It was a warm night, and I had left open the window overlooking the
park. I did not feel ready for sleep after I finished my letter, so I
set to work to rehearse the irregular Lithuanian verbs, and to look into
Sanskrit to find the origins of their different irregularities. In the
middle of my absorbing labours a tree close to my window shook
violently. I could hear the dead branches creak, and it seemed as though
some heavy animal were trying to climb it. Still engrossed with the bear
stories that the doctor had told me, I got up, feeling rather uneasy,
and saw, only a few feet from my window, a human head among the leaves
of the tree, lit up plainly by the light from my lamp. The vision only
lasted a second, but the singular brilliance of the eyes which met my
gaze struck me more than I could say. Involuntarily I took a step
backwards; then I ran to the window and demanded in severe tones what
the intruder wanted. Meanwhile he climbed down quickly, and, seizing a
large branch between both hands, he swung himself off, jumped to the
ground, and was soon out of sight. I rang the bell and told the
adventure to a servant who answered it.
"Sir," he said, "you must be mistaken."
"I am certain of what I tell you," I replied. "I am afraid there is a
burglar in the park."
"It is impossible, sir."
"Well, then, is it someone out of the house?" The servant opened his
eyes wide without replying, and in the end asked me if I wanted
anything. I told him to fasten my window, and I went to bed.
I slept soundly, neither dreaming of bears nor of thieves. In the
morning, while I was dressing, someone knocked at my door. I opened it
and found myself face to face with a very tall and finely built young
man in a Bokhara dressing-gown, holding in his hand a long Turkish pipe.
"I come to beg your pardon, Professor," he said, "for having welcomed
such a distinguished guest so badly. I am Count Szémioth."
I hastened to say that, on the contrary, my humble thanks were due to
him for his most courteous hospitality, and inquired if he had lost his
headache.
"Very nearly," he said. "At all events, until the next crisis," he
added, with a melancholy expression. "Are you comfortable here? You must
not forget that you are among barbarians; it would be difficult to think
otherwise in Samogitia."
I assured him I was most comfortably entertained. All the time I was
speaking I could not prevent myself from studying him with a very
impolite curiosity; there was something strange in his look which
reminded me, in spite of myself, of the man whom I had seen climbing the
tree the night before....
"But what probability," I said to myself, "is there that Count Szémioth
would climb trees by night?"
His forehead was high and well--developed, although rather narrow. His
features were large and regular, but his eyes were too close together,
and I did not think that, measured from one lacrymal gland to the
other, there was the width of an eye, the canon of Greek sculptors. His
glance was piercing. Our eyes met several times, in spite of ourselves,
and we looked at each other with some embarrassment. All at once the
Count burst out laughing.
"You recognise me!" he said.
"Recognise you?"
"Yes, you detected me yesterday playing a scoundrelly part."
"Oh! Monsieur le Comte!"
"I had passed a suffering day shut up in my bedroom. As I was somewhat
better at night I went for a walk in the garden. I saw your light and
yielded to curiosity.... I ought to have told you who I was, and
introduced myself properly, but I was in such a ridiculous situation....
I was ashamed, and so I fled.... Will you excuse me for having disturbed
you in the midst of your work?"
He said all this with a would-be playful air; but he blushed, and was
evidently confused. I did my best to reassure him that I did not retain
any unpleasant impression from our first interview, and, to change the
subject, I asked him if he really possessed the Samogitic Catechism of
Father Lawiçki.
"It may be so; but, to tell you the truth, I do not know much about my
father's library. He loved old and rare books. I hardly read anything
beyond modern works; but we will look for it, Professor. You wish us,
then, to read the Gospel in Jmoudic?"
"Do you not consider, M. le Comte, that a translation of the Scriptures
into the language of this country is very desirable?"
"Certainly; nevertheless, if you will permit me a slight remark, I can
tell you that amongst the people who know no other language than the
Jmoudic, there is not a single person who can read."
"Perhaps so, but I ask permission of Your Excellency[3] to point out
that the greatest obstacle in the way of learning to read is the absence
of books. When the Samogitic countries have a printed text they will
wish to read it, and will learn to read. This has already happened in
the case of many savage races ... not that I wish to apply such a term
to the people of this country.... Furthermore," I went on, "is it not a
deplorable thing that a language should disappear, leaving no trace
behind? Prussian became a dead language thirty years ago, and the last
person who knew Cornic died the other day."
"Sad," interrupted the Count. "Alexander Humboldt told my father he had
met with a parrot in America that was the only living thing which knew
several words of the language of a tribe now entirely wiped out by
small-pox. Will you allow me to order our tea here?"
While we drank tea the conversation turned upon the Jmoudic tongue. The
Count found fault with the way Germans print Lithuanian, and he was
right.
"Your alphabet," he said, "does not lend itself to our language. You
have neither our J, nor our L, V, or Ë. I have a collection of _daïnos_
published last year at Koenigsberg, and I had immense trouble to
understand the words, they are so queerly formed."
"Your Excellency probably speaks of Lessner's _daïnos_?"
"Yes, it is very vapid poetry, do you not think?"
"He might perhaps have selected better. I admit that, as it is, this
collection has but a purely philological interest; but I believe if
careful search were made one would succeed in collecting the most
perfect flowers of your folk-poetry."
"Alas! I doubt it very much, in spite of my patriotic desires."
"A few weeks ago a very fine ballad was given me at Wilno--an historical
one.... It is a most remarkable poem.... May I read it? I have it in my
bag."
"With the greatest pleasure."
He buried himself in an armchair, after asking permission to smoke.
"I can't understand poetry unless I smoke," he said.
"It is called _The Three Sons of Boudrys_."
"_The Three Sons of Boudrys_?" exclaimed the Count, with a gesture of
surprise.
"Yes, Boudrys, as Your Excellency knows better than I, is an historic
character."
The Count looked at me fixedly with that odd gaze of his. It was almost
indefinable, both timid and ferocious, and produced an almost painful
impression until one grew accustomed to it. I hurriedly began to read to
escape it.
"THE THREE SONS OF BOUDRYS.
"In the courtyard of his castle old Boudrys called together his
three sons--three genuine Lithuanians like himself.
"'My children,' he said to them, 'feed your war horses, and get
ready your saddles; sharpen your swords and your javelins. It is
said that at Wilno war has broken out between the three quarters of
the globe. Olgerd will march against Russia; Skirghello against our
neighbours, the Poles; Keystut will fall upon the Teutons.[4] You
are young, strong and bold; go and fight; and may the gods of
Lithuania protect you! This year I shall not go to war, but I wish
to counsel you. There are three of you, and three roads are open to
you.
"'One of you must accompany Olgerd to Russia, to the borders of
Lake Ilmen, under the walls of Novgorod. Ermine skins and
embroidered stuffs you will find there in plenty, and among the
merchants as many roubles as there are blocks of ice in the river.
"'The second must follow Keystut in his incursion. May he scatter
the cross-bearing rabble! Amber is there as common as is the sea
sand; their cloths are without equal for sheen and colour; their
priests' vestments are ornamented with rubies.
"'The third shall cross the Niémen with Skirghello. On the other
side he will find base implements of toil. He must choose good
lances and strong buckles to oppose them, and he will bear away a
daughter-in-law.
"'The women of Poland, my sons, are the most beautiful of all our
captives--sportive as kittens and as white as cream. Under their
black brows their eyes sparkle like stars. When I was young, half a
century ago, I brought away captive from Poland a beautiful girl
who became my wife. She has long been dead, but I can never look at
her side of the hearth without remembering her.'
"He blessed the youths, who already were armed and in the saddle.
They set out. Autumn came, then winter ... but they did not come
back, and the old Boudrys believed them to be dead.
"There came a snowstorm, and a horseman drew near, who bore under
his black bourka[5] a precious burden.
"'Is it a sackful of roubles from Novgorod?' asked Boudrys.
"'No, father. I am bringing you a daughter-in-law from Poland.'
"In the midst of the snowstorm another horseman appeared. His
bourka was also distended with a precious burden.
"'What have you, my child; yellow amber from Germany?'
"'No, father. I bring you a daughter-in-law from Poland.'
"The snow fell in squalls. A horseman advanced hiding a precious
burden under his bourka.... But before he had shown his spoil
Boudrys had invited his friends to a third wedding."
"Bravo! Professor," cried the Count; "you pronounce Jmoude to
perfection. But who told you this pretty _daïna_?"
"A young lady whose acquaintance I had the honour to make at Wilno, at
the house of Princess Katazyna Paç."
"What is her name?"
"The _panna_ Iwinska."
"Mlle. Ioulka!"[6] exclaimed the Count. "The little madcap! I might have
guessed it. My dear Professor, you know Jmoude and all the learned
tongues; you have read every old book, but you have let yourself be
taken in by a young girl who has only read novels. She has translated to
you, more or less correctly, in Jmoudic, one of Miçkiewicz's dainty
ballads, which you have not read because it is no older than I am. If
you wish it I will show it to you in Polish, or, if you prefer, in an
excellent Russian translation by Pouchkine."
I confess I was quite dumbfounded. How the Dorpat professor would have
chuckled if I had published as original the _daïna_ of the "Sons of
Boudrys"!
Instead of being amused at my confusion, the Count, with exquisite
politeness, hastened to turn the conversation.
"So you have met Mlle. Ioulka?" said he.
"I have had the honour of being presented to her."
"What do you think of her? Speak quite frankly."
"She is a most agreeable young lady."
"So you are pleased to say."
"She is exceedingly pretty."
"Oh!"
"Do you not think she has the loveliest eyes in the world?"
"Yes."
"A complexion of the most dazzling whiteness?... I was reminded of a
Persian _ghazel_, wherein a lover extols the fineness of his mistress's
skin. 'When she drinks red wine,' he said, 'you see it pass down her
throat.' The _panna_ Iwinska made me think of those Persian lines."
"Mlle. Ioulka may possibly embody that phenomenon; but I do not know if
she has any blood in her veins.... She has no heart.... She is as white
and as cold as snow!"
He rose and walked round the room some time without speaking, as though
to hide his emotion; then, stopping suddenly--
"Pardon me," he said, "we were talking, I believe, of folk-poetry...."
"We were, Your Excellency."
"After all it must be admitted that she translated Miçkiewicz very
prettily.... 'Frolicsome as a kitten,... white as cream,... eyes like
stars,' ... that is her own portrait, do you not agree?"
"Absolutely, Your Excellency."
"With reference to this roguish trick ... a very ill-judged one, to be
sure,... the poor child is bored to death by an old aunt. She leads the
life of a nun."
"At Wilno she went into society. I saw her at the ball given by the
officers of the--regiment."
"Ah, yes! the society of young officers suits her exactly. To laugh with
one, to backbite with another, and to flirt with all of them.... Will
you come and see my father's library, Professor?"
I followed him to a long gallery, lined with many handsomely bound
books, which, to judge from the dust which covered their edges, were
rarely opened. What was my delight to find that one of the first volumes
I pulled out of a glass case was the _Catechismus Samogiticus_! I could
not help uttering a cry of pleasure. It seemed as though some mysterious
power were exerting its influence unknown to us.... The Count took the
book, and, after he had turned over the leaves carelessly, wrote on the
fly-leaf: "_To Professor Wittembach, from Michael Szémioth_." I did not
know how to express my great gratitude, and I made a mental resolution
that after my death this precious book should be the ornament of my own
University library.
"If you like to consider this library your workroom," said the Count,
"you shall never be disturbed here."