Translated by Florence MacIntyre Tyson. Copyright, 1903, by The
Current Literature Publishing Company.
Among the prisoners who arrived at the Penitentiary on the 23d of
March, as the setting sun was flooding with crimson its cold, grim
walls, was a young man of distinguished appearance; he was dressed in
gray, and the folds of his large, soft gray hat, adorned with a knot
of gray ribbon, quite hid his pale, thin face, with its aquiline nose
and carefully kept pointed beard. During the journey he had not spoken
once, but sat with bent head and knitted brows, his eyes intently
fastened upon his thin, nervous hands with their long, polished nails,
enclosed in the shining bands of the steel handcuffs. On reaching
the Penitentiary he had for an instant raised his head and fixed his
shining, burning eyes upon the countenance of the Direttore, who on his
side returned the gaze coldly and at length. By a queer coincidence,
the prisoner and the Direttore had the same name--Cassio Longino!
And they both knew it; and the prisoner, who in his distant country
across the sea where “Cassio” means “a white petticoat,” had often been
the subject of many a caricature, experienced now a sort of bitter
satisfaction, on seeing himself on that account sought by the cold,
scornful glance of the Signore Direttore. With the first glance, the
two men hated each other. The Direttore was approaching middle life,
was small and stooped a little. His feet and hands were small, and the
latter were always plunged in the pockets of his long, black overcoat.
His clean-shaven face bore the marks of physical suffering, which was
accentuated in deep lines about the pale, thin lips; his eyes were
small and green and full of an almost cruel indifference; his hair
was blond and short, and his ears large and prominent. For all these
reasons, but chiefly because he was the commandant of the prison, he
was exceedingly displeasing to No. 245; and No. 245 was displeasing
to the commandant on account of his haughty manner, the fiery look
with which he observed him, and especially on account of his vigorous,
superb youth.
While the prisoners were being consigned to their quarters, the
Direttore did not open his mouth, and for several days Cassio, shut up
in a private cell, did not again see him. His cell faced the east, and
through the tiny aperture pierced in the great stone rampart he could
see the distant Apennines, still covered with snow, and the Tuscan
landscape, over which the early spring was scattering a vivid green
sward, and the pale, tender coloring of bursting twig and blossom. In
the Penitentiary garden, which was cultivated by prisoners clad in
white linen suits and red caps, Cassio, who by especial permission of
the Government retained his gentleman’s clothes, watched the peach
trees burst into a glory of intensest pink, and the apple trees toss
their delicate bloom in rich masses through the balmy fragrant air.
A prey to keen anguish and despair, he never wandered far from his
cell. The long, silent evenings overwhelmed him with despair; often
he did not sleep at night, but tossed feverishly upon his hard straw
pallet. When, in the morning, the guard, a great, tall fellow, whose
red head brushed against the ceiling of the cell, would come in to make
up the bed, Cassio was always dressed and standing before his tiny,
barred window.
Outside the swallows were wheeling and fluttering about, their wings
and breasts flashing in the sunshine. The prisoner did not deign to
speak a word to the guard, nor did he take the slightest notice of the
continual complaints, whistles, or gestures of his neighbor on the
right; but when the exercise hour arrived and he was allowed to walk in
the courtyard, he paced in haughty indifference, without even a glance
at his companions, up and down the sad, dew-covered pavement.
The rumor spread through the prison that he was a very rich lord from
Sardinia, a relation of the Direttore, and since the Direttore was
feared and hated (though none of the prisoners knew the reason of this
hate and fear, for the poor man had never done them any evil, except
with his look of icy indifference), No. 245, within a week after his
arrival, was hated, and strange to say, was feared.
Having requested permission to write, the first of April he was sent
for into the office; through the barred window there penetrated a ray
of pale sunshine, in whose light danced the shadows of a distant
treetop. The Direttore, bent more than usual, was working at a gray
table; he neither moved nor spoke for a long time, during which Cassio,
standing upright and stiff, his eyes fixed on the branches trembling in
the sunshine, grew hot with humiliation.
Ah! in the presence of the others, of that crowd of criminals, and the
vile guards, he could at least give himself the satisfaction of taking
refuge in a certain, scornful dignity; he was stronger than those who
bound him, greater than those whom he would not even deign to call
companions in misfortune, but in the presence of this little man,
so ill and full of disdain, he must bow, must reply, must humiliate
himself.
“You,” said the Direttore bruskly, turning around, but not rising, “are
condemned to three years of simple detention for forgery; and you may
write only once a month.”
His voice was rather weary, but the tone was pure Tuscan.
“I know it,” replied Cassio, “but I have not asked to be allowed to
write to my own home, but on my own account, in my own cell.”
“It is not possible. Why do you not ask to be placed in the office of
the clerks?”
“Is there chance of being allowed to do so?”
“Yes, there is every chance.”
That very day Cassio proffered his request, and on the next was placed
in the office, where a great quantity of work was badly executed
by three other prisoners. The room, which was next to that of the
Direttore, was even more desolate and gloomy, and the three clerks,
the first, fat and bald, with small, bleared eyes; the second, fair,
pale, and with a transparent look, and the third a tall muscular young
man, with black curly hair, and the face of a Roman emperor, made a bad
impression on the new arrival.
They appeared resigned to, and even contented with, their melancholy
fate. Cassio, on the other hand, experienced a profound disgust, which
was but accentuated by the stupid resignation of his companions in
misfortune--a very anguish of impotent desperation, and regretted his
request. Better to have remained alone in his cell, with his hands
clasping the bars of the little window, and before him the distant
Apennines, that brought to him memories of his own native mountains,
resounding with the neighing of his black charger, dashing in pursuit
of the straying sheep--alone with his sentence and his sorrow!
He of the curly head, bolder than the other two, who contented
themselves with casting stealthy glances at him, sought promptly,
though respectfully, to make his acquaintance. (They knew that he had
the same name as the Direttore, and so it was told among the other
prisoners.)
“Are you a Sardinian?”
“Yes,” replied he coldly.
“Since Fate has sent you to this place, allow me--”
“A beautiful Fate!” interrupted Cassio bitterly, and cut off sharply
the compliment the unfortunate man was about to present to the presumed
great Sardinian signore. But he said nothing more himself, nor asked
anything of the others.
Three days later, there arrived for him from Sardinia a letter bearing
an air of indefinable elegance. The handwriting was large and firm,
while a delicious, almost imperceptible fragrance escaped from the
sheets.
The Direttore opened it, and read it with a certain hesitation and half
feeling that he had been expecting it.
After all, he was a man who was still young; he had suffered much
and loved much, and if his own sufferings had produced that profound
indifference which passed for cruelty among the unhappiness it was
his fate to control, there still remained in his heart something of
sympathy and compassion. Had No. 245 been a poor devil, like almost
all the other prisoners, instead of a most interesting personality,
the Direttore, after the first day, would never have given him
another thought. But this handsome young stranger, with his haughty,
distinguished air, who had arrived surrounded by a romantic mystery,
had attracted the attention of every one, as well as his own.
The queer stories current in the gloomy cells and dark corridors had
also reached his ears.
The thought that there might be something of truth in them had even
begun to pierce his customary indifference with a faint interest, which
was augmented as he perused the letter.
Not that it contained anything of especial interest. It was written by
a half-sister of Cassio.
An intense affection manifested itself through all the four sheets, a
certain nameless sweetness, and exquisite suggestion of comfort and
resignation.
“Have courage, Cassio, do not despair nor suffer too much; remember
that we two are alone in the world, alone to love and believe in one
another. The time will pass, and when God reunites us I will know how
to recompense thee for the immense sacrifice thou hast made for me. Do
not feel humiliated nor cast down; the good know that thy fault was an
act of heroism--”
“Indeed,” thought the Direttore, “prisoners are always innocent,
generally are victims, but that they should be heroes!”
This letter, so different from the vulgar epistles that were accustomed
to come to the Penitentiary; so good, delicate, and loving, gave him
food for reflection.
A sort of morbid curiosity took possession of him, against which he
struggled in vain, to find out, to know everything. So that in spite of
himself, though not contrary to the regulations of the establishment,
which he scrupulously observed, he sent for No. 245, and on his
arrival, he opened the conversation by explaining some difficult work
to be done in the office, and then, fixing a look of close scrutiny
upon him, said:
“Here is a letter for you.”
Cassio proffered never a word, but raised his head, and his face turned
red to the tips of his ears.
And for the second time a wonderful thing happened. The Direttore of
the Penitentiary envied his prisoner. For to the prisoner in his
profound wretchedness had come a voice of comfort and affection,
illuminating his dark horizon with a glory that was mirrored on his
countenance, and to him, free and powerful, alone and lost in the
infinite sadness of deep suffering, there never came one word of
tenderness, one ray of light.
In spite of his emotion, Cassio perceived something abnormal was
passing in the mind of the Direttore, and, astute Sardinian that he
was, he took advantage to ask eagerly if he might not have the letter
at once and read it there in the office.
Better there, under the badly concealed indifference of the little
green eyes, than in the repulsive surroundings of his workroom, subject
to the vulgar curiosity of the three clerks.
From that day he became more sociable, more resigned, and the Signore
Direttore showed him a certain deference which did not escape the eyes
of the others, and but confirmed the report of an assumed relationship.
“But still he did not receive permission to write until he had been
there a month, though on the very day he was given two sheets. And his
letter was not less affectionate than had been his sister’s, though
less sweet and delicate; in every line was displayed the agony of
helplessness:
“I have been here but a month, though it seems thirty years. I am
beginning to be more resigned. They have put me in the clerk’s office,
with three terrible strangers [this the Direttore erased], the work
is hard, but it helps to pass the time. At first I could not accustom
myself to it, now I am less desperate. The Signore Direttore is very
kind to me. Yes, I know the time will pass somehow or other, but still
I feel as if my sentence would be eternal; that the 987 days yet
remaining are as boundless as the waves; but most of all do I suffer
when I think of thee; and yet the thought brings me much comfort.
Thou art so good. Please do not forget me and get married when I am
away! But I am ashamed, my dear Paola, such a thing I well know is
impossible. How could a good sister forget her unhappy brother? But all
the same, when I am tossing sleeplessly on my narrow bed, the thought
fills me with terror. Who could believe such a thing possible?
“Though I am now resigned to all, I did once believe in the justice
of men. But what have they done to me? Write very soon and do not
forget me. If that were to happen I would soon find a termination to my
sufferings.”
Not a word nor thought for any one else, only for her! The answer
arrived by return mail, together with clothes, books, and money.
The Signore Direttore felt anew the strange fascination of envy and
longing, as he read the delightful, tender letter of Paola. She had
not a word of reproach for the lack of confidence the unhappy man had
shown in her, but said how grieved she was that he should be so sad,
and assured him she would never marry until his return. She had, too, a
good word for the Signore Direttore. “Love and respect him; he can do
much for thee; can be like a father to thee” [“a brother, young lady,”
thought the Direttore]. “I pray for thee and for him.”
“Thanks,” he murmured rather bitterly.
In the third letter, Cassio having asked what she was doing and how she
passed the days:
“The days pass sadly in thy absence. I look after my affairs as well
as I can, and often go into the country with my foster-parents. Poor
things, they are a great comfort to me! We go on horseback, and these
trips are my only diversion. In the house nothing new has happened. I
am embroidering the tapestry I began at school, when my dreams were so
different from the present reality. I am working into it certain rich
Sardinian embroideries ferreted out by the foster-mother.
“I never see any one, but am always thinking of thee and counting the
days.”
“Why in the world do not these people, who seem rich and cultivated,
think of asking for a pardon?” the Direttore asked himself, and,
rising, he went into the garden--where the Tuscan spring was rioting
amid a very glory of roses, crimson, white, and yellow; while gleaming
among the deep green of the shrubbery, like brilliant butterflies,
moved about the little red caps of the prisoner gardeners--and fell
into a strangely sweet strain of thought of which the tender, strong
sister of No. 245 was the subject. In fancy he saw her, tall and dark,
like her brother, with the pallor and distinguished appearance so
marked in the prisoner; or bending patiently over her embroidery; or
else trotting on her little Sardinian horse, her eyes half closed as
she faced the ardent beams of the mid-day sun. Then, lost in wonder, he
took himself to task for such boyish romance, till he worked himself
into quite a frenzy of anger at his foolishness, which left him
exhausted and more indifferent even than was his wont.
And so the months rolled by, bringing three or four more letters from
Paola. In the last she promised to send her picture, if Cassio was
quite sure he would be allowed to receive it.
“It is allowed,” wrote the Direttore at the bottom of the page before
sending it to the prisoner.
For one, two, three weeks, in that great pile, under the overarching
blue sky and ardent sunshine that turned it into a very furnace, two
souls were awaiting with passionate eagerness, though under different
aspects, that picture of a woman.
The waiting of Cassio was sweet and full of peace, amid the passive
resignation that habit and hope had begun to plant in his heart. The
pleasure of anticipation brought him almost a sentiment of happiness;
he would rise up early in the morning with the thought that perhaps
to-day he would receive it, and as he waited for the guard who came to
conduct him to the office, he would turn to his little window and reach
out his hands as if striving to gather in some of the freshness of the
morning; and he was always thinking of the picture.
Outside the swallows were flitting and wheeling as they sang, their
wings and tails gleaming in the sunshine; the yellow corn surrounded
with its golden glory the shining green of the distant vineyards, while
farther away, the watching Apennines shone in the luminous morning air.
The prisoner called to mind the crimson dawns of his native mountains,
brilliant with flowering yellow broom, then his thoughts turned to
the expected picture, till he felt a vague feeling that was almost
happiness.
The Direttore quitted his bed with a face even paler than was its
wont, and he, too, thought of the picture; but his waiting was made up
of a strange mingling of restlessness, bitterness, and anger against
himself, because he could not overcome his foolish curiosity, his
foolish sentimentalism, the foolish interest “these people” awakened in
him.
He went into the garden, and then into his bureau, and did his duty,
performing all his tiresome work, and with cold eyes, and hands in
his pockets, inspected those men clad in their prison garb of shame,
but all the time he was waiting for the picture. In the bottom of his
heart, under his anger and cruel indifference, there glimmered a spark
of joy, from which a tiny ray sprang into his eyes and stayed there.
And this spark, this hidden ray of light, burst into brilliant flame on
the arrival of the picture, so instinct with life and loveliness and
charm. She was not in the least as his fancy had pictured her; for hers
was a blond and delicate loveliness. The beautiful dark eyes, and the
delicately curved lips and dimpled chin were suffused with an infinite
sweetness. It was the same ineffable sweetness as filled her letters, a
fragrance exhaled from every word and this mysterious and suggestive
fascination it was which had conquered the soul of this silent man, who
was thought cruel and was feared and hated only because he was a poor
dreamer.
The letter accompanying the photograph was, as usual, full of sweetness
and charm.
“I was thinking of thee and smiling when the picture was taken; may it
bring thee a little joy and comfort in hoping for better days. Read in
my eyes all that I would fain say to thee.”
Just here, the Direttore, too, looked into the eyes of the picture,
then finished reading the letter, only to return to gaze on the
picture, turning it so the full light should fall upon it, until the
face seemed to assume a sort of reality, the lovely eyes to shine, the
lips to smile.
“Oh, Dio! What a fool I am!” said Signore Longino to himself; but in
his heart he was thinking: “How would this exquisite creature write
to her lover, if she writes thus to her brother!” And then he fell to
thinking sadly, that he was small, ugly, almost old, hated and feared
by all those unfortunates whom his cold eyes dominated.
Once more he read the letter and gazed at the glowing picture, and--and
that day neither the one nor the other were given to the prisoner.
That night the Signore Direttore had a queer dream; he thought a mutiny
had broken out among the prisoners and they yelled and shook their
chains and rushed upon him. He held Paola’s picture in his hands and
could neither move nor defend himself, for then the picture would fall
to the ground and No. 245 would know that he had stolen it. But just
as he was about to be killed by the prisoners, Cassio threw himself
between, crying: “Leave him alone, for he is to marry my sister, and
then he will become good because she is so good.”
He waked up bathed in perspiration, and passed the rest of the night
sleeplessly tossing about his bed.
Cassio, in the meanwhile, was waiting patiently, though as the days
passed a vague anxiety disposed his new-found repose. A week went
by and still no picture came, and he had waited so long! so long!
What could be happening over yonder, beyond the sunlit sea among the
purple solitudes of the fragrant thyme-scented mountains? Paola must
be ill--or had she forgotten him? Cassio fell back into the agonized
despair of his first days. He asked, but was refused, permission to
telegraph. With difficulty he got permission to write two days sooner
than his allotted month.
His letter was so sad and full of despair that the Direttore felt more
than ever ashamed of his deed; for two weeks he had lived in torment,
and while he seemed more cruel and hard than ever, his little, green
eyes fell sadly upon the prisoners, for at last he understood how,
against his will, a man might be led into crime. As he read the sad
letter of No. 245, he murmured again: “But why do not they ask for
pardon?” And he became aware that with the new-found pity awakened for
No. 245 mingled a certain egotism of hope, that then he could speak
frankly to the prisoner--one no longer--and say: “Signore, I may be
a fool, but all the same I have fallen desperately in love with your
sister, whom I have never seen. Will you give her to me for my wife?”
Paola telegraphed at once that she had sent another photograph by
registered mail. In the eagerness for the peace of her poor prisoner,
she pretended she had not sent a picture, and had been unable to
write on account of a lot of reasons, which she detailed at length,
principally she had been unable to be photographed before.
“How good she is!” thought the Direttore in admiration, and he felt
inclined to write and tell her everything.
But of course he did not do so. “She will think I am mad, and will fear
for her brother.”
And so the summer passed and autumn approached; prisoners came and
went. In the office the three clerks were not only resigned, but even
happy, but showed an ill-concealed dislike for the haughty Sardinian,
who, to an extent, was himself resigned. Only amid the sweetness of the
autumn, when the dawn flooded the pure sky with crimson and gold or
the setting sun threw his red beams on the sad walls, he was tortured
with longing for freedom and home; and he fretted like a horse taken
from his free pastures and shut up in confinement; but he was learning
to control these rebellions and to immerse himself to the lips in hope
and dreams of the future, till the present seemed scarcely a reality.
But when winter came and the Apennines were black with storm clouds,
and the angry rain pelted incessantly the grim fortress, Cassio felt
his nerves snap like cords stretched too far. During the day the
three heads of the clerks, pinched with cold, the blear blue eyes,
the transparent profile, the head like the Roman emperor, appeared to
him as in some tortured vision, awakening within him a brutal desire
to seize some object and crush them to pieces. This desire increased
from day to day, and was at times so intense that Cassio experienced
the strange sensation of having realized it. Once in his cell he would
come to himself and understand that he hated the three unfortunate
clerks because they represented during those terrible winter days
all the human power that was torturing him, against which his inmost
soul revolted. His nights were almost sleepless. Outside the wind was
roaring with a suggestion of distant torrents. Amid the darkness and
roar of elements Cassio lost all perception of time, and as he tossed
on his narrow bed, blessed visions came at last to his storm-tossed
heart. The sighing of the wind in his distant well-loved mountains;
the prints of the wild boar among the green ferns; the noisy stream
bounding from rock to rock; the partridges flitting among the flowering
oleanders; the joyful neighing of his black horse, and, above all else,
the smile of Paola.
But with the gray dawn the sweetness of dreams was turned into bitter
reality, and no one knows what might have happened to the three clerks
had he not been one day providentially summoned to the Direttore’s
office.
The Signore Direttore deigned to ask a favor. He had been sent a little
fragrant plant with a few slender, dry branches; it had come from
Sardinia, and he wanted to know if the prisoner could tell him anything
about it.
Cassio took the slender branches in his long, delicate hands, and
inhaled its fragrance with closed eyes. The perfume brought him a
vision of the green mountains of Gennargentu. An intense homesickness
thrilled him.
“It is the tirtillo.”
“The tirtillo. I thought so. The precious secret of the Sardinian
shepherds that gives its especial aroma to the Sardinian cheese.”
Cassio bowed in assent.
“The famous tirtillo,” continued the Direttore, “the new cure for
epizootic.”
“In Sardinia it has been used for centuries,” replied Cassio humbly.
“Many things that on the continent pass for discoveries are well known
on the island.”
The Direttore did not reply, but turned his back and resumed his
writing, and apparently all was over, when, suddenly turning around, he
addressed Cassio without looking at him.
“Has a pardon been asked for you?”
“Yes; after the sentence in the Court of Cassation I appealed in the
Giudiziarie of Cagliari.”
“To whom did you appeal?”
“To the Ministry.”
“That was unfortunate. The Ministry when appealed to never decides.
Often the prisoner has finished his term before they arrive at any
conclusion.”
Cassio looked very grave.
“It would be better to send your request to the Queen; it would sooner
be obtained.”
“Pardon me,” returned Cassio, bowing his head, “but is there a chance
that it would be obtained?”
“If the request should be made by your sister, it would be granted.”
answered the other bruskly, and again he turned his back so that he
should not see the prisoner’s emotion, and the latter should not see
the Direttore’s confusion.
This time the conversation was really over, and Cassio was reconducted
to his office. But he was really another man; the presence of his three
unhappy companions aroused his compassion, but no longer his hatred.
Around his thin fingers still lingered the fragrance of the tirtillo,
and, raising them to his mouth, he inhaled the fresh sweetness of his
distant meadows.
And probably for the first time, the Direttore was sincerely loved by
one of his prisoners.
Cassio wrote to Paola begging her to ask the Queen for a pardon.
“You can make the request for yourself, without having recourse to the
formal process of the law. Explain things as they are. I hope and bless
him who has counseled it.”
And so the winter passed. In the limpid dawn of a February day, Cassio
was standing before his grated window; his face was pale and bloodless,
but his eyes were shining with hope. From the Apennines, which raised
their lofty, white crests into the crystal azure of the sky, there came
a delicious odor of snow; long strips of vivid green were scattered
over the valley, and already in the garden the apricot trees were
displaying their rosy blossoms.
Cassio felt his blood dance through his veins with the mysterious
expectation of coming happiness; all the glories of the opening spring
seemed reflected in his soul.
Another man, free, in his cold and melancholy rooms, felt the same
tumultuous, though sweet sensation; his green eyes reflected the tender
splendor of the budding season, his heart enclosed a precious shrine.
There came a day when the inquiry of the Ministry into the conduct of
the prisoner, Cassio Longino de Isidoro, reached him. The Direttore’s
reply was of the best. He did not know why No. 245 had been guilty of
forgery, but he believed him to be an honest young man, of fine morals
and excellent education. By the same mail he also sent to an intimate
in the Bureau a letter that, coming from such a person as Signore
Longino, could not fail to effect.
Whether it was instrumental in bringing about the result or not, the
decree of pardon and order for freedom arrived very soon after--when
Cassio had been there just a year.
Once more he was summoned to the Direttore’s office. Outside, the
air was balmy and fragrant, and the sky of deepest blue. Inside, the
shadows of distant branches trembled in the sunshine that poured in
through the barred window. The Direttore was seated at his table, but
this time he rose as Cassio entered. The youth noticed it, but did not
dare to give words to the wild hope that sprung up within him, but he
felt his heart beat with a violence that well-nigh choked him.
“The decree has arrived,” said the Direttore, and he was holding
something in his hand.
“The decree?”
“The decree of pardon.”
“For whom?” asked Cassio eagerly.
The Direttore began to lose patience.
“For whom but for you?” And he rejoiced in the deep emotion shown by
the young man. So much the better; if the thing was so great as to seem
impossible, so much the greater would be his gratitude. But then he
thought sadly: Suppose his efforts should result in failure! If in the
excess of his gratitude Cassio should give him false hopes!
“For me! for me!” stammered the poor youth. “For me! For how long?”
“For all the rest of your sentence. You are free--that is, not at once,
but after a few formalities, in a week at most.”
Gradually Cassio pulled himself together. At first he had gazed at the
Direttore without seeing him. Now he began to look at him. He observed
his pale face was flushed, that the air of physical suffering had
disappeared, that the small, green eyes were shining.
He, on the other hand, was trembling violently, his face was ashy, his
hands cold, and a mist floated before his eyes.
“This man is fine, when he is rejoicing in the happiness of another.
How I have misjudged him,” he thought. Then he asked himself: “But why
did he do it?”
He was to know very soon.
The Direttore begged him to be seated; he showed him the decree, and
profited by the moment in which Cassio was looking at the King’s
signature to begin:
“Now, I have something else to tell you. Listen and do not judge
hastily. I have long been awaiting this moment, and the thing seemed
easy, but now I see I need great courage and you great indulgence if we
are to understand each other.”
He smiled sadly, and the old expression of suffering returned once more.
Cassio looked at him stupidly, still confused with the weight of his
happiness, but beginning to gain his self-control. The other understood
that his opportunity was slipping away and hastened to speak, though,
in spite of every effort, his voice trembled.
“I scarcely know how to express myself so you may understand
everything; but I have confidence in your intelligence. Listen. I have
done everything in my power to obtain that piece of paper there”--and
he pointed to the decree, and Cassio, following his gesture, sat gazing
at the sheet--“and, above all, I did so because I felt you deserved
it.” (“Does he know my story?” Cassio asked himself, feeling that his
deserts in prison had been very few.) “I do not ask for gratitude,
indeed I will be thankful if you will not allow that sentiment to
influence you at all. I wish to speak to you as one gentleman to
another.” (“Heavens! does he think me a grand Signore and wish to ask
me for money?” thought Cassio. “I am not ungrateful, but what _can_ he
want of me?”) “Now you are free and are at liberty to act as seems good
to you.”
“Speak,” returned the other, with a sad impatience, “whatever lies in
my power--”
“I do not know if it lies in your power.”
“Speak! Speak!”
“Listen, but do not ill-judge me, nor think me insane. While reading
your sister’s letters, I have learned to appreciate so good and noble
a soul, and--” (“Oh, Dio mio! he has fallen in love with her!” cried
Cassio to himself, and the world grew suddenly dark.) “I have learned
to love her. Do not laugh at me. I am still young!”
But Cassio felt small inclination to laugh.
“Have you written to her?” he asked bruskly.
“No, certainly not. Pray do not be offended. I have not allowed myself
so great a privilege. Only to you--”
“But it is impossible, not to be thought of--impossible!” interrupted
Cassio, striking as he spoke the paper which was lying on his knees,
till it rustled.
“It seems impossible, but it is true; and though it may be strange, it
is not the first time it has happened. My demand is serious, Signore
Longino. Can your sister accept it?”
“What demand?”
The other thought a moment. “This young man is laboring under too much
excitement; I was wrong to speak to him so suddenly. He is not in a
state to hear it.”
“My proposal of marriage.”
Cassio did not reply at once. By a terrible effort he controlled
himself. When the mist cleared from his eyes he turned and looked at
the Direttore, and beheld him as in the past, pale, suffering, and ugly
and into his terrible pain there fell one drop of comfort--she would
not accept him, he felt sure.
“But,” he asked, “have you reflected what you are doing? Have you
written to my country and obtained information? In such cases--”
“I have not written. What would be the good? I know your sister, that
she is good and noble, I desire nothing more. I, too, am all alone.”
“You are too good. I do not know how to properly express my gratitude.
Do not fear you are not understood. I both understand and admire you.
I feel myself greatly honored by your offer, and if it remained with
me--but let me assure you I will do all in my power. Do not despair.”
He rose and rolled up the pardon, looking at it with ill-concealed
bitterness as he towered over the small person of the Direttore,
who approached with extended hand to express his thanks. He asked
permission to return to his cell and unroll his bed. Everything was
granted him. As he threw himself on his comfortless cot he groaned
in agony. Paola was not his sister, but his fiancée. For her he had
soiled his honor, compromised his future, and broken with his family.
She alone remained to him. She had feigned to be his sister in order
that she might write to him. And must he lose her now? That other
possessed a splendid position, was good and noble. Had he a right to
snatch such a brilliant future from Paola? He had sacrificed to her his
honor and well-nigh two years of liberty, but she had not asked the
sacrifice of him, and was it right that in exchange he should ask for
her whole life? In any case she must decide for herself, and at the
bottom of his heart he felt secure of her--but it made him wretched to
think he had deceived and was still deceiving so noble and excellent a
man.
“I will tell him everything, come what may,” he decided after an hour
of anxious thought, then uncertainty took possession of him once more.
“No, I will say nothing. After all he has no right to know, and I will
write when I reach home. After all he did it only because he wanted to
on his own account. His cat-like eyes fill me with distrust; perhaps he
would do me some harm.”
Later he grew ashamed of his distrust, and cried out loud in his lonely
cell, “Am I indeed vile?”
Approaching the grating, he stood gazing at the white, diaphanous
clouds piled up on the horizon; they had assumed the shape and coloring
of an alabaster staircase whose luminous steps disappeared into the
unsealed heights. Cassio, as he looked, was overwhelmed with an intense
homesickness, and suddenly he felt good and pure, as if he had indeed
mounted to the last step of those silver stairs and caught from that
height a glimpse of his beloved native land. He murmured:
“Had it not been for him I should have languished here for yet a
weary time. I might have died or committed some madness. I will tell
everything, let the result be what it may.”
He waited anxiously the hour when it would be possible for him to see
the Direttore, then addressed him in clear tones:
“See, Signore Direttore, I have been thinking of what you were very
good enough to tell me this morning.”
“Very well,” answered the other, though he feared for the result.
“Before entering upon the subject, please allow me to tell you in a few
words of the strange circumstances of my condemnation for,” he added,
smiling sadly, “I am bold enough to believe you do not think me guilty.”
The other man said never a word.
“Listen. For ten years I have loved a maiden of my own country. She
was rich, but an orphan living with her guardian. I was sent away to
college and was absent many years. On my return I learned that the poor
girl, although she had attained her majority, was kept in subjection
and badly treated by her guardian, who had possessed himself of all her
property. He gave her nothing, but kept her shut up and frightened with
terrible threats. I succeeded in communicating with her, and, finding
that she loved me, I vowed to free her and restore her property.
‘Let us be married,’ she said, ‘and I will fly with you.’ But as my
intentions might involve me in many difficulties, I would not accept
her offer. I assisted her to take refuge with friends, and when she was
in safety I began my operations.
“And can you guess what I did? I almost think so. I forged the name
of her guardian, and since he was very rich and well known at home
and abroad, and his credit was illimitable, I obtained a good deal of
money. I placed all in the name of the young girl and waited. When the
notes fell due, all became known. I had foolishly hoped I should be
considered a hero. Instead I was seized, vilified, condemned. My little
property was taken, my family disowned me. She, alone of all the world,
remains to me, and she, Signore Direttore, is Paola.”
The Signore Direttore remained absolutely silent. What, indeed could he
say? He only felt that Cassio’s story and his own seemed impossible,
though he knew but too well it was but too true. Cassio understood him
perfectly.
“It is strange, impossible, is it not? Had I been told it, I would not
have believed it.”
“Life is strange,” said the other at last, and he clenched his hands
till the nails penetrated the flesh. “The ways of destiny are indeed
mysterious.”
“He is resigned,” thought Cassio, and he hazarded another remark.
“Life is often a terrible romance.” But looking the Direttore in the
face he saw an expression of such agony imprinted as caused him to
retract his thought of a moment before.
“But see,” he continued, “in spite of everything I will do all in my
power to prove my gratitude.”
“What do you mean?”
“Let me speak. It was my duty to let you know the exact truth, but
you have been so good to me that I give you my word of honor, as a
gentleman, that I will do everything--”
“What are you saying? What are you saying?” repeated the other in a
strange tone, as if he were listening to distant voices, and not to
Cassio’s words.
“After all, Paola alone can decide. I will tell her everything, as if I
were indeed her brother and nothing more.”
“Oh, no! No! What are you saying?”
“Nay, if you will allow it I will write this very day, and we will
await her reply. Perhaps when it comes I will not need to return to my
own country.”
“What are you saying?” repeated the Direttore; but now his voice had
regained its strength, and, raising his eyes, he looked Cassio full in
the face. “You must not write, but return at once to your home, where,
I prophesy, every happiness awaits you. From the bottom of my heart I
hope so. And yet, who would ever have imagined it! You are right. Life
_is_ a terrible romance.”
“But,” Cassio persisted, “let me write. I beg it of you as a personal
favor. You will see the debt I owe you can never be canceled, and duty
should be stronger than love. Paola will be much more fortunate with
the Direttore than with me, and above all things I desire her happiness
and well-being.”
The other listened patiently; once his eyes flashed with a vivid light,
but he remained immovable.
“See,” he concluded, after having expressed his appreciation of
Cassio’s generosity, “if your duty is to prove yourself grateful and
generous toward the signorina, her duty is no less to make you happy
and recompense you for all you have suffered.”
“But--” interrupted Cassio.
“One moment--let me finish, please. If the signorina were to act
otherwise, she would not be the noble, lofty being I have imagined her,
and then my offer would no longer exist. Do you understand? Am I not
right?”
But Cassio answered never a word, and the Direttore turned toward
the window. And the soul of each was full to overflowing. Cassio
thought but of his happiness, and the Direttore reminded himself with
bitterness that in any case his dream was lost to him forever.
RAILROAD AND CHURCHYARD
BY BJÖRNSTJERNE BJÖRNSON
[Illustration]
_Björnson, said to be the first great figure in Norway to teach
the bourgeoisie to rise by their own efforts, was born in
1832. In 1860 appeared his epoch-making story of peasant life,
“Arne,” and the trilogy, “Sigurd Slembe,” and other plays.
Declaring for the separation of Norway and Sweden, he became
chief of the Republican Party. The critic Brandes says: “The
mention of his name among his countrymen is like running up the
national flag.”_
_Two sharply marked periods appear in Björnson’s literary
career--the first, romantic, religious, in which he wrote,
among other things, Norway’s national hymn; the second, from
1874 on, being realistic, critical, aggressive. His vigorous
imagination, love of truth, excessive yet sincere enthusiasm,
are in a style so compressed as to be at times almost obscure.
Björnson has been called the “Creator of the National Drama
in Norway,” the “Great Rival of Ibsen,” the “Victor Hugo of
Norway.”_
[Illustration]
RAILROAD AND CHURCHYARD
BY BJÖRNSTJERNE BJÖRNSON
Translated by Rasmus B. Anderson. Copyright, 1882, by Houghton,
Mifflin & Co. All rights reserved.
I
Knud Aakre belonged to an old family in the parish, where it had
always been renowned for its intelligence and its devotion to the
public welfare. His father had worked his way up to the priesthood,
but had died early, and as the widow came from a peasant stock the
children were brought up as peasants. Knud had, therefore, received
only the education afforded by the public schools of his day; but his
father’s library had early inspired him with a love of knowledge. This
was further stimulated by his friend Henrik Wergeland, who frequently
visited him, sent him books, seeds, and much valuable counsel.
Following some of the latter, Knud early founded a club, which in the
beginning had a very miscellaneous object, for instance: “to give the
members practise in debating and to study the constitution,” but which
later was turned into a practical agricultural society for the entire
bailiwick. According to Wergeland’s advice, he also founded a parish
library, giving his father’s books as its first endowment. A suggestion
from the same quarter led him to start a Sunday-school on his gard,
for those who might wish to learn writing, arithmetic, and history.
All this drew attention to him, so that he was elected member of the
parish board of supervisors, of which he soon became chairman. In this
capacity he took a deep interest in the schools, which he brought into
a remarkably good condition.
Knud Aakre was a short man, brisk in his movements, with small,
restless eyes and very disorderly hair. He had large lips, which were
in constant motion, and a row of splendid teeth which always seemed to
be working with them, for they glistened while his words were snapped
out, crisp and clear, crackling like sparks from a great fire.
Foremost among the many he had helped to gain an education was his
neighbor Lars Högstad. Lars was not much younger than Knud, but he
had developed more slowly. Knud liked to talk about what he read and
thought, and he found in Lars, whose manner was quiet and grave, a good
listener, who by degrees grew to be a man of excellent judgment. The
relations between them soon became such that Knud was never willing
to take any important step without first consulting Lars Högstad, and
the matter on hand was thus likely to gain some practical amendment.
So Knud drew his neighbor into the board of supervisors, and gradually
into everything in which he himself took part. They always drove
together to the meetings of the board, where Lars never spoke; but on
the way back and forth Knud learned his opinions. The two were looked
upon as inseparable.
* * * * *
One fine autumn day the board of supervisors convened to consider,
among other things, a proposal from the bailiff to sell the parish
grain magazine and with the proceeds establish a small savings-bank.
Knud Aakre, the chairman, would undoubtedly have approved this measure
had he relied on his unbiased judgment. But he was prejudiced, partly
because the proposal came from the bailiff, whom Wergeland did not
like, and who was consequently no favorite of Knud’s either, and partly
because the grain magazine had been built by his influential paternal
grandfather and by him presented to the parish. Indeed, Knud was rather
inclined to view the proposition as a personal insult, therefore he had
not spoken of it to any one, not even to Lars, and the latter never
entered on a topic that had not first been set afloat by some one else.
As chairman, Knud Aakre read the proposal without adding any comments;
but, as was his wont, his eyes sought Lars, who usually sat or stood a
little aside, holding a straw between his teeth--he always had one when
he took part in a conversation; he either used it as a toothpick or he
let it hang loosely in one corner of his mouth, turning it more rapidly
or more slowly, according to the mood he was in. To his surprise Knud
saw that the straw was moving very fast.
“Do you think we should agree to this?” he asked.
Lars answered dryly:
“Yes, I do.”
The whole board, feeling that Knud held quite a different opinion,
looked in astonishment at Lars, but the latter said no more, nor
was he further questioned. Knud turned to another matter, as though
nothing had transpired. Not until the close of the meeting did he
resume the subject, and then asked, with apparent indifference, if it
would not be well to send the proposal back to the bailiff for further
consideration, as it certainly did not meet the views of the people,
for the parish valued the grain magazine. No one replied. Knud asked
whether he should enter the resolution in the register, the measure did
not seem to be a wise one.
“Against one vote,” added Lars. “Against two,” cried another, promptly.
“Against three,” came from a third; and before the chairman could
realize what was taking place, a majority had voted in favor of the
proposal.
Knud was so surprised that he forgot to offer any opposition. He
recorded the proceedings, and read, in a low voice: “The measure is
recommended--adjourned.”
His face was fiery red as he rose and put up the minute-book; but he
determined to bring forward the question once more at the meeting of
the representatives. Out in the yard, he put his horse to the wagon,
and Lars came and took his seat at his side. They discussed various
topics on their way home, but not the one they had nearest at heart.
The next day Knud’s wife sought Lars’s wife to inquire if there was
anything wrong between the two men, for Knud had acted so strangely
when he came home. A short distance above the gard buildings she met
Lars’s wife, who was on her way to ask the same question, for her
husband, too, had been out of sorts the day before. Lars’s wife was
a quiet, bashful person, somewhat cowed, not by harsh words, but by
silence, for Lars never spoke to her unless she had done something
amiss, or he feared that she might do wrong. Knud Aakre’s wife, on the
other hand, talked more with her husband, and particularly about the
board, for lately it had taken his thoughts, work, and affection away
from her and the children. She was as jealous of it as of a woman; she
wept at night over the board and quarreled with her husband about it
during the day. But for that very reason she could say nothing about
it now when for once he had returned home unhappy; for she immediately
became more wretched than he, and for her life she could not rest until
she had discovered what was the matter. Consequently, when Lars’s wife
could not give her the desired information, she had to go out in the
parish to seek it. Here she obtained it, and of course was at once of
her husband’s opinion; she found Lars incomprehensible, not to say
wicked. When, however, she let her husband perceive this, she felt that
as yet there was no breach between Lars and him; that, on the contrary,
he clung warmly to him.
The representatives met. Lars Högstad drove over to Aakre in the
morning; Knud came out of the house and took his seat beside him. They
exchanged the usual greetings, spoke perhaps rather less than was their
wont on the way, and not of the proposal. All the members of the board
were present; some, too, had found their way in as spectators, which
Knud did not like, for it showed that there was a stir in town about
the matter. Lars was armed with his straw, and he stood by the stove
warming himself, for the autumn was beginning to be cold. The chairman
read the proposal, in a subdued, cautious manner, remarking when he
was through that it must be remembered this came from the bailiff, who
was not apt to be very felicitous in his proposals. The building, it
was well known, was a gift, and it was not usual to part with gifts,
especially when there was no need of doing so.
Lars, who never before had spoken at the meetings, now took the floor,
to the astonishment of all. His voice trembled, but whether it did so
out of regard for Knud, or from anxiety lest his own cause should be
lost, shall remain unsaid. But his arguments were good and clear, and
full of a logic and confidence which had scarcely been heard at these
meetings before. And when he had gone over all the ground, he added, in
conclusion:
“What does it matter if the proposal does come from the bailiff? This
affects the question as little as who erected the building, or in what
way it came into the public possession.”
Knud Aakre had grown very red in the face (he blushed easily), and
he shifted uneasily from side to side, as was his wont when he was
impatient, but none the less did he exert himself to be circumspect
and to speak in a low voice. There were savings-banks enough in the
country, he thought, and quite near at hand, he might almost say _too_
near. But if, after all, it was deemed expedient to have one, there
were surely other ways of reaching it than those leading over the gifts
of the dead and the love of the living. His voice was a little
unsteady when he said this, but quickly recovered as he proceeded to
speak of the grain magazine in itself, and to show what its advantages
were.
[Illustration: =Björnson=]
Lars answered him thoroughly on the last point, and then added:
“However, one thing and another lead me to doubt whether this parish is
managed for the sake of the living or the dead; furthermore, whether it
is the love and hatred of a single family which controls matters here,
or the good of the whole.”
Knud answered quickly: “I do not know whether he who has just spoken
has been least benefited by this family--both by the dead and by him
who now lives.”
The first shot was aimed at the fact that Knud’s powerful grandfather
had saved the gard for Lars’s paternal grandfather, when the latter, on
his part, was absent on a little excursion to the penitentiary.
The straw which long had been in brisk motion suddenly became still.
“It is not my way to keep talking everywhere about myself and my
family,” said Lars, then turned again with calm superiority to the
subject under discussion, briefly reviewing all the points with one
definite object. Knud had to admit to himself that he had never viewed
the matter from such a broad standpoint; involuntarily he raised his
eyes and looked at Lars, who stood before him, tall, heavily built,
with clearness on the vigorous brow and in the deep eyes. The lips were
tightly compressed, the straw still played in the corner of his mouth;
all the surrounding lines indicated vigor. He kept his hands behind
him, and stood rigidly erect, while his voice was as deep and as
hollow as if it proceeded from the depths of the earth. For the first
time in his life Knud saw him as he was, and in his inmost soul he was
afraid of him; for this man must always have been his superior. He had
taken all Knud himself knew and could impart; he had rejected the tares
and kept what produced this strong, hidden growth.
He had been fostered and loved by Knud, but had now become a giant who
hated Knud deeply, terribly. Knud could not explain to himself why, but
as he looked at Lars he instinctively felt this to be so, and all else
becoming swallowed up in this thought he started up, exclaiming:
“But Lars! Lars! what in Heaven’s name is the matter with you?” His
agitation overcame him--“you, whom I have--you who have--”
Powerless to utter another word, he sat down; but in his effort to
gain the mastery over the emotion he deemed Lars unworthy of seeing,
he brought his fist down with violence on the table, while his eyes
flashed beneath his stiff, disorderly hair, which always hung over
them. Lars acted as if he had not been interrupted, and turning toward
the others he asked if this was to be the decisive blow; for if such
were the case there was no need for further remarks.
This calmness was more than Knud could endure.
“What is it that has come among us?” cried he. “We who have, until
to-day, been actuated by love and zeal alone, are now stirred up
against each other, as though goaded on by some evil spirit,” and he
cast a fiery glance at Lars, who replied:
“It must be yourself who bring in this spirit, Knud; for I have kept
strictly to the matter before us. But you never can see the advantage
of anything you do not want yourself; now we shall learn what becomes
of the love and the zeal when once this matter is decided as we wish.”
“Have I then illy served the interests of the parish?”
There was no reply. This grieved Knud, and he continued: “I really did
persuade myself that I had accomplished various things--various things
which have been of advantage to the parish; but perhaps I have deceived
myself.”
He was again overcome by his feelings; for his was a fiery nature, ever
variable in its moods, and the breach with Lars pained him so deeply
that he could scarcely control himself. Lars answered:
“Yes, I know you appropriate the credit for all that is done here, and
if one should judge by the amount of speaking at these meetings, you
certainly have accomplished the most.”
“Is that the way of it?” shouted Knud, looking sharply at Lars. “Is it
you who deserve the entire honor?”
“Since we must finally talk about ourselves,” said Lars, “I am free to
admit that every question has been carefully considered by both of us
before it was introduced here.”
Here little Knud Aakre regained his ready speech:
“Take the honor, in God’s name; I am able to live without it; there are
other things harder to lose!”
Involuntarily Lars evaded his gaze, but said, as he set the straw in
very rapid motion:
“If I were to express _my_ opinion, I should say that there is not very
much to take credit for. No doubt the priest and the schoolmasters are
content with what has been done; but certainly the common people say
that up to the present time the taxes of this parish have grown heavier
and heavier.”
Here arose a murmur in the crowd, and the people grew very restless.
Lars continued:
“Finally, to-day we have a matter brought before us that might make
the parish some little amends for all it has paid out; this is perhaps
the reason why it encounters such opposition. This is a question which
concerns the parish; it’s for the good of all; it is our duty to guard
it from becoming a mere family matter.”
People exchanged glances, and spoke in half-audible tones; one of them
remarked, as he rose to go for his dinner-pail, that these were the
truest words he had heard in these meetings for many years. Now all
rose from their seats, the conversation became general, and Knud Aakre,
who alone remained sitting, felt that all was lost, fearfully lost,
and made no further effort to save it. The truth was, he possessed
something of the temperament attributed to Frenchmen: he was very good
at a first, second, or even third attack, but poor at self-defense, for
his sensibilities overwhelmed his thoughts. He was unable to comprehend
this, nor could he sit still any longer, and so resigning his place to
the vice-chairman, he left. The others could not refrain from a smile.
He had come to the meeting in company with Lars, but went home alone,
although the way was long. It was a cold autumn day, the forest was
jagged and bare, the meadow gray-yellow, frost was beginning here
and there to remain on the roadside. Disappointment is a terrible
companion. Knud felt so small, so desolate, as he walked along; but
Lars appeared everywhere before him, towering up to the sky, in the
dusk of the evening, like a giant. It vexed him to think it was his own
fault that this had been the decisive battle; he had staked too much on
one single little issue. But surprise, pain, anger, had mastered him;
they still burned, tingled, moaned, and stormed within him. He heard
the rumbling of cart-wheels behind him; it was Lars driving his superb
horse past him, in a brisk trot, making the hard road resound like
distant thunder. Knud watched the broad-shouldered form that sat erect
in the cart, while the horse, eager for home, sped onward, without any
effort on the part of Lars, who merely gave him a loose rein. It was
but a picture of this man’s power: he was driving onward to the goal!
Knud felt himself cast out of his cart, to stagger on alone in the
chill autumn air.
In his home at Aakre, Knud’s wife was waiting for him. She knew that a
battle was inevitable; she had never in her life trusted Lars, and now
she was positively afraid of him. It had been no comfort to her that he
and her husband had driven away together; it would not have consoled
her had they returned in the same way. But darkness had fallen and
they had not come. She stood in the doorway, gazing out on the road
in front of the house; she walked down the hill and back again, but no
cart appeared.
Finally she hears a rattling on the hard road, her heart throbs as
the wheels go round, she clings to the casement, peering out into the
night; the cart draws near; only one is in it; she recognizes Lars,
who sees and recognizes her, but drives past without stopping. Now she
became thoroughly alarmed. Her limbs gave way under her, she tottered
in and sank down on the bench by the window. The children gathered
anxiously about her, the youngest one asked for papa; she never spoke
with them except of him. He had such a noble disposition, and this was
what made her love him; but now his heart was not with his family,
it was engrossed in all sorts of business which brought him only
unhappiness, and so they were all unhappy.
If only no misfortune had befallen him! Knud was so hot-tempered.
Why had Lars come home alone? Why did he not stop? Should she run
after him, or down the road after her husband? She was in an agony of
distress, and the children pressed around her, asking what was the
matter. But this she would not tell them, so rising she said they must
eat supper alone, then got everything ready and helped them. All the
while she kept glancing out on the road. He did not come. She undressed
the children and put them to bed, and the youngest repeated the evening
prayer while she bowed over him. She herself prayed with such fervor in
the words which the infant lips so soothingly uttered that she did not
heed the steps outside.
Knud stood upon the threshold, gazing at his little company at prayer.
The mother drew herself up; all the children shouted: “Papa!” but he
seated himself at once, and said, softly: “Oh, let him say it once
more!”
The mother turned again to the bedside, that he, meanwhile, should not
see her face, for it would have seemed like intruding on his grief
before he felt the need of revealing it. The little one folded its
hands over its breast, all the rest did likewise, and it repeated:
“I, a little child, pray Heaven
That my sins may be forgiven;
With time, I’ll larger, wiser grow,
And my father and mother joy shall know,
If only Thou, dearest, dearest Lord,
Will help me to keep Thy precious word!
And now to our Heavenly Father’s merciful keeping
Our souls let us trust while we’re sleeping.”
What peace now fell upon the room! Not a minute had elapsed ere all
the children were sleeping as in the arms of God; but the mother moved
softly away and placed supper before the father, who was, however,
unable to eat. But after he had gone to bed, he said:
“Henceforth I shall be at home.”
And his wife lay at his side trembling with joy which she dared not
betray; and she thanked God for all that had happened, for whatever it
might be it had resulted in good!