CHAPTER XI

Within half an hour the priest's round ponies stood at Slimak's gate.

The priest walked towards the stable with a lantern in one hand and a

basket in the other, pushed open the door with his foot, and saw

Slimakowa's body. Further away, on the litter, sat the peasant, shading

his eyes from the light.

'Who is that?' he asked.

'It is I, your priest.'

Slimak sprang to his feet, with deep astonishment on his face. He

advanced with unsteady steps to the threshold, and gazed at the priest

with open mouth.

'What have you come for, your Reverence?'

'I have come to bring you the divine blessing. Put on your sheepskin,

it is cold here. Have something to eat.' He unpacked the basket.

Slimak stared, touched the priest's sleeve, and suddenly fell sobbing

at his feet.

'I am wretched, your Reverence...I am wretched...wretched!'

'Benedicat te omnipotens Deus!' Instead of making the sign of the

cross, the priest put his arm round the peasant and drew him on to the

threshold.

'Calm yourself, brother, all will be well. God does not forsake His

children.'

He kissed him and wiped his tears. With almost a howl the peasant threw

himself at his feet.

'Now I don't mind if I die, or if I go to hell for my sins! I've had

this consolation that your Reverence has taken pity on me. If I were to

go to the Holy City on my knees, it would not be enough to repay you

for your kindness.'

He touched the ground at the priest's feet as though it were the altar.

The priest had to use much persuasion before he put on his sheepskin

and consented to touch food.

'Take a good pull,' he said, pouring out the mead.

'I dare not, your Reverence.'

'Well, then I will drink to you.' He touched the glass with his lips.

The peasant took the glass with trembling hands and drank kneeling,

swallowing with difficulty.

'Don't you like it?'

'Like it? vodka is nothing compared to this!' Slimak's voice sounded

natural again. 'Isn't it just full of spice!' he added, and revived

rapidly.

'Now tell me all about it,' began the priest: 'I remember you as a

prosperous gospodarz.'

'It would be a long story to tell your Reverence. One of my sons was

drowned, the other is in jail; my wife is dead, my horses were stolen,

my house burnt down. It all began with the squire's selling the

village, and with the railway and the Germans coming here. Then Josel

set everyone against me, because I had been selling fowls and other

things to the surveyors; even now he is doing his best to...'

'But why does everyone go to Josel for advice?' interrupted the priest.

'To whom is one to go, begging your Reverence's pardon? We peasants are

ignorant people. The Jews know about everything, and sometimes they

give good advice.'

The priest winced. The peasant continued excitedly:

'There were no wages coming in from the manor, and the Germans took the

two acres I had rented from the squire.'

'But let me see,' said the priest, 'wasn't it you to whom the squire

offered those two acres at a great deal less than they were worth?'

'Certainly it was me!'

'Why didn't you take the offer? I suppose you did not trust him?'

'How can one trust them when one does not know what they are talking

among themselves; they jabber like Jews, and when they talked to me

they were poking fun at me. Besides, there was some talk of free

distribution of land.'

'And you believed that?'

'Why should I not believe it? A man likes to believe what is to his

advantage. The Jews knew it wasn't true, but they won't tell.'

'Why didn't you apply for work at the railway?'

'I did, but the Germans kept me out.'

'Why couldn't you have come to me? the chief engineer was living at my

house all the time,' said the priest, getting angry.

'I beg your Reverence's pardon; I couldn't have known that, and I

shouldn't have dared to apply to your Reverence.'

'Hm! And the Germans annoyed you?'

'Oh dear, oh dear! haven't they been pestering me to sell them my land

all along, and when the fire came I gave way....'

'And you sold them the land?'

'God and my dead wife saved me from doing that. She got up from her

deathbed and laid a curse upon me if I should sell the land. I would

rather die than sell it, but all the same,' he hung his head, 'the

Germans will pay me out.'

'I don't think they can do you much harm.'

'If the Germans leave,' continued the peasant, 'I shall be up against

old Gryb, and he will do me as much harm as the Germans, or more.'

'I am a good shepherd!' the priest reflected bitterly. 'My sheep are

fighting each other like wolves, go to the Jews for advice, are

persecuted by the Germans, and I am going to entertainments!'

He got up. 'Stay here, my brother,' he said, 'I will go to the

village.'

Slimak kissed his feet and accompanied him to the sledge.

'Drive across to the village,' he directed his coachman.

'To the village?' The coachman's face, which was so chubby that it

looked as if it had been stung by bees, was comic in its astonishment:

'I thought we were going...'

'Drive where I tell you!'

Slimak leant on the fence, as in happier days.

'How could he have known about me?' he reflected. 'Is a priest like God

who knows everything? They would not have brought him word from the

village. It must have been good old Jonah. But now they will not dare

to look askance at me, because his Reverence himself has come to see

me. If he could only take the sin of my sending Maciek and the child to

their death from me, I shouldn't be afraid of anything.'

Presently the priest returned.

'Are you there, Slimak?' he called out. 'Gryb will come to you

to-morrow. Make it up with him and don't quarrel any more. I have sent

to town for a coffin and am arranging for the funeral.'

'Oh Redeemer!' sighed Slimak.

'Now, Pawel! drive on as fast as the horses will go,' cried the priest.

He pulled out his repeater watch: it was a quarter to ten.

'I shall be late,' he murmured, 'but not too late for everything; there

will be time for some fun yet.'

As soon as the sledge had melted into the darkness, and silence again

brooded over his home, an irresistible desire for sleep seized Slimak.

He dragged himself to the stable, but he hesitated. He did not wish to

lie down once more by the side of his dead wife, and went into the

cowshed. Uneasy dreams pursued him; he dreamt that his dead wife was

trying to force herself into the cowshed. He got up and looked into the

stable. Slimakowa was lying there peacefully; two faint beams of light

were reflected from the eyes which had not yet been closed.

A sledge stopped at the gate and Gryb came into the yard; his grey head

shook and his yellowish eyes moved uneasily. He was followed by his

man, who was carrying a large basket.

'I am to blame,' he cried, striking his chest, 'are you still angry

with me?'

'God give you all that you desire,' said Slimak, bowing low, 'you are

coming to me in my time of trouble.'

This humility pleased the old peasant; he grasped Slimak's hand and

said in a more natural voice: 'I tell you, I am to blame, for his

Reverence told me to say that. Therefore I am the first to make it up

with you, although I am the elder. But I must say, neighbour, you did

annoy me very much. However, I will not reproach you.'

'Forgive me the wrong I have done,' said Slimak, bending towards his

shoulder, 'but to tell you the truth, I cannot remember ever having

wronged you personally.'

'I won't mince matters, Slimak. You dealt with those railway people

without consulting me.'

'Look at what I have earned by my trading,' said Slimak, pointing to

his burnt homestead.

'Well, God has punished you heavily, and that is why I say: I am to

blame. But when you came to church and your wife--God rest her

eternally--bought herself a silk kerchief, you ought to have treated me

to at least a pint of vodka, instead of speaking impertinently to me.'

'It's true, I boasted too early.'

'And then you made friends with the Germans and prayed with them.'

'I only took off my cap. Their God is the same as ours.'

Gryb shook his clenched fist in his face.

'What! their God is the same as ours? I tell you, he must be a

different God, or why should they jabber to him in German? But never

mind,' he changed his tone, 'all that's past and gone. You deserve well

of us, because you did not let the Germans have your land. Hamer has

already offered me his farm for midsummer.'

'Is that so?'

'Of course it is so. The scoundrels threatened to drive us all away,

and they have smashed themselves against a small gospodarz of ten

acres. You deserve God's blessing and our friendship for that. God rest

your dead wife eternally! Many a time has she set you against me! I'll

bear her no grudge on that account, however. And here, you see, all of

us in the village are sending you some victuals.'

Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Grochowski.

'I wouldn't believe Jonah, when he came to tell me all this,' he said,

'and you here, Gryb, too? Where is the defunct?'

They approached to the stable and knelt down in the snow. Only the

murmuring of their prayers and Slimak's sobs were audible for a while.

Then the men got up and praised the dead woman's virtues.

'I am bringing you a bird,' then said Grochowski, turning to Gryb; 'he

is slightly wounded.'

'What do you mean?'

'It's your Jasiek. He attempted to steal my horses last night, and I

treated him to a little lead.'

'Where is he?'

'In the sledge outside.'

Gryb ran off at a heavy trot. Blows and cries were heard, then the old

man reappeared, dragging his son by the hair. The strong young fellow

was crying like a child. He looked dishevelled and his clothes were

torn; a bloodstained cloth was tied round his hand.

'Did you steal the Soltys' horses?' shouted his father.

'How should I not have stolen them? I did steal them!'

'Not quite,' said Grochowski, 'but he did steal Slimak's.'

'What?' cried Gryb, and began to lay on to his son again.

'I did, father. Leave off!' wailed Jasiek.

'My God, how did this come about?' asked the old man.

'That's simple enough,' sneered Grochowski, 'he found others as bad as

himself, and they robbed the whole neighbourhood, till I winged him.'

'What do you propose to do now?' asked old Gryb between his blows.

'I'll mend my ways.'...'I'll marry Orzchewski's daughter,' wailed

Jasiek.

'Perhaps this is not quite the moment for that,' said Grochowski,

'first you will go to prison.'

'You don't mean to charge him?' asked his father.

'I should prefer not to charge him, but the whole neighbourhood is

indignant about the robberies. However, as he did not do me personally

any harm, I am not bound to charge him.'

'What will you take?'

'Not a kopek less than a hundred and fifty roubles.'

'In that case, let him go to prison.'

'A hundred and fifty to me, and eighty to Slimak for the horses.'

Gryb took to his fists again.

'Who put you up to this?'

'Leave off!' cried Jasiek; 'it was Josel.'

'And why did you do as he told you?'

'Because I owe him a hundred roubles.'

'Oh Lord!' groaned Gryb, tearing his hair.

'Well, that's nothing to tear your hair about,' said Grochowski. 'Come;

three hundred and thirty roubles between Slimak, Josel, and me; what is

that to you?'

'I won't pay it.'

'All right! In that case he will go to prison. Come along.' He took the

youth by the arm.

'Dad, have pity, I am your only son!'

The old man looked helplessly at the peasants in turn.

'Are you going to ruin my life for a paltry sum?'

'Wait...wait,' cried Gryb, seeing that the Soltys was in earnest. He

took Slimak aside.

'Neighbour, if there is to be peace between us,' he said, 'I'll tell

you what you will have to do.'

'What?'

'You'll have to marry my sister. You are a widower, she is a widow. You

have ten acres, she has fifteen. I shall take her land, because it is

close to mine, and give you fifteen acres of Hamer's land. You will

have a gospodarstwo of twenty-five acres all in one piece.'

Slimak reflected for a while.

'I think,' he said at last,' Gawdrina's land is better than Hamer's.'

'All right! You shall have a bit more.'

Slimak scratched his head. 'Well, I don't know,' he said.

'It's agreed, then,' said Gryb, 'and now I'll tell you what you will

have to do in return. You will pay a hundred and fifty roubles to

Grochowski and a hundred to Josel.'

Slimak demurred.

'I haven't buried my wife yet.'

The old man's temper was rising.

'Rubbish! don't be a fool! How can a gospodarz get along without a

wife? Yours is dead and gone, and if she could speak, she would say:

"Marry, Josef, and don't turn up your nose at a benefactor like Gryb."'

'What are you quarrelling about?' cried Grochowski.

'Look here, I am offering him my sister and fifteen acres of land, four

cows and a pair of horses, to say nothing of the household property,

and he can't make up his mind,' said Gryb, with awry face.

'Why, that's certainly worth while,' said Grochowski, 'and not a bad

wife!'

'Aye, a good, hefty woman,' cried Gryb.

'You'll be quite a gentleman, Slimak,' added Grochowski.

Slimak sighed. 'I'm sorry,' he said, 'that Jagna did not live to see

this.'

The agreement was carried out, and before Holy Week both Slimak and

Gryb's son were married. By the autumn Slimak's new gospodarstwo was

finished, and an addition to his family expected. His second wife not

unfrequently reminded him that he had been a beggar and owed all his

good fortune to her. At such times he would slip out of the house, lie

under the lonely pine and meditate, recalling the strange struggle,

when the Germans had lost their land and he his nearest and dearest.

When everybody else had forgotten Slimakowa, Stasiek, Maciek, and the

child, he often remembered them, and also the dog Burek and the cow

doomed to the butcher's knife for want of fodder.

Silly Zoska died in prison, old Sobieska at the inn. The others with

whom my story is concerned, not excepting old Jonah, are alive and

well.

A PINCH OF SALT

BY

ADAM SZYMANSKI

It was in the fourth year of my exile to the metropolis of the Siberian

frosts, a few days before Christmas, when one of our comrades and

fellow-sufferers, a former student at the university of Kiev, who

hailed from Little-Russia, called in to give us some interesting news.

One of his intimate friends--also an ex-student and

fellow-sufferer--was to pass through our town on his way back from a

far-distant Yakut aul,[1] where he had lived for three years;

he was due to arrive on Christmas Eve.

[Footnote 1: _Aul: a hamlet_.]

We had repeatedly met people who knew the life in the nearer Yakut

settlements; now and then we had seen temporary or permanent

inhabitants of the so-called Yakut 'towns' of Vjerchojansk, Vihijsk,

and Kalymsk. But the nearer auls and towns were populous centres of

human life in comparison to those far-off deserted and desolate places;

they gave one no conception of what the latter might be like. Certainly

the fact that the worst criminals, when they were sent to those

regions, preferred to return to hard labour rather than live in liberty

there, gave us an illustration of the charms of that life, yet it told

us nothing definite.

Bad--we were told--very bad it was out there, but in what way bad it

was impossible to judge, even from the knowledge we had of life in less

remote regions. Who would venture to draw conclusions from the little

we knew as to the thousand small details which made up that grey,

monotonous existence? Who could clearly bring them before the

imagination? Only experience could reveal them in their appalling

nakedness. Of one thing we were certain, that was that in a measure as

the populousness decreases, and you move away in a centrifugal

direction from where we were, life becomes harder and more and more

distressing for human beings. In the south, on the wild high plateaus

of the Aldon; in the east, on the mountain slopes of the

Stanovoi-Chebret, where a single Tungus family constitutes the sole

population along a river of 300 versts; in the west on the desolate

heights of the Viluj, near the great Zeresej Lake; in the north at the

mysterious outlets of the Quabrera, the desert places of the Olensk,

Indigirika, and Kolyma, life becomes like a Danteesque hell, consisting

in nothing but ice, snow and gales, and lighted up by the lurid

blood-red rays of the northern light.

But no! those deserts, equal in extent to the half of Europe, are only

the purgatory, not yet the real Siberian hell. You still find woods

there, poor, thin, dwarfed woods, it is true, but where there is wood

there is fire and vitality. The true hell of human torture begins

beyond the line of the woods; then there is nothing but ice and snow;

ice that does not even melt in the plains in summer--and in the midst

of that icy desert, miserable human beings thrown upon this shore by an

alien fate.

I shall never forget the impression which any chance bit of information

on the characteristic features, the horrible details of that life, used

to make upon me. Even clearly defined facts and exact technical terms

bear quite a different aspect in the light of such unusual local

conditions.

I have a vivid remembrance of a story told me by a former official; he

described to me how when he was stationed in V. as Ispravnik, 'a

certain gentleman' was sent out to him with orders to take him to the

settlement in Zaszyversk.[1]

[Footnote 1: Pronounce: Zashiversk.]

'You see, little brother,' said the ex-Ispravnik, 'the town of

Zaszyversk does exist. Even on a small map of Siberia you can easily

find it to the right of a large blank space; if you remember your

geography lessons you will even know that it is designated as "town out

of governmental bounds". An appointment to such a place means for an

official that he is expected to send in his resignation; as for the

towns, it means that they have been degraded by having ceased to be the

seat of certain local government. In this case there was a yet deeper

significance in the description, for the town of Zaszyversk does, as I

said, exist, but only in the imagination of cartographers and in

geography manuals, not in reality. So much so is it non-existent that

not a single house, not a yurta,[1] not a hovel marks the place which

is pointed out to you on the map. When I read the order I could not

believe my eyes, and though I was sober I reeled. I called another

official and showed him the curious document.

[Footnote 1: Yurta: hut of the native Yakut.]

'He was an old, experienced hand at the office, but when he saw this

order, the paper dropped from his hands. "Where to?" I asked. "To

Zaszyversk!" We looked at each other. Nice things that young man must

have been up to! There he stood, looked and listened and understood

nothing.

'He was a handsome fellow but gloomy and stuck up. I asked him one

thing after another, was he in need of anything? and so on, but he

answered nothing but "Yes" or "No". Well, my little brother, I thought

to myself, you will soon sing a different tune! I ordered three troikas

to be brought round; he was put into the first with the Cossack who

escorted him, I was in the second with an old Cossack, who remembered

where this town of Zaszyversk had once stood, and the third contained

provisions; then we started. First we drove straight on for twenty-four

hours; during this time we still stopped at stations where we changed

horses, and we covered 200 versts. The second and third days we covered

150 versts, but we did not meet a living soul, and we spent the nights

in the large barnlike buildings without windows or chimneys and with

only a fireplace, which are found on the road; they are called

"povarnia".

'Our prisoner was obviously beginning to feel rather bad, so he

addressed me from time to time; at last he tried to get information out

of me concerning the life in Zaszyversk. "How many inhabitants were

there? what was the town like? was there any chance of his finding

something to do there, perhaps private lessons?" But now it was my turn

to answer him: "Yes" or "No". On the fourth day, towards morning, we

entered upon a glacier. We had arrived in the region where the ice does

not disappear even in summer. When we had advanced ten versts on the

ice, the old Cossack showed me the place where sixty years ago a few

yurtas had stood which were called in geographical terms "Zaszyversk,

town out of governmental bounds".

"Stop," I cried, "let the young gentleman get out; here we are! This is

the town of Zaszyversk...."

'The man did not understand at once, he opened his eyes wide and

thought it was a joke, or that I had lost my reason. I had to explain

the situation to him.... At last he understood.'

The ex-Ispravnik laughed dryly. 'Will you believe me or not?' he

continued. 'Look here, I swear by the cross'--he crossed himself

spaciously, bowing to the images of the saints--that fellow's eyes

became glassy... his jaws chattered as in a fever. It was a business!

'And I, a tough old official, I put my hands to my forehead. You should

have seen how the gentleman's pride disappeared in a moment; he became

soft as wax and so humble... pliable as silk he was!

'"I adjure you by the wounds of Christ," he cried, stretching out his

hands to me, "let the love of God come into your heart! I have not been

condemned to death, there is nothing very serious against me, I have

been too overbearing, that is all."

'"Oh," I said, "well, you see, pride is a great sin."

'And whether you will believe me or won't'--he crossed himself again--'

the man wept like a child when I told him I would take him to the

nearest Yakut yurta, at a distance of thirty versts from the town of

Zaszyversk, and I swear to you for the third time it was with joy that

he wept... although he was not much better off in that yurta....'

It is easy to imagine how eagerly we received the news of the arrival

of a man who had actually been living somewhere at the end of the world

under conditions which had completely isolated him for three whole

years; yet it was said that he was returning into this world sound in

body and mind. We inhabitants of our own special town were not living

in the most enviable of circumstances either, but we all knew that they

were infinitely happier than they might have been.

A passionate desire seized us to look upon that life out there in its

unveiled nakedness, its horrible cruelty. This curiosity meant more

than narrow selfishness; it had a special reason.

The fact that a human being had been able to survive in that

far-distant world, bore witness to the strength and resistance of the

human spirit; the iron will and energy of the one doubled and steeled

the strength of all the others.

What we had heard so far of those who were battling with their fate at

the end of the world had not been too comforting. Therefore the

question whether and how one could live and suffer there, was a vital

one for us.

And now the news came unexpectedly that one of our own class, a man

closely allied to us by his intellectual development and a number of

ways and customs, had actually lived for three years in a yurta not

much better situated than the one behind the imaginary town of

Zaszyversk. This unknown youth, student of a university not our own,

became dear to us. We all--Russians, Poles, and Jews--bound together by

our common fate, made up our minds to celebrate his arrival, and as it

was timed for Christmas Eve, we were going to prepare a solemn feast in

his honour.

As I was the one who had the greatest experience in culinary affairs, I

was charged with the arrangement of the dinner, supported by a young

student, and by the intense interest of the whole colony. I am sure

that neither I nor my dear scullion have ever in our lives before or

after worked as hard for two days in the kitchen as we did then.

The student was not only a great collector of everything useful for our

daily life, he was also deeply versed in the knowledge of the Yakut in

general. While we were cooking and roasting we told one another the

most interesting things, and thus stimulated each other to such a

degree that the dinner, originally planned on simple lines, began to

assume Lucullian dimensions.

We knew only too well how miserable the life in the nearest Yakut

yurtas was, that there was a want of the most necessary European food,

such as would be found in the poorest peasant's home; above all, the

want of bread--simple daily bread--was very pronounced among the poorer

populations. It was not surprising that we two, possessed by gloomy

pictures which we recalled to our memory, fell into a sort of

cooking-fever. Like a mother who remembers the favourite dishes of the

child she has not seen for a long time, and whom she expects home on a

certain day, we kept on racking our brains for, agreeable surprises for

our guest. One or the other would constantly ask:

'What do you think, comrade, wouldn't he like this or that?'

'Well, of course, he would thoroughly enjoy that. Just think, counting

the journeys, it must be a good five years since he has eaten food fit

for human beings.'

'Shall we add that?'

'All right!'

And one of us ran to the market-place to fetch the necessary

ingredients from the shops, another secured kitchen utensils, and soon

another course enriched the menu. At last the supply of kitchen

utensils gave out, and want of time as well as physical exhaustion put

a stop to further exertions. Our enthusiasm had communicated itself to

all the participants of the feast, for they were all of a responsive

disposition, and declared themselves charmed with our inventiveness and

energy. I and my scullion were proud of our work. A huge fish, weighing

twenty pounds, which after much trouble we had succeeded in boiling

whole, was considered the crowning success of our labour and art. We

rightly anticipated that this magnificent fish, prepared with an

appallingly highly seasoned and salted sauce, would move the hardest

hearts. Also, we did not forget a small Christmas tree, and decorated

it as best we could in honour of our guest.

At last the longed-for day came. The student started at dawn for the

nearest posting station to await the newcomer and bring him to us.

Before two o'clock, when it began to be dark, we were all assembled,

and soon after two the melancholy sound of the sleighbells announced

the arrival of the students. We hurriedly pulled on our furs and went

out. The sleigh and the travellers were entirely covered with snow,

long icicles hung from the horses' nostrils when they whipped into the

courtyard, they were covered with a fine crust of ice. Another moment

and they stood still in front of the door. Every man bared his

head...there were some who had grown grey in misery and sorrow.

I will not describe our first greeting--I could not do so even if I

would. We did not know each other, and yet how near we felt! I doubt

whether it will ever fall to my share again to be one of a number of

human beings so different in birth and station in life, yet so nearly

related, so closely tied to each other as we were on the day when we

greeted our guest.

He was small and thin--very thin. His complexion showed yellow and

black, much more than ours did; he seemed marked for life by an earthen

colour; his deeply sunk eyes were the only feature which was burning

with vitality, they had a phosphorescent glow.

It had grown quite dark by the time he had changed his clothes and

warmed himself, and we were sitting down to our dinner. Noise and

vivacity predominated in our small abode; a cheerful mood rose like an

overflowing wave, washing away all signs of sorrow and bitterness.

'Let us be cheerful!'

Louder and louder this cry arose, now here, now there, and when our

guest took it up even the gloomiest faces brightened. We broke the

sacred wafer, then we emptied the first glasses. My industrious

scullion had been deeply moved by a folk-song from the Ukraine, one of

those songs rich in poetical feeling and simple metaphor which go

straight to the heart; he therefore got up to make the welcoming

speech, and, encouraged by the tears of joy which rose in the eyes of

our guest, he quite took possession of him. He told him that he and I

had worked uninterruptedly for two days and nights in the sweat of our

brows, so as to give him a noble repast after his many days of

privation and hunger; he forecast the whole menu, beginning with his

favourite Kutja, he drew close to him and put his arm round his neck,

laughing gaily, and seemingly inspiring him so that he wept tears of

joy.

Our animated mood rose higher and higher. A storm of applause greeted

the first course. The student filled the guest's plate to the brim. At

last the harmonious rattle of the spoons replaced the laughing and

talking. 'Excellent,' was the universal verdict.

My scullion was in raptures and loudly assented; finally he too became

silent and applied himself like us to his plate.

But what in the name of God did this mean? We were all eating, only our

guest fumbled about with his spoon and stirred his soup without eating,

laughing the while with a suppressed, hardly audible laugh.

'My God, what is it? why don't you eat, comrade?' several voices called

in unison. 'The scullion has been exciting him too much! Off with him!

Our guest must have serious people next to him.' The student obediently

changed places, and we turned to our food again. But still our guest

did not eat.

What was the matter? We stopped eating and all eyes were turned

questioningly upon him. Our silent anxiety was sufficiently eloquent.

He perceived, felt it and said:

'I... forgive me... I... my happiness... I am so sorry... I do not want

to trouble you, and I fear I shall spoil your pleasure. I beg you... I

entreat you, dear brothers, take no notice of me...it is nothing, it

will pass,' and he broke into a strange sobbing laugh.

'Jesus, Mary!' we all cried, for we had not noticed before how

unnatural his laugh was; there was no further thought of eating; and

he, when he saw the general anxiety, mastered himself with an effort

and said rapidly amidst the general silence:

'I thought you knew what the life was like that I have lived for three

years, but I see you don't know it; when I realized this I tried...

I... well, I tried while you were eating and drinking to swallow a

small piece of bread... just a tiny piece of bread... but I cannot do

it... I cannot! You see, for three years... three whole years I have

tasted no salt... I ate all my food without salt, and this bread is

rather salt--very salt in fact, it is burning and scorching me, and

probably all the other things are also very salt.' 'Certainly, some

were even salted too much in our haste and eagerness,' I answered

simultaneously with the student.

'Well then, eat, beloved brothers, eat, but I cannot eat anything; I

shall watch you with great pleasure--eat, I beg you fervently!' and

with hysterical laughter and tears he sank back into his seat.

Now we understood this laugh which was like a spasm....

Not one of us was able to swallow the food which he had in his mouth.

The misery of the existence of which we had longed to know something

had lifted the veil off a small portion of its mysteries.

We all dropped our spoons and hung our heads.

How vain, how small appeared to us now the trouble we had taken about

the food, how clumsy our childish enjoyment!

And while we looked at the ravaged face of our brother, convulsed with

spasmodic laughter and tears, a feeling of horror seized upon us....

We felt as if the spectre of death had risen from a lonely yurta

somewhere behind the lost town of Zaszyversk and was staring at us with

cold glassy eyes....

A dead silence brooded over the frightened assembly.

KOWALSKI THE CARPENTER

A SIBERIAN SKETCH

BY

ADAM SZYMINSKI

I made his acquaintance accidentally; the chance which led to it was

caused by the peculiar conditions of the Yakut spring. My readers will

probably only have a very imperfect knowledge of the Yakut spring.

From the middle of April onwards the sun begins to be pretty powerful

in Yakutsk; in May it hardly leaves the horizon for a few hours and is

roasting hot; but as long as the great Lena has not thrown off the

shackles of winter, and as long as the huge masses of unmelted snow are

lying in the taiga,[1] you can see no trace of spring. The snow is not

warmed by the earth, which has been frozen hard to the depth of several

feet, and this thick crust of ice opposes determined resistance to the

lifegiving rays, and only after long, patient labour does the sun

succeed in awakening to new life the secret depths of the taiga and the

queen of Yakut waters, 'Granny Lena', as the Yakut calls the great

river.

[Footnote 1: Primaeval forest.]

In the last days of the month of May, when this battle of vitalizing

warmth against the last remnants of the cruel winter is nearing its

end, the newly arrived European witnesses a scene which is without

parallel anywhere in the west. Every sound resembling a report, however

distant and indistinct, has a wonderful effect upon the people out in

the open; children and the aged, men and women are suddenly rooted to

the spot, turn to the east towards the river, crane their necks and

seem to be listening for something.

If the peculiar sounds cease or turn out to be caused accidentally,

everybody quietly goes home. But if the reports continue, and swell to

such dimensions that the air seems filled with a noise like the firing

of great guns or the rolling of thunder, accompanied by subterranean

rushing like the coming of a great gale, then these silent people

become unusually animated. Joyful shouts of 'The ice is cracking! the

river is breaking! do you hear?' are heard from all sides; eagerly and

noisily the people run in all directions to carry the news into the

farthest cottages. Everybody knocks at the doors he passes, be they his

friends' or a stranger's; and calls out the magic word 'The Lena is

breaking!' These words spread like wildfire in many tongues through

far-off houses, yurtas and Yakut settlements, and whoever is able to

move puts on his furs and runs to the banks of the Lena.

A dense crowd is thronging the banks, watching in fascination one of

the most beautiful natural phenomena in Siberia.

Gigantic blocks of ice, driven down by the powerful waves of the broad

river, are packed to the height of houses--of mountains; they break,

they crash; covered with myriads of small needles of ice, they seem to

be floating in the sun, displaying a marvellous wealth of colour.

But one must have lived here for at least one winter to understand what

it is that drives this crowd of human beings to the river banks. It is

not the magnificent display of nature that attracts them.

In the long struggle against winter these people have exhausted all

their strength; for many months' they have been awaiting the vivifying

warmth with longing and impatience, now they hasten hither to witness

the triumph of the sun over the cruel enemy.

An intense, almost childlike joy is depicted on the yellow faces of the

Yakuts, their broad lips smile good-naturedly and appear broader still,

their little black eyes glow like coals. The whole crowd is swaying as

if intoxicated. 'God be praised! God be praised!' they call to each

other, turn towards the huge icebergs which are now being destroyed by

the friendly element, and shout and rejoice over the defeat of the

merciless enemy, driven, crushed and annihilated by the inexorable

waves.

When the ice-drifts on the Lena have come to an end, the earth quickly

thaws, although only to a depth of two feet. But nature makes the most

of the three months of warmth. Within a comparatively short time

everything develops and unfolds.

The great plain of Yakutsk offers a charming spectacle; it is fertile,

and here and there cultivation already begins to show. Birchwoods,

small lakes, brushwood and verdant fields alternate and make the whole

country look like a large park, framed by the silver ribbon of the

Lena. The surrounding gloom of the taiga emphasizes the natural beauty

of the valley. This smiling plain in the midst of the wide expanse

reminds one of an oasis in the desert.

The Yakut is by far the most capable of the Siberian tribes; he values

the gifts of the life-giving sun and enjoys them to the full. When he

escapes from his narrow, stinking winter-yurta he fills his hitherto

inhospitable country with life and movement; his energy is doubled, his

vitality pulsates with greater strength and intensity. When the

'Ysech', the feast of spring, is over, the animated mood of the

population does not abate in the least. The 'strengthening kumis', the

ambrosia of the Yakut gods, does not run dry in the wooden vessels, for

luxuriant grass covers the ground, and cows and mares give abundant

milk.

The sight of the lovely plain and the joyful human beings delighting in

the summer had revived me also. This was my first summer in Yakutsk,

and I responded to it with my whole being. Daily I went for walks to

look at the beauty of the surrounding world, daily I took my sun bath.

My walks usually led me to one of the Yakut yurtas; they are at long

distances from each other, lonely and scattered over the whole country.

You find them in whatever direction you may choose.

Cold milk and kumis can be had in all these yurtas. It is true both

have the nasty smell which the stranger in this part of the world calls

'Yakut odour'; but during the long winter when milk other than from

Yakut yurtas was hard to procure, I had got used to this specific

smell, so that now it only produced a mild nausea.

One of the many yurtas had taken my fancy, for it was charmingly

situated close to the woods in a corner of the raised banks of a long

stretch of lake. It belonged to an aged Yakut, well deserving of the

honourable designation 'ohonior', given to all the Yakut elders.

The old man was living there with his equally aged wife and a young

fellow, a distant relation of his. Two cows and a calf, a few mares and

a foal constituted all their wealth.

All the Yakuts are very inquisitive and loquacious. But my friend, the

honourable 'ohonior ', possessed these qualities in an unusually high

degree, and as he was able to speak broken Russian, I often took

occasion to call in for a little talk.

First of all he wished to know who I was, where I came from and what

was my business here. Towards the Russians, whether strangers or

natives of Siberia, the Yakuts are always on their guard and

excessively obsequious. Every Russian, however poorly dressed, is

always the 'tojan', the master. Their behaviour towards the Poles, on

the other hand, is very friendly. No Yakut ever took the information

that I was not a Russian but a 'Bilak'--Polak--with indifference.

'Bilak? Bilak? Excellent brother!' exclaimed even the most reticent

among them. The 'ohonior' and I therefore soon became friends, and when

he learned that in addition I was versed in the art of writing and

might be employed as secretary to the community and draw up petitions

to the 'great master'--the 'gubernator'--my value was immensely

increased, and this respect saved me from too great an intimacy. Owing

to this consideration I was always offered the best milk and kumis, and

when the old woman handed me a jug she carefully wiped it with her

fingers first, or removed every trace of dirt with her tongue.

One day when I called in passing to drink my kumis, I found the

'ohonior' unusually excited; he was not only talkative, but also in

very great spirits. His tongue was a little heavy, although he showed

no sign of old age. It turned out that my honourable host had just

returned from the town, where he had indulged in vodka to warm his

feeble frame.

'The Bilaks are good, are all good,' he stammered, while he crammed his

little pipe with tobacco, 'every Bilak is a clerk, or at least a

doctor, or even a smith, as good as a Yakut one. You are a good man

too, and you must be a good clerk; we all love the Bilaks, a Sacha[1]

never forgets that the Bilak is his brother. But will you believe it,

brother, it is not long since this is so? I myself was afraid of the

Bilaks as of evil spirits until about fifteen years ago, and yet I am

so old that the calves have grazed off the meadows seventy times before

my eyes. When I saw a Bilak, I would run like a hare wherever my feet

would carry me--into the wood or into the bushes, never mind where, so

long as I could escape from him. And not only I but everybody dreaded

the Bilaks, for, you see, people told each other dreadful things about

them, that they had horns and slew everybody, and so on.'

[Footnote 1: The name by which the Yakuts call themselves.]

I ascertained that these fairy-tales had had their origin in the town,

and reproached the old man for his credulity, but he bridled up at

once.

'Goodness gracious! do you think we believed all that on hearsay? I

don't know about other people, but I and all my neighbours believed it

because our forefathers knew for certain that every Bilak was terrible

and dangerous.'

The old man refreshed himself from the jug and continued:

'Do you see, it was like this. My father was not yet born, my

grandfather was a little fellow for whom they were still collecting the

"Kalym"[1] when there came to this neighbourhood a Bilak with eyes of

ice,[2] a long beard and long moustaches; he settled here, not in the

valley but up on yonder mountainside in the taiga. That was not taiga,

as you see it now, but thick and wild, untouched by any axe. There the

Bilak found an empty yurta and settled in it.'

[Footnote 1: The price for the future wife which is paid in cattle and

horses; it is collected early in the boy's life.]

[Footnote 2: The black-eyed Yakuts speak thus of the blue-eyed races.]

'But he had no sooner gone to live there than the taiga became

impassable at a distance of ten versts round the cottage. The Bilak ran

about with his gun in his hand, and when he caught sight of anyone he

covered him with his gun, and unless the man ran away he would pop at

him--but not for fun, he didn't mind whom he shot, even if it were a

Cossack. What he lived on? The gods of the taiga know! Nobody else did.

Every living thing shunned him like the plague. Those who caught sight

of him in the forest when he ran about like a devil said that at first

he wore clothes such as the Russian gentlemen wear who know how to

write, but later on he was dressed in skins which he must have tanned

himself. People said he got to look more and more terrible and wild.

His beard grew down to his waist, his face got paler and paler and his

eyes burnt like flames. Some years passed. Then one winter, at the time

of the worst frosts, when a murderous "chijus" broke,[1] he was not

seen for several days. As a rule he had been observed from a distance,

so the people gave notice in the town that someone should come and

ascertain what had happened to him.

[Footnote 1: A column of frozen air, moving southwards. After a chijus,

corpses of frozen people are generally found.]

'They came and closed in upon the cottage carefully. There was the

Bilak on the bed in his furs, all covered with snow, and in his hand he

held a cross. The Bilak was dead; perhaps hunger had killed him,

perhaps the frost, or maybe the devil had taken him. Now tell me, was

there no reason for us to be afraid of the Bilaks? Here was only a

single one who drove all the neighbourhood to flight, and now all of a

sudden a great many of you arrived? He! he! he! You know how to write,

brother, but you are yet very young! So you thought people had no good

reasons for their fears? Well, you see, you were mistaken. A Sacha is

cleverer than he looks!'

This legend of a Pole who could not bear to look upon human beings--a

legend I repeatedly heard again later--made a deep impression upon me.

These woods, these fields where I was walking now had perhaps been

haunted by the unfortunate man, driven mad and wild with excess of

sorrow.

Had his troubles been beyond endurance or had he been unable to bear

the sight of human wickedness and human misery? Or was it the

separation from his home, from those dear to him, that had broken him?

Dominated altogether by these thoughts, I returned to the town without

paying heed to anything around me. I was walking fast, almost at a run,

when a long-drawn call coming from somewhere close by struck upon my

ear:

'Kallarra! Kallarra!'

At first I neither understood the call nor whence it came, but on

frequent repetition it dawned upon me that it proceeded from the bushes

at a little distance in front of me, and that it was meant to be the

Yakut call 'Come here, come here, brother!' I even divined, as I came

nearer, what manner of man it was that was calling. No Yakut, no

Russian, be he a native or a settler, could have mispronounced this

Yakut word so badly; it should have been 'Kelere!'

Only my countrymen, the Masurs, could do such violence to the

beautiful, sonorous Yakut language. During my long sojourn in Yakutsk I

have never met a Masurian peasant who pronounced this word otherwise

than 'Kallarra'.

Indeed, there he was, behind the bushes beyond a bridge spanning the

marsh or dried-up arm of the Lena--a man in the ordinary clothes of

deported criminals; he agitated his arms violently, and continually

repeated his call 'Kallarra'!

This was addressed to a Yakut who became visible on the outskirts of

the brushwood, but it was in vain, for the wary Yakut had no intention

of drawing nearer. The caller must have realized this, for when he

arrived at the bridge he called once more 'Kalare! you dog!' Then he

ceased and only swore to himself: 'May you burst, may you swell, you

son of a dog!'

When he noticed me, he stood still. I came up to him and greeted him in

Polish, 'Praised be Jesus Christ!'

The peasant could not get over his amazement.

'Oh Jesus! where do you come from, sir?' he cried.

We soon made friends. He lived somewhere in an uluse,[1] and had gone

into the town to hire himself out for work in the gold mines; he had

secured work and was to start at once, driving a herd of cattle to his

new abode. He was grazing them when I met him, and as some of them had

gone astray, and he was unable to drive them all across the bridge

singlehanded, he was waiting for someone to come along and help him. I

gladly lent him a hand, and when the herd had been got across the

bridge and was quietly going along, we began to talk. I asked him with

whom he was lodging.

[Footnote 1: A settlement consisting of several yurtas.]

'With Kowalski,' he said.

I knew all the Poles in Yakutsk, but I had never heard of Kowalski.

'Well, I mean Kowalski the carpenter.'

Still I did not know whom he meant.

'Who are his friends? whom does he go to see?' I inquired.

'He is peculiar. They all know him, but he does not go to see them.'

'How do you mean: he does not go to see them?'

'How should he go to see them? He has got clump feet, he has lost his

toes with frostbite. When the wounds are closed he can just manage, but

when they are open he cannot even move about in his room.'

'How does he manage to live?'

'He does a little carpentering; he has a beautiful workshop and all

sorts of tools, but I tell you when he can't stand on his feet he can't

do carpentering. Then he is glad when people come and give him orders

for brushes--he can make beautiful brushes as well--for sweeping rooms

or for brushing clothes. But the rooms here are not swept much, and

people rarely brush their clothes either. Now he is ill again.'

'Where does he come from? How long has he been here?'

'He has been here a long time, there were only a few like us when he

came. But where he comes from, who he is--I see you don't know

Kowalski, or else you wouldn't ask. For you see, when I ask him, or one

of the gentlemen, or even the priest, who comes from Irkutsk, he only

answers: "Brother, God knows very well who I am and where I come from,

but it serves no purpose and is quite unnecessary that you should know

it too!" There you are! That's like him. So nobody asks him.'

I inquired very particularly all the same where Kowalski lived. In my

imagination the 'Bilak' of the legend who fled from men and this lonely

carpenter were blended into one personality, I could not say why. I

felt that there must be a mysterious connexion as between all things

repeating themselves in the circle of time. Perhaps the great sorrow

which--I imagined--had died at the death of the Bilak was still living

on quite close to me, in a different shape, but just as great, no less

unbearable and fateful to him in whom it now dwelt.

Since that day I had often guided my steps in the direction of

Kowalski's yurta. No fresh shavings were added to the old ones lying

about near the door and the little windows. They grew drier and blacker

every day; perhaps the man who had thrown them there.... I had not the

courage to enter. I kept on waiting for another day when perhaps fresh

shavings would be added, but none appeared and no noises of work were

audible.

At last I made up my mind not to put it off any longer. I left my home

with this decision and had already reached a corner of his yurta, when

I heard a trembling, weak but pleasant voice singing.

I sat down on the bench in front of the yurta, and I could distinctly

hear every word of a sentimental, gently melancholy little ditty which

had once been very popular in Poland:

'When the fields are fresh and green.

And the spring revives the world.'

But after the third verse the singing suddenly ceased and a voice

called out gloomily:

'Doggy, go and bark at the Almighty!'

At first I did not know what this peculiar command meant, but after a

short pause I heard the thin bark of a dog, and as the gate of the

enclosure was open I drew nearer and saw in the wide open door of the

yurta a small black dog, tiny and light, repeatedly raising itself on

its hindlegs and barking up at the blue sky while it jumped and turned

about.

Of course I went away and put off my visit to a more suitable occasion.

At last I saw him. He was of middle stature, quite greyheaded, and he

looked very neglected. The ashen complexion common to all exiles

distinguished him in a high degree, so that it gave me pain to look

into his face with the black shadows.

If he had not been talking, and moving about, it would have been hard

to guess that one was looking at a living being. And yet, glances like

lightning would sometimes dart from the large eyes surrounded by broad,

dark circles, and they showed that death had not yet numbed the inner

life of this moving corpse, but that he was still capable of emotion.

As long as he was sitting I could bear the sight of his suffering face,

but when he got up I had to turn away my eyes, for then his clump-feet

seemed to cause him the greatest agony.

He spoke Polish correctly and with a pure accent. He carefully avoided

any direct or indirect allusion to his past, and shrank equally from

information about his native country. He talked exclusively about the

present, principally about his dog, with whom he held long

conversations. Only once in the course of the few weeks during which I

visited him did he get animated: that was when I mentioned Plotsk; his

eyes shone as with a hidden fire while he asked: 'Do you know that

part?'

I answered that I had lived there for a year, and he said, half to

himself:

'I suppose it is all quite changed, so many years have passed. You

probably were not born at the time when I came to Siberia. In what part

of the province did you stay?'

'Not far from Raciaz.'

He opened his mouth, but he felt he had said too much, or that I was

listening with curiosity; enough--he only uttered a long-drawn 'Oh...'

and was silent again.

This was the only allusion Kowalski ever made to his past. I felt

inclined to draw him out, but he knew how to parry these attempts in a

delicate way by calling his dog and saying to him while he caressed

him: 'Go, bark at the Almighty!' And the obedient creature would

continue for a long time to bark at the sky.

As soon as Kowalski gave this order, it was a sure sign that he would

not open his mouth except for conversation about his dog, of which he

never tired.

Although this dog was quite ordinary, he was in several ways

distinguished from his Yakut brothers. For one thing he had no name and

was simply addressed as 'Doggy', though he was his master's pet and was

attached to the house and enclosure.

'Why didn't you give your dog a name?' I asked casually.

'What's the good of a name? If people had not invented so many names

and called each other simply "Man", they would perhaps remember better

that we are all men together.'

So the dog remained nameless. He was of a graceful and delicate build

and fast, quite unlike the heavier, thickset, thick-coated native dogs;

his hair was short, soft, and silky. His appearance had condemned him

to an isolated and lonely life. Attempts at participation in the canine

social life had failed deplorably; he had returned from these

expeditions lame and bleeding all over, and after some vain repetitions

he had given up the hope of satisfying his social instincts and did not

leave the enclosure any more. He was surprisingly sedate for his

delicate organism and thin, mobile little frame, but this was not the

calm sedateness of the strong, shaggy Yakut dogs, against whom he

obviously harboured a certain hatred and bitterness, because these big,

powerful creatures would not recognize the rights of the weak. Except

for his master, he showed no affection for anyone and accepted no

favours--perhaps he had no belief in them, and only responded to a

caress with a low growl.

Some weeks passed and Kowalski was no better, on the contrary he seemed

to get worse with every day, and we were all convinced that this

illness was his last. God knows whether he was equally convinced, but

he certainly had a foreboding of his death, for he hardly ever talked

now. For a few days longer he obstinately struggled against the

weakness which was overpowering him, and walked about his yurta, even

tinkered at some brushes which he had begun; at last he gave it up and

took to his bed. One morning, when I had just sat down to my breakfast,

the locksmith Wladyslaw Piotrowski, Kowalski's nearest friend, came to

my window and asked me to accompany him to our patient.

'It might ease his last hour when he sees that he is not quite

forsaken,' said the kind man. 'Perhaps you would like to take a book

with you,' he added. I took the New Testament and went with him.

'Is he so very bad?' I asked on the way.

'I should think so; he looks quite black and says himself that he is

sure he will die to-day.'

We soon arrived at Kowalski's yurta. There was no trace of the usual

sick-room smell of medicines, for Kowalski believed neither in doctors

nor in medicines. But an air of sadness and desolation pervaded the

room. The little dog lay curled up under the bed, from which,

notwithstanding the open window, an unpleasant smell reminded one that

the sick man was no longer able to get up.

He looked so unlike a living being that we concluded, on entering and

seeing him lying there with his eyes closed, that he was dead. The

locksmith went up to the bed, put his hand under the bedclothes and

touched his feet; they were cold. But Kowalski called out loudly and

emphatically as I had never heard him before:

'I am alive! I am glad that you have come, for I should like to speak

to you of death.'

The haste and anxiety with which these words were uttered bore out our

premonition that we had only just come in time; we looked at each

other; Kowalski caught this look and understood it.

'I know,' he said, 'that I shall die soon, it would be vain to hide

from myself what I can see quite clearly. That is why I want to speak

to you. I was afraid no one would come... I was afraid no one would

hear what I have got to say and that he whom you call the Merciful God

would take away my power of speech... I thank you for your thought. May

you not be lonely either when your hour of death calls you from an

unhappy life.'

Kowalski stopped; only his brow, which was alternately contracted and

smoothed, showed that the dying man was trying with his last remnant of

strength to collect his thoughts and to retain the last spark of life.

It was early morning, and the sun threw two great sheaves of golden

rays through the window on to the wall where the bed stood. From the

wide expanse of fields and the archipelago of islands in the river,

redolent with luxurious vegetation, life and the echoes of life and

movement emanated like a melodious song, a great hymn of thanksgiving

in the bright sunshine; it penetrated to the bed of the dying man and

formed an indescribable contrast to what was passing inside the yurta.

This brightness, this noise as of a great song of life, was like an

irony, like scorn levelled at the deathbed of this living corpse....

Meanwhile Kowalski had begun to speak.

'Long ago,' he said--'it must be about forty years--I was exiled to the

steppes of Orenburg. I was young and strong, I trusted in God and had

confidence in men and in myself. I may have been right or I may have

been wrong, but I thought it was my duty not to leave my energy to the

chance of fate, but to try and find a wider field of activity than was

open to me in this country. Homesickness too urged me on, and after two

years I escaped....

'I was punished by being sent to Tomsk, but this did not daunt me. I

started my life afresh with renewed energy, lived on bread and water

until I had saved enough for what I needed, and escaped again....

'For this second flight I was punished as an obstinate backslider, and

it took several years before I could make another attempt, but that

time I got farther away than before. It was an unusually hard winter, I

had no money and only insufficient clothing. My feet were frostbitten,

and I lost my toes. That was a hard blow, especially as they sent me

beyond the Yenessi this time.

'My situation was difficult; the country was dreary and desolate, it

was hard to earn a living. But although I had no toes I managed to

learn a trade or two, and one or the other used to bring me in a little

income, small but sure.

'This time I waited six years, then, without regard for the state of my

feet, I started off again....

'You see, I had no more confidence in my strength. I was ill and

broken, it was not the same goal as before that drew me westwards.... I

wanted to die there... to die there....

'I dreamt of dying on my mother's grave as of a great happiness.

'My life had been such that no one except my mother had ever been good

to me; I had had no sweetheart, no wife, no children....

'And now, feeling weak and forsaken, I longed for the grave of this one

being who had loved me.

'In sleepless nights I felt her hand touching my head, her kiss and the

hot tears with which she took her last leave of me, conscious perhaps

that our separation would be eternal. I do not know even now whether

the longing for my mother or for my native land was the stronger. But

it was a hard pilgrimage this time. I could not walk fast because of

the wounds on my feet which kept breaking open. I often had to hide for

days in the woods like a wild animal.

'Vultures and crows[1]--ill omens of the end--circled over my head,

scenting their prey. Worn out with hunger I broke down from time to

time, and...fool that I was, I always prayed. I implored the Almighty

God, the merciful God, the just God, the God of the poor, the God of

the forsaken:

[Footnote 1: Siberian fugitives look upon them with superstition.]

'"Help me, have mercy on me! Gracious Father! send me death, I ask for

no other mercy than death! I will give it to myself, but only

there...."

'Two years passed before I reached the province of Perm. I had never

before got so far. My heart began to beat joyously, in my head there

was only one thought: "I shall see my beloved native soil, and I shall

die at my beloved mother's grave." When I left the Ural behind me I

definitely believed in my salvation, I threw myself down upon the

ground, and for a long, long time I lay there, sobbing and thanking God

for His grace and His mercy. But He, the Merciful, was only preparing

His last blow, and that same day.... Then they took me as far as

Yakutsk!...

'Why did I live on so long in this misery?

'Why did I wait here for such an end as this?

'Because I wanted to see what God intended to do to me. 'Now see what

He has made of a human being who trusted Him like a child, who has

never known what happiness in this world meant, nor demanded it, who

has never received love from anyone but his mother and, although maimed

and crippled, has worked hard until the end, never stretched out his

hands for alms, never stolen or coveted his neighbours' possessions,

who has ever given away the half of what he had... see what He has made

of me!...

'That is why I hate Him, no longer trust in Him....I don't believe in

His Saints or His Judgment or His Justice; hear me, brothers, I call

you to witness in the hour of my death, so that you should know it and

can testify to it before Him when you die.'

He raised himself with an effort, stretched out his hands towards the

sun and called with a loud voice:

'I, a dying worm, truly acknowledge Thee to be the God of the satiated,

the God of the wicked, the God of the impure, and that Thou hast ruined

me, a guiltless man!...'

The sun had risen higher and was now gilding the bed of pain of this

living skeleton--terrible to behold in his loose skin.

When he sank back exhausted, we were shocked, for we thought that he

would give up the ghost before we had time to comfort him and ease his

last hour.

'Let us pray for him,' whispered the locksmith. We knelt down; with

trembling hands I pulled out the book; it opened of itself where a

bookmarker had been placed at the fifteenth chapter of the Gospel of

St. John.

Raising my voice I began to read:

'I am the true Vine and My Father is the Husbandman.'

The dying man's chest heaved violently, his eyes were closed. He was

now quite covered by the golden rays; it seemed as if the sun meant to

reward him at the last moment for his hard life, so closely did the

rays hug him, warming his stiff limbs, calming him, kissing him as a

mother kisses and caresses her drowsy child and wraps it round with her

own warmth.

Kowalski was still alive.

I continued to read the words of Christ, so full of power and faith and

deep, blessed hope:

'If the world hate you, ye know that it hated Me before it hated

you...'

The inspiring words of the Comforter of sufferers and the caress of the

vivifying light eased the dying man's pain. He opened his eyes and two

great tears welled forth--the last tears which this man had to spare.

The rays of the sun kissed the tears on his ashen countenance and made

them shine with divine light; it seemed as if they endeavoured to

present to their Creator in pure colours the burning fire which had

consumed this man and was concentrated in his tears.

I read on:

'Verily, verily, I say unto you, that ye shall weep and lament, but the

world shall rejoice: and ye shall be sorrowful, but your sorrow shall

be turned into joy...'

The dying man tried to lift his hands, they fell back powerless, but he

murmured in a low, distinct voice: 'Lord, by Thy pain forgive me!'

I could not read further. In silence we knelt, and the dog stood

between us, puzzled and looking at his master. Once more the dying

man's eyes turned towards us, he opened his mouth, and we heard him say

yet more slowly and weakly: 'Doggy, do not bark at the Almighty.'

The faithful creature threw himself whining upon his master's limp

hand, from which the life had already fled.

Kowalski's eyes closed, a short, dull rattle came from his throat, his

chest sank back, he stretched himself a little: the life of suffering

was ended.

When we recovered ourselves we heard the violent barking of the dog,

who, without understanding his master's last wish, was faithfully

carrying out the sole duty of his life. He barked and growled

incessantly, and came back from time to time to the bed and his

master's limply hanging hand in expectation of the usual caress.

But his master lay immovable, the cold hand hung stiffly; exhausted and

hoarse the dog ran out again into the enclosure.

We left; but at a long distance from the yurta we could still hear the

barking of the senseless creature.

FOREBODINGS

TWO SKETCHES BY

STEFAN ZEROMSKI[1]

[Footnote 1: The accent on the Z softens the sound approximately to

that of the French g in _gele_.]

I had spent an hour at the railway station, waiting for the train to

come in. I had stared indifferently at several ladies in turn who were

yawning in the corners of the waiting-room. Then I had tried the effect

of making eyes at a fair-haired young girl with a small white nose,

rosy cheeks, and eyes like forget-me-nots; she had stuck out her tongue

(red as a field-poppy) at me, and I was now at a loss to know what to

do next to kill time.

Fortunately for me two young students entered the waiting-room. They

looked dirty from head to foot, mud-bespattered, untidy, and exhausted

with travelling. One of them, a fair boy with a charming profile,

seemed absent-minded or depressed. He sat down in a corner, took off

his cap, and hid his face in his hands. His companion bought his ticket

for him, sat down beside him, and grasped his hand from time to time.

'Why should you despair? All may yet be well. Listen, Anton.'

'No, it's no good, he is dying, I know it.... I know... perhaps he is

dead already.'

'Don't believe it! Has your father ever had this kind of attack

before?'

'He has; he has suffered from his heart for three years. He used to

drink at times. Think of it, there are eight of us, some are young

children, and my mother is delicate. In another six months his pension

would have been due. Terribly hard luck!'

'You are meeting trouble half-way, Anton.'

The bell sounded, and the waiting-room became a scene of confusion.

People seized their luggage and trampled on each other's toes; the

porter who stood at the entrance-door was stormed with questions. There

was bustle and noise everywhere. I entered the third-class carriage in

which the fair-haired student was sitting. His friend had put him into

it, settling him in the corner-seat beside the window, as if he were an

invalid, and urging him to take comfort. It did not come easy to him,

the words seemed to stick in his throat. The fair-haired boy's face

twitched convulsively, and his eyelids closed over his moist eyes.

'Anton, my dear fellow,' the other said, 'well, you understand what I

mean; God knows. You may be sure... confound it all!'

The second bell sounded, and then the third. The sympathizing friend

stepped out of the carriage, and, as the train started, he waved an odd

kind of farewell greeting, as if he were threatening him with his

fists.

In the carriage were a number of poor people, Jews, women with

enormously wide cloaks, who had elbowed their way to their seats, and

sat chattering or smoking.

The student stood up and looked out of the window without seeing. Lines

of sparks like living fire passed by the grimy window-pane, and balls

of vapour and smoke, resembling large tufts of wool, were dashed to

pieces and hurried to the ground by the wind. The smoke curled round

the small shrubs growing close to the ground, moistened by the rain in

the valley. The dusk of the autumn day spread a dim light over the

landscape, and produced an effect of indescribable melancholy. Poor

boy! Poor boy!

The loneliness of boundless sorrow was expressed in his weary look as

he gazed out of the window. I knew that the pivot on which all his

emotions turned was the anxiety of uncertainty, and that beyond the

bounds of conscious thought an unknown loom was weaving for him a

shadowy thread of hope. He saw, he heard nothing, while his vacant eyes

followed the balls of smoke. As the train travelled along, I knew that

he was miserable, tired out, that he would have liked to cry quietly.

The thread of hope wound itself round his heart: Who could tell?

perhaps his father was recovering, perhaps all would be well?

Suddenly (I knew it would come), the blood rushed from his face, his

lips went pale and tightened; he was gazing into the far distance with

wide-open eyes. It was as if a threatening hand, piercing the grief,

loneliness and dread that weighed on him, was pointing at him, as if

the wind were rousing him with the cry: 'Beware!' His thread of hope

was strained to breaking-point, and the naked truth, which he had not

quite faced till that minute, struck him through the heart like a

sword.

Had I approached him at that instant, and told him I was an omniscient

spirit and knew his village well, and that his father was not lying

dead, he would have fallen at my feet and believed, and I should have

done him an infinite kindness.

But I did not speak to him, and I did not take his hand. All I wished

to do was merely to watch him with the interest and insatiable

curiosity which the human heart ever arouses in me.

'Let my fate go whither it listeth.' (_Oedipus Tyrannus_.)

In the darkest corner of the ward, in the bed marked number

twenty-four, a farm labourer of about thirty years of age had been

lying for several months. A black wooden tablet, bearing the words

'Caries tuberculosa', hung at the head of the bed, and shook at each

movement of the patient. The poor fellow's leg had had to be amputated

above the knee, the result of a tubercular decay of the bone. He was a

peasant, a potato-grower, and his forefathers had grown potatoes before

him. He was now on his own, after having been in two situations; had

been married for three years and had a baby son with a tuft of flaxen

hair. Then suddenly, from no cause that he could tell, his knee had

pained him, and small ulcers had formed. He had afforded himself a

carriage to the town, and there he had been handed over to the hospital

at the expense of the parish.

He remembered distinctly how on that autumn afternoon he had driven in

the splendid, cushioned carriage with his young wife, how they had both

wept with fright and grief, and when they had finished crying had eaten

hard-boiled eggs: but what had happened after that had all become

blurred--indescribably misty. Yet only partially so.

Of the days in the hospital with their routine and monotony, creating

an incomprehensible break in his life, his memory retained nothing; but

the unchanging grief, weighing like a slab of stone on a grave, was

ever present in his soul with inexorable and brutal force during these

many months. He only half recalled the strange wonders that had been

worked on him: bathing, feeding, probing into the wound, and later on

the operation. He had been carried into a room full of gentlemen

wearing aprons spotted with blood; he was conscious also of the

mysterious, intrepid courage which, like a merciful hand, had supported

him from that hour.

After having gazed at the awe-inspiring phenomena which surrounded him

in the semicircle of the hospital theatre, he had slept during the

operation. His simple heart had not worked out the lesson which sleep,

the greatest mistress on earth, teaches. After the operation everything

had been veiled by mortal lassitude. This had continued, but in the

afternoon and at night they had mixed something heavy, like a stone

ball, into his drinking-cup, and waves of warmth had flowed to the toes

of his healthy foot from the cup. Thoughts chased one another swiftly,

like tiny quicksilver balls through some corner of his brain, and while

he lay bathed in perspiration, and his eyelids closed of their own

accord, not in sleep but in unconsciousness, he had been pursued by

strange, half-waking visions.

Everything real seemed to disappear, only dimly lighted, vacant space

remained, pervaded by the smell of chloroform. He seemed to be in the

interior of a huge cone, stretching along the ground like a tunnel. Far

away in the distance, where it narrowed towards the opening, there was

a sparkling, white spot; if he could get there, he might escape. He

seemed to be travelling day and night towards that chink along unending

spiral lines running within the surface of the tunnel; he travelled

under compulsion and with great effort, slowly, like a snail, although

within him something leapt up like a rabbit caught in a snare, or as if

wings were fluttering in his soul. He knew what was beyond that chink.

Only a few steps would lead him to the ridge under the wood... to his

own four strips of potato-field! And whenever he roused himself

mechanically from his apathy he had a vision of the potato-harvest. The

transparent autumn-haze in the fields was bringing objects that were

far off into relief, and making them appear perfectly distinct. He saw

himself together with his young wife, digging beautiful potatoes, large

as their fists.

On the hillock, amid the stubble, the herdsmen were assembled in

groups, their wallets slung round them; they were crouching on their

heels, had collected dry juniper and lighted a fire; with bits of

sticks they were scraping out the baked potatoes from the ashes. The

rising smoke scented the air fragrantly with juniper.

At times, when he was better and more himself, when the fever tormented

him less, he sank into the state of timidity and apprehension known

only to those harassed almost beyond human endurance and to the dying.

Fear oppressed him till his whole being shrank into something less than

the smallest grain; he was hurled by fearful sounds and overawing

obsessions into a bottomless abyss.

At last the wound on his foot began to heal, and the fever to abate.

His mind returned from that other world to the familiar one, and to

reflecting on what was taking place before his eyes. But the nature of

these reflections had changed. Formerly he had felt self-pity arising

from terror; now it was the wild hatred of the wounded man, his

overpowering desire for revenge; his rage turned as fiercely even upon

the unfortunate ones lying beside him as upon those who had maimed him.

But another idea had taken even more powerfully possession of his mind;

his thoughts darted forward like a pack of hounds on the trail, in

frantic pursuit of the power which had thus passed sentence on him.

This condition of lonely self-torment lasted a long while, and

increased his exasperation.

And then, one day, he noticed that his healthy foot was growing stiff

and the ankle swelling. When the head-surgeon came on his daily rounds,

the patient confided his fear to him. The doctor examined the emaciated

limb, unobserved lanced the abscess, perceived that the probe reached

to the bone, rubbed his hands together and looked into the peasant's

face with a sad, doubtful look.

'This is a bad job, my good fellow. It may mean the other foot; was

that what you were thinking of? And you are a bad subject. But we will

do it for you here; you will be better off than in your cottage, we

will give you plenty to eat.' And he passed on, accompanied by his

assistant. At the door he turned back, bent over the sick man, and

furtively, so that no one should see, passed his hand kindly over his

head.

The peasant's mind became a blank; it was as if someone had unawares

dealt him a blow in the dark with a club. He closed his eyes and lay

still for a long time... until an unknown feeling of calm came over

him.

There is an enchanted, hidden spot in the human soul, fastened with

seven locks, which no one and nothing but that picklock, bitter

adversity, can open.

Through the lips of the self-blinded Oedipus, Sophocles makes mention

of this secret place. Within it are hidden marvellous joy, sweet

necessity, the highest wisdom.

As the poor fellow lay silently on his bed, the special conception that

arose in his mind was that of Christ walking on the waves of the raging

sea, quelling the storm.

Henceforward through long nights and wretched days he was looking at

everything from an immeasurable distance, from a safe place, where all

was calm and wholly well, whence everything seemed small, slightly

ludicrous and foolish, and yet lovable.

'And may the Lord Jesus...may He give His peace to all people,' he

whispered to himself. 'Never mind, this will do as well for me!'

A POLISH SCENE

BY

WLADYSLAW ST. REYMONT[1]

[Footnote 1: The stroke softens the l approximately to the sound of w.]

[The place is a solitary inn in Russian Poland, near the Prussian

frontier, kept by a Jew named Herszlik, part of whose occupation is to

smuggle emigrants for America by night across the border. Besides

emigrants and Herszlik are present an old beggar man and his wife or

'doxy', a couple of peasants drinking together, and Jan (or, in

diminutive form, Jasiek), a youth who has just escaped from a prison to

which he had been sentenced for an attack, under great provocation, on

a steward, and now creeps into the inn out of the surrounding forest.]

It was a night of March, a night of rain, cold, and tempest.

The forest, cramped, stiff, soaked to its marrow, and agitated now and

then by an icy shiver, threw out its boughs in a sort of feverish panic

as if to shake the water from them, and roared the wild note of a

creature in torture. At times a damp snow stilled all to helpless

silence, broken by a passing groan or the cry of some frozen bird or

rattle of some body falling on the boughs. Then once more the wind

flung itself with fury on the woods, dug into their depths with its

teeth, tore off boughs, and with a roar of triumph whistled along the

glades and swept the forest as with a besom; or from out of the depths

of space huge mud-coloured clouds, like piles of rotting hay, strangled

the trees in their embrace, or dissolved in a cold unceasing drizzle

that might have penetrated a stone. The roads were deserted, flooded

with a mixture of mud and foul snow; the villages seemed dead, the

fields shrivelled, the rivers ice-fettered; man and life were to be

seen nowhere; night ruled alone.

Only in the single inn of Przylecki shone a small light; it stood in

the middle of the forest at cross roads; a few cottages were visible on

the side of a hill: the rest was the mighty forest.

Jasiek Winciorek pushed forward cautiously from the wood to the road,

and at sight of the blinking light walked stealthily to the window,

peeped in, then in timid perplexity drew back a few steps till a fresh

blast of wind froze him so that the poor boy turned back once more,

crossed himself, and entered.

The inn was large, with a floor of clay, and a black ceiling resting on

walls out of the perpendicular; these had lost their whitewash, and

were pierced by two small windows half-choked up with straw. Directly

opposite the latter, behind a wooden railing, stood a cask resting on

other barrels, above which smoked the red glare of a naphtha lamp. Over

the room lay a dense darkness, only lightened now and then with flashes

from an expiring fire in a large old-world fire-place, before which sat

a pair of beggars. In a corner might be seen a number of persons

huddled together whispering mysteriously. By the cask were two

peasants, one clasping a bottle, the other holding out a glass; they

often drank healths to one another and nodded sleepily. A fat red

damsel was snoring behind the railing. Over all there spread a smell

compounded of whisky, sodden clay, and soaked rags.

At times such a stillness fell on the room that one could hear the

sounds of the forest, the tinkle of the rain on the window-panes, the

crackling of the pine boughs in the fireplace. And then a low door

behind the railing opened with a creak, and there appeared the old grey

head of a Jew, dressed in his praying gown, and singing in a low voice,

while behind him shone a room lighted with small candles, from which

issued Sabbath smells and a quiet monotonous dreary sound of singing.

Jasiek drank a few glasses one after the other, gnawed half-consciously

some mouldy rolls as tough as leather, which he seasoned with a

herring, and looked now at the door, now at the window, or listened to

the murmur of the voices.

'Marry, no, curse it, I won't marry!' suddenly shouted one of the two

peasants, knocking his bottle on the cask and spitting as far as the

shoulder of the beggar man at the fire.

'But you must,' whispered the other, 'or repay the money.'

'God! that's nothing! Jevka!'--this to the girl--'half a pint of

whisky! I pay!'

'Money is a big thing, though a woman is a bigger.'

'No, curse it, I won't marry! I'll sell myself, borrow, pay back the

money, rather than marry that harridan.'

'Just take a drop to my health, Antek: I have something to say to you.'

'You won't get round me. I have said no, and that is no. Why, if I

must, I will run away to Brazil or the end of the world with those folk

yonder!'

'Silly! just take a drop to my health, Antek: I have something to say

to you.'

They drank healths to one another several times, then began kissing,

then fell silent, for a child was crying in a corner, and a movement

began among the quiet timid crowd.

A tall dried-up peasant appeared out of the darkness and walked out of

the inn.

Jasiek moved up to the fire, for the cold was in his bones, and putting

his herring on a stick began to toast it over the coals. 'Move up a

bit,' he whispered to the beggar man, who had his feet on his wallet,

and though quite blind, was drying at the fire the soaked strips he

wore round his legs, and talking endlessly in a low voice to the woman

by him; she was cooking something and arranging boughs under a tripod

on which stood a pot.

Jasiek got warmer, and steam as from a bucket of boiling water went up

from his long coat.

'You are badly soaked,' whispered the beggar, sniffing.

'I am,' said Jasiek in a whisper, shivering. The door creaked, but it

was only the thin peasant returning.

'Who is that?' whispered Jasiek, tapping the beggar on the arm.

'Those? I don't know him; but those are silly fools going to Brazil.'

He spat.

Jasiek said not a word, but went on drying himself and moving his eyes

about the room, where the people, apparently grown uneasy, now talked

with increasing loudness, now fell suddenly silent, while every moment

one of them went out of the inn, and returned immediately.

From the inner room the monotonous chant still reached them. A hungry

dog crept out from nowhere to the fire and began to growl at the

beggars, but getting a blow from a stick he howled with pain, settled

himself in the middle of the room, and with a piteous look gazed at the

steam rising from the pot.

Jasiek was getting warmer; he had eaten his herring and rolls, but

still felt more sharply than ever that he wanted something. He minutely

searched his pockets, but not finding even a farthing there, doubled

himself together and gazed idly at the pot and the beams of the fire.

'You want to eat--eh?' asked the beggar woman presently.

'I have... a small rumbling in my belly.'

'Who is it?' the beggar man softly inquired of the woman.

'Don't be afraid,' she growled with malice: 'he won't give you a

threepenny bit, not so much as a farthing.'

'A farmer?'

'Yes, a farmer, like you: one who goes about the world'--and she took

the pot off the tripod.

'And there are good people in the world--and wild beasts--and pigs out

of sties.... Hey?' said the beggar man, poking Jasiek with his stick.

'Yes, yes,' answered the boy, not knowing what he said.

'You have something on your mind, I see,' whispered the beggar.

'I have.'

'The Lord Jesus always said: "If you are hungry, eat; if you are

thirsty, drink; but if you are in trouble, don't chatter."'

'Eat a little,' the woman begged the boy; 'it is beggars' food, but it

will do you good,' and she poured out a liberal portion on a plate.

From the bag she drew out a piece of brown bread and put it in the soup

unnoticed; then as he moved up to eat and she saw his worn grey face,

mere skin and bone, pity so moved her that she took out a piece of

sausage and laid it on the bread.

Jasiek could not resist but ate greedily, from time to time throwing a

bone to the dog, who had crept up with entreating eyes.

The beggar man listened a long time; then, when the woman put the pot

into his hands, he raised his spoon and said solemnly:

'Eat, man. The Lord Jesus said, give a beggar a farthing and another

shall repay thee ten. God be with you!'

They ate in silence, till in an interval the beggar rubbed his mouth

with his cuff and said:

'Three things are needful for food to do you good--spirit, salt, bread.

Give us spirit, woman!'

All three drank together and then went on eating.

Jasiek had almost forgotten his danger and threw no more timid looks

around. He just ate, sated himself with warmth, sated slowly the

four-days' hunger that gnawed him, and felt peaceful in the quietness.

The two peasants had left the cask, but the crowd in the corner on

benches or with their bags under their heads on the wet floor were

still quietly dreaming; and still came, but in ever sleepier tones, the

sound of singing from the inner room. And the rain was still falling

and penetrating the roof in some places; it dripped from the ceiling

and formed shining sticky circles of mud on the clay floor. And still

at times the wind shook the inn or howled in the fire-place, scattered

the burning boughs and drove smoke into the room.

'There is something for you too, vagabond!' whispered the woman, giving

the rest of the food to the dog, who flitted about them with beseeching

eyes.

Then the beggar spoke. 'With food in his belly a man is not badly off,

even in hell,' he said, setting down the empty pot.

'God repay you for feeding me!' said Jasiek, and squeezed the beggar's

hand; the other did not at once let him go, but felt his hand

carefully.

'For a few years you have not worked with your hands,' he murmured; but

Jan tore his hand away in a fright.

'Sit down,' continued the beggar, 'don't be afraid. The Lord Jesus

said: "All are just men who fear God and help the poor orphan."

Fearnot, man. I am no Judas nor Jew, but an honest Christian and a poor

orphan myself.'

He thought for a moment, then in a quiet voice said:

'Attend to three things: love the Lord Jesus, never be hungry, and give

to a man more unfortunate than yourself. All the rest is just nothing,

rotten fancies. A wise man should never vex himself uselessly. Ho! we

know a dozen things. Eh, what do you say?'

He pricked up his ears and waited, but Jasiek remained stubbornly

silent, fearing to betray himself; then the beggar brought out his bark

snuffbox, tapped it with his finger, took snuff, sneezed, and handed it

to the boy. Then, bending his huge blind face over the fire, he began

to talk in low monotonous tones.

'There is no justice in the world; all men are Pharisees and rogues;

one man pushes another in front of him out of the way; each tries to be

the first to cheat the other, to eat him up. That wasn't the will of

the Lord Jesus. Ho! go into a squire's house, take off your cap, and

sing, though your throat is bursting, about Jesus and Mary and all the

Saints; then wait--nothing comes. Put in a few prayers about the Lord's

Transfiguration; then wait. Nothing again. No, only the small dogs

whine about your wallet and the maids bustle behind the hedges. Add a

litany--perhaps they give you two farthings or a mouldy bit of bread.

Curse you! I wish you were dirty, half-blind, and had to ask even

beggars for help! Why, after all that praying the whisky to wash my

throat with costs me more than they give!' He spat with disgust.

'But are others better off, eh?' he continued, after a sniff. 'Jantek

Kulik--I dare say you know him--took a little pig of a squire's. And

what enjoyment did he have of it? Precious little. It was a miserable

creature, like a small yard dog; you could drown the whole body of him

in a quart of whisky. Well, for that he was arrested and put in prison

for half a year--and for what? for a miserable pig! as if a pig weren't

one of God's creatures too, and some were meant to die of hunger, and

some to have more than they can stuff into their throats. And yet the

Lord Jesus said: "What a poor man takes, that is as if you had given it

for My sake." Amen. Won't you take a drink?'

'God repay you, but it has already turned my head a bit!'

'Silly! the Lord Jesus himself drank at feasts. Drinking is no sin; it

is a sin, sure enough, to swill like a pig or to sit without talking

when good folk are gossiping, but not to drink the gift of God to the

bottom. You just drink my health,' he whispered resolutely.

He drank himself from the bottle with a long gurgle in his throat; then

handing it to Jasiek, said merrily:

'Drink, orphan. Observe only three things--to work the whole week, to

say your Paternoster, and on Sunday to give to the unfortunate, and

then you shall have redemption for your soul. Man, if you can't drink a

gallon, drink a quart!'

Thereupon all fell silent. The woman was sleeping with her head

drooping by the extinct flame, the man had opened wide his

cataract-covered eyes at the glowing coals, and once and again nodded

vigorously. In the corner the whispers were silent; only the wind

struck the panes more violently than ever and shook the door, and from

the inner room burst forth the voices in an ecstasy, it seemed, of pity

or despair.

Jasiek, overcome by the warmth of the whisky, felt sleepy, stretched

his legs out towards the fire, and felt an irresistible desire to lie

down. He fought against it with energetic movements, but every now and

then became utterly stiff and remembered nothing. A pleasant warm mist

compounded out of the beams of the fire, kindly words, and stillness,

wrapped him in darkness and a deep sense of freedom and security. At

times he woke suddenly, he could not have said why, glanced over the

room, or listened for a moment to the beggar, who was asleep but still

muttered: 'For all souls in Purgatory--Ave Maria, gratia plena,' and

then, 'Man, I tell you that a good beggar should have a stick with a

point, a deep wallet, and a long Paternoster.' Here he woke up, and

feeling Jasiek's eyes on him, recovered his wits and began to speak:

'Hear what an old man says. Take a drop to my health, and listen. Man,

I tell you, be prudent, but don't force it into any one's eyes. Note

everything, and yet be blind to everything. If you live with a fool, be

a greater fool; with a lame man, have no legs at all; with a sick man,

die for him. If men give you a farthing, thank them as if it were a bit

of silver; if they set dogs on you, take it as your offering to the

Lord Jesus; if they beat you with a stick, say your Paternoster.

'Man, I tell you, do as I advise and you shall have your wallet full,

your belly like a mountain, and you shall lead the whole world in a

string like silly cattle.... Eh, eh, I am a man not born to-day but one

that knows a dozen things. He that can observe the way of the world, no

trouble shall come to him. At the squire's house take your revenge on

the peasants; that is a sure farthing and perhaps a morsel from the

dinner; at the priest's abuse the peasants and the squires; that is two

farthings sure, and absolution too; and when you are in the cottages,

abuse everything, and you will eat millet and bacon, and drink whisky

mixed with fat.'

Here he began to drowse, still murmuring incoherently, 'Man, I tell

you... for the soul of Julina... Ave Maria...', and rocked on the

bench.

'Gratia plena... help a poor cripple!' This was the woman babbling in

her sleep, as she raised her head from the fire-place; but the man woke

up suddenly and cried, 'Be quiet, silly!' for the entrance door was

thrown loudly open, and there pushed in among them a tall yellow-haired

Jew.

'On to the road,' he called in a deep voice, 'it's time'; and at once

the whole crowd of sleepers sprang to their feet, began to put their

loads on their backs, to get ready, to push forward into the middle of

the room and again for no reason to retire. A low tumult of

sound--abuse or complaint--burst from all: there were hot passages of

words, cries, curses, gesticulations, or the beginnings of muttered

prayers, noise, and crying children--but all kept under restraint, and

yet filling the gloomy blackened room with a sense of alarm.

Jasiek awoke completely, and with his shoulders pressed to the now

cooling fireplace, looked round curiously at the people as far as he

could make them out.

'Where are they going?' he asked the beggar.

'To Brazil.'

'Is it far?'

'Ho! ho! it's the end of the world, beyond the tenth sea.'

'And why?'

'First because they are fools, and second because they are

unfortunate.'

'And do they know the way?' Jasiek asked again, hugely astonished.

But the beggar was no longer answering him; pushing on the woman with a

stick, he came forward into the middle of the room, fell on his knees,

and began in a sort of plaintive chant:

'You are going beyond the seas, the mountains, the forests--to the end

of the world. The Lord Jesus bless you, orphans! The Virgin of

Czenstochowa keep you, and all the saints help you in return for the

farthing that you give to this poor cripple...To the Lord's

Transfiguration! Ave Maria....'

'Gratia plena: the Lord be with you,' murmured the woman, kneeling at

his side.

'Blessed art thou among women,' answered the crowd and pressed forward.

All knelt; a subdued sobbing arose; heads were bowed; trusting and

resigned hearts breathed their emotions in prayer. A warm glow of trust

kindled the dull eyes and pinched faces, straightened the bent

shoulders, and gave them such force that they rose from their prayer

heartened and unconquerable.

'Herszlik, Herszlik!' they called to the Jew, who had disappeared into

the inner room. They were eager now to go into that unknown world, so

terrible and yet so alluring for its very strangeness; eager to take on

their shoulders their new fate and to escape from the old.

Herszlik came out armed with a dark lantern, counted the people, made

them range themselves in pairs, opened the door: they began to move

like some phantom army of misery, a column of ragged shadows, and

disappeared at once in the darkness and rain. For a moment there shone

in the gloom and amid the tossing trees the solitary light of their

guide, for a moment one could hear amid wailing a tremulous hymn, 'He

who casts himself on the care of the Lord....' Then the storm broke out

again in what seemed like the groan of dying masses.

'Poor creatures! orphans!' whispered Jasiek; a wild grief filled his

heart.

Then he returned to the inn, now dumb and dark, for the girl had

extinguished the light and gone to sleep, and the singing had ceased in

the inner room: only the beggar remained awake; he and the woman were

counting the people's alms.

'A poor parish! two threepenny bits and five and twenty farthings--the

whole show! Ha! May the Lord Jesus never remember them or help them!'

He went on babbling, but Jasiek no longer listened. Crouched in the

fire-place he hid himself as best he could in his still wet cloak and

fell into a stony sleep.

A good while after midnight he was awakened by a sharp tug; a light

shone straight into his eyes.

'Hey, brother, get up! Who are you? Have you your passport?'

He came to his senses at once: two policemen stood over him.

'Have you your passport?' the policeman asked again, shaking him like a

bundle of straw.

But for answer Jasiek jumped to his feet and struck the man with his

fist between the eyes, so that he dropped his lantern and fell

backwards, while Jasiek darted to the door and ran out. The other

policeman chased him, and being unable to catch him, fired.

Jasiek tottered a moment, shrieked, and fell in the mud, then jumped up

at once and was lost in the darkness of the forest.

DEATH

BY

WLADYSLAW ST. REYMONT

'Father, eh, father, get up, do you hear?--Eh, get a move on!'

'Oh God, oh Blessed Virgin! Aoh!' groaned the old man, who was being

violently shaken. His face peeped out from under his sheepskin, a

sunken, battered, and deeply-lined face, of the same colour as the

earth he had tilled for so many years; with a shock of hair, grey as

the furrows of ploughed fields in autumn. His eyes were closed;

breathing heavily he dropped his tongue from his half-open bluish mouth

with cracked lips.

'Get up! hi!' shouted his daughter.

'Grandad!' whimpered a little girl who stood in her chemise and a

cotton apron tied across her chest, and raised herself on tiptoe to

look at the old man's face.

'Grandad!' There were tears in her blue eyes and sorrow in her grimy

little face. 'Grandad!' she called out once more, and plucked at the

pillow.

'Shut up!' screamed her mother, took her by the nape of the neck and

thrust her against the stove.

'Out with you, damned dog!' she roared, when she stumbled over the old

half-blind bitch who was sniffing the bed. 'Out you go! will you...you

carrion!' and she kicked the animal so violently with her clog that it

tumbled over, and, whining, crept towards the closed door. The little

girl stood sobbing near the stove, and rubbed her nose and eyes with

her small fists.

'Father, get up while I am still in a good humour!'

The sick man was silent, his head had fallen on one side, his breathing

became more and more laboured. He had not much longer to live.

'Get up. What's the idea? Do you think you are going to do your dying

here? Not if I know it! Go to Julina, you old dog! You've given the

property to Julina, let her look after you...come now...while I'm yet

asking you!'

'Oh blessed Child Jesus! oh Mary....'

A sudden spasm contracted his face, wet with anxiety and sweat. With a

jerk his daughter tore away the feather-bed, and, taking the old man

round the middle, she pulled him furiously half out of the bed, so that

only his head and shoulders were resting on it; he lay motionless like

a piece of wood, and, like a piece of wood, stiff and dried up.

'Priest.... His Reverence...' he murmured under his heavy breathing.

'I'll give you your priest! You shall kick your bucket in the pigsty,

you sinner...like a dog!' She seized him under the armpits, but dropped

him again directly, and covered him entirely with the feather-bed, for

she had noticed a shadow flitting past the window. Some one was coming

up to the house.

She scarcely had time to push the old man's feet back into the bed.

Blue in the face, she furiously banged the feather-bed and pushed the

bedding about.

The wife of the peasant Dyziak came into the room.

'Christ be praised.'

'In Eternity...' growled the other, and glanced suspiciously at her out

of the corners of her eyes.

'How do you do? Are you well?'

'Thank God... so so...'

'How's the old man? Well?'

She was stamping the snow off her clogs near the door.

'Eh... how should he be well? He can hardly fetch his breath any more.'

'Neighbour... you don't say so... neighbour...' She was bending down

over the old man.

'Priest,' he sighed.

'Dear me... just fancy... dear me, he doesn't know me! The poor man

wants the priest. He's dying, that's certain, he's all but dead

already... dear me! Well, and did you send for his Reverence?'

'Have I got any one to send?'

'But you don't mean to let a Christian soul die without the sacrament?'

'I can't run off and leave him alone, and perhaps...he may recover.'

'Don't you believe it... hoho... just listen to his breathing. That

means that his inside is withering up. It's just as it was with my

Walek last year when he was so ill.'

'Well, dear, you'd better go for the priest, make haste... look!'

'All right, all right. Poor thing! He looks as if he couldn't last much

longer. I must make haste... I'm off...' and she tied her apron more

firmly over her head.

'Good-bye, Antkowa.'

'Go with God.'

Dyziakowa went out, while the other woman began to put the room in

order; she scraped the dirt off the floor, swept it up, strewed

wood-ashes, scrubbed her pots and pans and put them in a row. From time

to time she turned a look of hatred on to the bed, spat, clenched her

fists, and held her head in helpless despair.

'Fifteen acres of land, the pigs, three cows, furniture, clothes--half

of it, I'm sure, would come to six thousand... good God!'

And as though the thought of so large a sum was giving her fresh

vigour, she scrubbed her saucepans with a fury that made the walls

ring, and banged them down on the board.