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STORIES BY FOREIGN AUTHORS
POLISH, GREEK, BELGIAN, HUNGARIAN
THE LIGHTHOUSE KEEPER OF ASPINWALL BY HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ
THE PLAIN SISTER BY DEMETRIOS BIKELAS
THE MASSACRE OF THE INNOCENTS BY MAURICE MAETERLINCK
SAINT NICHOLAS EVE BY CAMILLE LEMONNIER
IN LOVE WITH THE CZARINA BY MAURICE JOKAI
THE LIGHT-HOUSE KEEPER OF ASPINWALL
BY
HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ
From "Yanko the Musician and other Stories." Translated by Jeremiah
Curtin. Published by Little, Brown & Co.
Copyright, 1893, by Little, Brown & Co.
CHAPTER I
On a time it happened that the light-house keeper in Aspinwall, not far
from Panama, disappeared without a trace. Since he disappeared during a
storm, it was supposed that the ill-fated man went to the very edge of
the small, rocky island on which the light-house stood, and was swept
out by a wave. This supposition seemed the more likely as his boat was
not found next day in its rocky niche. The place of light-house keeper
had become vacant. It was necessary to fill this place at the earliest
moment possible, since the light-house had no small significance for
the local movement as well as for vessels going from New York to
Panama. Mosquito Bay abounds in sandbars and banks. Among these
navigation, even in the daytime, is difficult; but at night, especially
with the fogs which are so frequent on those waters warmed by the sun
of the tropics, it is nearly impossible. The only guide at that time
for the numerous vessels is the light-house.
The task of finding a new keeper fell to the United States consul
living in Panama, and this task was no small one: first, because it was
absolutely necessary to find the man within twelve hours; second, the
man must be unusually conscientious,--it was not possible, of course,
to take the first comer at random; finally, there was an utter lack of
candidates. Life on a tower is uncommonly difficult, and by no means
enticing to people of the South, who love idleness and the freedom of a
vagrant life. That light-house keeper is almost a prisoner. He cannot
leave his rocky island except on Sundays. A boat from Aspinwall brings
him provisions and water once a day, and returns immediately; on the
whole island, one acre in area, there is no inhabitant. The keeper
lives in the light-house; he keeps it in order. During the day he gives
signals by displaying flags of various colors to indicate changes of
the barometer; in the evening he lights the lantern. This would be no
great labor were it not that to reach the lantern at the summit of the
tower he must pass over more than four hundred steep and very high
steps; sometimes he must make this journey repeatedly during the day.
In general, it is the life of a monk, and indeed more than that,--the
life of a hermit. It was not wonderful, therefore, that Mr. Isaac
Falconbridge was in no small anxiety as to where he should find a
permanent successor to the recent keeper; and it is easy to understand
his joy when a successor announced himself most unexpectedly on that
very day. He was a man already old, seventy years or more, but fresh,
erect, with the movements and bearing of a soldier. His hair was
perfectly white, his face as dark as that of a Creole; but, judging
from his blue eyes, he did not belong to a people of the South. His
face was somewhat downcast and sad, but honest. At the first glance he
pleased Falconbridge. It remained only to examine him. Therefore the
following conversation began:
"Where are you from?"
"I am a Pole."
"Where have you worked up to this time?"
"In one place and another."
"A light-house keeper should like to stay in one place."
"I need rest."
"Have you served? Have you testimonials of honorable government
service?"
The old man drew from his bosom a piece of faded silk resembling a
strip of an old flag, unwound it, and said:
"Here are the testimonials. I received this cross in 1830. This second
one is Spanish from the Carlist War; the third is the French legion;
the fourth I received in Hungary. Afterward I fought in the States
against the South; there they do not give crosses."
Falconbridge took the paper and began to read.
"H'm! Skavinski? Is that your name? H'm! Two flags captured in a
bayonet attack. You were a gallant soldier."
"I am able to be a conscientious light-house keeper."
"It is necessary to ascend the tower a number of times daily. Have you
sound legs?"
"I crossed the plains on foot." (The immense steppes between the East
and California are called "the plains.")
"Do you know sea service?"
"I served three years on a whaler."
"You have tried various occupations."
"The only one I have not known is quiet."
"Why is that?"
The old man shrugged his shoulders. "Such is my fate."
"Still you seem to me too old for a light-house keeper."
"Sir," exclaimed the candidate suddenly in a voice of emotion, "I am
greatly wearied, knocked about. I have passed through much as you see.
This place is one of those which I have wished for most ardently. I am
old, I need rest. I need to say to myself, 'Here you will remain; this
is your port.' Ah, sir, this depends now on you alone. Another time
perhaps such a place will not offer itself. What luck that I was in
Panama! I entreat you--as God is dear to me, I am like a ship which if
it misses the harbor will be lost. If you wish to make an old man
happy--I swear to you that I am honest, but--I have enough of
wandering."
The blue eyes of the old man expressed such earnest entreaty that
Falconbridge, who had a good, simple heart, was touched.
"Well," said he, "I take you. You are light-house keeper."
The old man's face gleamed with inexpressible joy.
"I thank you."
"Can you go to the tower to-day?"
"I can."
"Then good-bye. Another word,--for any failure in service you will be
dismissed."
"All right."
That same evening, when the sun had descended on the other side of the
isthmus, and a day of sunshine was followed by a night without
twilight, the new keeper was in his place evidently, for the
light-house was casting its bright rays on the water as usual. The
night was perfectly calm, silent, genuinely tropical, filled with a
transparent haze, forming around the moon a great colored rainbow with
soft, unbroken edges; the sea was moving only because the tide raised
it. Skavinski on the balcony seemed from below like a small black
point. He tried to collect his thoughts and take in his new position;
but his mind was too much under pressure to move with regularity. He
felt somewhat as a hunted beast feels when at last it has found refuge
from pursuit on some inaccessible rock or in a cave. There had come to
him, finally, an hour of quiet; the feeling of safety filled his soul
with a certain unspeakable bliss. Now on that rock he can simply laugh
at his previous wanderings, his misfortunes and failures. He was in
truth like a ship whose masts, ropes, and sails had been broken and
rent by a tempest, and cast from the clouds to the bottom of the
sea,--a ship on which the tempest had hurled waves and spat foam, but
which still wound its way to the harbor. The pictures of that storm
passed quickly through his mind as he compared it with the calm future
now beginning. A part of his wonderful adventures he had related to
Falconbridge; he had not mentioned, however, thousands of other
incidents. It had been his misfortune that as often as he pitched his
tent and fixed his fireplace to settle down permanently, some wind tore
out the stakes of his tent, whirled away the fire, and bore him on
toward destruction. Looking now from the balcony of the tower at the
illuminated waves, he remembered everything through which he had
passed. He had campaigned in the four parts of the world, and in
wandering had tried almost every occupation. Labor-loving and honest,
more than once had he earned money, and had always lost it in spite of
every prevision and the utmost caution. He had been a gold-miner in
Australia, a diamond-digger in Africa, a rifleman in public service in
the East Indies. He established a ranch in California,--the drought
ruined him; he tried trading with wild tribes in the interior of
Brazil,--his raft was wrecked on the Amazon; he himself alone,
weaponless, and nearly naked, wandered in the forest for many weeks
living on wild fruits, exposed every moment to death from the jaws of
wild beasts. He established a forge in Helena, Arkansas, and that was
burned in a great fire which consumed the whole town. Next he fell into
the hands of Indians in the Rocky Mountains, and only through a miracle
was he saved by Canadian trappers. Then he served as a sailor on a
vessel running between Bahia and Bordeaux, and as harpooner on a
whaling-ship; both vessels were wrecked. He had a cigar factory in
Havana, and was robbed by his partner while he himself was lying sick
with the vomito. At last he came to Aspinwall, and there was to be the
end of his failures,--for what could reach him on that rocky island?
Neither water nor fire nor men. But from men Skavinski had not suffered
much; he had met good men oftener than bad ones.
But it seemed to him that all the four elements were persecuting him.
Those who knew him said that he had no luck, and with that they
explained everything. He himself became somewhat of a monomaniac. He
believed that some mighty and vengeful hand was pursuing him
everywhere, on all lands and waters. He did not like, however, to speak
of this; only at times, when some one asked him whose hand that could
be, he pointed mysteriously to the Polar Star, and said, "It comes from
that place." In reality his failures were so continuous that they were
wonderful, and might easily drive a nail into the head, especially of
the man who had experienced them. But Skavinski had the patience of an
Indian, and that great calm power of resistance which comes from truth
of heart. In his time he had received in Hungary a number of
bayonet-thrusts because he would not grasp at a stirrup which was shown
as means of salvation to him, and cry for quarter. In like manner he
did not bend to misfortune. He crept up against the mountain as
industriously as an ant. Pushed down a hundred times, he began his
journey calmly for the hundred and first time. He was in his way a most
peculiar original. This old soldier, tempered, God knows in how many
fires, hardened in suffering, hammered and forged, had the heart of a
child. In the time of the epidemic in Cuba, the vomito attacked him
because he had given to the sick all his quinine, of which he had a
considerable supply, and left not a grain to himself.
There had been in him also this wonderful quality,--that after so many
disappointments he was ever full of confidence, and did not lose hope
that all would be well yet. In winter he grew lively, and predicted
great events. He waited for these events with impatience, and lived
with the thought of them whole summers. But the winters passed one
after another, and Skavinski lived only to this,--that they whitened
his head. At last he grew old, began to lose energy; his endurance was
becoming more and more like resignation, his former calmness was
tending toward supersensitiveness, and that tempered soldier was
degenerating into a man ready to shed tears for any cause. Besides
this, from time to time he was weighed down by a terrible homesickness
which was roused by any circumstance,--the sight of swallows, gray
birds like sparrows, snow on the mountains, or melancholy music like
that heard on a time. Finally, there was one idea which mastered
him,--the idea of rest. It mastered the old man thoroughly, and
swallowed all other desires and hopes. This ceaseless wanderer could
not imagine anything more to be longed for, anything more precious,
than a quiet corner in which to rest, and wait in silence for the end.
Perhaps specially because some whim of fate had so hurried him over all
seas and lands that he could hardly catch his breath, did he imagine
that the highest human happiness was simply not to wander. It is true
that such modest happiness was his due; but he was so accustomed to
disappointments that he thought of rest as people in general think of
something which is beyond reach. He did not dare to hope for it.
Meanwhile, unexpectedly, in the course of twelve hours he had gained a
position which was as if chosen for him out of all the world. We are
not to wonder, then, that when he lighted his lantern in the evening he
became as it were dazed,--that he asked himself if that was reality,
and he did not dare to answer that it was. But at the same time reality
convinced him with incontrovertible proofs; hence hours one after
another passed while he was on the balcony. He gazed, and convinced
himself. It might seem that he was looking at the sea for the first
time in his life. The lens of the lantern cast into the darkness an
enormous triangle of light, beyond which the eye of the old man was
lost in the black distance completely, in the distance mysterious and
awful. But that distance seemed to run toward the light. The long waves
following one another rolled out from the darkness, and went bellowing
toward the base of the island; and then their foaming backs were
visible, shining rose-colored in the light of the lantern. The incoming
tide swelled more and more, and covered the sandy bars. The mysterious
speech of the ocean came with a fulness more powerful and louder, at
one time like the thunder of cannon, at another like the roar of great
forests, at another like the distant dull sound of the voices of
people. At moments it was quiet; then to the ears of the old man came
some great sigh, then a kind of sobbing, and again threatening
outbursts. At last the wind bore away the haze, but brought black,
broken clouds, which hid the moon. From the west it began to blow more
and more; the waves sprang with rage against the rock of the
light-house, licking with foam the foundation walls. In the distance a
storm was beginning to bellow. On the dark, disturbed expanse certain
green lanterns gleamed from the masts of ships. These green points rose
high and then sank; now they swayed to the right, and now to the left.
Skavinski descended to his room. The storm began to howl. Outside,
people on those ships were struggling with night, with darkness, with
waves; but inside the tower it was calm and still. Even the sounds of
the storm hardly came through the thick walls, and only the measured
tick-tack of the clock lulled the wearied old man to his slumber.