Petka was like one on thorns. His strange romance was already
known to his neighbors and now everybody was expecting the letter
from America to furnish the most sensational news in all the world.
One afternoon as the tailor was sewing a pair of trousers the
alderman of the village brought him a registered letter from America.
Nearly half the village population had gathered outside, curious
to hear the content of the letter. Petka took tremblingly and
greatly excited the letter and rushed to Platon, the inn-keeper,
all the time followed by the crowd. All the audience gathered in
the inn and Platon was instructed to read it aloud to the gathering.
As it was a ceremonial event of rare occasion, the inn-keeper stood
up, and began in a solemn voice:
"My dear Petka: I am most happy to reply to your valued letter
of the fifteenth of July, that I am glad to accept your proposal.
But everything must be all right. I can marry only a man of the
merchant class. I know the business and I can supply you with the
capital you need. But you must remember that I do not like to be
fooled and marry a man beneath me. No peasant or tailor for me.
I stand here very high and cannot ruin my name. You have not told
me your age, but I suppose you are not an old fogey. I will follow
this letter next month, so you fix the wedding ceremony, secure all
the musicians and manage the meals, drinks and such necessities.
If this is not agreeable cable me. Your Liza."
While Platon was reading the letter Petka gazed dreamily out of
the window and built, not an air castle, but a large grocery store,
with showy windows. It seemed as if he saw his store already
opened, the people going and coming, the shelves filled with cans
and packages. The sign "Merchant Petka" hung in his eyes.
The letter was like a bomb in the idyllic village. Plans were made
of the wedding date and elaborate ceremony. The village Luga had
never witnessed yet a marriage ceremony of this magnitude. The
American bride was like a fairy princess of some ancient times.
Petka was like one in a trance. But Vasska, the blacksmith, opposed
to the idea of such a strange marriage, pounded his hand against
the bar, exclaiming:
"Liza may be all right, but Petka should not marry her. What do
we know about an American woman? What do we know about her habits?
I've been told funny stories about such strange women. I've heard
that nearly every American woman paints her cheeks, dyes her hair,
wears false teeth, puts up bluffs and does everything to deceive a
man. Spit at her capital. Besides, this American Liza is a woman
whom nobody here knows."
The blacksmith's arguments were taken seriously by the others and
a gloom came over the gathered gossips. But the inn-keeper, who
was always optimistic, replied:
"American Liza must be a refined girl, and she has the money. That's
what Petka wants, and that's what he will get. So we better let
the wedding take place and see what will happen. I've heard that
an American woman looks at the marriage as a business proposition,
so we let her do what she pleases."
"Business or no business, but we take the marriage seriously. If
a man makes up his mind that he likes a woman, he must marry her,
and once he has married her, no ax or pike shall separate them. No
monkeying with married men or women thereafter," argued the serious
blacksmith.
Petka turned the conversation to the subject of the wedding meals
and music. The whole program of the ceremony was analyzed and
discussed in detail, some maintaining that the American custom
was to eat with forks and knives from the plates, others that only
uncooked meat was eaten and frogs served as delicacies. Finally
the entertainment was arranged and the blacksmith remarked:
"All city women like fun and don't care about serious affairs.
They have the theaters and operas for amusements, so we better get
a real amusement for American Liza. The best fun would be a huge
hurdy-gurdy or something of that kind, an instrument with sensation.
Our village violins and harps are too mild for women like that
Liza."
After discussing the matter at length, the inn-keeper agreed to take
care of the entertainment. A short cable was composed and sent to
Liza and the wedding date clearly explained. All the village got
alive with the news that Petka was to marry an American girl by
mail.
The three weeks of preparation for the wedding festival passed like
a dream. The Sunday, that was to be the final date, began bright
and cheerful. Petka was hustling to and fro in his newly rented
house, the front of which was to be arranged for the grocery store,
strutted like a big rooster preparing the affairs of his flock. At
the entrance of the house was hung a big flag. Long tables were
arranged in all the rooms, covered with meats, drinks and delicacies,
all prepared in the village. Women were still busy baking other
foods, frying meats and boiling water for tea or drinks. Everybody
was busy and everything looked most solemn and impressive. The
host was dressed in a picturesque new suit of clothes with a silk
scarf around his neck.
While the groom was busy with preparing his heart for joy, the
inn-keeper was solving the problem of the entertainment. He had
constructed, what he thought to be distinctly American, a huge
music-box, which was to produce the most wonderful tones ever
heard. This instrument had the appearance of a big wine-cask and
yet a street-organ at the same time, and was an invention of the
ingenious inn-keeper. It was practically a barrel, covered with
illustrations of old Sunday newspapers and county-fair posters.
To its side was fastened an improvised lever, made from a broken
cart-wheel. Under this barrel, concealed so that no one could see
within, were placed three most prominent musicians of the village,
Ivan with his violin, Semen with his concertina and Nicholas with
his drum. As soon as the conductor outside pulled a string, the
lever began to turn around and the musicians in the barrel had to
start to play. In the corner of the house this strange instrument
looked like a mysterious engine, one knew not whether to expect it
to develop into a flying or moving picture machine.
At last everything was ready. The guests began to arrive and the
carriage was sent to the town to bring the bride. Everybody was
in festival attire and all tuned to expect the utmost excitements
the village had ever had. One could see the people in groups of
three or four, discussing in a high pitch of voice the wonders of
the wedding festival or venturing various guesses about the American
bride. The village girls, who were not a little jealous, nudged
each other and exchanged meaning glances, that Petka was to get
in a fix he had never been before. All were anxious to see the
arrival of the two thousand-ruble bride. The blacksmith and the
inn-keeper were discussing something excitedly.
"Say what you want, but this kind of matrimonial affair is the
limit," argued the blacksmith, pushing back his hat. "I can't see
how a woman comes such a distance and so many weeks to marry Petka,
whom she has never seen, and how Petka gets the crazy thought
to marry a city woman whom he does not know. Something is wrong
somewhere. This is going to bust sooner or later."
"My dear Vasska, it's the education, the refinement and all that
which I and you can do without," grunted the inn-keeper.
Vasska rubbed his fists and spat vigorously. The inn-keeper tried
to mollify him by saying that he should not take the matter so
seriously.
Suddenly the dogs began to bark and the boys shouted:
"The American bride! Here comes the lady from abroad!"
All the guests rushed out to see her. And there she was, in a
big flower-trimmed hat, with a silk parasol, and all the wonderful
fineries. She looked so elegant, so superior that the village women,
accustomed to their rural simplicity, felt overawed. The groom
hurrying with throbbing heart to open the gates of the front-yard
bowed almost to the ground to the dazzling reality of his romantic
dreams. He was so confused by this apparition that he did not know
whether to shout or cry.
"My gracious, how she is made up!" whispered the women.
"What a wonderful dress!" whispered the girls.
"Ain't you Petka? You deary!" exclaimed the bride, affecting a
foreign accent.
"Yes, mademoiselle, gracious yes," stammered the groom nervously,
wiping the tears of joy from his eyes.
"Gee, Petka, you are a nice boy!" gushed the bride, trying to show
the quality of her refinement.
She took his both hands and whispered that he should kiss them
gracefully in the American manner. Then she leaned her head on
his shoulder and sighed. These American manners so embarrassed
the groom that he blushed and dropped his eyes. But after all, was
she not a highly educated American lady? And of course, she knew
what was proper.
Though Liza looked ten years older than Petka, yet she had all the
city air, the American manners and style, and most important of
all, she had the capital. The first question Liza asked was whether
they had a manicure, hair-dresser and boot-black in the village.
No one had ever heard that such functionaries existed, so the groom
explained excitedly that he would take her after the wedding to
the town where she could get what she wanted. Petka carried the
trunk and the five suit-cases into he house, implements which on
one had ever seen. All the novelties and sensations were so great
that the guests and the groom felt dazed for a moment.
"Have you got here champagne?" asked the bride, entering the house.
"We do not have such American drinks. We have kvas, beer, vodka
and all the home-made cordials," stammered the groom.
"But you must have some high-balls or cocktails at least," went on
the bride with an affected gesture.
"My gracious, there we are!" groaned the groom, and shrugged
denyingly his shoulders. "We've never handled those things here,
so you must forgive us."
"Mademoiselle Liza, I beg your pardon," interrupted the inn-keeper
seriously. "We can arrange the balls and the tails, but you see
we are simply country people and keep our bowels in order. City
amusements put our stomachs in a bad fix and don't agree with us."
The groom felt embarrassed and did not know what to do. He bowed
apologetically before his bride and tried to please her in every
possible way. He imitated her gestures and manners, her shrugs
and voice. He even kept his hands on his breast, as was Liza's
manner. Finally the bride asked whether there was any entertainment
prepared as she had asked. The groom gave the inn-keeper a hint
and the latter said that he would do his best. The three musicians
were already concealed with their instruments in a big barrel and
the imposing organist began his function. Strains of an unique
music issued from the decorated music-box. Everybody at once rushed
into the room. All stared amazed at the strange contrivance which
played at one and the same time concertina, violin and drum. It
was like a miracle, gripping and inspiring.
"I bet you this would interest your American audiences," remarked
the inn-keeper to the bride.
"It beats the Coney Island noise," stammered Liza, and took up the
conversation with a village woman.
All the house now was jollity. The room was bursting of the powerful
music, the laughter and the loud conversation of the guests. How
it happened no one knows, but one of the women had placed a bowl
with hot punch on the music box. Whether through an accident, or
the excitement of the organist, the vessel broke, and the punch
leaked through the cracks and holes into the instrument. Suddenly
the music stopped, although the conductor was still industriously
turning the lever. Then were heard mysterious voices and sounds
as if of muffled exclamations. Everybody looked at the music-box,
which began to quake and tremble as if a ghost were within. Then
arose fierce yells and agonizing cries, mixed with loud curses.
Before anybody could realize what had happened, three angry musicians
leaped from the music instrument, the steaming punch dropping from
their heads.
"Good Lord, what's this?" gasped the men while the women shrieked
and fled. One of the musicians put his fist under the frightened
organist and shouted:
"I'll pay for this joke, you scoundrel!"
"Semen, don't be a fool. I didn't do it. By Jove, I didn't do
it," exclaimed apologetically the organist, trembling.
"Damn, who did it?" asked the groom excited.
No one replied. And when the people realized what had happened,
everybody roared. No one who glanced at the overturned music
instrument and at the musicians, with their punch-dropping heads
could restrain their laughter. Even the pompous bride found it so
funny that she laughed with the rest.
When the excitement was over and the dessert was ready the wedding
guests once more took their seats at the table. The inn-keeper,
thinking that this was the moment to settle the matter of dowry,
before the actual marriage act could be performed by the priest,
knocked on the table for quiet. Then he arose, wiped his beard
and began:
"Friends, this is a very unusual ceremony, our best known citizen
and friend Petka, marrying a girl from America. Petka loves Liza,
it is all right. But I know and so all our guests know, that Petka
expected the bride to bring a fat dowry. Now we all would like to
see the bride place her dowry upon the table before she is declared
the wife of our friend, Petka. We think that in justice to the
guests she ought to do that, because it was understood that she
bring the money and we give her the husband. Don't you think,
friends and guests, that I am right?"
Everybody shouted "Bravo, inn-keeper," only the groom and the bride
sat silent with downcast eyes. Finally the bride glanced at Petka,
pulled a bag from her dress, opened it and laid a bunch of green
bills on the table. All eyes stared in awe at the money, and the
guests were so silent that one could hear the beating of their
hearts. Only the purring of the cats, looking curiously down from
the big stove, was to be heard.
"Here is the dowry, right here. It is in American money, one
thousand dollars, which is equal to two thousand rubles in your
money. It's all in cash," exclaimed the bride proudly.
The inn-keeper took the bills, looked at them curiously, turned
them over and over and shook his head. The blacksmith took one bill
after the other, and did the same. For several minutes everybody
was quiet. The "organist" who sat next to the inn-keeper, took
the money, looked at it still more closely and then smelled it.
Taking one of the bills in his hand, he rose and showed it to all
the guests and asked:
"Friends, have you ever seen this kind of money?"
"No," was the unanimous reply of the guests.
"Can any one here read American?" asked the blacksmith.
No one replied.
"The money is all right. I rushed to reach the train so I had no
time to exchange it into your rubles," replied the bride.
"It might be all right," replied the inn-keeper, "but what do we
know about the American money and its value? I've been told many
stories of American girls boasting they have money enough to buy
their husband, but heaven knows. It's a country too far away and
a language too complicated for us to understand. We like to have
our stuff on the table before everything is all right."
The bride glanced at the groom. The groom took silently her hand,
assuring her that he cared nothing for what her dowry was worth,
if he had only her as his wife.
"What nonsense! I came on Petka's invitation, and I'll stay with him,
do you let the priest marry us or not. We can go both to America
and marry there, but never here," exclaimed the bride, tossing her
head and snorting her indignation. As she rose, she took Petka by
his hand and gave this parting thrust:
"Do you want or not, but I'll stay with Petka here. We don't care
for your priest. I keep the American law and know what's what."
"Liza, Liza, listen. Don't make a scandal like that here. Let's
better harness our horses and get to the priest as fast as we can,"
shouted the excited guests, all following the couple.
[signed]Ivan Narodny
The Insane Priest
A priest insane went many days without repose or sleep,
"My visions are a shadow world but love is real and deep."
He, like a prophet, staff in hand, sought out a distant shrine.
"As sacred ash are all my dreams, and fateful love is mine."
Long, long he knelt and prayed alone, his tears fell unrestrained.
"My visions are the snow-crowned heights, my love the flood unchained."
A sacrifice he laid upon that altar far away.
"My visions are a dream of dawn, my love the radiant day."
A knife he thrust into his heart, to seal the holy rite.
"My visions all resplendent glow, my love is like the night."
And on the altar falling prone, he then gave up his soul.
"My visions are the lightning's flash, my love the thunder's roll."
Upon the altar poured his blood, it formed a crimson pall.
"As his deliriums are my dreams, as death my love my all."
Sergey Makowsky
Translation by Constance Purdy
Note: To this poem Mr. Reinhold Gliere has composed a magnificent
musical setting with piano and orchestra accompaniment and dedicated
it to a prominent Russian revolutionist.
Without a Country
One thought awakes us early in the morning,
One thought follows us the whole day long,
One thought stabs at night our breast:
Is my father suffering?
One sorrow awakes us at dawn like an executioner,
One sorrow is persecuting us ceaselessly,
One sorrow is swelling our breast the whole night long:
Is my mother alive?
A longing awakes us at daybreak,
A longing is continually hidden in our heart,
A longing is burning at night in our breast;
What of my wife?
A fear awakes us early like a funeral mass,
A fear persecutes us and darkens our eyes,
A fear fills at night our breast with hatred:
Our sisters are threatened with shame.
A pain awakens us in the morning like a trumpet,
With pain is filled every glass we drink
With pain is secretly weeping our breast:
Where are our children?
...Only one way will give an answer:
Through a river of blood and over a bridge of dead!
Woe! you will reach your home where the mother, who died of sorrow,
Does not wait for her son any more.
M. Boich
Note: M. Boich is a young Serbian poet, now about twenty-six
years old, who already has a recognized place in modern Serbian
Literature. The poem "Without a Country" was written after the
well-known Serbian tragedy of 1915, and was published last year
(March 28) in the official Serbian journal "Srpske Novine," which
now appears at Corfu.
Indian Prayer to the Mountain Spirit
Lord of the Mountain,
Reared within the Mountain
Young Man, Chieftain,
Hear a young man's prayer!
Hear a prayer for cleanness.
Keeper of the strong rain,
Drumming on the mountain;
Lord of the small rain
That restores the earth in newness;
Keeper of the clean rain,
Hear a prayer for wholeness.
Young Man, Chieftain.
Hear a prayer for fleetness.
Keeper of the deer's way,
Reared among the eagles,
Clear my feet of slothness.
Keeper of the paths of men,
Hear a prayer for straightness.
Hear a prayer for braveness.
Lord of the thin peaks,
Reared amid the thunders;
Keeper of the headlands
Holding up the harvest,
Keeper of the strong rocks
Hear a prayer for staunchness.
Young Man, Chieftain,
Spirit of the Mountain!
Interpreted by [signed] Mary Austin
To America--4 July, 1776
When England's king put English to the horn[1],
To England thus spake England over sea,
"In peace be friend, in war my enemy";
Then countering pride with pride, and lies with scorn,
Broke with the man[2] whose ancestor had borne
A sharper pain for no more injury.
How otherwise should free men deal and be,
With patience frayed and loyalty outworn?
No act of England's shone more generous gules
Than that which sever'd once for all the strands
Which bound you English. You may search the lands
In vain, and vainly rummage in the schools,
To find a deed more English, or a shame
On England with more honor to her name.
[written] Respectfully submitted to the Defenders of Democracy
[signed] M. Hewlett
(Westluilaruig[illegible, this is a guess], Chichester, England)
[1] To "put to the horn" was to declare an outlawry.
[2] The "man" is George III, his "ancestor," Charles I.
The Need of Force to Win and Maintain Peace
Must, then, gentle and reasonable men and women give over their sons
to the National Government to be trained for the devilish work of
war? Must civilized society continue to fight war with war? Is
not the process a complete failure? Shall we not henceforth contend
against evil-doing by good-doing, against brutality by gentleness,
against vice in others solely by virtue in ourselves?
There are many sound answers to these insistent queries. One is
the policeman, usually a protective and adjusting force, but armed
and trained to hurt and kill in defense of society against criminals
and lunatics. Another is the mother who blazes into violence, with
all her might, in defense of her child. Even the little birds do
that. Another is the instinctive forcible resistance of any natural
man to insult or injury committed or threatened against his mother,
wife, or daughter. The lions and tigers do as much. A moving
answer of a different sort is found in words written by Mme. le
Verrier to the parents of Victor Chapman on her return from his
funeral in the American Church in Paris--"It...has brought home to
me the beauty of heroic death and the meaning of life."
The answer from history is that primitive Governments were despotic,
and in barbarous societies might makes right; but that liberty
under law has been wrung from authority and might by strenuous
resistance, physical as well as moral, and not by yielding
to injustice and practising non-resistance. The Dutch Republic,
the British Commonwealth, the French Republic, the Italian and
Scandinavian constitutional monarchies, and the American republics
have all been developed by generations of men ready to fight and
fighting.
So long as there are wolves, sheep cannot form a safe community.
The precious liberties which a few more fortunate or more vigorous
nations have won by fighting for them generation after generation,
those nations will have to preserve by keeping ready to fight in
their defense.
The only complete answer to these arguments in favor of using force
in defense of liberty is that liberty is not worth the cost. In
free countries to-day very few persons hold that opinion.
[signed] Charles W. Eliot
Woman and Mercy
Woman and Mercy--to think of one is to think of the other, and yet
the suggestion of ideas is purely Christian. The ancient world knew
of a few great women who transcended the conditions of society in
those days and helped, each one her country, in some extraordinary
way. Thus Deborah helped the people of God in a time of terrible
difficulty. And even the Pagan world was not without its Semiramis
and its Portia. When mercy came into the world with Christianity
the dispensation of it was largely committed to the gentle hands
of women, for since men have believed that God has taken a woman
to be His human mother, the position of every woman has been that
of a mother and of a queen. The wife has become the guardian of
the internal affairs of the home as the husband is of its external
affairs.
Whenever women have acted up to the noble ideals of womanhood
preached by the Christian religion, they have received honor,
respect, deference and almost worship from the ruder sex.
It gives me great pleasure to think that in our own country so
many women have banded themselves together for such a noble ideal
as that embodied in the very name of "The Militia of Mercy." Here
in her true sphere, as nurse, woman will shed the gentle light
of mercy over the gory battle field and amid the pain and wounds
of the hospital wards; or, if she is not called to such active
participation she will find means to hold up the hands of those
more actively engaged, and in countless ways will she be able to
mitigate the evils of this most terrible of all wars, and not least
of all because of the gift of piety with which Almighty God has so
generously endowed her. Her unceasing prayers will ascend to the
throne of God for those engaged in this terrible struggle, and
mercies and blessings will be drawn down upon multitudes of people
whom she has never seen.
I bid Godspeed to The Militia of Mercy, and I hope that every
American woman who can will take part in this most womanly and most
patriotic work.