the stables, and on the arena appears the sachem expected so anxiously.
A brief murmur of the crowd is heard: “That is he, that is he!”—and
then silence. But there is hissing from Bengal lights, which burn
continually at the passage. All eyes are turned toward the chief, who
in the circus will appear on the graves of his fathers. The Indian
deserves really that men should look at him. He seems as haughty as a
king. A mantle of white ermine—the mark of his chieftainship—covers
his figure, which is lofty, and so wild that it brings to mind a badly
tamed jaguar. He has a face as it were forged out of bronze, like the
head of an eagle, and in his face there is a cold gleam; his eyes are
genuinely Indian, calm, indifferent as it were,—and ominous. He glances
around on the assembly, as if wishing to choose a victim. Moreover,
he is armed from head to foot. On his head plumes are waving, at his
girdle he has an ax and a knife for scalping; but in his hand, instead
of a bow, he holds a long staff to preserve his balance when walking
on the wire. Standing in the middle of the arena he gives forth on a
sudden a war cry. _Herr Gott!_ That is the cry of the Black Snakes.
Those who massacred Chiavatta remember clearly that terrible howl,—and
what is most wonderful, those who fifteen years before had no fear of
one thousand such warriors are sweating now before one. But behold!
the director approaches the chief and says something to him, as if
to pacify and calm him. The wild beast feels the bit; the words have
their influence, for after a time the sachem is swaying on the wire.
With eyes fixed on the kerosene chandelier he advances. The wire bends
much; at moments it is not visible, and then the Indian seems suspended
in space. He is walking as it were upward; he advances, retreats, and
again he advances, maintaining his balance. His extended arms covered
with the mantle seem like great wings. He totters! he is falling!—No.
A short interrupted bravo begins like a storm and stops. The face of
the chief becomes more and more threatening. In his gaze fixed on the
kerosene lamps is gleaming some terrible light. There is alarm in the
circus, but no one breaks the silence. Meanwhile the sachem approaches
the end of the wire, stops; all at once a war-song bursts forth from
his lips.
A strange thing! The chief sings in German. But that is easy to
understand. Surely he has forgotten the tongue of the Black Snakes.
Moreover, no one notices that. All listen to the song, which rises and
grows in volume. It is a half chant, a kind of half call, immeasurably
plaintive, wild, and hoarse, full of sounds of attack.
The following words were heard: “After the great yearly rains, five
hundred warriors went from Chiavatta on the war-path or to the spring
hunts; when they came back from war they brought scalps, when they came
back from the hunt they brought flesh and the skins of buffaloes; their
wives met them with gladness, and they danced in honor of the Great
Spirit.
“Chiavatta was happy. The women worked in the wigwams, the children
grew up to be beautiful maidens, to be brave, fearless warriors. The
warriors died on the field of glory, and went to the silver mountains
to hunt with the ghosts of their fathers. Their axes were never dipped
in the blood of women and children, for the warriors of Chiavatta were
high-minded. Chiavatta was powerful; but pale-faces came from beyond
distant waters and set fire to Chiavatta. The white warriors did not
destroy the Black Snakes in battle, but they stole in as do jackals at
night, they buried their knives in the bosoms of sleeping men, women,
and children.
“Now there is no Chiavatta. In place of it the white men have raised
their stone wigwams. The murdered nation and ruined Chiavatta cry out
for vengeance.”
The voice of the chief became hoarse. Standing on the wire, he seemed
a red archangel of vengeance floating above the heads of that throng
of people. Evidently the director himself was afraid. A silence as of
death settled down in the circus. The chief howled on,—
“Of the whole nation there remained only one little child. He was weak
and small, but he swore to the spirit of the earth that he would have
vengeance,—that he would see the corpses of white men, women, and
children, that he would see fire and blood.”
The last words were changed into a bellow of fury. In the circus
murmurs were heard like the sudden puffs of a whirlwind. Thousands of
questions without answer came to men’s minds. What will he do, that mad
tiger? What is he announcing? How will he accomplish his vengeance,—he
alone? Will he stay here or flee? Will he defend himself, and how? “Was
ist das, was ist das?” is heard in the terrified accents of women.
All at once an unearthly howl was rent from the breast of the chief.
The wire swayed violently, he sprang to the wooden trestle, standing
at the chandelier, and raised his staff. A terrible thought flew like
a flash through all heads. He will hurl around the lamps and fill the
circus with torrents of flaming kerosene. From the breasts of the
spectators one shout was just rising; but what do they see? From the
arena the cry comes, “Stop! stop!” The chief is gone! Has he jumped
down? He has gone through the entrance without firing the circus!
Where is he? See, he is coming, coming a second time, panting, tired,
terrible. In his hand is a pewter plate, and extending it to the
spectators, he calls in a voice of entreaty: “Was gefällig für den
letzten der Schwarzen Schlangen?” (What will you give to the last of
the Black Snakes?)
A stone falls from the breasts of the spectators. You see that was
all in the programme, it was a trick of the director for effect. The
dollars and half dollars came down in a shower. How could they say “No”
to the last of the Black Snakes, in Antelope reared on the ruins of
Chiavatta? People have hearts.
After the exhibition, the sachem drank beer and ate dumplings at the
“Golden Sun.” His environment had exerted its influence, evidently. He
found great popularity in Antelope, especially with the women,—there
was even scandal about him.
[Illustration]
[Illustration:
Yamyol (ANGEL)
A VILLAGE
SKETCH]
[Illustration:
YAMYOL (ANGEL)
A VILLAGE SKETCH[1]]
IN the little town of Lupiskory, after the funeral of widow Kaliksta,
there were vespers, and after vespers old women, between ten and twenty
in number, remained in the church to finish the hymn. It was four
o’clock in the afternoon; but, since twilight comes in winter about
that hour, it was dark in the church. The great altar, especially, was
sunk in deep shade. Only two candles were burning at the ciborium;
their flickering flames barely lighted a little the gilding of the
doors, and the feet of Christ, hanging on a cross higher up. Those feet
were pierced with an enormous nail, and the head of that nail seemed a
great point gleaming on the altar.
From other candles, just quenched, streaks of smoke were waving,
filling the places behind the stalls with a purely church odor of wax.
An old man and a small boy were busied before the steps of the altar.
One was sweeping; the other was stretching the carpet on the steps. At
moments, when the women ceased their singing, either the angry whisper
of the old man was heard scolding the boy, or the hammering on the
snow-covered windows of sparrows that were cold and hungry outside.
The women were sitting on benches nearer the door. It would have been
still darker had it not been for a few tallow candles, by the light of
which those who had prayer-books were reading. One of those candles
lighted well enough a banner fastened to the seat just beyond; the
banner represented sinners surrounded by devils and flames. It was
impossible to see what was painted on the other banners.
The women were not singing; they were, rather, muttering with sleepy
and tired voices a hymn in which these words were repeated continually,—
“And when the hour of death comes,
Gain for us, gain from Thy Son.”
That church buried in shadow, the banners standing at the seats,
the old women with their yellow faces, the lights flickering as if
oppressed by the gloom,—all that was dismal beyond expression; nay, it
was simply terrible. The mournful words of the song about death found
there a fitting background.
After a time the singing stopped. One of the women stood up at the
seat, and began to say, with a trembling voice, “Hail, Mary, full of
grace!” And others responded, “The Lord is with Thee,” etc.; but since
it was the day of Kaliksta’s funeral, each “Hail, Mary,” concluded with
the words, “Lord, grant her eternal rest, and may endless light shine
on her!”
Marysia, the dead woman’s daughter, was sitting on a bench at the
side of one of the old women. Just then the snow, soft and noiseless,
was falling on the fresh grave of her mother; but the little girl was
not ten years old yet, and seemed not to understand either her loss,
or the pity which it might rouse in another. Her face, with large
blue eyes, had in it the calmness of childhood, and even a certain
careless repose. A little curiosity was evident,—nothing beyond that.
Opening her mouth, she looked with great attention at the banner on
which was painted hell with sinners; then she looked into the depth
of the church, and afterward on the window at which the sparrows were
hammering.
Her eyes remained without thought. Meanwhile, the women began to
mutter, sleepily, for the tenth time,—
“And when the hour of death comes.”
The little girl twisted the tresses of her light-colored hair, woven
into two tiny braids not thicker than mice tails. She seemed tired;
but now the old man occupied her attention. He went to the middle of
the church, and began to pull a knotty rope hanging from the ceiling.
He was ringing for the soul of Kaliksta, but he did this in a purely
mechanical manner; he was thinking, evidently, of something else.
That ringing was also a sign that vespers were ended. The women, after
repeating for the last time the prayer for a happy death, went out on
the square. One of them led Marysia by the hand.
“But, Kulik,” asked another, “what will you do with the girl?”
“What will I do? She will go to Leschyntsi. Voytek Margula will take
her. But why do you ask me?”
“What will she do in Leschyntsi?”
“My dears, the same as here. Let her go to where she came from. Even
at the mansion they will take in the orphan, and let her sleep in the
kitchen.”
Thus conversing, they passed through the square to the inn. Darkness
was increasing every moment. It was wintry, calm; the sky was covered
with clouds, the air filled with moisture and wet snow. Water was
dropping from the roofs; on the square lay slush formed of snow and
straw. The village, with wretched and tattered houses, looked as gloomy
as the church. A few windows were gleaming with light; movement had
ceased, but in the inn an organ was playing.
It was playing to entice, for there was no one inside. The women
entered, drank vodka; Kulik gave Marysia half a glass, saying,—
“Drink! Thou art an orphan; thou wilt not meet kindness.”
The word “orphan” brought the death of Kaliksta to the minds of the
women. One of them said,—
“To you, Kulik, drink! Oh, my dears, how that _paralus_ [paralysis]
took her so that she couldn’t stir! She was cold before the priest came
to hear her confession.”
“I told her long ago,” said Kulik, “that she was spinning fine [near
her end]. Last week she came to me. Said I, ‘Ah, better give Marysia to
the mansion!’ But she said, ‘I have one little daughter, and I’ll not
give her to any one.’ But she grew sorry, and began to sob, and then
she went to the mayor to put her papers in order. She paid four zloty
and six groshes. ‘But I do not begrudge it for my child,’ said she. My
dears, but her eyes were staring, and after death they were staring
still more. People wanted to close them, but could not. They say that
after death, even, she was looking at her child.”
“Let us drink half a quarter over this sorrow!”
The organ was playing continually. The women began to be somewhat
tender. Kulik repeated, with a voice of compassion, “Poor little thing!
poor little thing!” and the second old woman called to mind the death
of her late husband.
“When he was dying,” said she, “he sighed so, oh, he sighed so, he
sighed so!—” and drawling still more, her voice passed into a chant,
from a chant into the tone of the organ, till at last she bent to one
side, and in following the organ began to sing,—
“He sighed, he sighed, he sighed,
On that day he sighed.”
All at once she fell to shedding hot tears, gave the organist six
groshes, and drank some more vodka. Kulik, too, was excited by
tenderness, but she turned it on Marysia,—
“Remember, little orphan,” said she, “what the priest said when they
were covering thy mother with snow, that there is a yamyol [an angel]
above thee—” Here she stopped, looked around as if astonished, and then
added, with unusual energy, “When I say that there is a yamyol, there
_is_ a yamyol!”
No one contradicted her. Marysia, blinking with her poor, simple eyes,
looked attentively at the woman. Kulik spoke on,—
“Thou art a little orphan, that is bad for thee! Over orphans there is
a yamyol. He is good. Here are ten groshes for thee. Even if thou wert
to start on foot to Leschyntsi, thou couldst go there, for he would
guide thee.”
The second old woman began to sing:
“In the shade of his wings he will keep thee eternally,
Under his pinions thou wilt lie without danger.”
“Be quiet!” said Kulik. And then she turned again to the child,—
“Knowest thou, stupid, who is above thee?”
“A yamyol,” said, with a thin voice, the little girl.
“Oh, thou little orphan, thou precious berry, thou little worm of the
Lord! A yamyol with wings,” said she, with perfect tenderness, and
seizing the child she pressed her to her honest, though tipsy, bosom.
Marysia burst into weeping at once. Perhaps in her dark little head and
in her heart, which knew not yet how to distinguish, there was roused
some sort of perception at that moment.
The innkeeper was sleeping most soundly behind the counter; on the
candle-wicks mushrooms had grown; the man at the organ ceased to play,
for what he saw amused him.
Then there was silence, which was broken by the sudden plashing of
horses’ feet before the door, and a voice calling to the horses,—
“Prrr!”
Voytek Margula walked into the inn with a lighted lantern in his hand.
He put down the lantern, began to slap his arms to warm them, and at
last said to the innkeeper,—
“Give half a quarter.”
“Margula, thou chestnut,” cried Kulik, “thou wilt take the little girl
to Leschyntsi.”
“I’ll take her, for they told me to take her,” replied Margula.
Then looking closely to the two women he added,—
“But ye are as drunk as—”
“May the plague choke thee,” retorted Kulik. “When I tell thee to be
careful with the child, be careful. She is an orphan. Knowest thou,
fool, who is above her?”
Voytek did not see fit to answer that question, but determined
evidently to raise another subject, and began,—
“To all of you—”
But he didn’t finish, for he drank the vodka, made a wry face, and
putting down the glass with dissatisfaction, said,—
“That’s pure water. Give me a second from another bottle.”
The innkeeper poured from another. Margula twisted his face still more:
“Ai! haven’t you arrack?”
Evidently the same danger threatened Margula that threatened the women;
but at that very time, in the mansion at Lupiskory, the landowner was
preparing for one of the journals a long and exhaustive article, “On
the right of landowners to sell liquor, this right being considered as
the basis of society.” But Voytek co-operated only involuntarily to
strengthen the basis of society, and that all the more because the sale
here, though in a village, was really by the landowner.
When he had co-operated five times in succession he forgot, it is
true, his lantern, in which the light had gone out, but he took the
half-sleeping little girl by the hand, and said,—
“But come on, thou nightmare!”
The women had fallen asleep in a corner, no one bade farewell to
Marysia. The whole story was this: Her mother was in the graveyard and
she was going to Leschyntsi.
Voytek and the girl went out, sat in the sleigh. Voytek cried to the
horses, and they moved on. At first the sleigh dragged heavily enough
through the slush of the town, but they came out very soon to fields
which were broad and white. Movement was easy then; the snow barely
made a noise under the sleigh-runners. The horses snorted at times, at
times came the barking of dogs from a distance.
They went on and on. Voytek urged the horses, and sang through his
nose, “Dog ear, remember thy promise.” But soon he grew silent, and
began to “carry Jews” (nod). He nodded to the right, to the left. He
dreamt that they were pounding him on the shoulders in Leschyntsi,
because he had lost a basket of letters; so, from time to time, he was
half awake, and repeated: “To all!” Marysia did not sleep, for she was
cold. She looked with widely opened eyes on the white fields, hidden
from moment to moment by the dark shoulders of Margula. She thought
also that her “mother was dead;” and thinking thus, she pictured to
herself perfectly the pale and thin face of her mother with its staring
eyes,—and she felt half consciously that that face was greatly beloved,
that it was no longer in the world, and would never be in Leschyntsi
again. She had seen with her own eyes how they covered it up in
Lupiskory. Remembering this, she would have cried from grief; but as
her knees and feet were chilled, she began to cry from cold.
There was no frost, it is true, but the air was penetrating, as is
usual during thaws. As to Voytek he had, at least in his stomach, a
good supply of heat taken from the inn. The landowner at Lupiskory
remarked justly: “That vodka warms in winter, and since it is the only
consolation of our peasants, to deprive landowners of the sole power of
consoling peasants is to deprive them of influence over the populace.”
Voytek was so consoled at that moment that nothing could trouble him.
Even this did not trouble him, that the horses when they came to the
forest slackened their pace altogether, though the road there was
better, and then walking to one side, the beasts turned over the sleigh
into a ditch. He woke, it is true, but did not understand well what had
happened.
Marysia begun to push him.
“Voytek!”
“Why art thou croaking?”
“The sleigh is turned over.”
“A glass?” asked Voytek, and went to sleep for good.
The little girl sat by the sleigh, crouching down as best she could,
and remained there. But her face was soon chilled, so she began to push
the sleeping man again.
“Voytek!”
He gave no answer.
“Voytek, I want to go to the house.”
And after a while again: “Voytek, I’ll walk there.”
At last she started. It seemed to her that Leschyntsi was very near.
She knew the road, too, for she had walked to church over it every
Sunday with her mother. But now she had to go alone. In spite of the
thaw the snow in the forest was deep, but the night was very clear. To
the gleam from the snow was added light from the clouds, so that the
road could be seen as in the daytime. Marysia, turning her eyes to the
dark forest, could see tree-trunks very far away outlined distinctly,
black, motionless, on the white ground; and she saw clearly also
snow-drifts blown to the whole height of them. In the forest there was
a certain immense calm, which gave solace to the child. On the branches
was thick, frozen snow, and from it drops of water were trickling,
striking with faint sound against the branches and twigs. But that was
the only noise. All else around was still, white, silent, dumb.
The wind was not blowing. The snowy branches were not stirring with the
slightest movement. Everything was sleeping in the trance of winter. It
might seem that the snowy covering on the earth, and the whole silent
and shrouded forest, with the pale clouds in the heavens, were all a
kind of white, lifeless unity. So it is in time of thaw. Marysia was
the only living thing, moving like a little black speck amid these
silent greatnesses. Kind, honest forest! Those drops, which the thawing
ice let down, were tears, perhaps, over the orphan. The trees are so
large, but also so compassionate, above the little creature. See, she
is alone, so weak and poor, in the snow, in the night, in the forest,
wading along trustfully, as if there is no danger.
The clear night seems to care for her. When something so weak and
helpless yields itself, trusts so perfectly in enormous power, there
is a certain sweetness in the act. In that way all may be left to the
will of God. The girl walked rather long, and was wearied at last. The
heavy boots, which were too large, hindered her; her small feet were
going up and down in them continually. It was hard to drag out such big
boots from the snow. Besides, she could not move her hands freely, for
in one of them, closed rigidly, she held with all her strength those
ten groshes which Kulik had given her. She feared to drop them in the
snow. She began at times to cry aloud, and then she stopped suddenly,
as if wishing to know if some one had heard her. Yes, the forest had
heard her! The thawing ice sounded monotonously and somewhat sadly.
Besides, maybe some one else had heard her. The child went more and
more slowly. Could she go astray? How? The road, like a white, broad,
winding ribbon, stretches into the distance, lies well marked between
two walls of dark trees. An unconquerable drowsiness seized the little
girl.
She stepped aside and sat down under a tree. The lids dropped over her
eyes. After a time, she thought that her mother was coming to her
along the white road from the graveyard. No one was coming. Still, the
child felt certain that some one must come. Who? A yamyol. Hadn’t old
Kulik told her that a yamyol was above her? Marysia knew what a yamyol
is. In her mother’s cottage there was one painted with a shield in his
hand and with wings. He would come, surely. Somehow the ice began to
sound more loudly. Maybe that is the noise of his wings, scattering
drops more abundantly. Stop! Some one is coming really; the snow,
though soft, sounds clearly; steps are coming, and coming quietly but
quickly. The child raises her sleepy eyelids with confidence.
“What is that?”
Looking at the little girl intently is a gray three-cornered face with
ears, standing upright,—ugly, terrible!
[Illustration: THE BULL FIGHT A REMINISCENCE of SPAIN]
[Illustration: THE BULL FIGHT A Reminiscence of Spain]
IT is Sunday! Great posters, affixed for a number of days to the
corners of Puerta del Sol, Calle Alcala, and all streets on which there
was considerable movement, announce to the city that to-day, “Si el
tiempo lo permite” (if the weather permits), will take place bull-fight
XVI., in which Cara-Ancha Lagartijo and the renowned Frascuello are to
appear as “espadas” (swords).
Well, the weather permits. There was rain in the morning; but about ten
o’clock the wind broke the clouds, gathered them into heaps, and drove
them away off somewhere in the direction of the Escurial. Now the wind
itself has ceased; the sky as far as the eye can reach is blue, and
over the Puerta del Sol a bright sun is shining,—such a Madrid sun,
which not only warms, not only burns, but almost bites.
Movement in the city is increasing, and on people’s faces satisfaction
is evident.
Two o’clock.
The square of the Puerta del Sol is emptying gradually, but crowds of
people are advancing through the Calle Alcala toward the Prado. In the
middle is flowing a river of carriages and vehicles. All that line of
equipages is moving very slowly, for on the sidewalks there is not room
enough for pedestrians, many of whom are walking along the sides of the
streets and close to the carriages. The police, on white horses and in
showy uniforms and three-cornered hats, preserve order.
It is Sunday, that is evident, and an afternoon hour; the toilets are
carefully made, the attire is holiday. It is evident also that the
crowds are going to some curious spectacle. Unfortunately the throng
is not at all many-colored; no national costumes are visible,—neither
the short coats, yellow kerchiefs _á la contrabandista_, with one end
dropping down to the shoulder, nor the round Biscay hats, nor girdles,
nor the Catalan knives behind the girdles.
Those things may be seen yet in the neighborhood of Granada, Seville,
and Cordova; but in Madrid, especially on holidays, the cosmopolitan
frock is predominant. Only at times do you see a black mantilla pinned
to a high comb, and under the mantilla eyes blacker still.
In general faces are dark, glances quick, speech loud. Gesticulation is
not so passionate as in Italy, where when a man laughs he squirms like
a snake, and when he is angry he gnaws off the top of his hat; still,
it is energetic and lively. Faces have well-defined features and a
resolute look. It is easy to understand that even in amusement these
people retain their special and definite character.
However, they are a people who on weekdays are full of sedateness,
bordering on sloth, sparing of words, and collected. Sunday enlivens
them, as does also the hope of seeing a bloody spectacle.
Let us cut across the Prado and enter an alley leading to the circus.
The crowd is becoming still denser. Here and there shouts are rising,
the people applauding single members of the company, who are going each
by himself to the circus.