with him the day all the peasants helped Stoyevic! I
tell you not to look at Trino again. I’ll curse his German mother
tomorrow again--and then you’ll see. He’s a coward. He does not dare do
a thing!”
Some one knocked softly and the two jumped up. Three men entered. I
could only see one. He was young, handsome, and wore silver buckles on
his coat. The face was blackened with powder, weapons were stuck in his
belt, in his hand he carried a pistol.
“Good evening,” he said harshly.
The girl was afraid but Zivko replied:
“Bad luck to you if it is God’s will.”
I saw no more for the three men had closed the door behind them, they
came nearer and leaned against the very crack through which I was
looking. I heard noise--then groans--and the suppressed cry of
Stana:--“Robbers!”
I was terrified. I procured my revolver and went back to the door again.
Just at this moment I heard at my window--“_Pst pst!_” and I turned.
“Sir, give me Zivko’s pistol from the wall there, quickly! Do not
hesitate. I am Trino Trifunov. Quick--there are robbers here! Quick,
quick!”
The danger was urgent. I understood and concluded that this man must be
Trino, the German, Stana’s weapon. I did not delay but handed him the
pistol. Would a robber ask me to lend him a pistol?
Now it was my turn. I saw that my revolver was in condition. And while I
did it I trembled like an aspen leaf. For the first time in my life I
realized that I did not carry this weapon about with me in vain; but I
confess I was a good deal more afraid of my own revolver than of the
robbers. How could I kill a human being! On the contrary--I would sooner
have died myself.
“Hands up! Surrender!” they thundered by the outer door. That was
enlightening to me. I opened my door, stepped to the threshold holding
my revolver and began to holler:
“Surrender! Surrender!”
Outside I saw a man who held a pistol, aimed at the robbers, one of whom
held Stana’s mouth so she could not call, while the other was strangling
Zivko, who was beginning to turn blue.
For a second the robbers hesitated in their work. One fired toward the
rescuer in the door; the second struck with his yatagan the chain that
held the iron kettle over the hearth, and it fell, putting out the fire.
Then two shots were fired. Darkness reigned.
I began to fire at the ceiling to give myself courage. I was very
careful not to hit anyone.
Then there was confusion. Suddenly someone was shoved into the room
which was mine. I could not see who it was. Then I heard some one slip
up to a door and shove the bolt.
Now an alarm had been given outside. Evidently two of them were here.
The fire flickered up for a moment.
“Let me alone, Trino,” called Zivko, and threw himself upon the floor.
He felt a hand clutch his throat.
Outside there were shrieks and sounds of loud voices. Old Ugricic was
making his way along, carrying a hatchet, and the younger fellows with
anything they could pick up. One carried a candle. All were frightened.
It was just as if a wild animal had broken loose, and everyone was
saying:
“What’s the trouble? What’s the trouble? Where is it?”
At length the neighbors came hurrying in and then there was noise and
confusion. House and yard were filled with people, moving about and
asking questions.
In the middle of the kitchen, or rather the living room, stood a young,
vigorous man, with the belt and head-covering such as are worn here. He
wore very wide trousers, and shoes. That was Trino. Around him the crowd
surged. He did not speak and seemed greatly excited. Zivko, covered
with blood and wounds, was rubbing his neck. Stana, white as a piece of
linen, was standing in one corner. She evidently could not pull herself
together from the fright.
Then the head man of the village arrived, the clerk with a gun and a
bottle of ink, and the school master with the broken leg of a chair.
“What’s the trouble?”
Zivko was scratching his back.
“This is it--that criminal Nicodemus has fallen upon the village--and
our house. And if it had not been for him--he points to Trino--I would
have lost my head and God only knows what would have happened.”
“Where are they? Follow me, people, with your weapons! Let’s pursue
them. Quick! Catch them!” shrieked the town clerk.
“They have escaped,” was the reply.
“By the devil’s mother one escaped--the others were caught,” explained
Trino.
He pointed to the door of my room.
“My dear little brother, they have jumped out through the window,” I
answered.
“Yes, by the devil’s mother. Isn’t your soldier under the window?”
We were all amazed.
“Take your weapons! Surround the house! Be careful all of you--they’ll
defend themselves!” commanded the head of the village.
“Give me the ax!” suggested Trino. “Here are your pistols lying on the
floor.”
In fact on the floor were three, four pistols. Trino tried to open the
door but it did not yield. He lifted the ax, and struck with the back of
it against the door, which fell open. At that instant a shot came from
there, grazing his head, taking away his cap, and then hitting the
ceiling. We had completely forgotten the two pistols belonging to Zivko
which hung on the walls of that room.
“Now go ahead, brothers!” commanded the head man of the village. “Go
ahead! City clerk, have you a weapon?”
Despite the city clerk, the robbers showed an inclination to defend
themselves, but when Trino threatened with the ax they threw away their
yatagans and surrendered.
They had already made a hole in the wall with their knives, and if we
had delayed they would have escaped. We captured them. We found we had
the robber chief Nicodemus and one companion.
“Now bring the third, Andrew! Bring him here!” commanded Trino.
“What third do you mean?”
“The one who kept watch,” replied Trino. “I tied him to a plum tree
under the window, and the soldier who is with the gentleman guarded
him,” declared he, turning to me.
“You are another Kraljevic Marko.”[5]
While this was going on Zivko stood lost in thought, without paying any
attention to anyone. Then he looked at Trino, dropped his eyes and
walked up to him.
“Trino, brother, do not be angry. I thank you like a brother. That--you
know!”
His eyes were wet.
“If you like, we will be brothers--we will kiss.”
Trino did not answer. He wiped his mouth with the skirt of his shirt,
and then they kissed. Everyone praised Trino and wondered at his
bravery. Zivko dug around on the hearth for ashes to put on the wound on
Trino’s head.
“Now,” said the city clerk to Trino, “you will receive the two hundred
ducats reward for the capture of Nicodemus.”
Trino started in surprise. Quickly he looked across at Stana, who
blushed to the ears, and who wished to run away.
“Wait! Where are you going?” called Zivko, who was still by the hearth
and had overheard the village clerk’s words. “Will you desert my house
like this?”
Day was coming. They tied the robbers still more securely. Brandy was
brought in and Trino and Zivko kept embracing each other.
And Stana?
She was waiting like a child who cries for a plaything, and then at
length gets it. Her cheeks were like ripe peaches, and laughingly she
turned her eyes from time to time upon Zivko.
* * * * *
On the day of the Assumption of the Virgin, I saw in the market square,
Trino and Zivko, Stana and her mother. Stana wore the headdress of
married women.
I met there, too, the head man of the village. I remembered the
adventure and said to him:
“Tell me--who is this Trino. What kind of a fellow is he?”
“An honest, hardworking fellow. He was not born here, and once he served
in the army. But once when an Hungarian officer cursed his saint he ran
a bayonet through him. And then he made his escape to Serbia.”
Twilight came on. The dancing grew merrier. Trino’s shoe strings and
leggings were worn just like those of Zivko. He flung his legs and
leaped about merrily in the dance. People crowded about, called,
shrieked and drank. The dust was so thick one could not breathe. Roast
meats were served, guns roared, glasses were broken, bag-pipes shrilled;
the scent of food floated about. The gayly decorated Zivko boasted about
his new brother: “No one born is strong enough to wrestle with him.
There isn’t any other Trino--he is a genuine Serb!”
XAVER ŠANDOR-GJALSKI
NAJA
For some time I had known that my companion Pero was unhappy. He was
silent and self contained, but whenever I was with him for any length of
time I felt that something weighed heavily upon his soul.
One evening we were walking by the bank of the Danube, in the
neighborhood of D----. It was a warm night of summer. Friendly little
stars mirrored themselves in the water, when the thin clouds slipped off
them. From the village the wind brought the sound of violins, and from
the thickets called nightingales. Below rushed the river, and from a
black, unsightly mass some distance away, came the ponderous rolling of
a mill-wheel. Then from the mill or from a boat, rose the voice of a
girl in song. Pero started nervously and then paused:
“That’s _her_ song!” He stood in silence until the song died away upon
the darkness. Then he told me his story. Here are the words:
* * * * *
“When I think of her I am overwhelmed with grief and longing. I saw her
first in the forest. I was hunting quail, but the heat was so great I
was forced to seek shelter of the trees. She stood near with her herd,
stitching busily on a bright colored apron. I paused to look at her. I
had never seen such a beauty before. It was not easy to find words to
address her. At last I asked her, I think, the way to the village. She
did not answer at once. She seemed more engrossed in her sewing and she
did not even look at me. I repeated the question, whereupon she replied
in an unfriendly manner, and more with her hand than with words.
“Fearful heat!” I exclaimed, wiping the perspiration from my forehead. I
took the gun from my shoulder and seated myself upon a tree stump.
The girl acted as if I were not there.
“Who are you, child?”
She did not answer. She moved on a little way as if she were about to
follow the herd.
“Can’t you open your mouth?” I began roughly, like a peasant. “Why
don’t you tell me your name?”
“What business is that of yours? I’m from that village--_there_--” she
said, as in the act of going away. She stopped sewing and called the
herd together which had scattered.
“What business is that of mine? Among Christian people it is customary
to tell your name when it is asked. Are you Tejka or Miljenka or
Mara--?”
“No; I am the Naja of Toscha Nedeljković.”
Then she became very red and ran away.
The devil take the hunt!--I thought, and turned and followed the girl.
After that I was in the forest every day with Naja. At first she was
shy, and would not come near. Sometimes she was ugly tempered if I
approached her as a peasant would. By degrees she became accustomed to
me and confiding, and said that I was not just like the other gentlemen.
She chattered about her household duties, the gossip of the village. She
declared the village boys were angry because she worked no more in the
spinning room, and did not join in the _Kolo_ dance.
“And why don’t you?”
“How do I know? I don’t want to. Do you know what village people say?
They say that in the spinning room many things are spun besides yarn.
They say, too, that the girl who laughs in the spring, weeps in the
fall. But I jest and laugh. But my father says a peasant has no reason
to laugh. I suppose he means because of the land-measuring.”
“You mean the commensuration?”
“Something like that.”
“What business is that of yours, Naja? That’s an affair of men--not
women.
“True. But I can talk of it with you, if I don’t with others. I have
heard--everyone says so in the village--that our _pope_ has plotted with
the _indznir_[6] to give the old graveyard to the rich estate
owners--and to give the peasants a new one somewhere in the forest.”
“Well! That does not concern you, does it?”
“Why doesn’t it? My ancestors, my grandfather and my great grandfather
are there. That graveyard has belonged to our race ever since we came
from Bosnia, and now the land-owners want to drive their cattle over it
and give us a graveyard in the forest where the wolves are, and the
foxes.”
I looked at her in astonishment. She had become pale and she looked at
me with eyes that reminded me of the Montenegrin maiden in Čermak’s
painting of the “Death of the Voyevode.”
My love affair with her was not really much more important than this.
That is the reason I did not know what a deep place she had made in my
heart. I did not find out until it was too late.
Before daybreak I left the house to go hunting. When I reached the
village all was quiet. The road led past the farm of Nedeljković. In the
plum garden by the brook, I saw Naja. She had just washed her face and
was in the act of combing her hair. She looked enchantingly young and
pretty. Her long black hair hung unbound, and through her little shirt
which was open, I saw her breasts. At this sight I could not restrain
myself, but rushed up to her, flung my arms about her and kissed her.
With a loud cry she freed herself from my arms. At first she had not
been angry because she thought it was just one of the peasant boys, but
when she turned and saw me, she was confused and tried to cover her
breasts with her bare arms. Now I was sorry for what I had done.
“Dear, beautiful Naja!” I exclaimed.
“If I were dear to you, you wouldn’t have done that!” was the reply,
moving away out of reach. I stood and stared at her not realizing that a
peasant could have fine feelings. I had injured her. I had tried to play
with her like a peasant boy.
She walked across the garden, sat down by a bed of pinks and wept. For
shame I did not dare approach her. After a while she glanced over at the
place where I was standing, and I thought her face brightened, that a
little beam of joy stole out of her reddened eyes. In the meantime the
sun had risen above the horizon, and a rosy brightness fluttered over
the plum trees and the thin grass stalks. Upon a sudden the garden burst
into a glory of rose color and white, and only across the distant valley
still hung the violet tints of night. Everything else smiled under the
light of the new day. Above me in a plum tree, a little bird sang as if
its throat would burst. I breathed deeply, my soul expanded and I did
not try to know if the new light upon her face was merely that of the
rising day. “Naja! Naja!” I exclaimed triumphantly, and started toward
her. Just then some one called me. I heard loud, merry laughter. I
turned and saw my friend Geza, the land-owner, behind me. He was a
hunter, too, and fond of playing pranks. I was ashamed and wondered if
he had heard my shout of triumph. I breathed easier when I learned from
his conversation that he thought it was just an ordinary love affair. I
went with him, and I did not dare look back toward Naja.
Later that day I did not meet her, nor the next nor the next. On the
fourth day I was summoned to a distant place. There I remained four
months and probably I should have stayed longer, had I not been summoned
to the district court.
Twelve hours later I learned how important the affair was. In Naja’s
village the peasants had risen in revolt against the land allotment. The
plowmen of the landed proprietors who tried to plow the fields which had
belonged to the peasants were knocked down and beaten. The peasants took
the village elders, the mayor and the _pope_, and shut them up in a
guard house. Military aid was summoned, and I was detailed to head it.
Unfortunately I had the reputation of being an energetic man. I do not
know that I was really energetic, but the fact remained that I had
succeeded in putting down the most stubborn uprisings, not only among
the peaceful, indolent Slavonian people, but among those Croatians in
whom there is some of the blood of the peasant, King Gubec, who led the
peasant revolution of 1573. I had always considered it my first duty to
serve the government. O, greatly regretted folly! Such follies clothe
themselves in all sorts of high sounding names. But in the end, like
truth, they must stand naked. I was fully under the sway of this belief
then, and supposed I was reaching heights of power, when I showed no
indulgence to the rebellious people.
This time I did not worry at all as to whether I should be able to put
things in order. I considered the report exaggerated, and thought calmly
of the day when, with a battalion of soldiers, I should enter the
village. In addition I was thinking happily that I should see Naja
again. I had forgotten all about the talk with her about the land
allotment. I did not for a moment connect the revolt in any way with
Naja, although I was told that, during my absence, a peasant girl had
come a number of times to inquire about me.
“Wasn’t it Naja?” I asked.
“I don’t know, but I tell you she was a beauty. You probably know well
enough who she was, young man,” declared my old landlady with a sly
laugh.
“Shut up!” I replied. I wanted to shake off her inquisitiveness.
“Why did you not tell her where I was?”
“Why should I? You were too far away. And then I thought perhaps it
would make you angry. God knows how peasant girls carry on these days.”
“Don’t talk such nonsense!” I interrupted. I hastened out to buy Naja a
silk handkerchief and some fine knitting yarn. I was impatient to see
her again. During the ride to the village I thought a good deal more
about her than about putting down the revolt.
I found out, however, that reports of the revolt had not been
exaggerated. I came, indeed, just in time to rescue the _pope_ and the
village elders. The guard-house had already been set on fire at one
corner. But we had a comparatively easy time in the village. In some of
the open fields it was not much harder. The few peasants threw
themselves flat upon the ground to prevent the plowing. They complained
that the rich men had bought up the courts and the elders. But when the
soldiers with bayonettes drew near, and pressed a few of them to the
wall the crowd ran away. It was harder work in the forest and the
pastures. Here weapons had to be used. But the great centre of
opposition was the graveyard. There almost the entire village was
assembled. Young and old men, women and children. They were each
provided with some sort of weapon even if it were only a stick.
A few had guns, scythes and hoes. A ragged lubber pounded upon a drum as
if he were “possessed.” Before we reached there it was a sight to see;
they were laughing, yodeling, cursing and cracking jokes.
They are noisy! A good sign. A barking dog does not bite. When we came
in sight there was a silence. There was something awe inspiring in the
gleam of bayonettes, something disagreeable, like the writhing of a
serpent, and the effect was not lost upon the people. Fright disabled
them for a moment. I made use of this opportunity to tell them to go
back to their homes. But--either I spoke in a different manner than
usual--or my voice did not have the usual firmness, the effect failed. A
deafening cry followed my words.
“We will not yield! The _pope_ and the elders sold us! They took the
best fields themselves and then went over to the proprietors. What shall
we do when they rob us of everything? And now the hungry wolves haven’t
enough; they want to take away the graveyard where our fathers, and our
fathers’ fathers have slept for ages--since we came from Herzgovina two
hundred years ago.”
Then I recalled Naja’s words and trembled. I darted forward with no
other object in view than to see if she was there. I took a breath of
relief when I did not see her. What would she think of me if she saw me
here? Would she not hate me. To the devil with the whole affair!
The anger of the peasants increased. The more I delayed the more angry
they became. To an angry man or a wild animal one must never show lack
of determination. It will be mistaken for weakness. The peasants were
making bold to attack the soldiers. The captain turned to me to give an
order. At length the uproar increased until I did not know what to do.
At length, with an effort, I made myself calm. I gave command to attack.
The peasants received the soldiers with rocks and shots. Blood shedding
could not be avoided. In spite of that knowledge I told the soldiers to
fire into the air. The peasants guessed this and did not move.
“You don’t dare to shoot. We belong to the emperor. The emperor is our
father. He will not let you shoot down his people. Have no fear!”
That was my answer. The crowd began to hoot at the soldiers. A fight
developed in which four soldiers and fifteen peasants fell. The crowd
fled and we held the graveyard.
Suddenly upon a hilltop a woman appeared. She implored the crowd to turn
back, not to fear nor to run away.
“Cowards! At a shot you run like rabbits. If there is a man here let him
come to me! What do you think will become of you if you desert the
graves of your fathers? Here! here! Now if you are such heroes fire at
my breast!”
I recognized the voice of Naja, as she threw open the embroidered shirt,
and uncovered a breast as white as the snow. It took me a few seconds to
comprehend the sad situation. Blood pounded in my ears. My mind was
dulled. A command of the captain aroused me. I saw him lying on the
ground bleeding. Then I do not know exactly what happened, whether or
not I gave an order--I only remember this picture--Naja, her white
breast spotted with blood. Then I saw her fall.
What happened afterward I did not care. I ran to her. She knew me. She
could not speak, but I threw myself down upon the grass beside her. I
covered the wound with a cloth, then I bore her to the village, out of
the noise. I had scarcely placed her on her bed when she died.
When I tore myself free a moment from the grief that overpowered me and
got up, her wide, dead eyes were looking straight at me.
With her all my joy died, too. Could a man do worse than I did? And why
was I her murderer? For the pleasure of them who are not well disposed
toward the peasants. Remember: “The voice of the people is the voice of
God!”
Pero had finished. We had reached his dwelling in the meantime. His thin
features were white; upon them I read the greatness of his sorrow.
When two years later I read that he had been killed in the battle of
Zajcar, I thanked God. But whenever I think of Naja, the peasant girl,
hope brightens my heart. A nation that has daughters like her--such a
nation need have no fear of the future.
JAGICA
I had worked for a long time with the day laborers. As I started to go
home night had already come. It was an inspiring warm night of summer; I
chose the longest way, so enchanted was I with the beauty of the
evening. In the moonlight the mountains seemed to tremble; from the
trees slanted long, black shadows, and the scent of an unknown flower
perfumed the air. The voices of nightingales resounded from trees within
the forest, out of thickets along the hills, and from the deep grass,
insects called.
On a night like this, the gentleness of slumbering nature, the sweet
mystery of shadows, pour a warmth of happiness into the heart. A sort of
divine unrest took possession of me. Every once in a while I paused and
looked with delight upon the bright mist-veiled distance. Dreams of
youth came back, long buried desires came to life again, and I longed
passionately for something which I was unable clearly to define for
myself. The beauty of the summer night had intoxicated me. Across the
deep, sweet silence rang out upon a sudden a song, sung by a voice of
youth. At first the echo of the mountains brought the song to me, and I
could not be sure whether it was a song or an interrupted voice that
called. Then it drew nearer and nearer. There was no doubt now but that
it was a song. Borne on the clean, soft air it reached me, and the
melody was that of an old folk song. I wanted to hear it better, to be
near it, and strangely moved, I followed the voice of song.
A tall, young peasant, barefooted, was hastening past. In one hand he
held a twig which he moved nimbly to and fro. The round shabby hat
rested on the back of his neck, and the night wind played with the hair
upon his forehead. He bore his head erect, as if, with his song, he were
striving to reach the limpid, air-swept heights.
Faster he walked. I followed him. His song lured me on. There was a
longing in his onward leaps and in the words which celebrated love. When
he was near the village he changed his song, and the new song was merry
and mocking:
“_Shove the bolt, the door fling wide,_
_Soon, sweetheart, I’m by your side._”
Out of the valley the echo came back, and in the echo there was
something defiant, fawn-like.
Now the peasant boy left the highway and turned toward the hills. Above,
between the fruit trees--one half of it pallid-white from the
moonlight,--the other half black with shadows, peeped out a peasant’s
home. On the shadowed side, one tiny window shone fiery red from a lamp.
When the peasant reached the foot of the hill, the light was
extinguished. A door within the house was heard to open, and a figure
slipped across the moonlighted courtyard.
“Ah, ha!” I said to myself, not without envy. “I thought it must be a
lover’s rendezvous.” In the meantime he had slowly climbed the hill. A
woman’s form came toward him a hundred steps away. From my place of
concealment, behind the thick trunk of an old apple tree, I recognized
the girl--Jagica, the prettiest peasant girl in the country. A shiver
touched me. “She!--And how prim she always appears,” I added between my
teeth.
The boy paused beside her but they did not shake hands, nor kiss, nor
embrace. They stood and looked and greeted each other in the name of God
and the Holy Virgin. He looked about for something to lean against, and
seeing a tree stump, propped himself against it with the right half of
his body.
“I walked too fast,” he exclaimed, and drew one shirt sleeve across his
face to wipe the sweat from his forehead. The girl drew a bottle from
concealment, and held it out toward him. “Today father went to the
wine-dresser’s house and brought back a cask of wine. We drank some of
it, too,” she explained, turning aside a little. She stood resting her
weight on one foot; with one hand she held a grass stalk, one end of
which she was chewing.
The boy took the bottle and shook it softly. Then he lifted it to the
light, nodded, rubbed the neck of the bottle energetically with one
hand, coughed, spat, threw his head back and lifted the bottle slowly.
For a long time one heard only the regular _gurgle--gurgle--gurgle_.
“I heard you a long way off. You came through the woods, didn’t you?”
began the girl, turning toward him again, as the hand with the bottle
fell slowly to his knee.
“I sang to pass away the time. I’m not so afraid either--in the
night--when I sing. The witches don’t dare come near then.”
“I was really worried. I was afraid you’d gone too far toward Banovica.
Old people say that once--there, a man was murdered. The witches choked
him to death.”
“Nothing like that will ever happen to me.”
“Keep still! Keep still! Tell me the truth--didn’t you go too near the
horse herdsmen? What if they had seen you? Heavens!”
“They didn’t see me, and if they did--what do I care? I’m not doing
anything wrong.”
“But, God in Heaven, you know what sort of fellows they are. They are
all mad because you come from another parish--to see me. They might do
something to you and, as it falls out, tonight Mihalčic’ Tono is with
them--on the meadow. He’s the devil.”
“Ah--shut-up with that. Did you get through in the vineyard today?”
“Only a little hoeing left to do. Early tomorrow I go with my sister to
finish the work.”
“Is the hoeing heavy? The ground--is hard and lots of weeds? That’s the
way it is with us. Everyone is complaining. I worked hard today, too.
Early I went to the mountains for the wooden pegs which were cut the
week before last. Then I hoed some and later I went to the river for
water. If it hadn’t been for that I should have reached here earlier.”
“I thought you were not coming any more. And then I thought again: it is
far; it takes two hours at least. So I waited.”
“What have you done?”
“I have spun. Mother and sister made fun of me. But--good--you see you
_have_ come.”
“Did your mother know I was coming?”
“I told her.”
“Your father, too?”
“No. Why should I? He would be mad. He says it is not right for you to
come so often, because the _Zadruga_[7] had not been settled. Father
says in your house they quarrel all the time, and he wouldn’t like to
have me go there.”
“That’s true. The devil knows what they mean. Ten times I have been to
the city for the land settlement. Since the _indznir_[8] measured it,
not a thing has been done.”
“Oh! I wish it was settled. Do you know my father is acting--_queer_!
And every week old Mihalčic’ comes and asks for me to marry his Tono.”
“He better look out! I’ve served in the army and I know how to handle a
gun. I’ll kill anyone who tries to take me away from you. You are
mine--and nobody else’s.”
“Be quiet, Janko! I don’t like Tono. I’d rather jump into the water. I
want only you. I won’t break my word to you. But tell me, did they have
a good time at the church festival at St. Peter’s?”
“Fine it was, I say. I looked for you and the girls and you didn’t come!
I was mad about it although Toljagič Pavo treated one in great shape.
Later--under the linden tree--Loncar’s Katica tried to flirt with me.
She teased me because I was sad. I yelled and turned loose at her,
seized her round the waist, and danced around and around with her. I
tell you they all laughed.”
“Did you stay long?”
“Yes, the ‘_hail Mary_’ was over when I turned home. I wish you’d been
there!”
“I couldn’t go on account of my sister. She fell sick. They sent me to
the meadow to gather rib-wart. We boiled it and in the late evening she
was better. It was either the rib-wart or old Zefa who came to rub her.”
“Yes--listen, Jagica! This fool of a Tono--he better look out for me.
Does he think because he is better off than I--I don’t dare to think.
Don’t you say a single word to him!”
“Ha, ha--ha! Must I quarrel with him?”
“Don’t joke about such things! I will not and I will not--If he comes
near you he’ll lose his head.”
“Have you drunk it all? Give me the bottle! How you talk about Tono!
I’ve promised you. Look at the Reaper[9]--what a way it has travelled.
You’ve got two hours’ walk.”
“I wish Jagica you knew how easy the walk is for me now. I’d walk five
hours to see you.” He grabbed her hand, then let it drop.
“God grant--and the Holy Mother of God--that we marry soon.
Please--_please_--go quick to the city and see about the land
settlements. Tell the gentlemen that you want to marry. Fall is not far
off.”
“What do gentlemen care about peasant weddings! Well, I’ll try anyway.
Tomorrow early I’ll go.”
A cry rang over the meadow. In the quiet air of night it was something
mighty, and three times, four times, the hill-tops answered back.
“The horse herdsmen,” said the girl trembling.
“Hide, Janko--quick! They are coming home. Day is near now.”
He obeyed and they hid together in the bushes beside the apple tree. For
a time they whispered. When the hoofs came nearer, they stopped. She
gestured with one hand, for him not to stick his head out, but she
followed the herdsmen eagerly with her eyes. Loud laughter, merry jokes,
and the tramp, tramp of horses’ feet, as they swept past.
“Is Tono there?”
“Wait. _Pst!_--yes--I hear his voice.”
“Is he looking this way?”
“Keep still! _A--h_--they are gone. Thank God! and now Janko, you must
go!”
“Yes, I’ll go! Goodbye. I’ll come again.”
They did not shake hands when they said good-bye. Jagica stood long
where he left her and looked after him. He walked away with long,
swinging strides. His shadow hopped along beside him. Soon the white
moonlight and the mist blotted him out. Then his song rang clear--a song
of youth and love. Astonished I said: was this a meeting of lovers? To
me it was incomprehensible. With difficulty could I believe that such
peasant hearts could love.
* * * * *
Soon I had an opportunity to be convinced. I heard about Janko’s affair.
The _Zadruga_ was to be settled. To him fell the largest share of the
land, but just on that account, no argument could be reached with the
rest of the family. They knew how to impel the lawyers to some new
subterfuge to hinder the allotment. Janko was all but crazy. He was
especially upset because Jagica’s father favored Tono, and reproached
him with the delay of the allotment.
“Well, can’t you rely upon the _Zadruga_?”
“No, it doesn’t progress. They can’t carry it through--always something
is wrong, and the old man won’t give me the girl, until I am safely
written down in the land-book.”
“Are you really so much in love with her?” I ask.
“Of course, I love her. She is good. She can do all kinds of work.”
“The affair can drag itself out even when the proclamation of the
division has been made. After that comes the _appellation_. That can
last months and months, and even when that is finished there can be
another delay in handing over the land to you. Say that you will take
less. Perhaps it will expedite matters.”
The boy looked at me suspiciously. I knew how the peasants cling to
every inch of ground.
“If you are so much in love with the girl--and if you know by taking
less the settlement can be hastened--then do it.”
The boy looked down upon the ground for a long time as if he were
estimating every bit of dirt, and replied: “Very good! I’ll do it then!”
That very day he went to the city.
But even now the affair was not hastened. Janko’s house-companions tried
to slip out of the agreement, and when the engineer made the division
they found a hundred mistakes. Poor Janko was miserable. He was in
torture for fear he would lose Jagica, and on top of this the constant
quarrels with the household and the delay over the division.
The autumn was drawing nearer and nearer. Jagica’s father said frankly
he would not forgive Janko for giving up so much land.
Tono was a regular visitor at the house. Jagica wept and begged Janko to
hurry with the land. Almost every day he went to the city, where every
day he heard the same thing: it was necessary--_first_--to do this, to
do that.
There are only four weeks now to St. Catherine’s day, which is the time
when peasant weddings are celebrated, and he has heard nothing definite
about the division. Then the report came to his ear that Tono and Jagica
were to be married. And a proof of it seemed to be that he could not
meet Jagica as of old. In vain, night after night, he stood by the apple
tree and waited. He sang all his songs. With Tono he had frequently
quarreled and come to blows. If they had not been forcibly separated,
one or the other would have been killed.
“If I could only speak with her! I want to hear her say that she has
been unfaithful to me. The gentlemen in the city are the cause of this.”
The last days he did not go near the house. Without sleep, he ran about
the highways, across the meadows, into the city, without any plan. His
clothes were torn, his hair disheveled and uncombed.
“I will murder him! I will murder him! Jagica is mine and nobody
else’s,” he shrieked, running through forest and field, then breaking
into sobs--or trilling shrilly one of his old songs.
On the evening before St. Catherine’s Day--which was the wedding day, he
disappeared. People said he had gone into the city. There was a sigh of
relief, because they feared trouble on the wedding day.
The next morning the wedding procession started from Jagica’s house. The
bride was pale and her eyes showed she had been weeping. With difficulty
she held erect upon her head the crown, trimmed with gold-paper flowers.
She wrapped her wedding mantle about her as if she shivered. When the
procession reached the highway, the musicians blew a ringing blast.
Suddenly Janko leaped upon them. He was ragged, barefooted, without
coat or hat. In his hand he carried a club. He swung it toward Tono. But
in the same moment he let it fall, burst into wild laughter and turned
and ran away. Far, far-echoing among the hills they heard his laughter.
He was mad.
JOACHIM FRIEDENTHAL
A POGROM IN POLAND[10]
High and clear rang the cantor’s voice. It was as if with musical fervor
it tried to reach heaven itself, to plead that a door be opened and
mercy granted, to plead that an ear be made sympathetic, to plead that
the suffering in the heart of Jehova make it tremble with pity.
Never so splendidly before sang Reb Chajim’s voice, sang the ancient
melodies of the Day of Atonement. The voices of the men joined with it.
With heaven-storming power they rose to heights of melody and then sank
to depths again, as the pain of despair increased within them and opened
up their measureless grief.
The men stood in their white grave-clothes as was proper. The silver
embroidered prayer cloth they had thrown over their heads to cover
themselves in the torturing hour in which, there above, the great
judgment was made. Now would be decided whether they would be inscribed
in the Book of Life, or cast into outer darkness. And in that outer
darkness perhaps now armed Cossacks were standing and caring nothing at
all about the Atonement and the Book of Life. Praying, the men stretched
their arms above their heads, storming the footstool of Almighty God,
wrestling for His grace, because once He had set them free.
And long centuries prayed with them. Long centuries which had weighed
heavily upon the backs of these Polish Jews, and bent them; long
centuries of want, disgrace, persecution--the persecution of the
wanderer--and the curse. And the long centuries seemed to rise up again
on these holy days, rise upon the bent backs, and stretch up toward the
God of Righteousness, with the heaven-storming arms of prayer, and to
ring out boldly in the voice of the cantor, to announce their woe.
The women, according to the old custom, sat apart, upon the horse-shoe
curved balcony fronting the altar. Here the women wept softly. Sometimes
a sob was heard and it cut tragically across the gentler melody of
tears. And they wept long just as they do by the graves of their dead.
Each one had a grave within. Reflected grief from the melancholy of this
hidden grave was visible in the wide, hopeless sorrow of the eyes. Even
the eyes of the young women and girls were veils of grief. They all
hummed together the ancient songs of Israel. Perhaps the meaning of the
ancient words did not penetrate their minds at all and only the melody
made them holy. Sometimes it was as if the antique words of Israel
became life because their hearts hung upon them with such faith. But if
a glance wandered away from the meditation it was sure to fall upon the
stony face of Rivkele Kalischer. She had fled from Klodova to her
mother. Rivkele Kalischer was not praying with the others, although her
lips kept moving.
Her lips framed these words: “Hanged! Because they would not change a
three ruble note!” Her glance was dull and dead. It pierced the
light-filled Temple and saw the picture that was engraven upon her soul.
It was Friday evening, three weeks ago. Two men swing in the wind like
phantoms--from the balcony of her own house. And for four and twenty
hours she, and all the rest of the Jews of the neighborhood, were forced
to see, because they were forbidden to close their doors or windows.
There they had stood and looked upon the distorted features and the
swinging dead men. And they were obliged to read, too, the piece of
paper pinned upon them by the Cossacks: “_Hanged! Because they refused
to change a three ruble note!_”
_Refused!_ Had she not peacefully prepared the evening meal, said the
prayer, lighted the candles, set out the Shabbes’ bread, covered it with
an embroidered cloth, while across in the Temple she listened to the
singing: “We greet thee, Shabbes, beauteous bride!” Then the men came
from the Temple. They stopped to talk a bit together. Her husband and
brother-in-law were among them; she heard their voices beneath the door.
Just then a troop of Cossacks rounded the corner. There were questions
and curses. Her heart trembled. There were blows from whips. A kick
threw the door open. A cruel voice called for a rope. She did not
understand at first. What did they want with a rope? Then a kick sent
her across the room. The Cossack struck her across the face with a
knout. “_A rope! A rope!_”
And the Cossacks hanged them on the balcony. The Shabbes’ candles were
still burning and the bread was waiting for a blessing. The woman
recognized in the dead men, her husband and her brother-in-law. And she
read the words aloud: “Hanged!” Her face became like stone and she could
not look away from the balcony where they were swinging; for four and
twenty hours she could not look away.
Night came. The tall candles burned lower. The air was heavy with the
breath of praying men. It came, the great hour of the falling of
judgment. And there was not one among the men who was not wearing the
sacred robe in which to appear before his God. Many an one seemed
scarcely to be recognizable, his features had changed so under the
reverence of prayer. And it really seemed as if in the hearts of these
men who had been faithful in so many wanderings--even in the money
lender--there was hidden a priest. But among none of them could be found
the descendents of the Macabees who had arisen in wrath and slain their
enemies. And no one breathed with the soul of Samson, whose mighty
shoulders shook down the temple of the Philistines. Not one of them
prayed that one day he might be the master of those Russians who scorned
him and persecuted him, who took away the power of his eyes and the
freedom of his body, and make to fall and crash about their heads the
mighty palaces of power, even if he himself perished with them. Every
one prayed for his own life. And there was fanaticism in the prayer.
Now the mighty trumpets of judgment rang out just as they will on the
day of the resurrection, and the people, standing, answered seven times
just as in the hour of death. Seven times they uttered that word in
which long centuries tremble, in which to-day resound the battles and
the sorrows of the race of Israel, the word which plunged them from
victory and triumph to disgrace and exile, the word which recurs again
and again, increasing in resonance and power as if the voice of the
world had uttered it:
“_Hear Israel!--the Eternal, the one God--the eternally One!_” And the
shofar threw forth its fabulous tones just as on the Day of Judgment. It
seemed to them all that the voice of God, just as when it had overthrown
the walls of Jericho, had spoken; that it had pardoned their sins, and
promised redemption and grace. And the people in the Temple trembled.
The clang of the shofar had not died away when the voice of a boy was
heard: “The Cossacks! The Cossacks! They have surrounded the Temple!”
The boy’s voice fell like a sword. The cantor stopped his sweetest
singing. There was silence. Then a babel of frightened questions. Voice
fell upon voice. Arms shook in wild excitement. A body fell. A woman’s
hand drew back the curtain of the balcony above. Someone shrieked: “We
must hide.” Plunged from ecstatic heights of meditation, faces
distorted, they tried to bend down and hide.
The voice of old Rabbi Zaddik fell upon them like a restraining hand. He
told them to be calm and pray on to their God who would not desert them.
He would be the one the Cossacks sought. They were all in the hands of
God.
Then a man spoke whom they adored like a saint, because he was filled
with the wisdom of the Talmud; they reverenced him as a judge in Israel.
Already Reb Chajim, at a signal from the Rabbi, had cleared his throat,
and taken up the singing where he broke off; already the replies of the
congregation were beginning, timid at first, when blows thundered on
the door. It rang out like the thunder of Judgment Day. The words froze
on their lips. Eyes swelled to bursting. But not a sound was heard. The
men did not even turn their heads.
The door was thrown open and Cossacks rushed in. One went along the
central aisle to the altar. He asked if that accursed traitor Rab----
“Hear Israel, the eternal, the one God, the eternally One!” Then a voice
in deadly fear interrupted the leader before he could finish his
question. It came from the back of the room and filled the Temple with
woe such as was never heard before. Then all together the voices called:
“_The eternally One_.” It was as if they were trying to throw up a wall
of defense.
Angrily the leader commanded silence. And the wandering song stuck in
their throats and trembled convulsively upon their lips.
The Rabbi spoke: “Sir, they are praying. Do you not see it? To-day is
the holy day of the Jews.”
The officer replied that that was a matter of indifference to him. For
traitors there was no holy day. He, Rabbi Zaddik was accused of aiding
the Austrian troops. He went to meet them fourteen days before their
entry and had given them information. That was enough.
The Rabbi replied that he went to meet the German and Austrian armies,
but he went with a Polish officer and certain citizens; they went to beg
the soldiers to spare the people.
“It’s a lie!” responded the leader. He likewise declared that there was
a telephone concealed upon the altar which was to be a signal to the
enemy. The Rabbi, and eleven others from the front seats--in order to
make a round dozen--were to be hanged. “And the rest of you are to go at
once into exile.”
A wail of such wildness arises that it does not seem to come from a
human throat.
At the command, the Cossacks jumped to the altar, seized the Rabbi, the
cantor, and grabbed blindly for the others.
“Have pity!--Not me--not me! My husband is innocent. Jacob--” thus they
screamed.
The leader counted: “One, two, three, four, five--Bring me a rope!” Then
a voice yelled from the woman’s balcony: “I’ll bring the rope--right
away!” She swung her arms and beat her breast, and then leaped from the
railing to the stone floor below. Still she gasped: “I’ll bring the rope
right away!”
“Then merely the eleven,” said the leader sharply. “But quick--quick!”
Upon the eight pillars the Cossacks quickly put up a scaffold.
While the women wept and cried for mercy, the men, dressed in their
grave clothes, cowered in the corners and covered their heads in order
to shut out the sight.
And now the congregation called aloud seven times--as in the hour of
death--the ancient words of their faith: “Hear Israel! the Eternal, our
God, the eternally One!”
That was their salvation, their consolation, their faith. And the
shrieks of the dying deadened the voice of prayer--and the words of both
were the same.
The murderers stamped upon the altar, broke the sacred shrines, threw
the roll of the Torah upon the floor, and stole the gold and silver.
And still the Jews prayed on, the immortal death-prayer of their race
for the eleven who were hanged. Then the Cossacks’ leader commanded
silence; they should leave the city at once, because they had betrayed
the city to the Germans. Upon the moment, just as they were, they should
go, men, women, children, not one should be permitted to escape.
They begged to go home just for a moment. They had left babies in the
cradle, they had left sick people. They had fasted since the day before;
not a bit of bread had they swallowed, nor water. They begged to take a
little food. Then the Cossacks laughed: “Search all you want to!
Everything is burned! Everything is destroyed!” With their bayonets they
drove them from the Temple. Outside they met other Jews in the same
condition. About ten thousand men, women and children were driven from
the city on the Day of Atonement.
For miles their cries extended. Groaning, the exiles were driven on
through the night. To the Vistula they had been ordered, as they were
driven through the gate--to the Vistula, on the left bank, but it would
be better still if they jumped into the river.
A Rabbi from another Temple had saved the roll of the Torah; he headed
the procession and carried it under his arm.
It was something ghostly to look upon, this white-clad procession of
Jews in their death robes; it was like a procession of the century long
sorrows of their race. About ten thousand living corpses wandered on
through the night.
“Hear Israel! the Eternal, our God, the eternally One! _Hear Israel!_”
KOLOMAN MIKSZÁTH
KOLOMAN MIKSZÁTH _(born in Sklebonya in 1849) is without doubt the best
loved writer of Hungary. Why should he not be? He has something of the
witty descriptive powers of Heine, the fluent unforced narrative of
Dumas, and a peculiar charm which is all his own. He is a painter of
inimitable miniatures, glowing with color, truthful in action, a
veritable Meissonier of the pen._
_In these, spiritedly drawn, richly peopled, diminutive little pictures
we see all Hungary pass before us: the burger class, the petty nobility,
the church, the state and the peasant. Sometimes these stories are
ironic--because Mikszáth is numbered among the humorists--sometimes
idyllic, sometimes realistic, and sometimes they are bitter and
incisive, and strike home with a certain fatal touch of intimité,
telling truths from which we can not get away. He has been a productive
writer, and we do not need to go out of his native Hungary for a worthy
parallel, when we pause to recall that Maurice Jokai wrote three hundred
novels and tales._
_Mikszáth is author of a novel, “Mácsik the Mighty,” which reproduces
the life of the petty nobility in upper Hungary. His short stories are
collected into many volumes, such as “Club and Corridor,” which stories
were first published in the daily he himself edited, “Pesti Hirlap” (The
Times of Budapest)._
_Other books are “Slovak Brothers,” “Madame Paul Szontagh,” “The City
That Had No Men,” “The Magic Caftan,” “The Miraculous Umbrella.”_
_We include two stories; one, from the writers own experience in a small
community where he was made judge at the age of twenty three; the
other--“Fiddlers Three,” from that remarkable book of fantastic and
imaginative writing, which is strung together in a series of tales under
the name of “The Deaf Blacksmith.”_
_In 1887 he began to take an interest in politics and became a member of
the Reichstag, where he threw his influence with the Liberal party._
_This union of the poet and the wit, the romantic dreamer and the shrewd
and bitter critic of life, is one of the gifts of Hungary and its
neighboring peoples to the world of letters. It is seldom found in the
Teuton or the Latin, even in a slight degree._
_A volume of the short stories of Mikszáth was published in America some
years ago. His first appearance in English was the short story, “The
King’s Clothes,”[11] which antedated the book._
A TRIP TO THE OTHER WORLD
The people of my country do not like to travel. The high, blue mountains
that surround them, shut out the world. Besides, what could there be
that is different on the other side of the mountains? And the rich
people and the influential are of just the same opinion.
There is only one man in this part of the country--Franz Nagy--(and he
lived a century or more ago!)--who has traveled. Once he went _almost_
to Prague. After that all the people of his name went by the title of
“the Prague Nagys.”
If there was one who had been _almost_ to Prague, there were hundreds
who had not been as far away as the next village, and among the latter
is Paul Rediki. Once, because of an important law suit, upon the result
of which all his property depended, he was called to Vienna. But he
declared: “Rather would I lose all I have than travel to Vienna.” And
he did just as he said and he became a sort of popular hero.
This affair in some way or other came to the knowledge of the
Administration. Just what he did do or did not do I have forgotten, but
the fact remains that King Ferdinand V invited him by letter to Vienna
_ad audiendum verbum regium_.
When Paul Rediki received this invitation he seated himself at the table
and penned a dignified refusal. He explained that he had just taken an
oath never to go to Vienna, and he hoped that His Majesty would be
gracious and pardon him, that he was very sorry that he could not
possibly come. How very different was he from men of today.
However, it happened after many, many years that old Vienna bestirred
herself and moved nearer. The wing-swift railroad had been built. Our
great blue mountains were pierced through and through, and the
velvet-soft, green meadows were covered with iron ribbons, upon which
wheels were to roll.
Paul Rediki was in favor of the railroad, and worked lustily for it. “It
will bring money and prosperity to our community,” he declared, “and it
will make our harvests of value.”
Too bad that he was not at home when the first flower-decked coaches
rolled in; but he lay ill in an hospital where he had been sent by order
of the doctor.
Upon the important day the entire country-side assembled. “We shall see
now,” argued the peasants “whether it is true or not.” “It’s all just
foolish talk,” declared Martin Saki, the cobbler of Tiszle. “Nothing
will come of it. I’ll bet you, brothers--it can’t move ten paces.”
“How could it go without horses?” questioned Mathias Kozka, laughing.
Gabor Kovacz, who took care of the church, said he was willing to lie
right down on the track in front of the engine, but the village watchman
would not let him.
“Well, if it doesn’t do any good, it won’t do any harm!” he consoled
himself by saying.
The railway officials were the butt of jests and scorn.
“Take a halter along any way, because you bet you’ll have to pull that
Polish village.” The long coaches with their rows of little windows,
fastened together in a long line, looked to them like a village of small
and diminutive houses.
In the meantime the invited gentry had assembled. They climbed on to the
coaches and the huge, foolish machine began to puff and snort and blow
like a wild horse, while the smoke poured forth and spread out across
the pleasant fields. A whistle, and the long line of little Polish
houses moved with a noise like thunder, and the more they moved, the
faster, until it was just like an arrow shot from the bow.
Gabor Kovacz crossed himself piously again and again, and stuttered in
confusion: “That’s not the work of God, men! The devil is behind it.”
“Let the fool think so,” contradicted Istvan Tot.
“I tell you that there are horses inside of it.”
“But where? We ought to see them.”
“I’ll bet my soul they are hidden there! Probably in every second little
house, there are two parade horses from the circus, and they pull along
the houses which are behind them.”
That was the most reasonable explanation, and found ready belief. Only
the most zealous and religious kept insisting that it was tempting God’s
mercy, and it was the work of the devil.
These seemed to have hit upon the truth; because when the train came
back from its trial trip at noon, the heavens began to bear witness to
the anger of God.
At the great banquet just as all were lifting their wine glasses to
drink the health of the absent Paul Rediki, and the voices rang out:
“Here’s to--!” a telegram came saying that Paul Rediki was dead. He died
at exactly nine o’clock, the very moment when the train entered his
village. So his soul went journeying away with it.
Outside a storm began to rage. It uprooted trees, unroofed houses, the
lightning struck apart, like a sword of God, the great bell in the tower
and destroyed one of the small station houses. The reapers of Paul
Rediki saw bloody rain drops falling upon the grass. That’s what always
happens when man tempts the mercy of God.
On the third day at three o’clock the burial was to take place. At half
past two the coffin was to come on the train, and the services were to
be conducted with pomp such as had never been seen before in
Gernyefalva. Printed invitations had been sent to the gentry of the
neighborhood. Nine reverend gentlemen of neighboring villages were
there. The country roads as far as one could see were black with
crawling wagons. Even the pupils from the Selmezlanya had been invited
and were approaching in numbers.
The dead man deserved this honor because he was a reliable man, a man
who kept his word even unto death. But they were obliged to get along
with only the little bell because the big bell had been ruined in the
thunder shower.
There were numberless mourners dressed in black. The black, draped
catafalk was placed under the linden tree; here seats were brought out,
the tapers lighted, the singer cleared his throat, and the mourners took
their places.
Now nothing was lacking but the dead man. The master of ceremonies,
clothed in full dignity, looked impatiently at his watch. “He must be
here very soon.”
Carl Petroczig, who had arranged everything properly for the ceremony,
hastened to quiet him.
“He must be here soon. The wagon has already been sent on to the
station.” After a brief period of waiting, rattle of wheels was heard,
the crowd began to sway to and fro, each one stretched up and tried to
look over the one in front. While curiosity whispered, there were heard
cries of astonishment and displeasure, and the members of the family
began to separate.
“What is the matter? What has happened?” inquired the people, and
stepped about lively upon each other’s corns, in their effort to reach
the catafalk where the relatives were assembled.
Petroczig, as paralyzed as if he had been turned suddenly into a statue,
gave the explanation, in a tone that resembled despair.
“My brother-in-law has not come; he has been delayed.”
It was really true; the dead man had delayed his own funeral. They
sought him on the train, but he was nowhere to be found, although a
telegram had come which said that he had been sent on it. There was
nothing for it now but for the assembly of mourners to depart, and to
beg the pardon of the others, that they had come in vain.
“How people do change when they are dead!” observed the reverend Pastor
Mukuczek, angrily. “The blessed man was always so punctual, too, when he
was alive.”
The crowd dispersed, while the family hastened to demand again the body
by telegram. But it did not come the next day, nor the third, nor the
fourth. They could not get any trace of it.
At length after elapse of a week they found it in Vienna. So Fate willed
it that he should visit the city, which he declared he would not enter
for any price.
The wagon with the body, by some accident, was driven to the station for
Vienna, and placed in a car attached to that train. So poor Paul Rediki,
after his death, traveled the length and breadth of Austria for an
entire week.
That is the reason that I insist that it is better to die at home, but
it is a good deal better still, not to die at all.
FIDDLERS THREE
Three Bohemian fiddlers were traveling through the country; fat Zahrada,
goat-bearded Safranyik, and tall Zajczek. They had a quite remarkable
adventure.
One fine summer evening the three tramp fiddlers came from Altsol over
here, and while they were trudging along through the Lopata Forest
toward the valley, a thick fog overtook them, and it became dark as
night, so they were unable to follow the highway.
They thought they could not be far away from Crizsnócz, perhaps the
distance of two gunshots, but they could not be sure of that course, for
no light was to be seen through the darkness. On the side of the way
where we now are, trees, barns, and storehouses shut out view of the
dwelling houses of Crizsnócz, and not one of them had ever been in this
locality before.
“I’m as hungry as a dog, friends. We must reach the village soon--and
yet, of course, I can’t tell. It may be a long time. I think we better
unhitch the horses here where we are and rest a bit.”
Safranyik shared this opinion: “Right. To-day the Smith won’t be
hammering.” Safranyik meant by this the moon, in which there is a
picture of a smith hammering at his forge.
They agreed and stopped their journey. The poor devils were trudging
along perhaps the very piece of road where we now are. They unhitched
their horses, which means in their speech, that they pulled off their
boots. Each arranged his pack for a pillow, placed the fiddle beside
him, and then stretched out upon the ground, where the second crop of
hay had just been cut. No king goes to sleep in a more fragrant chamber
than they.
Scarcely had they closed their eyes, or perhaps they had not closed them
yet at all, because if they had they couldn’t have seen, when they
observed--at just a short distance from them--a long row of lighted
windows.
Safranyik was the first to take notice of this: “Quick--Zahrada,
Zajczek! There’s a lighted castle right under our nose. Up--Zahrada! Up
Zajczek! I feel an itch that tells me we’ll get good food and drink
there.”
They were all three hungry. It is not necessary to make any remark about
their being thirsty. They jumped up, picked up the fiddles, and set out
for the castle.
It was a large and splendid castle. Across the façade were thirteen
lighted windows, and they glowed mightily through the night. And
within--what life--what revelry! Twenty cooks were running hither and
thither in the great kitchen. Some were turning huge spits and seasoning
sauces; another was cooking fritters; the third peeling potatoes. One
was grinding poppies in a mortar, another drawing foaming beer whose
fragrance all but made the fiddlers dumb. The scent of the mown
aftermath upon which they fell asleep was sweet in the fields, but this
fragrance of a foaming brew was quite different.
And within the great drawing rooms! Men and women of nobility, in festal
attire were sitting in front of the roasted meats and red gleaming
wines. They heard the drinking glasses ring at touch, laughter and
repartee echoed from the resplendent walls of marble which were
lovelier than those of Count Waldstein in Golden Prague.
What joy, what surprise and animation, when the guests looked up and saw
the three fiddlers. A pock-marked, red haired man in a long dolman
fastened with huge silver buttons jumped up, making the spurs upon his
boots to ring. He drank gayly to their health, swinging his glass toward
them.
“Hello--fellows! Just in the nick of time. Out with your fiddles!”
They did not wait to be asked the second time. And from the old strings,
they lured all the enchanting melodies of Hungary, which they had
learned upon its lonely highways. Young men jumped up from the banquet,
and stately matrons, and charming maids, bearded old men, and stripling
youths who were not bearded, began to dance and beat time, so that it
was something amazing to see. The heels of their new boots rattled;
trained, silken gowns twisted and hissed like serpents, and the marble
floor groaned with dancing feet.
A little round, red-cheeked woman of some thirty years, who wore a
lofty, powdered, 18th century coiffure, covered with a coquettish,
jeweled butterfly cap, and a gown of sky blue satin, danced up to
Zahrada. She placed one tiny hand upon her hip, with the other waved her
handkerchief of lace, fluttering it languidly beside her ear, and then
danced the Czarda with fire and passion. She stamped and stamped with
fury, with her little feet and called to him:
“_Yuchkay--Yuchkay--for never die will we!_”
Sometimes in her uncontrolled emotion she pulled some stately nobleman
from his chair, and made him dance a measure with her, in a manner that
was good to see. Look now! Look! the fat, ivory bald priest she is
pulling away from the wine!
“Come, come, my reverend father! Your feet are rested. You can dance.”
The reverend father leaped to the floor, but he was obliged to confess
that he knew only the grotesque Slav dance--_Podza bucski_! Now it
chanced that Zajczek was a master of this. Then the fiddles sang shrill
their Slovak song, and the reverend gentleman leaped about with zeal in
this most foolish dance, leaped and swung his legs till the great gold
chain about his neck jingled and jingled--
“A fine fellow--the priest,” whirled the whisper about. “How did he
ever conceal all this fun that’s in him!”
To the song of the fiddlers the guests from all the other rooms came
running in, and the dancing crowd grew larger and larger--and always the
merriment rose higher. Two from another room, one in a light dolman the
other in an elegant laced coat of fur--and in this heat--(and they were
old, too, over seventy) joined the young dancers and laughed and leaped
and rattled their silver spurs.
One pretty girl (she was blond and she wore a crown of fresh flowers on
her hair, and huge golden earrings in ears that were very white) lost
the lappet from her shoe.
“Who made these shoes?”
“Prakovsky.”
“Where is Prakovsky? Wait you bungler! Bring Prakovsky here. He shall be
covered with plaster.”
Ten people started to bring Prakovsky. They said that he was playing
_durak_ in the third drawing room, with Father Krudz and a lawyer.
In the meantime they kept right on brewing and cooking in the kitchen.
Prettily dressed, flirtatious peasant girls in high Spanish leather
boots and gay kerchiefs, brought in platters and drinks. By the banquet
table, which extended from one end of the long room to the other, beside
which the three fiddlers were playing--the feasting guests drifted to
and fro, and every once in a while resounded the words of an eloquent
toast. Of this toast, the fat Zahrada--who had learned to speak a little
while tramping over Hungary--understood a few words.
Now a pale, thin young man, who had a large wart between his eyes, got
up, lifted his glass and drank a toast to the distinguished, nobly born
Martin Folkinházy, and praised all his children and his children’s
children. Zahrada meditated:
“That man with the big wart must be an ass. It’s only safe to praise
one’s ancestors--they are the only ones one can be proud of in Hungary.”
Now he began to praise their great, great grand children, closing with
the brilliant prophecy:
“I hope the Almighty will be good enough to let them die sooner or
later.”
The man at end of the table, deeply affected, nodded his head, and the
whole company touched glasses, whereupon he jumped to his feet and
bowed and offered his arm to an old lady, who wore white powdered hair,
a violet silk dress, led her to Safranyik, and bent and whispered
something in his ear. Safranyik declared that they both smelled of the
grave. Hereupon Safranyik signalled his two companions, and they began
to play a minuet of long ago.
The two ancient figures began to hop about, then to walk with dignity,
to bow and make regal reverences, and to dream lovingly of the past.
That was something ridiculous, and at the same time elegant and
distinguished. Long ostrich feathers trembled and coquetted upon the
lofty headdress of the old woman, while the old man carried his hat
under his arm, and his thin, wiry little body, bent and waved with the
lightness and grace of a sparrow that poises itself for flight. Once,
the old, old lady dropped her golden, glittering fan. Zahrada jumped and
picked it up and tried to offer it to her, but just then the old lady
made a courtly gesture with her hand and chirruped like a little bird
(she did not have a single tooth in her mouth!): “Be so kind, sir, as to
keep it a little while.”
Then they floated on again in the gayety of the dance--God
knows--alone--where. Zahrada kept the fan, but no one came to fetch it.
The young woman who wore the butterfly cap was so overcome by the fiery
dance, that she took off the jeweled cap and put it on the head of tall
Zajczek. But his head was so little, that it hung as if on a broom
stick. Naturally everyone began to laugh--and the orgy grew wilder and
more unrestrained.
For a moment the dancing was interrupted. A fat old man whose coat was
fastened with garnet buttons, exclaimed: “_What manners_--the fiddlers
three have not been asked to eat or drink!” Then began such running this
way and that. The peasant girls in the red morocco shoes brought in a
little table, and loaded it with food. Potted hare, roast sucking pig,
cakes, tarts, pastries of Crizsnócz, and brandy from Rigy.
The three Bohemians hung their fiddles on the wall, sat up and began the
feast--How good it tasted! If it only did not have such a scent of the
dead about it! It must have been very late. The candles were all but
burned down, and the pale wind of dawn made them flutter and tremble
like ghosts. The noblemen and women were still talking and laughing in
the glowing marble rooms.
One little man of smoothly shaven face, who wore glasses, took out his
snuff box, and circled the resplendent room, offering a pinch to
everyone, and saying in the most sympathetic voice: “How do you feel
tonight?”
“Good, Doctor! Most excellently, Doctor!”
The little man with the glasses rubbed his hands:
“We have you to thank that we are _here_--” and then he began to beat
his breast.
It was all so enchanting to look upon, so merry--Zahrada could not look
enough to satisfy himself--at the slender little lady. He poked
Safranyik in the ribs with his elbow: “Which one of all these would you
choose?”
Safranyik pointed to a mischievous, laughing brunette who stood beside a
mirror. The teasing beauty understood the lustful glances of Safranyik,
perhaps she heard what he said, and she twinkled her eyes at him, so
that he trembled just as if he had the fever. Bold Zajczek had a still
more remarkable experience with one of the peasant girls. He tried to
pinch her, but something hurt him so that he shrieked and began to drink
to calm himself. Zahrada drank, too. But Safranyik drank more than
anyone else, and all the time he held on tightly to the golden, jeweled
fan that belonged to the little old lady. (The old lady might, of
course, ask for it at any time!) The fiddlers three at length began to
be sleepy--Now dimly, as if only with one ear--did they listen to the
wild revelry in the marble halls, and at length sleep fell upon them,
and so heavily, that as far as they were concerned, the world could come
to an end.
When at length they awoke and rubbed their eyes it was morning. The
golden disk of the sun was just lifting itself above the bare summit of
Mount Málnád.
They look about upon their surroundings. They were in the old forgotten
graveyard of Crizsnócz, and the three fiddles were hanging upon the
grave stones. Beside Safranyik’s head, lay a human skull, instead of the
jeweled butterfly cap which the merry little gentlewoman had pulled over
his head. Zahrada held in one hand the bone of an arm.
Terrified, their teeth chattering, they got to their feet and ran to the
village, where they related their adventure of the night. In the
relation, the village dwellers recognized their long buried ancestors.
Even the descriptions of the clothes in which they had been buried were
correct.
This caused great excitement and incredulity, but just on that account
it was believed (because three such honorable people related it)! And
the three fiddlers were wined and dined, and for the entire winter they
remained in Criznócz, and went from banquet to banquet, telling the
people of the gay life of their buried fathers.
And each time they told the story, it had increased in size and become
more important. Sometimes Zahrada, sometimes Safranyik, thought of
something new which they tacked on to it, something which it was
necessary that the living nobility learn about their ancestors, and the
feasts in their honor grew more elaborate and costly.
At last the affair reached the ears of the honorable Samuel Szirotka, an
ancestor of our present pastor, and he summoned the people together and
sharply told them what is what.
“Blessed brothers in Christ! In this community I, alone, am paid to talk
to you about what happens on the other side of the grave. And I say to
the others who are taking my duty upon their shoulders to go to the
devil and get out--if they do not they will be sorry.”
And thus the three fiddlers were driven away--but the story still
remains--and the strange thing about it is that it keeps growing and
growing.
WALTHER NETTO
THE SWINE HERD
A TALE OF THE BALKAN MOUNTAINS[12]
Approach of evening in a land of black mountains. Fine, cold rain like a
winding sheet. A highway crawling along the narrow valley, about half
way up the height, like a man bent over a stone, or a goat; from afar it
looks like a woolen thread stretched across a cliff.
The wet rocks shone like black coals, or metal mirrors. Now and then a
ray of light from the west slipped across the barren waste.
It was cold. What difference did it make if it was? In the cell of a
cloister I knew there was a hearth kept warm for me; I was hastening
toward the warmth, toward people--even if they were silent
people--toward the smoke of homes and the cheerful light.
Beside me holding the reins sat the owner of the cart; huge, raw-boned,
grey, crabbed. Behind his brow colossal thoughts were crowding. We were
driving at top speed. Silence had reigned between us for some time.
He had offered me a seat beside him with a gesture of the hand which
said: “Perhaps it will give you pleasure to drive through a couple of
villages with me. You know, of course--” They all have the manners of
dethroned princes. He had used his whip with the _grandezza_ of a
capitalist upon the Corso in Buda.
Still it rains. It is cold.
* * * * *
I wrap myself closer in my sheepskin. For hours we have not exchanged a
word. Why should we?
Then the highway makes a sharp curve--and--suddenly, the horse jumps to
one side, curves back and neck, stiffens his front legs, while myriads
of stars shoot from his iron shoes--and stops. We are all but thrown
out. What is the trouble? Now imagine--I lift my head and try to
see--what a strange thing is life--I see--a long road black with hogs.
Fifty, a hundred, a thousand, ten thousand--even this gives you no
conception of the number. Thousands of hogs crowding around a swine
herd.
And the swine herd sits upon a milestone. He holds a one-string violin
upon his knee, from which from time to time he draws two notes, one high
and one low, as accompaniment to a song. With the dignity of a royal
bard, with the calmness of a ruling prince, he addressed his people--his
herd of hogs. Thus Homer spake; thus Ossian sang.
Ah!--
“Stop a bit, Prince,” I begged, addressing the driver of the cart.
“Stop a bit--”
“_Eh bien!_ There’s time enough.”
“What are days anyway? What are weeks? Time is merely a stop-watch for
people who calculate in an office.”
And the man sitting upon the milestone was saying: Beloved swine, my
brethren--Pan Strahinja’s life has now reached its zenith, just as a
wanderer reaches the summit of the mountains, or the sun the zenith of
the heaven, and the mid-day had bleached his head. But do not think for
a moment that the fire within his falcon eyes had lessened. They were
still glowing coals, they were the gleaming heads of bunched swords, and
they sparkled like the great gem on the middle finger of his long white
hand. You remember it, my swine.
It was on a night in the sixth decade of his life. A sultry night, a
scent-heavy night of high summer. Pan Strahinja lay upon his couch, in a
tent richly hung with rugs and embroideries, whose gold-threaded walls
gleamed in the reflection of a swinging lamp of bronze. He had just put
aside his weapons, his robe of state, and slept--exhausted--after the
princely meal he had just given in honor of a Turk.
Do not believe, my dear swine, that the great Pan Strahinja had sought
out a Turk for a friend, or--No! You must understand--_eh, my
swine?_--that great people have obligations. The Turk had just been his
guest. But I suppose you do not understand that, do you? Anyway it
doesn’t make any difference.
Well, as I said before, Pan Strahinja lay upon his couch and slept. And
beside him lay a woman. She lay there naked, playing with her long,
unbound, golden hair--holding it up and looking through it at the
swinging lamp of bronze.
On a chain of pallid silver about her neck she wore a great shining gem
which was the color of the sea. The stone lay between her breasts, just
as if one had dipped up ocean water in one’s hollow hand and let it drip
down there, and as if she dare not move lest it should slip away.
Now she folded her arms under her head in order to lift herself up a
little, and she looked from time to time toward the door of the tent,
and then toward Pan Strahinja, who slept beside her. And now see what
happens, my swine! Pan Strahinja slept there, and so might he have kept
on sleeping for hours. All of a sudden a great thought slipped across
his sleeping brain, and in order properly to consider the thought, he
opened his eyes. Pan Strahinja opened his eyes, and as he slowly turned
them upon the rich walls of his tent, with a superb indifference--he
finds--What in the name of the three devils is it that he finds? He
finds the place beside him empty. Now what do you say to that, my swine?
The woman was gone. There was no use of thinking about it more; the
woman was gone.
For an instant Pan Strahinja draws his hands across his brow; for an
instant he meditates. The dinner he gave had indeed been a wild orgy.
The devil take dinners like that! Again he looks at the place beside
him; it looks just the same. The woman was gone.
And Pan Strahinja--listen, my swine--the great Pan Strahinja roared. He
roared like a bull. He roared until the swinging lamp of bronze began to
tremble. He roared until his sword shook in its scabbard; roared until
the guard awakened from their napping, and seized their spears; until
the horses in the stalls began to whinny--The woman had been stolen. A
moment of meditation.
There was no room for doubt. It was self evident. It was clear as
daylight. It was the Turk who had stolen her. He had shown her to him in
the evening just as he had shown him his horses, his weapons, and his
dogs. Of course it was the Turk! The Turk--that little crooked legged,
insignificant, dirty Turk! She was with the Turk! And Pan Strahinja--the
great Pan Strahinja began to laugh like the spirits of a thousand mad
men.
His men ran to the door of his tent.
“What is the matter, master?”
“Nothing. I was dreaming--_ha, ha, ha_--I just dreamed that you brought
me the crown of the Serbs--you dogs. Didn’t you? Well--very good. Now
go--_go_.”
Hardly are they out of sight when he whistles for his black slave. A few
moments later a stallion stands saddled in front of the tent. He puts on
his sword; it leaps from the belt toward him like a woman. And then
comes his greyhound--Karaman--and leaps toward him. He swings into his
gold-worked saddle, and away he rides, out upon the heights, in the
sweet, star-clear night.
What a picture, my swine, what a picture! And what a thought! Pan
Strahinja under the light of the moon, riding upon a stallion from whose
mouth the white foam falls and clings in flecks to breast and
shoulder--Pan Strahinja, riding away in the night after the pale, blond
slave-child.
She had soft, strange movements she had learned from the animals of the
wild. She had slender, graceful limbs and cool, sweet skin; skin cold to
the touch like the skin of an Indian serpent--like the chill of the
interior of sunless temples.
Ahead already stands the tent of the Turk. In a moment he has crossed
the enclosure and his stallion waits by the door. Slowly he has slipped
from the saddle.
He pushes the curtain back, and not like a stranger--calmly--as if he
himself were master there. And then he looks upon the Turk--and the
woman. All he can see of her is her long gold hair, falling from a divan
to the floor. The rugs upon the floor of the tent are thick and soft.
They do not hear him. Is it laughter that is shining in his eyes? Is it
anger? No. It is merely the cool observation of the judge who weighs the
battle.
“There is something beautiful--noble--about love,” Pan Strahinja was
thinking. “I will have a picture of this scene made for myself
sometime--_in gold_.”
Then Pan Strahinja lifted up his voice. He spoke just as if he were
talking about the weather.
“Listen, my friend.”
“The devil!” shrieks the Turk.
“Listen, my friend. I might have killed you just now. But if I had your
blood would have flowed down over this little serpent. The thought of
that displeases me.”
That was well said, my swine. Don’t you think so? That’s the way
distinguished people talk. What could the Turk say to that? Not a thing!
So they were the only words spoken.
Now it was plain that the Turk must gird on his sword, then Pan
Strahinja and the Turk walked out of the tent, out upon the hills, under
the star-clear sky.
It was a procession worthy to look upon. Ahead walked Pan Strahinja and
the Turk, side by side, just like friends. Next, with long, swinging
strides came the stallion; behind the stallion the blond woman, hastily
wrapped in a mantle of purple silk, and around them played the white
greyhound with its giant leaps.
Do you suppose--you swine--that they went at each other like
peasants? Is that what you think? Listen! They spoke as if races
listened--nations--as if great armies stood behind them.
Thus spake Pan Strahinja, the naked sword in his left hand, while with
his right hand he accompanied his princely words which were something
like this:
“I am Pan Strahinja, the son of the great Pan Soundso, and the grandson
of the exalted Pan Soundso, who lost his life in the glorious battle by
the White Water. You know about that--And I took to me a woman for the
pleasure of my nights. There she stands--a woman with the graceful body
of the roebuck--and the nature of a serpent. What difference does it
make? The Patriarch of Stamboul himself gave her to me--his friend--to
me, the great Pan Strahinja. And one night a Turk came, and--”
This was the way he spoke.
Then the Turk began: And--that, we will leave to him--he spoke after the
manner of heroes. You should have heard it, my swine, for I assure you
it was not bad.
And now the fight began.
What a picture! Strength against cunning; the splendor of the lion
against the cunning of the serpent. What a fight! The air trembled when
the great swords swept through it. But neither hesitated. The fight
became crueler and wilder. The Turk disables Pan Strahinja’s leg. Then
the greyhound leaped to his throat. Pan Strahinja whistled him aside.
The woman seized the mantle of Pan Strahinja, but the stallion struck at
her with his hoofs. Ravens circled over their heads like black ships of
a giant fleet. At length they roll down the hill together. There they
lie. The eyes of the woman who stands gazing down upon them--the
indifferent eyes--grow larger, grow rounder, with horror. The greyhound
stands beside her ready for the plunge, like a trained leopard of the
chase, and the stallion has the fire of battle in its blood.
The light of coming day can not penetrate the rocky cavern where they
have rolled together, and where the great Pan Strahinja, with a hand of
steel, is slowly choking the Turk to death. Ha!--my swine! He killed him
with his own hand.
Then he freed himself, drew his golden dagger, and cut off the head and
walked quickly, carrying it, to the high land.
He fastens the head to the saddle, lifts the woman up, swings himself to
place and rides calmly away toward his tent.
A few months later the Patriarch of Stamboul visited the great Pan
Strahinja, when he was setting out on his journey to Rome.
He saw hanging in the corner of his tent a skull.
“Whose is that?”
“A Turk.”
“How does he earn such honor?”
“Do you remember the woman whom you gave me for the pleasure of my
nights? He wanted her.”
“And you--did you kill her?”
“Friend,” replied Pan Strahinja, “suppose someone stole your great ruby,
and you found both the thief and the ruby, what would you do with the
thief?”
“I would kill him.”
“And then would you throw the ruby away?”
“I’d be damned if I would!”
“--therefore--I--”
THE END
FOOTNOTES:
[1] VRCHLICKY (Yaroslav). “_Abisag._” See Underwood, Edna Worthley.
(“Famous Stories From Foreign Countries.”)
[2] Golia--insane asylum in Jassy.
[3] ČECH (Svatopluk). “_The Exchange._” See Underwood, Edna Worthley.
(“Famous Stories From Foreign Countries.”)
[4] Frantischek--a place on the right bank of the Moldau.
[5] The national hero of Serbia.
[6] _Indznir_--engineer.
[7] _Zadruga_--measuring and division of land.
[8] _Indznir_--engineer.
[9] Reaper--the stars forming the constellation of the Great Bear.
[10] This is a story of the late war.
[11] MIKSZÁTH (Koloman). “_The King’s Clothes._” See Underwood, Edna
Worthley. (“Famous Stories From Foreign Countries.”)
[12] The writer of this story followed in the wake of the armies and
wrote of the country he saw. This story was first published about three
years ago.
Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber:
The honest countenace=> The honest countenance {pg 22}
and dimissed him=> and dismissed him {pg 53}
is unhapy because=> is unhappy because {pg 84}
would be dangerout=> would be dangerous {pg 86}
his nehpew’s feet=> his nephew’s feet {pg 100}
semed to like me=> seemed to like me {pg 125}
the noise grows loud=> the noise grows louder {pg 152}
I recognized in the girl=> I recognized the girl {pg 183}
Somtimes a sob=> Sometimes a sob {pg 198}
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