Produced by Barbara Tozier, Bill Tozier and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
SIELANKA
_An Idyll_
BY
HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ
TRANSLATED BY
VATSLAF A. HLASKO and THOS. H. BULLICK
R. F. FENNO & COMPANY : 9 AND 11 EAST
SIXTEENTH STREET : : NEW YORK CITY
1898
Copyright, 1897
BY
R. F. FENNO & COMPANY
SIELANKA.
_An Idyll._
In the woods, in the deep woods, was an open glade in which stood the
house of the forester Stephan. The house was built of logs packed with
moss, and the roof was thatched with straw; hard by the house stood
two outbuildings; in front of it was a piece of fenced-in ground, and
an old well with a long, crooked sweep; the water in the well was
covered with a green vegetation at the edges.
Opposite the windows grew sunflowers and wild hollyhocks, high,
stately, and covered with blossoms as if with a swarm of gorgeous
butterflies; between the sunflowers there peeped the red heads of the
poppy; around the hollyhocks entwined sweet peas with pink blossoms
and morning-glories; close to the ground grew nasturtiums, marigolds,
primroses, and asters, pale because they were shaded from the sunlight
by the leaves of the hollyhocks and sunflowers.
The fenced ground on either side of the pathway leading to the house
was planted with vegetables--carrots, beets, and cabbage; further off
in a separate fenced-in lot there waved with each breath of wind the
tender blue flower of the flax; still beyond could be seen the dark
green of the potato patch; the rest of the clearing was checkered with
the variegated shades of the different cereals that ran to the edge of
the lake which touched the glade on one side.
Near to the house a few trees were growing. Some were cherry trees,
and one was a birch, with long, slender branches which swayed in the
wind, and with every breeze its leaves touched the dilapidated
moss-covered straw thatch of the roof; when the stronger gusts of wind
bent its boughs to the wall, and pressed its twigs and the waves of
leaves against the roof, it would seem as if the tree loved the house
and embraced it.
In this tree the sparrows made their home; the rustling of the leaves
and twigs commingled with the chirp and joyous noise of the birds; in
the eaves of the house the doves had built their nests, and the place
was filled with their speech, cooing and calling to each other,
entreating and discussing as is customary between doves, these noisy
and talkative people.
At times it happened that they were startled by some unknown cause;
then around the house was heard a loud flapping, the air was filled
with the whirl of wings and a multitude of white-feathered breasts;
you could hear tumult, noise and excited cries--the whole flock flew
out suddenly, circled round the house, now near, now far off.
Sometimes they melted in the blue, sometimes their white feathers
reflected the sunlight, again they hung over the house, undulating in
the air, and alighting at last like a downfall of snowflakes on the
gray straw of the roof.
If this occurred in the rosy morning or in the splendor of the red
setting sun, then in the glory of the air these doves were not white,
but tinted pink, and settled on the roof and birch tree as flames or
scattered rose leaves.
At twilight, when the sun had hidden itself beyond the woods, this
cooing under the roof and chirping in the birch tree became gradually
quiet. The sparrows and the doves shook the dew from their wings and
prepared to sleep; sometimes one of them gave voice once more, but
more rarely, more softly, more drowsily, and then all was silent--the
dusk was falling from the heavens upon the earth. The house, cherry
trees, and birch were losing their form, mingling together, melting,
and veiled in a mist which rose from the lake.
Around the glade, as far as the eye could reach, there stretched the
wall of dark pine trees and thick undergrowth. This wall was broken in
one place by a wide dividing line, which reached to the edge of the
lake. The lake was a very large one, the opposite side was nearly lost
to view, and in the mist could be hardly discerned the red roof and
steeple of a church, and the black line of the woods closing the
horizon beyond the church.
The pines were looking from the high sandy banks upon their reflection
in the lake as if in a mirror, and it seemed as if there was another
forest in the water; and when the trees were swaying on the earth they
were also swaying in the water, and when they quivered on the earth
they seemed to quiver in the water; as they stood in the still air
motionless, then every needle of the pines was painted distinctly on
the smooth, unruffled surface, and the straight trunks of the trees
standing like rows of pillars reaching afar off into infinity. In the
middle of the lake the water in the daytime reflected the sun, and in
the morning and the evening the glories of its rising and its setting;
at night the moon and stars; and it seemed to be as deep as the dome
of the sky above us is high, beyond the sun, moon, and stars.
In the house dwelt the forester, named Stephan, and his daughter,
Kasya, a maiden of sixteen. Kasya was the light of the household, as
bright and fresh as the morning. She was brought up in great innocence
and in the fear of God. Her uncle, who was now dead, and who was a
poor but devout man, the organist of the neighboring church, had
taught her to read her prayer book, and her education was perfected by
her communing with nature. The bees taught her to work, the doves
taught her purity, the happy sparrows to speak joyfully to her father,
the quiet water taught her peace, the serenity of the sky taught her
contemplation, the matin-bell of the distant church called her to
devotion, and the universal good in all nature, which reflected the
love of God, sank deep into her soul.
Therefore the father and Kasya led a peaceful and happy life,
surrounded by the silence and solitude of the woods.
One noon, before Ascension Day, Stephan came home to his dinner. He
had visited a large tract of the forest, so he arrived weary, having
returned through the thickets of the swamp. Kasya placed the dinner on
the table, and after they had finished and she had fed the dog and
washed the dishes, she said:
"Papa."
"What is it?"
"I shall go into the woods."
"Go, go," adding jestingly, "and let some wolf or wild beast devour
you."
"I shall go and gather herbs. To-morrow is Ascension Day and they will
be needed in the church."
"If so, you can go."
She covered her head with a yellow kerchief embroidered with blue
flowers, and looking for her basket she began singing:
"The falcon came flying, the falcon came grey."
The old man began to grumble: "If you were as fond of working as you
are of singing."
Kasya, who was standing on her tiptoes to look on a shelf, turned her
head to her father, laughed merrily, and showing her white teeth, sang
again as if to tease him:
"He hoots in the woods and the cuckoo's his prey."
"You would be glad yourself to be a cuckoo until a falcon came," said
the old man. "Perhaps 'tis falcon who is at the turpentine works? but
this is folly. You can't earn a piece of bread by singing."
Kasya again sang:
"Hoot not thou, my falcon, unhappy thy quest,
In the depths of the lake thy cuckoo doth rest."
Then she said:
"Wilt thou decorate the room with the evergreens for to-morrow? I
shall return in time to milk the cows, but they should be brought from
the pasture."
She found her basket, kissed her father, and went out. Old Stephan got
his unfinished fishing-net, and seated himself on a bench outside the
door. He gathered his twine, and half-closing one eye he tried to
thread his netting needle; after several attempts he succeeded and
began to work.
From time to time he watched Kasya. She was walking on the left side
of the lake; against the background of the sandy banks she stood out
in relief as if in a picture. Her white waist and red striped skirt
and yellow kerchief glistened in the sunlight like a variegated
flower. Though it was spring the heat was unbearable. After she had
gone about half a mile she turned aside and disappeared into the
woods. The afternoon hours were hot in the sun, but in the shade of
the trees it was quite cool. Kasya pressed forward, suddenly stopped,
smiled, and blushed like a rose.
In front of her in the pathway stood a youth about eighteen years of
age.
This youth was the turpentine worker, from the edge of the woods, who
was now on his way to visit Stephan.
"The Lord be praised!" said he.
"Forever and ever," answered she, and in her confusion she covered her
face with her apron, peeping shyly out of a corner of it and smiling
at her companion.
"Kasya," said he.
"What is it, John?"
"Is your father at home?"
"He is."
The turpentine worker, poor fellow, perhaps desired to speak of
something else beside the father, but somehow he was frightened and
unconsciously inquired for him; then he became silent and waited for
Kasya to speak to him first. She stood confused, twisting the corners
of her apron.
At last she spoke.
"John?"
"What is it, Kasya?"
"Does the turpentine works smoke to-day?" She also wished to speak of
something else.
"Why should it not? The turpentine works never stop. I left lame Frank
there; but dost thou wish to go there?"
"No, I go to gather plants."
"I will go with thee, and on our return, if thou dost not chase me
away, I will come to thy house."
"Why should I chase thee away?"
"If thou dost like me thou wilt not chase me away, and if thou dost
not, then thou wilt. Tell me, Kasya, dost thou like me?"
"Fate, my fate," and Kasya covered her face with her hands. "What can
I say to thee? I like thee, John, very much I like thee," she
whispered faintly.
Then before he could reply she uncovered her blushing face and cried
out, "Let us go and gather plants; let us hurry."
And so went they, John and Kasya. The radiance of love surrounded
them, but these simple children of nature dared not speak of it. They
felt it, although they knew not what they felt; they were embarrassed
but happy. Never before had the forest sung so wonderfully over their
heads, never was the wind so sweet and caressing, never at any time
had the noises of the forest, the rustling of the breeze in the trees,
the voices of the birds, the echoes of the woods, seemed to merge into
such an angelic choir, so sweet and grand, as at this moment, full of
unconscious happiness.
Oh, holy power of love! how good an angel of light thou art, how rosy
an aureole in the dusk, how bright a rainbow on the cloud of human
tears!
Meanwhile, in the woods resounded echoes from pine to pine, the
barking of the dog, Burek, who had escaped from the house and ran on
the pathway after Kasya. He came panting heavily, and with great joy
he jumped with his big paws on Kasya and John, and looked from one to
the other with his wise and mild eyes, as if wishing to say:
"I see that you love one another; this is good."
He wagged his tail and ran quickly ahead of them, then circled round
to them, then stopped, barked once more with joy, and rushed into the
woods, looking back from time to time on the boy and girl.
Kasya put her hand to her forehead, and looking upward upon the bright
sun between the leaves she said:
"Just think, the sun is two hours beyond noontime and we have not yet
gathered any plants. Go thou, John, to the left side and I shall go
the right, and let us begin. We should hasten, for the dear Lord's
sake."
They separated and went into the woods, but not far from one another
and in a parallel direction, so that they could see each other. Among
the ferns between the pine trees could be seen fluttering the
vari-colored skirt and yellow kerchief of Kasya. The slender, supple
maiden seemed to float amid the berry-laden bushes, mosses and ferns.
You would say it was some fairy _wila_ or _rusalka_ of the woods;
every moment she stooped and stood erect again, and so, further and
further, passing the pine trees, she entered deeper into the forest as
some spritely nymph.
Sometimes the thick growth of young hemlocks and cedars would conceal
her from view, then John stopped, and putting his hand to his mouth
would shout, "Halloo! Halloo!"
Kasya heard it; she stopped with a smile, and pretending that she did
not see him, answered in a high, silvery voice:
"John!"
The echo answers:
"John! John!"
Meanwhile Burek had espied a squirrel up a tree, and, standing before
it looking upward, barked. The squirrel sitting on a branch covered
herself with her tail in a mocking manner, lifted her forepaws to her
mouth and rubbed her nose, seemed to play with her forefingers, make
grimaces, and laugh at the anger of Burek. Kasya, seeing it, laughed
with a resounding, silvery tone, and so did John, and so the woods
were filled with the sound of human voices, echoes, laughter and sunny
joy.
Sometimes there was a deep silence, and then the woods seemed to
speak; the breeze struck the fronds of the ferns, which emitted a
sharp sound; the trunks of the pines swayed and creaked, and there was
silence again.
Then could be heard the measured strokes of the woodpecker. It seemed
as if some one kept knock--knocking at a door, and you could even
expect that some mysterious voice would ask:
"Who is there?"
Again, the wood thrush was whistling with a sweet voice; the
golden-crowned hammer plumed his feathers. In the thicket the
pheasants clucked and the bright green humming birds flitted between
the leaves; sometimes on the top of the pine tree a crow, hiding
itself from the heat of the sun, lazily flapped its wings.
On this afternoon the weather was most clear, the sky was cloudless,
and above the green canopy of the leaves there spread out the blue
dome of the heavens--immense, limitless, transparently gray-tinted on
the sides and deep blue above. In the sky stood the great golden sun;
the space was flooded with light; the air was bright and serene, and
far-off objects stood out distinctly, their forms clearly defined.
From the height of heaven the eye of the great Creator embraced the
whole earth; in the fields the grain bowed to Him with a golden wave,
rustled the heavy heads of the wheat, and the delicate tasseled oats
trembled like a cluster of tiny bells. In the air, filled with
brightness here and there, floated the spring thread of the spider's
web, blue from the azure of the sky and golden from the sun, as if a
veritable thread from the loom of the Mother of God.
In the vales between the fields of the waving grain stood dark-green
meadows; here and there were crystal springs, around whose edges the
grass was greener still; the whole meadows were sprinkled with yellow
buttercups and dandelions which struck the eye with a profusion of
golden brightness. In the wet places there thrived cypress trees,
which had an air of coldness and moisture.
In the woods among the pine trees there were now both heat and
silence. It seemed as if a dreamy stillness enveloped the whole world.
Not a breath of wind stirred; the trees, grain, and grass were
motionless. The leaves hung on the trees as if rocked to sleep; the
birds had ceased their noises, and the moment of rest had come. But
this rest seemed to come from an ineffable sweetness, and all nature
seemed to meditate. Only the great expanse of heaven seemed to smile,
and somewhere, high in the unknowable depths of its blue, the great
and beneficent God was glad with the gladness of the fields, the
woods, the meadows, and the waters.
Kasya and John were still busy in the woods collecting herbs, laughing
gleefully and speaking to each other joyfully. Man is as artless as a
bird; he will sing when he can, for this is his nature. John now began
to sing a simple and touching song.
As Kasya and John sang in unison the last refrain of the song ended
mournfully, and as if in accompaniment the echo repeated it in the
dark depths of the woods; the pines gave resonance as the words ran
between their trunks and died away in the far distance like a sigh,
less distinct, light, ethereal; then silence.
Later Kasya sang a more cheerful song, beginning with the words:
"I shall become a ring of gold now."
This is a good song. A willful young girl quarrels with her lover and
enumerates the means she intends to use to escape from him. But it is
useless. When she says that she will be a golden ring and will roll
away on the road, he says that he will quickly see and recover her.
When she wants to be a golden fish in the water he sings to her of the
silken net; when she wants to be a wild fowl on the lake he appears
before her as a hunter. At last the poor maiden, seeing she is unable
to hide herself from him on the earth, sings:
"I shall become a star in heaven,
Light to earth by will be given.
My love to thee I shall not render,
Nor my sweet will to thee surrender."
But the undaunted youth answers:
"Then shall I pray to the saint's grace
That the star may fall from its heavenly place.
Thy love to me thou then wilt render,
And thy sweet will to me surrender."
The maiden, seeing there is no refuge either in heaven or on earth for
her, accepts the view of Providence and sings:
"I see, I see, fate's decree doth bind me;
Where'er I hide, thou sure wilt find me.
My love to thee I must now render,
And my sweet will to thee surrender."
John, turning to Kasya, said:
"Do you understand?"
"What, John?"
He began to sing:
"Thy love to me thou must now render,
And thy sweet will to me surrender."
Kasya was troubled, and laughed loudly to cover her confusion; and
wishing to speak, she said:
"I have gathered a large lot of plants; it would be well to dip them
in water, for in this heat they will wither."
Verily the heat was great; the wind had entirely ceased. In the woods,
though in the shade, the air vibrated with moist heat, the pines
exuding a strong, resinous odor. The delicate, golden-tinted face of
Kasya was touched with perspiration, and her blue eyes showed traces
of weariness. She removed the kerchief from her head, and began to fan
herself. John, taking the basket from her, said:
"Here, Kasya, stand two aspen trees, and between them a spring. Come,
let us drink."
Both went. After a short interval they noticed that the ground of the
forest began to slope here. Among the trees, instead of bushes, ferns
and dry mosses, there was a green, damp turf, then one aspen tree,
then another, and after them whole rows. They entered into this dark,
humid retreat, where the rays of the sun, passing through the leaves,
took on their color and reflected on the human face a pale green
light. John and Kasya descended lower and lower into the shadows and
dampness; a chilliness breathed upon them, refreshing after the heat
of the woods; and in a moment, between the rows of the aspen trees,
they espied in the black turf a deep stream of water winding its way
under and through canes and bushy thickets, and interspersed with the
large, round leaves of the water-lilies, which we call "_nenufars_,"
and by the peasants are called "white flowers."
Beautiful was this spot, quiet, secluded, shady, even somewhat sombre
and solemn. The transparent stream of water wound its way between the
trees. The _nenufars_, touched by the light movement of the water,
swayed gently backward and forward, leaning toward each other as if
kissing. Above their broad leaves, lying like shields on the surface
of the water, swarmed indigo-colored insects with wide, translucent,
sibilant wings, so delicate and fragile that they are justly called
water-sprites. Black butterflies, with white-edged, mournful wings,
rested on the sharp, slender tops of the tamarack. On the dark turf
blossomed blue forget-me-nots. On the edge of the stream grew some
alder trees, and under the bushes peeped out heads of the
lily-of-the-valley, bluebells and honeysuckles. The white heads of the
_biedrzenica_ hung over the waters; the silvery threads of the
_strojka_ spread out upon the current of the stream and weaved
themselves into thin and long strands; besides--seclusion--a wild
spot, forgotten by men, peaceful, peopled only with the world of
birds, flowers and insects.
In such places generally dwell nymphs, _rusalki_, and other bad or
good forest sprites. Kasya, who was in advance, stood first on the
banks of the stream and looked upon the water in which was reflected
her graceful form. She verily appeared as one of those beautiful
forest spirits as they are seen sometimes by the woodsmen or lumber
men who float on their rafts down the rivers through the woods. She
had no covering upon her head, and the wind gently played with her
locks and ruffled her ray-like hair. Sunburned she was, blond-haired,
and her eyes, as blue as turquoise, were as laughing as her lips.
Besides, she was a divinely tall, slender, and fairy-like maiden. No
one could swear, if she was suddenly startled, that she would not jump
into the water--would not dissolve into mist--into rainbow rays--would
not turn quickly into a water-lily or _kalina_ tree, which, when
robbed of its flowers, remonstrates with a voice so human, yet
recalling the sigh of the forest:
"Don't touch me."
Kasya, bending over the water so that her tresses fell on her
shoulders, turned toward John and said:
"How shall we drink?"
"As birds," answered John, pointing to some silver pheasants on the
opposite side of the stream.
John, who knew how to help himself better than the birds, plucked a
large leaf from a tree, and, making a funnel out of it, filled it with
water and gave it to Kasya.
They both drank, then Kasya gathered some forget-me-nots, and John
with his knife made a flute from the willow bark, on which, when he
had finished, he began to play the air which the shepherds play in the
eventide on the meadows. The soft notes floated away with ineffable
tenderness in this secluded spot. Shortly he removed the flute and
listened intently as if to catch an echo returning from the aspen
trees, and it seemed that the clear stream, the dark aspen trees, and
the birds hidden in the canes listened to these notes with him.
All became silent, but shortly, as if in answer--as if a
challenge--came the first faint note of the nightingale, followed by a
stronger trill. The nightingale wanted to sing--it challenged the
flute.
Now he began to sing. All nature was listening to this divine singer.
The lilies lifted their heads above the water; the forget-me-nots
pressed closer together; the canes ceased to rustle; no bird dared to
peep except an unwise and absent-minded cuckoo, who with her silent
wing alighted near by on a dry bough, lifted her head, widely opened
her beak, and foolishly called aloud:
"Cuckoo! cuckoo!"
Afterward it seemed as if she was ashamed of her outbreak, and she
quietly subsided.
Vainly Kasya, who stood on the edge of the stream with the
forget-me-nots in her hand, turned to the side from whence came the
voice of the cuckoo and queried:
"Cuckoo, blue-gray cuckoo, how long shall I live?"
The cuckoo answered not.
"Cuckoo, shall I be rich?"
The cuckoo was silent.
Then John: "Cuckoo, gray cuckoo, how soon will I wed?"
The cuckoo replied not.
"She cares not to answer us," said John; "let us return to the
forest."
On returning they found the large stone by which they had placed the
basket and bunches of herbs. Kasya, seating herself beside it, began
to weave garlands, and John helped her. Burek lay near them, stretched
his hairy forepaws, lolled out his tongue and breathed heavily from
fatigue, looking carefully around to see if he could not spy some
living thing to chase and enjoy his own noise. But everything in the
woods was quiet. The sun was traveling toward the west, and through
the leaves and the needles of the pines shot his rays, becoming more
and more red, covering the ground of the woods in places with great
golden circles. The air was dry; in the west were spreading great
shafts of golden light, which flooded all like an ocean of molten gold
and amber. The wondrous beauties of the peaceful, warm spring evening
were glowing in the sky. In the woods the daily work was gradually
ceasing. The noise of the woodpecker had stopped; black and bronzed
ants returned in rows to their hills, which were red in the rays of
the setting sun. Some carried in their mouths pine needles and some
insects. Among the herbs here and there circled small forest bees,
humming joyfully as they completed their last load of the sweet
flower-dust. From the fissures in the bark of the trees came gloomy
and blind millers; in the streams of the golden light circled swarms
of midgets and gnats scarcely visible to the eye; mosquitoes began
their mournful song. On the trees the birds were choosing their places
for the night; a yellow bird was softly whistling; the crows flapped
their wings, crowding all on one tree and quarreling about the best
places. But these voices were more and more rare, and became fainter;
gradually all ceased, and the silence was interrupted by the evening
breeze playing among the trees. The poplar tree tried to lift her
bluish-green leaves upward; the king-oak murmured softly; the leaves
of the birch tree slightly moved--silence.
Now the sky became more red; in the east the horizon became dark blue,
and all the voices of the woods merged into a chorus, solemn, deep and
immense. Thus the forest sings its evening song of praise, and says
its prayers before it sleeps; tree speaks to tree of the glory of God,
and you would say that it spoke with a human voice.
Only very innocent souls understand this great and blessed speech.
Only very innocent hearts hear and understand when the first chorus of
the parent oaks begins its strain:
"Rejoice, O sister pines, and be glad. The Lord hath given a warm and
peaceful day, and now above the earth He makes the starry night. Great
is the Lord, and mighty, powerful and good is He, so let there be
glory to Him upon the heights, upon the waters, upon the lands, and
upon the air."
And the pines pondered a moment upon the words of the oaks, and then
they raised their voices together, saying:
"Now, O Lord, to thy great glory, we, as censers, offer to Thee the
incense of our sweet-smelling balsam, strong, resinous and fragrant.
'Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy Name.'"
Then the birches said:
"Thy evening brightness illumines the heavens, O Lord! and in Thy
splendors our small leaves golden are and burning. Now with our golden
leaves we sing to Thee, O Lord, and our delicate twigs play as the
strings of the harp, O good Father of ours!"
Again the sorrowing cypress said:
"Upon our sad foreheads, exhausted with the heat, softly falls the
evening dew. Praise be to Thee, O Lord; brothers and sisters rejoice,
because there falls the cooling dew."
Amid this chorus of trees the aspen alone trembles and is afraid; for
it gave the wood for the Cross of the Saviour of the world; at times
it faintly groans:
"O Lord, have mercy upon me. Have mercy upon me, O Lord."
Again, sometimes, when the oaks and pines cease for a moment, there
rises from under their feet a faint, modest voice, low as the murmur
of insects, silent as silence itself, which says:
"A small berry am I, O Lord, and hidden in the moss. But Thou wilt
hear, discern and love me; though small, devout am I, and sing Thy
glory."
Thus every evening prays the forest, and these orchestral sounds rise
at every sunset from earth to heaven--and float high, high, reaching
where there is no creature, where there is nothing only the silvery
dust and the milky way of the stars, and above the stars--God.
At this moment the sun hides his radiant head in the far-distant seas;
the farmer turns upward his plowshares and hastens to his cottage.
From the pastures return the bellowing herds; the sheep raise clouds
of the golden dust. The twilight falls; in the village creek the well
sweeps; later the windows shine, and from the distance comes the
barking of the dogs.
The sun had not gone beyond the woods when Kasya had seated herself
under the mossy stone to weave her garlands. Its rays were thrown upon
her face, broken by the shadows of the leaves and twigs. The work did
not proceed rapidly, for Kasya was tired from heat and running in the
woods. Her sunburnt hands moved slowly at her work. The warm breeze
kissed her temples and face, and the voices of the forest lulled her
to sleep. Her large eyes became heavy and drowsy; her eyelashes began
to close slowly; she leaned her head against the stone, opened her
eyes once more as a child looking upon the divine beauty of the world;
then the noise of the trees, the rows of the stumps, the ground full
of pine needles, and the skies that could be seen between the branches
all became indistinct, darkened, dissolved, disappeared--and she
smiled and slept. Her head was hidden in a soft shade, but the
covering of her breast shone all rosy and purple. Her soft breathing
lifted her bosom gently; so wonderful and beautiful she looked in this
quiet sleep in the evening rays that John looked upon her as if upon
the image of a saint, glorious with gold, and colored as the rainbow.
Kasya's hands were clinging yet to the unfinished garland of herbs.
She slept with a sleep light and sweet, for she smiled through her
dreams as a child who speaks with the angels. Perhaps she verily
conversed with angels, for pure she was as a child, and had dedicated
her whole day to the service of God by gathering and weaving the
garlands for His temple.
John was sitting by her side, but he did not sleep. His simple breast
could not contain the feelings that arose there; he felt as if his
soul had got wings and was preparing to fly away to the realms of
heaven. He knew not what was happening to him, and he only raised his
eyes to the skies and was motionless; you would say that love had
transfigured him.
Kasya slumbered on, and for a long time they both remained there.
Meanwhile the dusk came. The remnants of the purple light fought with
the darkness. The interior of the woods deepened--became dumb. From
the canes of the lake near the glade with its cottage came the buzzing
of a night beetle.
Suddenly on the other side of the lake from the church rang out the
Angelus bell. Its tones floated on the wings of the evening breeze
over the face of the quiet waters, clear, resonant, and distinct. It
called the faithful to prayer, and also proclaimed: "Rest! Enough of
work and the heat of the day," spoke the bell. "Wrap yourself to sleep
in the wing of God. Come, come ye weary to Him--in Him is joy! Here is
peace! here gladness! here sleep! here sleep! here sleep!"
John took off his hat at the sound of the bell, Kasya shook the sleep
from her eyes, and said:
"The bell rings."
"For the Angel of the Lord."
Both kneeled near by the mossy stone as if before an altar. Kasya
began to pray with a low, soft voice:
"The Angel of the Lord declared unto Mary,"
"And she conceived by the Holy Ghost," answered John.
"Behold the handmaiden of the Lord; may it be done to me according to
Thy word."
* * * * *
Thus kneeling, prayed these children of God. The silent summer
lightning shone from the east to the west, and upon its light flew
down from heaven a radiant host of winged angels, and hovered above
their heads. Then they blended with the angels and were themselves as
if angels, for upon earth there were no two souls more bright, more
pure, more innocent.
ORSO.
The last days of autumn in Anaheim, a town situated in Southern
California, are days of joy and celebration. The grape gathering is
finished and the town is crowded with the vineyard hands. There is
nothing more picturesque than the sight of these people, composed
partly of a sprinkling of Mexicans, but mainly of Cahuilla Indians,
who come from the wild mountains of San Bernardino to earn some money
by gathering grapes. They scatter through the streets and market
places, called lolas, where they sleep in tents or under the roof of
the sky, which is always clear at this time of the year. This
beautiful city, surrounded with its growths of eucalyptus, olive,
castor, and pepper trees, is filled with the noisy confusion of a
fair, which strangely contrasts with the deep and solemn silence of
the plains, covered with cacti, just beyond the vineyards. In the
evening, when the sun hides his radiant head in the depths of the
ocean, and upon the rosy sky are seen in its light the equally
rosy-tinted wings of the wild geese, ducks, pelicans and cranes,
descending by the thousands from the mountains to the ocean, then in
the town the lights are lit and the evening amusements begin. The
negro minstrels play on bones, and by the campfires can be heard the
picking of the banjo; the Mexicans dance on an out-spread poncha their
favorite bolero; Indians join in the dance, holding in their teeth
long white sticks of kiotte, or beating time with their hands, and
exclaiming, "E viva;" the fires, fed with redwood, crackle as they
blaze, sending up clouds of bright sparks, and by its reflection can
be seen the dancing figures, and around them the local settlers with
their comely wives and sisters watching the scene.
The day on which the juice from the last bunch of grapes is trampled
out by the feet of the Indians is generally celebrated by the advent
of Hirsch's Circus, from Los Angeles. The proprietor of the circus is
a German, and besides owns a menagerie composed of monkeys, jaguars,
pumas, African lions, one elephant, and several parrots, childish with
age--"_The greatest attraction of the world._" The Cahuilla will give
his last peso, if he has not spent it on drink, to see not only wild
animals--for these abound in the San Bernardino Mountains--but to see
the circus girls, athletes, clowns, and all its wonders, which seem to
him as "a great medicine"--that is, magical feats, impossible of
accomplishment except by the aid of supernatural powers.
Mr. Hirsch, the proprietor of the circus, would be very angry with any
one who would dare to say that his circus only attracted Mexicans,
Indians, and Chinese. Certainly not; the arrival of the circus brings
hither not only the people of the town and vicinity, but even those of
the neighboring towns of Westminster, Orange, and Los Nietos. Orange
Street is crowded with buggies and wagons of divers shapes, so that it
is difficult to get through. The whole world of settlers come as one
man. Young, bright girls, with their hair prettily banged over their
eyes, sitting on the front seats, drive some of these vehicles, and
gracefully upset passing pedestrians, chatter and show their white
teeth; the Spanish senoritas from Los Nietos cover you with their
warm, ardent glances from under their lace mantillas; the married
women from the country, dressed in their latest and best fashions,
lean with pride on the arms of the sunburned farmers, who are dressed
in old hats, jean pants, and flannel shirts, fastened with hook and
eye, and without neckties.
All these people meet and greet each other, gossip, and the women
inspect with critical eye the dresses of their neighbors, to see if
they are "very fashionable."
Among the buggies are some covered with flowers, which look like huge
bouquets; the young men, mounted on mustangs, bend from their high
Mexican saddles and peer under the hats of the young girls; the
half-wild horses, frightened by the noise and confusion, look here and
there with their bloodshot eyes, curvet, rear, and try to unseat their
riders, but the cool riders seem to pay no attention to them.
They all speak of "the greatest attraction," which was about to excel
everything that had been seen before. Truly the flaming posters
announced genuine wonders. The proprietor, Hirsch, that renowned
"artist of the whip," will in the arena give a contest with a fierce,
untamed African lion. The lion, according to the programme, springs
upon the proprietor, whose only defense is his whip. This simple
weapon in his hands (according to the programme) will change itself
into a fiery sword and shield. The end of this whip will sting as a
rattlesnake, flash as lightning, shoot as a thunderbolt, and keep at a
proper distance the enraged monster, who vainly roars and tries to
jump on the artist. This is not the end yet: sixteen-year-old Orso, an
"American Hercules," born of a white father and Indian mother, will
carry around six people, three on each shoulder; besides this, the
management offers one hundred dollars to any man, regardless of color,
who can throw Orso in a wrestling match. A rumor arose in Anaheim that
from the mountains of San Bernardino comes for this purpose the
"Grizzly Killer," a hunter who was celebrated for his bravery and
strength, and who, since California was settled, was the first man who
attacked these great bears single-handed and armed only with a knife.
It is the probable victory of the "Grizzly Killer" over the
sixteen-year-old athlete of the circus that highly excites the minds
of the males of Anaheim, because if Orso, who until now, from the
Atlantic to the Pacific, had overthrown the strongest Americans, will
be defeated, great glory will cover all California. The feminine minds
are not less excited by the following number of the programme: Orso
will carry, on a pole thirty feet high, a small fairy, the "Wonder of
the World," of which the poster says that she is the most beautiful
girl that ever lived on this earth since the beginning of the
"Christian Era." Though she is only thirteen years of age, the
management also offers one hundred dollars to every maiden, "without
regard to color of skin," who will dare to compete and wrest the palm
of beauty from this "Aerial Angel." The maidens of Anaheim, both great
and small, make grimaces on reading this, and say that it would not be
ladylike to enter such a contest. Nevertheless they gladly surrender
the comfort of their rocking chairs rather than miss the show and the
chance of seeing their childish rival, in whose beauty, in comparison
with the sisters Bimpa, for instance, none of them believed. The two
sisters Bimpa, the elder Refugio, and the younger Mercedes, sitting
gracefully in a handsome buggy, are now reading the posters; their
faces show no trace of emotion, though they feel that the eyes of
Anaheim are on them, as if supplicating them to save the honor of the
whole county, and with a patriotic pride, founded upon the conviction
that there is none more beautiful than these two California flowers in
all the mountains and canyons of the whole world. Oh, beautiful indeed
are the sisters Refugio and Mercedes! Not in vain does the pure
Castilian blood flow in their veins, to which their mother constantly
refers, showing her disdain for all colored races, as well as for the
Americans.
The figures of the sisters are slender, subtle, and full of mysterious
grace, quiet, and so luxurious that they greatly impress all young men
who come near them. From Donnas Refugio and Mercedes exhales a charm
as the fragrance from the magnolia and the lily. Their faces are
delicate, complexions transparent with a slight rosy tint, as if
illumed with the dawn; the eyes dark and dreamy, sweet, innocent, and
tender in their glances. Wrapped in muslin rebosos, they sit in their
buggy adorned with flowers, pure and innocent, unconscious of their
own beauty. Anaheim looked upon them, devoured them with its eyes, was
proud of them, and loved them. Who then is this "Jenny," that can win
victory over these? "Truly," the _Saturday Review_ wrote, "when little
Jenny had climbed to the top of the mast, resting on the powerful
shoulders of Orso, and from this eminence, suspended above the earth,
in danger of death, she outstretched her arms and poised like a
butterfly, the circus became silent and all eyes and hearts followed
with trembling the movements of this wonderful child. That he who saw
her on the mast or on a horse," concluded the _Saturday Review_, "will
never forget her, because the greatest painter in the world, even Mr.
Harvey, of San Francisco, who decorated the Palace Hotel, could paint
nothing equal to it."
The youths of Anaheim who were enamored by the Misses Bimpa were
skeptical of this, and affirmed that it was a "humbug," but this
question will be settled in the evening. Meanwhile, the commotion
around the circus is increasing each moment. From among the long, low
wooden buildings surrounding the canvas circus there comes the roar of
the lions and elephant; the parrots, fastened to rings hanging to the
huts, fill the air with their cries and whistles; the monkeys swing
suspended by their tails or mock the public, who are kept at a
distance by a rope fence. At last, from the main inclosure the
procession emerges for the purpose of whetting and astonishing the
curiosity of the public to a greater extent. The procession is headed
by a gaudy band-wagon, drawn by six prancing horses with fine harness,
and feathers on their heads. The riders on the saddles are in the
costume of French postilions. On the other wagons come cages of lions,
and in every cage is seated a lady with an olive branch in her hand.
Then follows an elephant, covered with a carpet, and a tower on its
back, which contains several men arrayed as East Indian hunters. The
band is playing, the drums are beating, the lions are roaring, the
whips are cracking; in a word, this cavalcade moves forward with great
noise and uproar. But this is not all: behind the elephant there
follows a machine on wheels, with a locomotive pipe, somewhat
resembling an organ, which, blown by steam, emits the most discordant
yells and whistles intended for the national "Yankee Doodle." The
Americans cry "Hurrah!" the Germans, "Hoch!" the Mexicans, "E viva!"
and the Cahuillas howl for joy.
The crowds follow the procession, the place around the circus becomes
deserted, the parrots cease their chatter, and the monkeys their
gymnastics. But "the greatest attractions" do not take part in the
procession. The "incomparable artist of the whip," the manager, the
"unconquerable Orso," and the "Aerial Angel, Jenny," are all absent.
All this is preserved for the evening so as to attract the crowds.
The manager is somewhere in one of the wooden buildings, or looks into
the ticket seller's van, where he pretends to be angry. Orso and Jenny
are in the ring practicing some of their feats. Under its canvas roof
reigns dust and silence. In the distance, where the seats are
arranged, it is totally dark; the greatest part of the light falls
through the roof on the ring, with its sand and sawdust covering. With
the help of the gray light which filters through the canvas can be
seen a horse standing near the parapet. The big horse feels very
lonely, whisks the flies with his tail, and often sways his head.
Gradually the eye, becoming accustomed to the dim light, discerns
other objects--for instance: the mast upon which Orso carries Jenny,
the hoops pasted with paper for her to jump through. All these lie on
the ground without order, and the half-lighted arena and nearly dark
benches give an impression of a deserted building with battened
windows. The terrace of seats, only here and there broken with a stray
glimmer of light, look like ruins. The horse, standing with drooping
head, does not enliven the picture.
Where are Orso and Jenny? One of the rays of light that stream through
an aperture of the canvas, in which floats the golden dust, falls on a
row of distant seats. This body of light, undulating with the swaying
canvas, at last falls upon a group composed of Orso and Jenny.
Orso sits on top of the bench, and near to him is Jenny. Her beautiful
childish face leans against the arm of the athlete and her hand rests
on his neck. The eyes of the girl are lifted upward, as if listening
intently to the words of her companion, who bends over her, moving his
head at times, apparently explaining something.
Leaning as they are against each other, you might take them for a pair
of lovers, but for the fact that the girl's uplifted eyes express
strong attention and intense thought, rather than any romantic
feeling, and that her legs, which are covered with pink fleshings, and
her feet in slippers, sway to and fro with a childish abandon. Her
figure has just begun to blossom into maidenhood. In everything Jenny
is still a child, but so charming and beautiful that, without
reflecting upon the ability of Mr. Harvey, who decorated the Palace
Hotel, of San Francisco, it would be difficult even for him to imagine
anything to equal her. Her delicate face is simply angelic; her large,
sad blue eyes have a deep, sweet and confiding expression; her dark
eyebrows are penciled with unequaled purity on her forehead, white and
reposeful as if in deep thought, and the bright, silky hair, somewhat
tossed, throws a shadow on it, of which, not only Master Harvey, but a
certain other painter, named Rembrandt, would not have been ashamed.
The girl at once reminds you of Cinderella and Gretchen, and the
leaning posture which she now maintains suggests timidity and the need
of protection.
Her posture, which strongly reminds you of those of Greuz, contrasts
strangely with her circus attire, composed of a short, white muslin
skirt, embroidered with small silver stars, and pink tights. Sitting
in a golden beam of light with the dark, deep background, she looks
like some sunny and transparent vision, and her slender form contrasts
with the square and sturdy figure of the youth.
Orso, who is dressed in pink tights, appears from afar as if he were
naked, and the same ray of light distinctly reveals his immense
shoulders, rounded chest, small waist, and legs too short in
proportion to the trunk.
His powerful form seems as if it were hewn out with an ax. He has all
the features of a circus athlete, but so magnified that they make him
noticeable; besides, his face is not handsome. Sometimes, when he
raises his head, you can see his face, the lines of which are regular,
perhaps too regular, and somewhat rigid, as if carved from marble. The
low forehead, with the hair falling on it, like the mane of a horse,
straight and black, inherited from his squaw mother, gives to his face
a gloomy and threatening expression. He has a similarity to both the
bull and the bear, and he personifies a terrible and somewhat evil
force. He is not of a good disposition.
When Jenny passes by the horses, those gentle creatures turn their
heads and look at her with intelligent eyes, and neigh and whinny, as
if wishing to say: "How do you do, darling?" while at the sight of
Orso they shudder with fear. He is a reticent and gloomy youth. Mr.
Hirsch's negroes, who are his hostlers, clowns, minstrels, and
rope-walkers, do not like Orso and tease him as much as they dare, and
because he is half-Indian they think nothing of him, and plague and
mock him. Truly, the manager, who offers the hundred dollars to any
one who can defeat him, does not risk much; he dislikes and fears him,
as the tamer of the wild animals fears a lion, and whips him on the
slightest provocation.
Mr. Hirsch feels that, if he does not keep the youth in subjection by
constantly beating him, he will be beaten himself, and he follows the
principle of the Creole woman, who considered beating a punishment,
and no beating a reward.
Such was Orso. Recently he began to be less sullen, because little
Jenny had a good influence over him. It happened about a year ago that
when Orso, who was then the attendant of the wild animals, was
cleaning the cage of the puma, the beast put its paws through the bars
of the cage and wounded his head severely. Then he entered the cage,
and after a terrible fight between them, he alone remained alive. But
he was so badly hurt that he fainted from loss of blood. He was ill a
long time, which was greatly aggravated by a severe whipping which the
manager gave him for breaking the spine of the puma.
When he was ill Jenny took great care of him, and dressed his wounds,
and when she had leisure, read the Bible to him. That is a "good book"
which speaks of love, of forgiveness, of mercy--in a word, of things
that are never mentioned in Mr. Hirsch's circus. Orso, listening to
this book, pondered long in his Indian head and at last came to the
conclusion that if it would be as good in the circus as in this book,
perhaps he would not be so bad. He thought also that then he would not
be beaten so often, and some one would be found who would love him.
But who? Not negroes and not Mr. Hirsch; little Jenny, whose voice
sounded as sweetly in his ears as the voice of the mavis, might be the
one.